“Do you know how many people here have accents? British, Russian, German, Lower Slobovian . . . Now will you let me get on with my work?”
Ames knew he was being dismissed and could think of nothing else to ask him. He had no idea how Mary would be different from any other old lady in the manner of dress or appearance. “Thanks anyway,” he said.
Musing on his ill luck and the upcoming interview on the progress of the case, Ames made his way back up the steep hill and wondered what his next step would be. The only possible avenue of action would come if Fripps called him back from England with news that Mary Browning turned up there. It was when he was just going through the station door that he suddenly thought, what if Mary passed herself off as her sister? She’d stand to get the money then. They looked similar enough in their youthful picture. Had they become more alike as they aged?
“Ames,” called O’Brien, as Ames burst through the swinging gate.
“Not now!” Ames exclaimed, taking the stairs two at a time. He went into his office and pulled out the envelope with the developed pictures he’d taken at the scene. He finally found what he was looking for, a photo of just Agatha Browning’s face. A bit banged up, but it might be enough. Glancing at his watch, no trains coming or going for the next two hours, he shoved the picture in an envelope and hurtled down the stairs again.
“Hey, Ames,” O’Brien called again. Ames waved him off and set out back down the street.
“SHE DOESN’T LOOK too healthy,” the ticket man commented through a mouth full of scone. He was using a slight respite to drink tea from his Thermos and have a little snack. Then he put down the top of the Thermos and leaned in. “Now, wait a minute.” Then he sat back and shook his head. “No. It wasn’t this one.”
“I know it wasn’t this one,” Ames said, “This one is dead. Did you see someone who looked a little like her?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. There was a lady who bought a ticket but then came back, wanted to know if she could use it on a later train. Could have been her. Same kinda skinny face.”
“What day was this? Did she say which train she wanted to take instead?”
The ticket man took another bite of his scone, and followed it with a slug of tea with the air of a man who could not stop the business of the moment with idle talk. “I don’t think I remember what day. A week ago, maybe? She didn’t ask about a train that day. Seems to me she wanted to travel another day. I told her she could travel any damn day she wanted. Like you, she was keeping honest travellers from buying tickets by holding me up.”
“So, you’re saying she didn’t travel that day?”
“Look, Constable, all I know is what she told me. She could have gotten on the train, in fact, I thought she had, or she might not have.”
BACK IN HIS office, Ames ran a handkerchief over his brogues, admiring again the long slender line and the perfect detailing across the top of the toe. His meeting with the deputy mayor was in half an hour. He would have to convey some sense of competence. What would he get asked? But he could guess the answer to that: “How close are you to solving the murder of the old woman up the lake,” with some variation of “We can’t have vulnerable senior citizens being murdered willy-nilly in their beds.” He imagined he would be badgered. People in positions of power always like to make out that underlings are incompetent. How could he get out of city hall unscathed? It was clear: focus on the progress he had made. With a sudden uplift of spirits, he realized that it wasn’t strictly true that he hadn’t solved the murder. For all intents and purposes he had; he had the name of a very likely suspect. All that was really lacking was having that suspect in hand. Much cheered, he took up his pencil and began to prepare his notes for the meeting.
Moments before he needed to leave for his meeting (Would it do to be a few minutes late? It would convey the impression of busyness. No. Darling emphasized punctuality and direct honesty), the phone rang.
“Towing company, ‘boss,’” said O’Brien.
“Cut that out. Put him through.”
“Constable Ames? This is Jim at Regal Towing. Where’d you say that car was?”
“Just behind number fifteen on Lakeside.”
“Well,” said Jim, “It ain’t there. I’m going to have to charge for the call out, you know.”
“What do you mean, it ain’t . . . isn’t there? I saw it myself less than two hours ago,” Ames said, his brow furrowing.
“Ain’t there, is what I mean.”
