Tuppenny Hat Detective Read online

  Gingerly rubbing his stinging cheek, he looked around nervously, but couldn't see anyone. The lane was silent, its large stone villas impassive.

  *

  Later that evening Yvonne looked for Billy. She was annoyed, and the eerie sensation that unseen eyes were watching, unnerved her as she crept into their secret meeting place. This was a large disused greenhouse behind a screen of advertising hoardings. It was a good spot, out of sight of the road and surrounded on three sides by the rickety fences and unkempt shrubberies of adjoining back gardens. Secret runs and get-aways were plentiful through hidden tunnels of privet and rhododendron. They could move unseen along the stuttering winds of no-man's land, the hidden highways of foxes and cats, where old buckets went to die like elephants.

  The land around the neglected greenhouse was wildly overgrown, but the building was sound and dry. Almost all its window frames were intact, and glazed with whitewashed glass. Billy's cryptic note, shoved under her kitchen door, had seemed vitally urgent, yet she found herself waiting alone, angry and nervous - and certain she was being spied on.

  It would be their first meeting for almost a week. She had been to the Perks' back door several times to ask if he would come out to play, but his mother had said he was sick and could not see visitors. Even so, she was not prepared for just how sick and care worn he appeared when he eventually arrived.

  'You're late,' she complained. 'This place is really spooky when you're on your own.'

  'Sorry, I was trying to see Doctor Hadfield, and …'

  'Why didn't you let me see you?' she interrupted, her displeasure thawing as she saw his pale face and the Elastoplasts on his knuckles and knees. 'You look awful.'

  'I'm sorry. I didn't know what to say to you. I've been all mixed up. I told my mam I was sick. I chuffin well am an' all.'

  They sat facing each other, in a couple of creaking deck chairs, between ghostly rows of desiccated tomato plants.

  'What's up with thee hands?' she asked.

  'I cut 'em in the tunnel. They're a lot better now, but I couldn't do up my shirt at first. Then old Sutcliffe crushed 'em.'

  'Crickey!' Yvonne gazed at him, listening intently as he told her of his ordeal. Her eyes almost popped out of her head when she heard of Stan's shooting.

  'Crikey! I'd have been scared out of my wits,' she gasped.

  'Well I was,' he admitted, without the slightest hint of his usual bravado. 'I've never been so scared, and I still am. That's why I went looking for Doctor Hadfield, because he bought me the hat. I was going to tell him that I wasn't going to be a detective any more, but he wasn't in. All I got instead was a load of earache from old man Sutcliffe. He hurt my shin and bashed my face, and scrunched my fingers on the handlebars.' He sagged forlornly in his creaking chair. 'I've had enough. I'm just beginning to realise a few things about this detective lark.'

  'Such as?'

  'Well, I guess somebody killed Stan because he knew sommat. I think it was sommat he got paid fifty quid for. I heard him begging for his life. He pleaded and promised he wouldn't say owt. So that proves he knew sommat. Whatever it was, he got fifty quid – but it cost him his life. That proves it's sommat really important that they want to hide.'

  'Who does? What could he have known?' Yvonne asked. 'They said about the fifty pounds in the paper, but he could have got that anywhere, you know what he was like.'

  'No, his dad didn't even know about it. They were like twins them two. He would have known. They never did nowt without each other.' He scratched tentatively at the sticking plaster on his scarred knees, marshalling his thoughts. 'No, this must have been special; a really big secret that he even kept from his dad.'

  'Humm, well you know what they say about thieves and loyalty?' Yvonne said, shaking her head.

  Billy didn't, but felt he'd had enough of looking stupid for one day, so he nodded, pretending he understood.

  'Do you think Stan knew who killed Annabel? Could it be her killer who did him in because of it?'

  'I don't know,' answered Billy wearily. 'I haven't a clue, and the more I find out the less I seem to know. But if they're watching us, which they probably are …'

  'Oh they are,' she interjected. 'I can feel it all the time.'

  Looking scared, Billy peered suspiciously through the whitened window glass. 'If they think we've found out sommat about 'em - it's curtains. They killed Stan to shut him up. Why should they stop there?'

  'But we haven't found out anything.'

