‘Do you know why your father-in-law was so angry?’
Grace Lukasz nodded. ‘You have to understand, this is oplatek time, the time for forgiveness and reconciliation. It means a lot to Zygmunt. We all know it will be his last oplatek, and he needs to leave everything straight.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t think you do,’ said Grace. She wiped her hands on a tissue and crumpled it into a tight ball. ‘In spite of oplatek, I think Zygmunt found he couldn’t forgive. I think he realized it wasn’t in his heart to forgive Andrew – and that was what made him so angry. I was frightened what Andrew meant to do when he left. He’s in trouble, isn’t he? I just know he’s mixed up with the wrong people.’
Cooper found Peter Lukasz waiting for his wife to come out from making her statement. He looked grey and worried, but there was an air of resignation about him, too. He looked as if he knew what Grace would be saying in his statement, and there was nothing he could do about it.
‘Mr Lukasz, could you answer a question for me?’ said Cooper.
‘What is it?’
‘I wonder if you could tell me when the Dom Kombatanta was built?’
Lukasz’s mouth fell open a little. It wasn’t what he’d expected. ‘Well, the original building was put up a few years after the war, when a Polish community first began to develop in Edendale.’
‘So where did the money come from to build it?’
‘The money?’
‘It must have cost quite a few thousand pounds. Where did it come from?’
‘Donations,’ said Lukasz. ‘Donations from the Polish community. Everybody put in a share, I suppose.’
‘Some more than others, perhaps.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I’m wondering whether there was a particular benefactor, someone who was able to put a large amount of money in. It could make all the difference.’
‘You’d have to ask Stefan Janicki. He’s the treasurer. He might still have the records.’
‘I will.’
‘What does it matter, anyway? There have been lots of Poles who have made a success in business. Why shouldn’t they put money into something that benefits their community?’
‘No reason at all, I expect.’
‘My cousin Tadeusz Kulczyck has contributed quite a lot for the recent improvements,’ said Lukasz. ‘He paid for the new stage and the toilet block.’
‘Is he here in Edendale?’
‘He doesn’t live locally, but he visits us when he can. Tadeusz is an architect,’ said Lukasz. ‘He designed the Dom Kombatanta in Ottawa.’
‘As in Ottawa, Canada?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your cousin Tadeusz is Canadian?’
‘And why not? There are plenty of Poles in Canada.’
Cooper thought he was telling the truth. There were probably Polish communities everywhere, with long and indestructible roots, like bindweed. He remembered the old men with their closed faces, still oozing loyalty and determination. Hitler had mocked these people, calling them Sikorski’s Tourists. But Walter Rowland said he preferred to have them on his side. Cooper wondered how he could get the Poles on his side, too. But, of course, Hitler had taught him that lesson already – what they needed was a common enemy.
‘I have one more thing to ask of you,’ said Cooper. ‘This is more in the way of a favour.’
‘Really?’
‘Did your father ever mention a man called Walter Rowland? He was a member of the RAF rescue team who attended the Lancaster crash.’
‘I think I know who you mean.’
‘As it happens, he lives near to your church.’
‘Yes? And what’s this favour?’
‘I wondered if you would visit him,’ said Cooper. ‘I just … well, I wondered if you would visit him.’
Lukasz kept a puzzled silence. Cooper thought he must have put the request badly. In fact, he hadn’t really explained anything about Walter Rowland at all.
‘He has no family,’ said Cooper. ‘But his history has links to your father’s. Why not think of him as part of your community?’
Finally, Fry held open the door for Mrs Lukasz to leave. She and her husband didn’t look at each other as he fell in behind her and steered her wheelchair down the ramp and out of the police station.
The Old School Nursing Home looked to Cooper like a little haven of calm and security tonight. Its paths and drives had all been swept clear of snow, and sand had been sprinkled to avoid anyone slipping on the block paving. Nobody had bothered to do that at West Street yet. Also, there were lights on everywhere, and when he went inside, the rooms were warm and welcoming.
