“And I presume their fee increased significantly at that point?”
“You bet your ass it did.”
“So, when you next contacted your private investigator, did they give you details of this alleged relative?” Wild noted the glimmer in his eye. Kravers might have been intrigued, but he wasn’t stupid. He would have figured out that he could probably complete the picture for himself and save some money. Wild tried fishing again. “Presumably you’ve been looking at parish records?” He smiled at Kravers, but only because things were starting to make sense at last.
Kravers folded his hands in his lap. “I fully intended to pay, only he got greedy. The money he wanted covered my flight, accommodation, spending money, and then some.”
Marsh cast a glance at Wild. He chose to see it as a mark of respect. Then again, she may have just been waiting to have her say.
“And what about this relative? Have you met . . . ?” Another look at Kravers pre-empted the rest of his sentence.
“No, not yet. I guess you could say I still have some loose ends to tie up. I’m nearly there.”
“Like the missing diary you argued about with Dr Walsh?”
Kravers tried to look inscrutable, which Wild knew was not easy to pull off under pressure. “Yeah, one of those books was definitely missing from the set. Dr Walsh Senior refers back to some event in the later books, without giving any details. He mentions turning to religion a few times — that shows how much it affected him.”
Marsh scribbled furiously and then held the note under Wild’s nose. He read it and then took it from her, laying it face down on the table.
“You think it was a secret birth?”
“Maybe. Or a secret marriage. Before Melvin Kravers was shipped out, he managed to get two letters home. In one of them he talks about a local girl that he thinks his ma and pa would approve of.”
Wild stared blankly, killing time.
“His folks were farmers, so I’m thinking this girl — whoever she was — you know, similar background.”
Marsh tapped the desk politely. “And what about the second letter? You said he sent two.”
Kravers was in his element now. Whatever he did for a living, which Wild would have laid money on being something corporate, he was clearly comfortable holding court. “It was more of a telegram and all it said was that he had big news.” He held his hands apart, as though describing a fish he’d caught. “It took several months after D-Day before his folks received word that he died in action. Somewhere in the family archives there’s a letter from the captain of his unit, sent after the war ended, and it says he’d been involved in some sort of mission that had been essential to the war. I guess a lot of that kinda thing went down.”
Marsh used her uncanny knack of cutting to the chase. “I don’t suppose you have these letters with you?
“Sure, I have copies of his letters home. I didn’t think I’d need the captain’s letter because I’ve already confirmed his credentials. He’s dead now, of course.”
Wild fought to stay deadpan. Kravers stopped speaking and reached into his jacket, only to come up empty-handed. “I must have left the copies in the trunk of my hire car — will that be all?”
Marsh tapped the table with a single lacquered nail. “For now.”
They had just handed over Kravers to the desk sergeant for release when the investigation took another turn for the worse.
Chapter 25
Wild relied on London driving and a blue light. Everyone else could fuck off. While his sympathies lay with Mrs Walsh and even Jeb, his overriding thought was that he should have been more diligent. Mrs Walsh had been near hysterical on the phone, according to the call handler. Information was scant. She had returned from a shopping trip and found her husband dead in his study.
By the time Wild arrived, with DI Marsh and Ben Galloway on board, the ambulance was already on site, blue lights still turning. Wild was disappointed to find it was a different crew to the previous callout, otherwise it would’ve made the inquiry a little more straightforward.
DI Marsh opened the car door. “Remember what I told you. You speak when you’re spoken to and you say nothing that cannot be corroborated. Chiefly, you do not express opinions or theories. Is that understood?”
Wild nodded. This was bad. Worse even than the London bank job that resulted in the loss of £50,000 and a bullet to a member of the public.
He followed Marsh in like a student copper, through the front door and into the kitchen where one of the ambulance crew was making Mrs Walsh the obligatory cup of tea. Wild wondered where Ben Galloway had gone, but presumed he was waiting outside for the forensics team. Marsh nudged him towards the kitchen table and gently drew the paramedic aside.
Wild sat down beside Mrs Walsh and waited for her to speak. They usually spoke, despite the trauma or perhaps because of it. A basic human need to make sense of the unfathomable.
She looked as if she were forcing herself to breathe. “I don’t understand. He said he felt fine and the ambulance staff said there was no serious injury. I even asked them if it would be okay to pop out — he likes his magazines, you see. I did ask.” She stared across the table and held onto her cup like an anchor.
“Would you like us to notify anyone?”
Her gaze lowered and she started crying. Wild didn’t say any more. He crossed the room and tapped Marsh on the shoulder. “I’m going outside to ring Jeb Walsh — I won’t be long.”
As predicted, Ben Galloway was standing a little way out of the front door, staring up the drive. “Forensics are on their way, Skip.”
“We need to tell the grandson.”
“Okay,” Ben said quietly. “I think it will be better coming from me. I’ll ring him now.”
Wild agreed, although there would be no way of making this better. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Marsh was done talking with the paramedic.
She directed him to another room. “It’s a suspicious death. Looks like a blunt force trauma to the head. Some sort of angular surface, like the edge of something. We’ll know more when forensics get here.”
