Not My Blood Page 2

  The reply was hushed, a voice trying to force down hysteria. “It’s not that, it’s not that at all, Uncle. You see, I’ve … I’m afraid I’ve killed my form master.”

  THE POLICEWOMAN’S VOICE was young, concerned and educated. “Good evening, sir. I take it I’m speaking to Assistant Commissioner Sandilands? Your nephew had your name and number clutched in his hand when I spotted him trying to creep through the barrier. I ought to have taken him straight to a place of safety, I know, but.…”

  “You did exactly the right thing, Officer.…”

  “Huntingdon, sir. Emily Huntingdon, W.P. 955.”

  “Good, well, listen, Huntingdon, I’m on my way. We have a delicate situation on our hands. I have reason to believe the boy may be a witness to a crime. Keep him safe where he is, will you? And I want you to make sure no one else approaches him, not even the local beat bobby.”

  There was the slightest pause before Officer Huntingdon replied. “Understood, sir.”

  “Now who on earth was that?” said his sister. “Who’s Jackie?”

  Joe was already struggling into a pea-jacket. He picked up a flat cap with a leather peak he’d borrowed from a Thames bargeman and said, “I’m not absolutely certain, Lydia, but there’s trouble with a runaway boy. At Victoria Station. They’re holding him until I can get there.”

  Lydia glared in exasperation. “A runaway? But why would you be involved, Joe? They don’t call out a grandee like you on a snowy evening to deal with a runaway!” Her expression softened. “Still—on a night like this … poor little chap! But I thought you had women police patrols to round up the waifs and strays of London?”

  “This is a rather special runaway, Lydia. Pass me those gumboots, will you? Oh, and it’s quite likely I shall be bringing him home with me.”

  WINDING A MUFFLER round his neck, Joe clumped down three flights of stairs to the dimly lit hallway. Inevitably, a door opened, and the hearty voice of his landlord, ex-Inspector Jenkins of the Metropolitan Police greeted him. “Late call, sir?”

  “Yeah, late call, Alfred.”

  “Wrap up warm, then! It’s coming cold. Oh—sir! You can use the lift again on the way back. They’ve been in and fixed it.”

  “My sister will be glad of that, Alfred. I’ll tell her.”

  Joe stepped out into the street and to his relief there was a light in the cabbies’ shelter on the embankment. To his further relief there were two taxis in the rank and he ran across the road to claim one of them.

  “Victoria Station,” he said. “And get me as near to the stationmaster’s office as you can.”

  “No difficulty, sir,” said the cabby, ringing down his flag.

  The snow was thickening as they drove the last few yards up Buckingham Palace Road and Joe looked anxiously at his watch. Twenty minutes, he’d said, and twenty minutes it was. He shouldered his way along the platform to the stationmaster’s office and saw, standing feet apart, hands behind her back, the reassuring figure of a policewoman.

  “Huntingdon?” he asked.

  She saluted neatly. Not many of the female officers could do this naturally. She looked bright, efficient, friendly. She did not, beyond a point, look deferential. No one could add grace to the hideous high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, nobody could look feminine or even female in the uncompromising blue serge skirt and the clumping shoes, but she managed, Joe noticed.

  “Where’s the miscreant?” he asked, showing his warrant card.

  “No miscreant, sir, you’ll find,” she corrected him with a smile. “No miscreant at all. Just a boy in trouble. Not uncommon around here.”

  “Thank you for dealing with this. Enter your report. Say that I assumed custody. I’ll make it right with your governor, and I’ll take the lad in charge for the time being.”

  “Your nephew, sir?”

  “Not even that,” said Joe. “He’s newly arrived from India, and you know how it is in India—or perhaps you don’t? Any family friend becomes an honourary uncle. Or aunt.”

  “I have one or two of those myself, sir.” Huntingdon’s smile was gracious, her eyes watchful. “Shall I come in with you?” she asked. “I think what our prisoner needs more than anything is something to eat, if I may suggest, sir. He’s had nothing really since breakfast as far as I can work out.”

