It was evident from the grim look on Max’s face that he did know the name of General Sir Clifford Monroe, formerly Lieutenant-Colonel Monroe of his regiment.
Max’s hands were cold and damp. He felt more than ever as if he were being guided, slowly and very politely, into that damned cell. Or to the gallows. “Uh…”
The sergeant watched intently, waiting to record a confession or some comment that would turn around and trap Max.
Max gritted his jaw. He felt foolish. They’d used his egotism against him, allowing him to talk his way into condemnation. “Yes. Monroe was my commanding officer.”
“At battalion level.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Now?” Max said. “Now I believe he’s Chief of the Imperial General Staff.”
Longford gave the nod to Pierce, who again left the room.
Max could hear some distant muttering, and then the door opened and Pierce entered, followed by a tall, straight-backed man in the uniform of a general of the army.
Max felt his stomach fall.
General Monroe had flinty eyes and a moustache that was bushy, but less like Kitchener’s and more in the manner of Earl Haig, whom the general was often heard admiring. When anyone pointed out that Haig ordered futile attacks that cost tens of thousands of Allied lives, General Monroe would harrumph and say: “He got the job done, didn’t he?”
Max’s own opinion of Haig was as forthright, but a little more detailed and considerably more offensive.
Max was about to stand and salute the general, then remembered that he was a civilian now, so to hell with it.
Longford offered the general a chair, which Monroe declined. He stood to Max’s left side, creaking in his leather shoes. Pierce had returned to his own desk. Max felt cornered, literally.
“General, thank you for coming down,” Longford said. “Sir, do you recognise the name of Crawford, at all?”
“Crawford,” Monroe said, his voice seeming to bellow in the small room. “I don’t believe so.”
“In fact,” Longford was saying to Max, “the War Office has responded to our request. Apparently, there was nobody called Crawford on service in your regiment at any time during the war. There was a Lawford, and a Crawley. But no Crawford.”
“I never said there was, if you recall,” Max said.
“Yes, sir,” Longford said, hardly bothering to sound convinced. “General Monroe, do you know this man seated here?”
Max felt the general’s eyes piercing him, but stared straight ahead.
“Yes. I recognise him.”
“Sir, when I contacted you earlier, I mentioned that Major Frederick Rice was missing. I believe you were aquainted with the major.”
“He was a company commander in my battalion during the war. Further than that, I’d known him for years before. We’ve been friends for years.”
“Can you think whether the major might have had any enemies?”
Max started to feel faint. It was a tactic, he knew now, of Longford’s to do this; to gradually increase the pressure and observe the results. But knowing the tactic made things worse, because he felt the pressure increase, and fought to maintain an even composure, keeping eye contact with Longford. But he couldn’t hide the physical effects. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure Longford and Pierce must hear it. He tried to keep his breathing shallow, through his nose, when he longed to gulp in lungfuls of oxygen.
“As far as I know,” General Monroe said, “Major Rice has no enemies in his lifetime, with one exception: this man, Lieutenant Dalton.”
“And why would that be, sir?”
“Rice believes, as do I, that Dalton was responsible for the death of another officer, an old friend of Rice’s and mine, in fact. And I’ll go further. He believes, as do I, that Dalton committed murder.”
Then there was no sound, no movement, save the thumping in Max’s chest. Not even the smoke from Longford’s pipe was moving now; it was a cloud, a pall over the room, floating there, like Pierce’s words earlier: I died in hell. They called it Passchendaele.
Yes, Max thought, I died in hell.
And then there was a soft, indecisive knock at the door. They all heard it, but nobody moved, nobody spoke and Max began to wonder whether he’d imagined it.
He wanted desperately to light a cigarette, much as a condemned man has a single last chance to act before the bullets hit. But Max didn’t have a cigarette. Besides, he feared his hands, by their trembling, would display his guilt in a way that nothing else could. He waited for someone to speak, to respond to the person at the door.
They waited, and it seemed to Max that this might be another trap, a signal, perhaps. He glanced at Pierce, who was staring straight at him, a cold anger in his eyes. Max held Pierce’s gaze for a few seconds, then turned slowly to Longford, who was now filling his pipe with fresh tobacco.
The knock came again, louder this time; bang – bang – bang, like the knocking at the gate, each blow sending a greater shock through Max, each indicating his guilt, each signalling some hidden secret.
Then the door opened slowly, and a uniformed police sergeant peered in and said, “Sir, Mr Dalton’s solicitor is here.”
And Max almost cried with relief.
Longford said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge the sergeant’s words. He continued to fill his pipe, to tap the tobacco down and light it.
Max turned fully around in his seat and saw Mr Bacon standing by the sergeant’s side. He briefly removed his hat and bowed his head to Max, and the sheer relief that ran through Max was unlike anything he’d experienced since the war had ended.
Then Mr Bacon replaced his hat, turned his attention to Inspector Longford, completely ignoring Pierce and the glowering General Monroe. Mr Bacon’s demeanor had changed abruptly from the anonymous, mousy affability to one of hardness and coldness, and yet so subtly had it happened that it seemed to Max he must’ve imagined it. And then Mr Bacon spoke, and Max realised he hadn’t imagined it at all.
