On the Run

By David Nelson

Life in postwar Britain is tough, especially in Londons East End, ravaged by bombing and rampant crime.

Accused of murdering the son of a notorious gangland boss, Joe Foster is in big trouble. Evidence points to him as the killer, and he is forced to run from the police and the criminal underworld combined.

To avoid capture, Joe flees the country and discovers an opportunity for a future he could only dream of in Britain. But his family and the love of his life, Maggie, are in London, and he is desperate to claim his innocence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Aug 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493192304

Book preview

Prologue

1943, Military Hospital, north of London

Martin Ford knew he was dying. He could feel his strength ebbing away and there was nothing he could do. He lay in his hospital bed and wondered how long he had left to live. Another day, two maybe, he thought. The Medical Officer who had performed his surgery had explained that his liver, kidneys and intestines had been severely lacerated and, although they had tried to patch him up, they had not been able to make the repairs needed for these organs to restore their functions. It had been gently suggested that he should use the time he had left to put his personal affairs in order.

Martin felt grateful that the Medical Officer had agreed to explain his injuries and give him his prognosis without pulling any punches, as he’d requested. Afterwards, as the realisation started to sink in that he was at the end of his young life he could only feel a sense of helplessness, loss and desolation. At twenty-two years of age he was not ready to die. He had all his mental faculties, albeit slowed down somewhat by the drugs they were giving him, but he could sense that his body was failing fast. He had no strength to even lift himself into a sitting position and he felt an overwhelming lassitude creeping up on him.

In his screened off cubicle at one end of the ward, Martin had been drifting in and out of consciousness as drugs to manage his pain were administered. He had been vaguely aware of a visit from his Commanding Officer, Wing Commander Burke. The CO had spoken to him, but he had not registered what he was saying and had drifted back to a morphine induced sleep. Now, as he was surfacing into consciousness again, he found himself reliving his last moments in the Lancaster bomber. They had made it to their target in Germany and, despite running into heavy flak, had got their bombs away. The big trouble started when they were over the English Channel on the return run. A Messerschmitt fighter had suddenly appeared from out of the clouds and had come down at them from behind, all guns blazing. Martin could see it all happening again in his mind’s eye; the scream of the attacking aircraft, the staccato of its machine guns and the even louder sound of his own guns in response, like a jack hammer, as he desperately tried to defend his aircraft. These had been terrifying moments, but he remembered screaming defiance at their attacker as his bullets found their mark. But then something had happened to him and he could remember no more. As he opened his eyes and returned to the present he felt a touch on his arm. When he saw who was there he immediately felt a lift in his spirits. He managed a broad smile and said a soft, ‘Hello,’ to his great friend, Joe Foster.

‘Given you some leave have they, Joe?’ he whispered.

‘Just a 24-hour pass, but I’m probably lucky to get that, the way the raids over Germany are going. We seem to be throwing everything we’ve got at them at the moment. Anyhow, I heard you had copped it and thought I’d better see how you are doing.’

Martin decided to come straight out with it.

‘I’m not going to make it I’m afraid, Joe,’ he said weakly. ‘The doctors have done all they can, but I’m shot up too much.’

Joe was visibly shocked. He put a hand to his forehead and tried to overcome his sense of shock and disbelief.

‘Christ, Martin! Surely it’s not that bad? I mean… you’ll be getting the best of care here…What have they told you?’

Martin gathered his thoughts and made the effort to explain.

‘Well, I can feel I’m on the way out, you know. I’ve no reason to doubt what the MO has said. I feel totally stuffed … so tired … and I can hardly lift my head off the pillow. When that Messerschmitt strafed us he put a line of machine gun bullets straight across my guts and cut my insides to pieces. They’ve done what they can, but it’s not going to be enough. I’m on the slippery slope… not long to go now…Trust me to pull the short straw and get the rear gunner job! I can remember giving that bastard everything I had and I’m sure I remember seeing bits fly off his wing, but then I don’t remember anything at all until I woke up here three days ago.’

‘Hell, Martin! I had no idea you were injured so bad! I don’t know what to say! It’s just… God, I feel awful… Sorry, Martin… I wasn’t expecting to hear it was this bad… Is there anything you need me to do? You know… anything you want me to take care of… Talk to your family… sort out things… anything at all …?’