Cooper sat in the waiting room, aware that the staff always liked to have a few minutes to make sure his mother was ready to see him. Or rather, that she was ready for him to see. It made him smile a little to think that they were trying to protect him from the ugly realities of her condition, when he’d already spent over a year dealing with its consequences at Bridge End Farm.
One of the care supervisors saw Cooper waiting and came to speak to him. The name on her badge was Rachel, and Cooper had met her several times.
‘Isabel has had a good day again today,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I think she’s settled here.’
‘Oh, yes, it’s much better for her. She has complete care, and her medication is monitored constantly. There’s no need to feel guilty.’
Cooper raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I do?’
‘It’s normal for family members to feel like that. It takes a while to be reassured that you’ve done the right thing. But you’ll see that Isabel is quite content. She’s starting to make some friends now.’
‘I’d still like to keep coming every day, if that’s all right.’
Rachel smiled. She wasn’t very old, twenty-five or twenty-six. He couldn’t understand what made a woman like this want to look after other people’s elderly relatives.
‘Of course, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘Come as often as you like.’
Then Cooper saw a familiar figure walking along the corridor on the way out. For a moment, he couldn’t identify who it was. It was one of those moments when he saw somebody he knew but his mind failed to name them, because he was seeing them out of context. Maybe this man was dressed differently, too, from when he’d last seen him. Cooper’s brain floundered for a moment. Then the front door opened and a draught of icy air blew into the waiting room. It was the chill that prompted his memory.
‘That was George Malkin,’ he said.
‘Oh, do you know Mr Malkin?’ said Rachel. ‘His wife is one of our residents, too. She’s been here for some time now.’
‘Yes, it must have been a while.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was just thinking. I’ve been to his house recently. It doesn’t show many signs of a woman’s touch, you might say.’
‘Poor chap. Some men are completely lost when it comes to living on their own, aren’t they?’
‘So I believe,’ said Cooper.
‘Florence Malkin has dementia. She recognizes her husband sometimes. But, funnily enough, those are the worst days. Florence has a bit of an obsession. She’s convinced that George is going to pay for her to get private treatment. She says he’s got the money to do it, and he’s going to send her away to get her cured. Some days it’s a top doctor in Harley Street, other days a famous specialist in America. She asks him about it every time he comes, when she remembers. She asks him over and over again, and he doesn’t know how to answer her. Well, however she thinks he’s going to afford that, I don’t know. It’s obvious neither of them ever had more than two pennies to rub together.’
Rachel sighed. ‘You can see he’s absolutely devoted to her. I don’t know how he’s managing to pay for her care here without selling his house. But it won’t be for much longer. Poor man.’
‘Yes,’ said Cooper. ‘Poor man.’
31
Cooper rang Diane Fry’s mobile. He’d never known what she did with herself in the evenings when she went off duty, except that she sometimes drove into Sheffield. Fry had told him once that she’d been trying to trace her sister, but she hadn’t mentioned it to him for months. She was much too secret and solitary a person for her own good.
‘Ben? Funny you should call. I’ve got some news.’
‘Yes?’
‘You were right about Marie Tennent. She was Sergeant Abbott’s granddaughter. Strange, isn’t it? Two granddaughters of the Lancaster’s crew appearing at the same time. One dead and one very much alive.’
‘It was the anniversary of the crash,’ said Cooper. ‘Anniversaries are important. They both felt they had to remember it.’
‘That doesn’t explain why one of them was dead.’
‘No.’
‘Ben, we’ve also had the preliminary results of the postmortem.’
‘On Marie Tennent?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s bad news, isn’t it, Diane?’
‘I’m afraid so. She suffered from more than just frostbite. She’d been badly beaten. She had bruises to her face and the upper part of her body, consistent with being struck by a fist several times. It looks as though she’d been in a violent struggle not long before she died.’
