Blood on the tongue bcadf-3

by Stephen Booth

  ‘It’s all perfectly legitimate/ said Lawrence.

  ‘That depends on the origin of the items, doesn’t it? Where do they come from?’ asked Fry.

  ‘People bring them to me.’

  ‘Do they provide any evidence of their origin? What you might call a provenance?’

  ‘Hardly ever. But these people are collectors, or other dealers. The things they bring have been changing hands for years.’

  ‘If you have reason to believe that any of them are stolen or dishonestly obtained ‘

  ‘I don’t.’

  Fry nodded. ‘In that case, you’re right. It’s legitimate.’

  ‘Do you get any medals?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I was thinking of one particular medal. A Canadian Distinguished Flying Cross.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those here.’

  ‘Have you ever been offered one?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. I get job lots sometimes. I don’t

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  always sort them out. There might be a boxful of medals around here now somewhere.’

  ‘Are you saying that someone could have browsed through your stock and found a medal like that? A Canadian DFC?’

  Lawrence shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’

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  Cooper reached the table at the far end of the room. ‘And what’s this?’

  He had picked up a bag. It was a leather bag with flaps, like a large satchel or saddlebag. The label said: On^inaJ R/4F eatAer money 6a^, 7 94^.p>

  ‘And where did this come from, Lawrence? How much have you been paying George Malkin for his collection?’

  ‘I’m in business,’ said Lawrence. ‘I pay Malkin what I pay other people.’

  There was a tiny window at the back of the room, so high that Cooper could only just see out of it. He rubbed some dirt from the pane, and found he was looking down from the back of the shop into a small yard illuminated by a security light. The backs of tall buildings were clustered all around it. There must be access to the yard somehow, because there was a pair of wooden gates facing him, set into a stone wall protected by bits of broken glass cemented to the coping stones.

  ‘What’s in the yard?’ asked Cooper.

  Slowly, Lawrence selected another key and opened the door. It let a burst of bright light into the room and a cold wind. Cooper could see the top of an iron fire escape, which led down the outer wall of the building. Down there, it was like a junkyard. All sorts of objects lay around. There appeared to be engines, propellers, wheels, and a section of cockpit, but many of the items were unidentifiable. A lot of them were covered in a layer of snow that had frozen on their horizontal surfaces, giving them an enigmatic appearance, like objects in a puzzle, seen from an unfamiliar angle. The snow on the ground was covered in the clawed footprints of birds, which seemed to have wandered aimlessly backwards and forwards, frequently crossing their own path, perhaps looking for food. The aircraft cockpit was one of the larger objects. In the snow on its upper surface, there were bigger, neater footprints

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  prowling among the bird tracks. So there was a cat around, after all.

  ‘I can see the stock,’ said Cooper. ‘But where do the customers come from? How do you advertise?

  ‘Through the website mostly/ said I
  ‘A website. Of course. Everybody has a website these days.’

  ‘Most of the business isn’t done here, you see this is small-scale stuff. What the website does is put people in touch with each other, all over the world. We just have to maintain the site.’

  ‘Do you have no control over who uses it?’

  ‘We don’t check on anybody’s 6ona ^Je.s. Even if they have an entire aircraft to sell, we don’t ask any questions.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’ said Cooper.

  Lawrence fiddled with the keys. He pulled the door shut, as if ashamed of the view. ‘There’s a terrible draught with the door open,’ he said.

  ‘Who else is involved?’ said Cooper.

  “I have a bit of help sometimes,’ said Lawrence. ‘A few people who are interested in the aviation archaeology business.’

  ‘We’ll need names.’

  ‘I can’t do that. Confidentiality

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Who else has access to the yard, apart from you?’ said Cooper.

  ‘No one,’ said Lawrence.

  ‘What about your business partners?’

  Lawrence seemed to think for a moment. He turned to Fry, but her expression was hard and unsympathetic.

  ‘We need names,’ she said.

  When he finally got back to the flat in Welbeck Street that night, Ben Cooper was in no mood to find that there were two cats in the conservatory instead of one. The cat flap had been treated as an invitation to take in guests. The new occupant was a mackerel tabby with blue eyes, and it was another balloon on legs. He wondered how it had managed to squecxe through the cat flap dt all without getting stuck.

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  ‘Randy, who’s your fat friend?’ he said.

  Randy brushed himself against Cooper’s legs as if introducing the other cat. Cooper put out his hand to stroke the newcomer, and immediately saw the drooping belly and engorged teats.

  ‘Oh no. I hope you belong to somebody. You’re not having your kittens in here.’

  Rut Cooper looked out of the window at the frozen snow still lying in the garden and the icicles hanging from the branches of the trees, and knew he was just as soft as Mrs Shelley.

  ‘Well, as soon as they’re born, you go,’ he said firmly. Both cats ga/.ccl at him and purred. He could have sworn they were laughing.

  One thing that had been missing in his life was a physical relationship, and animals provided it. But why were they so like humans about some things? Why did animals never learn that it was dangerous to give their trust so readily?

