Page 86 of Strangers in Time

“I ain’t done nothin’.”

“No one said you had, son,” replied Willoughby. “Did they?”

With a constable on either side of him, Lonzo was marched out as the sergeant major watched for a moment before ripping up Lonzo’s papers and tossing them in the dustbin.

“Next,” he called out to an assistant waiting at the door.

DI WILLOUGHBY

THE RIDE TO THEpolice building in the official motorcar was swift. One of the constables and DI Willoughby 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 twoweremates.”

“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 themateyou 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 othercriminalsthere 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 constablediddie. 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.”

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