Chapter 67
The lad stopped under one of the arches and nodded at Cook. His job done, he melted back into the darkness.
Cook stepped towards what looked like a wall of packing crates, looking for a foothold. In most of the bays he’d passed, people had been sprawled on top of the crates, a mezzanine level that presumably had the benefit of keeping them off the damp ground.
Some of the crates were recessed. Cook stepped into a gap left by one of the recessed crates.
Three feet in, a gap opened up to his left, wide enough for him to squeeze through.
When he did so, a subsequent gap opened up, leading deeper into the storage bay.
Soon, he was in complete darkness, relying on the feel of the rough, wood crates hemming him in, following wherever the next gap led.
Ahead, he heard scuffling, then the low murmur of a man’s voice. A complaint. Someone in pain.
Cook stepped out of the darkness into a room – a gap in the crates about twelve feet wide and twelve feet deep.
There were two stacks of bunkbeds, three bunks to a stack, on the far wall.
In the middle of the small room, a Formica table and four, mismatched kitchen chairs.
A kettle was boiling on a primus stove, and a tilley lamp hissed softly, lighting the space with a ghostly white light.
Reynolds was standing on one side of the space, to Cook’s right. He held a handkerchief to his face, a spreading bloom of blood covering the white cotton.
To Cook’s left, another man was holding Gracie captive, his arms around her chest. Cook recognised the man – he’d accompanied Reynolds into the pawnbrokers when Cook had found the clock.
Gracie was struggling. Cook didn’t envy the man holding her.
Like holding a tiger ready to take your head off the minute you let go.
‘You put your own daughter on the streets,’ she said, fixing Reynolds with a look conveying every ounce of the anger she was feeling.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Reynolds asked, nodding at Cook.
Gracie stopped her struggling now reinforcements had arrived.
‘Tell him,’ Gracie said, to Cook.
‘Ruby’s been seen at the Empire,’ Cook said. ‘I showed her picture to some of the girls working there, the Harriers. One of them recognised her.
Reynolds pulled the hankie away from his nose, tilted his head back.
‘All right,’ he said, eventually. He nodded to his man holding Gracie. ‘Let her go.’
‘You sure?’ the man replied.
Gracie wriggled out of his grasp. She took a step towards Reynolds but he held out his hand, like a police constable stopping traffic.
‘Less of that,’ Reynolds said. ‘I let you have this one for old time’s sake. Try it again and you won’t be so lucky.’
‘Tell us where Ruby is and we can leave you to play with the rats,’ Gracie said.
‘Gary, get a brew on,’ Reynolds said.
*
Gracie and Reynolds sat across from each other at the table, Cook took a referee’s position between the two. Reynolds’s lieutenant, having made the tea, had retired to a bunk.
‘When was the last time you heard from her?’ Gracie asked Reynolds.
‘The first day of the bombing,’ Reynolds replied. ‘The day Frankie came up. Which was why I assumed she’d been on the bus. She still might have been for all any of us knows.’
‘She’s alive,’ Gracie said.
‘That’s hope talking,’ Reynolds replied.
‘No,’ Gracie said. ‘I got word from her. Second post.’
Gracie pulled a postcard out of her pinafore. She handed it to Reynolds. He studied it, grunted, and passed it to Cook.
Cook looked at the card – a picture of the beach. Southend. He turned it over and read the message.
‘Seems like good news,’ Cook said.
‘No,’ Gracie said. ‘She’s in trouble.’