24. AN INTERVIEW AT HOME

Inspector McGivven conducts an irregular interview at Wallace's home

Rumour travels far and wide in almost every town you might think of, and so it wasn’t long before Wallace’s cousin Maureen heard of the grisly discovery made in the dirty old cellar in Swanspottle woods.

She had been a busy young woman since leaving school five years earlier. Her first (and still only) job was at the swimming baths where she had progressed well beyond sitting behind the counter at Reception to life-saving when someone was flailing in the water and might be about to drown, which though not often was always a time when her reserves of both mental and physical strength were in demand. And, as ever, she had both in spades.

But the baths and swimming were far from her mind when the news of the events in the cellar reached her ears, and the first thing she did upon hearing it was call round to see her cousin as soon as she could, which was after work the day after she heard of the dread event.

But when she got there Wallace wasn’t alone.

He was being questioned by Inspector McGivven, not at the police station, which would have been normal, but at his home, and Helen, his mother, was sitting in.

Helen looked troubled when she opened the door and explained what was going on.

“He’s a most unpleasant man who couldn’t think straight if he tried,” she told Maureen.

“I heard about it,” confessed Maureen, “and I came to help if I can.”

“Best wait in the front room, darling,” suggested Wallace’s mother Number One, Helen. That’s how he’d come to look upon her, as Mother Number One whereas the English Teacher who’d actually given birth to him in the darkness of World War Two years was Mother Number Two (as well as being Miss Hawkesbury when it was appropriate at school.) That way he kept confusion at bay and managed to cope with an absurdly complex situation.

Maureen sat in the front room on her own and listened to the rumble of voices from the next room.

She heard the Inspector as he suggested that Wallace must be covering up for somebody.

“You’re the son of a man of God,” the voice rumbled, “and I’d have thought it incumbent on you to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth rather than the tissues of lies you’ve been suggesting to me!”

“That’s what I’ve done,” replied Wallace, and Maureen could hear his words quite clearly. He wasn’t shouting, not even raising his voice, but the walls of the council house he lived in were thin and sound easily travelled through them.

“I’ve let your mate go but he won’t get far,” rumbled the Inspector, “you see, I know it was him. He got that other lad, that Freddie Barnard boy, to steal the odd bits and pieces from the shop where he worked so that he could use them to buy favours from the poor girl. It all adds up. It all makes sense.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried,” almost snapped Wallace, and Maureen felt herself moved by pride at his strength under questioning.

“My boy’s truthful,” cut in Helen, “and I won’t have you talking to him like that!”

“It’s all right, mum,” came Wallace’s voice.

“Mrs Pratchett, a girl, a young girl the same age as your boy here, has been murdered and left to rot in a damp cellar in Swanspottle Woods. How would you like it if it was your son with the chisel between his ribs? Would you be so eager to obstruct a proper interview? I think, no, I know, I’m going to have to take him to the station where you won’t be able to put your penn’orth in!”

“You’re determined to blame Innocent, aren’t you?” came Wallace’s defiant voice. “He told me what you’ve been like, just because he’s black! But Innocent was miles away when your expert pathologist determined poor Penny was killed. He was on holiday, at Skegness with his mum and dad, so if you really want to help Penny’s memory you’d best look further afield.”

“I know what I’m doing, lad,” growled the Inspector, who to Maureen’s mind knew nothing of the sort.

“Then why aren’t you asking Freddie Barnard how Penny was killed?” asked Wallace. “After all, you said it was Freddie who stole stuff to give to girls. Fancy stuff, I should think, knowing what that shop sometimes puts in iys windows. Might he not have been the one with the cruel chisel? After all, he’s got, what do you lot call it, he’s got form?”

“I’ve thought of that boy,” growled Inspector McGivven, “and it strikes me that he’s a decent lad, got himself a job straight from school, in a high class ladies clothing shop where those with a bit of class go to buy their togs. Why, her Ladyship at the Manopr goes there, I’m told, rather than buy here bits and pieces in London! They wouldn’t employ he kind of boy likely to do a girl in.”

“But he stole the goods, you said, and was sacked for it! And at school he was forever trying to look up girls’ skirts! He was famous for it, got caned for doing it more than once!” exclaimed Wallace, “and Innocent was never punished for anything even though we all know what some teachers wanted to do to black kids just because they’re not white!”

“Now less of that talk!” grated the Inspector.

“Inspector,” said Helen, her voice carrying clearly to Maureen, “the dead girl made a few coppers enticing boys into her den and showing them this or that, I don’t like to say what. And one of the boys she enticed had a history of wanting to interfere with lasses, if only with his eyes! So why are you persecuting my son, who was nowhere near those woods at any time during the period when Penelope might have been murdered, and why do you have it in for another boy who was miles away with his parents? And don’t forget there is a third boy who had history behaving like that with girls. Now, I must ask you to leave my house or the Bishop will hear about this!”

“What’s the Bishop got to do with it?” demanded the Inspector.

“Didn’t you know? He plays golf with your Chief Constable, that’s what he’s got to do with it,” replied Helen.

“I’ll be off then, but I don’t want you to think this is all over, because it isn’t. A good copper trusts his instincts, and I’m a good copper with instincts!” growled McGivven, and Maureen heard his chair scrape on the wooden floor of the room as he stood up and made his way out.

The mother and son joined Maureen in the front room.

“I didn’t know the Bishop plays golf,” said Wallace to her as they sat down.

“Neither did I, son, neither did I?” grinned Helen.

© Peter Rogerson 28.06.19