Troubled Midnight

by John Gardner

  Suzie realised that Captain Puxley wore RAF pilot’s wings on his khaki battledress, not the crown and wings of the army and glider pilots.

  “And I suppose your people were stuck on the Brontë family.” Tommy looking pleased with himself because he had recognised the name Branwell, the only Brontë male sibling. “Right,” he raised his voice, having been told by Major Hutt that they would be doing the interviews in the small room next to the dining room, through a door at the far end of the building. Out of deference to the acting CO’s name Tommy refrained from calling it a hut. “Right, let me just explain what all this is about.”

  They listened politely as he gave them almost the same spiel as he had given back in the Wantage nick: first people they always spoke to after a murder were the family. “You are Colonel Weaving’s family to all intents and purposes,” Suzie had to admit that he was good in this kind of situation. A pompous prune, possibly, but a good prune, gently easing things along. “We’re all aware of how you feel. We know about loss of a leader, seen it before, dealt with it on several occasions,” he went on. “We are sensitive to your bereavement; conscious of how you must feel; you all worked with Colonel Weaving over a lengthy period…” Heads nodded across the room and there were murmurs of agreement.

  “So,” Tommy ended, “let’s get these little interviews over as quickly as we can, then you’ll all be able to get back to the vital work you’re doing here.” He nodded and looked round.

  “He’s good at all that,” Suzie told Curry later. “When he talks to a dozen or so people he ends up looking around and actually having eye contact with every one of them. Got it off an actor, he told me; actor who used that trick when taking his bow, taking a curtain call.”

  Tommy gestured towards the door that led into the room at the rear. “Why don’t you be the first, Major Hutt? Do you good, get it over with. Few questions, nothing difficult.” He signalled to Dennis, flicking his hands, getting Dennis, Ron, Cathy, Curry and Suzie to pull chairs around a centrally placed table while he dragged what looked to be the hardest and most uncomfortable chair in the room to a spot in front of the table. The chair didn’t look too safe with a broken back, a small seat and one leg obviously shorter than the others.

  Suzie remembered him talking, teaching her about interview technique. “Always get your suspect at a disadvantage: put him on a stool, or the most uncomfortable chair you can find, and put it in the worst possible place – in a draft, in the sun on a hot day – but make certain he or she is totally discombobulated.”

  She didn’t even know it was a real word until she heard Tommy use it: discombobulated.

  Now, suddenly they were off into the inquisition, no warning, no preamble, just Major Hutt sitting there, too big for the rickety chair, Tommy, Cathy, Ron Worrall, Curry and Suzie behind the table.

  “Major Hutt, been on leave I gather?” Tommy said with a smile.

  Like the smile on the face of the tiger.

  Chapter Nine

  SHE HAD TO admit Tommy was good at the question and answer routine: incisive, pauses in all the right places, immaculate timing. Tommy’s teaching on pauses was that you could elicit an answer to an unasked question by just saying nothing, pausing for longer that usual. He also said you should watch the suspect’s hands: Tension or movement in the hands often reveals more than the answers to your questions. That was one of Livermore’s rules of interviewing.

  “Major Hutt,” flashy smile of greeting, sincere as a harlot’s kiss. “Been on leave I gather?”

  Shed Hutt had this annoying habit of smoothing his moustache, finger and thumb of his right hand reaching over, smoothing it left, then right, finishing with a little flick, forefinger against the right waxed spike.

  “Yes. Got recalled when the CO was killed. Should’ve had fourteen days. Had ten, then summoned back with the old telegram. Boy on a bicycle. Not easy where I was.”

  “And where were you?”

  “My people’s place in Scotland. ’Bout twenty miles west of Aberdeen, Castle Killeenon. They’re down south at the moment – the parents – so I had it to myself.”

  “Anyone bear this out?”

  “The servants knew I was there. Didn’t see much of me but they knew. I saw the ghillie, MacFarjeon, and Mrs Crochette, housekeeper. Local police knew I was there as well.” He paused and Tommy let it hang for a moment. Suzie counted, ‘Nine … Ten … Eleven…’

  “Oh, yes and I met old Bomber Puxley at Paddington. On the station. Had a drink in that big public bar. Travelled back together matter of fact. Both shaken by the news. Colonel Weaving’s death. Bad show.”

