Billy returned a puzzled glance, and shuffled his feet, nervously wondering if he should sit down or not. He let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the clutter of medical wall charts, faded prints of stags bellowing over misty waters, and a photograph of young naval officers lined up like a silver buttoned football team. The face of a younger, happier version of the old doctor, smiled out proudly from the carefree ranks.
'Hum, I was in the Atlantic most of the great war. Ship's surgeon,' Greenhow said, mistaking Billy's casual glance at the photograph for actual interest. 'I finally got out Christmas nineteen-nineteen. It wasn't a moment too soon. Those were hairy days my boy, four years on the knife-edge. You never knew when it might suddenly all be over. Boom!' He shook his head ruefully, as he towelled his hands. Then, eyeing Billy diffidently, he wafted a hand in the direction of a visitor chair at the end of his cluttered desk. 'Sit boy, sit. You make the place untidy.'
Billy smelled Christmas pudding as they manoeuvred passed each other to take their seats. It must be alcohol, he guessed. Christmas was but a faint memory, and even he had heard of the doctor's fondness for brandy. It was even rumoured a child had died because of it.
'So now then, Old Stick, what's the matter?'
'I'm not badly anymore,' replied Billy flatly, partly because it was true, but mostly because he disliked the doctor, and wanted to leave as soon as possible.
'You've had a few adventures lately,' Greenhow said. 'I believe you found the body of that unfortunate rascal, young Sutcliffe?' Billy dropped his gaze and made no reply. 'I expect you've told the police all about it by now? I bet they were very pleased with you. They like boys who're brave and truthful.' The doctor leaned over and patted Billy's elbow. 'Me too. I like honesty and courage in a chap.'
Choosing a stethoscope from a tangle of miscellaneous equipment on his desk, he placed it around his neck. 'Take off your jacket, Old Stick.' He reached and grabbed Billy's wrist firmly and held it for a while between his finger and thumb. 'What did you tell them? - Pulse is fine. - What did they say? - These fingers seem to be scabbing over nicely. Mouth open, let's see inside the old cake hole. Stick out your tongue – errggh – put it away again. All's fine in there. Were they pleased? Any pains in the old breadbasket? Let's see shall we? Stand up, Old Stick.'
After a few moments more of prodding and poking, the doctor sat Billy down again. He began scratching words on to a dog-eared record card with a pen he dipped frequently into an ink well, spattering ink spots over his desk and papers. When he had finished he tossed the pen aside, and leaned back in his chair to study Billy's face. 'Did you see the gun fired?' he asked.
'No.'
'But you heard them talking?'
'No.'
'But you were there when the shot was fired?'
'I told the police everything I know. I was hiding. I didn't see anything.'
'I hear you're a bit of a detective. Young Hadfield tells me you're a bright boy. Is that true? He says you've unearthed clues the police had missed. Did you really?'
'I'm not doing it anymore. I've stopped being a detective.'
'Why?'
'I don't know; I just stopped. I couldn't find out owt, so I've given it up.'
'Did you know she was writing her life story?' the doctor asked him. 'What a waste. Who'd care? I'm told that old fool the vicar was encouraging her. Do you know Reverend Hinchcliffe? He was her editor. Damn foolishness!'
Billy did not know what an editor was, but resolved to visit the vicar to find out. 'I think it could be an interesting story,' he replied, happy to disagree. The doctor's lack of reaction to this was disappointing, so Billy tried again. 'My granny told me that Mrs Loveday had many secrets. For instance, she knew that somebody was given a medal in the war that should never have been theirs. The old lady's son was involved somehow. Maybe she would spill the beans in her life story?'
Again, the doctor was utterly indifferent and merely sniffed with mild disapproval. 'Well whatever she was going to say, we'll never know now – eh? They couldn't find any papers, or her manuscript, so that's the end of that.' He rose from his chair and patted Billy on the shoulder.
'I didn't know they were looking for any papers or manuscripts?' said Billy, his curiosity alerted. 'I mean to say, if they are so sure she wasn't murdered, why would they bother to look for anything? Surely they'd just close up the house and that'd be that.'
Greenhow peered at him thoughtfully, then shrugged. 'Hum, bright boy, bright boy. I expect you're right, but I don't know, and I've other things to worry about. Luckily it's not our business, is it?'