  Gently Joe pushed the door of the stationmaster’s office open and stood in silence looking in. He saw the stolid figure of the assistant stationmaster doing the crossword on the back of the Evening News, a company of teacups at his elbow and an ashtray brimming with cigarette ends in front of him. The general smell of police stations in the middle of the night greeted Joe, familiar and reassuring.

  He tightened his jaw, breathed in, and steeled himself to take his first look at Jackie Drummond.

  With legs swinging, a small fair-haired boy clutching a cycling cape about his shoulders looked up anxiously. An Afghan bag with a broad strap lay at his feet.

  “Now, what on earth do I say?” Joe asked himself as they stared at each other. What he did finally say, with relief and a rush of recognition, was: “Jackie! I’d have known you anywhere—you’re very much like your mother!”

  The small face, pinched, pale with bruised circles under the eyes, was suddenly lit by a radiant smile. “And you look quite like my dad!”

  Joe held out a hand. “Come on then, Jackie, let’s be going. We can talk as we go. I’ll take your bag. Say goodbye to the stationmaster.”

  “Goodbye, sir,” said the boy dutifully, “and thank you for having me.”

  And, as they left the office, “Say goodbye to Constable Huntingdon.”

  In the most natural way in the world, the boy shook hands and lifted his face for a kiss. “Thank you, Constable,” he said politely, “for looking after me.”

  “I enjoyed looking after you. See you again soon, Jackie, I hope,” said Constable Huntingdon. “Oops! Perhaps I oughtn’t to say that!” she added, suddenly self-conscious, and seemed pleased with the swift grin of understanding the boy gave her.

  Hand in hand they returned to the waiting taxi and set off once more through the slushy streets, gas lamps flickering in the rising wind and reflecting from the wet pavements.

  “Have you been to London before, Jackie?” Joe asked.

  “Once. Daddy brought me up for shopping. We went to Hamleys and the Tower and Madame Tussauds.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Well, come on, we’ll find you something. I should think you’ve drunk enough tea tonight to float the Normandie.”

  The boy smiled shyly. “Yes,” he said, “they kept giving it to me. I don’t really like tea very much.”

  “We’ll find something else. Cocoa perhaps? Now, unless I’m wrong about this, you’ve run away from school?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I expect you had a reason?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You said you’d killed your housemaster?”

  “No, sir. Form master.”

  “Oh, all right. Form master. Anybody know where you are?”

  “No, sir. I don’t even know where I am myself.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you something to eat, and then we’re going back to my flat, and then either you’re going to bed or you’re going to tell me what’s been happening. Whatever you’ve done or think you’ve done, you’re safe now. Nobody’s following you. Nobody’s going to catch up with you.”

  They dismounted at the cabman’s shelter. “What place is this?” said Jackie dubiously, not leaving go of Joe’s hand.

  “It’s a cabman’s shelter,” said Joe reassuringly. “They have them all over London though not so many as there used to be. It’s a place where taxi drivers can get something to eat.”

  “It looks like a railway carriage.”

  Long, low, weather-boarded and painted park-bench green, it had a small black projecting iron stovepipe giving out a smell of coal smok
e and food, and a notice saying “Licensed Cabman Shelter no. 402.”

  “Yes, it is like a railway carriage and if the cabbies get to know you, they’ll let you eat there. I don’t think they’re supposed to; it’s supposed to be reserved for them. The man who runs this one’s an old friend of mine. I sometimes take people here for a quiet chat. Let’s go on board and see what we can find.”

  They stepped from the cold street into a welcoming fug. “Evening, Frank,” said Joe to the whiskered man behind the counter. “Something for this gentleman to eat. He’s hungry.”

  “Evening, Captain! Hungry is it? Well, what about shepherd’s pie with onion gravy?”

  “Oh, I’d like that,” Jackie said eagerly.

  “And to follow? We’ve got spotted dick with a dollop of custard?”

  Jackie’s eyes lit on a basin of steaming pudding studded with dark currants, and he nodded.

  “I think that would be entirely appropriate,” said Joe. “Make that two of everything, Frank, if you please. We’ll sit ourselves down.”

