Barbara Cleverly - Not My Blood

“No sir. This is real trouble I’m in. I was given your telephone number, but they said I wasn’t to use it unless I was in a crisis.”

“Where are you, Jackie?”

“I’m at Victoria Station. I’m in the stationmaster’s office. The lady policeman brought me here. I hadn’t got a ticket, you see. She’s waiting outside. They’re going to arrest me for traveling without a ticket. I’m scared.…” The voice, which had been resolute, now had a break in it. “What shall I do, Uncle?”

“Well, what you do,” said Joe as calmly as he could, “is three things. First, stop worrying. Second, see if you can get yourself a cup of tea. Third, don’t hang up but put the phone down. Go and get the policewoman to come and speak to me. Oh, and fourth, Jackie, I’ll be there with you in twenty minutes. Look, it’s not the end of the world to be caught traveling without a ticket. I’ll bring some cash and bail you out.”

The reply was hushed, a voice trying to force down hysteria. “It’s not that, it’s not that at all, Uncle. You see, I’ve … I’m afraid I’ve killed my form master.”

The policewoman’s voice was young, concerned and educated. “Good evening, sir. I take it I’m speaking to Assistant Commissioner Sandilands? Your nephew had your name and number clutched in his hand when I spotted him trying to creep through the barrier. I ought to have taken him straight to a place of safety, I know, but.…”

“You did exactly the right thing, Officer.…”

“Huntingdon, sir. Emily Huntingdon, W.P. 955.”

“Good, well, listen, Huntingdon, I’m on my way. We have a delicate situation on our hands. I have reason to believe the boy may be a witness to a crime. Keep him safe where he is, will you? And I want you to make sure no one else approaches him, not even the local beat bobby.”

There was the slightest pause before Officer Huntingdon replied. “Understood, sir.”

“Now who on earth was that?” said his sister. “Who’s Jackie?”

Joe was already struggling into a pea-jacket. He picked up a flat cap with a leather peak he’d borrowed from a Thames bargeman and said, “I’m not absolutely certain, Lydia, but there’s trouble with a runaway boy. At Victoria Station. They’re holding him until I can get there.”

Lydia glared in exasperation. “A runaway? But why would you be involved, Joe? They don’t call out a grandee like you on a snowy evening to deal with a runaway!” Her expression softened. “Still-on a night like this … poor little chap! But I thought you had women police patrols to round up the waifs and strays of London?”

“This is a rather special runaway, Lydia. Pass me those gumboots, will you? Oh, and it’s quite likely I shall be bringing him home with me.”

Winding a muffler round his neck, Joe clumped down three flights of stairs to the dimly lit hallway. Inevitably, a door opened, and the hearty voice of his landlord, ex-Inspector Jenkins of the Metropolitan Police greeted him. “Late call, sir?”

“Yeah, late call, Alfred.”

“Wrap up warm, then! It’s coming cold. Oh-sir! You can use the lift again on the way back. They’ve been in and fixed it.”

“My sister will be glad of that, Alfred. I’ll tell her.”

Joe stepped out into the street and to his relief there was a light in the cabbies’ shelter on the embankment. To his further relief there were two taxis in the rank and he ran across the road to claim one of them.

“Victoria Station,” he said. “And get me as near to the stationmaster’s office as you can.”

“No difficulty, sir,” said the cabby, ringing down his flag.

The snow was thickening as they drove the last few yards up Buckingham Palace Road and Joe looked anxiously at his watch. Twenty minutes, he’d said, and twenty minutes it was. He shouldered his way along the platform to the stationmaster’s office and saw, standing feet apart, hands behind her back, the reassuring figure of a policewoman.

“Huntingdon?” he asked.

She saluted neatly. Not many of the female officers could do this naturally. She looked bright, efficient, friendly. She did not, beyond a point, look deferential. No one could add grace to the hideous high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, nobody could look feminine or even female in the uncompromising blue serge skirt and the clumping shoes, but she managed, Joe noticed.

“Where’s the miscreant?” he asked, showing his warrant card.

“No miscreant, sir, you’ll find,” she corrected him with a smile. “No miscreant at all. Just a boy in trouble. Not uncommon around here.”

“Thank you for dealing with this. Enter your report. Say that I assumed custody. I’ll make it right with your governor, and I’ll take the lad in charge for the time being.”

“Your nephew, sir?”

“Not even that,” said Joe. “He’s newly arrived from India, and you know how it is in India-or perhaps you don’t? Any family friend becomes an honourary uncle. Or aunt.”

“I have one or two of those myself, sir.” Huntingdon’s smile was gracious, her eyes watchful. “Shall I come in with you?” she asked. “I think what our prisoner needs more than anything is something to eat, if I may suggest, sir. He’s had nothing really since breakfast as far as I can work out.”

Gently Joe pushed the door of the stationmaster’s office open and stood in silence looking in. He saw the stolid figure of the assistant stationmaster doing the crossword on the back of the Evening News, a company of teacups at his elbow and an ashtray brimming with cigarette ends in front of him. The general smell of police stations in the middle of the night greeted Joe, familiar and reassuring.

He tightened his jaw, breathed in, and steeled himself to take his first look at Jackie Drummond.

With legs swinging, a small fair-haired boy clutching a cycling cape about his shoulders looked up anxiously. An Afghan bag with a broad strap lay at his feet.

“Now, what on earth do I say?” Joe asked himself as they stared at each other. What he did finally say, with relief and a rush of recognition, was: “Jackie! I’d have known you anywhere-you’re very much like your mother!”

The small face, pinched, pale with bruised circles under the eyes, was suddenly lit by a radiant smile. “And you look quite like my dad!”

Joe held out a hand. “Come on then, Jackie, let’s be going. We can talk as we go. I’ll take your bag. Say goodbye to the stationmaster.”

“Goodbye, sir,” said the boy dutifully, “and thank you for having me.”

And, as they left the office, “Say goodbye to Constable Huntingdon.”

In the most natural way in the world, the boy shook hands and lifted his face for a kiss. “Thank you, Constable,” he said politely, “for looking after me.”

“I enjoyed looking after you. See you again soon, Jackie, I hope,” said Constable Huntingdon. “Oops! Perhaps I oughtn’t to say that!” she added, suddenly self-conscious, and seemed pleased with the swift grin of understanding the boy gave her.

Hand in hand they returned to the waiting taxi and set off once more through the slushy streets, gas lamps flickering in the rising wind and reflecting from the wet pavements.

“Have you been to London before, Jackie?” Joe asked.

“Once. Daddy brought me up for shopping. We went to Hamleys and the Tower and Madame Tussauds.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, very.”

“Well, come on, we’ll find you something. I should think you’ve drunk enough tea tonight to float the Normandie.”

The boy smiled shyly. “Yes,” he said, “they kept giving it to me. I don’t really like tea very much.”

“We’ll find something else. Cocoa perhaps? Now, unless I’m wrong about this, you’ve run away from school?”