by Jim Kelly
Bert tried not to look at Brooke, which left him looking at the stomach pump.
‘Luckily there’s a way to find out the truth. The file says you’ve got some of this chemical left in your tummy – just a bit. So we can look at that, and decide if it’s petrol or the dodgy chip fat. All we have to do is use the stomach pump.’
Brooke picked it up briskly. ‘It’s just like nicking petrol,’ he said brightly. ‘This goes down your throat and then the motor sucks everything out into this bowl. The nurse can do it.’
Brooke stood up. ‘Unless you want to tell me – just between us – who you gave the can of petrol to?’
He watched Smith thinking this offer through. There was a glint of fear in the boy’s eyes now, and for a moment Brooke thought he might actually vote for the stomach pump.
But then the defiant stare faltered. ‘A bloke comes round with a lorry and said we could earn a few bob if we got the knack of it. I don’t know his name. He gave us cans and said he’d be back on the corner the next day to pick ’em up. Sixpence for a full can. They reckon he’s got people at it all over.’
‘What kind of can?’
‘The soldiers have ’em – for water and stuff.’
‘Does it have a cap you screw off?’
‘That’s it.’
‘What kind of lorry?’
Bert shrugged. ‘Not that big, just a tarp over the back. But it’s striped.’
‘A striped tarpaulin? That’s unusual. What colours?’
‘Just black and white. It’s a bit grubby.’
‘How can I find this man?’
The boy shrugged. ‘My mate Les says he ain’t been back since we all got ill. I reckon he’s got the wind up. We just thought it wouldn’t do no harm. But it’s harder than it looks.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brooke commandeered a bicycle from the Spinning House yard and set out for Marshall airfield in the midday sun. Edison had offered to drive him in the Wasp but he’d craved this modest adventure, and the time and freedom it gave him to think clearly. The airfield lay out on the edge of the city, but since the outbreak of war, and the ceaseless call to Dig For Victory, the countryside seemed to be invading the suburbs. In the car he’d have swept past, but now he saw that there was activity everywhere: wide verges were being planted with vegetables, front gardens and open spaces ploughed up, and once-peripheral land – where farmers had given up, waiting for a lucrative opportunity to sell for new housing – had been enthusiastically taken back up for crops. Cornfields ran up to bus stops. The front gardens of suburban villas had been turned into smallholdings. Further out, beyond the city boundary, the harvest was in full swing and several times he’d been overtaken by haywains, Land Girls perched on the ricks, with handkerchiefs around red necks. The sun was unrelenting, and Brooke had to stop and switch to his black-tinted glasses. The heat, intense, made the air buckle, and as he pulled up at the guardhouse the runway beyond was shimmering with a mirage of cool water.
As his warrant card was examined, he stood the bike against the wall and let his breathing return to normal. The sudden burst of exercise had set his heart thudding with its big bass drumbeat. He’d just come from Carnegie-Brown’s office where he’d confidently set out the case against Bruno Zeri – a case now fortified by the revelation that a blackout gang was operating in the city, and pilfering petrol on a pretty impressive scale.
He’d found Carnegie-Brown eating, a neat lunchbox open, an egg sandwich half finished. There was an apple in the box too, and – sensationally – a small chocolate bar. Steam rose from an open thermos flask of tea.
‘What progress, Brooke?’ she asked, carefully adding evaporated milk to a mug from a tin.
Brooke said he felt confident he now had a picture of the crime. Zeri was part of a gang of small-time thieves and tearaways with an eye to burglary and scams, including syphoning fuel for the black market. In debt, desperately short of cash, he’d wanted to start a new life in Manchester with his girlfriend Peggy Wylde. Perhaps the cash at number 36 had always been in their sights. Peggy would have known that her grandparents usually took to the shelters, and possibly where her grandmother had hidden her nest egg. When the bomb hit Earl Street, Zeri had taken his chance. But number 36 wasn’t empty, and he’d been recognised, and killed Nora, and then taken her rings. Now they were both on the run.