“I’ll check for signs of forced entry.” He knew it was beyond the realm of coincidence, just as surely as he knew that Kravers hadn’t slipped out of the police station to finish the job.
Marsh nodded, sending Wild on his way. His first port of call was Ben Galloway and the news wasn’t good – no answer from Jeb Walsh. As they discussed Galloway’s findings, or lack of them, the forensics team put in an appearance. Wild gave them an update and then left them to it so he could check the perimeter and the outside windows.
He had nothing to show for his efforts by the time he’d circled the house and returned to the front door. No scratch marks on the frames and no convenient footprint beneath them. It looked like an inside job. That unpleasant thought accompanied him back into the house, where the ambulance crew were finishing up and handing over to forensics.
Wild caught up with Galloway. “I need you to do something for me. Find out from Mrs Walsh exactly where she went shopping and then get down there to confirm her movements. Do it now.”
Galloway all but saluted and Wild recalled, with some relief, that he would probably have met the family in the past. Fingers crossed he’d had his sensitivity training.
Wild put on his shoe covers and entered the crime scene. Marsh finished conspiring with the pathologist and faced him. “Craig, come and have a look at this. Tell me what you think.”
The pathologist and his photographer made space for him. It wasn’t pretty. They never were. The pathologist held up a clear bag with a tiny flake of black material. “I extracted this from the wound with tweezers.” He sounded disproportionately pleased with himself, but hey — who didn’t respect someone who had found their passion in life?
Wild quickly realised that the late Dr Walsh still had the one head injury, only now it was gaping.
Marsh drew his gaze away from the corpse. “Well, we know that Kravers wasn’t responsible for
this.”
Wild felt sand in his throat, like tiny grains of conscience. “Nothing to say he didn’t have an accomplice.”
Judging by the look on her face, Marsh wasn’t used to being contradicted publicly. “Where is Galloway?”
“I sent him out to check on Mrs Walsh’s alibi. We can’t make any assumptions and it doesn’t hurt to be thorough.”
Ouch. Even the pathologist flinched. Marsh turned to the pathologist and his photographer, who had lowered her lens. “Could you give us a couple of minutes?”
Wild backtracked. “Look, I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.”
Marsh’s smile set his teeth on edge. “Not at all, Craig. But this tragic event complicates things.” She glanced down at the body. “Particularly for you.”
“Hold on a second, I don’t see how we could have prevented this.”
“Quite so. But it’s reasonable to conclude the two deaths are connected, is it not?”
He hated rhetorical questions. “So we expand the current investigation and work on finding the link.”
“The thing is, Craig, we both know this doesn’t look good for the team. Now, obviously, I will bear the brunt of it, as befits my senior rank. However, it doesn’t reflect well on you as my number two. I mean, someone looking in from the outside might well conclude that if we’d apprehended whoever is responsible for Porter’s death, then Dr Walsh might still be alive.”
“With respect, ma’am, that’s bollocks and we both know it. We are pursuing all lines of enquiry. What more could the team or I have done?”
She stared right through him. “Maybe you could have caught the bastard.”
Wild’s career-ending reply never made it to his mouth, thanks to the intervention of his mobile phone. “Excuse me.” He took off for the front door and directed the forensics team back in behind him. “DS Wild,” he growled.
“Skip, it’s Ben Galloway. I’ve spoken to the staff at the newsagent and they confirm Mrs Walsh’s story and that she paid by card. Don’t worry — I didn’t let the cat out of the bag. Anyway, I’m on my way back now. Over and out.”
Wild found a smile. If there was still a place on the force for earnest coppers like Ben Galloway — recreational cannabis use notwithstanding — then there was hope for the world. It was only after he cut the call that he realised they could have asked Mrs Walsh if she’d kept the receipt and saved themselves the bother.
Lacking a reason to return to the crime scene, Wild returned instead to the kitchen where Mrs Walsh was still in her chair, frozen in time. “Can I make you some more tea?” It was hardly compassionate in action, but it was all he had.
She shook her head slowly. “I’ve tried to get hold of Jeb but he’s not picking up. I didn’t want to leave a message.” She looked up at him, eyes dulled and empty. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“You leave that to us, Mrs Walsh.” It occurred to him that Galloway hadn’t said any more and Jeb hadn’t returned home. Probably still with Nathan Porter, paying their respects together in a pub. “Mrs Walsh, can I ask you . . . prior to today, had your husband had any serious disagreements with anyone?”
She blinked slowly, as if she were sifting through her memory. “Everybody loved James. He was a pillar of the community.”
Wild heard a car outside then excused himself, and nipped out to catch Ben Galloway. But it was Marnie Olsen getting out of a marked car. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Nice to see you too, Wild. DI Marsh phoned the station and requested a female officer for Mrs Walsh. She said it required the gentle touch.”
Wild took it like a bullet. “Do you know what? I’m out of here. If the DI wants me, I’ve gone to follow up a lead.” He slid past her and got into his car, vaguely aware that she’d called out after him. He started the engine and bellowed, “Shit!” in the privacy of his car. Less than a month in a new team and the wheels had already come off.
