‘Well, is he in London, or far off?’
‘He’s just round the corner, like, keeping an eye on us all the time.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Mr Riley says so.
‘Have you heard his voice?’
‘Nah.’
‘Why are you frightened of someone you’ve neither seen nor heard?’
‘Cos of what he’ll do if he catches us.
‘What’s that?’
‘He says that when you’re asleep, lying there, with your head all still, the Pieman comes up with a poker.’
‘A poker?’
‘Yeah, and he’ll bash you, just once.’
‘He’s after you, is he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re in the care of social services at the moment, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re safe, aren’t you?’
‘Nah, cos he knows how to find you, no matter where you are, and he always comes at night, after you’ve closed your eyes. You can’t be looked after all the time, you know. He just watches, like, waiting for your eyes to drop, and when no one’s looking and it’s really dark, that’s when he comes.’
‘Through a window?’
‘Maybes. Wherever there’s an opening. He doesn’t need no keys or nothing.’
‘Anji, from what you’ve said, it’s as though the Pieman is like a bad dream. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, but it’s real.’
‘Thank you, Anji, you’ve been very helpful.’
Nick closed the notebook and handed it back to Mr Wyecliffe. His mother’s work had always been a remote activity: the facts were usually interesting, but it remained on a neutral platform where she’d ‘represented’ someone in ‘a trial’ with ‘evidential difficulties’. Reading the actual questions and answers within their context removed the staging. Each move was determined by one objective: to win. Nothing was sacred, save the rules of the contest. Even compassion was a tool. Nick said, ‘Do you know what happened to George Bradshaw?’
‘I do not.’
‘Do you know what happened to his son?’
‘I do.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘The matter was reported in several newspapers.
‘Who showed you?’
Mr Wyecliffe eyed his beer, admiring the question. ‘Can’t say much,’ he said. ‘Client confidentiality.’
They were back to where they’d started from when Nick had first taken a seat in that dim, stifling office.
On the pavement Mr Wyecliffe whistled at the cold. It came funnelling down Newgate Street from the direction of the Old Bailey. The office blocks were slabs of grey with occasional squares of dim light. ‘I suppose you know Mr Kemble?’
‘Yes.’
‘In a class of his own.
‘Yes.’ Nick, however, thought of his mother and father holding hands upon Skomer. The sea was often wild and the wind could make you shake. It was a world away.
‘Seen him recently?’ Mr Wyecliffe’s breath turned to fog.
‘At the funeral.’
‘Of course.’ He sniffed. ‘I suppose you mentioned your mother’s triumphant performance on Mr Riley’s behalf’
‘I did not.’
Ah.’ That seemed to be the answer he expected. ‘Do you mind if I ask am odd question?’
‘No.’
Mr Wyecliffe’s head sank into his collar until it seemed he had no neck. ‘Did your mother ever mention the Pieman after the trial?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Why do you ask?’
He thrust his little hands into capacious pockets. ‘Silly question, that’s…’
‘-why you keep out of court?’
Mr Wyecliffe voiced his surprise. ‘Exactly’
4
George switched on his torch and counted the scratches on the wall. While he’d been waiting for the monk, his mind had kept returning to Lawton’s Wharf, for it was there, to the sound of the river, that he and Elizabeth had planned their campaign.
‘You are avenging those girls, George.’
That’s what Elizabeth had said the first time she’d stood on the landing stage.
‘When you walked out of court you left them behind.’
She could be harsh, if she wanted.
The day before, a Friday, she’d said, ‘I’d like to see where John fell.’
They’d walked from Trespass Place to the Isle of Dogs. Side by side, they followed a dark, angular lane that ran between tall, silent warehouses, and beneath hoists like old gibbets. Presently, they reached an immense open space fronting the river: the premises of H amp; R Lawton and Co (London) Ltd. All that remained was a brass nameplate fixed to the perimeter fence with a coat hanger. The railings were loose, held upright by sheets of mesh wiring. George and Elizabeth passed through a large gap, as John had probably done. They picked their way over the remnants of a flattened warehouse into a chill off the Thames. Moving ahead of George onto the landing stage, Elizabeth said, ‘You are avenging those girls, George.’ The waves slapped against the timbers. ‘When you walked out of court you left them behind.’
And then, without waiting for George to reply, Elizabeth set to work telling him what she required.
‘There’ll be two sets of documents – one for each business: that of Riley, and that of Nancy They’re legally separate papers. They’ll be stored separately’
‘Right-o.’
‘The first is “Riley’s Junk”. The second is “Nancy’s Treasure”.’
‘Right-o.’
‘Once you’ve found them, we’ll talk again.’
‘Right-o. And in the meantime?’
‘You introduce yourself to Nancy.’
‘How?’
‘If I were you I’d sleep on her doorstep.’
‘Right-o. But she’ll want to know my name.’
‘Quite right. I suggest an alias. Mr Johnson. How does that sound to you?’
The bantering vanished at the allusion to John’s Christian name. So that’s why Elizabeth had come to this wharf, thought George, on a Saturday, and at might. It was to place John at the heart of her planning. She was at it again: evoking a setting for what she wanted to say like her use of the toast and cocoa. This time it was for what they were going to do. She used these ceremonies to stir up the past and make it present in am unusually active