‘Well, we’d better catch them then,’ said Carnegie-Brown, reaching for the silver cigarette box while dismissing Brooke with a nod. Back in his office he’d rung Manchester but there was no news of any sighting of the runaway Italian. How hard were they trying to find the fugitive? He suspected that their resources were stretched even further than those of the Borough, but to a far greater extent. If there was no news soon he would commandeer Edison, and the Wasp, and they’d see if they could get results in person. Most immigrant communities survived in part on self-help, sticking together and maintaining an efficient grapevine. Surely they could flush the Italian out if they asked the right questions, in the right places?
But his real problem was the beguiling nature of the story he’d set before his superior officer. Was Zeri really their man? The airtight case he’d presented to the chief inspector was in fact less than compelling. He was asking Carnegie-Brown to believe that Zeri just happened to be in the area on his bike at the precise moment the bomb dropped. There was the presumption that he was part of a blackout gang based largely on the single petrol can in the pannier of the Lucifer. But the most worrying episode in the narrative he’d put forward was Zeri’s movements after the murder. Why had he not fled that night? Why wait until his break in the staff room at Marshall to decide to go? He’d been upset, visibly upset. Why had his nerve failed at that precise moment?
Which is what had propelled him to Marshall airfield, with the help of the three-speed Raleigh. He found the canteen manager, Val Wright, in her office patiently checking and sorting small brown envelopes into order in a wooden tray. It was just after three o’clock and the cleaning staff were clearing up in the kitchens, a cacophony of clattering knives and forks and plates and pans.
‘I’d like to ask a few more questions in the staff room,’ said Brooke. ‘The last time I was ignored. I put that down to indifference, or possibly animosity directed towards Zeri. Now I’m wondering if they’ve got something to hide. That time I was looking for a runaway thief – this time it’s a murderer. My patience is limited.’
Wright checked a clock on the wall. ‘It’s knocking-off time for the shift but they’ll all be there because it’s payday. I usually make them wait half an hour but I’m happy to surprise them.’
She checked her face in a mirror by the door, and then led Brooke out across the kitchen, where a series of large tin pans were steaming on a range. Three women, their heads in white linen bonnets, worked chopping vegetables. The cleaning staff had fled. All the men were in the staff room.
When Brooke got to the door it wouldn’t budge.
‘It’s locked,’ he said, standing back.
Wright knocked smartly. ‘Open up. Wages are here.’
They heard more scuffling, and whispers, and then the door opened.
Most of the cooks – a dozen men – were sat at a single long table. The only movement in the room now was the smoke drifting from cigarettes. On the table were several small piles of cash – pennies and a bit of silver. There was one newspaper on the table by the cash – a copy of the Irish Times.
‘What’s with the locked door?’ asked Wright.
No one spoke.
‘I’m asking the same question,’ said Brooke. ‘And I’ll get an answer one way or another, here or down at the Spinning House. I need to know what’s going on, and whether Bruno Zeri was involved. This is a murder enquiry and if anyone stands in my way they’ll regret it – starting with a night in the cells.’
Brooke dragged out a seat and sat down, drawing the newspaper towards him. It had been open at the sports pages, where the runners and riders w
ere listed for that day’s meeting at Punchestown, outside Dublin, as were the race results from the previous day. Red circles in ink circled certain winners and losers.
A young lad stood by the tea urn, his tin hat in his hand, marked with a capital M for messenger.
‘What’s your name?’ said Brooke.
‘It’s Billy. Billy Jordan.’ The boy looked terrified. ‘Bruno never joined in,’ he said, and dropped his tin hat.
‘Joined in what?’ said Brooke. ‘That’s the last time I’m asking here. Next time it’s down the nick.’
An overweight man with a chef’s smock leant forward, rummaged in his pocket and put a handful of pound notes on the table.
‘We have a flutter on the horses. Billy here runs the cash to a bloke in the stores. It’s against the rules.’