Chapter 26
Wild made himself scarce for an hour by sitting at his desk. There had been no more updates from Ben Galloway, although hopefully he’d taken the initiative to find Jeb. In the meantime, Wild had gone back through Jeb’s phone logs to see if there was any traffic between him and Kravers. It seemed that all communications were by email, unless he had another mobile phone. It made him wonder whether Kravers knew Jeb’s identity and by extension whether they had ever met in person. As he worried that one out on paper another thought came to mind: did Jeb even know that Kravers was in the country? And while he was collecting unanswered questions, what about the missing wartime diary — where might Jeb have hidden it for safekeeping?
He picked up his mobile phone, dialled Hollings and Gresham and started walking. The secretary answered with a careful balance of politeness and superciliousness. Clearly, the firm did not give any truck to peasants. Her attitude quickly changed when he reminded her that he was a detective sergeant. She couldn’t do enough for him then, especially when he explained it was actually Pauline Henderson he was after. Not literally, of course, although her tone seemed to infer something similar.
A quick blast of Vivaldi and then Pauline came to the phone. She sounded nervous even before he’d said anything. He put that down to the fear of what he might say to her employers.
“How . . . how can I help you?”
“Pauline, I think we need to have a little chat. I’ll get over to you in about twenty minutes.” He heard her gasp and then let her off the hook. “Make some excuse and take a walk up the road.”
“Which direction?”
“I dunno. Take a left and I’ll park up somewhere along the road.”
“Well, it’s a longer road to the right . . .”
He rubbed one of his temples. “Fine, turn right then.” Anything for a quiet life. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
Wild wasn’t a great believer in anything except Sod’s Law. Consequently, he wasn’t particularly surprised to see DI Marsh and Ben Galloway pull into the car park as he left the building. Marsh blanked him. Galloway still wore that puppy dog gratitude face that evoked a mixture of pity and disdain.
He kept on walking. “Any joy with tracking down Jeb?”
Galloway shook his head.
“I’ll deal with it myself then.”
Marsh paused on the tarmac like a delayed flight. “Case review in ninety minutes. Don’t disappoint me, Craig.”
He got into the car and did the thing adults are never supposed to do — he turned off his phone. The radio blared out local news and he listened to it without care or interest. Thanks to a broken down bus, he arrived to find Pauline already at the end of the street, feverishly smoking a cigarette and gazing intently at passing traffic. He waved slowly as he passed and looked for a space, opting for a single yellow line. To make life easier for himself.
He wound down the window. “Put that out first and get in.” He tried to smile, to make it seem less like in order, but there had been very little to smile about today.
She flicked the cigarette into the road, closed the passenger door and fiddled momentarily with the seatbelt before deciding to leave it in peace. “I can’t stay long. Mr Hollings needs some work caught up on after I was away this morning — on account of the funeral.”
“I’m going to ask you two questions and to make it easier, you are not under caution and you can get out of the car any time you like.” He saw her left hand edge towards the door handle. “But if you choose to leave now, or if I think you are hiding something from me, I will get out of the car with you and speak to Mr Hollings about the company email account. I have no doubt Mr Kravers has kept a record of everything.”
She fixed him with a beady stare and said nothing, which he took as compliance.
“Right. Where will I find Jeb right now? He’s not in trouble — not this time, anyway.”
“He’s probably up at the ruins. It’s where we all used to go.”
“Thank you.” He watched her face softe
n. “Right, next question — do you know where Jeb has hidden the missing diary?”
He watched her face betray her. There was no telling if she had read the diary herself. He could only be certain that she knew what he was talking about.
“It’s locked away in my drawer at work.”
“Well, you’d better get it then, hadn’t you?”
Pauline’s eyes widened. “You said he’s not in any trouble, so why are you coming to me like this?”
He played opposites and spoke quietly, blinking softly to try and build rapport, like the books said. “I can’t go into that right now. It’s for the investigation.”
She caved at the magic word. “Does Jeb have to know about this?”
He thought for a second. “Not right now. Tell you what, Pauline, you give me the book and I’ll copy it and get the original back to you. That way, everyone is happy.”
Contrary to his assurances, she didn’t look happy at all when she got out of the car and returned a few minutes later with a jiffy bag.
Wild felt the weight of circumstance on his shoulders. He didn’t really do touchy-feely emotions — it hadn’t taken the marriage guidance counsellor half an hour to suss that. And, surely to God, Ben Galloway could have figured out where Jeb had got to, after a quick tour of the pubs. Well, whatever the truth, the bearer of the black telegram was him now. He put his foot down, less out of consideration for Jeb and more to fit in with the DI’s timescale.
The fractured carcass of Montford Abbey ruins slipped in and out of view as he navigated the main country road and then its tributary. There was only one vehicle when he got there — Jeb’s. He hoped Nathan Porter had stuck with Jeb. They had a lot in common now.
He parked close to Jeb’s car and felt the bonnet — barely warm. Evidently, they’d been there for some time. Nought out of ten for Ben Galloway’s detective skills. He found them resting against the remnants of a wall, a six-pack of beer at their feet. A gentle breeze stirred. From where they sat you could take in the land farmed by Elleth and Causly, and the bracken wasteland of Fortune’s Field.
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