by Jim Kelly
‘Right, Inspector. You didn’t hear this.’ Forbes surveyed the scene. There was nobody within sight, either on the riverbank or in the fields. ‘Imagine I’m a radio transmitter and I send out a pulse of signal like this.’ He had the ball in his hand, and threw it into open space, waiting for the dog to bring it back. ‘Until now I’ve been throwing the ball and getting nothing back, unless Gawain here intervenes. Same happens with radio signals, send them out into the ether, never hear of them again. Unless this happens.’ He threw the ball at the wall of the changing block and collected the return before the dog could run it to ground. ‘It’s that simple. I’m a transmitter. When I collect the ball I’m a receiver. If I was one of a line of transmitters strung out here across the field, we could all chuck balls at the sports pavilion. Then we could analyse the way the balls came back, and we could work out the shape of the pavilion, and its distance, because we know how fast we threw the ball. Radio waves, you’ll know, travel at precisely the speed of light. It is a highly effective system.’
‘You’re making these transmitters and receivers here?’
‘Yes. Well, a key component. The Germans are into this too – and the Yanks, and the French. Everyone knows it will work. We’ve known for decades. We just need the technology. We need a production line. We used to call it the telemobiloscope. Now we call it RADAR because that’s what the Yanks want to call it. Get it right, you can spot aircraft, ships, storms at sea, airships – you name it.
‘There’s a line of receivers down the East Coast from the Tyne to Kent. It’s called Chain Home. If the German bombers come, and they will, that line could save London, Brooke, and thousands of lives, hundreds of thousands of lives. What we don’t want is for someone to see the kit and work out how to block it.
‘The IRA are a bunch of peasants with pitchforks, that’s not the problem. But we know they’d like to impress the Germans. Our enemy is their friend.’ He pointed at the blackened TV mast. ‘Want my opinion, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s a bloody great mast, they failed to blow it up, end of story. However, London’s jumping. We’re reviewing security.’
The police launch went by on the river, a net being stowed on deck.
‘Any news on the lost child?’ Forbes had produced a cigar, a narrow cheroot, which he lit with a silver lighter.
‘There’s no hope, now. An Irish Catholic child, so we can’t rule out a connection with events here. Perhaps the child got in the way somehow, or saw something they shouldn’t have, or someone they shouldn’t have.’
Forbes produced a plume of smoke. ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched. More likely to be a nasty little family drama, don’t you think? You know what the problem is? Mongrels. Won’t be an Englishman, Brooke, I’ll wager you that. Gawain here—’
He patted the dog, and as he fussed with the noble head, Brooke noted an enamel badge on Forbes’s lapel of a full moon, etched with the letter G in blue.
‘She’s pedigree,’ he said, straightening up. ‘I breed ’em, so I know. Know the parents, know the child. That’s what it’s all about, this war, Brooke. True blood.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brooke entered St Alban’s through the oak-studded door, which closed silently behind him, restrained by a damper. A large straw mat had been set on the parquet floor to soak up the snow and slush, and so his first footsteps were silent too. He stood for a moment, brushing flakes from his coat. At the far end of the nave, Father Ward sat in a pew, side-on to another man, whose head was bowed, so that they appeared to be whispering together. Brooke coughed, and they both seemed startled, Father Ward rising awkwardly to his feet.
‘Inspector, news?’ asked the priest. Brooke was struck again by the man’s energy, as he advanced to shake hands. So many priests and vicars simply faded into the fabric of their own churches. Ward, by contrast, seemed too big a character for the modest nave, the threadbare furnishings of a poor parish.
Brooke briefed him on the operation along the river and the pressing necessity to contact Sean Flynn’s parents to warn them that their son was missing. As Brooke talked he examined the other man: round-shouldered, slightly shambling, with thinning red hair and a clean but worn suit. He was studiously avoiding Brooke’s eyes, revealed now, as he’d taken off his glasses.
‘You know our head teacher?’ asked Ward. ‘No? Liam Walsh.’
