right, sir?’
A grunt. ‘Sit down,’ he gestured for Butchers to choose a seat. Butchers sat on the edge of the sofa took out his notebook. ‘Can I have your full name, sir?’
‘Vincent. Edward Compton Vincent. Everyone calls me Eddie.’
‘Date of birth?’
He reeled it off, noticed Butchers doing the sums and saved him the trouble. ‘Eighty-three, come September.’
‘Good age,’ Butchers said and wondered where he found these platitudes. They seemed to spring from nowhere, fully formed and out of his mouth before he’d thought about it.
‘Bloody awful age if you ask me. What would you know about it? Still you didn’t come to talk about that.’
‘Mr Tulley.’
‘Yes. My house overlooks the allotments; well, you’ll know that. Now, I can’t actually see Mr Tulley’s patch that well but I can see the gate that joins the back alley. ‘Course some of them climb the fences, some of these youngsters do, or come up the railway embankment.’
Butchers wondered where this was going. Wanted him to get to the point. Wanted to get some lunch.
‘So, Saturday morning I was up late. Had a bad night. Not that I ever really have a good night nowadays. I got dressed and I drew the curtains and that’s when I saw him.’
‘Mr Tulley?’
‘No. This lad, running he was, he runs up to the gate then he stops and looks out, like he’s seeing if anyone’s about, then he runs into the ginnel between the houses. I can’t see him then but he was going hell for leather I can tell you.’
Butchers sat further forward, all ears now, a shiver of excitement making his hand shake slightly. ‘What time was this?’
‘Twenty-five past ten.’
Butchers looked at him.
‘I’d just got up. I noticed the time, it being so late, like.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Youngish …’
‘Teenager? Younger?’
‘Older. Hard to tell an age.’
‘Twenty? Twenty-one?’
Eddie shrugged.
‘Younger than me?’ Butchers asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Go on.’ Eddie hesitated. ‘Short or tall?’
‘Average, I’d say.’
Butchers stood. ‘Like me?’
‘But skinnier, wiry.’
‘And can you remember what he was wearing?’
He could. ‘A cap, baseball cap. Don’t recall his top. And those …’ he waved his hand about searching for the right name, ‘sports trousers.’
‘Jog-pants?’
‘I don’t know what they call them. They’d a stripe down the side.’
‘What colour?’
‘White.’
‘White trousers?’ Butchers thought of cricket. ‘White stripe. The trousers were dark.’
‘Black?’
Eddie thought. Shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Anything else you remember?’
‘No.’
Butchers thought of the crime scene, the details on the murder boards. ‘What was he wearing on his feet.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Right. This is very good. We’ll come back to you, perhaps ask you to look at some photographs or attend an identity parade. Would you do that?’
‘Yes, if I can. Funny, isn’t it. Last time I’d anything to do with your lot, with the police, was at Agecroft colliery Miner’s strike. Trying to save the pit. I swore then I’d never trust a copper again. Place was thick with them, doing Thatcher’s dirty work for her, protecting the scabs. Bloody tragedy.’
‘Before my time,’ said Butchers, who had had more than enough of this sort of crap from his father-in-law.
‘Aye, but, you’re paying for it now. Closed those pits, took the lifeblood from those communities. We import coal now, when we’d no need. Families broken up, people shoved on the dole. All comes home to roost.’
‘You on the phone, sir?’ Eddie gave the number.
‘We’ll be in touch. This lad, would you say you had a good view of him, what he looked like?’
‘I did.’
‘Perhaps you could show me where you saw him?’
Eddie balked. ‘No, see, I’ll not manage the stairs. I get up them at night and down them in the morning and that’s it. You go up. Back bedroom.’
Butchers did.
A grunt. ‘Sit down,’ he gestured for Butchers to choose a seat. Butchers sat on the edge of the sofa took out his notebook. ‘Can I have your full name, sir?’
‘Vincent. Edward Compton Vincent. Everyone calls me Eddie.’
‘Date of birth?’
He reeled it off, noticed Butchers doing the sums and saved him the trouble. ‘Eighty-three, come September.’
‘Good age,’ Butchers said and wondered where he found these platitudes. They seemed to spring from nowhere, fully formed and out of his mouth before he’d thought about it.
‘Bloody awful age if you ask me. What would you know about it? Still you didn’t come to talk about that.’
‘Mr Tulley.’
‘Yes. My house overlooks the allotments; well, you’ll know that. Now, I can’t actually see Mr Tulley’s patch that well but I can see the gate that joins the back alley. ‘Course some of them climb the fences, some of these youngsters do, or come up the railway embankment.’
Butchers wondered where this was going. Wanted him to get to the point. Wanted to get some lunch.
‘So, Saturday morning I was up late. Had a bad night. Not that I ever really have a good night nowadays. I got dressed and I drew the curtains and that’s when I saw him.’
‘Mr Tulley?’
‘No. This lad, running he was, he runs up to the gate then he stops and looks out, like he’s seeing if anyone’s about, then he runs into the ginnel between the houses. I can’t see him then but he was going hell for leather I can tell you.’
Butchers sat further forward, all ears now, a shiver of excitement making his hand shake slightly. ‘What time was this?’
‘Twenty-five past ten.’
Butchers looked at him.
‘I’d just got up. I noticed the time, it being so late, like.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Youngish …’
‘Teenager? Younger?’
‘Older. Hard to tell an age.’
‘Twenty? Twenty-one?’
Eddie shrugged.
‘Younger than me?’ Butchers asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Go on.’ Eddie hesitated. ‘Short or tall?’
‘Average, I’d say.’
Butchers stood. ‘Like me?’
‘But skinnier, wiry.’
‘And can you remember what he was wearing?’
He could. ‘A cap, baseball cap. Don’t recall his top. And those …’ he waved his hand about searching for the right name, ‘sports trousers.’
‘Jog-pants?’
‘I don’t know what they call them. They’d a stripe down the side.’
‘What colour?’
‘White.’
‘White trousers?’ Butchers thought of cricket. ‘White stripe. The trousers were dark.’
‘Black?’
Eddie thought. Shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Anything else you remember?’
‘No.’
Butchers thought of the crime scene, the details on the murder boards. ‘What was he wearing on his feet.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Right. This is very good. We’ll come back to you, perhaps ask you to look at some photographs or attend an identity parade. Would you do that?’
‘Yes, if I can. Funny, isn’t it. Last time I’d anything to do with your lot, with the police, was at Agecroft colliery Miner’s strike. Trying to save the pit. I swore then I’d never trust a copper again. Place was thick with them, doing Thatcher’s dirty work for her, protecting the scabs. Bloody tragedy.’
‘Before my time,’ said Butchers, who had had more than enough of this sort of crap from his father-in-law.
‘Aye, but, you’re paying for it now. Closed those pits, took the lifeblood from those communities. We import coal now, when we’d no need. Families broken up, people shoved on the dole. All comes home to roost.’
‘You on the phone, sir?’ Eddie gave the number.
‘We’ll be in touch. This lad, would you say you had a good view of him, what he looked like?’
‘I did.’
‘Perhaps you could show me where you saw him?’
Eddie balked. ‘No, see, I’ll not manage the stairs. I get up them at night and down them in the morning and that’s it. You go up. Back bedroom.’
Butchers did.
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