Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

Laurence felt something didn't quite fit. 'But if she's right, then this couldn't have been Tucker's address when he signed up, either.'

'No. Wel, nobody checked, I suppose. But then nobody would have been able to notify the next of kin, either.'

'Which wasn't necessary in Tucker's case.'

'No, or he didn't care.'

'Or he didn't have any next of kin.'

However, Laurence remembered Byers saying bitterly that there was a Mrs Tucker somewhere.

'Or he didn't like people knowing where he lived. Even then!' said Charles.

A handful of children started to gather round. One smal and grubby girl puled hard on Laurence's sleeve, silently but holding out her other hand. He slipped her a penny, hoping the others wouldn't see.

Charles walked less confidently back up the road, then stopped. The children folowed noiselessly.

'We can ask in there.' He pointed to the isolated public house. It was propped up by two wooden buttresses where neighbouring houses must have been torn down.

'It's closed,' said Laurence.

'I don't think so,' Charles replied.

There was no sign or brewery notice. Laurence crossed the road, walked up to the building and tried the door; it opened easily. Charles folowed him in. Three men were drinking beer around an upended crate, while two others and a drably dressed woman sat at a window seat. The landlord stood behind a rudimentary bar. A dog snarled at them from beside a stove, but made no effort to get up.

Laurence didn't feel threatened; the drinkers looked guarded rather than intimidating. Al talk had ceased as they came in. From what he could see of the landlord, he seemed to be dressed in part of a uniform: khaki trousers, topped with a colarless shirt and a waistcoat.

Laurence ordered two pints of beer. It came from a single unmarked keg. He handed over a shiling for the two. He doubted anyone else in there was paying the going rate. The landlord's unease might have been because the pub was open before drinking hours.

As if to read his mind, the man said defiantly, 'We keep to pre-war drinking in here, now it's not an official house.' Surprisingly, he had a London accent.

'I'm sorry to bother you,' Charles said firmly, 'but we're looking for an acquaintance.'

There was a snigger from the woman in the window.

'Tucker, Tucker's the name. Knew him in the war.' Laurence got out the photograph and put it on the bar. 'Used to live in Florence Place.'

The silence continued. Nobody looked at the photograph. Laurence looked round. No one met his eye.

Finaly the landlord spoke.

'And you think your old army mate drinks in here?'

'So we've been told. Him or his friends,' Laurence said.

'Lots of Tuckers.'

'He was a sergeant.'

' Sergeant Tucker.' The landlord looked amused. Anybody know this Sergeant Tucker?' he said and without waiting for an answer asked, 'What makes you think he comes here?'

'Wel, he said he used to live over there.' Laurence gestured to the derelict plot of land.

The woman in the window snorted again.

Laurence looked at her. She was smal, probably not more than twenty. Her face, as she gazed at him frankly, was pinched and either bruised or dirty.

'You knew him?' he asked her.

'Nah. Jest he came from a stinking rotten place. Gone now. It's al going now. Even this home from home.' She grimaced at her own surroundings.

The landlord looked irritated. 'We're providing a service. Just for the last weeks,' he said. 'No point wasting the building before the wrecking bal cals time.

After al, there's no sign yet of al their municipial improvements out there.' Although he mispronounced the word, he sounded angry as he gestured towards the door.

'They can take the houses away but where are people supposed to live? Even now they've had the exterminators in and taken out a few of our lads. Germans got the wrong people if you ask me.'

'You and the Bolshies,' a man muttered as he got up. As he wrenched the door open, a cold draught knifed in. The door banged shut behind him.

'Do you happen to know a pub caled the Woodman?' Laurence asked in the silence that folowed.

For some reason this seemed to amuse the group at the table.

'You could say so,' said the landlord. 'There's ten or so Wood-mans around. God knows why. Munitions Man, Metal-Roling Man, Lime-Kiln Man, or even No-Fucking-Chance-of-a-Job Man, you'd understand. Not much cal for woodmen in good old Brummagem. Stil, what's in a name?' He picked up the dirty mug on the bar, dipped it in a bowl of murky water, puled it out and rubbed it with a rag. 'This used to be the Royal Oak.' He looked up towards the men at the table. 'Fred, Ivor, you were soldiering men. Did you know this Tucker?'

One man was shaking his head before he even got to the end of the sentence, as if to deflect any involvement with strangers. The other appeared not to have heard at al.

'Sorry. Can't help you,' the landlord said. 'Me, I got a chest.' He thumped on his sternum. 'Missed the chance of a scrap. Was in stores. Never left the country.

But good luck to you. Though I doubt you'l find him.'

They stepped out into the fresh air. A man stood against a boarded shopfront opposite, roling a cigarette. Otherwise the street was empty. Charles was feeling in his pocket, obviously intending to return to his map. Laurence felt heavy after a pint of unfamiliar ale.

'What made you think that place was stil in use?'

'Grey cels.'

'Grey cels?'

'That's what Mrs Christie's little Belgian has.'

Laurence thought Charles was fearless, reliable and like a child in some respects. He wasn't sure whether he was useful or a liability.

'And I saw a thread of smoke coming from the chimney. So somebody was in there. And there are two jugs hanging on a hook outside. That's a sign of a place to drink in these parts—and I imagine they'd have been long taken if they were simply there as ornament on a ruin.'

'I forgot you were the Sir James Frazer of local customs. They'd heard of Tucker al right, don't you think?'

As Laurence spoke, the man across the road detached himself from the wal. As he came towards them Charles looked momentarily puzzled but Laurence recognised him from the bar a few minutes before. He'd been the first one to leave.

As he reached them he said, 'This Sergeant-as-was Tucker you're after? What's he worth to you?'

Charles and Laurence briefly exchanged looks.

'My cigarettes?' Charles said, holding them out. The man looked doubtful. He rubbed his nose with his hand and pushed his cap back.

'Looks to me like you'se come a long way,' he said. 'Not from these parts, anyway. So you must be wanting this Tucker a mite more than a Frenchie fag or two. Price of beer's enough to turn you temperance around these parts.'

'You're right, of course,' said Charles. 'So what do you think would be fair payment, assuming you actualy know where our man is, or have some pretty solid information as to where he lives now?'

'Oh, I know where he is right enough,' the man replied. 'I'l take you to him toot sweet. Mind you, can't guarantee he'l welcome you with open arms.'

'A shiling. How does that sound?' asked Charles.

Laurence thought of the fold of pound notes in Charles's inner pocket. The man looked doubtful but nervous, as if he didn't want to see Tucker but wanted more money. Finaly he seemed to decide on tactics.

'Look, I'm out of work, three babbies at home. Wife's about to drop another. I did my bit in France and al and I reckon you did too, sir, so you know what I'm talking about. It in't easy. So how's about two bob? Something for the wife an' a bag of suck for the little'uns? For that I take you right to him. Nasty bit of work he is and al. Though not the scrapper he was, you'l find. Mind you, I'm not hanging around while you try and talk to him.' He barked—something between a laugh and a cough.