Eileen carried the gruesome object to the back of the room, where all the severed body parts were screened off.
“An undertaker will try to match the parts to the bodies,” she said to Tyler. “I’ll see if there’s anyone else in the hall.”
She opened the entrance doors and beckoned to two stretcher-bearers. She waited while they put the stretcher on top of the gurney.
“Do you have a positive identification?”
“Yes, Sister, we do.” The ambulance driver was succinct. He’d gone through the procedure too many times already. “The body was retrieved from a house in Water Street. Direct hit with an HE.”
“Give me the details,” said Tyler, his pencil poised. One of the men checked his slip.
“Body of a male. Formerly one of the residents at 70 Water Street. According to the registration list, his name’s Donald Jarvis.”
Eileen frowned. “What the—” She lifted the canvas cover sufficiently to reveal the face. “My God!” Her face went white and she stared down at the body in horror.
“Sister, what is it?” Tyler asked.
“There’s some mistake. His name isn’t Jarvis. This is my nephew, Brian Walmsley.”
Eileen Abbott was not the fainting kind, but she sat down abruptly on a nearby chair. “Where did you find this body?” she said to the stretcher-bearers.
“Like I said, Sister, he was caught by a direct hit on his house. Water Street. Number 70.”
“Why is he identified as Donald Jarvis?” Tyler asked.
“That’s the name I was given. The rest of the family was in the nearby public shelter and were not injured. His ma said her son had stayed behind in the house. We took him out of the front room.”
“Did the parents make a visual identification?”
“No, they was too busy looking after themselves. We said we were bringing him here and they could come later.”
Eileen was sitting motionless, her eyes unseeing. Tyler went over to her. He touched her on the shoulder. “I suppose there’s no doubt this is your nephew?”
“None at all.”
Tyler nodded at one of the men to replace the cover over the corpse’s face.
“Where did your nephew live?” he asked Eileen.
“I, er … he’s a soldier. He was stationed in Aldershot. We heard he was coming home on leave.” She looked at Tyler. “We were expecting him at our house. It, er, it … we have more room than his parents.”
“Could he have been visiting the Jarvises on Water Street?”
“No. At least, I don’t believe so …” Her voice trailed off.
Tyler wondered why she was lying to him. He turned to the stretcher-bearers. “Thanks, chaps.”
“We’ll get back to the hospital, then.”
“Grab a cuppa from upstairs. You’ll find a Yank up there helping out. Tell him to come down here, will you?”
They walked away wearily.
Tyler addressed Eileen. “I can continue on here, Miss Abbott, if you want to leave.”
She got to her feet, her self-control shaky but in place.
“Thank you. I must tell my family.” She paused. “Brian was twenty years old, Inspector. He may not have died in the line of fire, but he is a casualty of war just the same.”
The door to the upper level opened and Lev Kaplan came hurrying down. He went straight to Eileen and took her in his arms. She did not resist.
“The ambulance men told me that they had just brought in your nephew. I’m so sorry, Eileen.”
She allowed herself to be comforted for a few moments, then moved back. “I must get home.”
“I’ll take you,” said Lev.
“No! I’ll be all right, thank you. Inspector Tyler is taking over for me. I will come back as soon as I can and conclude the formalities.”
She gathered her coat and hat. As she went past the gurney, she touched it lightly, shaking her head. “Brian, what were you thinking?”
Lev walked her as far as the door. Tyler waited until he returned.
“What rotten bad luck,” said Lev. “They told me there was some sort of mix-up in the identity. What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Tyler answered. “The nephew must have been visiting the Jarvis chappie who lives in the house that got it. I didn’t want to upset Miss Abbott, but there’s something I want to take a look at.”
He pulled back the sheet. Brian was wearing an army greatcoat, which was unbuttoned. Underneath he was dressed in a woollen Fair Isle jersey, the front of which was soaked with blood. His trousers were not army issue either and looked far too big for him. The shocking thing, however, was a long, deep gash across his throat. Tyler leaned in to take a better look.