Walsh’s hand was oddly lifeless, pale and cold. Brooke guessed he was perhaps forty years of age, but he looked beaten down, as if the responsibilities of his position were a literal burden. He mumbled a few words, the Irish accent replete with a Dublin edge, in marked contrast to Ward’s newsreader English.
‘There is a development, Father,’ said Brooke. ‘Can we sit?’
Walsh made to leave, almost tripping in his haste to quit the church.
‘It concerns the whole community,’ said Brooke, raising his voice. ‘So perhaps the head teacher could stay?’
Walsh nodded several times, as if trying to convince himself of the wisdom of the inspector’s suggestion, then subsided, sliding back into the pew.
Brooke outlined the series of events which had begun with the explosion at the Newton factory – the message left behind, the three men spotted leaving the scene – before moving on to briefly summarise the IRA’s S-Plan and reminding them of the attacks which had occurred in the last year, including the fatal, reckless outrage in Coventry.
When he’d finished there was a bemused silence.
‘There’s no evidence of a link with St Alban’s?’ asked Walsh, summoning mild indignation. ‘You can’t think—’
‘The congregation is mostly Irish,’ stated Brooke. ‘A child is missing, possibly murdered. It would be remiss to discard the possibility of a link.’ He quickly outlined the logic behind looking for suspects here in the Upper Town. The missing boy was an Irish Catholic. He had been abducted twenty-four hours before the IRA attack. Did he pose a threat to the bombers and their fellow travellers?
Ward patiently listened. ‘Yes, I see. We have to face these issues, I suppose. Although we don’t know yet, do we, that the boy is dead. He could be trying to get home or hiding. And if he is the victim, and there’s a link to the Republicans, then it’s more likely to lie in his past, not ours.’
Brooke thought this was an intelligent observation. ‘Indeed. I accept that. We will look at the family when we can. In the meantime, Father, we are here.’
Brooke spread out his arms to embrace the church, the school, the community.
Ward nodded, glancing at the head teacher as if to summon his support, but he said nothing.
‘The congregation is Irish, yes,’ said Ward. ‘Predominantly. And poor. Certainly more Irish than the Big Church.’ The Big Church was a Cambridge landmark, the Church of Our Lady and the English Martyrs, a cathedral-sized Victorian statement on the corner of Parker’s Piece. ‘We’re not just Irish. There’s Spanish refugees from the war. Basque Catholics too. And Poles. Again, often poor, often in need of practical help. Catholic scholars, theologians, go to St Edmund’s House, the university chaplaincy. We live very much in our own small world here, Inspector. It’s marked by poverty, not hot-headed revolutionaries.’
‘And the school?’ asked Brooke, turning to Walsh.
Walsh considered the question carefully, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. ‘The majority of the older children were born in Ireland, certainly. And several of the teaching staff, myself included. Many of the children were born here. But their parents – yes, one or both may well be Irish citizens. The children have a right to be here, Inspector. Many of their fathers are soldiers of the king.’
‘The local community is patriotic?’ asked Brooke.
Ward raised an eye. ‘There’s a Gaelic Society, a hurling club, song nights in the pubs. Liam here offers them classes in the language of their fathers, and of course they are instructed in their religion. The rites of passage are observed: first communion, confirmation, and the Mass and benediction. These are simple peop
le, Inspector. They live quite literally from hand to mouth. If you’re looking for Fenians, orators, whipping up the poor, I think St Edmund’s might be a better place to start. We don’t get many intellectuals in the pews of St Alban’s.’
‘But they’d have sympathy for the cause?’ Brooke persisted.
‘There are many causes, Brooke. Ireland’s free already – although not free enough for some, it’s true. And there’s Ulster. And then there’s the war itself. They are guests in a foreign country, at least some of them are. The rest are here by right. I’m an Englishman, a public schoolboy from Ampleforth and Oxford. They don’t seem to have a problem with that.’
Brooke wondered how well the priest really knew his flock.
‘And yourself, Mr Walsh? An Irish citizen you say. So you’ll be registered at the Spinning House?’
‘Yes. And my wife. It’s the law. We reported as instructed. I have no objection to that.’
