Dead Ground in Between (27 page)

The interior of the car was leather, the dashboard mahogany. It reeked of cigars but Tyler didn't mind. When Rowell started up the engine, it immediately sprang into life and purred like some tame exotic cat. He sat back.

“Drive on, James, and don't spare the horses.”

In fact, the journey up the hill to their house was a short one. Tyler would have been happy to go farther in this unaccustomed luxury.

“You're probably famished, sir,” said the sergeant. “I have a nice hot supper waiting for you. Hope that's all right.”

“Another proof that I have truly died and gone to heaven,” replied Tyler.

“By the way, sir, I managed to get hold of Mrs. Hamilton and she said her client only lived around the corner so she was able to get in touch with her at once.”

“Thank goodness for that. I couldn't stand the thought of some poor woman in a red beret waiting all forlorn on the steps of the Grand. The boys haven't turned up, I presume.”

“Alas, no.”

“Damn. Damn. Where are they? As soon as it's light, we'll continue the search. If you don't mind, I'll tell you what I found out from the chief over supper. Right now my stomach is grumbling so loudly I can't hear myself think.”

“Of course.”

Rowell manoeuvred the Rolls into the narrow lane that led to the house and brought it to a velvet-soft halt.

“I told Sir Edward we might not be able to return his car until tomorrow. We can use it in the morning if we need to.”

Tyler paused for a moment, bracing himself to make the dash from the car to the house in the pounding rain. Before he could do so, Rowell reached into the back seat and pulled up a large umbrella.

“Don't tell me – you requisitioned this as well?” said Tyler.

“I did, sir. For some reason the umbrellas of the gentry run bigger than those of us common folk.”

“That's because they consider everything about themselves is bigger…head…the nether parts…” He made a rather vulgar gesture and Rowell laughed.

“Stay there, sir. I'll play valet.”

Together, Rowell holding the umbrella, they dashed to the door. Once inside, Tyler inhaled deeply.

“Good lord, Oliver. Are those onions I smell?”

“Yes, sir. I made you a mixed grill.”

“Marvellous.”

“I have it on good authority that it is Saint Peter's favourite food.”

When Angelo realized how easy it would be for him to escape, he almost laughed.

The guards, all of them over conscription age, had learned to trust the
POWS
. After all, the prisoners were all “whites” and considered a very low escape risk. Over the months, nobody had given any trouble. And now, nobody was out looking for it.

After he had eaten the meal brought to him on a tray, Angelo lay back on his bunk and waited. In the evenings after supper, many of the men congregated in the mess hut to play cards, chat, sing. At half past nine they had to return to their huts for lights out, which was at ten o'clock sharp. It was the job of the guards to settle them down, get a final count in each hut, make sure the blackout was observed properly, and shut off the light. The mood was relaxed and friendly.

The detention hut had been built closer to the gate than the others, and was directly across from the guard hut, where presumably it would easier to keep an eye on it. However, during the half hour when the prisoners were returning to their huts for the night, all guards on duty would be occupied.

At twenty to ten Angelo got off the bed, went over to the window high up on the wall, and opened it. The chatting and laughter of the men was subsiding. He had to go now.

First, he stuffed the pillow underneath the covers to look like a sleeping body. He was counting on not being missed for a long time. The 2:00 a.m. check was perfunctory; the guard just peeked through a tiny window in the door. They wouldn't realize he was gone until the guard brought his breakfast at 7:00 a.m. That was plenty of time for him to get to the farm. After that? Angelo didn't dare think any further.

He shoved the chair underneath the window. He squeezed through the small opening and dropped to the ground, panting from the exertion and from fear. He stayed there for a few moments until he was sure nobody had seen him.

He scuttled across the soaked grass to the bike shed, which was a few feet away on the east side. There he took one of the bikes out of the rack and wheeled it towards the gate. The rain was driving into his body and the fear of being detected made his legs shake. He could hardly see his hand in front of him but he knew where the gate was, and he made for it as fast as he could.