  The boy settled and looked around him with suspicion. “ ‘Captain?’ he asked. “Why did that man call you ‘captain,’ sir?”

  Joe could not hide a smile. Whatever else, this was a true colonial he was entertaining to supper. Death, flight and arrest the child was apparently taking in his stride, but the niceties of rank—that was worthy of question by a child reared in the Indian Civil Service.

  “I was a very young captain in the Fusiliers when Frank first knew me.… Early days of the war … Mons. I was winged manning the barricades—uselessly—against the first German onslaught on France. My rank did improve,” he reassured the lad, “but it’s the dashing captain image that’s stuck with me. I don’t mind at all. We all need a reminder of where we’ve come from. It’s a compliment.”

  There were two other dark figures in the shelter, busy with substantial servings of pease pudding. They greeted Joe. “Evenin’, Guv.” One looked at Jackie and rolled his eyes in a pantomime of alarm. “Cor! That’s a right nasty piece of work you’ve got under restraint, Guv! If ’e makes a break for it, count on us for back-up!”

  To Joe’s dismay, the boy began to tremble and look towards the door. Joe leaned forwards and whispered: “Just joking, Jackie. You’re safe here. Food’ll be up in a minute. No rush, but perhaps you could tell me a little bit about what happened this evening?”

  At once the boy’s eyes glazed with remembered fear. His hand went to his eyebrow, and he began to rub at it with the knuckle of his forefinger. Accustomed as he was to interrogating suspects to cracking point, Joe recognised the gesture as a sign of acute distress and cursed himself for an insensitive fool. He reached over, seized the little hand, and gave it a squeeze. “There’s no hurry,” he said once more. “Just take your time.”

  The boy took a while to pull his thoughts together and then burst out: “Well, it’s Mr. Rapson! I hate him,” he added almost apologetically. “Everybody knows I hate him, and when they find he’s dead they’ll know it’s me that did it.”

  “I’m not sure of that,” said Joe, “but go on.”

  “Well, they will know because I’ve attacked him before.”

  “Great heavens!” Joe said lightly. “Are you telling me you’ve got previous? I mean … that you’re a seasoned beater-up of form masters?”

  Jackie gave him a pained smile. “Just once, sir.” And then he burst out: “I hit him! I went for him! Perhaps I shouldn’t have done. But I don’t think I was wrong. There’s a boy in my class called Spielman, and he’s not … not really all there, you know. He makes silly faces. He can’t help it.”

  “Silly faces?”

  “Yes. Like this.” He gave a demonstration. “And he looks—well—loopy. He’s got big ears—great big ears and sticking-out teeth and everybody teases him. And Rappo’s the worst of all. He’s always going for him, making him stand out in front of the class, and this afternoon he pulled Spielman up by his ears. By his ears! Spielman started crying. It must have really hurt him. He’s only just got over a mastoid. I lost my rag, and I went and hit Rappo.”

  “Hit him?”

  “Hit him in the stomach. With my fist. As hard as I could manage. That hard, sir.” He held out for inspection a small hand whose knuckles were skinned and swollen. “I got him in his watch chain. And then he went into the usual Rappo Rant. ‘See you in my study after supper, Drummond!’ and all that.” Jackie shuddered and fell silent. “Pretty scary!”

  With a flick of a teacloth, plates of shepherd’s pie appeared on the table.

  “Mustard, sonny? Ketchup? Cupper tea?”

  “No, no cupper tea, thank you, but everything else, please.”

  Between mouthfuls, Jackie resumed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have hit him, but I didn’t think Dad would have minded. Once, he saw a soldier, a private in the East Yorks, hitting a little Indian man, and Dad really let him have it! Felled him to the ground,” he added with relish. “And my father’s a … well, you know my father. He said you always ought to stand up to bullies, and this seemed to be the same. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Joe, “I do think. And I know Andrew would have done just the same. He’s not a man to stand by and see injustice done.”

  “That’s right, sir!” Jackie nodded with pride. “He’s not strong, my dad, but he never lets a game leg hold him back.”

  “No indeed,” said Joe softly. “I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with Andrew in—er—difficult circumstances and been glad of his strength.”