Kaplan peered over his shoulder. “That isn’t a shrapnel wound,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. His throat’s been slashed.”
Tyler nodded. “Certainly looks like it.”
“Any ideas as to who did it?”
“Not yet. It appears he was in the front room of the Jarvis house. The parents thought this was their son Donny.”
“Good God. Jarvis. Donny Jarvis.” He stared at the corpse. “That’s definitely not him.”
“How d’you know?”
In answer, Lev reached into an inner pocket in his jacket and took out a card. “There’s something I should tell you, Inspector. Read it. It’s legit.”
Before Tyler could do more than assimilate the actual profession of the supposed photographer, the upper door opened again and the constable came hurrying down the stairs. “Is there an ambulance man here?” he asked Tyler. “Apparently the gas main has broken at the house on Water Street where they took out that body. They found out there’s a bloke trapped in there. They need to get him out quick.”
Lev looked at Tyler. “Do you think that’s Donny?”
“Could be. Let’s go find out.” He tapped Lev’s arm. “Come on. It’ll be faster if we go on foot.”
He was right. They arrived at Water Street in a few minutes, bypassing the clogged streets.
The destroyed houses were still sending up trails of smoke and a group of people was gathered not far away, being watched over by a florid-faced constable.
Tyler went over to him. “I’m DCI Tyler, working out of Steelhouse Lane. I’m looking for a bloke named Donny Jarvis.”
“Sorry, sir. He’s a dead un. He was packed off to the mortuary not so long ago.”
“That wasn’t Jarvis. Case of mistaken identity. We’re looking for the real Jarvis. We heard there’s a bloke still trapped in the rubble. That might be him.”
“If it is, he’s an unlucky sod. The upper floor collapsed into the living room. That’s where we got the other bloke. The entire house was more or less pushed into the cellar. They should have been in the shelter, but there you go, too late now. Go and have a word with PC Markle, sir. He’s been talking to somebody over there.”
“The lad who’s buried – is he still alive?” Kaplan asked.
“Apparently. One of the wardens just now made contact. He’s gone to fetch the poor bloke’s mam. See if she wants to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?”
“There’s gas leaking into the space he’s in. Nothing we can do at the moment. He’s a goner. Matter of time. You can hear he’s getting groggy.”
“Come on, Kaplan,” said Tyler.
He showed his police badge to the constable at the barricade, who lifted the rope so they could duck underneath. They crossed the littered backyard and went to where the original door had been. Tyler shoved aside some bricks, knelt down, and put his face as close as he could to what had once been the living room floor.
“Hello! Hello, Donny? Donny Jarvis? Can you hear me?”
He pressed his ear against the boards and heard Donny’s voice, thin and faint.
“When the fuck are you getting me out of here?”
“Let me talk to him,” said Kaplan, and he bent over the small space.
“Donny, it’s C
omrade Hitchcock talking to you. The police are working on getting you out but it’s going to be difficult.”
“Tell them to fucking hurry up. I can smell gas. It’s making me feel sick.”
“Donny, what happened? The police pulled out a man called Brian Walmsley. His throat had been cut. Did you kill him?”
Tyler could hear a chuckle floating up. “It was him or me, stupid sod. Comes at me with a knife. I’ll plead self-defence. Then the bleeding bomb landed, so I probably needn’t have bothered. We was buried.” He coughed. “God almighty, this is getting worse. How’s the digging coming along?”
“Slowly. Listen to me, Donny, truth is there’s not much chance of getting you out before the gas gets to you. You’re probably starting to feel nauseated and sort of sleepy. Am I right?”
“What the fuck are you telling me? Can’t you make an air hole or something?”
“Can you move over this way? I can try to get a pipe down to you.”
More coughing. “No, you dumb sod, I’m trapped. The entire fucking upstairs fell on me. I can’t move a bleeding inch. Shit, shit, my legs have gone.” He choked again. “You know what, Yank? You’re dead jammy, you are.”