“Inspector,” Mr Bacon said, “I trust you’ve finished your interrogation of my client.”
“Sir?” Inspector Longford said. “Your client is here because of certain unexplained coincidences.”
“He’s here,” Pierce said, “because he’s been lying to us.”
Mr Bacon appeared not to have heard these words. Instead, he said, “I’ve spoken with Mrs Dalton, who told me that you’d threatened my client with arrest if he didn’t come here voluntarily to answer questions. Now, as we both know, Inspector, if you’d had enough evidence to arrest my client, you would have done so. Also, I noted that there hasn’t been a search of my client’s premises. Again, as you’re fully aware, any basic investigation following an arrest would certainly require a thorough search of the home of the arrested man. That there has been no such search, and because you would have had to apply to a magistrate for a warrant to search, indicates clearly to me that the magistrate in question declined the application, probably on the clear basis that you do not have sufficient reasons to suspect my client.”
Inspector Longford listened to all this quietly, and with no discernible change in his even expression. Sergeant Pierce was affecting boredom, although the greater his affectation became (yawning, for example), the more it became evident that his anger was increasing. General Monroe’s face was red, and his sharp cold eyes were fixed on Max.
“Now,” Mr Bacon said, “my client is leaving with me.”
At that, he tapped Max on the shoulder, and they left together.
Chapter Eighteen
When he came home, Martha was waiting. He entered the sitting room and saw her sitting, her knees together, her hands clasped together in her lap. He stopped short, and just looked at her and saw the anguish in her face. If he’d never known her before this moment, he would’ve fallen in love wi
th her then and there.
She stood up and walked towards them self-consciously. When she arrived at Mr Bacon, she kissed him on the cheek.
Mr Bacon fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, finally producing a business card, which he handed to Martha, telling her that he’d added his home telephone number.
“Should you ever need to see me,” he said. “I mean, uh, should you ever need me. To help. Your husband.”
Afterwards, Harold Bacon walked home, very slowly, unaware of what he was doing. When he got back to his small terraced house in West Brompton, he removed his hat and coat, sat down, turned on the wireless and spent the next two hours listening to the music of the BBC orchestra and the Bronkhurst Trio, not hearing a thing.
After Mr Bacon had gone, Martha put her arms around Max, resting her cheek on his chest. “Max,” she said softly. “Max.”
He kissed her on the top of her head, then gently pushed her away from him.
“What’s happening?” Martha said. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“There was an old company commander in my battalion,” Max said, calmly. “Man called Rice. He’s missing. That’s why they pulled me in.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. Do they think you’ve hidden him here?”
“It’s too coincidental, you see? Something’s going on. And they don’t know what it is, but I’m the common link. And they’re right. And I don’t know what’s going on.”
“We’ll find the answer, darling. I promise.”
But Martha saw that Max wasn’t listening. Instead, that wave from far away, deep out in the deep ocean, was threatening again to drown him.
“Sit down,” Max said, his voice dark. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“No. No, Max. Not now. Tell me when you’re ready. I trust you to tell me some day.”
She kissed him quickly, almost as if she were doing so for the first time – nervously, coyly. “Flora’s still here,” she said. “She said she had to clean the oven, but I don’t believe her. I think she couldn’t go home without knowing that you were okay.”
Max smiled, forlornly, as it seemed to Martha. “Well,” he said, “she might’ve been telling the truth about the oven. But, still, I’ll go and see her, send her home.”
“Then we’ll sit here, together, quietly and listen to music, nothing too jazzy, maybe some Brahms. And tomorrow we’ll find that hotel that your friend Burton stayed at, and perhaps things will be all right.”
“Perhaps.”
Max went into the kitchen, where Flora was half-heartedly mopping some pans. Max cleared his throat and that resulted in Flora flinging a pan halfway across the room, which led to more cursing. But when she turned and saw Max, she started to cry, from relief, mostly.
Max soothed her and sent her home, giving her money for a cab and a half-crown so that she could treat herself to something.
Martha had settled down with a Martini, and had turned on the gramophone. She was listening to the Adagio from Schubert’s String Quintet in C. Her eyes were soft, resting on a point in the middle of nowhere.
She often listened to Schubert when she felt sad. It was one of those things that Max knew but of which Martha was unaware, so that even though, as now, she smiled at him, he knew it was a front. Anyway, her eyes told the truth.
Max got a drink for himself, and sat beside her, close to her. They listened to the music for some time, both allowing themselves to hide, for a while, in its melancholy spirit.
Chapter Ninteen
The next day was Monday, and bright.
Martha went to the front window, flung open the curtains and stood for a while, watching bustling life pass beneath. She felt stupidly optimistic, although she wasn’t sure why that would be. It was true that she didn’t like Sundays. They always seemed so claustrophobic to her, so dull and lifeless. Mondays were infinitely better. She could stand here at the window and watch activity, movement, life. It was as if there were now possibilities open to them, things they could do.