AMES, HIS CONFIDENCE shaken by this development, walked out of the building toward city hall, wanting more than anything to tell the city fathers to go fly a kite, and get back to work. The disappearance of the car was a confounding occurrence, and he didn’t want to waste time trying to convince a bunch of skeptical men, who were doubtless looking to demean his efforts, that he’d all but solved the case. He hadn’t, and he needed to get back to the impatient housewife, Mrs. Thomas, to see if she saw who took the car. Then, with a sinking heart he thought, it might not even have been Agatha’s car. It was an unusual dark green colour to be sure, and certainly over twenty years old, but there were scores of cars from the twenties. Money had been tight before and after the war. Men held on to their vehicles, keeping them in garages and working on them by hand to keep them going. His next thought stood out with such lucidity that it nearly made him stop.
Men, he thought. Not women. Plenty of women drove, he knew that, but still lots depended on their husbands, especially older women. This woman not only drove, however, but the priest described her as able to repair her own engine. Cursing city hall, he looked at his watch: 3:00. Too late. But he could get England if he called at midnight. Hoping Darling wouldn’t balk at the long-distance telephone bill, Ames proceeded to city hall, feeling something he’d never felt before: sudden and absolute mental clarity. He hoped it wasn’t just because he was hungry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WATSON LOOKED AT ANTHONY, SLUMPED in his chair, a Scotch untouched on the table beside him. He hadn’t touched his dinner either.
“Nev, this nonsense has to stop. I’m going to tell you something now. I talked to Belton. I phoned him when you went out. We both had the same experience: someone coming round and telling us not to talk to anyone about the accident in ’43. Some rot about it being reinvestigated and the Official Secrets Act. Belton was threatened, he didn’t tell me how, Salford is dead, and now we’re wondering if it was actually suicide. I was threatened, Nev. You can guess how. And you were threatened in the same way. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Anthony looked at Watson and shook his head. “It would mean the end of everything. Do you understand? We’d lose our jobs, we’d face imprisonment. I could bear it for myself, but not for you.”
“I see,” Watson said. He got up and went to the decanter and poured himself a stiff drink. “You’d better drink up. Recently you’ve been popping in and out of the War Office like a jackrabbit. No one has called on me or on Belton since the first time. But you seem to be rather special. Why, I wonder?”
Anthony took up his glass at last, and drank thirstily. “I can’t tell you. That’s all there is to it.”
“Does this have anything to do with Flight Lieutenant Darling being accused of shooting Evans? Because that’s what that girl told me. I nearly dropped where I stood! He never did, nor ever would do, such a thing. But you’ve been behaving like a stranger since the day she came. I admit I was frightened. I was told the only way I could protect you was to refuse to talk to anyone, including you. But look at you. You’re a wreck. Whatever secret you’re sitting on, it’s bigger than mine, and it’s killing you. And us, for that matter.”
LANE PACED, UNABLE to settle. She had come home early because she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, to come up with some plan that would save her, save Darling. Tomorrow was Friday, a thought that made her feel completely ill. Mrs. Macdonald had invited her to listen to a drama on the wireless in the sitting room, but Lane rejected the invitation
as politely as she could. She looked outside, expecting to see some mysterious figure lurking around, but the street was quiet. Well, there was no point in Dunn having her watched now; he had her in his web. She had to pull herself together, be pragmatic. She at least had the power to save Darling. If she could get him free, get him to leave the country, she could work on how to extricate herself. Maybe it would only be “a simple mission,” or whatever dismissive way Dunn had phrased it. She heard the phone ring downstairs, felt her stomach lurch, and then heard Mrs. Macdonald come partway up the stairs.
“It’s for you, lovey, a Mr. Watson.”
Astonished, Lane bounded down the stairs, past the startled Mrs. Macdonald, and took up the receiver. “Mr. Watson. Hello!”
“Miss Winslow. I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. But can you come out here to see me, us? Tonight, like? There’s something you need to know.” He sounded completely different from when she’d met him. The man on the line was determined and decisive.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m leaving now.”