  'Yeah, I know that - you know that - but they don't know it.' He blew a despairing sigh, and gazed miserably at the crumpled sticking plasters on his hands. For a while they sat in silence, each raking over their thoughts.

  Billy spoke first, startling Yvonne. 'And another thing, they shot him with a gun! That's like a proper killer would do, you know like a gangster, or somebody. I mean, it's not just somebody bashing him on the head like they did to old Annabel.'

  'You really do want us to give up don't you?'

  'Well of course I do. I mean, Gimbals, who has guns and is ready to use 'em - nobody but gangsters and posh mister bigs.'

  'Mr Biggs?'

  'Yeah, like George Sanders in the movies: rich blokes who talk posh and hire crooks to do their dirty work for 'em.'

  'Do you think Stan was hired by a mister big?'

  'I don't know. All I know is we could get shot. I'm scared, Wy, and not just for me. I've put you in danger. This's all got too big for us. It's changing everything. I've lost my best friend, not you, my other best friend. I stole tuppenz from Pop Meaks, I've lied to my mam, my dad hates me, and now Sergeant Burke knows it's me who rang up about Stan. And on top of it all, I nearly caused the chuffin chapel to get burnt down.'

  'But we made a promise to Annabel,' Yvonne reminded him. 'We knew it could be dangerous. We expected it. It was obvious from the start. If you investigate a murder you can be sure that at least one person will get cross about it.'

  'Who?' Billy asked dumbly.

  'The murderer, dummy!'

  He sagged back in his deck chair, his head turtling into his green corduroy jerkin. In his mind's eye all he could see ahead was prison, pain and death. If the killer didn't get him, Sergeant Burke would. He'd spend the rest of his life in jail doing hard labour. He would be exactly what his father said he was, a useless waste of space.

  The greenhouse door burst open and Kick Morley exploded into their midst with all the theatrical suddenness of a pantomime demon. 'They've found Stan Sutcliffe riddled with bullets at the back of the chapel. Dead as Dodo shit.'

  'Kick! It's you.'

  'Yeah. Who d'yer think - Popeye's granny?'

  Billy was shocked, especially after their last, acrimonious meeting. 'It's good to see you. I thought we - err - I thought …'

  'We need a proper plan,' Kick interrupted, animated with enthusiasm. 'I've been reading about it; 'It's called MOM. That's what we need.'

  Yvonne looked at Billy, a frown betraying her misgivings. She shrugged and retook her seat. 'MOM?' she asked.

  'Opportunity, means and motive,' Kick announced proudly.

  'That's OMM,' Yvonne said.

  'Motive, means and opportunity,' said Kick, trying again.

  'That's MMO,' said Billy.

  'Yeah, now we only need Larry and Curly for all the Three Stooges,' Yvonne quipped.

  Kick looked bereft for a full quarter of a second, and then dashed to the far end of the greenhouse. The pair watched him bemused. Neither had the slightest notion what he intended. Even when he returned with a plywood board about the size of a large tea tray, its potential in his unpredictable hands remained a mystery. Kick grinned at them, inviting them to share his enthusiasm. He leaned the board against a stack of terracotta plant pots and stood back to admire his handiwork. The board's bleached grey surface was stained with little round watermarks, evidence of a past life on a potting bench. Its future use however, as Kick proudly scanned their faces, remained infinitely unknowable.

&nbs
p; From a pocket he produced a stub of chalk and drew two vertical lines on the board to create three columns of equal width. At the top of the first column he wrote MEENS.

  Yvonne resisted the urge to correct his spelling. In the next column he wrote OPP and in the last MOT.

  'What we do is we write in these columns everybody who could have done it, if they'd wanted to, and had sommat to do it with.'

  Yvonne could not conceal her surprise. 'That's a very good idea,' she gasped.

  'But it's dangerous,' argued Billy. 'I've just been saying we should leave it up to the police.'

  Yvonne stood up and put a consoling hand on Kick's shoulder. 'You'd better sit down,' she told him. 'I think you need to hear this.'

  Again Billy recounted his story and explained his concerns. Kick appeared unmoved, though expressed some disappointment that Billy had not actually seen Stan shot.

  'Well we knew it'd be tough,' he said finally. 'I mean, we did, didn't we?'

  'You don't understand,' Billy cried, 'We could all get done in. There's a nutcase out there killing people and we could be next.'

