Beware This Boy (21 page)

“Only too happy to oblige, Mr. Kaplan.”

“Cor blimey,” said Lily, who had returned with a tray of cups of tea. “I can’t see how filming this cock-up is going to help recruit new workers. If it was me, I wouldn’t touch this place with a barge pole … locked doors, missed counts, fatal explosions – blimey.”

Cudmore re-entered the canteen carrying a bundle of time sheets. He handed them to Tyler, who riffled through them. He waited a bit longer for the tea to be gulped down, then went back to the stage. He didn’t have to ask for attention. There was silence immediately.

“All right, then. According to what I have here, the first person to leave from Section B was Miss Johnson, who clocked out at a half past two.”

“I had to get home,” said Lily. “I live with me mum and she was poorly.”

Tyler checked the list and read out loud, “At two forty, Miss Francine Tomlin clocked off, and at two forty-one, Miss O’Callaghan.”

He paused. The last name was a bit of a surprise. Aware of the possible consequences, he rechecked the list. No, it wasn’t a mistake.

“At two forty-five, the last person working on the shift clocked out. That was Miss Mary Ringwald-Brown.”

The women turned to stare at Mary. She had left the table when Cudmore entered and was standing by the food counter.

“Oi, oi,” said Pat. “Did you forget to mention it, Mary? You were after us, then. Frankie and me weren’t the last.”

Mary shrugged impatiently. “It is all so unimportant.”

“According to the inspector here, it might be very important. You could have locked the door yourself.”

“Please don’t be ridiculous,” said Mary, her voice like a knife.

Tyler interceded. “Miss Brown, Miss O’Callaghan has said that when she and Miss Tomlin left, the change room was empty. Yet the evidence is unmistakable that you clocked out after the two of them.”

She scowled at him. “Evidence? I didn’t know I was on trial. And my name is Ringwald-Brown.”

“I beg your pardon. Do you have any explanation for this odd discrepancy, Miss Ringwald-Brown?”

“You are putting me into a very embarrassing position.”

Pat burst out, “You’re for sure hiding something. What were you doing?”

Mary started to fidget. “If you must know, I was in the toilet. I had, er … oh, this is so humiliating … I had started my menstrual cycle, and yes, I was in the toilet fixing myself up. I didn’t feel like making a public announcement about it.”

“Did you lock the door?” Pat asked bluntly.

“Of course I didn’t. First of all, I’m a mere peon and I don’t have a key, and second, why would I? And don’t spout that lie to me about trying to stall the next group. I’ve been against the quota system from the beginning. You can ask anybody here.”

“True. She’s telling the truth about that,” said Lily.

“I was right behind O’Callaghan and Francine,” continued Mary. “The door was definitely not locked when I left.”

“And when you did leave, was the change room empty?” Tyler asked.

“As far as I know. I suppose there is a possibility that some other poor woman was lurking in the stalls, but I didn’t check. I had no reason to. Besides, if there was such a creature, she would have had to clock out as well. You, Inspector, and you, Mr. Cudmore, appear to have gone to a lot of trouble to show that I was the last to do that.”

Funny how she has the knack of making everything seem underhand and suspect
, thought Tyler.
As if there was a conspiracy building against her
.

“Quite so. Well, thank you, Miss Ringwald-Brown.”

Tyler knew there was no way to prove whether or not she was telling the truth, but he had a strong feeling she was lying. If so, why? What had she been trying to do? Slow everything down probably, meddle with the capitalist system. On the other hand, he suspected this delay might have put too much pressure on the Blue shift. Was that why Mary had looked so distressed at the hospital? Were the deaths of four young women on her conscience? He looked over at her. She was standing straight, her head held high.
The stance of a woman prepared to be a martyr
, thought Tyler.

Brian lay for a while, not sleeping, just thinking. Finally he decided to venture downstairs. He knew his gran would bring him his breakfast if he didn’t, and he was desperate to get out of the tiny room. He used the commode, got dressed in the old jersey and too-big pants of his grandfather, and went down to the living room.