'No it isn't, and I especially don't care now that I'm not a detective anymore,' said Billy. 'I hope I never hear about it again.'
The doctor was inspecting him minutely. It made him feel very self-conscious. Heat flowed into his cheeks. Suddenly the old man sat down again and scribbled an afterthought on the record card, spattering ink across his stethoscope and papers.
'What are you writing, sir?' asked Billy, wondering what he had said that was worth such effort.
'Notes, my boy,' replied the old man, peering fiercely over his spectacles.
He held up the card and read his addition to himself. 'You can't overstate the case for good note taking - as I am forever telling my young colleague Doctor Hadfield. Take my word for it, Billy, write it down and it'll stick - always there for reference and reassurance.' He dropped his pen into the cluttered inkstand with an air of finality and rising from his seat, moved quickly around his desk. 'So, no more sleuthing – eh? Quite right too; let the police do what they're paid for. You need to concentrate on your schoolwork.'
He opened his consulting room door. In the waiting room the same people were still in their seats, resolutely hanging on to their places in the queue. As a body they rose to face the doctor, their expressions set in grim determination. Greenhow ignored them and turned suddenly to Billy. 'Did you know that chap Sutcliffe?' he asked softly. 'Or his father? Did you turn up any evidence to connect them with Mrs Loveday's death?'
'No – you don't mean gold coins do you?' Billy asked, intrigued by the afterthought.
Greenhow pulled him back into the consulting room and closed the door. 'Gold coins? What gold coins?'
'Oh it's just a stupid rumour. She was supposed to have some sovereigns in a sock, in a secret drawer. Everybody thought Stan might have believed it.'
The doctor was impassive. 'So you think young Sutcliffe knew this? And his father too, I suppose? Do you think they knew about the – err – secret drawer thing?'
'Everybody knew,' Billy said. 'There was nowt in it but her rent book.'
Greenhow opened the door again and gently eased Billy through into the waiting room. 'I thought I told you to send them all home,' he barked at his receptionist. 'Why the blazes are they still here? Get them out! Surgery is over. Go on get out. Why the blazes can't you people do as you're told? I knew this damn National Health scheme would be a disaster Get out of here! Come back tomorrow if you're not malingering.'
*
At the old greenhouse, Yvonne, Kick and Billy found the name Arnold Pearce chalked on their Motive-Opportunity-MEENS board. The figures 5.30 were chalked against it.
'Did thar write it?' Kick asked Billy.
'No!'
'And it weren't me neither,' Yvonne cried, as their accusing eyes turned to her.
'I told my gran about the MOM board,' Billy said. 'I asked her who was around early on that morning when the old lady was killed. She's always up at first crack of sparrow fart. She'd know if anybody else was up too.' He fixed Yvonne with a steely stare.
'What?' she demanded huffily.
'The only person she saw was your Dad.'
Yvonne was unmoved. 'Well you know he's up early. I already told you. It was me who wrote him on the board.'
'Did you ask him if he'd seen anybody else - like you said you would?'
'Of course I did. I said I would, didn't I? So I did.'
Kick ar
med himself with chalk and stood poised by the board. 'Well go on then.'
'The milkman …'
'Old, or young?' Kick demanded efficiently.
'Old. I was just going to say,' she answered crossly.
'Gerron with it,' Billy snapped.
'My Dad of course and the doctor ...'
'Old or young?' demanded Kick, unrepentant.
'I was just going to say,' Yvonne cried, her face turning pink. 'The old one.'
Billy looked gloomy. 'Is that the lot? Huh, nothing fishy there. You'd expect to see any of them - it's their jobs.'
'But what about Arnold Pearce though? It's not his job, and somebody thinks he should be on the list.' Kick vigorously underlined the name on the board.
'Yeah, but Yvonne's dad didn't see him did he?' Billy argued, his confidence in the MOM board beginning to wane.
'Well neither did your grandma,' Yvonne retaliated.
'I'll ask her again,' Billy promised. 'You ask your dad again too. We'll leave it on the board for now, but if they didn't see him we'll have to rub him out.'
*
Later that afternoon, over apple cake and tea, Billy confronted his granny.