‘That’s good of you, Joe, but there isn’t any family to tell. My mum and dad were caught in their house when it was bombed about a year ago and there’s no-one else now. But you can give my best to all the lads in the Squadron. They have been my family really, since this war got started.’

‘I’ll certainly do that for you, Martin. You sure there’s nothing else you need me to do?’

‘Just keep giving those Germans a real bad time, OK?’

‘We’ll certainly be doing that! I think we have them on the back foot now.’

‘Look, Joe, you’re my best friend. We’ve been together all through our training and postings and, well, I want you to have my kit… If there’s anything there you want, it’s yours.’

Joe felt a large lump in his throat and he took hold of Martin’s hand and said, ‘Thanks, Martin, I appreciate it and I’ll be proud to look after your things. Look, I’m struggling to take this all in. You’re the last person I’d have thought would have to face all this. You’ve always been so good at everything and taken the lead. All the lads look up to you, Martin… especially now that you’re the hero of the entire base! Everyone is talking about you, you know.’

‘Come off it! I am no different to you, or any of the others. Just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time I reckon.’

‘No! You are a hero! That Messerschmitt 109 is down to you! You’re the one they’ve credited with that kill… and saving the rest of your crew! Apparently your nose gunner wasn’t able to do anything much, ’cos the 109 came at you from behind, and your mid-fuselage guns had already been knocked out by the flak you copped over Germany. You were the only one able to retaliate when the 109 made his attack!’

‘What? So you’re saying they reckon I shot him down?’

‘Yes! There’s no doubt. Confirmation came from two other Lancasters in your wing. Your name is the toast of the Mess!’

‘Really? Well, it’s some compensation to know I got the bugger who got me I guess, but it’s not going to matter much now… Look, Joe, I’m absolutely bushed. Thanks for coming and for the news, but I’m going to drift off now. I feel totally knackered. Get the nurses to give you the key to my locker, so you can get my kit. Give my best to the lads…’

Joe sat quietly for a moment and then stood and looked down at his long-time friend. He could see he was already asleep and he was thankful he had not had to see Martin in a lot of pain, but he was shaken to see how debilitated he was and how ashen he looked. He saw a number of tubes emerging from the sheet that covered his friend’s body, obviously draining fluid from his wounds … and other bodily fluids. Another tube, connected to a bag suspended above Martin, was transferring some kind of clear fluid into a vein on the back of his left hand, where a large needle had been inserted and taped in place. Joe could only imagine what it must be like to be completely dependent on medical treatment and nursing care. He just hoped that Martin was not going to suffer this situation for long if nothing more could be done for him.

As he left the ward he asked a nurse what she could tell him about Martin’s condition.

‘I’m not supposed to give that sort of information, but I have been watching you two. It’s obvious you are very close friends. You mustn’t let on I’ve said anything, but you’ve seen how he is and he has probably told you most of it. I’m afraid he doesn’t have long now, just a day or two.’

* * * * *

Back on base, the next morning, Joe received the news that Martin had not made it through the night and he immediately felt a deep sadness. It felt like he had lost a brother. He was so glad, though, that he had been able to see his friend one last time. He fingered the locker key in his pocket and thought that there was never going to be a good time to go through Martin’s things… He might as well get it over with now.

Martin’s possessions turned out to be meagre in the extreme. Apart from his RAF uniform, there was a watch with M.F. engraved on the back, six pounds, nine shillings and four pence in cash in a wallet, a family album with some black and white photos of his mum and dad and himself as a boy, some civvy clothes and shoes, and a passport. Joe really didn’t want any of these things, but thought how eager Martin had been to give him his possessions. He decided to just take the watch and the passport as mementoes of his good friend and to hand the rest in to the base quartermaster. He would know what to do with it all.

Joe was not to know, then, how fortuitous his decision to keep the passport was going to prove when the war was over.

Chapter 1.

