Alf laughed. “You’re enjoying the chance to throw your weight around, aren’t you, Tommy. I always knew you were a bit of a bolshie.”
“Me! You, more like.”
“Not so. But the older I get, the more I get fed up with the privileged few ruling the roost.”
Tyler raised his glass. “I’m with you there, Alf. My fighting ancestors go back a long way.”
Alf clicked his glass against Tyler’s. “Here’s to the revolution.”
They both sipped the brandy, Tyler making noises of appreciation. “Good stuff, Alf.”
“Savour it, mate. Like I said, that’s the last bottle I’ve got. Everything’s vanishing into the black market.” He scowled. “I hate profiteers like poison.”
Tyler nodded. He hadn’t told Alf that in the summer he’d been on the point of arresting his own father-in-law for dabbling in the black market.
“Speaking of which,” continued Alf, “did Endicott have any reaction to the incident?”
“He vanished. His secretary whispered in my ear that the poor man has a phobia about blood. Faints dead away at the very sight.”
Alf grinned. “That could be convenient or inconvenient, depending on your point of view. Anyway, with regard to the other matter, wish I could be of more help.”
“No, you have been, Alf. Just the chance to run things by you has been grand. And getting access to the police files without having to go through red tape.”
“None of those on your list have police form, I gather.”
“Not one. All clean as whistles.”
“Like I said, we’re pretty thorough about screening the munitions workers.”
“Young Eager over there did manage to check out the Yank I mentioned,” said Tyler. “He seems bona fide. Commissioned by the Ministry of Information to make documentaries. I’m glad he’s cleared, to tell you the truth. He seems like a good bloke. He was right there when needed. Very steady. Besides which, I think he and the nurse fancy each other. I’d hate to see her hurt.”
“I wish the Yanks would get off the po and join us,” said Alf. “Don’t say I said this, but I’m not sure England can survive without them.”
Tyler nodded. “It’s looking grimmer every day, Alf.”
“So, back to what we were saying. Come to any conclusion about Sunday yet?”
“Not quite. I read over the most meticulous notes that Mr. Cudmore typed up for me but I couldn’t see any patterns. No inconsistencies in the statements that jumped out and bit me on the nose.”
“Ah, that kind. Either people are becoming better liars or I’m getting too old for this job,” said Mason. “I don’t seem to catch those things.”
Another good throw by Eagleton, and the resulting excitement distracted them. Tyler put down his brandy glass so he could clap.
Alf turned back to face Tyler. “So what’s your doubt about the explosion, Tom? You’ve got one, I can tell.”
Tyler shrugged. “You and I both know how many people died in the last war because of so many factors. Stupidity on their part; even worse stupidity on the part of the top brass; or the weather turned; or a mechanical part broke down. Nothing you could control except perhaps the ignorance.” He sighed. “In this case, the combination of pressure to go fast – management’s fault; perhaps the lust of the two supervisors, who left the girls to start on their own; the chance that the men were working when they shouldn’t; the fact that somebody locked the change-room door and made them late. All those factors added up. Remove any one of them and you might not have had the explosion. At least not on that day.”
Mason swished his brandy around in his glass before swallowing the last of it. “Why would somebody lock the doors?”
“It’s my guess the culprit was a woman named Mary Ringwald-Brown. Clearly upper class but she says she’s a member of the Communist Party. She’s an ignorant woman, I have to say. Stopped thinking years ago. She talks like a pamphlet. I could see her trying to disrupt production and convincing herself she was justified.” He mimicked Mary’s nasal voice. “ ‘It’s not a war of country against country. It’s a war of the owners against the proletariat.’ ”
“Cor blimey. I can’t even spell proletariat.”
There was yet another shout of triumph from the direction of the dartboard. This time it was one of the Brummie constables who’d hit a bull’s eye.
“Come and join us, Inspector Tyler,” called Eagleton.
“No, thanks, lad. I’m for bed.”