‘Damn.’ The news made Cooper feel sick. Despite all the work on the Snowman enquiry, and all the time he’d spent on Danny McTeague and the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor, it had been Marie Tennent he’d woken thinking about each morning. She’d been there at the back of his mind – a sad, cold bundle lying on the hillside, waiting for somebody to explain what had happened to her.
‘We’ve been neglecting her, Diane,’ said Cooper. ‘We have to find out where she’d been, who she’d been seeing.’
‘We’ll interview Eddie Kemp again tomorrow,’ said Fry. ‘But if he moved back in with his wife six months ago, the chances are there’s been another boyfriend since then.’
‘One who might not have been happy about the baby.’
‘Exactly.’
‘There’s his brother, too,’ said Cooper. ‘Graham, isn’t it? The guy at the aircraft museum mentioned him.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Graham Kemp was one of the people interviewed over the double assault. We have no evidence against him, though the CCTV film could help get an ID. The meeting with the MDP has been scheduled for tomorrow.’
‘Hopefully Sergeant Caudwell might explain why she was interested in Marie Tennent and Sugar Uncle Victor.’
He heard Fry make a noise between a dismissive grunt and a resigned sigh. ‘We’re promised they’re going to share intelligence,’ she said. ‘It’s madness to keep details of this enquiry from us. They’re making us work in the dark.’
‘It would help to have a little more information of your own before that, wouldn’t it?’ said Cooper.
Fry was silent for a moment. ‘What do you mean, Ben?’
‘If you could have some evidence against the vultures.’
‘Vultures?’
‘It’s what Zygmunt Lukasz calls them – the people who take things from the aircraft wrecks. Where are you, Diane?’
‘Still at West Street.’
‘More overtime? I think we could get some evidence. I think between us we could do it.’
‘What? Ben, are you asking for my help?’
‘A different approach might work. I thought we could tackle George Malkin again.’
‘On what pretext?’
‘There’s the money.’
‘What money?’
‘The wages for three RAF bases were being carried on Lancaster SU-V the night it crashed. The money went missing and was never found. I suspect that Malkin once had at least a share in the money from the crashed Lancaster. Maybe his father was involved with the two Home Guards who were suspected of taking it. They could have got the money away and hidden it at Hollow Shaw Farm, to share it out later. I don’t know. But Malkin has no money now. And he seems to have sold all the souvenirs he ever had, except for an old watch. I wonder who he sold them to, Diane. And I wonder what happened to the money.’
‘I hope you’re not on some flight of fancy again,’ said Fry. ‘Pick me up at the front door.’
It was completely dark when they reached Harrop. As they entered George Malkin’s house, Cooper was aware of Fry taking off her coat, then changing her mind and putting it back on again as she shivered with cold. She pulled her collar closer and tightened her scarf.
‘Well, I am popular these days,’ said Malkin. ‘It’s a proper social whirl I live in.’
‘We’re sorry to bother you again, sir.’
‘Aye, I’m sure.’
The sitting room looked no different from when Cooper had been there a few days before. Malkin didn’t bother to draw the curtains at night. There was no point, since there were no other houses to be seen, and no one ever passed on the track outside, except Malkin’s friend, Rod Whittaker, who ran his contract haulage business from here and kept his sheep in the fields.
On one window ledge was a collection of empty jars. They were the type that would once have contained strawberry jam or marmalade, but they’d been stripped of their labels and washed clean for some long-forgotten purpose. Now they were left to gather dust instead. The jar nearest to Cooper had several small, dead spiders desiccating on the glass bottom. Their tiny, fragile legs, no thicker than a hair, had folded into their bodies as they curled up to accept death in their incomprehensible prison.
‘How long have you been living on your own?’ asked Cooper.
‘It’s nearly three years since Florence went into the home.’
‘Long enough when you’re on your own.’
‘Aye, if you’re not used to it. It’s thirty-eight years since we were wed. When you find yourself alone, you start to get into funny little ways. You don’t realize it after a while, unless somebody points it out.’
