“Aye, and look where it got him.”
“Stop it, Bert, don’t talk like that. You know I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
Susan coughed and they both looked at her shamefacedly. “Sorry,” said Mrs Johnson. “I know we weren’t close, but he was our son.”
“Yes,” said Susan. “What I was wondering was if you could tell me anything about him, his friends, what he liked to do.”
“We don’t really know,” said Mrs Johnson, “do we, Bert?” Her husband shook his head. “It was nine years ago, I remember now. His twenty-first birthday. That was the last time we saw him.”
“What happened?”
“There was a local lass,” Mr Johnson explained. “Our Carl got her … well, you know. Anyway, instead of doing the honourable thing, he said it was her problem. She came round, right at his birthday party, and told us. We had a barney and Carl stormed out. We never saw him again. He sent us a postcard about a year later, just to let us know he was all right.”
“Where was it from?”
“London. It was a picture of Tower Bridge.”
“Always did have a temper, did Carl,” Mrs Johnson said.
“What was the girl’s name?” Susan asked.
Mr Johnson frowned. “Beryl, if I remember correctly,” he said. “I think she moved away years back, though.”
“Her mum and dad still live round the corner,” said Mrs Johnson. Susan got their address and made a note to call on them later.
“Did Carl keep in touch at all?”
“No. He wasn’t even in much after he turned sixteen, but there’s not been a dicky-bird since that postcard. He’d be thirty when he … when he … wouldn’t he?”
“Yes,” Susan said.
“It’s awful young to die,” Mrs Johnson muttered. “I blame bad company. Even when he was at school, whenever he got in trouble it was because somebody put him up to it, got him to do the dirty work. When he got caught shoplifting that time, it was that what’s-his-name, you know, Bert, the lad with the spotty face.”
“They all had spotty faces,” said Mr Johnson, grinning at Susan.
“You know who I mean. Robert Naylor, that’s the one. He was behind it all. He always looked up to the wrong people did our Carl. Always trusted the wrong ones. I’m sure he wasn’t bad in himself, just too easily led. He always seemed to have this … this fascination for bad ‘uns. He liked to watch those old James Cagney films on telly. Just loved them, he did. What was his favourite, Bert? You know, that one where James Cagney keeps getting these headaches, the one where he loves his mother.”
“White Heat.” Mr Johnson looked at Susan. “You know the one. ‘Top of the world, Ma!’”
Susan didn’t, but she nodded anyway.
“That’s the one,” said Mrs Johnson. “Loved that film, our Carl did. I blame the telly myself for a lot of the violence that goes on these days, I really do. They can get
away with anything now.”
“Did you know any of his other friends?” Susan asked her.
“Only when he was at school. He just wasn’t home much after he left school.”
“You don’t know the names of anyone else he went around with?”
“Sorry, dearie, no. It’s so long ago I just can’t remember. It’s a miracle Robert Naylor came back to me, and that’s only because of the shoplifting. Had the police round then, we did.”
“What about this Robert Naylor? Where does he live?”
Mrs Johnson shook her head. Susan made a note of the name anyway. It might be worth trying to track him down. If he was such a “bad ‘un” he might even have a record by now. There didn’t seem anything else to be gained from talking to the Johnsons, Susan thought. Best nip round the corner and find out about the girl Carl got pregnant, then head back to Eastvale. She finished her tea and stood up to leave.
“Nay, lass,” said Mr Johnson. “Have another cup.”
“No, I really must be going. Thank you very much.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you’ve got your job to do.”
“Thank you for your time,” Susan said, and opened the door.
“You can be sure of one thing, you mark my words,” said Mrs Johnson.
Susan paused in the doorway. “Yes?”
“There’ll be someone behind this had an influence on our Carl. Put him up to things. A bad ‘un. A real bad ‘un, with no conscience.” And she nodded, as if to emphasize her words.
“I’ll remember that,” said Susan, then walked out into the cobbled street where bed-sheets, shirts and under
clothes flapped on a breeze that carried the fragrances of the east.
Ill
The man sitting under a graphic poster about the perils of
drunken driving had the irritated, pursed-lipped look of
