Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  “So you’re a Detective Inspector now?”

  “I won’t waste time on the pleasantries, Charlie, if you don’t mind. I have a man in custody and I think you know who it is.”

  “Oh?”

  Davies plonked a card folder on the desk and opened it to reveal a black-and-white photo of Danny.

  Charlie had seen it before, on the front page of the Mail. “The mystery punter. I read about it. He tried to place his bet with me but I refused to take it. Why’s he under arrest?”

  Davies stared at him for a few seconds.

  Charlie recognized it as a standard interrogation technique: create a silence that the subject desires to fill.

  He leaned back in his seat and crossed his fingers across his belly. “You know who he is,” said Davies.

  Charlie pretended to be confused. “I’m sorry?”

  Davies shoved the photograph further across the desk.

  Charlie leaned in and squinted.

  “You remember him.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The spy we arrested. 1940. The night the station was hit. He escaped.”

  Charlie leaned closer and examined the photograph. “There’s a superficial resemblance,” he said. “But that man would be a lot older now, surely?”

  “You would think so.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I think you do.”

  Charlie shrugged and knitted his brow.

  Davies slid the photograph aside, revealing another, of Rachel. “He was staying at this house, and received a call from this woman. I’m sure you recognize her.”

  Charlie wanted to swallow but held it back. “Of course I recognize her. She’s staying with me right now.”

  “She was there that night too. Your niece.”

  Charlie pretended to be amused. “My niece was there that night, yes, but this isn’t her. This is her daughter.”

  Davies stared at him again. The silence lasted the length of an extra-time penalty shoot out.

  Charlie distracted himself by letting his mind wander away from the situation so as not to feel its intensity. He needed to proceed very cautiously now. If Davies had talked to Olive, she might have told him their lie about Rachel being Danny’s sister and this wouldn’t tie in with Charlie not knowing who the mystery punter was. It was best to stay silent and offer nothing.

  “Strange isn’t it,” said Davies. “Twenty-six years after that night, two almost identical looking people show up again, and both connected with you. And with Amy Parker.”

  “Amy Parker?”

  “I picked him up at the hospital. She died while he was visiting her unauthorized.”

  “And is there any suspicion of foul play?”

  Davies frowned and Charlie knew he wanted there to be but there was nothing. “No, there isn’t, but...”

  “So what exactly are you holding him for?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you.”

  “Has he done something illegal?”

  “If he’s an escaped spy responsible for signalling to German bombers during an air raid...” His sentence trailed off as he realized how absurd it sounded. He took in a deep breath and began again. “You know, I visited old Gilbert before he died. He came down with cancer, what, five years ago.”

  “I remember. Couldn’t make the funeral. Sad business.”

  “He was rambling a bit at the end. Morphine. Told me a crazy story.”

  Charlie racked his brain. What could Gilbert have known about any of this?

  “He said he was there the morning after that raid, up on St Mary’s church tower. Fire watcher, you see. He was looking out across Moseley, surveying the bomb damage, and two people came into the church yard right below him...”

  Charlie started to feel that his feet had been cut off.

  “One of them was you. And the other was that girl. Your niece. He said a funny thing. Like he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. She just disappeared. One second she was there, the next she was gone. Like magic, he said. Like a magician’s trick.”

  Charlie pressed a single finger against the underside of his desk to halt the feeling of motion sickness, to pin him to terra firma in the absence of his feet.

  “You realize morphine makes men say very funny things.”

  “Of course,” said Davies. “The crazy talk of a dying man, nothing more.”

  “What are you holding him under?” said Charlie with sudden decisiveness.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t charged him, have you? You’ve avoided any word that would make his presence in your cell official.”

  It was Davies’ turn to look alarmed now. His cheeks reddened and he glared as if he’d been slapped.

  Charlie stood up and Davies had no choice but to follow suit, as if it were 26 years ago and Charlie were his superior officer again.

  “Davies. We’re old comrades and we’ve been through a lot; seen a lot of things we’d probably rather forget. But if you don’t release that man tonight, I’ll have a solicitor calling at reception to ask why.”

  “It’ll take you a day to sort that out. He might have cracked by then.”

  Charlie wondered why on earth he was going through this amount of trouble for an annoying oik who left a trail of devastation wherever he went. He knew why. Because Rachel would want him to.

  He indicated the door and Davies slumped towards it, anger burning his face.

  “You know, Charlie,” said Davies, desperate to leave on a parting shot. “You’re not the only person who might be interested in him.”

  — 43 —

  THE SOLICITOR HAD ARGUED with Charlie all of Friday morning through several telephone calls, stating there was nothing he could do.

  Rachel had caught snippets of it each time she called into the back office during a day of liaising with every shopkeeper in the village. She had met most of them and seduced them into the impromptu street party on the green for the following day. Various of them had promised donations of food, drink, plates, cutlery, glasses, trestle tables, bunting. A sign had been dashed off and strung up across the green, and a call from Charlie to Olive had secured a closure of the slip road after she’d worked on her husband. Deals had been done and bureaucracy cut through with the magic words, “England in the World Cup Final’.

