Tuppenny Hat Detective

  Doctor Hadfield was in the Co-op when Billy arrived. Bunty Griffiths, the sales assistant was serving. Billy saw the doctor fold a small piece of paper inside the ten-shilling note he tendered. Bunty blushed, giggling and pretended not to have seen it as she put the ten bob note into the brass cup and fired it off to the cashier's kiosk. Billy watched, and saw Marlene laugh in her elevated office as she read the little love note.

  'Where's your hat?' the doctor asked, turning to Billy.

  'The cops arrested it,' he replied.

  'Arrested it?' queried the doctor.

  'Yeah, it's evidence,' he explained.

  'Hard luck, old boy. A detective needs a hat.'

  'I'm not a detective any more. I've gen it up.'

  'Oh, and why have you given it up? I thought you seemed very good at it.'

  'We weren't finding enough out, and the police were telling me Mam and Dad, so we've gen it up. And anyway we can't do a lot because they won't tell you anything if you're a kid.'

  'What things?' asked Doctor Hadfield.

  'Well about the ortosky and stuff,' said Billy.

  'The what?'

  'The ortosky,' Billy cried. 'I mean, if she was bashed with something instead of falling down like they said. I need to see the ortosky. I've seen it in the movies. It tells you how they were killed, so you can work out how to prove it.'

  'That's autopsy,' explained the doctor, smothering a chuckle. 'You mean autopsy - a post mortem examination. I don't even know if there was one.'

  'No, but if there was, I'm not allowed to read it cos I'm only eleven.'

  The doctor sucked his cheek. 'Yes, hard luck, old bean. I see what you mean.'

  'Now an old man like you,' said Billy smiling coyly. 'If you were a detective and not just an assistant doctor, they'd let you see it and all the photos – they take photos at autopsies to see if there are any bits of silver in the wounds.'

  'Bits of silver?' Hadfield queried, his pride more hurt at being thought an "old man" than merely "an assistant doctor".

  'Yes bits of clues of what she were bashed with.' Billy was disappointed that the doctor seemed so dim and felt compelled to explain to him. 'If you get bashed with a cricket bat, or a house brick, they can examine your wound under a microscope and see bits of cricket bat. That's how they can tell. It's called forensic.'

  'Or even house brick,' volunteered the doctor.

  Billy nodded, unsure whether he was mocking him, or not. 'Did they check that with Mrs Loveday?' he asked rhetorically. 'Of course not. They all jumped to the same conclusion as Doctor Greenhow, because he's a big important doctor and they're all scared to argue with him.' He stared up at Hadfield trying to assess any impact his words might be having. 'So, there could be clues in the wound that nobody has seen, or worse still, not even looked for.'

  Doctor Hadfield's eyebrows arched up his forehead. 'Wow! You've really thought about this haven't you? I'll tell you what, I'll enquire. I promise you. And if there was an autopsy or any photographs of the wound, I'll take a very close look at them. Oh, and by the way, don't worry, I won't tell anyone you haven't really given up being a detective.'

  ………

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kick was at the greenhouse when Billy arrived. Mud caked a vibrant new bruise on his cheek. It made his right eye look as if it was drawn on his face with crayons. Football boots, strung on their laces, hung about his neck, smearing mud on to his white school shirt with every move. Billy found himself imagining the howl of dismay from Kick's mother when she saw his damaged face and muddied shirt.

  Reading Billy's curious expression, Kick explained that he'd been hit in the face by a ball.

  'Hum, football's a tough game,' said Billy.

  'This weren't football. It were a dog called Mark,' he said, enigmatically. 'It's old Ma Simpson's dog. Somebody threw a ball for it and it hit me smack in the eye.'

  'Ma Simpson?'

  'Aye, and d'yer know what? She were a skoyl-teacher in the olden days. She taught Tommy Loveday when he were at skoyl.'

  'Gimbals! I thought she was dead.'

  'No, she's not dead. Her son is our coach, and he sometimes brings her in his motorbike and sidecar so she can let her dog crap in the goal mouth.'

  'Lovely.'