‘Like living without any heating, perhaps?’ suggested Cooper.
Malkin laughed. The sound was like someone shovelling loose gravel. A trickle of spittle formed at the corner of his mouth.
‘I don’t need it,’ he said. ‘Not for myself. And I’m not about to start a blazing fire, just in case I get visitors the likes of you. I suppose you live in a town, do you?’
Cooper was about to say ‘no’, then remembered that he did, in fact, live in a town. He’d lived in a town since Saturday. He was touched by Malkin’s concern for his comfort, but strangely offended by the man’s assumption that his visitor was some kind of soft townie.
‘You don’t get the weather the same, not in a town,’ said Malkin. ‘If you’re a bit nesh, lad, you should put on an extra sweater when you go out. That’s what our mam always used to tell us.’
Cooper had never thought of himself as ‘nesh’ – soft, too sensitive to the cold. It was the sort of term normally reserved for southerners in the ironic way that local people had of winding them up. But he wasn’t a southerner – he was local himself. Being nesh was for townies.
But Cooper could see that his way of living was a couple of steps away from that of George Malkin these days. His comfort level was several notches up the central heating thermostat. He had a lower degree of tolerance to discomfort and deprivation. So perhaps he was nesh, after all, in the eyes of the George Malkins of the world. Perhaps he’d lost the link with these people that he once thought he had. In the end, the bond between them wasn’t genetic but a social link that could be broken if it was stretched too far.
‘I dare say Florence would be ashamed of how I live now, if she knew,’ said Malkin.
Cooper felt a surge of sympathy. He recognized a man cut off from the support that had kept him on a normal course. Alone, it was too easy to fall into a way of living that seemed abnormal to everyone else.
‘Detective Constable Cooper had a long talk to Mr Walter Rowland yesterday,’ said Fry. ‘DC Cooper is very good at getting information out of people. The
y seem to trust him.’
Malkin looked from Fry to Cooper, and his stare lingered. Cooper fidgeted uneasily.
‘You and your family have always been known for collecting aircraft souvenirs,’ said Fry. ‘Is that correct?’
‘I suppose it might be. A lot of things came our way over the years. My dad was a terror for it, I don’t mind admitting. Us lads learned it from him. I picked up my share of souvenirs here and there.’
‘More than just a broken watch, then.’
‘I’m not saying I kept them. I’m not a collector – I can’t see the point. But some folk will pay cash for stuff like that, you know.’
‘Yes, we know.’
Cooper wondered if the souvenirs had brought a steady trickle of cash in for Malkin over the years. It would hardly have been enough to pay for private medical care for Florence. Perhaps she’d heard her husband talk about his sideline and got the wrong idea about the value of the items. Poor woman – her husband had not lived up to her expectations.
‘But we’re enquiring into something more than just a few souvenirs,’ said Fry.
‘There was the money,’ said Cooper. ‘The wages for RAF Branton.’
Malkin took off his cap for the first time. It was such a surprise that it seemed to indicate better than anything his emotional response. His hair was remarkably thick, though going grey.
‘Poor old Walter Rowland,’ he said. ‘He must be in a bad way now. He wasn’t well last time I saw him.’
‘No, he isn’t too good.’
‘If Walter knew about the money, he’s kept quiet about it for fifty-seven years. I wonder what made him say something now.’
‘He didn’t. Not exactly,’ said Cooper.
‘Oh?’
‘So you admit that you took the money that was on board the Lancaster?’ said Fry.
Malkin turned his attention back to her. ‘You’ve got good timing, you folk. You know when to ask your questions, all right. It doesn’t matter to me now, you see. Not at all. So you might as well know everything.’
‘Go on, sir.’
‘Yes, it was me and my brother Ted who took the money. We were only lads at the time. I was eight years old, so I didn’t really know what I was doing. But I don’t suppose there’s much point in me saying that now.’
Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry) Page 38