When Max had bathed and shaved and dressed, he went into the kitchen where Martha had already made him coffee and scrambled egg on toast.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “We need to be logical about things. That’s what’s missing – logicality.”
“Is that a word?” Max said.
“I don’t know. Anyway, that’s what we’re going to do. Now, where do we start? Where would an investigator start?”
“Well, first, we have to know why Burton’s identification was under the name of Crawford. And then we need to know why he had me in his notebook.”
“I think the first point is obvious,” Martha said. “There’s only one reason why someone would use a false name – to disguise criminal activity.”
“You know, you’re pretty good.”
“Yes. I know.”
“But it doesn’t have to be criminal. What if he were having an affair?”
“Well, let’s say illicit activity, then.”
“But why me?”
Martha thought about that for a moment, a vertical crease between her eyebrows. “Well,” she said, “we know he trusts you. Perhaps he wasn’t sure who else he could trust. And he must know you’re a journalist, so maybe he had a story to tell. If only you could remember.”
Martha frowned and put that crease between her eyebrows again. She continued, “First thing is the hotel. We need to find out where your friend was staying. We can do that because we know his real name. The police might not know that yet, so we can go and search his room and leave without anyone finding out.”
“Are you sure about this? Shouldn’t we—”
“Yes. I’m sure. First thing.”
“Okay.”
“Then we’ll go to The Lion and see what we can find out about your visit on Friday.”
So that was what they did.
It took half an hour of telephoning before they finally located the hotel, which was called the Alderney, a middle-range place on Ebury Street.
As Martha was collecting her coat and handbag, Max was thinking. “How will we get into the room?” he said.
Martha, who had also been thinking, smiled and said, “Trust me.”
Chapter Twenty
A few minutes after Max and Martha had left their building and departed in a cab, two men crossed the road and walked through the open street door. They quickly climbed the few flights of stairs. When they exited the stairwell, they glanced up and down the corridor and, without speaking, moved towards the left and walked slowly until they were in front of number eighteen.
A short time later, a dark-haired, slightly overweight young man finished climbing the stairs, sweating heavily in his thick woollen suit. He took a moment to get some breath back into his lungs and to wipe his face with a handkerchief.
The young man’s name was Eric Thorpe and he worked as an assistant butcher to Mr Stone. He hoped, one day, to be a butcher himself, and to rent a shop somewhere nice and quiet, maybe even outside of London. As a boy, he’d once been to Southend for a trip to the sea, and thereafter regarded the place as about the nearest to Eden he could imagine – people on days out, having fun; a promenade by the sea; fish and chips and pubs; even a pier.
As he padded down the carpeted hallway, imagining a happy life in Southend with Flora, Eric noticed two men standing outside a door. One man was leaning against the wall, his back to Eric, while the other was bent over, and seemed to be peeping through the keyhole. Eric stopped for a moment to consider what he was looking at. Then the man who was standing reached into his pocket and pulled something out. It took Eric a moment to understand what the object was, at which point he said, “Oi.”
The two men stood upright and turned, and Eric saw he’d made a terrible mistake.
The man who’d been leaning against the wall was tall and lean, with
a sharp-edged face and hard eyes and the kind of lithe, sinewy body that immediately made him seem dangerous. His companion was shorter and broad, with very short blonde hair and a face that was too pale, even allowing for the British winter just past. He had a blank look in his eyes.
The tall man pressed a stud and the flick knife’s blade snapped out, gleaming silver, cold and merciless.
“Go away,” the blonde man said in a soft, even voice.
Eric was suddenly filled with rage. He charged forward and reached the thin man in less time than he would’ve thought possible. Using his weight and momentum, he butted the man on his chin. The two of them crashed to the ground, Eric landing on top and slamming his fist into the man’s head as fast and often as he could.
Beneath him, the man struggled but couldn’t get purchase. He cursed and kicked and snarled and spat venom, but Eric was heavy, and had the man pinned.
Then Eric felt a jolt of electric pain hit him in the ribs and ride around his body in a spasm. He struggled to breathe and felt himself being hoisted up and thrown aside. He hit the floor heavily, the air leaving his lungs in a gasp. He felt something wet on his chest, and an ache that went through his stomach and came out at his spine.
He tried to stand, fearing an attack now would leave him defenceless. He managed to get up in stages, and only then realised he was alone. He tried to knock on the door of number eighteen, but didn’t make it, slumping instead to the floor and resting with his back to the wall. He felt dizzy and sick, and was struggling to breathe.
Flora, who’d heard the commotion, opened the door and gasped when she saw Eric outside. He tried to smile to her, but what appeared on his face was more frightening than comforting. Then Flora saw a brown-red stain on Eric’s white shirt. Unable to speak, she pointed to it.
“Bugger,” Eric said. “They’ve cut up me heart.”
When Flora heard her (almost) beloved say that, her face went a strange pale colour. Eric looked up to see her collapse in a heap and wondered what on earth was happening. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed the pig’s heart, which was wrapped in paper and was now probably ruined. He stuffed it back in his pocket and went about reviving Flora.
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