  She had helped Maddy with the funeral arrangements all week and now could do no more, leaving her to the rest. She sensed she needed some time alone now, without this stranger, however kindly, hovering over her.

  Tomorrow was the big day. They were putting up Union Jack bunting outside for the street party and Amy Parker would be buried in the morning. The priest had made it clear to her that it had to be finished by midday as the workers were on a strict work to rule and, anyway, everyone would want to get away to watch the final at three. It was kind of farcical: poor Amy Parker, being buried in a quick morning slot so it didn’t clash with the match.

  She was doing this to avoid talking to Charlie, she realized. It seemed they were both busying themselves so they didn’t have to face each other.

  Charlie had insisted that Danny was being held illegally and kept quoting some obscure law – habeas corpus or something – that he insisted gave the solicitor good cause to get Danny out of the cell. But the longer they talked the more it seemed that the solicitor was frightened of crossing swords with the might of the West Midlands Police Force, even if it was only one rogue Detective Inspector bending the rules.

  Eventually Charlie started calling other people: a friend of a friend who was on first name terms with a barrister, an old army colleague who was thought to have married the sister of a judge.

  Rachel thought on how frustrating it was to live in the past, where you could never get anyone. No one had a mobile. Not everyone had a telephone in their house. If they did, they might not be at home, so you had to know another number at a place where they might be, or call a relative of theirs who might be
able to pass on a message. It was a wonder anyone ever organized to meet at all. How had the world operated without texting and calling someone on their mobile phone?

  The radio was playing When a Man Loves a Woman as Charlie once more slammed the phone down with an exasperated sigh.

  “Maybe it’s best to leave him where he is,” said Rachel.

  Charlie looked at her sheepishly, like he didn’t quite know how to react to fact she was talking to him again. “I don’t follow,” he said.

  “Well, he’s in a police station. At least he’s safe there. No one can get to him and he can’t cause any trouble. And they can’t hold him forever. Eventually they’ll find out he can’t tell them anything about the war and he’ll be back out again.”

  Charlie stared at his desk. “You know, Rachel, I don’t actually care if they throw away the key. I could happily stop wasting my time on this right now, but I sense that you want me to do something about it, because despite all he’s done to you, you still have feelings for him.”

  She felt stung. “Feelings? For him? What are you talking about?”

  “Rachel, it’s bloody obvious you were in love with him before he fell in love with Amy.”

  “I was not!”

  “It doesn’t matter really. I just don’t think you want me to leave him there, despite what you say. He’s always here making your life a misery and you’re always here getting him out of whatever scrape he’s got himself into. I think you want him out of that cell and you want him at Amy’s funeral tomorrow because you’re far too decent a person,” he said.

  She stood with her fists on her hips and was about to give him a volley of rage but the phone rang. He snatched it up.

  “Hello... Roger, hello... Oh, I see... No, that’s perfectly all right... I do appreciate your help... No. Thank you. We’ll talk soon.”

  He slammed the phone down with a ringrattle and sighed again, staring at his desk. He seemed to have forgotten their argument.

  “I think...” she started, but he snatched up the receiver and dialled again, holding a finger up to shush her.

  “D.I. Davies, please.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “We have no hand to play. So we bluff.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Davies. Yes, it’s me. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve managed to get a lawyer on the case. We’re on our way over right now. This is just a courtesy call to give you a chance to avoid anything official. If the boy isn’t there on the street when I arrive, when we arrive, it’s going to get very official. I hope you understand.”

  Rachel remembered Charlie barking orders at the same man back in 1940 and she felt a sudden wave of awe, respect, admiration, fear, all mushed up with a thrill that was definitely a little bit sexy and she felt herself blushing.

  “Oh and I don’t want to hear any nonsense about him having been turned loose before I arrive. I want to see him.”

  If D.I. Davies had answered, he was still talking to a dead line because Charlie slammed the phone down and was already at the door.

  “Well?” he said. “Are you coming or not?

  She did a quick sum in her head. The street party was all arranged and taking care of itself. She snatched up her cardigan and ran out after him.

  They were in the Iris blue Roadster in an instant and he put his foot down the whole way, roaring into town through every green light that someone up there was switching on for them. He came screeching to a halt in the side street between the police HQ and the Evening Mail offices, right next to a crossing guarded by Belisha beacons.

  D.I. Davies was standing there, smoking a cigarette, holding onto Danny’s arm. She noticed there was something not right about it as they climbed out of the car. Davies didn’t look defeated at all. He didn’t seem scared of any legal threat Charlie might pose. He seemed confident, cocky even.

  Danny hung off his arm, as if he might fall over without it, unshaven, sullen, blinking in the light. He didn’t seem to recognize her.

  “I’ll take him now,” said Charlie, pulling at Danny’s free arm.

  Davies held on, still smiling his smug smile. “Where’s this lawyer of yours. Is this her? I expected someone older.”

