Dangerous in Love - Dangerous Davies 02 (10 page)

'There won't be much serious crime,' forecast the little man Shiny Bright. He looked almost too frail to lift his Guinness.

'Staying at home are you. Shiny?' said Davies convivially. 'In the warm.'

'Footprints,' answered Shiny, looking down at his tiny feet. 'Footprints, Dangerous. In the snow.' He left his stool and walked pigeon-toed to the bar.

Engulfed in her vivid red coat Jemma arrived, new snow speckling her thick hair. The men in the bar turned from their drinking to take her in. Davies felt a warm flush of pride. Mod rolled his eyes as if he could see no good coming of it. She was going with Davies to the Divisional Christmas Party and, after one drink, they left the
bar. Shiny Bright stared at his
Guinness and said fervently: 'That was my sort of woman, that was.'

Her car was parked on the next junction. It was small and Dangerous had difficulty climbing in. She started the engine but did not put the car into gear, waiting for the wipers to clear the windscreen. 'You look very nice in the snow,' he said awkwardly, looking away from her and peering out of the window. 'It's the contrast.'

'Thank you. I'm not sure how to take that.' She still did not engage the gear lever. Davies said: 'I would have liked to have taken you to the pictures one night when there was something decent on, but we've been too busy.'

To his intense pleasure she leaned towards him and gave him a kiss on the mouth. His hand went up around her warm neck and he pulled her towards him for another. As they parted her face remained close, her dark eyes very full. 'How many beers have you had?' she asked.

'Two or three. If I'd known this was going to happen, I'd have put on some scent.'

Smiling privately she eased herself back behind the driving seat.

She started the car and they drove through the slushy streets towards the Mafeking Hall where the Divisional Christmas Party had been held every year since the time of the famous siege. (A few years before, several trapped bank robbers
had barricaded themselves in a c
ouncil house in nearby Mafeking Street and the Christmas Party had been swiftly transferred from another part of the division to the adjacent hall so that officers taking part in the siege should not altogether miss out on the social side of things. Eventually, an inspector eating a mince pie had persuaded the malefactors to give up their pointless defiance.)

As Davies and Jemma went into the hall, a musical group of young constables, The Cellmates, with a woman traffic warden vocalist, were playing. The singer, professionally called Dolly Parking, wearing orange wig and sundered dress, was bawling into a hand mike. The hall was filled with drinking policemen and their ladies. At the bar Davies was greeted by a broad ginger man. 'Hello, Affie,' Davies said. He looked around. Jemma was conversing with the Coroner's officer. 'How's prison?'

'I reckon it's more difficult keeping them in than getting them there in the first place,' grumbled the man. 'Sometimes I wish I'd never transferred, Dangerous, stayed in the force. When you're a copper, you're dealing with the criminal classes only part of the time. In the Prison Service you live with them.'

Davies said: 'What d'you know about women's prisons, Affie?'

'Not a thing. Don't know much about women, come to think of it.' He looked about the crowded room. 'There's an old dame who's here tonight, mind you. I saw her come in. She gives lectures on women's prisons, history and everything. When you do your training course she bores the ears off you.' He indicated with his glass. 'I saw her over there somewhere, talking to my boss. Miss Gladstone, she's called. Like an old bag, they used to say on the training course. But she's over there, Dangerous. Why did you want to know?'

'I just thought I'd take an interest in them,' said Davies affably. 'Thanks, Affie.'

Almost with stealth he made his way through the drinking and talking people, murmuring apologies as he nudged elbows. He heard Jemma's voice just behind him. 'Take it steady. Dangerous, you're too big to be a rattlesnake. Where are you heading?' She rubbed his ear with her glass.

Davies paused and spoke quietly over his shoulder. 'There's an old lady here, she knows all about women in clink. I'm wondering if she can shed a bit of light on that photograph.'

'She'd have to have a photographic memory. And a long one.'

'I know. But she's the expert. Gives lectures. I thought it would be worth a try.' 'You've got it with you?'