“Why is that, Donny?”
“You’re getting a nice package from America. Made it myself, with a little help. But it doesn’t look like you’ll be the one to open it. Which is just as well, if you get my meaning.”
“Who else was getting a present?”
“The ponce. Couldn’t be trusted either. He’d have shot his mouth off if the police had come to call.”
“What about Chopin and Cardiff?”
“No packages. Don’t need them.”
Lev put his mouth to the boards again. “Donny. Were any of the comrades responsible for the explosion at Endicott’s?”
“One of them was.”
“How?”
“The Big Bad Wolf dropped a trinket in Little Red Riding Hood’s basket. Made the pots all shaky.” Another chuckle. “They blew themselves up. What a bloody joke, getting Endie’s own workers to do the job for us. Bet nobody’ll catch it.”
“Damn,” muttered Kaplan. More loudly he said, “Do you believe in God, Donny? Because if you do, now’s the time to clear your conscience. At the meeting we talked about a new act of sabotage. Spectacular, you called it. Is there something planned, Donny? Is there?”
“Course there is. A big one.”
“When?” Lev asked.
“Today.” The word came drifting up to them.
Tyler began to make wild signs to Kaplan that he wanted to speak, but the other man forestalled him.
“If you tell me the plan you can save a lot of lives. They’re innocent girls, Donny. They don’t deserve this. Please, I beg of you, tell me what’s supposed to happen.”
There was a silence, and Tyler seized his chance to shove Kaplan out of the way. He leaned over the narrow crack in the floorboards.
“Donny Jarvis? This is Inspector Tyler talking to you. Can you hear me?”
He was afraid for a minute that Donny had already slipped into unconsciousness. Then, in a much fainter voice than before, the boy spoke. “I might have known the fucking frogs would gather.”
“For once you got something right, Donny. And let me tell you this. Mr. Kaplan here is a good bloke and he’s being nice to you. I’m not. But out of the goodness of my heart, and seeing as how you’re not feeling too comfy, I’ll make a deal with you. If we do get you out alive, you won’t go to the clink as long as you co-operate. If you don’t and you die anyway, I’ll make sure your entire family is put in jail as accessories to major crimes and I’ll throw away the keys. Do you understand me, Donny?”
Kaplan was shaking his head and mouthing, It won’t work.
But Tyler knew his subject. “It’s a promise either way, Donny.”
The voice was almost inaudible by now. “Is me mum here?”
Tyler looked over his shoulder. A woman, thin and scrawny in a shabby navy coat, was standing at the front of the crowd, watching. Behind her was a man, equally poorly dressed, with the red, puffy face of a habitual drunk. He seemed sober at the moment but wasn’t moving.
“Yes, she’s here. If you answer my question I’ll let you talk to her.”
“Fuck that. Mum won’t have anything to say anyway. No trade-off, copper.”
Tyler heard retching from the trapped boy.
“Shite. I’ve been sick all down myself.”
“Donny, who, then? Do you want to talk to your father?”
“What for? The old bastard won’t do me any good, never has. Is me mum crying?”
Without even looking, Tyler knew the answer. This family didn’t cry. “Of course she is.”
“Crap. You can go fuck yourself. I want to talk to the Yank.”
Kaplan had heard this and there was no choice. Tyler changed places, shuffling back in the rubble so he could still hear.
“Donny, it’s Hitchcock here.”
“Good. Listen. I don’t trust that copper, but there’s something I want you to do for me.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a girl name of Thelma. She’s just a kid but I think I knocked her up. If you promise you’ll look in on her I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“I promise.”
“Is that a Yank promise?”
“No, it’s a Jewish promise. They’re solid.”
Another silence, then the faint voice. “What time is it?”
Lev checked his watch. “It’s almost a quarter past seven.”
“You’re going to have to get a move on … bombs in the factory … going to go off at half-past …”
“Where are they?”
