by Jim Kelly
He’d have gone home to change and shave but Claire was still on shift at the hospital and the thought of the empty house was dispiriting. A change of clothes and a razor were always ready in his office at the Spinning House, alongside a spare towel and shorts for his clandestine swims. So by eight o’clock he was at his desk catching up on paperwork, including a note from PC Woods to the effect that there was no sight of a pit on the riverbank, or anything else untoward.
Brooke’s office boasted two additions to the standard Borough issue: a set of wooden blinds, and a daybed he’d bought on the quayside at Suez before the desert campaign, which had once been decorated in blue and gold, depicting white cranes in the green bullrushes beside a blue Nile.
On the stroke of eight-fifteen, he picked up his phone and dialled zero.
‘Mr Brooke. Good morning, sir.’
‘Give me a line, please,’ he said, sipping his water. ‘Yes. Good morning,’ he added.
He dialled a Cambridge number, which rang once before the phone was snatched up.
‘Captain Kerridge.’
‘At ease,’ said Brooke, imagining his old friend standing rigid at his desk. Captain ‘Rich’ Kerridge had been Brooke’s opposite number, his ‘oppo’, on headquarters staff in Cairo, the point of contact between his own battalion and General Allenby’s staff. They’d built a friendship based on a willingness to break regulations, slip out of uniform and head out into the desert by car. Kerridge, who’d studied history at Oxford, was in search of ancient ruins to record his beloved hieroglyphs. Brooke, a natural scientist, was on the lookout for the famed Barbary lion and, along the Nile itself, basking crocodiles.
Kerridge, a career soldier, was now based up at Madingley, adjutant to the commanding officer. His voice was cultured, smooth. ‘Skulking in your dingy office at this hour, Brooke. Last night must have been a blessing. All that darkness by government order.’
‘Darkness in which you contrived to lose some barrage balloons,’ said Brooke. ‘That’s careless. The one I saw was the size of a bus. I’m afraid there’s more bad news, Rich. Very bad news.’
‘Christ, really?’ said Kerridge. ‘The proverbial shite has been hitting the fan since dawn. These things are supposed to be the cornerstone of our defences, Brooke, against the Hun. Here we are letting them drift over a town packed to the rafters with military personnel, civil servants, not to mention evacuees. One of the sodding things is still aloft. It missed Ely cathedral by three hundred yards. It’s still rising. The king’s up at Sandringham. If he catches sight of it there’ll be all hell to pay. So now what’s happened?’
Brooke heard Kerridge’s voice, muffled, before a door slammed.
‘Sorry, Brooke. Commanding Officer wants a briefing. Tell me the worst, and tell me quickly.’
Did Brooke imagine a series of sounds: the metal twist of the cap of a hip flask, the faintest smack of dry lips? Kerridge started most days with a medicinal ‘stiffner’.
The report on Brooke’s desk, which he now summarised for Kerridge, lacked the forensic detail they’d have both wanted but the broad thrust of events was brutally clear.
An American called Lux, a research fellow at Michaelhouse, had enjoyed a drink with colleagues at the Eagle public house after a lecture at the Galen Anatomy Building. He’d left at a few minutes before nine, saying he was returning to his rooms. A constable on duty reported seeing a man fitting Lux’s description – short, powerfully built, mid-twenties – passing the Senate House at just after the hour, no doubt heading for his college. But as Doric, the night porter, had reported, whilst he’d left with three fellow scientists, he had not returned before the gates had been locked.
There was evidence that Lux had encountered one of the drifting barrage balloons, or more precisely its webbing and trailing cables, on Senate House Passage. Broken tiles littered the passageway, a chimney pot had been demolished on the outer kitchen range of the nearest college, and a length of metal cable was entangled in the guttering. Several students reported hearing the tiles falling at shortly after the hour.
Lux’s body had been discovered by a woman walking her dog at just after six-thirty that morning, half a mile from the Senate House, on the riverbank. It was partly clothed, and had suffered several severe traumas. The phrase used by the constable attending the scene was instructive: He’d been torn apart. The woman had been given a sedative and taken home in a police car.