Davies patted his pocket. 'I took it to Watkins, the photographers, to see if they had any idea about it, you know, by looking at it. How old it is, what sort of camera. I also got them to copy it. It's called clutching at straws.'

He had turned to face her and because of the crush in the room they suddenly found themselves in very close proximity. The bust of her dress was touching his lapels. He swallowed hard and shuffled back a pace. She smiled. 'You're lovely, you know,' she said to him. 'Bloody lovely.'

'Thanks,' he croaked. The colour of her eyes was amazing, even allowing for the time of year. He took a deep drink and regarded her over the edge of the tankard. 'You're fairly bloody lovely yourself.'

'When we've got time,' she said seriously, 'we've got to have a proper talk.'

'I'd better get going,' he said awkwardly. 'Will you be all right for a couple of minutes?'

'Don't worry about me. I'll soon find company. I'll just smile at some nice chief inspector.'

'Not a word
...'

'. . . about Lofty,' she finished for him. Davies regarded her steadily. 'I don't want the police involved,' he said. He stopped himself looking at her and turned into the crowd. As he went he felt her touch the nape of his neck with her finger. He pushed on through the people, searching, like an explorer through undergrowth.

'Who are you looking for, Dangerous? Santa?' A portly probation officer smiled as Davies emerged from the drinkers. The Cellmates launched into another frenzied song.

'Listen, Ronnie,' said Davies. 'You know all these theoretical law-enforcers. I'm looking for a lady, an old girl, Miss Gladstone, Prison Service.'

'Know her well,' said the other man. 'Makes your ear ache. A bit like this band.' Like many fat men he had small eyes and he swivelled them around the room like a sniper looking for a target. 'There,' he pointed out. 'Over there, see. In the dress that looks like a bit of our carpet. Talking to that chap from the fingerprint department. D'you know him?'

'Dabber Donnelly,' nodded Davies. 'Right, thanks, Ronnie. Keep keeping them on the straight and narrow.'

'I try, Dangerous. I can only try.'

As Davies approached the elderly woman and Donnelly, the man turned to take two glasses from a passing colleague who had been to the bar. 'Hello, Dabber,' said Davies. The lady regarded him with reserve. Donnelly grinned and introduced him. 'Miss Gladstone, this is Detective Constable Davies. One of our more interesting officers.'

Miss Gladstone extended a hand so soft that, at first, he thought it must be enclosed in a glove. It was not. 'Why are you so
interesting?' she demanded boom
ingly. Her eyes were indistinguishable behind dense spectacles. 'You don't look very interesting.'

'I'm not,' agreed Davies hurriedly. 'It's just that Mr Donnelly spends all his time in
his fingerprint l
aboratory. Lives in a world of whorls. He thinks that anybody who gets out of doors is interesting.' He paused. Donnelly asked him if he would like another drink. Davies guessed it was the escape route the fingerprint man had been seeking, and gave him the excuse. He took it gratefully.

'I wondered, Miss Gladstone,' said Davies, 'if I could pick your brains. I know you're an expert on women's prisons.'

Her ragged face took on a glow. 'The Incarceration of Women,' she boomed, 'has been my lifelong work.' Her voice was so penetrating that all the nearby people turned. 'Have you, young man, read my autobiography,
In and Out of Women's Prisons?'
Shamefacedly, Davies admitted that he had not. 'Published 1949
’
she said. 'But there are still copies to be found. Get it and enjoy it.'

'Oh, I will, right away.' Davies tried to look as if he would like it for Christmas. 'I need to get to know something about the system, pre-War that is.'

She looked slightl
y displeased and drank her gin at a gulp. Donnelly had just returned with Davies's pint so Davies took the glass from the old lady and handed it to the fingerprint man. 'Another for Miss Gladstone, please, Dabber
’
he said.

'Of course, I was only a gel
’
said Miss Gladstone, a little mollified. 'Doing my pioneer work. It was 1937 before I wrote my first book
Girls in Confinement.'

'That's about the period,' said Davies hurriedly. 'What were women's prisons like then?'