SHE WASN’T SURE when the last train ran. She glanced at her watch and started toward the stairs at the Holborn tube stop. It was still light outside, but it was nearing nine o’clock, and there were only a few stragglers going home. As she turned to descend, she felt a frisson of fear. She saw a man step suddenly behind the building. She seen him for a fraction of a second, but it was him. The same man she’d seen outside her window that night. The same man who’d passed them on the street when they’d gone to see Salford. She continued into the tunnel without pausing and stepped behind a newspaper kiosk that was shuttered for the night, and waited, trying to control her breath. A few people passed her and went toward the train entrance. Where had he gone? And then he too went by, walking quickly toward the turnstile. Hovering in the shadow, she waited until she’d seen him go through and disappear, and then she bolted up the stairs to the other side of Kingsway.
When she arrived on Bromley Road, she stopped and looked in all directions. She was certain she’d lost him by going to the Leicester tube station, but she had to be sure. Seeing the coast clear, she hurried up the street and knocked on the door quietly. She would warn them to be on their guard.
“FRIPPS HERE.”
“Sergeant, good whatever the hell the time of day it is over there. Ames here.”
“Constable, good morning! How can I help? We’ve not seen hide nor hair of Mary Browning yet, before you ask,” Fripps said.
“No, that’s all right. I need you to find out something for me. Maybe that Tilly person could tell you.”
“All right then. I have a pencil at the ready.” It was clear from Fripps’s voice that he loved these international calls with a policeman all the way over in Canada.
“I want you to find out if Mary drove, or owned, a car. Unless you already know that?”
“No, can’t say I do. But I’ve Tilly Barnes’s telephone number, so I’ll do that right now. My mum says hi.”
“Say hi right back.”
LANE HAD GOTTEN back very late from Watson’s house on Bromley Road. She was grateful Anthony drove her because she was exhausted and wrung out. The streets were nearly empty at two in the morning, so they sped back into town. She’d made a few notes and then fallen into bed, spent, wearing her slip. It was an unconscious reflection of how she used to sleep, on the run, a few hours a night, ready to up and leave at any minute. It was as if her body already knew what her mind had decided.
She got up, put on a tweed skirt and a white blouse, slipped on her stockings, and tied her shoes. A cardigan should be enough, she thought, unless he’s planning to ship me to Vladivostok this afternoon. She looked around her room and then chided herself. She knew she’d be back later, but there was a sense of finality about what she was about to do.
They had arranged to meet along the river, on a bench nearest the Blackfriars Bridge. She sat down on the bench next to a man reading a newspaper.
“Were you followed?”
“For God’s sake, Angus. Who would follow me besides you? Who was that man who followed me last night?” Lane crossed her legs angrily and glared out at the people walking by.
“I’ve told you, already. I have no one following you.” It was the second time Lane had mentioned this. Dunn was uneasy. He’d like to dismiss it as hysteria, but Lane had never been a hysteric. He’d have to look into it. He couldn’t stand uncontrolled, loose ends. Well, it wouldn’t matter now, anyway. “So, what’s it to be then?” He continued, glancing sideways at her, but not taking the paper down.
“I’m here, aren’t I? When will Darling be released?”
“You appreciate we have to go a step at a time. It has to look like some sort of process has been followed.”
“I appreciate no such thing. You are talking gobbledygook. I want a commitment, a day.”
Dunn sighed and folded up the paper and stared out across the river. “I’ve arranged for you to leave for Berlin early tomorrow. You will meet your driver across the street from the War Office. You’ll receive instructions just as you leave. There will be an envelope on the back seat of the car. It contains all you need. Documents, money, instructions.”
She turned to look at him. “You arranged all of that already. You were sure of yourself.”
“I was sure of you.”
“I want you to leave those men alone,” she said. “And I don’t want them hurt. One of them is dead. I doubt that is a coincidence.”
