Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [58]
‘No, Hutch,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. Let me stay here. I’d rather be with you.’
Hutch was touched to have Johnny’s confidence. ‘You sit here for a while then,’ he said tenderly, ‘and I’ll start straightening out the shop. You can join me when you’re feeling better.’
So Hutch and Johnny spent the rest of the day clearing the mess and boarding up the window.
‘Shouldn’t the police arrest those people?’ said Johnny. ‘We know most of them. We could tell the police their names.’
‘No point,’ said Hutch. ‘I don’t think that would win us many friends, do you?’
‘But what about the stuff they stole? Aren’t you going to report them for that?’
‘Who?’
‘Well, Albert Taylor for one. And Ernest Roberts. I saw them there.’
‘You saw them?’
‘Yes, I did. And I don’t see why they should get away with it. They’ve been horrible to me for ages. We should tell the police.’
‘You saw them steal the chocolates?’
‘Well, no. Not exactly. I didn’t see them actually do it. But I know it was them. I just know it.’
‘Oh, Johnny,’ sighed Hutch. ‘Listen to yourself. Can’t you hear who you sound like?’
‘Who?’
‘Like someone who saw your mother at the Langfords’ house? Like someone who saw her sitting in a pub? Do you actually know that Taylor and Roberts plundered the window display?’
Johnny was ashamed of himself. ‘No,’ he whispered.
‘Then I think it’s best if we say no more about it, don’t you?’
‘All right. But you’d better close down the shop, Hutch,’ said Johnny. ‘It isn’t safe for you here.’
Hutch disagreed. ‘We’ll see off those bullies,’ he said. ‘And we’ll beat them by carrying on. I won’t close. In fact, I can’t close. I have to stay open, because of the post office. It’s my duty. It’s as simple as that.’
When Johnny arrived home that night, he found a pudding basin on the doorstep. He recognized it as the one Winnie had used to make Mrs Slack a treacle sponge on a cold day at the beginning of December. It was half full of a golden liquid. Johnny didn’t stop to investigate what that might be. He could guess. He tipped it away, and dashed the basin against the wall.
Alone inside, he barricaded the door in case anyone tried to break in. He tore up some old newspapers to try to get a fire going in the grate. There was something in one of them about the effort the police were making to find Marie Langford in France, so they could tell her about her husband’s tragic death. They didn’t seem to be having any luck with their search. Johnny wondered whether they were trying hard enough. Perhaps, if he could find her first, before the police had a chance to poison her mind against Winnie, Johnny might persuade Mrs Langford to help clear his mother’s name. At the very least she could tell everyone how honest and reliable Winnie had been in the past. She might even be able to suggest another suspect for the murder. If only he could make contact with Marie Langford, wherever in France she might be.
Someone rapped on the door. Johnny jumped up and turned down the lamp, so that whoever was outside would think the house was empty. But the knocking came again. Then a half-familiar voice. Johnny worked out who it was just before the man said his name. It was the reporter.
Johnny went over to the door. ‘Go away,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not allowed to talk to you. The police said so.’
‘And why should you do what the police say?’ asked the man. ‘They’ve put your mother in prison. They don’t believe she’s innocent. Why should you listen to them?’
‘I don’t want to get her into any more trouble,’ said Johnny.
The reporter pushed open the letter box. Johnny could see his lips moving. ‘Pardon me for saying this, Johnny, but when you’re on trial for murder, you can’t