“Me too,” said Mason. “Another bloody early morning call.” He stood up. “You lads make sure the fire’s tamped down before you leave.”
They all exchanged good-nights and Tyler went to his room. It was funny how quickly he’d slipped back into the old routine. Alf had joked about being a publican but he wasn’t serious. Once a copper always a copper, as far as Tyler was concerned. He started to undress, unlacing his shoes and placing them side by side underneath the bed. Shite – that was what had been niggling at him. He’d been drilled when he was in the army to keep his kit neat and tidy. Clothes hung up, boots together out of sight. All the men learned this until it was instinct. All drill became that way.
When Mick Smith had got to his feet at the start of their interview, he’d automatically stood at attention. He’d also been about to salute, Tyler would swear. When he left, he’d made a sharp turn as if he was on a parade ground.
Mr. Smith had been a soldier.
Tyler turned back his covers. Was that significant? There were lots of ex-soldiers around, including himself. Joe Abbott, for instance, had made no bones about being in the army during the Great War. Smith could have served then. There was no real reason to mention it. He’d ask Cudmore in the morning.
But Tyler remembered what Alf had told him. The Irishman they had hanged for planting a bomb in the Coventry police station had claimed to be a member of the Irish Republican Army. He’d emphasized that he was a soldier. The IRA trained their men to think and act like that. Smith certainly didn’t appear to be Irish, but it was something else to take note of. Alf was right – Tyler did have doubts. He hadn’t finished nosing around yet.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
EILEEN DIDN’T KNOW WHICH HAD COME FIRST, THE banging on the front door or her mother shaking her by the shoulder.
Beatrice, still in her nightclothes, was standing over her, her voice hoarse with fear. “Eileen, get up. The redcaps have come for Brian.”
She was awake and jumping out of bed at once. “Where is he?”
“Your dad is getting him into the airing cupboard.”
More banging.
Eileen grabbed her dressing gown from the hook on the door. “Go into the kitchen, Mum. I’ll stall them. Try to act natural.”
Beatrice was shaking but she nodded and hurried away. Eileen stuffed her feet into her slippers and went to the door. It was not yet light but she could make out two husky young men in the uniform of the military police standing on the doorstep. One touched his fingers politely to his forehead but there was no softness in his face. The other soldier looked even tougher.
“I’m Sergeant Carson, madam. Who are we addressing?”
“I’m Eileen Abbott. What is the problem, Sergeant?”
“We’re trying to locate an individual by the name of Brian Walmsley. We understand his grandparents live here. Are you a relative?”
“Brian is my nephew. Why do you want him?” Eileen couldn’t believe how coolly she spoke.
“He is absent without leave from his regiment.”
“Are you certain? We just heard from him. He is getting leave soon.”
While she was talking to the sergeant, she could see the corporal was on the alert for any sign of a running man. She had no illusions that she was fooling them. They had entered into an unspoken game, a dance where each understood the rules and which would soon come to a conclusion.
“We have reason to believe he might be hiding here.”
“What? Don’t be ridic
ulous. There’s just myself and my parents.”
“I’m sorry, madam, but we have authority to search the premises.”
“My parents are elderly. This will be most upsetting for them.”
The sergeant moved closer. He was losing patience. “Please step aside, madam.”
Then Eileen heard her father from behind her. “Let them in, Eileen. They’re only doing their duty.”
He touched her shoulders. “Go and wait with your mother. I’ll show these gentlemen around.”
Eileen walked back to the kitchen, aware that her heart was thudding in her chest. Beatrice was sitting at the table clutching a cup of tea in both hands as if it were a lifeline. Eileen sat down opposite her and covered her mother’s hands with her own.
“Don’t worry, Mum.”
She had left the kitchen door open and she could see Joe and the two soldiers. Her father was a tall man, but a little stooped now and skinny. The two young military policemen dwarfed him. There seemed no room in the hall for all three of them.