The far door of the church, which led to the playground beyond, opened to reveal the children in frantic motion on the snow-covered yard.
A young woman hesitated on the doorstep, as if she’d been rendered in stone.
‘Father, forgive me. Liam, will you be free for science or …’
Walsh leapt to his feet. ‘No, no. I’m coming.’
He inclined his head as if seeking permission, but Brooke waited instead for an introduction.
‘My wife, Inspector,’ said Walsh, and the gleam of proprietorial joy was unmistakable. ‘Kathleen.’
She took a few steps forward. Her principal feature was her youth in present company. Twenty-five, possibly thirty, with fine skin and the kind of jet-black hair which shimmers and reflects, like a liquid mirror. Short, lithe, with a neat bust, she could have been a schoolgirl herself. She was a decade younger than her husband, at least. And her voice was a marked contrast to all the men, exhibiting a musical lilt, suggesting the ability to hit a note at will. It was difficult, even in church, to avoid the adjective ‘radiant’.
‘The inspector thinks young Sean’s death is linked to the Republican bombers,’ said Walsh, a note of laughter in his voice. ‘We’re all under suspicion,’ he said, trying to catch the priest’s eye.
Ward acted as peacemaker. ‘He’s doing his job, Liam. Until we know the truth, what other motive can we find?’
Mrs Walsh had, in a heartbeat, taken on a flushed, angry complexion. ‘They might sing patriotic songs on payday, Inspector. They might even give a few pennies for the rebels. But violence? To kill a child?’ She summoned up a note of defiance, her soft accent thickening. ‘You’ll find no sympathy for that in the Upper Town.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back in his office Brooke raised the blind and watched night rise beyond the brick cenotaph that was the tower of the university library. Venus glittered alone in an icy-blue sky. The dredging of the river was over. He could hardly justify the cost of the operation on the first day, let alone into a third. The lack of a body condemned the case to shaky foundations. All murder inquiries proceeded from the corpse: it offered a necessary starting point scientifically, but more importantly as a physical expression of a moral imperative. Its presence in the morgue demanded retribution and justice. Its absence merely prompted questions. And duties. He’d have to ring Sean Flynn’s parents in the morning.
For an hour Brooke sat at his desk. There was no news from Edison, so he presumed his sergeant would be gone until the next day at least. He rang the presbytery of the Church of Our Lady and the English Martyrs, the city’s Catholic mother church, and was referred to the diocesan office in Norwich. He rang and was surprised to be answered by a young priest, who asked him to hold.
Waiting on the line he recalled the cathedral itself, a cube-like Victorian edifice which stood on the city’s skyline, looking down on the soaring spire of its medieval predecessor. When the phone was picked up it was the dean, who took a note of Brooke’s request to see the files on Father John Ward and Liam Walsh, head teacher of the diocesan junior school of St Alban’s.
‘Routine enquiries,’ said Brooke, arranging for a messenger from the local police station to pick up the documents in the morning.
‘There’s no news?’ said the dean. ‘Father John spoke to the bishop. If you speak to him tell him we’re praying for the child.’
Brooke rested the phone on its cradle. He should go home and eat, although the house would be empty. The thought of the hot bath was enticing, but leftover stew not so.
Grabbing his greatcoat, he set out into the snowy streets.
A glittering tram rumbled past on Regent Street, and the pavements were crowded with workers intent on getting home before the blackout began or the siren sounded.
Brooke cut down All Saints Passage into the old Jewish ghetto. The porters’ lodge at Michaelhouse offered a coke fire. Brooke, discarding Aldiss’s specific advice to preserve a fast until late evening, devoured a bowl of leftover roast potatoes and a single leg of a spatchcocked guinea fowl, leaving the pathetic slim bones on the plate.
Something about the discarded skeleton, feather-light, made him say out loud what was on his mind.
‘We’ve not found the child.’
Doric knew him well enough not to speak. The porter poured a cup of tea and, standing by the fire, rocked back and forth on his flat feet, a hand fluttering at a loose thread on his tunic.
