by Jim Kelly
He knocked on the cockpit trim and Vale’s eyes opened wide: there was a flash of genuine fear, before the smile was back, a childish grin, as if he’d been caught smoking behind the bicycle sheds.
The fuel tanker was being disconnected and taken to the next aircraft in the line. It was suddenly quiet, except for the wind.
‘The balloon’s gone up,’ said Vale. ‘Looks like they’re going for a landing on the East Coast, so we’ll cop it. We’re transferring east over by the downs so we can get up early and intercept any incoming. Two days – then we’re back.’
He ran his hand over the controls again. ‘I need to know my way round with my eyes shut …’
The cowling had been fitted with blinkers, presumably to shield the pilot from the intermittent flash of flame from the exhaust, which would blaze at night. Brooke held on to one as the wind gusted.
Vale set his hands on the control column, adjusting wing flaps, rotating the rear rudder. They were still a boy’s hands, with narrow fingers, bitten nails and an elastic band around one thumb.
‘What’s that for?’ Brooke asked.
‘I need the map to hand …’ Vale shifted himself awkwardly to reveal a document slot in the left side of the fuselage. ‘It’s stashed here and I need to be able to put my hand on it in a second. Thing is I don’t know left from right in a fug.’
‘Listen, Tim. I could have a word with the staff sergeant now and have you grounded. I have every right to do that. I visited the house last night, and talked to your mother. I had a look at your room. I had a look at the front room. I suffer from insomnia, although I don’t take pills routinely – yet. I know that there’s a market, and that it’s not a legal one.’
Vale looked ahead, nodding, as if everything was understood. ‘I can explain.’
‘I doubt that. The real issue is do you explain now at the station, because black-market trading in barbiturates is a serious offence. And we have yet to find out how you obtained the pills, or sold them on. But what I need to be certain about, Tim, is your whereabouts on the night of the Earl Street bomb, and the night Peggy died. The landlord of the Golden Fleece doesn’t recall you, or the MG.’
The first Spitfire was rolling forward, the ground crew waving it into position to taxi out for take-off.
‘Everyone’s on the make, so I thought I’d have some of what was going,’ said Vale. He looked at Brooke. ‘I’m not a common thief.’
Vale’s hand crept to the ring handle at the top of the steering column, and a button, which Brooke took to be the machine-gun trigger.
‘There’s a porter at the hospital; he takes delivery from me and gets them out to family doctors. The price has gone sky high so most turn a blind eye and he knows who to trust. But we send other deliveries out of town – to Peterborough, and Coventry, Bury, Lynn. I do the run in the MG.
‘The night Peggy died I was on the road – Lynn that time. The night of the raid it was further – Warwick. If I get stopped the uniform helps. I tell them I’ve been posted out at late notice for an op.’
‘The porter’s name?’
Vale bought some time, wriggling back into a comfy position in the cockpit, trying to haul his parachute round and get his knees tucked in either side of the joystick.
The sergeant running the ground crew had spotted Brooke and was approaching fast.
‘The porter’s name, Tim. Or this ends here.’
‘Cheaver,’ he said, looking Brooke in the eyes, trying to see past the green lenses. ‘They call him Roly – big lad, runs the porters – all of them. He’s the man.’
‘Two days,’ said Brooke. ‘It’s only a guess but that’s going to be your war, Tim. Make the most of it.’
Brooke stepped down and dragged away the box, as Vale drew the cowling forward and over his head. The Spitfire trundled away, impossibly fragile, shaking as it rolled over the heavy grass.
Brooke told the radio car driver to park by the gates of the aerodrome so he could jump out to see the take-offs: six black Spitfires, at thirty-second intervals, with Vale last. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he detected a modest wing-tip as he flew overhead. It was a blue sky, and ten minutes before the last dot faded away.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Brooke knew the hospital’s routines, so he arrived at five minutes to the hour and set off down the long corridor to Rhodes Ward, which was on the ground floor because it was for geriatrics. A series of full-length glass doors gave on to the small garden at the rear of the building, letting sunshine flood across the lino. The blue sky had resulted in an exodus of those who were not confined to bed: chairs were out on the grass, and the breeze blew the screens and curtains about as if it was washing day.