“I’ll take a look in here, please, sir,” said the sergeant, indicating Eileen’s room. Joe opened the door and the corporal went into the room. Eileen hoped he wasn’t going to overturn anything; common sense should tell him there was no place for a man to hide. She was right; the soldier soon emerged. The two of them came into to the kitchen.
“Morning, ma’am,” said the one who was doing the talking. “We’re looking for a deserter, Private Brian Walmsley. It’s my understanding that he is your grandson.”
Eileen gave her mother’s icy-cold hand a squeeze. Beatrice nodded.
Carson looked over at Joe, who was in the doorway. The corporal stood outside at the ready.
“You do understand that it is a criminal offence, punishable to the full extent of the law, to give shelter to or to aid and abet a deserter?”
“Yes, we understand,” Joe replied.
The sergeant nodded at the other soldier. “Check the back garden, will you, Andrews. There might be a shed. And make sure he’s not in the lavatory.”
“There isn’t a shed and he’s not in the lavatory,” said Eileen, who felt impelled to resist them. They weren’t in fact being particularly bullying or rude, but the sound of their boots, their guns at the ready in their holsters, their peaked hats with the red bands all created a sense of menace.
Her remark went unheeded and the corporal walked past them and out the back door.
Nobody spoke while they waited for him to return. Carson was listening for any sound that would indicate somebody else was in the house. Eileen could see how alert he was. What would happen if Brian was discovered? She was praying that he wouldn’t panic and try to make a run for it. She was still clutching her mother’s hand. She let go, afraid she might draw more suspicion onto them. Why were the redcaps there? Had they already gone to her sister’s house? To Vanessa’s parents? But it was barely light, and she sensed they had come there first. Why?
Andrews re-entered and shook his head. “All clear out there.”
“I’d like to see upstairs, please, Mr. Abbott,” said Carson. Again he did the deferential touch-to-the-forehead gesture but he didn’t apologize. Eileen knew they hadn’t fooled him. God, she hoped Brian’s hiding place was safe, and she thanked their lucky stars that Joe had had the foresight to prepare the warming cupboard.
There was a carpet on the stairs but the house was old and the floorboards creaked. The three men went upstairs, and to Eileen they were thundering.
Lie still, Brian, lie still.
She couldn’t just sit passively, she couldn’t. She smiled reassuringly at her mother and went to the bottom of the stairs.
Joe opened the door to the spare room first. Eileen ran up to the landing and stood watching. This time the men were both more thorough. As Carson flung open the wardrobe, Andrews actually drew his revolver and stepped to one side, ready to fire if need be. The sergeant moved aside the few clothes that were hanging there: Joe’s old clothes and a couple of Beatrice’s frocks. He even sniffed at them.
“Somebody been smoking?”
“That’s me,” said Joe. “I like me pipe. Sometimes I sit in here and smoke it because it bothers the missus.”
Then Carson squatted down and pulled out the chamber pot from underneath the bed. There was urine in it.
“This pot has been used recently,” said the sergeant.
“That was me, too. I spent the night in here. Fact is, my wife snores something fierce … Don’t tell her I told you – she considers it unladylike to snore.”
Carson didn’t answer. He flung back the quilt on the bed and ran his hand over the mattress.
“This is warm.”
“Yes, it would be,” said Joe without a blink. “You blokes got us all out of bed.”
“Can I see the other bedroom?” said Carson.
Joe led the way across the short landing to the main bedroom. The sergeant went through the same procedure, checking the wardrobe and looking underneath the bed. There was a chamber pot there, which was empty. Eileen felt an absurd flash of relief, as if it were a matter of being house-proud. See, they weren’t a dirty family.
The bathroom adjoined this bedroom and in between was the airing cupboard. Eileen’s mouth was dry with fear. She marvelled at how calm and confident her father appeared.
Carson opened the door to the airing cupboard.
There was a pile of towels inside. He lifted them aside cautiously and tapped hard with his knuckles on the wall. To Eileen it seemed obvious that the wall was hollow, but the sergeant didn’t appear to pick up on it. He replaced the towels and closed the door.
