by John Gardner
‘Mrs Axton was talkative. Remembered the names of the grand ladies and gents who were guests of Mr and Mrs Ascoli.’
‘Yes,’ Tommy drawing it out in his drawl.
‘Well, his old chum Sir Willoughby Sands was a regular visitor; his daughter, Thetis Palmer from King’s Lynn, also a regular, pretty young thing, still at school but drank wine with the best of them, I’m paraphrasing of course…’
‘Of course.’
‘And more recently, and most regularly, the whole crew of one of those American bombers, “the Flying Fortification things”, as Mrs Axton put it.’
‘Ah.’
‘Bomber they called Wild Angel. Very jolly these men were. Fair made our Juliet blush with their flirting. Flirted with Mrs Ascoli an’ all. Not all of them officers either, officers and NCOs all mixed in together, didn’t seem right.’ So Mrs Axton again.
‘Did they now?’ Tommy took another bite of sandwich and Suzie, nibbling hers, thought how good they were, wouldn’t mind a bit of salad cream herself though, liked it in spite of what Mummy always said.
By this time, Molly had pushed a new folder across the table, lovely crimson colour, the new folder, bulging, wouldn’t lie flat. ‘I’ve started going through the desks, drawers, papers. Came across these, locked in a small private safe in Max Ascoli’s study.’
‘Left unlocked?’ Tommy looking a shade stern, suspicious.
‘No. Locked. Dennis Free did the honours. He’s excellent with locks. Locks and firearms, very much his thing.’
The letters, in both pockets of the folders, were still in their envelopes, two packages of them tied with ribbon, same kind of pink ribbon they used on legal briefs. Tommy pulled out one of the piles, started picking at the ribbon, began undoing it.
Suzie watched him, saw the extraordinary concentration and wondered why. She shifted to look on the first envelope, addressed to Max Ascoli, Sands-Ascoli, Lincoln’s Inn, London. Above it the date stamp. 4th June 1941, King’s Lynn, and marked ‘Private & Personal. For Mr Ascoli’s eyes only.’
Tommy slid the first envelope out, fingers going inside to pull out the folded four pages; saw the salutation, ‘My Dearest Darling Max’, looked at the date below the scrawled address 3rd June 1941, then flicked the pages over to glance at the signature. Tommy went still as a rock. Suzie saw it as well and felt herself go cold. June 1941, signed, ‘I love you ever, P xxxxx’. She saw Tommy’s right eyebrow levitate, and he started to push the letter back using his fingertips, turning the whole pile over: removing his hand and glancing sideways at Suzie.
‘Right. Molly, anything else, anything at all?’
‘Not really, Chief. Crime scene’s well secured. Oh, one thing,’ looking pained. ‘That local bobby, Titcombe.’
‘Make a good detective according to Colonel Matthews,’ superior smile.
‘All very well for you, Chief, but I think he believes the colonel. He’s been bothering seven kinds of hell out of me, “Anything I can do to help, Sarge?… I think that looks a bit dodgy, Sarge… On the Somme, Sarge, we always…” Know what I mean, Chief?’
‘Tell him to bugger off.’
‘Takes no notice, Chief. Thinks he’s fireproof. Well, you’ll see for yourself tomorrow when you’re there.’
‘Won’t be there, Molly, not tomorrow.’
‘Oh?’
‘No, you’re in charge of the crime scene. We’ll be over in King’s Lynn most of tomorrow. Sleep well.’ Dismissed. As they reached the door, ‘Oh, Suzie, yes, can you hang on a minute. Need a quick word.’
Molly smiled a know-it-all smirk as she closed the door behind her.
‘You see who that letter was from?’ Tommy asked without looking at her. He was undoing the ribbon on the second bundle and spreading them all out, fingertips only, across the little light oak card table at the foot of his bed. Said, ‘This is going to take a long time.’
‘All night. What’re we in for tomorrow: King’s Lynn?’
‘Seeing the daughter, Thetis, and her mother who may well be the “P” as in “I love you ever, P”.’
‘Or somebody who wants us to think she’s the “P” in “I love you ever, P”.’
‘Good girl,’ he smiled, the terrible smile again. ‘You’re really getting the hang of things, heart.’
Condescending bugger, Suzie thought but didn’t say anything.
‘That’s it tomorrow, P and Thetis?’
