Bobby McGee

Chapter Seven. Jeppa.

Chapter Seven 

Jeppa 

 A distraught Sally Evans answered McGee's knock on the front door. She was still dressed in her shabby nightie, her sparse hair in curlers. She had obviously been crying. 

"What the hell's going on, McGee?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"My Andy's gone and scarpered." 

"Scarpered?' 

"Yeah, scarpered. He upt and ran away."  

"When was this?" asked McGee, fearing that he had slipped up once again. He really should have called the night before.

"Just now, about fifteen minutes ago. He came rushing into the house, went to his room, and packed some things in a kit bag. Didn't say a bloody word. He looked terrified. Somebody at work must have scared the begeebers out of him, or he'd run into that buggar Karwolska again." 

"I don't think it's that Sally."  

McGee didn't elaborate.  

"Any idea where he might have gone?" 

Sally shrugged. "Beats me. I know he has no money so he can't have gone far. Maybe Jeppa would know."  

"Thanks Sally. I'll check him out." 

McGee biked over to the newsagents. It was closed. For some reason Jeppa didn't believe in normal business hours. A heavy truncheoning on the front door brought no response, adding to McGee's frustration. The interrogation would have to wait.

                                                                               *****

When McGee arrived at the shop around six that same evening, it was abuzz. The news of Karwolska's death had spread like wildfire, and rumours were rampant. Many non-regular customers were attempting to purchase the local paper, hoping it would contain all the lurid details. McGee could see from the entrance that Jeppa was having problems.  

"Bloody hell, Oiler, are you deaf or daft? Look at this." Jeppa, exasperation evident in his raspy voice, held the front page of the paper in front of Oiler's nose. "Whose name's written there?" he asked, pointing.

Oiler, the owner of the local garage, squinted but said nothing.

"Dick Dobson. And this one?" Jeppa picked up another copy. "Bert Leck. Not one of these bloody papers has your name on it, Oiler. I have regular customers that I depend on. You'll just have to wait 'til seven when I sell any that haven't been picked up." 

"Buggar that," said Oiler turning and storming out of the shop, giving Jeppa the V sign as he brushed past McGee in the doorway.  

Business was brisk. McGee decided to wait outside until the shop cleared.  Around six-thirty Dick Dobson, the village milkman arrived. He was in and out of the shop in seconds, emerging with the coveted newspaper. Spotting McGee, he joined him on his stonewall perch. McGee resigned himself to the usual corny joke. Every weekday morning, without fail, Dick would greet him on his morning round with some outrageous pun.  

"Do you know what they call a soldier who has been attacked with mustard gas and pepper spray?" 

McGee hadn't a clue. 

"A seasoned veteran," chortled Dick, giving McGee a gentle punch on the shoulder. McGee responded with his customary groan. Where did he come up with these winners? 

"Do you know how Moses makes his tea?" 

"Isn't that Charlie Burch waving at you from the other side of the main road?" McGee said, hoping against hope. 

"Sure is. I suppose it's about the horses. I'd better get over there." 

Dick clambered down from his seat on the wall, looked both ways at the kerb, and then started across the road. Halfway he stopped, turned, and yelled," He brews it." This time McGee had to chuckle.  

It was well past seven when McGee finally entered the empty shop. He bolted the door behind him and turned to face the harried Pole. 

"Jeppa, we've got to talk." 

"I guessed as much." 

The old man was seated behind the counter his shock of unruly white hair wreathed in blue smoke. His rounded shoulders, in their perpetual stoop, straightened a little as McGee approached. His arthritic crippled fingers dropped a ledger as he struggled to his feet. 

"You don't have to stand, Jeppa. Sit down. Please sit down." 

McGee braced himself for a difficult interview. "Are you up for this Jeppa? I could come back a bit later." 

"Nay! May as well get it over with. I've managed it once today already."  

"Oh, with who?" 

"Some smarmy fellow called Wolfe was here earlier. Funny name for a copper doesn't tha think?"  

Wolfe was one of the brightest young detectives in the County and someone, probably McGee's nemesis Chesterton, had put him in charge of the investigation. They were taking no chances on this one. McGee wondered how Sergeant Jeffreys would react to this invasion of his territory.  

"What did Wolfe want, Jeppa? Did he ask about Andy?"

The questions brought on a raking cough and the expulsion of globs of phlegm right on to McGee's spotless tunic.  Jeppa, still coughing, handed McGee a grubby handkerchief. "Sorry about that guv," he spluttered. 

"It's okay," replied McGee, attempting without success to remove all the green slime. "Just take your time before answering. What did you tell Wolfe?"  

"Nothing really. He didn't ask me much at all. Nothing about Andy. All he wanted were the things, Paul's things. They just took everything. If you went upstairs you wouldn't know that Paul had ever lived here. Would you like to look?" 

"No thanks, Jepp. I'm more interested in Andy. Do you know where he is?" 

"No, not for sure. I know that he's probably hiding somewhere trying to get away from this mess." 

"Do you think he did it?" 

"No. There was no reason. They were friends." 

"Friends who regularly beat each other up?" 

"Aaaach! A Polish tradition; a bottle of good vodka, a serious argument, and a punch-up. Who could want more? A perfect evening! They were letting off a bit of steam, that's all. It's not easy living here you know." 

"I can believe that. But you said you weren't sure where he might be hiding. Does that mean you have some idea?" 

"Some." 

"Come on out with it." 

"Don't tell him I let on." 

"Course not. Where then?" 

"The Batters." 

"The Batters?" 

"It's a small wood between the beck and the railway line. We used to raise pigs and hens in there during the war; a bit of black-marketing you know. Andy helped to build an old shed in the woods. I know he goes there sometimes. It's as good a place as any to look." 

"I'll give it a try. Thanks Jepp, and by the way, don't you think you should go and see Doc. Smith about that cough?" 

"I ain't seen no doctor in sixty two years and I don't intend to start now. You're more likely to kick the bucket than me."