'Don't talk with your mouth full,' she told him.
'You just did.'
'Yes, but only because I had to tell you not to, you bad boy. Go and fetch the coal up. It's cold enough to freeze a duck's quack.'
Billy dashed into the cellar and filled the coalscuttle in record time, eager to get back to interrogate his granny. A noisy swig of tea, a swallow of cake and he was ready to try again.
'Why don't the old doctor and the Sergeant get on with each other?'
'Who says they don't?'
'I do.'
'I don't know what you're talking about. I mean, I wouldn't say they were best friends, but I think they get on well enough. It was Doctor Greenhow who tried to save his little girl.'
'Sergeant Burke's? I didn't know he had a daughter.'
'No, she died, bless the little mite. She was only four. The poor sergeant was heart broken.'
Billy shuffled in his seat, recalling the coldness he had seen between the two men, outside Annabel's cottage, but his mind was moving on like a bee in lavender. 'You said you only saw Yvonne Sparkes' dad, but somebody else told us they saw poshy Pearce. They've written it on our MOM board. Why didn't you tell me he was around – you must have seen him?'
Granny Perks chuckled and raised a finger whilst chewing urbanely. Billy knew she was deliberately keeping him waiting, but refused to rise to her baiting. At length she put her bony finger to her lips and spoke softly, 'Shush. Keep it down. I did see him, but I ...' Her eyebrows hovered above her spectacles as her face took on a censorious expression. 'I didn't want to say anything for the sake of a certain lady's reputation.' She gave Billy a wry smile, for what reason he had not the faintest idea. Then, springing forward in her seat, she wagged a finger at him. 'And you mustn't say anything, young man. It's not our business.'
'What's not? I don't know anything. What lady - whose reputation? What are you going on about?'
'I saw him leaving a certain lady's house at five thirty in the morning.'
'Whose?'
'If you can't guess, I can't say. So just think on.'
That was all she would say. Billy was baffled. And why, he thought, did they always say, "Just think on." What was that supposed to mean?
An hour later, he met with Yvonne. Even she was unable to fill in many of the gaps for him. Granny's enigmatic nods and knowing winks remained mysterious. 'It could be Miss Burkinshaw at the library I suppose,' Yvonne speculated. 'She always blushes when he goes in there for some books. He reads a lot of books, I think.'
Before his curfew, oblivious to the embarrassment he was about to heap on the poor woman, Billy was knocking on Emily Burkinshaw's door, ready to ask her if she could confirm that Arnold Pearce had been leaving her house at five in the morning. The wail she let out when questioned, startled sparrows in her yard and set dogs to barking. Billy backed away astonished as she burst into tears and slammed the door in his face.
'I guess that's a yes then,' he told himself.
Turning from Emily Burkinshaw's door, he was surprised to see that dusk had crept up on him unnoticed. The incandescent mantels in the street's gas lamps were gently popping and hissing as they warmed up for the long night. Folk were calling home their wandering dogs, and drawing curtains at their windows.
Soon it would be dark enough, thought Billy, to slip into the Ebenezer Chapel yard for another look at the boiler room. He wanted to find the medals and the photograph. He had decided that leaving them behind had been a big mistake, and hoped a quick scamper up the tunnel would put it right.
His mother had set his curfew at seven-o-clock, and then up to bed as soon as Dick Barton finished, punishment for his brush with the law. These days, the slightest deviation from any of her rules brought the roof down on him. He was already past his curfew; another ten minutes would not make the situation any worse. Setting off at a trot he made his way to the chapel as thick smog began rolling in like brown ghosts, gathering in the gas lamps' glare
The gate to the flight of steps down to the boiler room had a new chain and padlock. He quickly climbed over it and picked his way down the stone steps to find a sturdy new door in place, heavily bolted and padlocked.
Turning away miserably, he headed for home. Whoever had been sleeping in the tunnel would have moved away long before they put the door up, he reasoned. It was idiotic not to have realised. He decided not to tell Yvonne.
He ran along the foggy street, pushed through the cinema queue snaking around the front of the Walkley Palladium and clambered breathlessly up the steep hill to his home. At his gate, Constable Handley loomed out of the brown smog and grabbed his collar. 'Where're you off to in such a hurry?'