  The pie disappeared at surprising speed. The pudding followed. Jackie’s face acquired some colour, but his speech began to slur and his eyelids began to droop.

  “You don’t have to finish,” said Joe comfortingly.

  “I want to finish.”

  Tea-towel round his stomach, the proprietor walked over to them. “You all right, son? Had enough have you? There’s more if you want it.” And then to Joe, “Time this one was in bed, I think, Captain?”

  Joe had come to the same conclusion. He’d decided that Jackie was the type of witness whom you couldn’t hurry, but who, if left to himself, would produce, by degrees, an accurate statement. “Just one thing,” he said, “and then we’ll go home. After this confrontation with Rappo you decided to run away?”

  “Oh, no. I decided to run away a long time ago. I was only waiting until I’d collected enough money to get to Uncle Dougal in Scotland. But I had to, well, bring my plans forwards a bit and go for it tonight. I was ready. I had my running away bag all packed.” He gestured towards his shoulder bag. “I knew I had to get away before anyone found me, and then I thought, I’ll use the number Mum gave me. Killing someone’s an emergency all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Joe, “you did the right thing.”

  While they’d been in the shelter the snow had begun to lie and wind-blown snow was sticking to the southerly face of the power station chimney stacks. Slated roofs were turning from grey-blue to white.

  “That’s where we’re going,” said Joe, pointing, “that lighted up window there. That’s my flat. My sister—your Aunt Lydia, I suppose—is at home and still up, you see. People sometimes think it’s a funny place to live, but I like it.”

  A reassuring figure in dressing gown and slippers, Lydia was standing in the hall as Joe unlocked the door.

  “Hullo!’ she said. “And who’s this?”

  “Jackie Drummond, Aunt Lydia. I’m sorry to be arriving so late.”

  Though clearly puzzled, Lydia moved smoothly into action. “That’s quite all right, Jackie. I took the opportunity of making up a camp bed in the box room. You must be exhausted! What about a nice hot bath and then bed? Here, let me take your cape.”

  Lydia put out a motherly hand to unbutton his cycling cape and the boy abruptly pulled away from her in alarm, clutching it tightly round his shoulders.

  “What’s the matter, Jackie?” said Joe.

  Jackie looked from one to the other and then,
apparently coming to a decision, took off his cape and handed it to Lydia. Lydia gasped. Joe swallowed. The front of the boy’s uniform, white shirt, grey shorts and grey blazer were covered in rusty-red stains.

  “It’s not my blood, sir,” whispered Jackie. “It’s Mr. Rapson’s.”

  JOE AND LYDIA stared at each other and then at Jackie in silence for a moment until Joe collected himself.

  “Well,” he said, “first things first. And the first thing is to get out of those clothes and into a bath. Have you got pyjamas in your exit bag? Good. Lydia, why don’t you take him? Put his clothes in a bag and keep them together. They just might be evidence. Of something or other.… Go with Aunt Lydia, Jackie.”

  Lydia slipped an arm round Jackie. “Come on then,” she said, “let’s posh you up a bit. And we’ll see if we can find a plaster for that hand. You look as though you’ve gone five rounds with Jack Dempsey.” They left the room together.

  When Lydia returned Joe was staring out of the window at the dark river and the fluttering snow. He turned, and brother and sister looked at each other in amazement.

  “It’s all right,” said Lydia, breaking the awkward silence, “he’s enjoying his hot bath. I gave him your model battleship to play with. Tell me, Joe—what is all this? You look absolutely shattered! You’ve looked as though you’ve seen a ghost ever since you came back with that boy. Just what is going on? What has happened to him? Who’s Mr. Rapson? And, for heaven’s sake—who is he?”

  “Lydia,” said Joe, “you’re not going to believe this—I’m not sure I believe it myself but … oh, God, could I be wrong about this? I think … I’m almost certain … that boy is my son!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Joe! For goodness sake! You haven’t got a son!”

  Lydia was silent for a moment and then went on more thoughtfully, “Sorry. I suppose I have to say—is it possible? I mean, could he be your son?”