‘Save me the graphic detail,’ said Kerridge.
In Cairo, Kerridge had specialised in logistics and communications. Before the big push towards Jerusalem he’d filled vacant hours with one other duty: vetting field commanders’ requests from across the Middle East for acts of heroism to be marked by medals and commendations. Brooke had admired his ability to see the irony in this situation: that a man who effectively fought his war on paper had become the official arbiter of heroism. Kerridge had a gift for bureaucracy, a genius for intelligent administration and an aversion to the sight of blood.
Brooke had Lux’s wallet, which included his college pass, on his desk, as well as the American’s belt, the buckle of which depicted the Golden Gate Bridge at the entrance to San Francisco Bay, entangled with a length of material.
‘I’m no expert,’ said Brooke. ‘But it looks like latex, lightweight, stretchy.’
‘Colour?’
‘Silver. There’s some stitching too. I don’t think there’s much doubt, Rich. He’s had a close encounter with a barrage balloon. A lethal encounter.’
‘Right. Put out the sodding bunting. Not only do we let loose three barrage balloons, we manage to kill a scientist, a Yank Jew, I’m guessing. A good night’s work. You know what this means. Whitehall, the powers that be …’
Brooke tried to visualise the moment of death: the drifting balloon snaring Lux, lifting him up, dashing him against stone and brick, dragging him, hopefully senseless, across the rooftops, before the return to earth. Damp earth, at least: the sweet-smelling riverbank.
‘This can really happen?’ he asked.
‘Not the first time,’ said Kerridge. ‘It’s not the cabling here, I suspect, it’s the netting. Imagine a football goal without posts being trawled along the street. Once you’re tangled up, you’re not getting free until something gives.’
Brooke detected the intake of another snifter.
‘Do you really need to get involved in this, Brooke?’
Brooke was tempted to let the military deal with the death. War had left the police force decimated. The halt and the lame, and long-retired, had been requisitioned to fill holes in the establishment. CID as such amounted to two detective inspectors, one of whom was about to volunteer for the RAF, and four detective sergeants. In a real sense Brooke was CID, in that above him was a single chief inspector with onerous administrative duties, and a chief constable who saw his role as principally ceremonial. A turf war with the military was the last thing Brooke needed.
But Lux’s mangled body had been discovered on a public street, a world away from the theatre of war. Before he was reduced to a military statistic, Brooke felt Lux deserved a measure of civilian justice.
‘The wheels will have begun to turn,’ said Brooke. ‘The coroner’s been informed. You know the drill. I’ll need to get a statement from the officer responsible for the barrage balloons,’ said Brooke.
‘Swift-Lane’s the CO,’ said Kerridge. ‘But frankly he’s a bit above your pay grade, Brooke. And mine. Second in command is your man – Major Joelyn Stone. He was in charge of planning for the blackout, so it’s on his watch. RAF run the balloons, but there’s nobody senior here, and this place is supposed to be all about interservice liaison. I’ll fix it. I better sit in … Hold on …’
The line didn’t go dead, but there was a sense in which the call had been shuffled into an electronic holding pen. The faint echoes of other voices could be heard against an institutional hum.
The line crackled. ‘Brooke? Got to go. See you up here in an hour.’
&nb
sp; CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ralph Edison was Brooke’s new detective sergeant. Uniformed police officers switching to the detective branch always faced the challenge of becoming ‘plain clothes’, the protection of the insignia and the buttons, the stripes and the belt, swept aside. Most resorted to a strictly regulated version of ‘civvy street’, epitomised by a white shirt, black or navy-blue tie, dark two-piece suit and black leather shoes. (A tie could be purchased which simply clipped into the collar, removing the danger of being choked in the process of making an arrest.)
Sergeant Ralph Edison had found the transition more of a challenge than most. He had retired two years before the outbreak of the war after thirty years in uniform with the Borough. A whip-round on his last day at the Spinning House had produced enough cash to buy him a new set of tools for his allotment. Brooke recalled a short, gracious speech of thanks, which was remarkable for the fact that it gave the clear impression he was actually sorry to go. He had been called back to duty in the aftermath of conscription.