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  iJCI Tailby turned his head to look at the whiteboard where DI Paul Hitchcns was writing names with a big black marker pen, occasionally switching to a red pen to draw lines connecting the names. The board squeaked as he produced curves and little circles, then completed the pattern by decorating his chart with a series of red dots.

  ‘Can you sec what it is yet?’ said Hitchens.

  ‘You propose to detain all these people?’ said Tailby.

  DI Hitchens was firing on all cylinders, ready to take over

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  the morning meeting, given half a chance.

  ‘We’ve liaised with our friends in the Ministry of Defence Police,’ he said. ‘And together we’ve drawn up this list of persons believed to be involved in the activities Sergeant Easton was investigating. If we pull them all in now, we expect to be able to start piecing together what happened.’

  ‘As I understand the situation, the RAF Police have been observing a number of servicemen who are suspected of the illegal sale of aircraft parts. Easton was attempting to establish who their contacts were on the outside.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And these names are people involved in a circle of aviation memorabilia collectors. They have a well-established network, both by word of mouth and on the internet. DS Fry has identified the location where the memorabilia trade is based and where the wcbsite is run from. From what we’re told, it seems to be a lucrative trade in itself. The prices for some of the items are extraordinary - but that’s collectors for you. They II vv v

  pay the earth for something they really want. Strictly speaking, many of the items of memorabilia are probably illegally obtained, but it might take a lot of work to gather the evidence.’

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  ‘It doesn’t sound worthwhile,’ said Tailby. ‘The GPS would say a prosecution wasn’t in the public interest.’

  ‘Yes. And it’s insignificant compared to the trade that Nick Easton was trying to uncover,’ said Hitchens. ‘We’ve looked

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  at the websitc this m
orning, and it’s difficult to tell where the legal business ends and the illegal begins. Not all the collectibles are Second World War vintage by any means. There are items for use in restoring more modern aircraft, and interspersed among them there arc a number of contemporary and definitely illegal items being traded. Some of the messages on the bulletin boards are probably coded anyway. And the addresses given arc international/

  Tailby sighed. ‘That’s going to be out of our hands. But it’s just run from a bookshop, isn’t it? Here in Edendalc.’

  ‘That was what Easton was looking for, but we don’t think he ever found it. We think he was killed before he reached the centre of the operation. We have no evidence to suggest he ever visited the bookshop.’

  ‘What about the owner?’

  ‘Lawrence Daley,’ said Fry. ‘We think he was drawn in because of the money involved in the aviation memorabilia trade. We conducted an initial interview with him last night.

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  He genuinely doesn’t seem to be aware of any other type of business going on via the wcbsite or the bulletin board other than the memorabilia. One of his partners runs the internet side, which seems to be a mystery to him.’

  ‘A gullible victim pulled into something illegal out of greed?’ said Tailby.

  ‘Yes. Rut he finally confirmed these names for us, which DI Hitchcns has listed. These arc the men principally involved. It seems possible that they killed Easton when he ^ot too close to them. Rut we have no evidence to support that idea.’

  ‘It’s disappointing that we haven’t located Easton’s car yet. That would be very helpful.’

  ‘It will turn up somewhere eventually/ said Hitchens. ‘With a bit of luck, we’ll still be able to get some evidence from it/

  DCI Tailby looked around the room. ‘It’s all circumstantial. Do you think we have sufficient evidence to bring them in?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hitchens.

  Tailby looked at the MDP officers. ‘And you, Sergeant Caudwcll?’

  ‘We’re in favour/

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  ‘Very well. I suppose you’ll need more resources, Paul?’

  ‘Whatever we can get, sir.’

  ‘We’ll call in the task force again. They’ve drawn a blank on the missing baby, so at least we can give them a hit of action.’

  As the meeting hroke up, Fry saw Sergeant Caudwell approaching.

  ‘You win,’ she said, showing her dimples. ‘Rut, if 1 could make a suggestion, you might want to question what some of your officers have been getting involved in recentlv.’

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  Ben Cooper picked up Alison Morrissey from outside the Cavendish Hotel and drove her as far as Bamford, to the big puh at the crossroads. He didn’t want to he seen in Edcndale, not today.

  Morrisscv had a hlue folder tucked under her arm. Not another file, surely? There had been enough of those, and some of the information had been misleading and wrong.

  ‘What have you got there?’ said Cooper.

  ‘It’s something Peter Lukasz sent to me. He savs his father wrote it.’

  ‘Ah. His account of the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor/

  ‘So you knew.’

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  ‘I saw Zygmunt writing it. At least, that’s what Peter told me it was. I’m sure it will be very interesting if you can get it translated. But I don’t suppose it really matters now.’

  ‘Perhaps not, said Alison. ‘But Peter Lukasz has read it, and he thought there was one thing in it I ought to know straight

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  away. Everyone said my grandfather was to blame for the crash because he had ignored his navigator’s instructions. But according to Peter Lukasx, Zygmunt’s account is different. He says that Klemens Wach made a mistake. It was his fault that they were so far off course. But everybody trusted Klemens, including my grandfather.’

