Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

I opened the book. Nicholas, or Rose, had underlined the first few lines of the first poem, ‘To the Poet Before Battle’:

Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes;

Thy lovely things must all be laid away;

And thou, as others, must face the riven day

Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums

Or bugles’ strident cry.

Perhaps Nicholas had been a poet, and Gurney’s call for courage in the face of impending battle applied to him, too? And if Nicholas had been a poet, was Rose one of the ‘lovely things’ he had to set aside?

Outside, the all-clear sounded and brought me back to earth. I breathed a sigh of relief. Spared again. Still, I had been so absorbed in Rose’s treasures that I probably wouldn’t have heard a bomb if one fell next door. They say you never hear the one with your name on.

I set the book down beside the photograph and dug around deeper in the shoebox. I found a medal of some sort – I think for valour in wartime nursing – and a number of official papers and certificates. Unfortunately, there were no personal letters. Even so, I managed to compile a list of names to seek out and one or two official addresses where I might pursue my enquiries into Rose Faversham’s past. No time like the present, I thought, going over to my escritoire and taking out pen and paper.

I posted my letters early the following morning, when I went to fetch my newspaper. I had the day off from school, as the pupils were collecting aluminium pots and pans for the Spitfire Fund, so I thought I might slip into Special Constable mode and spend an hour or two scouring Fingers Finnegan’s usual haunts.

I started at Frinton’s, on the High Street, where I also treated myself to two rashers of bacon and an egg. By mid-morning, I had made my way around most of the neighbouring cafes, and it was lunchtime when I arrived at Lyon’s in the city centre. I didn’t eat out very often, and twice a day was almost unheard of. Even so, I decided to spend one and threepence on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. There was a lot of meat around then because the powers that be were slaughtering most of the farm animals to turn the land over to crops. I almost felt that I was doing my national duty by helping eat some before it went rotten.

As I waited, I noticed Finnegan slip in through the door in his usual manner, licking his lips, head half-bowed, eyes flicking nervously around the room trying to seek out anyone who might be after him, or to whom he might have owed money. I wasn’t in uniform, and I was pretending to be absorbed in my newspaper, so his eyes slid over me. When he decided it was safe, he sat down three tables away from me.

My meal came, and I tucked in with great enthusiasm, managing to keep Finnegan in my peripheral vision. Shortly, another man came in – dark-haired, red-faced – and sat with Finnegan. The two of them put their heads together, all the time Finnegan’s eyes flicking here and there, looking for danger signs. I pretended to pay no attention but was annoyed that I couldn’t overhear a word. Something exchanged hands under the table, and the other man left: Finnegan fencing his stolen goods again.

I waited, lingering over my tea and rice pudding, and when Finnegan left, I followed him. I hadn’t wanted to confront him in the restaurant and cause a scene, so I waited until we came near a ginnel not far from my own street, then I speeded up, grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him into it.

Finnegan was not very strong – in fact, he was a scrawny, sickly sort of fellow, which is why he wasn’t fit for service – but he was slippery as an eel, and it took all my energy to hang on to him until I got him where I wanted him, with his back to the wall and my fists gripping his lapels. I slammed him against the wall a couple of times to take any remaining wind out of his sails, then when he went limp, I was ready to start.

‘Bloody hell, Constable Bascombe!’ he said when he’d got his breath back. ‘I didn’t recognize you at first. You didn’t have to do that, you know. If there’s owt you want to know why don’t you just ask me? Let’s be civilians about it.’

‘The word is civilized . With you? Come off it, Fingers.’

‘My name’s Michael.’

‘Listen, Michael, I want some answers and I want them now.’

‘Answers to what?’

‘During last night’s air raid I saw you coming out of a house on Cardigan Road.’

‘I never.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I know it was you.’

‘So what? I might’ve been at my cousin’s. He lives on Cardigan Road.’

‘You were carrying something.’

‘He gave me a couple of kippers.’

‘You’re lying to me, Fingers, but we’ll let that pass for the moment. I’m interested in the raid before that one.’

‘When was that, then?’

‘Last Wednesday.’

‘How d’you expect me to remember what I was doing that long ago?’

‘Because murder can be quite a memorable experience, Fingers.’

He turned pale and slithered in my grip. My palms were sweaty. ‘Murder? Me? You’ve got to be joking! I’ve never killed nobody.’

I didn’t bother pointing out that that meant he must have killed somebody – linguistic niceties such as that being as pointless with someone of Finnegan’s intelligence as speaking loudly to a foreigner and hoping to be understood – so I pressed on. ‘Did you break into Rose Faversham’s house on Aston Place last Wednesday during the raid?’

‘Rose Faversham. Who the bloody hell’s she when she’s at home? Never heard of her.’

‘You might have known her as Mad Maggie.’

‘ Mad Maggie . Now why would a bloke like me want to break into her house? That’s assuming he did things like that in the first place, hypnotically, like.’

Hypnotically? Did he mean hypothetically ? I didn’t even ask. ‘To rob her, perhaps?’

‘Nah. You reckon a woman who went around looking like she did would have anything worth stealing? Hypnotically, again, of course.’

‘Of course, Fingers. This entire conversation is hypnotic . I understand that.’

‘Mad Maggie hardly draws attention to herself as a person worth robbing. Not unless you’re into antiques.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘Wouldn’t know a Chippendale from a Gainsborough.’

‘Know anybody who is?’

‘Nah.’

‘What about the thousands of pounds they say she had hidden in her mattress?’

‘And pigs can fly, Constable Bascombe.’

‘What about silverware?’

‘There’s a bob or two in a nice canteen of cutlery. Hypnotically, of course.’

The one thing that might have been of value to someone other than herself was Rose’s silverware, and that had been left alone. Even if Fingers had been surprised by her and killed her, he would hardly have left his sole prize behind when he ran off. On the other hand, with a murder charge hanging over it, the silverware might have turned out to be more of a liability than an asset. I looked at his face, into his eyes, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth. You couldn’t tell anything from Fin-negan’s face, though; it was like a ferret mask.

‘Look,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘I might be able to help you.’

‘Help me?’

‘Yeah. But… you know… not standing here, like this…’

I realized I was still holding him by the lapels, and I had hoisted him so high he had to stand on his tiptoes. I relaxed my grip. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘We could go to the Prince Albert, have a nice quiet drink. They’ll still be open.’

I thought for a moment. The hard way hadn’t got me very far. Maybe a little diplomacy was in order. Though it galled me to be going for a drink with a thieving illiterate like Fingers Finnegan, there were larger things at stake. I swallowed my pride and said, ‘Why not?’