‘If our friend Wills comes up smiling we could have another visit to make…’
‘Oh, who…?’
‘No, not the famous Chinaman, O Who, someone else, Jack Bennett. Any the wiser?’
‘No.’
‘Good. So we really can’t take all night. Want to be fresh for it. Anyway, what would people say?’
‘Selected highlights, then?’
‘Gems from the letters of P. Yes. Let’s see what the sequence is…’ He started to sort the envelopes, fingertips only on the pointed edges, arranging from the date stamps. They ran from October 1939 until last week, 6th August 1942 — between fifty and sixty letters in all. ‘I’ll look at the beginning and the end.’ Drawing two of the envelopes towards him. ‘The Alpha and Omega. You pull out a couple at random.’
Suzie reached out, found one envelope dated August 1940 and another in December 1941, manipulating them with the tips of her fingers.
‘Woa!’ Tommy unleashed a minor roar. ‘I’ve got the whole thing. Love is in the air. Romance hits home. Listen to this.’ He carried on reading: ‘“Darling, darling, darling” — all the darlings, eh.’
So angels were dining at the Ritz tonight. Tonight it happened, as I knew it would. Max, I have kept the faith as you told me. I have waited, calmly, didn’t even believe everything when I saw you had married. You said, wait and I’ll come, and there you were, dining alone at the Ritz with the other angels, and I saw you and knew the moment had arrived when you looked up and smiled. Did you know I’d be there with my agent, Johnny? Oh, Max, the waiting’s been long and hard…
Tommy paused, looked up at her. ‘Well, heart, if these’re the real thing old Max Ascoli was a bit of a dog. October 3rd 1939.’ He bowed over the pages on the table and moved his lips, muttering the rest of the text.
“‘You haven’t changed one jot. Dear God it’s so good to have you close again. Is next week going to be okay? Age certainly hasn’t wearied you, Maxie.’”
‘Maxie, eh, hot bloody Maxie…’
What was it Willoughby had said? They were immersed in each other, Max and Paula.
Suzie said it didn’t seem to have changed by the summer of 1940 either, ‘Just when we were moving towards our own little moment of truth, Tom.’
‘Yes, and wonderful that was. Been meaning to ask you, heart, will you marry me?’
‘I thought you said we couldn’t because of being moved apart by the powers that be.’
‘I’ve had a word with the powers that be, my darling. They’ve promised that won’t happen.’
‘When was this?’
‘End of last week, heart. Been waiting for a suitably romantic moment.’
‘Tommy.’
Later, lying on the bed, Suzie thinking about creeping back to her room, Tommy said, ‘This thing’s getting more like an Agatha Christie every hour.’ He was back to using the Eton drawl. ‘Like the Poirot things, fellow wearing out all his little grey cells. You wrote this in a book, they wouldn’t believe you. It’s so Agatha Christie it’s almost confusing — a young reach-for-the-stars barrister has an incredible reputation in his early twenties, falls in love with a suspect he helps clear, guaranteed true love for ever. Then thinks twice about it when he finds out she could just be guilty after all, and is also carrying his child. Meets and marries fabulous American girl and ends up shot to death with his wife and son, their faces blown away. What a story, especially as he’s come from a dodgy old Italian ice-cream family. It’s got all the elements of a great saga, but how do we untangle the facts? Now it seems he may have been having
a ring-a-ding-a-doozy with the first girl. How do we sort this one out, heart?’
She said she didn’t know but she’d sleep on it and could they, perhaps, start piecing together the letters because they appeared interesting in more ways than one. She didn’t mention the fact that she had started to wonder about actually marrying him.
Tommy said, ‘Maybe, heart.’ Then he said, ‘Good night,’ turned over and went to sleep. She drifted off as well, woke at four in the morning, tiptoed out and went back to her room. Slept like a large log.
*
There was a window high up in the wall opposite his bed, first thing he saw whenever he opened his eyes as soon as the door was unlocked and opened. As ever, he saw it this morning, the daylight slamming in between the bars and the safety netting on both sides of the window. There was no escaping from Saxon Hall.