The 4th of January 1949 was the day Joe Foster received the papers that said he had finally become a fully-fledged electrician, having completed his training and the requisite number of hours working under experienced tradesmen as an apprentice. Some of his time served on aircraft maintenance during the war had been credited towards his apprenticeship, but the majority had been served at East London Electrical, where he had worked since shortly after his release from the RAF in 1946. Much of his time had been spent reworking temporary repairs to wiring and electrical equipment in houses, offices, warehouses, factories and cargo-handling machinery damaged during the war. The East End and Docklands areas had suffered prolonged heavy bombing and much destruction had eventuated. A lot of the damage could only be temporarily repaired at the time and Joe had now been making more permanent repairs in buildings and equipment that were going to be restored rather than rebuilt. It was soul-destroying work and Joe longed for the day when he could work on new projects.

The 4th of January also happened to be his friend Billy Tarrant’s birthday, so Joe had arranged to call round to his house. They planned to go out for a celebratory pint or two in Billy’s local, The Old George.

The two of them had remained close friends since schooldays. Apart from their separate war service, when Billy had been away in the army, they had always kept in close touch. Barely three days would go by, now, before they would seek out each other’s company, often over a pint or two. They had the kind of friendship that would last and they shared all their concerns and ambitions with each other.

Joe’s dad, Hugh, had always been unhappy about Joe being so friendly with Billy and had tried unsuccessfully to stop Joe seeing him. It was well known, amongst many East Enders, that Billy’s dad was a senior figure in the criminal underworld, with a reputation for running the gambling clubs, commonly called spielers, and much of the prostitution in the East End. He was also thought to have master-minded a lot of the hijacking of imported goods coming through the Port of London. He had a reputation for being a ruthless and dangerous man. Anyone who seriously crossed Ray Tarrant might well be discovered floating in the Thames. Not that it was likely anything would be pinned on Ray. The Police were always looking for something they could act on, but he was too smart to stoop to violence himself. He relied on his henchmen for that - hard men with no compunction about dealing out swift and severe retribution to anyone who Ray thought had crossed him, or was a danger to his business. He directed his criminal activities at arm’s length, using tactics that kept each operation separately managed and with a different set of people involved. Doing things that way meant that only three trusted lieutenants knew the full extent of Ray’s involvement in crime and who was involved. These men were extremely well rewarded and they knew that their income, and indeed their lives, depended on them keeping the money flowing in to Ray’s coffers and following his wishes to the letter.

Ray was a snappy dresser, always seen in a smart suit, although he seldom wore a tie. If it was cold outside he would wear a Burberry coat with a scarf and brown leather gloves. His shoes were always highly polished and shirts freshly laundered. He had close-cropped iron grey hair, a rather pinched and lined face, with a beak of a nose and piercing grey eyes under bushy eyebrows. When Ray Tarrant looked at you it seemed that he was seeing right through you, such was the intensity of his gaze. His wife, Sylvia, was a good looking long-legged blonde who always wore the latest fashions. Ray made sure she had money to spend on new clothes and jewellery and he loved to see the awed reaction of people when they saw the two of them together… They exuded wealth and this was a rarity in the East End.

Although Joe knew his dad was still really concerned about his friendship with Billy he couldn’t see any harm in it himself and he had been strong-willed enough to resist his father’s attempts to have him end the friendship. He had always been welcomed with open arms at Billy’s house and, although his dad was a major villain, Joe hadn’t seen any direct evidence of this himself. Ray and his wife, Sylvia, doted on their only son and they treated any friend of Billy’s as one of their own. Billy had never liked the fact that his father was a feared crime boss and he had vowed to Joe that he would never follow in his father’s footsteps. Billy’s aim had always been to become an engineer. In fact, following his experience during the war, when it was his job to keep his regiment’s tanks operational, he had enrolled at the Borough Polytechnic in Southwark, to study mechanical engineering.

Billy lived with his parents at 121 Wilmot Street. There were blocks of terraced tenement buildings on both sides of the street, all with four floors above street level and a basement below. The front door to each block served up to six separate flats and in many cases a flat was shared by more than one family. There were separate entrances to the basement flats. All the flats were rented. People in this area had no prospect of buying a home. Billy’s place was different, though, and quite unique. His dad owned all five floors at the end of a block, alongside an alleyway that led to Bethnal Green, the park that gave this area of London its name. By the standards of the day this was a very large dwelling for one small family. There was a short flight of steps leading up to the front door and, inside, the home was lavishly furnished. There was a small garden at the rear. Billy’s bedroom was on the third floor and overlooked the Green. Joe lived just a half-mile away in Sidney Street, Whitechapel, where his mum and dad rented a modest flat in a three-storey block of terraced houses.

