Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

‘All evening?’

‘That’s right. Sometimes I go down to the White Rose, but…’

‘But what, Colin?’

‘Well, Mr Smedley, you know, the air-raid precautions man?’

I nodded. ‘I know him.’

‘He said my blackout cloth wasn’t good enough and he’d fine me if I didn’t get some proper stuff by yesterday.’

‘I understand, Colin.’ Good-quality, thick, impenetrable blackout cloth had become both scarce and expensive, which was no doubt why Colin had been cheated in the first place.

‘Anyway, what with that and the cigarettes…’

I reached into my pocket and slipped out a few bob for him. Colin looked away, ashamed, but I put it on the table and he didn’t tell me to take it back. I knew how it must hurt his pride to accept charity, but I had no idea how much money he made, or how he made it. I’d never seen him beg, but I had a feeling he survived on odd jobs and lived very much from hand to mouth.

I stood up. ‘All right, Colin,’ I said. ‘Thanks very much.’ I paused at the door, uncertain how to say what had just entered my mind. Finally I blundered ahead. ‘It might be better if you kept a low profile till they find him, Colin. You know what some of the people around here are like.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Bascombe?’

‘Just be careful, Colin, that’s all I mean. Just be careful.’

He nodded gormlessly and I left.

As I shut Colin’s front door, I noticed Jack Blackwell standing on his doorstep, arms folded, a small crowd of locals around him, their shadows intersecting on the cobbled street. They kept glancing towards Colin’s house, and when they saw me come out they all shuffled off except Jack himself, who gave me a grim stare before going inside and slamming his door. I felt a shiver go up my spine, as if a goose had stepped on my grave, as my dear mother used to say, bless her soul, and when I got home I couldn’t concentrate on my book one little bit.

By the following morning, when Johnny had been missing over thirty-six hours, the mood in the street had started to turn ugly. In my experience, when you get right down to it, there’s no sorrier spectacle, nothing much worse or more dangerous, than the human mob mentality. After all, armies are nothing more than mobs, really, even when they are organized to a greater or lesser degree. I’d been at Ypres, as you know, and there wasn’t a hell of a lot you could tell me about military organization. So when I heard the muttered words on doorsteps, saw the little knots of people here and there, Jack Blackwell flitting from door to door like a political canvasser, I had to do something, and I could hardly count on any help from DS Longbottom.

One thing I had learned both as a soldier and as a schoolteacher was that, if you had a chance, your best bet was to take out the ringleader. That meant Jack Blackwell. Jack was the nasty type, and he and I had had more than one run-in over his son Nick’s bullying and poor performance in class. In my opinion, young Nick was the sort of walking dead loss who should probably have been drowned at birth, a waste of skin, sinew, tissue and bone, and it wasn’t hard to see where he got it from. Nick’s older brother, Dave, was already doing a long stretch in the Scrubs for beating a night watchman senseless during a robbery, and even the army couldn’t find an excuse to spring him and enlist his service in killing Germans. Mrs Blackwell had been seen more than once walking with difficulty, with bruises on her cheek. The sooner Jack Blackwell got his call-up papers, the better things would be all around.

I intercepted Jack between the Deakins’ and the Kellys’ houses, and it was clear from his gruff, ‘What do you want?’ that he didn’t want to talk to me.

But I was adamant.

‘Morning, Jack,’ I greeted him. ‘Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Just being polite. What are you up to, Jack? What’s going on?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Up to your old tricks? Spreading poison?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He made to walk away, but I grabbed his arm. He glared at me but didn’t do anything. Just as well. At my age, and with my lungs, I’d hardly last ten seconds in a fight. ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘don’t you think you’d all be best off using your time to look for the poor lad?’

‘Look for him! That’s a laugh. You know as well as I do where that young lad is.’

‘Where? Where is he, Jack?’

‘You know.’

‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’

‘He’s dead and buried, that’s what.’

‘Where, Jack?’

‘I don’t know the exact spot. If he’s not in the canal, then he’s buried somewhere not far away.’

‘Maybe he is. But you don’t know that. Not for certain. And even if you believe that, you don’t know who put him there.’

Jack wrenched his arm out of my weakening grip and sneered. ‘I’ve got a damn sight better idea than you have, Frank Bascombe. With all your book learning!’ Then he turned and marched off.

Somehow I got the feeling that I had just made things worse.

After my brief fracas with Jack Blackwell, I was at a loose end. I knew the police would still be looking for Johnny, asking questions, searching areas of waste ground, so there wasn’t much I could do to help them. Feeling impotent, I went down to the canal, near Woodruff’s scrapyard. Old Ezekiel Woodruff himself was poking around in the ruins of his business, so I decided to talk to him. I kept my distance, though, for even on a hot day such as this Woodruff was wearing his greatcoat and black wool gloves with the fingers cut off. He wasn’t known for his personal hygiene, so I made sure I didn’t stand downwind of him. Not that there was much of a wind, but then it didn’t take much.

‘Morning, Ezekiel,’ I said. ‘I understand young Johnny Critchley was down around here the day before yesterday.’

‘So they say,’ muttered Ezekiel.

‘See him, did you?’

‘I weren’t here.’

‘So you didn’t see him?’

‘Police have already been asking questions.’

‘And what did you tell them?’

He pointed to the other side of the canal, the back of the housing estate. ‘I were over there,’ he said. ‘Sometimes people chuck out summat of value, even these days.’

‘But you did see Johnny?’

He paused, then said, ‘Aye.’

‘On this side of the canal?’

Woodruff nodded.

‘What time was this?’

‘I don’t have a watch, but it weren’t long after that daft bloke had gone by.’

‘Do you mean Colin Gormond?’

‘Aye, that’s the one.’

So Johnny was still alone by the canal after Colin had passed by. DS Longbottom had probably known this, but he had beaten Colin anyway. One day I’d find a way to get even with him. The breeze shifted a little and I got a whiff of stale sweat and worse. ‘What was Johnny doing?’

‘Doing? Nowt special. He were just walking.’

‘Walking? Where?’

Woodruff pointed. ‘That way. Towards the city centre.’

‘Alone?’

‘Aye.’

‘And nobody approached him?’

‘Nope. Not while I were watching.’

I didn’t think there was anything further to be got from Ezekiel Woodruff, so I bade him good morning. I can’t say the suspicion didn’t enter my head that he might have had something to do with Johnny’s disappearance, though I’d have been hard pushed to say exactly why or what. Odd though old Woodruff might be, there had never been any rumour or suspicion of his being overly interested in young boys, and I didn’t want to jump to conclusions the way Jack Blackwell had. Still, I filed away my suspicions for later.