  “The death was a bad show, or Colonel Weaving was a bad show for getting killed with his inamorata?”

  “Death of course. Tim getting murdered. Terribly bad show.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “And you met Captain Puxley on Paddington Station?” Cathy stepped in. Hair looking a bit washed out, Suzie thought, losing its sheen, needs seeing to. Cathy probably needs seeing to as well.

  “Yes. In the public bar, getting a drink.” Hutt didn’t even look at Cathy Wimereux: pointedly turned his head away.

  Tommy seemed to show some interest in this. “Bomber Puxley? What’s the full story on him, Major Hutt? Full strength on Captain Puxley.”

  “In what way?” Hutt appeared flustered, frowned, eyes unsettled.

  “He’s older than the rest of you for a start.”

  “Well that’s true, yes, but he’s done all the courses. Did his nine jumps and all that.”

  “Former officer in the RAF isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but … Oh, I see. Yes.”

  “Yes. Serving officer with the RAF and now with Airborne Forces. Strange isn’t it?”

  “Suppose it is. Old Bomber went into the RAF on a short term commission. Straight from university. Cambridge. He was with the University Air Squadron, early in the ’30s. Came out in ’38. Yes, I believe he had words with his CO. Said something stupid in the mess and this wing commander took exception: said he’d put up a black, serious black. Old Puckers was in the Volunteer Reserve. They had him in front of a board in ’39 just before the balloon went up. Asked him a lot of drivel about what he’d said and told him this Wing Co had advised he should be stripped of his commission. Not allowed back.”

  “Really?” Tommy took off his specs and sucked one of the earpieces. “What had he said? Must’ve been something pretty bad.”

  “Yes, I believe it was. But old Bomber always speaks his mind. Comes out with the most frightful things. Load of balls really of course. Bomber just likes having a go at people.”

  “And on this occasion?”

  “What? What he said to produce the wing CO’s ire? Haven’t a clue. Never asked. Bomber’s a bloody good officer: fine pilot. Wouldn’t dream of asking him.”

  “Left the RAF under a cloud then?”

  “Not that I know of. He got angry I gather. Angry because this stupid wing commander became so prickly. Said if that was how they felt he’d rather transfer into the Army.”

  “And that’s what he did?”

  “Royal Artillery I believe. Got a gong for being brave as hell in France. Near Dunkirk. Then flew Austers observing for the guns for a bit, then, when we got Airborne Forces going, he was sent to us. I first met him at EFTS. He helped out with teaching people to fly Tiger Moths. Became one of what Tim Weaving called the Old Firm.”

  “And he’s still only a captain?” From Cathy Wimereux.

  “Yes. Well. Sizeable black I suppose.”

  “Anyone here didn’t get on with Colonel Weaving?” Tommy turning on a sixpence.

  “Not like Tim? Not an enemy in the world, Tim – except Jerry of course, mutual that I should think. This is an NCO Regiment, Chief Super. NCOs and officers only. Have to be at least a sergeant to apply. Everybody, Officers and NCOs worshipped Tim Weaving. We all hoped to go on serving with him when the HGCU was disbanded.”

  “And when’ll that be?”

 
“Probably in the spring. We’re all going off on more leave over Christmas. Skeleton staff here. Then new course starting in January: sixteen new boys, done EFTS. Sixteen glider pilots’ll bring the Regiment up to full strength: six-week conversion onto Horsas; pray the weather’s okay for flying. End of January that’ll be. Should have a new CO by then. Fact is we’re expecting one any time.”

  “And you can think of nobody here who had any grudge against the Colonel?”

  “Good grief, no. Nobody at all, sir. No, not one man.” With a flourish he produced two sheets of paper. “Typed up these for you actually. Little pen portraits of all the staff here. Help you on your way, what?”

  “Right Major,” Tommy all business, taking the sheets and running his eye town the typed contents then passing them along to Cathy. “Would you ask Captain Puxley to come through?”

  Then a thin smile and a shake of the head. “No, hang on a moment. One more thing. Emily Bascombe, Mrs Bascombe, wife of the VC. Anyone know about her? Any little rumours about Colonel Weaving and Mrs Bascombe? Any gossip?”