‘It’s against the law,’ said Brooke. The war had put an end to a lot of legal gambling. Racecourses had closed, football league programmes abandoned. There was moral outrage that while some men were dying others were frittering away cash in betting shops. Irish races were one of the few events left for the betting man.
‘And the bookmaker who covers the bets. Where’s he?’ asked Brooke.
‘We don’t know any names,’ said Billy, and everyone nodded in approval at this tactic.
‘And you’re all in this little syndicate, are you – but not Bruno?’
‘He said he couldn’t afford to lose,’ said Billy. ‘That he was saving up for stuff, and for his parents. They’re in the camps. So he sat it out. He didn’t join in anything, really.’
‘He always had his head in The Times, the cocky sod,’ said the chef. ‘He sweet-talked a girl in the officers’ mess to drop him their copy after lunch. We stick to the racing pages.’
‘Was he reading the paper the day he left?’ asked Brooke.
Another youngster piped up. ‘That’s it – he was sat there where you are one minute, then he gets up, tears a page out of the paper, takes his coat and bag from his locker, and marches out. We never saw him again.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Brooke had The Times delivered each morning, but usually read it after dinner, picking out stories to read aloud if Claire and Joy were at home, but when their shifts were early the papers piled up by his chair at home. Had Bruno Zeri read something in the paper which had prompted him to walk out on his job, and then leave the city? Brooke had the date; if he had the right paper, he might have the answer.
He was a hundred yards from Newnham Croft, and he could see the villa’s brick chimneys, when he noticed a man in a sharp suit coming out of the garden, closing the gate behind him but looking back as if checking for signs of life in the windows. Claire must be out, and he knew that Joy had taken the baby to a birthday party.
‘Can I help?’ he said, when the man was a few paces away. ‘I’m Eden Brooke. That’s my house.’
The man smiled, revealing strong white teeth and a confident face.
‘Hi. I’m Garret Burr – I was looking for you.’ He had a rich, smooth voice and a strong American accent. ‘I’m from the US Embassy in London.’
Again the smile. Brooke didn’t like it one bit.
‘I wanted to speak to Joy Ridding – the wife of Lieutenant Ben Ridding. I have news.’
‘She’s my daughter. She’s out. Can you tell me?’
‘It might be easier,’ said Burr, which made Brooke’s blood run cold.
Something about the man made him hesitate to invite him inside the house. It was pretty clear he had bad news, and somehow he felt it might be easier to bear if they were outside, under a wide sky.
‘They won’t be back – Joy and the baby – for a while. Why don’t we sit in the garden?’
The lawn ran to the river and an iron bench, which had been there since Brooke’s childhood. He thought it would be odd to sit next to the American so fetched a wicker chair from the veranda.
‘What’s this about?’ he said.
‘The US is the protecting power in Germany, so we’re responsible for POWs. We’re neutrals, an honest broker – you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ said Brooke.
‘We visit the camps when we can, although we’re run ragged as you can imagine. Since Dunkirk, and France, the system’s pretty much collapsed. The Red Cross is taking over most of the work, and getting parcels through, so things should get better.’
He held up a hand, aware that Brooke’s patience was being stretched.
‘According to the Red Cross records, Benjamin Ridding was a prisoner at Stalag Luft I. They have what they call a “capture card” for him – which lists his details. I’ve phoned Geneva and they confirmed he was a prisoner there six weeks ago and that he was in good health. Did they let you know he was there?’
Brooke nodded.
‘Well, he’s not there now, Inspector. We made a visit ten days ago and our man got short shrift when he asked questions. We did manage to talk to what they call the “Man of Confidence” – he’s elected by the prisoners to dole out the Red Cross parcels. He’s a navy man – like Ben – and he’s called Ted Peters. He said there’d been an escape, involving six men. The Germans are still building these camps, and escapes are common. In this case we think something went wrong.’
‘What?’
Burr offered him a cigarette from a packet he’d never seen before, marked Lucky Strike.
‘Peters said they heard shooting in the woods shortly after the men escaped. Later they brought back one of the men and he was in a bad way. He’d been beaten and they took him to a Dulag – that’s like a special camp where they specialise in interrogation. That’s not a good sign, Inspector.
