Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [53]
*
This time the desk sergeant recognized him straight away. He was just as hostile as before.
‘What do you want? Your mother’s not here any more. She’s in the big prison now.’
‘I know. I want to talk to you. I want to help you find the real killer.’
‘We already have the real killer, son.’
‘No you don’t. My mother could never hurt anyone. Someone else did it.’
‘And you know who, do you?’ The swing doors opened, and a man came in from the street. The policeman broke off from talking to Johnny. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, sir. This won’t take long.’ He turned back to Johnny. ‘Well? Do you have a name to give me?’
‘Not a name, exactly,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’
The newcomer was leaning against the counter and looking down at Johnny with a patronizing smile. Johnny felt he couldn’t go into details of Dr Langford’s secret in front of a complete stranger.
‘It’s private too,’ said Johnny, hoping the policeman would take him somewhere they could speak without being overheard.
The policeman laughed. ‘If it’s so private, you’d better keep it to yourself, son. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Now, this gentleman would probably appreciate a little privacy. You’d better be on your way.’
‘But it’s important.’
‘I said get out of it.’
Johnny stood for a moment, stuttering, but the policeman just pointed to the door. ‘Now, sir, what can I do for you?’ he asked the man.
‘I want to report a lost dog.’
The policeman started making a note. Without even looking up, he bellowed at Johnny again. ‘Go!’
Johnny knew there was no point in staying. He ran away, not letting the tears of fear, anger and dismay break through until the door swung shut behind him.
That afternoon, he hit on a different tactic. He would write down his ideas about an alternative killer in a note to Inspector Griffin. He thought at first that he would do it in Auntie Ada’s name, but then he envisaged the scene when the inspector came round and found out that she didn’t really exist. So he wrote everything out as neatly as he could, and signed it himself. He slipped it into his bag when he went on the evening paper round, and as soon as the last newspaper had been put through the last letter box, he made his way to the police station again. He was barely through the door before the desk sergeant was shouting at him.
‘Wasting police time is a crime, you know.’
‘I just want to drop off a letter for Inspector Griffin.’
‘A letter about what, exactly?’
‘It’s about the murder. To help him find the person who did it.’
‘And why should he listen to you? He already has the murderer in custody, as you know only too well.’
‘But she didn’t do it!’
‘So who did?’
‘I don’t know, exactly. But all my ideas are in this letter.’ Johnny put it down on the counter.
‘And why should Inspector Griffin take any notice of that? Why should he believe a small boy trying to save his mother, and ignore witnesses who’ve given sworn evidence against her in court?’
‘Because I know something they don’t know.’
‘And it’s all in here?’ said the sergeant, picking up the envelope.
‘Yes. Please take it.’
‘Oh, I’ll take it, son. I’ll take it and I’ll file it in the appropriate place.’
‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. But his momentary relief turned to anguish again as the sergeant tore the envelope in two and dropped it behind him.
‘Now I’m warning you, boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of your time-wasting. Keep away from here.’ The sergeant lifted