  Major Hutt looked away, stared at the floor, then shrugged, lifted his head and put his eyes on Tommy’s face like someone aiming a lethal weapon straight at a target. “Emily Bascombe,” half whispering. “Yes, a lot of people knew about Tim Weaving and Emily Bascombe. There’s always talk. Especially in the mess – officers or sergeants’ mess. It was all sort of jokey. Nudge, wink. People talk and people knew but didn’t actually carry tales out of school. I happen to know that Colonel Weaving had an Achilies’ heel. Ladies, that was it, and I also knew that Tim Weaving was engaged to another lady. Met her on several occasions. Julia Richardson. Flat somewhere behind the Athenaeum I think. They were officially engaged. She came here for some function, ring on her finger – bells on her toes shouldn’t wonder. Lovely girl: the colonel’s fiancée. Piece in the paper and everything – Mr & Mrs William Richardson have pleasure in announcing the engagement of their daughter Julia bla-de-bla-de-bla-bla to Lieut Colonel Timothy John Weaving, Glider Pilot Regiment. Bla-de-bla … Expected a wedding this summer to be honest, but knew he was doing a bit of the old dog with Emily in Wantage. Didn’t approve, but what can you do, Chief Super? What can you do? Tim sewing his oats I suppose.”

  “Anyone else mention it?”

  “Little asides. You know how it is. People thought Tim was no end of a lad. Liked him anyway, whatever. I don’t think anyone blamed him. Eat drink and do the other thing, for tomorrow we may die – as we may all do. And Tim was right wasn’t he? Died, what?”

  Tommy looked quite grave for a moment. “All right Major Hutt. Send in Captain Puxley would you.”

  Shed Hutt stood up and flung Tommy a terrific quivering salute. Do himself an injury throwing his arm around like that, Suzie imagined and Tommy instructed Ron to cut along (that was what he said) and tell Dennis to check up on Major Hutt’s parentage: “Castle Killeenon and all that. Make sure that’s where he was all the time. Be certain that he didn’t slip back to Wantage and take out Tim Weaving in the middle of the night, then nip back and run into Puxley on Paddington Station.”

  Ron went off and Tommy looked towards Suzie. “Susannah, when you were working for me yesterday, did you include this Julia Richardson among Weaving’s nearest and dearest?”

  “She was on my list, Chief, yes.” The ‘Chief’ slipped out, could have bitten her tongue when she saw Tommy’s wry smile. “Address, telephone number, the full treatment.”

  “Good girl,” Tommy Livermore said with oily condescension that made Suzie want to spit: preferably in his eye. Christ you can go off people.

  Branwell Puxley smiled a lot, went with his chubby and ruddy face: pleasant, very friendly but the constant smile was infuriating. Suzie could well understand why the wing commander had got umpty with him. Didn’t matter what he had said, the smile would do it every time for Suzie.

  “Well, Captain Puxley. Been on leave, I hear.” Tommy repeating himself.

  “Indeed, yes sir. Very pleasant.”

  “You came back with Major Hutt?”

  “Only from Paddington. Met up with him at Paddington Station. Poor bugger had been recalled from leave because of the dreadful business with Colonel Weaving.”

  “You spent your leave where?”

  “Norfolk.”

  “By the seaside, eh? Or on the broads?”

  “No, not quite the seaside.”

  “Your people live there?”

  “No, Chief Super. No, I’ve got a nice little cottage quite close to Cromer. Well, four and a bit miles from Cromer. A hamlet, few houses, a pub, not even a church. Thorpe Market; south of Cromer. Dot on the map.”

  There was a lengthy pause during which Puxley simply looked around and smiled, staring up at the ceiling and generally gazing about. It appeared that he had said all he was going to say on the matter of living in Norfolk.

  “Tell me, Captain Puxley, you’ve spent a fair bit of time in the services.”

  “Yes, sir. Seven, almost eight, years with the Royal Air Force.”

  “You left the RAF?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Under a cloud was it?”

  “There was this wing commander…”

  “Yes, please tell us about the wing commander.”

  “Fanning, that was the wing CO’s name; dead now, his Wimpy went into the drink, late ’40. Whole crew got the chop. Fanning was a flaming arsehole – I’m sorry ladies – Fanning was a navigator and the brevet they wore at the time was an O with a wing attached, hence the flaming arsehole – excuse me again ladies. But I think what you really want to hear about is my clash with him.”