Joy, as a junior nurse, was patiently filling out a log at the sister’s desk before clocking off.
Brooke smiled but it didn’t work, because he knew his body language was transmitting other less encouraging signals.
‘Can we talk?’ he asked. ‘I’ve no news – it’s police business.’
His daughter finished her brief report, checked her fob watch and led her father outside into the garden.
Two chairs were empty, under a tree, and so they settled down. A few feet away an elderly man in a dressing gown sat sleeping, his chin down on his chest. The sooty black bricks of the old building rose up five floors, but most of the windows were open in the heat. Somewhere they heard a bell ring and a trolley clatter.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Joy. Brooke noted that her eyes were flitting over the patients. It was a habit she shared with Claire, and it gave them both a sense of calm watchfulness.
‘Do you know the head porter here, a man called Cheaver?’
Joy brightened. ‘Roly? Yes, of course, we all do. This place wouldn’t run for a day without him. There’s a dozen porters but Roly’s the only one who knows who’s doing what. He’s one of nature’s organisers. Everything’s on paper with Roly. You have to put in a chitty if you need a porter – or ring on the internal phone – and even then you have to sign off when they turn up to move a patient, or bring us one in. Bureaucratic – but efficient. Roly never lets you down.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘In the canteen, Dad. He’s not called Roly for nothing. He has a table up the far end and he runs it all from there most days. Pot of tea, toast, cakes, the cooks keep it coming. I think Roly gives them cheap ciggies.’
‘I see,’ said Brooke.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he? Nothing really wrong?’
Brooke pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.
‘Oh dear,’ said Joy.
‘Indeed. I think he’s dealing in drugs on the black market. I don’t think he’s a very nice person at all, Joy. Sorry.’
She produced a packet of cigarettes and they lit up together, from one match.
‘So that’s his office, is it – the canteen?’ asked Brooke.
‘No. The porters have a den down in the basement near the boilers. That’s where they’ve got lockers and files and suchlike. One of them had an asthma attack and I had to go down to look him over. It’s a bit of a dump, but it’s handy because it’s by the lift. Roly stays in the canteen. Lord of all he surveys. Happy as Larry.’
‘And you? How happy are you?’ said Brooke.
Joy shook her head. ‘It’s fine as long as I can maintain forward motion. Walking, working, talking: I can hold back the thought of the future. But as soon as I stop, and the brain engages, it’s bleak, Dad.’
‘We should talk it through, with your mother. All of us. Iris can listen, even if she doesn’t understand.’
‘But she knows, Dad. Iris knows. Not in the way we do, but this has happened to her, not just me, and you, and mum. She’s going to have to live with this a lot longer than any of us.’
Ten minutes later they were on the steps of the hospital. Joy checked her bag, briskly, and gave Brooke a swift hug. ‘I’m going to walk a bit, clear my head, and then pick up Iris. Let’
s talk later with Mum.’
Brooke watched her walk smartly off towards the river, then turned on his heels and went to the front desk, where he showed his warrant card to a man in charge and asked to use the phone.
A minute later he was running up the eight flights of stairs to the fourth floor and the canteen. Lunch was over and there were only a few people smoking, drinking tea and reading newspapers.
Cheaver, when he stood up, was the shape of a child’s spinning top. He had merry eyes and a big grin, and he shook Brooke’s hand and told him he should be proud of his wife and daughter. ‘They’re the best, they are,’ he said. ‘Salt of the earth.’
Brooke sat down. Across the table were spread rotas, and typed lists, and chitties – the kind of bumph that seemed to fuel the war effort. On the wall behind Cheaver there was an internal phone on a hook.
A plate, discarded, was smeared with jam and cake.
‘I’ve been talking to Pilot Officer Tim Vale,’ said Brooke.