As he’d expected, Beatrice was waiting for him. She was sitting at the table knitting, her fingers fast and nimble. The wireless was turned down low but he could make out some organ music wailing away; the
BBC
seemed intent on boring the British population out of their minds. She greeted him anxiously as he came in, searching his face for messages as to his mood. He dragged up a smile.

“Morning, Gran. Sleep well?”

“It’s me should be asking you that. You look exhausted, Bri.”

“I’m all right. There’ll be lots of time to get caught up later.”

She put down the knitting. “Your granddad and Auntie Eileen have gone off to the factory. It’ll be a short day today, I’m sure. I was just waiting to see the whites of your eyes before I put the kettle on.”

He patted her on the shoulder. “You stay right there, Gran. I’m going to wait on you for once. No, I insist. I didn’t have a present for your birthday but at least I can give you a bit of fuss.”

He went into the kitchen and lit the gas. He knew that Beatrice kept small change in a biscuit tin in the cupboard. Quietly he took it down. There were a couple of shillings, three pennies, and a sixpence. He took one of the shillings.

The kettle came to a boil and he poured the water into the pot. It was an old brown one that his grandmother had had for years. He’d bought her a fancy china pot for Christmas once but she never used it, claiming the brown Betty made the best tea. There was a slice of cake left over and he put it
on a plate. He opened the drawer of the sideboard, found a used candle, lit it, and fixed the shilling to the bottom of the plate with the melted wax. Piling everything onto a tray, he went into the living room.

“This is belated but I’m going to sing anyway.” Somewhat off-key, he sang “Happy Birthday.”

He placed the tray on her lap. “Now make a wish and blow out the candle.”

She tried to go along with the game, but not too successfully. Brian knew what her wish was, and she’d have to blow out a town full of candles before it could be granted.

“Look under the plate.”

She found the shilling. “Brian, I don’t want this.”

“You can’t give back a present, it’s not polite. I want you to buy some of your favourite sweeties at Kenny’s. Now, shall I pour the tea?”

“Not yet. Let it steep a bit more. Aren’t you having anything?”

“Later.”

“It’s early to be eating cake,” she murmured. Nevertheless she took a bite.

Brian plopped down in the chair opposite her. “Will you read my tea leaves, Gran? Remember how you used to do that? You were always a proper Gypsy.”

“I don’t know, Bri. I haven’t done that since the war started. Frankly, I was afraid what I’d see.”

“Please. Just this once. You were always so good. Uncanny, really.”

She smiled at him, pleased. “All right. Drink your tea and drain your cup.”

He did so in a hurry, the hot tea almost scalding his throat.

“That’s it. Now hold the cup in your left hand, swish the leaves around three times counter-clockwise, and put it upside
down in the saucer. Good.” She picked up the cup by the handle and peered into it.

“What?” He asked impatiently. “What do you see?”

“Well, there are some clouds. They are on both sides of the handle, so that means they are behind you but you’re not yet through.”

“That’s for sure.”

“But there is a bird here … no, maybe more than one, which means good news.” She twisted the tea cup back and forth. “I see a journey coming up. Across stormy water, but you will reach the other side safely.” Another turn while Brian listened intently, as he always had. “There are some scissors—”

“Uh-oh, that means a quarrel, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, a quarrel. It’s right next to a volcano, so you have to watch you don’t lose your temper.”

“Let me see. Where is a volcano?”

Beatrice pointed to a cone-shaped clump of tea leaves. “There.”

“Looks more like a mushroom to me, and I know that means change.”

“Who’s reading these leaves, you or me?” said Beatrice, lowering the cup.

“Sorry, Granny, you are. Go on. What else?”

“Hmm … I see a visitor, a man perhaps, but it’s not clear – could be a woman. This person needs your help.”

“Can’t be the mps, then.”

She glanced at him nervously and he grinned reassuringly. “Any more birds? I like them.”