The suit still hung oddly from his rounded shoulders, the trouser legs too short, the shoes pinching. However, something about his calm, unhurried persona allowed him to project the concept of the uniform, even when it was long gone. A sense of confident authority radiated from his large, bony frame. Edison had a reputation for honest diligence, and a flair for dealing with ordinary people. He’d spent his last five years before retirement on the front desk at the Spinning House, on the day shift, a patient listener, the face of the Borough when the public called.
He paused now on the threshold of Brooke’s office, waiting to be given leave to enter.
‘Sit if you want to, Sergeant,’ said Brooke. ‘We don’t stand on the niceties here.’
Uniformed branch had run on rigid rules, reflecting a pervasive hierarchy. Edison had been a plain-clothes detective for exactly three weeks, and old habits lingered.
‘I’m just trying to sort out this incident last night, Sergeant,’ said Brooke. ‘The barrage balloons?’
‘I heard. And I saw the fire,’ said Edison, easing himself into a seat. ‘Up at the railway station? We got a good view from our back yard. My granddaughter thought it was Bonfire Night. Bloody balloons are dangerous … There’s hundreds over London, sir. Went down last week to see my son. All along the river, they were. Like clouds in uniform,’ he offered, shaking his head, sipping a mug of tea he’d brought with him.
‘Well, one of them killed someone last night, Sergeant. Right here in Cambridge. Proves your point.’
‘Good God,’ said Edison.
‘Anything else from the duty book?’ asked Brooke, keen to get on.
Edison gave him a concise summary of all other incidents logged overnight. Aside from a spate of traffic accidents, the hours of darkness had passed quietly.
‘A suspected suicide, too,’ he added, running a hand over his close-cut white hair. ‘Body found at Byron’s Pool. Male, fifties, decent country clothes, good shoes. He had a couple of bricks in his pockets to make sure. Uniformed constable attended after a local resident called it in. Poor bugger. Makes you wonder …’
‘Get me a time on the autopsy, will you?’ said Brooke, disturbed by the idea of death in such an idyllic spot. He’d once taken his son there for a swim, in the footsteps of the great poet, who’d haunted the spot as a student. The deep, green pool had a disturbing quality of apparently infinite depth.
Brooke stood and pulled up the blinds. Down in the yard stood the three lorries from Castle Hill, tailbacks down.
‘This is your priority, Sergeant. Any news on the drivers?’
Edison shook his head.
The padlocks had finally yielded to the bolt-cutters to reveal insulated interiors. Once the tailbacks had been let down, blood had run out in a steady trickle. The first two lorries had been packed with freshly slaughtered meat – beef, pork, lamb, fowl – which had been removed and distributed to several city centre butchers with cold rooms. Broken necks for the fowl, but neat gunshot wounds to the skull for the rest.
The real mystery was Turl’s truck. It was empty.
‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Edison, at his side.
‘Black market,’ said Brooke. ‘We all know meat rationing’s on the way. If you can bypass the slaughterhouses, the regulations, and stockpile enough, you can set the price, make a fortune. In business, Sergeant, it’s what they like to call a killing.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The barrier at Madingley Hall stayed resolutely down as Brooke flashed his warrant card from the police radio car. A redcap, bending down to make eye contact, peered into the detective’s tinted lenses. The day was clear and bright, the mist long burnt away, so Brooke had upgraded to the blue glass pair, which gave the hall’s manicured grounds a lush, exotic hue.
‘Would you mind, sir?’ asked the redcap.
Brooke slipped the glasses off, blinking in the light, revealing eyes the colour of falling water. The security was bizarrely tight, given he was driving a car with a light on top stencilled with the word POLICE.
The barrier flew up. To either side of the checkpoint stretched barbed wire: a double fence with a ten-foot gap between, topped with spikes. The sun glinted off a small watchtower in the distance, reflecting a gun, perhaps, or field glasses.
