She had just put Shirley to bed when the telephone rang. Bonnie picked it up cautiously. ‘Hello?’
‘This is your concierge, Madam. There is a Mr Finley here. Shall I give him admittance?’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ Bonnie cried. ‘Send him up.’
In the few minutes before John arrived, she rushed around the flat, plumping up cushions and picking up Shirley’s few toys. She only had time to glance in the mirror to tidy her hair before the doorbell rang, but her beaming smile died as she opened it and Norris Finley barged his way inside.
When she opened the front door, Bonnie nearly died of shock. She tried to close it quickly but Norris Finley pushed his way past her.
‘What do you want?’ Bonnie willed her voice to be steady. ‘How did you find me?’
‘It was easy enough to have you followed, and you know perfectly well what I want,’ he said, walking into the flat and looking around.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Bonnie, ‘and if you don’t get out of here, I shall call security.’
Norris rounded on her and grabbed her cardigan, pulling her towards him. ‘Now listen to me, you stupid cow, I’ve no time to mess around. I want that letter you took from your mother’s place.’
Bonnie hit his hand away from her and backed away. ‘I don’t have it.’
His expression grew dark. ‘If you value that little brat of yours, you’ll give me what’s mine.’
Before she could stop herself Bonnie involuntarily glanced towards the bedroom where Shirley was hiding. Norris smiled.
‘I’ll just take a little look around, shall I?’
‘She’s not here,’ said Bonnie rushing to put herself between him and the door. He brushed her aside with one swipe of his hand and opened the door. ‘No, Mr Finley, please …’
The room was in chaos. The bed was empty and the covers were on the floor. Bonnie’s practised eye searched the room and she saw Leggy Peggy’s foot beneath the dressing table curtain. She willed her daughter to stay where she was. For God’s sake, don’t come out and shout ‘Boo’. Stay where you are for just a little longer, darling …
‘See? I’ve already told you,’ said Bonnie in a cold voice. ‘Now get out.’
‘You interfering little slut!’ Norris snarled. ‘If I find out you’ve shown it to anyone,
anyone
, do you hear, I swear I’ll come back and I’ll kill you.’
Norris grabbed Bonnie’s hair and began pulling her out of the room. Bonnie screamed in pain. Under the dressing table, the terrified little girl pressed Leggy Peggy’s long legs over her ears but it was impossible to shut the sounds out.
‘I know your little game, you witch,’ Norris said, pushing Bonnie to the ground, ‘but you’re not getting a penny out of me.’
As the door swung to a close behind them, Shirley noticed a loose thread on the carpet, and picked at it with her fingers. What game? Was Mummy playing a game with the nasty man? If he was, she didn’t like it. Shirley screwed up her face really tight and wiped her eyes with Leggy Peggy’s plait. Then she heard a slap, like the one Monica gave Jimmy on his leg when he tried to poke the guinea pig’s eye out with a pencil. Jimmy cried but Shirley didn’t hear Mummy cry. Mummy must be very brave.
‘I don’t want your money!’ Mummy shouted. ‘I’ve made a new life for my daughter and myself. I don’t give a fig about you or what you’re up to.’
Now Shirley was dying to do a wee-wee. She jigged her legs up and down and squeezed her bottom tight but she was just busting. She wanted Mummy, but she didn’t want to see the nasty man. So Shirley hugged Leggy Peggy and waited.
Back in the sitting room, Norris had finally let go of Bonnie’s hair. He smiled sardonically. ‘You know your mother spent weeks looking for you,’ he said. ‘I wonder what she would think about having a bastard for a grandchild.’ There was a pause and then he said, ‘I thought that might change your tune. You’d have to explain what you’re doing here, wouldn’t you? What sort of a life are you living? I bet you’re on the bloody game.’
‘How dare you!’ Bonnie scrambled to her feet. Her head hurt like hell but at least she’d got him away from Shirley.
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he sneered. ‘Both of you are bloody tarts.’
‘You have no right …’ she began.
‘Well, the likes of you could never afford a place like this, could you?’ He paused. ‘On second thoughts, maybe I’ve got a better idea.
I’ll
phone the police and they’ll send for the Welfare and they’ll take that little maggot away from you.’
Bonnie was horrified. ‘No!’
‘Something wrong, Bonnie? You’ve gone a bit pale.’