  “It was the cause of your leaving the Royal Air Force, I believe.”

  “Indeed it was. Summer of ’38 I was dining in the mess, sitting next to Wing Commander Fanning. We’d been converting from the ponderous old Heyfords. Converting to Wellingtons, the old Wimpy. We all thought there weren’t enough of them. Lovely aeroplanes but a bit short of carrying power, bomb loads: less than 5000lbs of bombs. The wing CO asked me what I thought of the Wimpy.”

  “And you told him?” Tommy squinted up; moving back in his chair as if cowering from whatever Puxley was about to say.

  “I told him they were great to fly, but if push came to shove I’d rather be with the Luftwaffe because they had more aeroplanes, more guns and more bombs. What we need, sir – I said – is the Luftwaffe mentality. Quantity and quality, not a mixed bag.”

  “Bet he loved that,” Tommy was smiling and not expecting Puxley to whip forward and bring his fist down hard on the table.

  “This was 1938, Chief Superintendent, sir. 1938!” He leaned forward and brought his fist down on the table again, making Tommy jump. “Every one of us knew war was only a matter of months away. At the end of the year we were pretty much all amazed that Chamberlain had bought us extra time. And what did we have? What did we have in the way of bomber aircraft? We had the Wellington, fine; we had the Handley Page Hampden, tiny bomb load and an odd design; we also had the Armstrong Whitworth Whitley, slow, cumber-some, relatively small bomb load. Of course we still had some Heyfords which were hopeless, we also had some of those bloody great Bristol Bombays, twin-engined with a fixed undercart, slow as a wet week. I mean put against the bombers we knew Jerry was developing, well – the Heinkel 111, the Dornier 17, the Junkers 88 and the 87, the Stuka – all up and coming in ’38. Against those we were, at best, mediocre. And I told him so. He threatened to have me court martialled. Exploded there and then, in the mess. Terrifying.” Again his face lit up in that bubbling smile. “Put the fear of God into me, but when something like that happens it’s like a red rag to a bull. I gave him some more. Looking back I can’t believe what I said to him,” he chuckled.

  “Well?” asked Tommy and Cathy in unison.

  “I told him that as well as the planes being better, I thought the Luftwaffe uniform was smarter than ours. I’d seen ’em, 1937. Had some leave, went over to take a look. A month in t
he summer. Saw some of the younger chaps doing their gliding – got interested in that actually. And saw some of the new aeroplanes as well. Good fighting machines. Not long range but most serviceable. Funny, I heard kids talking back in England, saying that German aeroplanes had to land every fifty miles to tighten up the nuts and bolts.” A big chuckle at that. “Have to admit though, Jerry seemed to have the airforce thing buttoned up. Damned impressive. Knew what they were doing.” He paused and nodded. “Yes, that’s what I said to him, even the uniform’s better than our kit.”

  Tommy nodded, “Let me guess. He said you’d best go and wear it then.”

  “Something like that. Told me to get out of the mess. Said I was a bloody Nazi spy, ought to be shot.” Count of around ten. “’Course I was as pissed as a newt.”

  “You’d have to be,” said Tommy. “But what about Colonel Weaving?”

  “What about him? Rarely pissed. Only seen him pissed the once, actually. Ringway when we got our parachute wings. He was singing ‘There’s a hole in the elephant’s bottom’. Elephant! What we called the Whitley: had a hole we jumped out of, where the lower gun turret used to be, the dustbin turret, looked like a dustbin lowered under the kite. Put his arm round me, ‘Bomber,’ he said, ‘Bomber we’re all bleeding mad jumping out of aeroplanes. Crazy.’ Stewed as a haddock that night, old Tim. The mess sergeant marched in with his staff and they took the pictures off the wall. We were playing rugger at the time, using a fucking great shell case as a ball. ’Scuse me ladies, I’m a bit bilingual tonight.”

  “How did you feel about him? He was your CO.”

  “Tim? Best man I’ve ever served with. Salt of the earth. Officer and gentleman. All the usual.”

  “No reservations?”

  “None.”

  Suzie suddenly realised what everyone else in the room had known from the moment Captain Puxley had come in. Branwell ‘Bomber’ Puxley was stewed as a haddock already and it was only twenty minutes past the noon hour.

  Christmas is coming, she thought by way of making an excuse for him.