Page 52 of Strangers in Time

DI W ILLOUGHBY

T HE RIDE TO THE police building in the official motorcar was swift. One of the constables and took Lonzo to a small room with an overbearing electric heater that made him sweat, and barred windows that made him fear.

The constable pushed him down in a hard chair set at a wooden table and then settled his bulk in front of the only door. Willoughby slipped off his overcoat, placed it on a peg, removed his hat, lit up a cigarette, and offered one to Lonzo, who accepted.

Willoughby was fifty and tough-looking, with wide hips and meaty, brutish shoulders. His features were mostly impassive, but he had the look of a man who had seen far too much of life that was horrible, and it had changed him, and not for the better. There was no compassion or empathy or anything else like that left in him. He eyed Lonzo as one would a prize to be turned into an even more valuable one.

As they smoked, Willoughby loosened his tie and opened a file he had placed on the table. He leisurely read over it and then lifted out a picture and placed it in front of Lonzo. “Recognize him?”

Lonzo glanced down at the photograph before quickly looking away, his expression one of revulsion. “No, I ain’t never seen him.”

“His name’s Eddie Gray. Surely you know him, Lonzo. You two were mates.”

“That ain’t look like Eddie to me. And, ’sides, I ain’t seen ’im for a while, ’ave I, guv?”

“That’s because he’s dead. Surely you can see the way his head is all crushed, can’t you? And all the blood?” He pushed the picture closer. “Take another look.”

Lonzo shook his head. “No, I ain’t want to.”

Willoughby leaned across, ripped the cigarette from Lonzo’s mouth, gripped the back of his head, and forced it over the picture. “Look at your friend, Lonzo. What’s left of him. Look at the mate you left to die.”

Lonzo cried out, “I ain’t know nothin’ ’bout that. Swear it on me mum’s grave.”

The detective inspector released his grip and sat back. “We’re going to have a little identity parade in a few minutes, boy. The lorry driver saw you clearly. He’s here to finger you as one of the other criminals there that night. And let me remind you that a constable died. He had a wife and young children. The wife no longer has a husband and the children have lost their father.” He pointed a finger at Lonzo. “All because of you.”

Willoughby looked up at the constable and nodded.

The next instant Lonzo’s face was slammed into the wood of the table. Then he was viciously punched in the head and knocked to the floor.

“Careful, boy, you’ll hurt yourself.” Willoughby lit up another cigarette and lazily blew smoke out while a bloodied, bruised, and clearly dazed Lonzo sobbed and put his hands over his injured face. One of his eyes was already starting to swell shut.

The constable jerked him off the floor and thrust him back into his chair.

“Is… is this a ’angin’ job?” asked Lonzo in a whimper.

“It could very well be. A constable did die. But if you tell me who the other boy was, well, I might be able to do something for you.”

“You… y-you could?”

“No promises, mind you. But if you tell us the truth, then I could help you, yes.” He stubbed out his smoke, swiped back his hair, and leaned across so that he was only inches from Lonzo. “What was his name?”

“Ch-Charlie. Charlie Matters.”

“Where is he?”

“Dunno. His gran died and he had to leave his flat in Bethnal Green.”

“Parents?”

“Dead.”

“And you have no idea where he is now?”

Lonzo shook his head. “No, guv. I swear.”

Willoughby took out a notepad and pen. “Describe him.”

Lonzo did so. “C-can you still help me?”

Willoughby finished writing and looked up. “You’ve really told me nothing helpful, Lonzo. Lots of boys like Charlie in this city. Does he go to school?”

“No.”

“Does he have any other family?”

Lonzo shook his head. “Dunno.”

Willoughby grabbed one of the boy’s hands and twisted Lonzo’s index finger until it broke. Lonzo howled in pain.

“Don’t lie to me, boy, you won’t like it.”

He let go of Lonzo’s hand and the boy jerked back, holding his damaged finger.

Lonzo wailed, “He ain’t got no family, I swear. His gran was all he had, and she died. They buried her over in Stepney. At the church.”

“What were you doing breaking into a shop? And why that shop?”

Lonzo swallowed and looked down at the table. Out of his one good eye he watched for the constable sneaking up on him again. “We heard it had some money in the till.”

“How did you hear that?”

“Just did.”

Willoughby pointed to the door. “When we walk out of here and you get picked out of the identity parade, the next stop for you will be prison. And they will hang you.”

“I never saw that lorry till it ’it Eddie. I swear. Didn’t mean to ’urt nobody.”

“The law doesn’t care what you meant , Lonzo. It only cares about what you did . Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Why that bookshop?”

Lonzo gazed warily at the constable, who had now taken a step forward, holding his wooden club and tapping it menacingly against one wide palm.

“Ch-Charlie knew ’bout it. He stole from the bloke before, but the git took the money back.”

Willoughby’s brows knitted in confusion. “Wait, are you saying this Charlie Matters took the money he stole back? Why the devil would he do that, boy? You taking the mickey with me? I don’t like that.”

“He said the bloke had it bad and needed the quid. But Charlie had a book that got no writin’ in it. He got it from the shop. Said he was goin’ to sell it.”

“Did he?” barked Willoughby.

Lonzo was not about to add the theft of the book to his list of crimes. “Got no way of knowin’ that, do I?”

“Bollocks!” exclaimed Willoughby as he nodded at the bobby.

A punishing strike landed on the back of Lonzo’s head from the constable’s club, which once more knocked Lonzo to the floor. His head bleeding badly, Lonzo threw up on the floor.

Willoughby cried out, “Jesus, boy, get a hold of yourself. You were going to join the army? By God, you would have lasted all of ten minutes against the Germans. Now get back in your chair before the constable is forced to ‘help’ you.”

Willoughby drummed his fingers against the table and waited while Lonzo picked himself up off the floor and sobbed quietly into the wood of the table.

“You said he got the book from the shop. Did he steal it?”

“He said he bought it with the shillin’s he stole from the shop. But that were a lie ’cause he give the money back.”

“So did he nick it, then?” persisted the detective inspector.

“Dunno. But he didn’t want us to go round to the shop. He tried to stop us. Maybe he was a friend ’a the bloke’s.”

Willoughby glanced at his notebook. “This Ignatius Oliver?”

Lonzo rubbed his damaged nose and touched the wound on the back of his head. His fingers came back all sticky with his blood. “Dunno, maybe. But Charlie ain’t want us to steal from him, I can tell you that.”

Willoughby sat back and thought this over. “Okay, Lonzo Rossi, the foreigner , that will be all.”

Lonzo peeked up at the man. “C-can… can I go now, guv? I… I wanted to join up, fight the Jerries, see?”

The detective inspector looked at him incredulously. “The only place you’re going is to prison.”

“But you said—”

“A constable has died,” interjected Willoughby. “While this country was at war and needing every able-bodied man in either a policeman’s or a soldier’s uniform. And you and this Charlie Matters as good as killed him. If I have any say in it, and I do, you and he will grow old and gray in prison. That is unless they hang you, which would be my preference.”

Lonzo started to blubber and Willoughby impatiently waved at the constable to drag him away.

When Willoughby was alone, the man had one overriding thought: to find this lad, Charlie Matters. And he knew just the place to start searching.

Tomorrow he would head to Covent Garden. To The Book Keep.