'Nowhere, I live here. I'm late. I'll get killed if you don't let me go in. I'm supposed to be in by seven.'
'Huh, well in that case, we'll all be going to your funeral then, it's a quarter past already. Where've you been until now?'
'Just round and about - playing.'
'We've had a complaint.'
'It weren't me.'
'Well of course not. I bet you're little Mr Innocent.'
'The Sergeant's been here already, asking me questions.'
'Yes well he's off in Ireland today with his big shot fishing friends, so you've only got me this time,' the constable said testily. 'Some medals have been nicked. Have you seen 'em?'
Billy gulped. Did he mean the ones he'd seen in the tunnel? Or were there some others? 'Where were they nicked from?' he asked, trying to buy time to think.
'It was a burglary - a private house,' the constable told him. 'People saw somebody hanging around on the day it was done over. It's a queer business because only the medals were taken. There was plenty of other stuff they could have nicked, but they didn't. That's why I think it's kids – like you.' Handley stared accusingly at Billy as if trying to read his mind. 'Anyway keep your eyes open, Detective. They're in a blue leather case about as big as a library book. If you see anything, or hear of anybody selling owt like it, let me know.'
The last few words had passed over Billy as he spotted his mother rapidly approaching him from the house. He faced her feeling distinctly queasy. Life, as he knew it was about to take yet another unpleasant turn. Mrs Perks' face wore an expression of icy fury. Not only was her son out late, despite warnings of the direst consequences, but he was, yet again, in the presence of a police officer. It could not be worse.
As his life flashed before his eyes, Billy heard Constable Handley cheerfully greet his mother. 'I'm sorry the lad is late, Mrs Perks,' he sang pleasantly. 'It was my fault. He's been helpful to me on a very important matter. He's a good lad. I hope you'll not punish him because of me.'
Billy's opinion of the constable soared. His mother smiled and sighed happily.
*
Saturday mornings presented
Billy with opportunities to rebuild his damaged reputation with his mother. He would rise early, get himself ready, and carefully review the tasks he could volunteer to perform for her. If there was nothing too tedious, or strenuous on the horizon, such as cleaning out the hen house, or bathing the dog, he would suggest chores. Jobs like whitewashing the cellar steps, or the outside toilet were his favourites, but as he had recently done both, volunteering was becoming a risky strategy, the best jobs having all gone.
'Do you want any shopping, Mam?' he asked desperately.
'Oooh yes, love. I need some things from the Co-op, but first you can get your granny's prescription from the chemist's. That'll be a big help. Thank you, love,' she said, and started a shopping list on the envelope containing granny's prescription.
Billy congratulated himself. He didn't like the chemist's shop, but the Co-op was fun. He enjoyed shopping there.
At the chemist's, Arnold Pearce glared at him sourly as Billy took his Granny's prescription from its ink spattered envelope and handed it over to him. Pearce snatched it without a word and stalked off to his pharmacy at the back. A few minutes later Billy left the shop with Granny's tablets, and a strong feeling that Pearce wanted to speak to him for some mysterious reason.
After dropping off granny's pills, he ran to the Co-op. Yvonne's sister, Marlene, was the store's cashier, elevated in a glass kiosk high above the sales floor. Whenever he went there he would wave to Marlene, and wonder what it was like to sit up there above the counters, able to see every transaction. Along with tram driver, it was a job he aspired to. It had celebrity, position and trust; in every respect, an elevated office.
From each of the Co-op's several service counters were strung steel cables, like tightropes, across the ceiling to the cashier's kiosk. Trolleys, with little brass cups hanging beneath them, whirred and clanked to and fro, carrying sales slips and cash from the counter assistants to the cashier. The cashier's job was to unscrew the cup from its trolley, check the sales slip and the payment tendered, and issue the appropriate change. She would put the change in the cup and pull a lever whizzing it back to the sales counter. By this means, customers got the correct change, and a hand written receipt. The cashier's most important task however, was to enter the Divi, in a great ledger held in guarded splendour in the glass kiosk. Every customer had a Co-op Dividend number. Every purchase was recorded and the due dividend calculated and entered. When they had saved enough, customers could cash in their Divi and spend it.