‘Never heard of ’im,’ said Cheaver, the voice hardening a notch, as he pushed himself back from the table. The transformation was instantaneous, the good humour evaporating, his breathing suddenly audible.
‘He’s heard of you. I’m sorry, Roly, I know you do a great job here, but we’re heading down to the Spinning House for a chat, and I suspect you won’t be coming back.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Veronal sleeping pills,’ said Brooke. ‘That’s where we’ll start, but I’m guessing there will be other – what do you call them in the trade? Lines – that’s it – other lines, like painkillers, and pure alcohol. I’ve just put a call in for a car to pick us up. I’m going to ask a constable to go down to the porters’ den in the basement, so that’s secure, and we can have a look through what’s there later. I understand you like keeping records.’
Cheaver seemed to relax, as if he’d given up, but Brooke thought his brain was working at speed, because his breathing had become shallow, and when he moved his hand off the table it left a damp print.
‘I buy and sell a bit,’ he said.
‘Do you, Roly?’
‘Maybe I can sell you something. What do you need?’
‘Not much, Roly. At the moment I’d like to know where my son is – he’s in the commandos. And my son-in-law – he’s a POW who might have been shot trying to escape. In fact he’s probably dead. So you see I don’t need anything that you can supply.’
Cheaver’s fleshy face seemed to shudder. ‘I meant …’
‘I know what you meant, Roly. The only thing I need from you specifically, in the short term, is a list of the nights on which Tim Vale ran drugs for you to Lynn, and Warwick. Do you write it all down? Like the rotas? I think you do. Because you’re organised, and you make things work. I hope you do, for Tim Vale’s sake – he’s relying on it to prove he isn’t a thieving killer.’
Cheaver’s eyes widened. Brooke turned to the doors and saw that a police constable had arrived.
‘Shall we?’ asked Brooke, standing up.
‘What do you think I’ll get?’ Cheaver asked, struggling to his feet.
‘I don’t care, Roly. But if you’re asking, I think they’ll throw the key away. You’re lucky this isn’t on the list of capital offences. If the war goes badly it will be.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
By dusk, the secret life of the village of Barrington had been revealed. The local constable, a stout officer who allowed a mongrel to accompany him on his beat, had done a fine job of carrying on as normal. Brooke could just see him now, in the last light of day, standing out on the village green supervising a game of football. The pitch formed a handkerchief square on what the locals claimed was the largest village green in England: a stretch of parkland, about which were set houses in most of the vernacular styles from a medieval range through Tudor beams to a Lutyens’ 1930s manor. Barrington Hall, with its moat, was hidden in the trees. Poorer cottages crowded along a stream. From Brooke’s vantage point – a narrow arrow-slit window in the tower of All Saints’ church – the scene looked timeless, and certainly blameless.
The truth was very different. The ACE garage, on the through road at the northern edge of the village, was a fading remnant of twenties panache – whitewashed and sleek, with faded red trim. A roof covered the forecourt and the single fuel pump. The office and a small shop were in a white-washed ‘cabin’ to which a small bungalow had been attached for the owner: Mr Jack Fitt, his wife Joyce and their teenage son Bobbie. According to the village constable the boy was a ‘wrong’un’, a regular at juvenile court and – latterly – magistrates’ court. However, he owned a motorbike and conducted most of his criminal activities – principally petty theft – in Cambridge. On home turf he kept his nose clean. Mr Fitt senior had provided petrol and garage services without much comment for twenty years, but sustained a running feud with his wife, taking time off to prop up the public bar at The Boot, an inn which catered for the village’s working men.
Behind the garage, in a yard which ran up to the woods that climbed the chalk hills above the village, there were several outbuildings. One of these, the constable had noted, stood beside a ditch, which ran down to the stream and fed the River Rhee. From this precise point any liquid entering the ditch would reach Peter Aldiss’s X on the map – the point at which he’d detected adulterated fuel. It was circumstantial evidence, but there was more.