“You’ve seen everything except the bathroom,” said Joe. “Toilet’s outside, more’s the pity. One of these days, after the war, I’ve promised my wife we’ll have an indoor loo.”
The young sergeant actually smiled. “My parents keep saying the same thing. My mum would like nothing better than not to go outside in the freezing cold.”
He stepped into the bathroom, but it was obvious at a glance that there was nowhere a man could hide. There was just the bathtub, open shelves where Beatrice had put extra soap and knick-knacks, and a small basket for dirty clothes. Carson took the lid off the basket. Oh God, thought Eileen again, but Beatrice had followed Joe’s instructions rigorously. She hadn’t put any clothes in the hamper that belonged to Brian.
The two soldiers exchanged glances.
“Is that it, then, Sergeant?” Joe asked.
“Yes, sir, it would seem so. I must remind you that if Private Walmsley does contact you or show up at your house, you must notify the police immediately.”
“I understand that.”
This time the soldiers went down the stairs first and Eileen and her father trailed behind. Closer to Joe she could tell how hard-won his composure had been. He smelled of sweat.
Eileen let the men out and closed the door.
Joe put his finger to his lips. “Wait,” he whispered. “Make sure they have well and truly gone.”
Eileen looked out through the side window. The men walked smartly in step down the path. At the gate they turned right. She knew what Joe was getting at. The redcaps could easily be trying to trick them – they could return.
Beatrice emerged from the kitchen. “I’ll stay here and keep a lookout. You two go and see how Brian is.”
Joe went back upstairs, Eileen close behind him. He opened the airing cupboard, pulled the towels and linens onto the floor, and with one tug pried away the false wall.
Brian was crouched in a tight ball. He had stuffed a flannel into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.
Jack woke up suddenly, fear propelling him into consciousness. Every night he had a nightmare, usually that he was trying to run away from a Nazi who was out to kill him, but his legs were like lead and he couldn’t move fast enough. He managed to force himself awake just as the murderer was grabbing him by the neck. Jack didn’t need a head doctor to interpret the dream. He knew h
e was running away from Donny and his gang, and even when fully awake, he had the same feeling of helplessness as he had in his nightmare. He didn’t know how he was ever going to get away.
He could hear his mum moving downstairs and for a moment he wanted to throw himself into her arms as if he were a little boy. But what could she do? She’d tell his father, for sure, and he would bring in the police. Even if Donny was sent to jail, eventually he’d get out, and woe betide the one who had betrayed him.
He thought he heard sounds from his parents’ bedroom. His dad might be getting up. He got into his trousers and jersey and went down to the kitchen.
His mother was standing at the counter, cutting some bread for toast. “Morning, Jack. You’re up with the sun. How come?”
She smiled at him, but he’d seen her unguarded expression and was shocked to see how sad and tired she looked.
“No reason. I was awake. Is Dad up?”
“Just about. I thought I’d cook us up some bacon for breakfast. Do you want your egg today or save it?”
“Today, please.” He slid into a chair at the kitchen table.
“Are you going to go to Holy Communion today?” his mother asked.
Jack hesitated. His grammar school was an old-fashioned one, still affiliated with the Church of England. The pupils were expected to attend matins and to take Communion on a regular basis. The truth was, Jack was afraid to go. Even though he was old enough to know better, he was afraid that God would send a sign of His disapproval. Strike him dead in the middle of the service. Old Mr. Perry had been a mean blighter and he’d been struck down one day when he knelt to say his prayers. Crash. Gone, just like that. God had got vengeance.
“I don’t think so, Mum.” Before he could come up with a plausible excuse, there was a loud knocking at the front door. She looked at Jack in alarm.
“Who can that be at this time of the morning?”
Jack felt himself go white. None of their neighbours would knock like that on their front door. Friends used the back entrance.
Phyllis wiped her hands on the pinafore. “Fetch your dad. They’ve come about Brian, I’ll bet.”
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