‘All right,’ she cried. ‘I haven’t got the letter here but I’ll get it back and I’ll give it to you.’
‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘But no funny business.’ He tore a piece of paper out of his diary and scribbled something before handing it to her. ‘Ring me and I’ll tell you where to come.’
Bonnie snatched the paper, and said through her teeth, ‘Now get out, get out.’
The door closed and the silence grew louder. Hidden behind the curtain, Shirley listened and trembled. The silence wasn’t empty, like when you’re lying all tucked up and cosy in bed in the middle of the night. It was scary. Shirley felt her legs grow warm. Oh no, now she’d wet herself. It didn’t feel very safe but she crept out from behind the curtain. Shirley’s knees were wobbly and there was a tight feeling in her chest.
‘Mummy,’ she whimpered.
Bonnie came into the bedroom with a big smile. ‘There youare,’ she cried and she put her arms around Shirley, lifting her up.
‘I was frighted,’ said Shirley. ‘I wet myself.’
‘There’s no need to be frightened,’ said Bonnie. ‘Mummy’s here darling.’
Ashamed, Shirley repeated, ‘I wet myself.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks but Bonnie just hugged Shirley tight and kissed her.
There was a sharp knock at the door, and they both nearly jumped out of their skins.
‘Go to blazes,’ Bonnie snapped.
‘Are you all right, Madam?’ said a man’s voice, and she recognised it as the concierge’s.
‘Oh yes, yes I’m fine,’ said Bonnie. ‘I’m sorry to be rude, I thought you were somebody else.’
‘We’ve had a complaint about raised voices,’ he said. ‘Can you open the door please, Madam.’
Bonnie hoiked her daughter onto her hip and opened the front door. ‘I’m sorry about the noise,’ she said. ‘If that man comes back again, please don’t let him in.’
‘Of course, Madam, but you said …’
‘I know and I made a terrible mistake. Thank you for your concern, but I … we are fine now.’
Grace enlisted Snowy’s help when she went back to see Oswald and his wife. Archie had a rush order on and had to stay in the shop in order to finish it. When he told her, Grace felt her heart sink. Perhaps friendship was really all he wanted. Grace wanted someone with her because she was afraid of what Oswald might say and she wanted some moral support.
‘Mrs Matthews is lying down,’ said Oswald as he opened the door. ‘She’s not feeling too good at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Grace. She handed him a bunch of lilies of the valley picked fresh that morning from her small courtyard garden.
Oswald was visibly moved. ‘Her favourite flowers,’ he said hoarsely as he laid them on the hall table. ‘I’ll put them in water later.’
Grace introduced Snowy and the three of them went into the spacious sitting room where a white-haired man sat in an armchair. As they came in, he rose and they all shook hands.
‘Walter Stanyon,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m a retired detective inspector.’
George’s suitcase was open and the contents spread on a low table in between the settees and the armchairs. Walter Stanyon got straight to the point.
‘How did you get this?’
‘My daughter had it in her room,’ said Grace.
‘Who gave it to her?’
‘George’s landlady,’ said Grace. Seeing Walter’s thunderous expression she added, ‘Apparently the police didn’t bother to collect it.’
‘The burning question for me,’ Oswald began, ‘is why was there no post-mortem on my son?’
Walter Stanyon shook his head. ‘There seems to have been a presumption that the door simply slammed, trapping him in the room.’
‘And I am at a loss to understand why no one went around to George’s lodgings after his body was found,’ said Oswald.
‘It’s really no excuse, sir,’ said Walter. ‘But we have to remember the times. In the run up to D-Day even the Met was 6,000 police officers short. Provincial police forces had their numbers depleted to make up the numbers elsewhere. I imagine this looked like an open and shut case, so nobody dug very deeply.’
Nobody spoke but the atmosphere was charged with anger and disgust.
‘I know it doesn’t look good,’ Walter went on, ‘but in 1947 even paper was being rationed as well. It takes four sheets of foolscap to write a crime report.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Oswald tetchily. ‘To save the cost of four sheets of paper, my son’s killer got off scot-free?’
‘I know it’s completely unacceptable,’ Walter agreed, ‘but I can only apologise.’
There was a pregnant silence then Snowy said, ‘Perhaps if we could all calm down and talk about the suitcase …?’