There was no barbed wire on top of the gate so it was easy to climb over. With a prodigious effort he hauled the bike up after him and lowered it to the other side. He mounted and, keeping close to the edge of the road, he shot off.

Over dinner, Tyler filled his sergeant in on his meeting with the chief constable.

“Ezekiel? Zechariah? I'd think I'd choose Job if I had to pick a code name,” said Rowell. “I've always felt a certain sympathy for him.”

“Let's hope the inspector survives his surgery and can tell us the real names. If I were a praying man, I'd send up a prayer for those two kiddies. God knows where they are.”

“You're thinking they might be in one of the other hideouts are you, sir?”

“I'm hoping so. At least they have been set up for men to survive in them, for days if necessary.”

Rowell started to gather up their dishes and carry them to the sink.

“I'll do the washing up, sir.”

“Thanks, Oliver. I need to make a telephone call.”

He went out to the hall telephone and rang Mr. Grey, the chief intelligence officer in Whitchurch. To his dismay, the phone rang and rang but nobody answered.

He hung up and redialled, in case he'd made a mistake the first time. Same result. The phone simply rang on and on. He almost felt like banging his head against the wall in frustration.

Where is Clare? Will I ever see her again?

There was nothing more to be done. He'd have to wait until tomorrow.

He rejoined Rowell in the living room. “Was that meal my ration allowance for the next month, Oliver?”

“Almost, sir. I'll probably be able to get some more sausage but no more eggs for a fortnight.”

“It was worth it. Sausage, fried egg, fried bread, and fried onion. I'm awash in fat but I don't care.”

The clock on the mantel began to chime the hour.

“I'm going down to see Mrs. Keogh,” said Tyler. “You don't think it's too late, do you?”

“Not if you go right away. I bet she'll be happy for the company.”

Tyler headed for the door.

“Do you want to take the Rolls?” Rowell asked. “It's ours for the next while. Police business and all that.”

Tyler grinned. “No, thanks. I'd better walk off the extra piece of fried bread you insisted I eat. I'll take that great brolly, though.”

The sergeant yawned discreetly behind his hand. “I'm knackered. I think I'll turn in early.”

“Good night, then,” said Tyler. He couldn't help but muse that Oliver had a very good reason for being tired – a late night with your lover would do that to you. Lucky bloke.

Tyler knocked a few times and was starting to think it was too late after all when the door opened and Nuala Keogh stood in front of him. She was hardly more than a silhouette on the dark threshold. He flashed his torch briefly on his own face.

“Good evening, Mrs. Keogh. Tyler here.”

Her hand flew to her heart. “Any news?”

“I'm afraid not. I thought I'd just come to tell you that, at least. And maybe talk over some more possibilities.”

She stepped to one side. “Do come in. You'll have to come forward a bit so I can close the door behind you before I give us some light.”

He did so, which brought them into close proximity. She smelled like soap and her hair seemed damp. Tyler suddenly felt like a sixteen-year-old lad tripping over his big feet and his desire.

“Wretched blackout. So many things to think about.”

“True.”

They were still standing very close together but she managed to squeeze past him without touching.

“I've just made some Horlicks, would you like a cup?”

“No, nothing for me, thank you.”

Tyler hated Horlicks, which made him queasy. Besides, he didn't know if he'd trust himself to hold a cup without trembling.

“Do sit yourself down,” she said, and he took the armchair opposite hers. “Please excuse my appearance. I wasn't expecting company.”

She was in her dressing gown, the snug green wool plaid she'd been wearing the night before when he'd come to check on Jan and Pim. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders. Tyler found her very hominess overwhelmingly attractive.

“You look fine,” he said, and she smiled rather shyly back at him.

“For a minute there, I thought you had some good news for me. That they'd been found.”

“I'm sorry. Unfortunately, they seem to have vanished into thin air. We've sent out telegrams to all other police stations in the near vicinity asking them to keep their eyes open. So far no response.”