“Aren’t you just the Sister of Mercy? Well, they didn’t take long to spill the beans. Glad they weren’t working for us during the war.” He was working to sound unconcerned, but the fact of Salford being found dead on the railway track worried him. He certainly hadn’t ordered it. He would look into it directly after Lane was dispatched.
“No, they had legitimate jobs flying bombers. They are harmless and you’ve made their life a hell.”
He inclined his head with a shrug. “They are breaking the law,” he pointed out.
“You are absolutely without any moral centre, aren’t you? They aren’t going to talk. Just let them get on. They want to move to Yorkshire, and you should let them.”
“I have what I want. It wasn’t what I started out to get, but it, you, are oh, so much better.”
“Is that a promise or is it not?”
“If it works out, I suppose I can oblige. What did you tell them?”
“I told them absolutely nothing, as you well know. It’s what they told me that I find so disgusting. How they’ve been tormented and manipulated. It must have been your finest hour. Do your wife and family know what you do for a living?”
For a moment Dunn was silent. She was certain she saw a slight wince. Finally he said, “In the morning then, what?” And he got up and walked away without a backward glance.
AMES PULLED THE maroon Ford out of its parking place and drove slowly along the street. The town was busy in the morning, with trucks making deliveries and cars crawling along looking for parking. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, and people were on the move. He drove up and around the curve below the hospital, and arrived at the ferry landing, where he had to park behind at least ten cars. He hoped he would get on. People seemed to be leaving the city to picnic or fish along the many coves of the lake. He had never followed any of these recreations himself, and wondered if he ought to start. Working and going to the movies with Vi suddenly seemed to him to be a limited life. Perhaps he should learn to fish. If he got married and had children, he would need to know a few skills to teach them. Fishing? Hunting? He couldn’t imagine Vi wanting to gut fish or dress game. Baseball, then. Curling in the winter.
The ferry went off without him, and he turned the engine off and hung his elbow out the open window. He thought about what his dad had taught him. Not a whole hell of a lot. He’d worked in the CPR freight-dispatching warehouse until he’d had a heart attack and died. He had never seemed to like being at home. Ames’s mother still kept a photo of her husban
d, young, excited, ready to fight just before he’d shipped out for his stint in the Great War. That had been before Ames was born. His mother had told him that he reminded her so much of his father before the war. “It changed him,” she’d said. “Knocked the laughter right out of him.”
It must have, Ames thought. He didn’t recall ever hearing his father laugh. He had increasingly felt bad about his own high spirits, but his mother always told him not to change a thing. There was a brief period when he wanted to sign up when he came of age in the second year of the war, in 1940, when his mother had gone fearful and silent. She’d never asked him not to, but she was relieved when he’d been told he was needed for police work at home. Darling, he thought, was as close to a father as he had ever had.
The ferry was back and disgorging its town-bound vehicles. He turned on the engine and slipped the car into gear. He’d like to get this murder right, even if Darling would likely downplay it.
AMES HAD NO wait with the ferry crossing at Harrop. He didn’t recognize the operator, so he wasn’t tempted to exchange any small talk, which suited him fine. He wanted to think about the murder, to cast out his preconceived notions about what had happened that day. He drove off the ferry and along the road to the village, the car windows down to let in the smell of the forest. It sure didn’t smell like this in town, where a shift in wind sometimes brought the acrid smell of the sawmills. It was another spectacular afternoon, still early enough in the summer that everything was still green and new. He drove past the village and up the hill to where he had parked his car on his other visits.
“Well, well,” he said, pushing open his door. There, next to him, was a dark green Ford, no doubt right where it always used to be parked. He took off his jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat of the police vehicle, and then walked slowly around the green jalopy, looking in the windows.
He made his way along the path to the cabin and then stood outside it. Was she in there? Pushing open the door he heard nothing but silence. “Hello?” he called. A quick glance told him that no one had moved anything. He closed the door and went round back to the garden. A woman sat motionless in one of the wooden garden chairs. She did not look up when he approached her.
It Begins in Betrayal Page 20