Mr Edgehill was on duty, supervising the medication and the ablutions. Nobody was ever left alone during morning ablutions, but Mr Martin Edgehill was decent, a nice bloke, treated you right. He saw Golly take his two pills (well, he only really took one of them but nobody could tell, the spare went into the seam he’d picked open in the khaki battle-dress trousers they wore during the day). As soon as Golly was out of bed, Mr Edgehill issued him with his safety razor. Patients were not allowed to clean their razors after shaving; the screws just took them back and cleaned them for you after you finished, washed and dried them while you had your breakfast.
Breakfast was served at the big round table in the association area away from the cubicles. Golly saw it as he walked to his place, other patients having a laugh with Mr Edgehill and Mr Colls, who served them. ‘I’ll have the kedgeree, please, my man.’ ‘Just toast and coffee for me my good fellow.’ They all did it, using their version of smart upper-crust accents.
This morning, Golly didn’t say anything, his mind focused on the postcard lying next to his place on the table: picture of somewhere called Bath Abbey. ‘I’ve visited this lovely church today. Hope you are okay. With love Auntie Harriet.’ And three XXXs and an O. Three kisses and a hug. He’d take the hug, please, and all the kisses, lots of tongue, licking around his teeth. Lavender could do all that and he’d get it soon. The card meant it would be tomorrow night. Later he’d go through what he had to do. Get the sliver of soap and the ball of tobacco out of their hiding places, and then…
‘What’s the matter, you not hungry then, Golly?’ Mr Martin Edgehill barking at him, pulling him from his secret thoughts. ‘Come on, Golly. It’s your favourite. Kippers today. Think of all them fishermen risking their lives to get kippers for your breakfast.’
‘Yes, Mr Edgehill. Sorry, Mr Edgehill. Pass the vinegar, please, Parks.’
Parks was in for killing two kiddies. None of them really liked Parks. Maybe, Golly thought, maybe he should… Then he saw Mr Edgehill’s paper and stopped, frightened.
‘Can I have a look at your paper, Mr Edgehill?’ he asked after they’d cleared away. They were allowed to read and do things on their own for half-an-hour after breakfast.
‘Don’t throw it away, Golly. I want to take that home when I go off duty.’
He had been right. There they were, damned great picture of them. Headline on the page said, TOP DETECTIVE INVESTIGATES FAMILY KILLING IN TADDMARTEN. The picture showed all three of them, three people he hated. The lady policeman he’d tried to kill with the wire, the big bastard of a copper who’d wrestled him to the ground — bloody Livermore, gave evidence at the trial. And the other lady policeman, the one who had a gun pointed at him. Great nasty hairy woman.
Taddmarten wasn’t that far away from where he’d be going. Had Lavender arranged it? Did Lavender want him to get the bastards this time? He’d soon know. He’d know tomorrow night.
Chapter Nine
‘Mummy will be down in a minute.’ Thetis Palmer, slim as a lath, brown as a berry, eyes with a sparkle, hair like spun gold — all the clichés — smiled at them, asked them to sit down, said she knew what it was about: Daddy was dead; didn’t seem shaken or sad about it; didn’t have the level of grief they’d expect; but seemed exceptionally nervous; nerves shattered like broken bone.
Blue eyes and hair the colour of champagne, Freddy Ascoli had said, and he was right. Pity about the nerves, fingernails bitten ragged, hands unsteady, fiddling.
She wore a blue Airtex shirt and a pleated skirt, sky-blue colour, skirt ending just above the knee, swung as she walked, pre-war skirt.
Later, on their way back to Taddmarten, Tommy was to remark on the sixteen-year-old. ‘Advanced for her age. Eminently rompworthy.’ And Suzie nearly slapped him. But it was true, very adult for her sixteen years, as they were to discover. ‘Well,’ Tommy had added, ‘give it another blackberry season, eh?’
But now, Suzie thought, here she was, Thetis, nervous as a newt out of water, eyes roaming, not looking them in the face, hands restless, her heart, her sixteen-year-old heart, turning over and over and over, like to bet on it, Suzie would.
The rooms in these smart middle-class houses were all very similar, high ceilings. Beautifully furnished, decorated with flair. No photos of the Ascolis here though, except some of Thetis Palmer, an Ascoli really, growing up with a tall, kind of statuesque woman, long hair falling down one side of her face like Veronica Lake. And there was one with Max, her father, standing with a hand on her shoulder.
On the walls there were paintings, almost certainly Paula Palmer’s work, spare, bleak, wind-swept beaches and cliffs with a lot of sea in there, pewter crawling up to the gunboat sky.