“But where would they go? It's a dreadful night. Weather like this can be deadly. Look what happened to Mr. Cartwright.”

“He was elderly. The boys are resilient, and I don't think they're foolhardy. If they had nowhere to find shelter I'm sure they would have come right back.”

Her eyes met his. “Nobody would want to harm them, would they, Inspector? Perhaps they discovered something they weren't supposed to.”

Tyler himself was worried about just that possibility, but he didn't want to add to her anxiety by saying so.

“I have been to see the chief constable in Shrewsbury. Unfortunately he couldn't give me the names of the original users of that hideout but I should know first thing tomorrow. At least I'll be able to question them.”

Suddenly she bit her lip. “Jan and Pim are orphans. Or as good as. I know they haven't been with me for that long but they feel like my own children.” She turned to look into the fire and the shadow of the flames danced across her face. “I tell you frankly, Inspector, I would like to have children. I don't suppose that will happen now.”

“You're still a young woman. You could remarry,” said Tyler softly.

She didn't turn her head. “Could I? What if Paddy is not dead? What if he did come back and I was married to somebody else? What would happen then? There have been too many situations like that. There was one reported in Ludlow a couple of months ago. The family had even given the missing man a funeral service. Then they heard he was alive. He was in a hospital in Canada. God knows how he got there. He was badly injured, apparently, couldn't talk, and the papers got all mixed up.” She began to fish for a handkerchief but couldn't find one. She sniffed. “Sorry.”

“Here, take mine,” said Tyler, and he tugged his out of his pocket and offered it to her. “It's clean.”

She rubbed at her eyes rather harshly and he caught her hand. “Don't. You'll hurt yourself.”

His face was very close to hers. Inches away. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed aside a strand of hair from across her forehead. She moved her head back but her eyes were fixed on his.

“What is your first name? I can't keep calling you Inspector. Not when I'm sitting here with our knees touching and I'm in my night clothes.”

It was his turn to move back. “Sorry. I do apologize. I didn't mean to overstep the line.”

She shook her head. “You didn't. Overstep, I mean. It's just that you're comforting me so tenderly I feel as if I'm going to melt.”

All he could manage was, “Oh.”

She put her hand on his. “I actually do know what your name is. You said it in court. It's Tom.”

“That's right.”

If he was breathing it would have taken a doctor to detect it.

“Are you married?” she asked him.

“Not any more. I've just got divorced.”

“Are you still in love with your ex-wife?” Her question uncannily echoed that of Mrs. Hamilton, and he gave the same answer.

“I don't think I ever was.”

“I loved my husband.”

She shifted and leaned her head into the crook of Tyler's neck. Her breath was warm on his skin and he could feel the wet of her tears.

“I am so lonely, Inspector Tom, I sometimes feel as if I am going to die from it.”

He pulled her closer.

“Do you think it would be possible for you to bed me this night?” she whispered. “Or would that be against all regulations?”

Tyler began to stroke her hair. “The answer to the first question is yes. To the second, no.”

“That is most reassuring to hear,” she said, and her body folded into his.

The plaid wool dressing gown was soft under his hands. The flesh underneath even softer.

Jan and Pim were curled up together on the cot. Jan had turned down the wick of the lamp to conserve the fuel. The darkness pressed in on them. Pim appeared to have fallen asleep but he moved slightly and muttered through dry lips.

“Mamma. Mamma. My head hurts so.” He spoke in Dutch.

“Go to sleep, there's a good fellow,” whispered Jan. “We'll be all right in the morning.”

“Mamma?”

“Mamma isn't here. It's Jan.”

“Will Mamma be coming soon?”

“I think so. Just try to go to sleep and you can have a dream about her. A nice dream. Dream that we're back at home and we're drifting down the canal on our boat. The sun is shining and Pappa is steering. He's taken off his jacket. He's having a fine old time. We're going to Mr. Benne's for tea.”

“I'm so cold, Jan. Will you cover me up?”