  'As soon as I heard she was Tommy's old skoyl-teacher I asked her about him. She said he were a wonderful boy.' Kick's eyes rolled mockingly. 'He sounds a right Nancy-boy if you ask me. She started going on about him: never in trouble, never late, never in fights, never naughty, a real little goody-goody, and of course he were brilliant at everything, especially art.'

  'Did you ask her about the folder?'

  'Of course I did, and that were mistake an' all,' he groaned. 'She went raving on about it. I thought she'd never shurrup. She said all her class had to make 'em, but little goody-goody Tommy Loveday's was perfect, of course.'

  'What'd it look like?' Billy asked, eagerly. 'Did it have a bird and lion on it?'

  'I don't know about lions and birds. She just said they all made folders about Alexander the Great - and his were the best.'

  Billy's disappointment was brushed aside by Yvonne's sudden arrival. Breathless and agitated, she burst into the greenhouse. 'Did you see him?' she cried. 'Look, him over there.' She pointed to a thick stand of bushes at the far end of the tangled neglect that had once been a vegetable garden. 'He's gone now, but he was there, I swear it - a man spying on us.'

  'Well there's nobody there now.' Billy's gaze swept the rampant dereliction. 'I didn't see him, but I'm sure somebody's been following me around an' all. I sort of feel them watching me all the time, but I never see nobody.'

  'Who is? D'yer mean the tramp?' Kick asked. 'He's always hanging around. I bet it's him who was living in that tunnel. And don't forget, it worra tramp who told thee mam when tha got bushwhacked,' he reminded Billy.

  'So, that means he must be on our side,' Yvonne said, her tone faltering between optimism and uncertainty. 'I mean he's not a hit man in the pay of the killer?'

  'No, but he might be the killer,' teased Kick, chuckling.

  'Next time I see him I'm going to follow him,' said Billy. 'If it was him who had the medals, I want to talk to him.'

  'Just be careful,' warned Yvonne.

  'I've got to go,' said Billy. 'I have to be in by seven, or get murdered by my mam again.' Curfew was looming and he was determined not to break it. Relations with his mother had been steadily improving, though his father still ignored him.

  *

  The following Saturday brought word that the police had removed the notices from the Star woman's cottage. Her furniture could now be sold. The Annabel Loveday case was closed; all loose ends tidied up, or, as Billy saw it, swept under the carpet. The lawyers, the coroner, the police, the establishment, had finished with the old lady. Society was screwing the lid firmly down on her life, and on her death too. Suffering a sudden surge of panic, Billy decided he had to get inside the house for one last look around. And as far as viewing the sideboard was concerned, he had to do that too – no matter what. There was no time to lose.

  With two slices of bread and pork dripping in his hand for breakfast, he dashed out of his house and ran to the chapel, stuffing his mouth on the way. He felt sick with panic. He had no idea how he would get inside. As the chapel came into view, his heart soared. A skinny old mare, harnessed to a small float, stood at the chapel's basement entrance. Two men were struggling to get a bulky wardrobe down from the cart.

  'Hey, can I help thee carry it?' he blurted out, bulleting up to them, and jettisoning the last bits of bread and dripping to free his hands.

  The one visible man looked him up and down. 'Tha can if tha wants, but tha'll get nowt for it.'

  'I don't want nowt.'

  The other man, invisible behind the wardrobe, spoke up. 'Well get hold of a corner sithee. Them as wants to work for nowt will always find Mesters.'

  Billy grabbed a corner and struggled hard to make his presence felt on
their burden. 'What's tha do then?' asked the visible man. 'Are tha like a boy scout or sommat? Is it Bob-a-Job week?'

  'Nay he's on the scrounge for a copper or two,' invisible man suggested. 'He thinks we're going to change us mind and give him sommat. I hope he asks thee for it, cos if he asks me he'll get chuff all.'

  They drummed and bumped into the chapel's huge basement. Billy gazed around astonished as he crab stepped alongside the tottering wardrobe. Nut-brown furniture of every shape and size stood in tight ranks. Every item bore a label with its lot number written in purple crayon. How would he find the sideboard in this lot?

  'To me - to me - to me - and down.'

  'Hey, well done young en – now chuff off home before tha gets locked in.'

  'Can I have a look round a bit first?'

  'No tha can't,' said the invisible man, making an appearance from behind the wardrobe.