Fitt kept the barn and sheds securely locked. The previous night, when he knew the owner was in The Boot, the constable had accidentally let his mongrel stray into the yard and had gone to fetch it, engaging Mrs Fitt in a good-natured conversation about the warm evening air. He’d been able to note that the yard was crisscrossed by tyre tracks – all indicating a heavy lorry – and that the barn smelt strongly of petrol fumes.
Brooke could see it now: a corrugated iron structure with a lagged roof. The village had a string of electric street lights, although they cast a dim beam, and ended just short of the garage. The landscape offered one advantage in terms of a police operation: the single through road. The vicar, a young man recently down from Cambridge, had been eager to help, and had let them use the phone in the spacious rectory. Roadblocks, comprising two of the Spinning House radio cars, could be called into place within minutes to the north and south. All they needed was the arrival of an unmarked lorry for the trap to be sprung. The publican at the Catherine Wheel, a cousin of the constable, said he had noticed one such vehicle passing just after closing time on at least three evenings in the past week. He felt – and these were his precise words – that the driver had made a considerable effort to ‘slip in and slip out’. There had been no crunching gears, and no effort to pick up speed.
Edison arrived with a tin jug of beer.
‘I think chummy is the only man in the village who doesn’t know we’re here,’ he said, settling down on one of the cushioned benches.
‘He’s not in The Boot so he must be at home – or, more likely, in the barn,’ said Brooke.
A set of ropes were slung over their heads and gathered up neatly by a metal circlet. They could just hear the high-tension vibration of the bells above.
‘The radio cars?’ asked Brooke.
Edison nodded, pouring the beer into mugs. ‘I’ll ring the Spinning House using the vicar’s phone when the time comes. I reckon if we set them off when the lorry arrives there’s no way he can slip through our hands.’
‘The best-laid plans, Edison,’ said Brooke.
The light finally began to bleed away entirely, so that all that was left was the pale shape of the lancet windows, letting in the lambent flicker of the street lights. Over the fields came the distant sound of the siren in the city: the wail seemed impossibly far away, as if it came from another world.
Closer to hand they heard a door open, and a sudden gust of laughter – probably from the Catherine Wheel – and then the rhythmic barking of the constable’s dog, which was downstairs in the nave of the church, with ten o
ther uniformed officers. They heard the distinct clatter of a tin water bowl on stone, and the dog fell silent.
At ten Edison slipped away to the toilet. Brooke was standing at the window, keeping watch, when he saw the slit-eyed headlights in the far distance, long before he heard the gentle purr of the engine. His stomach turned over, and he had a premonition that the night would end in violence. He’d got the chief constable to authorise the issue of guns: two pistols, one for Edison, one for himself. He picked up his and weighed it in his hand, and tried not to think of the desert, and the shot he’d taken pretty much at random one night in the Sinai when they thought they’d heard an Ottoman patrol; the result was a hail of bullets, a firestorm, which had left two of his men badly injured.
The lorry passed directly beneath the church and Brooke crossed the belfry to watch it ‘slide’ past the pub, and then – slowing – turn noiselessly into the yard at the rear of the ACE garage. The slick, practised manoeuvre added to the sense of threat, and he had to admit he might have underestimated the thieves. The idle label ‘blackout gang’ suggested slap-dash adventure. This operation looked organised and stealthy. Brooke had also noted the striped black-and-white tarpaulin on the lorry – identical to descriptions of the vehicle used to collect pilfered petrol.
Edison was at his shoulder. ‘Make the call, Sergeant,’ said Brooke. ‘I want both roadblocks in position and then we’ll give them an extra ten minutes before we introduce ourselves.’
When they did break cover they marched through the village on the grass verge to muffle the sound of their boots. At the rear came the Borough dog handler with the Spinning House’s sole bloodhound, in case the culprits took to the fields. A few curtains twitched, and the landlord of the Catherine Wheel stood outside the pub smoking, watching from the shadows. When they got to the ACE garage, Brooke told the men to hold back while he and Edison went into the yard.
By the gate, Brooke drew his pistol and was surprised to see that Edison had beaten him to it, the gun held expertly, barrel down, parallel with the cut of his heavy coat.