After a short pause, Roxie muttered: ‘Remember he’s a little rat that likes a hole.’
‘Oh, come on, that’s not good enough. No puzzlers.’ Paul Lane was cold. ‘You say what you mean in plain English.’
Sergeant Henley said: ‘Speak up now. Or Uncle Bow might find himself doing a lifer for your Rosie.’
Roxie said suddenly, ‘There’s a tunnel down by the river. I don’t know where. You’d have to find it. Greenwich Pier. He used to play in it years ago. In the war.’
Years ago, thought Paul Lane, I suppose it’s still there. Well, she thinks it is, anyway.
Thanks, Roxie,’ he said, and pulled the telephone towards him.
When he had given his orders and they were alone, he said: ‘You were rough on her, Phyllis.’
‘But I got a result. And I’ll tell you something else: what really frightened Roxie was that the kid might cooperate with Uncle Bow.’
Lane shrugged. He was never sure how to take his Phyllis.
‘It’s been known,’ said Phyllis.
The message about the tunnel went to John Coffin, who got into touch with the Port of London Authority and the Greenwich Pier management for information and, better still, maps.
‘No picnic, searching down there,’ said the man at the end of the telephone. ‘Do my best for you, but sometimes we don’t know what we’ve got ourselves.’
Next morning in Queen Charlotte’s Alley, Sarah Fleming was preparing a picnic for her brother Peter. She was doing so reluctantly, it was her Poly day and she really did not have time. The little ones, the very little ones, called it her ‘Holy day’, not distinguishing clearly between Poly and Holy. Sarah wondered if they were deaf in addition to other deficiencies. Growing deafer, moreover, as they had certainly not been deaf as babies. Putting all their energies into deafness rather than growing bigger and taller. It was the sort of fantasy she must not harbour.
‘I’ve given you ham and cucumber. And there’s a Thermos of coffee.’
‘It ought to be smoked salmon and champagne for her,’ said Peter. He was dressed ready for his outing in clean jeans and a white shirt. Sarah wore almost the same clothes, except that her shirt was red. A gesture to her political feelings.
‘She’s only a kid.’
‘That’s the sort of girl she is.’ He saw himself as a great, strong animal who could always protect his girl. A bear?
‘Count yourself lucky I didn’t make you Marmite sandwiches.’
‘There ought to be wine and music and a boat on the river,’ he said dreamily.
‘And you in a white tie and tails, I suppose.’ They had recently watched an old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film on the television in which she thought she saw the source of his fantasy.
‘What about work? Aren’t you going in?’
He had a part-time job in a large firm of chemists where he worked in the stockrooms. There had been rumours of redundancies.
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