  'Please mister. My granny's just deed and her stuff's in here,' lied Billy, whining pathetically. 'I just wanted to see it one last time before it's all sold off.'

  'Tha bloody liar! Thee granny's that old bird who lives on Orchard Road. And I know thee an' all. Thee father's a brickie at Hadfields steelworks.'

  'Furnace mason,' Billy corrected indignantly.

  'Lerrim have a look round, Farewell. What's it matter to thee? We'll be another ten minutes yet.'

  'Farewell? Is that his name?' asked Billy, ridicule seasoning his tone.

  'Aye it is. Tha sees, when he were a chabby, his dad were always trying to get rid o' him, so they called him Farewell, hoping he'd buggar off.'

  Unmoved, Farewell took off his tweed cap, and ran a palm over his sweating baldhead. 'Hilarious,' he said dryly, adding in stilted monotone. 'Never-before-in-my-culturally-impoverished-life-have-I-heard-such-biting-wit-and-repartee.'

  The other man laughed and winked at Billy. 'It's alreight mi-owd. He likes thee. Tha can stay a bit.'

  As the two men went back to their cart, Billy turned his attention to the mass of furniture jammed into the great room. The task seemed impossible. How could anybody find anything? Luckily, the auctioneer's need to provide access to each lot for inspection, made the task easier than he had imagined. He was able to squeeze along the narrow gangways and soon found the old lady's sideboard. Its flame mahogany doors burned out from a dim corner like a tiger, casting a rich glow onto the dusty items around it.

  A sudden swell of emotion gathered in the pit of Billy's stomach. There it was at last, the old lady's pride and joy; the only thing in her house of any value. How often had she waxed and polished it? Had she, as a young bride, gone with her new husband to buy it from the cabinetmaker all those years ago? Did they run their fingers along its smooth surface and think of the years they would share in its company? Did they imagine the children who would search its shelves for birthday treats?

  Two roll front drawers separated the sideboard's lower cupboards from its flat top, where the old lady had kept a vase of wild flowers. He'd been told that the left hand drawer would be the one with a secret compartment. He pulled it out with little effort. As expected, it was empty, making it easier to reach deep inside. Far at the back, a panel gave slightly when he pressed. It felt spring loaded, but did not open. His fingers traced the panel, sliding along its face and edges, searching for something to trip, unlatch, press, or pull. There was nothing: no hooks, no levers, no buttons, no crafty springs, or pendulum locks. He pulled the drawer out further and bent to peer inside to the back. Nothing useful revealed itself. Frustrated he prodded and poked randomly. The panel suddenly popped out with a sigh and gently pushed his fingers away to reveal its secrets. There was enough room inside to hide a book, or even a gold bar, but there were no gold bars, no books, no papers, not even an old rent book. The secret drawer was empty.

  ………

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday lunch from Bottomley's chip shop restored Billy's spirits. As usual, his mother insisted on removing the chips and fishcakes from their newspaper wrapping, and arranging them carefully on oven warmed plates. She served them with bread, butter, and tea at the table, set with a clean white cloth.

  After lunch she sent him on numerous errands, punishment, she explained, for running out of the house that morning without telling her where he was going, or when he would return. 'It's not a hotel,' she told him. A well used declaration of hers, which he failed to see as being in any way relevant.

  It was mid-afternoon before he finally had the chance to go to the Star Woman's house. He would miss the build up to sports report and the half time scores of the important football matches on the wireless, but this was more important. It could be his last chance to get inside the house for a look round.

  Orchard Road was quiet, its pavements deserted. He jogged quickly to the old lady's back yard wall and flipped himself over it, commando style. Thankfully, the back door had not been resealed. The padlock and hasp still hung uselessly from the splintered doorjamb. He pushed the door open and entered.

  The ceiling seemed lower than he remembered. The room felt damp and gloomy. It smelled like wet feathers and soot. The stone flags, swept by Yvonne after they had cleared the house, showed the marks of centuries of use; the imprint of the woven coconut fibre matting, the waxy outline of the sideboard, and beside it, a scrubbed patch where the old lady's blood had pooled. Next to the stone sink, the ivy, with its roots outside in the backyard, clambered up the wall. With nobody to clip it, a bright green tendril had reached out to grab the brass tap over the sink, and the narrow slit of window had almost disappeared behind new growth.