  “He’s coming with us, Davies,” said Charlie, with that tone again: the commanding officer addressing his subordinate.

  “That’s not what’s going to happen, sir. You two don’t get to spirit him away like you did last time.”

  A crowd formed around them. Too late she saw it was Bernie Powell and his bodyguards.

  “We’re all going for a ride,” hissed Powell. “Get in the car.”

  A black limo. One of the heavies had a hand pushed deep in his pocket. A gun. She could smell their bad breath and cheap aftershave.

  “We don’t want to make a scene out here, but if we have to, we will.”

  “We’re in front of the biggest police station for a hundred miles,” Charlie grunted. Someone was twisting his arm.

  “A few seconds is all it takes. Bang bang bang and we’re away before the plod have worked out it’s not an exhaust backfiring. Now get in.”

  They shoved her towards the open door of the car, big and black like a hackney cab, seats facing each other in the back. She fell inside and a hand yanked her up into a seat with one swift, strong move. She felt the enormous power behind the hand and how easily it could crush her if it wanted to.

  As Danny and Charlie were bundled inside and the car eased out into the main circular road, she glanced out through the window.

  D.I. Davies strolled back into the building, turning at the revolving doors and saluted, grinning. It was the deadly smile of someone who felt confident he would never see you again.

  — 44 —

  A RADIO PLAYED MUSIC in another room. It had been playing for hours and was the only sound she’d heard. She didn’t recognize any music, only the general tinny static of noise and homely chatter, but she definitely heard Simon and Garfunkel singing The Sound of Silence at one point. One of them must have turned it up. It made her feel even more alone.

  They were in a disused factory somewhere and Bernie Powell had left her alone in an old office that had been abandoned. There was a filing cabinet still full of invoices for a machine parts company, a desk with empty drawers, a crooked office chair that listed to one side when she sat on it. A length of flex coiled across the room, which she didn’t touch in case it was live, and there was a mop head in the corner.

  The window was frosted and had a grille on the outside but she could see through a hole in the glass – perhaps some bored kids had thrown a stone through it – and the only thing out there was a deserted yard and beyond the wall acres of wasteland. Somewhere far off, the sound of drilling and the drone of large trucks dumping heavy amounts of waste.

  Piecing it together, she wondered if Davies had planned to deliver them into Powell’s arms all along. No. It had been improvized. He’d wanted to solve the mystery of Danny, the German spy who’d murdered his comrade and disappeared, but when he knew Charlie was calling time on him, he’d probably phoned Powell and told him to come and collect them all. A last act of spite. If you don’t admit what happened back in 1940, you can all go to hell.

  It was growing dark.

  Was this some sort of softening up process? Leave them for hours before you question them; make them imagine all kinds of horrors so they’ll talk as soon as you walk through the door, tell you everything you want to know? She wondered with a shudder if they even wanted to ask any questions. Maybe there was nothing they wanted to know.

  After another hour and with the bright light beyond the square of barred frosted glass now a muddy grey, their heavy feet clumped to her door.

  She was sitting against the far wall hugging her knees when the door opened. It was Powell and two of his thugs. Had there only been the three of them when they’d bundled them into the car? Surely there were more. Had they allowed themselves to be bullied without even being outnumbe
red? No, there had been at least one more, she was sure. Two had sat in the front seats and Powell and one of the thugs had been in the back, facing the three of them. So there was another somewhere.

  “You’ll catch a cold sitting down there,” said Powell.

  He indicated the seat. She thought of refusing his hospitality but was too scared and climbed to her feet, her knees stiff, and perched on the office chair.

  Powell sat on the edge of the desk like he was about to deliver a sales talk. He didn’t say anything for a while, just looked, his eyes crawling all over her skin. “So are you gonna tell me, love?”

  “Tell you what?” Her voice croaked more than she wanted it to.

  “What’s the game?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And that should be my question.”

  Powell smiled. Her bravery seemed to amuse him. “A month ago he walks into a load of bookies I happen to own, cool as you like, and places a string of bets. My managers take them because they’re mug’s bets, the kind we get from idiots who fancy their chances every now and then. Silly predictions that are never gonna come off. Only this one did.”

  She was looking at her lap and Powell leaned down to catch her eyes again.

  “He predicts the outcome of every Group Two game. Every single one, without fail.”

  “What are the odds?” she said, and instantly regretted it. She would rather be alive than be funny.

  “And with that he wins a stack of money. But it’s too late. It’s only then my idiot managers realize they’ve also taken another bet – one that hasn’t played out yet. Every outcome of every England game. He’s got all their group games spot on, not surprisingly. But here’s the big surprise: he not only knows the outcome of every game they’re playing right up to the final, he’s also predicted which teams they’re going to meet in each round. And blow me down if he hasn’t got every single one spot on. And they’re gonna bloody beat Germany tomorrow apparently.”

  Rachel shrugged. “They might lose.”

  “Normally, I’d agree, but with a winning streak like that.”