‘I’m sorry. We think they may have caught the men and shot them. It’s not a common occurrence – so far the Krauts have played by the rules. But we do know there’s been a lot of criticism in Berlin of the escapes, and that they want them stopped, so perhaps things got out of hand.
‘We don’t know anything for sure, but the Red Cross are going in with parcels again in a few weeks and so we may find out more then. I’ll pass the case file to them, because Washington thinks the Germans don’t trust us and we’ll get turfed out and they’ll ask the Swedes to step in, or the Spaniards. We don’t want any cases getting lost in between. But I think your daughter needs to prepare for the worst. I’m sorry.’
Brooke couldn’t help but think of Iris, and how she might never know her father. Joy would be stoical, but if there was no grave it might prove intolerable as the years passed, and it would take its toll in the end. Selfishly he realised that he’d always associate the iron bench with the bad news, and that would haunt him too.
‘Do you think they’ll mark the graves in the woods?’ he said. He felt sick, and his own voice came to him as if an echo.
Burr was standing, smoothing down the suit. ‘No. If they shot them we’ll never know what really happened unless the survivor they sent to the Dulag lives to tell us his story. I’m sorry but that may well be unlikely.’ The American checked a wristwatch. ‘I’d better catch my train. As I say. Nothing is set in stone. The Red Cross may find out more. We’ll keep you informed. Eventually there will be an official notification. But it may not say much more than I’ve been able to tell you today.’
They shook hands. Brooke forgot to say goodbye or to thank him for coming in person with the news. He walked him silently to the path and watched him diminish, thinking that he’d probably never see him again, but that he’d never forget him either.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brooke, in a daze, almost missed the map on the doorstep. It was wrapped in an oilcloth, with a note attached from Peter Aldiss in his careful scientific hand:
Eden.
The evening primroses have led me to the point marked on the map. There’s a turn in the stream, doldrums, and I could smell your chemical I think. I took a sample, but I don’t believe there’s any doubt. You’ll be right: petrol, or some other petro-carbon. The map points the way I think. Even you
will recall the principles of gravity.
Look upstream.
Peter
Brooke took the map into the kitchen and laid it out on the table. It was an Ordnance Survey map of Cambridge and what old-fashioned guidebooks liked to call its ‘environs’. Aldiss had used a red pencil to trace over the spidery tributaries of the Cam, which rose south of the city in the chalk hills. Two streams came together just above Byron’s Pool – the Rhee and the Granta – although Aldiss had also marked in the third source, the Bourn Brook, which slid into the main channel at the pool itself. The upper reaches of the river were spidery and complex, like a sketch of a lightning strike.
Brooke tried to concentrate but it was impossible. He’d have to tell Joy about Ben and the thought made his heart contract in his chest. The only salvation was that Claire would be home first. He could tell her the news, talk through the implications, and then wait for Joy and Iris to come home from the party. Brooke made tea, and opened the French windows, and sat down with the map again, trying to make himself concentrate on something – anything – which wasn’t the image of Ben lying in the leaf litter of an obscure German wood with a bullet hole in his chest.
He traced his finger along the red lines Aldiss had inscribed on the map. How could one small river have such a maze of streams and channels? The complexity of the task briefly overwhelmed him, but then he remembered that this mattered: if he could find the source of the adulterated petrol it would get him closer to the blackout gang. Given the petrol can spotted in the pannier of the Lucifer, it might even get him closer to Bruno Zeri: could the couple still be in the city? Perhaps they’d ditched their bikes and were hiding in plain sight, or out in the country on the edge of town. Bannister, the chemist, had predicted there would be a ‘factory’ of sorts – somewhere they’d store the petrol, then mix it with the kerosene, then ship it out of town.
The ‘X’ Aldiss had positioned on the map was in red too. It was just above the junction of the two upper tributaries and indicated clearly that the source of the spill must be in the headwaters of the Rhee – which was a start, but still left the myriad headwaters to the west of the city.