‘They’ve dredged the river and found nothing except dead dogs and bicycles,’ said Brooke. ‘I know I saw his hand. The body must be there, but if his lungs were flooded he’ll have sunk to the bottom. We may never find him. It’ll be one of those forgotten wartime mysteries, Doric. Once the real war starts nobody will be bothered about the life of a small child.’
‘The parents?’ said Doric.
‘I’ve to ring in the morning. I’m not looking forward to it.’
Doric had moved to his small desk, where he had been clearly engaged in polishing silver. The night shift was his realm, of which he was monarch. The under-porters reported to him. The lofty authority of the head porter was a mere rumour. The quiet order of the panelled room, the rhythmic cleaning of a silver plate, seemed to inspire the porter, who stood and went out into the store, returning with a rolled paper tube, which he set out on the counter.
It was a navigator’s map of the river, showing locks, pools, cuts and ditches.
‘You could ask them to drain the river, Mr Brooke,’ he said, his swollen fingers worrying at the edge of the map.
Doric had worked at Trinity before the Great War. He explained that it had been relatively common practice in the last century to ask the Conservators, the ancient guardians of the river, to open the sluices downstream and allow the river to flow out and away, exposing the foundations of the colleges along the Backs, so that repairs could be made to brickwork and bridges, docks and drains, and regular maintenance carried out on lock doors and sluices. These operations had often been planned for dry summers, but a big freeze – such as the one forecast – was also ideal, in that the narrow headwaters would be iced up and unable to refill the stone channel of the Cam.
‘The trick is you can’t do it in the wet, you see, because the headwaters will flood and keep the water level up. Open the sluices now and you’ll see the river bed in hours. Open the sluices and you’ll see if your boy is there.’
Brooke studied the map. ‘What if there’s a thaw?’
‘There won’t be. Johnston, the night porter at Benet’s, says the meteorologists are all betting on a big freeze. Hard as iron, by the weekend. And of course, once the river’s frozen your body’s locked away for days, maybe weeks. So now’s your chance, Mr Brooke.’
Brooke took his chance. Out on the riverbank it was clear the meteorologists were right. A haw frost was settling on the water meadows, creating an exquisite landscape of ice: bone-white trees, the grass and reeds like sugared candy, the river itself almost choked with miniature ice sheets jostling under the bridges.
The lock-keeper at Jesus to
ok his request for the river to be drained with equanimity.
‘Can be done, of course,’ he said, tipping a cap back off a wide forehead. ‘I’ll need to talk to Clayhythe,’ he added, walking to his cluttered office and picking up the phone.
Clayhythe was headquarters: a stylish, even eccentric, house on the banks of the lower river beside a dock, a mile from the village of Waterbeach. The pinnacled, geometric house was rumoured to contain on its top floor a single room, the Conservators’ sumptuous dining hall. Here the masters of the river, empowered to charge tolls at the locks, met to consider their duties – the care of the Cam from its headwaters at Byron’s Pool to the last lock at Bottisham. Their coffers were raided to pay for dredging, a lock gate, a stone wharf or a new towpath. Or a sumptuous feast.
A brief conversation, which included a verification of Brooke’s rank and position, established the schedule. A signed note from the chief constable’s office would be required, retrospectively, as a formality. The sluice gates at Jesus Lock would be opened immediately, and those at Baits Bite below. A freezing cold snap was forecast to deepen within forty-eight hours, so time was short. It would take less than twelve hours for the river to bleed away into the Fens. By dusk the next day the riverbed would be exposed. Brooke would have a full six hours to search its course from Mill Street to Baits Bite. Then the sluices could be closed, to allow water to collect, in time to meet requests from several colleges and the fen skating clubs for rinks to be prepared on the water meadows. Speed skating was planned for the river itself, the course marked out by barrels set on the ice.
‘No time like the present,’ said the lock-keeper, leading Brooke out to an iron wheel which he began to turn to open the sluice gates. The river, stirring, began to pour through the gap in a muscular green wave. Finished, the old man swept sweat from his brow. ‘It’s a few years now since we’ve drained the river,’ he said. ‘Who knows what you’ll find.’