She examined the teacup again. “No, just those two.”

He too looked into the cup. “Is that a V? Is Vanessa in the tea leaves?”

“It could be a V.”

“Is it next to the mushroom?”

“Not really. It’s closer to the pair of scissors.”

“Which is a quarrel.”

“Possibly.” She returned the cup to its saucer. “These leaves are hard to read; they’re too clumped up together. You should have drunk more of the tea.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I’m sure we can arrange for you to meet Vanessa soon. We just have to be careful, that’s all.”

He lowered his eyes, not wanting her to see the truth. “You know what, Gran, you’re right about the travel. I, er, I’m thinking I can get to Ireland and wait out the war there. The Irish government won’t extradite anybody who’s on their soil, because they’re a neutral country.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “But how would you get to Ireland?”

“I’ll find a way, don’t worry.”

“Oh, Bri, I don’t know …” But he could tell that the possibility was a relief to her.

“I only have to hide out here for a few more days at most. That’ll make it easier for Dad’s conscience to stomach, don’t you think? He seemed to be having trouble with it.”

“Don’t be silly. He wants what’s best for you.” She sighed. “It would certainly be easier in terms of the rationing.”

“Settled, then. I’ll need your help a bit, Gran. You know how Granddad is. He’ll want to know all the details – how I’m going to get there and so on, but I can’t share those with him. You understand, don’t you?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “No, I don’t really, Bri. Are there other people involved?”

“Lord, no. Just me. But it’d be better if my plans weren’t known … 
MPS
might come here, for instance, and you know what a terrible liar you are.”

He jumped to attention and imitated a ferocious-sounding military policeman. “Mrs. Abbott, have you seen your grandson
recently? Answer truthfully or God will strike you dead.” He mimicked his grandmother with a high-pitched voice and wrung his hands guiltily. “Er, why no, Officer, not recently, at least, not that I know of.”

She laughed. “Get out of here. I wouldn’t sound like that.”

“Yes, you would. You are transparent as a pane of glass. Remember that time when Dad came here to find me? This was before I’d moved in, but I’d come over that night bawling my eyes out like I was a babbie. He asked if I was in the house and you said no and even if I was you wouldn’t tell him anyway. Not while he was in a mood like that. I could hear you from upstairs, and I knew he didn’t believe a word.”

“He left though, didn’t he.”

“True, but that was out of respect for you. He knew all the time I was here.”

“Regardless, it did give him a chance to cool off, and the next day we had a family talk and he was quite reasonable.”

“You’re being kind, Gran. He wasn’t reasonable at all. He was only too glad to get me out of his hair.”

Beatrice reached for his hand and held it briefly. “He does love you, Brian. He just has a hard time showing it.”

He shook his head. “See. I said you were terrible at telling fibs.”

Joe Abbott was grey-haired, tall, and on the thin side. He had innate presence – a quality Tyler had seen in some
NCOS
in the army. It had nothing to do with education or social status and more to do with character. Tyler noticed that he walked with a limp.

When they shook hands, Abbott’s was cool and firm.

“Please sit down, sir.”

Abbott took the chair Mr. Cudmore had offered. “You’ve got a gammy leg, I see,” said Tyler.

“Legacy of the last war. Gas ulcer,” said Abbott. His gaze was wary.

“Right. Let’s start then, shall we? Mr. Cudmore is taking notes for me. Hope you don’t mind – my handwriting is terrible. By the way, I assume the nurse here at the clinic is a relative?”

“She’s my daughter.”

“Thought so. There’s a strong family resemblance.”

“She’s better-looking.”

Tyler chuckled. “Aren’t they always. Thank goodness my daughter inherited her mother’s hair, not mine.”

Abbott smiled politely but seemed to relax a little.

“Your counterpart, Mr. Smith, has described the nature of the job, but I wonder if you wouldn’t just run through what you did on Sunday afternoon. I’m particularly interested in whether there was anything out of the usual routine.”