  ‘Have you heard a rumour that Danny McTcague was drunk when he crashed into Irontongue Hill?’

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  Morrissey frowned. ‘The old man, Walter Rowland, put that rumour about, according to Frank. It was something Rowland had heard Zygmunt Lukasz say, something to do with celebrating

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  the night before. Danny McTcaguc had keen celebrating the birth of his first child - my mother.’

  ‘There was certainly no reference at the inquest to the possibility that your grandfather might have been drunk. That might have been discretion, though, the withholding of allegations that might cause distress to relatives. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if McTeaguc had ever been found.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Cooper wondered if Rowland had mentioned the rumour about McTcaguc to George Malkin’s father. He gazed past Morrisscy at the wall of the pub, where there was a print of Chatsworth House, not unlike the one that Marie Tcnncnt had kept under her bed. It was a favourite view for tourists. It appeared on all the postcards and in every guide book.

  ‘Alison, how did you come to meet Frank Bainc?’ he said.

  ‘Via the internet.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I found a bulletin board for aviation archaeology enthusiasts, and I put up an appeal for anyone with knowledge of aircraft wrecks in the Peak District. Prank saw the message and c-mailed me. He was a godsend. He had so much knowledge, and he was willing to research the details that I needed. At that time, I barely knew where the Peak District was, though my mother had mentioned it often enough. I’m doing all this for her you

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  know, as much as for me.’

  ‘Baine says he’s a journalist.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I phoned around a few editors this morning. None of them had even heard of him.’

  ‘Perhaps he just writes a few articles for magazines here and there.’

  ‘Perhaps. And is that a living?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t helped you,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re no nearer knowing who sent your grandfather’s medal. George Malkin had parted with everything except the money. Walter Rowland has nothing. If it somehow ended up in Lawrence

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  Daley’s shop, he didn’t know about it - and from there, it could

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  have gone anywhere. So, unless Zygmunt Lukas/ has anything to saw about it in his journal, I don’t know where else to look. And I can’t see Zygmunt hanging on to something like that - he believes people who collect souvenirs from the aircraft wrecks are vultures. Even his own grandson, Andrew. They argued about a cigarette case that had belonged to Klemens Wach.’

  Morrisscy listened to him carefully.

  ‘Where did Andrew Lukas/. get this cigarette case?’

  ‘I expect he’d bought it from a collector in London. It must be a widespread hobby, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, worldwide. I found that on the bulletin board. There were a lot of US citi/ens and Canadians.’

  Cooper watched her drink her cider for a while. She looked up and met his eye, and smiled at him. Cooper smiled back.

  ‘Did you rind out about the money?’ said Morrisscy.

  ‘Yes, George Malkin still had it. He’s never done anything with it.’

  ‘Malkin?’

  ‘At Hollow Shaw Larm. He was only a bov at the time, of course.’

  Cooper stopped talking abruptly. He realized that Morrissey had never heard Malkin’s name until now. Of course, she had said at the Chief Superintendent’s meeting that she’d been unable to trace the boys who had seen her grandfather walk away from the crash. He searched for something else to say, before she started asking him questions.

  ‘Do you want dropping at the Cavendish Hotel?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, please. Ren, this George Malkin —’

  ‘How do you like it there? 1 don’t suppose Edendale’s hotels are up to Toronto standards.’

  ‘No, not really,’ said Morrissey, with a small smile.

  Cooper looked at his watch. Time was catching up on him. If he stayed
any longer here, Diane Fry would be paging him, wondering where he was, ready to give him another warning.

  ‘Don’t you think Zygmunt Lukas/ could tell us so much about the crash?’ said Morrissey.

  Cooper shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he’s already said all he’s going to.’

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  He wanted to add that it was George Malkin who remembered the crash best, hut he had already said enough.

  ‘I really have no more time to help you now/ he said. ‘There was a meeting this morning. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, hut 1 think there’s going to he some action. The chiefs will he wanting arrests for the death of the RAF policeman, and I think the Ministry of Defence Police have come up with all the iniormation that we were waiting for.’

  ‘You’ll he busy, then,’ said Morrissey.

  ‘I expect to get called away at any moment.’

  ‘I want to say thank you (or what you’ve done.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘But you tried hard, Ben. That’s more than anyone else did. You must have thought you were doing something that was

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  worthwhile. That was what you said, wasn’t it? That you needed the feeling you’d done something worthwhile. That drug. You said it was the only thing that could give you the buzz and make

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  you feel really alive.’

  Cooper looked at her, watched her push the lock of hair from her forehead, knowing he didn’t want to say goodbye to her, wanting to do something to keep the connection between them.

  ‘I didn’t say it was the only thing,’ he said.

  Dianc Fry sat in her car with Gavin Murfm and watched the front of the Cavendish Hotel. She felt no sense of surprise when Ben Cooper’s Toyota pulled up with Alison Morrissey in the passenger seat.

  ‘Ben’s already talked to her, then,’ said Murhn, puzzled.