The door opened, nice solid oak door, big brass door knob, and in came the statuesque woman from the photos; the one with the red hair down to her shoulders, her body straight and slender moving inside the tailored clothes — clothes chosen to set off the body: navy-blue dress with white polka dots, neat neckline with a white collar. Over the dress she wore a matching coat, kind of matinee jacket, short, made of the same light silky material, dead smart, close-fitting dress and a loose jacket, pearls around her throat, matching earrings, and on her feet lovely navy court shoes, looked Italian, bought before the war like Thetis’s skirt, couldn’t get stuff with all that material in these utility days.
Red hair.
You know how Italians can become obsessed by redheads, Willoughby Sands talking about Cynthia, Max’s mother.
Hadn’t thought of Paula Palmer as a redhead somehow. Now Suzie could see why Max’s and Paula’s affair had been so passionate, all-embracing, obsessive.
It was not what you expected of an artist, a painter. An artist you expected to find in an old skirt and shirt, dabbed around with paint, maybe brushes pushed into her hair and a spot of paint on the nose, possibly gym shoes. Artists didn’t usually come smart county, but this one did.
‘You all right, darling?’ putting an arm round Thetis, whose eyes had just started to brim a little as Paula Palmer held out the other hand to Tommy, more to be kissed than to shake, and introduced herself, ‘I’m Paula Palmer, Thetis’s mother, how do you do?’ voice husky to match the sexy long legs, waiting for Tommy to introduce himself and then Suzie.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Look, does Thetis have to stay for this? She’s upset enough as it is.’
Really?
‘I would like a word with her,’ Tommy said, ‘an official word,’ being gentle, making it sound like a bit of routine, so Suzie moved over behind the girl, indicating that she’d look after her. Tommy introducing them both.
‘Official?’ Paula’s hair was drawn back in a bun that on some people would look severe, not on Paula with the full body of hair.
‘Has to be official,’ Tommy said with a smile. ‘It’s a murder, triple murder…rather serious.’
Paula said she realized that but did they have to subject Thetis to an interrogation?
‘Not an interrogation,’ Tommy told her. ‘More a quick question and answer session, quick chat. Quiet and easy, couple of questions and they’d be done.’
‘She
’s so young, I just thought…’
‘Sixteen,’ Tommy said. ‘Sweet sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds’re serving in the Home Guard, being taken on training flights in the ATC, trying to join up in the WAAF, ATS and WRNS, being devious about it, fiddling their ages.’
Come to think of it, how old was Paula Palmer? Looked late thirties if that; more likely to be forties with a sixteen-year-old daughter. Incredible, she looked fresh and young, fit, almost a gym teacher type.
‘Thetis,’ Tommy began. ‘Thetis, when did you see your father last, when?’
‘Two weeks ago. Weekend, Daddy had a dinner party, some of the American boys came over.’ No hesitation but shaky.
Tommy nodded. ‘From the aerodrome, Taddmarten?’
‘Yes, a crew that Daddy and Jenny’d got to know, they called their Flying Fortress Wild Angel. They were nice. Treated me like an adult. Going to give me a tour round Wild Angel. We laughed a lot. Their captain had known Jenny Ascoli years ago…’
‘In Virginia, at the University, Charlottesville,’ Paula supplied and Tommy behaved as though he hadn’t heard her.
‘You speak to any of the boys later, after the party? On the phone? Get notes from them?’
‘No, but Daddy was going to have another party… This coming weekend… They were all going to be there… Then…then going to the dance on the base — the aerodrome… A hop the Yanks called it… Celebration Hop…’
And she began to cry.
‘Come,’ Tommy said, soft voice. And again, ‘Come…’ an arm went out and Suzie realized that he hadn’t a clue, didn’t know how to comfort the girl, so she moved in and was somewhat roughly pushed out of the way by Paula, ‘I’ll see to her…,’ arms round her, hugging her tightly, so Suzie stepped back.
‘You’re all right Thetis? Okay? It’s all right, darling, I’m here.’ Paula close, cheek to cheek.
‘For the record,’ Tommy said, voice up, slightly louder. ‘Just for the record, where were you, Thetis, Sunday night, Monday morning?’ Trying to get away from the swell of emotion, pressing on with things.