  'Yeah, but you'll be all right won't you?' Kick assured him. 'You'll be safely in jail once old Burke gets hold of you.'

  Yvonne groaned despairingly. 'You know what?' she said. 'I don't think that helps him much.' Then raising her palms she signalled her call for calm and attention. 'Right! That's it. Now let's stop all this. We know it's dangerous. We know it's tough, but we've already started. This beehive has already toppled. It's too late to back out. We're probably on somebody's hit list already.' The boys stared at her in silence. 'Gimme the chalk. Let's gerron with it. The sooner we get this killer behind bars the sooner we'll be safe.' She glared at them, demanding their agreement.

  Kick leaned close to Billy. 'What's she mean about beehives?' he whispered.

  'Oh, it was on Dick Barton the other night.'

  'Fair enough.'

  Yvonne glared at them from the board. 'Right, whose's the first name on the means column?' she snapped.

  'Err, I think I got it wrong,' said Kick.

  'Shurrup!' yelled Yvonne, sticking her face close to his. 'You did, there's an A in means.'

  'No, I mean I think motive is first.'

  'Shurrup, it's staying like that.'

  Nobody moved for what seemed a long time. Then Yvonne straightened up and began to write her father's name in the first column. 'He had the means because he was on the street at five. He goes right past Annabel's door on his way to work.'

  'At the tram sheds,' Kick said unnecessarily.

  'Yes, at School Road,' growled Yvonne, her patience ragged. Calming herself, she stretched her spine and stood ready to write on the board again. 'Now we think she was killed early in the morning, probably around five, because of the ashes in the grate, remember?'

  Billy nodded, beginning to get the idea. 'But we all know that your dad didn't want to kill her, so that's a zero in the MO column,' he suggested.

  'How do we know?' queried Kick.

  'Because he's my dad, you wassock!' Yvonne yelled indignantly.

  'Oh yeah, I gerrit,' Kick said, flinching as Yvonne swung a false punch at him.

  'But he might have seen others out on the street,' said Billy. 'We could interrogate him. He could have some valuable leads.'

  *

  Sergeant Burke filled the armchair, his bulk seeming to darken the room. From the kitchen door, Mrs Perks cast another worried glance in his direction. 'Are you sure you won't have a cup of tea, Sergeant?'

  'You're very kind, Mrs Perks, but I think not is best. '

  "He thinks not is best." Marian Perks mulled the phrase over in her head. No matter how many times she repeated it, or how she shifted the emphasis, it felt deeply doom laden. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was almost six. Her husband would come through the door at any minute. He'd be hungry and exhausted after a long day on the furnace stage. He was on "Hot Money" all week, lining the furnaces with firebricks. It was good to get the extra pay, but it made him irritable, tired and dehydrated. Certainly in no mood to hear a policeman report his son's latest mischief, or worse. And, where pray, she wondered, is the star of this drama? As usual, he was late for his tea. It was oxtail with dumplings and the potatoes were ready to fall.

  First through the door was Billy, bright with anticipation, and eager to see her. The greenhouse meeting had raised his spirits. Kick's enthusiasm and Yvonne's assiduous management, had eased his apprehension and sense of guilt. Now they had a plan, and the future seemed less threatening.

  Discovering Sergeant Burke wedged into a Perks' armchair, soaking up the light like Satan in a coal cellar, changed everything in a flash. He was about to tell his mother that he had spotted his dad at the bottom of the street. He was about to ruffle the head of the dog that was bouncing around his legs. He was about to tune the wireless to the Light Programme, ready for Dick Barton at six forty-five. Instead, gloom fell on him like a sack of soot. Whatever was to happen next would not be good. Jail, hard labour, tears and his father's further disappointment; all were just seconds away.

  'There's somebody to see you,' his mother said flatly.

  Billy tried to calm Ruff, for whom the best thing in the world had just happened. It was not easy. Eventually the little terrier got the message and slunk under the table, unsure what he had done to deserve such rejection.

  'We'll wait for the Mester,' said the policeman. 'I think that'll be best.'

  "He thinks that'll be best." Marian Perks repeated inside her head. Huh, best for what?