‘I’ve no wish to cast aspersions,’ Grace began, ‘but I seem to remember that Mr Finley went to great lengths to explain where he was on the day in question.’ She told them about the day the police came to the factory to tell them about George and they were a bit puzzled as to why he made such a song and dance about the Southampton newspaper he was carrying.
‘There are more than a few anomalies surrounding this case,’ Walter observed. ‘I get the feeling that George believed he had uncovered some sort of Nazi ratrun,’ he went on. ‘As you know, we have a bit of history of it in these parts. Mosley was a frequent visitor to Worthing between the wars and a couple of years before your son was found dead, seven members of the Imperial Fascist League were arrested for harbouring two members of the German SS. They were attempting to get the men to Argentina but a few days before they were to be shipped out, they were found in a loft.’
‘I remember that,’ said Snowy. ‘It was in a house on the Littlehampton Road, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Walter.
Oswald leaned back in his chair.
‘We now know that your son was the man who tipped the authorities off, but it wasn’t until you began making your enquiries that we finally put two and two together.’
‘My son wasn’t asked to testify in the case?’
‘No, sir. MI5 kept his identity a secret.’
‘Are you saying my son was in the British secret service?’
‘No, sir, but he was helping them.’
Oswald stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another one. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’
‘It sounds like he was a brave man,’ said Grace. ‘What about the letter? It’s all in German.’
Walter nodded. ‘The papers you found in the suitcase related to some people MI5 already had on their radar, so that part has become classified information. But we do know George had already arranged to meet someone from MI5 in London. Unfortunately he never showed up.’
‘There was always some question about his death,’ said Snowy. ‘None of us could work out why he was in the factory.’
‘I made enquiries but the police believe there’s no case to answer,’ said Walter.
Grace picked up the photograph of the man in SS uniform. ‘So, who is this man?’
‘Oh,’ said Walter, handing her another much larger photograph. ‘I had the picture blown up and we were able to identify him. That’s Josef Mengele.’
Snowy took in her breath. ‘The Angel of Death?’
Mengele was standing in front of a group of fellow officers.
Walter nodded. ‘The picture was taken in January 1942 when he was awarded the Iron Cross First Class for pulling a couple of soldiers out of a burning tank before it exploded.’
‘And yet he went on to murder thousands of people in the concentration camps,’ said Oswald bitterly.
‘A true monster,’ Walter agreed.
‘There has to be something about this picture …’ Grace muttered as she took it back and looked more carefully.
‘My son helped to liberate those places,’ said Oswald. ‘It affected him deeply.’
‘Is that how he got hold of the picture?’ said Snowy.
‘Possibly,’ said Walter. ‘He could have got it from one of the victims.’
Grace was still staring at the picture. She exhaled her breath slowly, ‘Oh my God …’
‘Do we know where Mengele is now?’ Snowy asked.
Walter shook his head. ‘In hiding somewhere I guess, but not in Worthing.’ He chuckled sardonically. ‘He’s more likely to be somewhere a lot closer to home.’
Grace passed the picture to Snowy. ‘Look.’
‘I just did,’ said Snowy irritably.
‘Look again,’ said Grace. ‘Who’s that man standing in the background?’
Snowy looked at the group of SS men gathered in a small group behind the proud Mengele holding up his Iron Cross for the camera. She glanced up with a look of horror on her face. ‘No …’
‘That’s what George recognised, isn’t it,’ said Grace. ‘That German officer standing behind him is either his double or it’s Manny Hart.’
John Finley threaded his way through the tables in the restaurant at Dickens & Jones. His mother enjoyed watching the Regent Street shoppers so she liked to sit near the window. He admired his mother a great deal. Unlike the mothers his friends had, who always left everything to Nanny, she had been the one cooling his fevered brow with a damp flannel when he was sick as a boy. She’d taught him to play the piano, although it wasn’t long before he’d outstripped her abilities. She’d got him through prep school, which he hated, and boarding school, which he’d loved. She was proud of his wartime achievements and never let it show how much she worried. He knew she did worry about him, but whenever he turned up on leave, although she was delighted to see him, she carried on as usual. He appreciated that. It gave him time to unwind with what was familiar and sane in a mad, mad world.
She didn’t mind his indecision after the war either, and when he’d told her he wanted to work in the theatre, she’d been a stalwart supporter.