As usual these days, when going to visit Billy, Joe had to pass a number of bomb sites where houses had been completely destroyed and he skirted the wasteland that had once been a housing estate in Vallance Road. This had been destroyed by a V2 rocket, levelling a huge area. The Council had plans for a major redevelopment, but in the meantime the place looked grey and dismal and broken. In stark contrast Wilmot Street had been largely undamaged.

It was 7.15pm as Joe approached his friend’s home via the Green and headed down the alleyway to a gate that gave access to the garden and back door. The only light he could see in the house was in Billy’s room upstairs, so when he arrived at the back door and saw it was ajar he was surprised. He knocked, but there was no response.

So he called out, ‘Billy! You there?’

Still no response… so, thinking Billy might be in his bedroom listening to his record player, he entered and headed up the stairs.

When Joe opened the door to Billy’s bedroom the silence was total. Billy was sprawled across the bottom of his bed. His eyes were open and staring, his shirt-front was a mass of blood and the handle of a knife protruded from his chest on the left side. Blood had flowed down his arm to the floor and there was a great pool of it still soaking into the carpet. Joe gasped in shock and took a step back. He felt a prickly sensation as the hairs on the back of his neck rose and went stiff, and a cold shiver of horror swept through him.

‘Billy!’ he cried as, without thinking, he rushed to help his friend. He grasped the knife and pulled it free. It came out with a horrible sucking gurgle and Billy slid off the bed to the floor. Belatedly, Joe saw that he was probably too late to help Billy. He was almost certainly dead. Nevertheless he knelt down to check for any sign of breathing, or a pulse. But there wasn’t and Joe knew there was nothing he could do. Billy just lay there, staring with lifeless eyes. A thought then flashed through Joe’s mind, that he probably shouldn’t have removed the knife, but that wasn’t going to matter now… he had arrived too late.

‘Jesus Christ, Billy! What’s happened? Who did this to you?’ Joe croaked.

He was hyperventilating now and the sweat was starting to pour off him. He suddenly felt very ill and rushed out of the room and into the bathroom across the hall where he was violently sick into the bath.

Joe splashed cold water onto his face as he struggled to regain his wits. He realised he had only just missed the killer. Billy’s blood hadn’t started to congeal and he had still been warm to touch. He didn’t think the killer would still be around, but he quickly decided to be ready for any confrontation. He went back to Billy’s room to get the knife, so he had a weapon to use if he was threatened. He paused and took one last look at his friend.

‘Sorry, Billy,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry I wasn’t in time to do something…’

Then, with the knife held out in front of him in readiness, he quietly moved down the stairs to make a 999 call to the Police from the telephone he knew was in the kitchen.

A few minutes after his call to the Police Joe heard the alarm bell of a police car approaching rapidly. He turned on the light for the front steps and opened the door. He saw no-one, but then the police car, a black Wolseley, turned into the street and he stepped down to the footpath to meet it. It came to a halt by the curb about 30 yards away and two policemen scrambled out of the car and started towards him.

‘That’s him!’ a man’s voice yelled from across the road. ‘He did it! That’s Joe Foster! That’s who did for our Billy! I saw him! It’s Joe Foster! Don’t let him get away!’

It was quite dark and the pools of light from the street lamps did not illuminate the whole area. Joe couldn’t see who was calling out. Whoever it was, was staying in the shadows and out of sight down steps to the basement apartment across the street. Joe immediately realised he could now be suspected of Billy’s murder and he felt a cold chill run through him. He looked back towards the two policemen who had stopped and were looking across the road as he had done, but then he saw them turn back towards him. They started to approach cautiously and one of them reached for his truncheon. He pointed at Joe and called out, ‘Oi you! Stay right where you are!’

The look on both their faces convinced Joe that he was going to be apprehended at the very least. Without really thinking about what he was doing, and acting totally out of instinct, Joe decided he didn’t want to be caught up with the Police right then. He quickly turned and dashed back up the steps and through the front door. This startled the two policemen and they hesitated, becoming concerned about what and who might be waiting for them inside. This was the East End, a place with a bad reputation and where it was often dangerous for the Police.

After a brief discussion they decided they had better secure