They swept through the grounds. Edison, left at the Spinning House to coordinate the hunt for the missing drivers, had expressed disappointment at missing the trip, as the gardens were by Capability Brown, the Georgian landscape genius. Brooke wondered how long the topiary, the parterre, the velvet lawns, the sickle-shaped lake, would survive in pristine condition under military control.
The medieval house lurked behind a Tudor facade of decorated brick. In the first minute Brooke spotted uniforms from all three of the services, plus Civil Defence, ARP, fire service, several motorcycle messengers and what looked like a gas decontamination team, loading up kit into an unmarked van.
Beyond a stone porch and open oak doors, a marble lobby led to a great panelled hall, apparently set aside as a make-do hangar. A deflated barrage balloon covered most of the floor of bare, polished boards, while at its edges women worked on their knees, sewing seams.
A sergeant took his name down on a clipboard and led him up an oak staircase to the first floor, into an office with double bay windows. Captain Kerridge sat on a wide window ledge, smoking.
Major Joelyn Stone, the deputy CO, introduced himself, but didn’t abandon his desk to shake hands, leaning over the blotter awkwardly. He directed Brooke to a chair and told Captain Kerridge to join them. Stone was thick-set, bull-necked, with a round bony head, upon which his hair had been ruthlessly barbered. He emitted a constant sense of irritation and impatience. Giving orders, and having them obeyed, had clearly become second nature.
The contrast with Kerridge – handsome, loose-limbed, relaxed, with oiled black hair brushed back – was pointed.
‘How can I help?’ he said.
‘Just routine, I hope,’ said Brooke. ‘There will be an autopsy, and I’ll need to report on the basic facts. The coroner will need to be sure in his own mind that there will be no repetition of events. Otherwise, he might issue a rider to his judgement, a warning if you like, of a more general nature. That might have repercussions, and would certainly make the newspapers.’
‘Accidents happen,’ said Stone briskly. ‘I can assure you it will not reoccur. The military details are a bit technical, as well as classified …’
Kerridge shifted in his seat. ‘Detective Inspector Brooke was in Palestine, sir. Awarded the DSO. He served with General Allenby. I think we can rely on him to be discreet. And he knows enough of the science: barrage balloons were used extensively on the Suez Canal to deter Italian air raids. Perhaps he could see your report to the War Office?’
Stone licked his lips. ‘Palestine, eh? Technology was very different then, of course. They flew balloons in a line to support a net, high enough to stop the incoming enemy planes, which wasn’t very high
. What we call the operational ceiling. I was on the Western Front and we set ’em at 1,500 feet. This time round the bombers are a lot higher, twice that if not more. We need to be able to run the balloons up and down on winches above the clouds, and set them precisely at different levels, in formation. It’s a highly sophisticated operation. And we’re experimenting here with various innovations.’
‘You were on the Western Front?’ asked Brooke.
‘The Somme – both times. And then Cambrai.’ The major held up the hand he’d had hidden below the desk to reveal two missing fingers, a metal sheath over the middle digit. ‘Sniper blew the gun out of my hand.’
Brooke was an aficionado of leaders. Edmund ‘Bull’ Allenby, his CO in the desert, had been a man of extraordinary temper and energy. T. E. Lawrence, despite the showy native costume, was a lesson in stillness and internal resolve. Both had won the affection of their men because they were genuine, in that their official personas were merely extensions of some core truth.
Stone, he judged, was a bit of a fraud. However, Brooke was more than prepared to accept that he might be a highly effective fraud, and that the successful military personality often incorporated several known psychological flaws.
The name Joelyn Stone had rung a bell. A scandal? He’d have to track down chapter and verse.
‘We’ve got nearly two hundred balloons up in this zone,’ said Stone. ‘Another hundred down the line towards London. Various technical innovations are being trialled here for the War Office, as I said. It’s early days. Bound to be some hiccoughs. The cables failed, as did one of the winches. The engineers are on the case now.’