  Billy ran his fingers through the polished leaves and smiled at the eccentricity of the old woman who had welcomed and groomed the interloper. A grubby twist of blue silk between the shiny green leaves caught his eye. Parting the foliage, he found a brass hook screwed into the wall. The ribbon, looped through a small key, hung from it. He teased it out greedily, his heart pounding. Suddenly he felt panicky and wanted to get away. It was as if discovering the key had changed everything. He had no idea what it would fit, but he knew he had to keep it. It could be evidence; a new clue, but what? He had no idea. Without a further glance he dashed for the door, slammed it shut behind him, and scrambled over the wall, the key gripped firmly in his hand. On the other side of the wall, he found Arnold Pearce, but too late. Gravity was already in charge of his descent. Nothing could prevent him from crashing into him.

  They bounced off each other. Pearce's shoulders hit the pavement just a split second before Billy landed on top of him. Clawing hands reached out, grabbing at Billy's collar. They slipped to his jacket sleeves and tank top, scrabbling to grip, stretching the knitted wool to twice its size, before he broke free, shirttail flying, sock dragged to his heel. Pearce was yelling and struggling to regain his feet. 'Come back here! What've you stolen? Come back you little sod. I'll kill you when I get hold of you. What did you find? Come back.'

  Billy was running madly. Pearce was up and after him, coat flying, trilby hat skimming into the road. Billy was terrified. He fled in utter panic. Pearce was so wild with fury, he had no care for who might see him chasing a small boy through the streets, screaming at him.

  As he rounded the corner of the street, the Co-op shop came into view. Billy thought of Yvonne's sister Marlene, perched high up in her glass cashier's kiosk. In that moment, she seemed the perfect ally. She was bossy and in charge of the shop. He felt sure she would not allow Pearce to tear him limb from limb in the Co-op without some protest, even if it was only don't mix red meat with boiled ham on the same counter. He dived for the Co-op's door. Pearce followed, hard on his heels, breathless and shouting.

  Yvonne was at the dairy counter, a full string bag of groceries in front of her. She was paying her bill. With everyone else in the shop, she had turned, alarmed as the door burst open and Billy and Pearce skidded into view. She saw Pearce lunge at Billy, dragging him back by the collar. He was reaching out trying to grab something from Billy's hand, and she s
potted the loop of scruffy blue ribbon. As she tried to work out what was going on Billy tossed the ribbon to her. She caught it, and stared blankly at the little key. Pearce shoved Billy aside, and followed the key. Yvonne saw him coming towards her. His face was red with fury and exertion. He was snarling like an animal. She popped the key into the little brass cup into which the counter assistant had just placed her payment and sales note. Bunty Griffiths saw her moment of glory arrive and seized upon it. She screwed the brass cup to its cradle, pulled the lever, and sent it rattling across the store, high on its wire above the counters. It shot across the cheeses, over the dry goods and into the kiosk where Marlene, seated in her splendid isolation, waited to receive it.

  Pearce sagged miserably. He knew the game was up. Whatever Billy had found in the Star Woman's house, was now out of reach. Feeling stupid and caught out, he turned to leave, casting a last furious glare at Billy on the way. 'I'll get you,' he snarled. 'I'll have the police on you.'

  *

  'Can I stay out late tonight?'

  'No.'

  'I have to.'

  'No.'

  'But it's important and I won't stay out too late.'

  'No.'

  'I have to see the vicar.'

  'What?'

  'I have to see the vicar.'

  'We're Catholics, Billy.'

  'But he's the editor of the life story she was writing. I've got an appointment with him. I did it properly; I rang him up and everything, but it means I can't get back home until about eight.'

  'No.'

  *

  Half an hour later Billy was walking up the gravel drive to St Mary's vicarage. It had been a tough job wearing down his mother, but she had eventually relented.

  The vicarage was a large, grey house with gothic stone mullioned windows. A cluster of ornate chimneys poked out of its grey tiled roof. High gabled attics with tiny windows, harked back to an age of servants and grooms. Standing in large gardens, surrounded by mature trees and overgrown shrubs, it seemed in need of some urgent care and attention.