'Healthy
’
said Miss Gladstone firmly. 'Jolly healthy. Far far better than the environment from which most of the prisoners emanated and to which, unhappily, of course, they returned.'

'Oh,' said Davies. 'Healthy
...'

'Quite a number were farm prisons, you see,' she continued. Her enthusiasm was warming. Donnelly came back with the gin and she again despatched it at a gulp, in mid-sentence. 'The inmates worked in the fields. Good fresh air, hard labour, tired their bodies but brought roses to their cheeks. Wonderful experience for them. And they were always imprisoned close to their homes. Upon release some of them couldn't wait to get back in. They enjoyed their incarceration.'

Clumsily, Davies was reaching inside his pocket. He took out an envelope and from that, like a conjurer doing a small trick, he produced the photograph which had come from Lofty Brock's wooden box. 'This lady,' he said, 'doesn't look very happy. But then it must have been taken on her first day.'

'Hmmm,' said Miss Gladstone, holding the picture at arm's length and lifting her glasses. 'Before she started enjoying herself. She does look a bit downcast.'

'I'm trying to ascertain who she might be,' said Davies. He had dropped his voice and now he glanced about him.

'Why are you whispering?' she demanded astutely. She looked around. 'They're all policemen and the like here.'

'I don't want the police to know,' he said, trying to make it sound like a joke. 'They'll all want to be on the case.'

She examined the picture again. 'Her prison number's been cut off,' she observed. 'Without that you haven't got much hope, have you?' To Davies's consternation, she decisively pushed the photograph into her huge handbag. She hushed him by wafting the great bag at him. 'I shall take good care of it, never fear, Mr Davies. You have a copy I take it?' He admitted he had. 'I shall have to consult my files,' she said. 'Perhaps I may be able to discover something.'

The challenge in her eyes was not to be denied. 'And now,' she said, 'I'd like another sizeable gin.'

Later that evening, Davies began singing softly, not to himself but not quite loudly enough for anyone at a distance of more than a few feet to hear, as if the tune were a secret.

'Is that a moan or a song?' demanded Jemma as they walked along the winter-night pavements.

From The Babe In Arms came after-hours lights and voices. Poised uncertainly on the kerb, Davies looked at her askew.

'Louder,' he said, 'and it could be a breach of the peace. Anyway, I prefer to sing to myself. When you have a voice like mine, singing becomes confidential.'

'It's after closing,' said Jemma, taking his arm. Davies was looking wildly up the street, one way then the other, like a soldier about to advance under fire. 'Extra Yuletide drinking time,' he explained vaguely. 'Mod will be standing there with a miraculously empty glass.'

She helped him across the empty road. 'Thanks,' he said sweetly as they reached the bar door. 'There were times when I didn't think we were going to make it.'

Few people had left the bar, despite the ringing of a bell, as forlorn as a buoy out at sea, and unhopeful exhortations from the various Irish barmen. Mod saw them enter and swiftly swallowed the remainder of his beer. He had been entertaining a girl who appeared to have two footballs under her thick grey sweater. Without speaking Davies took Mod's glass. The girl declined his brief offer, saying she had to return to her boyfriend.

Davies was quickly back with the drinks. 'Just in time,' he commented, handing one to Jemma and the other to Mod. 'Who was that?' he said to Mod.

'Works in Wool
worths
’
smiled Mod with late-middle-aged wickedness.

'She looks like Woolworths
’
said Davies.

'Wait, wait,' cautioned Mod. 'Within that large bosom beats a large heart.' He smiled with a little bliss. 'Things that go bump in the night,' he murmured.

Davies drained his beer. 'I've got to go to the station. I'm officially on stand-by,' he said.

'I'd better come with you,' said Jemma, regarding him doubtfully. 'In case you're kept in.'

They went out into the sharp night once more, leaving Mod in the bar where unrequited bells were still sounding and barmen hoarsely calling for time.

'Look at the stars, all blinking,' pointed Davies. Her gaze followed his finger. 'All up there. Blotto and
...'