“Mm … men’s change room … We were planning to lift the payroll … Good scheme … Mine.”
“Are there others?”
“Boiler room … My idea again.”
Lev yelled, not caring if the onlookers could hear him. “Donny, who’s the head man? Who’s Comrade Patrick?”
The whisper floated up to him. “Go fuck yourself, Yank … I don’t know … wouldn’t tell if I did.”
There was a choking rattle of breath, then silence.
Tyler jumped to his feet. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get over there.”
They scrambled back under the barrier. Tyler grabbed the constable. “Get the alarm out right away. There’ve been bombs planted in the Endicott factory. We’ve got to get the workers evacuated immediately. We’ve only got minutes.”
The constable pulled out his whistle and blew several long blasts.
Mrs. Jarvis shouted out to them. “How’s Donny? Why aren’t you getting him out?”
“Is the young man still alive, sir?” the constable asked.
“No, he’s not.” Unexpectedly, Tyler felt a pang of pity for the miserable end that Donny Jarvis had faced.
Kaplan clearly didn’t share that emotion. “He’s probably being welcomed into Hell at this moment.”
Tyler caught hold of Kaplan’s arm. “Come on, we’ll take the ambulance.”
Chopin looked at the big clock on the wall. Twenty minutes past seven. Four more hours to go. Placing the bomb had been easy. It was in a wicker lunch box, identical to the one he usually carried. There was a label on the top that read THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF DMITRI WOLF. Carrying the duplicate box, he had gone down to the boiler room. Nobody went down there, and if they did, they would assume he was coming back for his sandwiches, a habit he had already established. The bomb had fit comfortably into the lunch box. Once in the boiler room he had simply removed the wrapped package carefully, placed it in the bottom of the bucket, and added the tightly sealed false bottom. Comrade Patrick had already visited him and assured him everything was ready to go. He mustn’t tamper with it.
The ticking of the timer was audible but muffled by the seal.
The plan was to place both mop and bucket against the boiler and leave them there. Patrick had been insistent about that. “We don’t wa
nt anybody to suspect you. You’re too valuable to us.”
According to Patrick, the timer was set to go off at a half past eleven, when the workers on the first shift were having their tea break. The factory was not at full strength yet, so there weren’t likely to be casualties. The aim, Patrick said, was always to disrupt production, not to destroy their workers. Wolf didn’t really care. He’d lost his own will to live more than a year ago, in the concentration camp. He cared about revenge, and that was it. Casualties were to be expected in a war. The glorious end was freedom from all capitalist oppression, and this justified the means.
Taffy too had followed his instructions to the letter. He had placed his lunch box in his locker.
Tyler’s experience of driving on rutted country roads stood him in good stead. He had switched on the ambulance alarm, but even if they wanted to, the few cars on the road could hardly move out of the way. For what seemed like endless minutes they were stopped behind a fire truck, the firefighters all trying to subdue a blazing shop front. Lev was about to get out and run to the factory, but Tyler inched around the truck, bouncing over the hoses, and sped along the centre of the street. Endicott’s wasn’t far, and although it seemed a terribly long time, they were soon there.
On the frantic ride, Lev had filled in Tyler. Two saboteurs that he knew of, Wolfsiewicz and Taffy Evans.
“The caretaker and the man who works in the canteen?”
“That’s them. Good cover, I must say.”
“But you don’t know who’s the brains behind all of this?”
“No. Wish I did.”
“You said his nom de guerre is Patrick. Is he IRA?”
“Possibly. Or that could be just a red herring. I’m not even positive he works at the factory, although that is likely.”
“And you’re with the Security Service?” Tyler asked.
“That’s right. I’ve been what we call infiltrating.”
“Haven’t been very effective, have you,” said Tyler, speaking out of fear. He regretted his words when he saw Kaplan’s expression. The American didn’t need his reproach. He was excoriating himself.
Beware This Boy Page 27