  Billy sat at the dining table, refusing to react to the little dog, head butting his shins. When Frank Perks pushed through the door Ruff bounced out for another session of, welcome home dear plaything, only to be inexplicably rejected once more.

  'I'm sorry to spoil your teatime, Frank, but I've got to ask the lad some questions. Now I don't want you to worry. I'm sure it'll all make sense when we've talked for a minute or two.'

  Eyeing the policeman suspiciously, Frank Perks removed his donkey jacket and cap and hung them on a hook behind the door. 'The lad's been sick,' he said. 'He hasn't been out of the house for a week. He's not involved in owt.'

  'Well that's exactly what I'm expecting to find, Frank. I'm not here to blame him for anything. As a matter fact, I think he might be able to help us a great deal.'

  'Help you, how?'

  'Aye well, he could be very important to our enquiries, a key witness.' The sergeant sat forward in the armchair as Frank Perks seated himself on the settee opposite him.

  'Now this visit is not official you understand,' said the policeman. 'Do you mind if I ask him some questions?'

  'Billy, come and tell the sergeant what you know. He says you're not in trouble.'

  If only that were true, thought Billy.

  Eager to bring an end to his mysterious ostracism, the dog jumped up beside Billy as he joined his dad on the settee.

  'I know where you were the other night, son,' Sergeant Burke said softly. 'So before you answer any questions - think on. You're not in trouble with me, and your mam and dad'll want you to keep it that way. So you know what I want, don't you?'

  Billy nodded, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Frank Perks cast a puzzled glance at his wife.

  'And what is it that I want, Billy?' the sergeant persisted gently.

  'The truth,' mumbled Billy.

  'Aye, that's it, lad - the truth.'

  'What's this all about?' Mrs Perks asked sharply, concern for her son driving her impatience.

  The sergeant did not respond. He was concentrating on Billy, determined to hold eye contact with him. 'You left your hat behind. It's evidence in a murder enquiry now. You can have it back when we close the case.'

  'Murder!' gasped Frank Perks. 'What're you saying?'

  The sergeant turned to him. 'You heard about Stan Sutcliffe? Well I think your lad here saw it happen? Didn't you, son?' He turned to Billy. 'I think you saw it all, and I thi
nk you're frightened now, as anybody would be who's witnessed a killing like that. But now I'm sure you're ready to tell us all about it.'

  *

  Scout camp at Hesley Wood, the football match at Hillsborough, pocket money, use of bike, but not the cleaning and oiling thereof, Vimto lollies, playing out with his pals, Dick Barton on the radio, and going to the Festival of Britain on the steelworks' trip; Billy's list of forbidden pleasures was growing daily. It seemed that everything he enjoyed, or hoped for, was now under a prohibition order. He was grounded until Whitsuntide - four whole weeks. His days withered to simply attending school and then sitting at home, forced to join in rug pegging with his parents as they listened to the wireless. He was tasked with cleaning every noxious and unpleasant place, such as the hen house, the coal cellar, the filthy old air raid shelter, and his bedroom. Visits to his grandmother Smeggs were timed with the egg timer. His mother demonstrated that three flips allowed him just enough time to run to her cottage, fill the coalscuttle, and run back before the sand ran out.

  After a week of cold silences and prohibitions, relations took a further dive when a young constable called at the Perks' house. Reciting from his notebook, the pimply officer delivered what he claimed was an invitation from Sergeant Burke. Billy was to be at the Police Station after school the following day. This time it was official, and a parent or guardian must be with him. Mrs Perks loudly informed the constable, in the presence of her son, that he would be there, and that she would lose pay and finish work early to accompany him.

  Things really could not be worse, he thought - though he had overlooked the capacity of a mother's love for making them even more complicated.

  'Well, if I'm going to lose pay,' she told him, in an accusatory tone, 'I might as well take the whole afternoon off so I can get you to the doctor's. I don't like the look of you.'

  The following afternoon his mother met him outside school. She led him away, as he resolutely endured his mates' jeers. They, of course, thought the whole thing was a hoot.

  The police station, a solid looking low brick building, dominated the street corner in a residential area. Iron railings on a stone perimeter wall shepherded visitors to steps up to its front door in an uninspiring facade. Sergeant Burke had been stationed there since it was built in the thirties. He was as much a part of the place as the blue lamp hanging over its door.