bulked out in almost every direction by a combination of flab and muscle, made rapid movement a
mere memory of his youth. But the one thing he did pride himself on was his strength. It was this strength, as he reached up and gripped the offending fist, that caused his aggressor to wince in
excruciating pain as he felt every bone in his hand splinter with a sickening crunch. He was on his knees, cursing and begging for release, within seconds.
Bowery nodded to the other two to give chase. A parting of Red Sea proportions opened up before them and they rushed down the pavement in pursuit of their quarry, who had disappeared up a narrow
alleyway on the opposite side of the street. The rattle of his clog-irons on the unevenly cobbled surface echoed hollowly from the entrance which formed a narrow archway beneath two terraced
houses. The two policemen, whose boots were only slightly better suited to running along the smoothly treacherous cobblestones, scampered through the entrance to be swallowed up by the fog and the
sudden darkness of the alley. Bowery and the others could now only listen to the sounds of pursuit, then an almighty crash of splintering wood and muffled imprecations. Finally a silence, broken
only by a strange rasping noise.
‘They’ve getten ’im!’ said one of the men through gritted teeth.
‘Or he’s getten them!’ came the anonymous, more optimistic response.
All eyes were now turned on the arched entrance to the alley. A gas lamp hung above it, casting freak shadows. Suddenly, three shapes emerged like an unholy trinity and the source of the noise
became clear – the two policemen were dragging what appeared to be the unconscious fugitive between them, his clogs scraping toe-first against the uneven flagging of the alley and his head
dangling low and swinging from side to side as they pulled him roughly back to the street.
Bowery raised a hand. He didn’t want the brute to be brought all the way back – no sense in parading their triumph before his neighbours – and so, with a glance of dire warning
to the silent onlookers, he moved quickly off to join his colleagues and help them transport him as best they could to the even less welcoming environs of the Wigan Borough Police cells and a more
intimate opportunity to question the man.
‘Whoa!’ came a voice from behind him as he made his way down the street.
He turned and saw one of the women – the Cowburns’ neighbour – walking quickly towards him, flanked by two men.
‘Don’t interfere,’ warned Constable Bowery, employing his most menacing tones. ‘Or you’ll be sharin’ a cell with me laddo over yonder.’ Which
wasn’t strictly true, of course, but the threat was clear.
The woman ignored him and strode on. Bowery was amazed to see her walk right past him with purposeful tread and make straight for his colleagues and their prey.
‘Bloody women!’ he muttered, joining the others. ‘Be off!’
But Ethel Grundy would not be off. She stood her ground, gazing down at the slumped form of the fugitive with a grim expression on her face. For a moment, Bowery thought she was about to launch
into the prisoner and pummel him into the cobblestones in a paroxysm of neighbourly outrage. But then he saw the other women gather around her and heard one of them say, ‘Tha were right,
Ethel. Tha’s getten eyes like a bloody hawk an’ no mistake! Fog or no bloody fog!’
Bowery felt it was time to reassert his authority. This wasn’t a sideshow. ‘Right then, you’ve had your eyeful, now get back to your husbands.’
Ethel switched her gaze from the unconscious figure, whose head was lolling at a most uncomfortable angle, to the large red-faced constable towering over her. She thrust her jaw forward in a
pugilistic gesture of defiance. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doin’, you big daft sod.’
Bowery looked at the other constables. ‘What?’ was all he could think to say.
Ethel Grundy pointed a finger at the
mere memory of his youth. But the one thing he did pride himself on was his strength. It was this strength, as he reached up and gripped the offending fist, that caused his aggressor to wince in
excruciating pain as he felt every bone in his hand splinter with a sickening crunch. He was on his knees, cursing and begging for release, within seconds.
Bowery nodded to the other two to give chase. A parting of Red Sea proportions opened up before them and they rushed down the pavement in pursuit of their quarry, who had disappeared up a narrow
alleyway on the opposite side of the street. The rattle of his clog-irons on the unevenly cobbled surface echoed hollowly from the entrance which formed a narrow archway beneath two terraced
houses. The two policemen, whose boots were only slightly better suited to running along the smoothly treacherous cobblestones, scampered through the entrance to be swallowed up by the fog and the
sudden darkness of the alley. Bowery and the others could now only listen to the sounds of pursuit, then an almighty crash of splintering wood and muffled imprecations. Finally a silence, broken
only by a strange rasping noise.
‘They’ve getten ’im!’ said one of the men through gritted teeth.
‘Or he’s getten them!’ came the anonymous, more optimistic response.
All eyes were now turned on the arched entrance to the alley. A gas lamp hung above it, casting freak shadows. Suddenly, three shapes emerged like an unholy trinity and the source of the noise
became clear – the two policemen were dragging what appeared to be the unconscious fugitive between them, his clogs scraping toe-first against the uneven flagging of the alley and his head
dangling low and swinging from side to side as they pulled him roughly back to the street.
Bowery raised a hand. He didn’t want the brute to be brought all the way back – no sense in parading their triumph before his neighbours – and so, with a glance of dire warning
to the silent onlookers, he moved quickly off to join his colleagues and help them transport him as best they could to the even less welcoming environs of the Wigan Borough Police cells and a more
intimate opportunity to question the man.
‘Whoa!’ came a voice from behind him as he made his way down the street.
He turned and saw one of the women – the Cowburns’ neighbour – walking quickly towards him, flanked by two men.
‘Don’t interfere,’ warned Constable Bowery, employing his most menacing tones. ‘Or you’ll be sharin’ a cell with me laddo over yonder.’ Which
wasn’t strictly true, of course, but the threat was clear.
The woman ignored him and strode on. Bowery was amazed to see her walk right past him with purposeful tread and make straight for his colleagues and their prey.
‘Bloody women!’ he muttered, joining the others. ‘Be off!’
But Ethel Grundy would not be off. She stood her ground, gazing down at the slumped form of the fugitive with a grim expression on her face. For a moment, Bowery thought she was about to launch
into the prisoner and pummel him into the cobblestones in a paroxysm of neighbourly outrage. But then he saw the other women gather around her and heard one of them say, ‘Tha were right,
Ethel. Tha’s getten eyes like a bloody hawk an’ no mistake! Fog or no bloody fog!’
Bowery felt it was time to reassert his authority. This wasn’t a sideshow. ‘Right then, you’ve had your eyeful, now get back to your husbands.’
Ethel switched her gaze from the unconscious figure, whose head was lolling at a most uncomfortable angle, to the large red-faced constable towering over her. She thrust her jaw forward in a
pugilistic gesture of defiance. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doin’, you big daft sod.’
Bowery looked at the other constables. ‘What?’ was all he could think to say.
Ethel Grundy pointed a finger at the
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