Orders from Berlin (16 page)

‘Because he doesn’t want to be swept away?’

Seaforth nodded.

‘Like my father was?’

‘I told you at the funeral that your father was a great man. He could have accomplished great things, but no one would listen to him. He understood what was at stake with Germany when Hitler came to power, but everyone was obsessed with Joe Stalin and the Reds, and then it was too late. He was a voice crying in the wilderness.’

They walked on in silence until they reached the bus shelter, where Ava stopped, turning to look again at her companion. She sensed there was something else he
wanted to say – s
omething personal, nothing to do with Hitler and Communism. She could tell from the look of indecision on his face.

‘What is it, Charles?’ she asked. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? What is it you want with me?’

‘I can’t tell you here,’ he said. ‘Could we meet sometime – somewhere we can talk?’

‘Why?’ she asked, taking a step back. ‘You need to tell me why.’

‘Because there are other things I’ve got to tell you, things you need to know – about your father, about his death. I only need a few minutes. It isn’t much to ask.’

A bus was coming, and she reached out her hand, hailing it to stop. She turned away from him, getting out her purse for the fare. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

The bus came to a halt beside her and she took hold of the grab pole in her hand but didn’t mount the platform. She knew Seaforth was waiting for an answer, but she felt unable to respond – caught between curiosity and suspicion.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’

‘The Lyons Corner House – the big one in the West End, by Piccadilly Circus,’ she said, saying the first place that came into her head. Only later did she realize its unsuitability – it was the same restaurant where Bertram had proposed to her over tea and cake three years before.

‘Come on, dearie, make up your mind. Are you getting on or are you getting off?’ asked the conductress impatiently. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Ava stepped onto the platform and the conductress rang the bell. The bus moved off, away from the kerb.

‘When?’ asked Seaforth, shouting over the noise of the engine.

‘Tomorrow,’ she shouted back. ‘Twelve o’clock.’

Seaforth raised his hand as if in acknowledgement, but she didn’t know for sure whether he’d heard her. And
as she sat d
own, it occurred to her that she didn’t even know whether she’d wanted him to.

She closed her eyes, and out of nowhere a memory rushed to meet her from the remote past. She was a small child in a snow-suit, standing with her father at the top of a steep hill. The world was white and he was bent over a wooden toboggan that he was holding in position a few inches back from the beginning of the slope. He was telling her to get in – she could hear his voice, and she could remember how his face was red in the cold – but she continued to hesitate, frightened that they would crash and that she would be smashed to pieces against the line of ice-laden birch trees that she could see in the valley below.

‘Are you coming or not?’ her father demanded, impatient just as the bus conductress had been a moment before. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember whether she had got in the toboggan and gone screaming down the hill or given in to her fears and slunk away. It was too long ago.

In the afternoon, Bertram got out the car and drove them over the river to Scotland Yard. The young policeman Trave had rung up in the morning to say that their statements were ready for them to read through and sign.

And then halfway down the Embankment, Bertram announced in a self-important voice that the next day at 12.30 had been fixed for the reading of her father’s will at the solicitor’s office – a champagne moment for him at which he wanted her present. Ava was taken aback. She’d been worrying all day that she had made a mistake agreeing to meet Seaforth in the West End, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the arrangement would cause her a problem with Bertram. He’d been out a lot in recent days, revelling in his new role as her father’s executor, and she’d thought it safe to assume that her absence from the flat for several hours in the middle of the day would go unnoticed.

Now, without warning, she was faced with a choice between lying to her husband and not going to her meeting with Seaforth. She had no means of contacting Seaforth to change the time, and she was sure he would assume that she’d decided not to see him if she didn’t show up. Moments before, she had been contemplating staying away, but she felt differently now that the decision was being forced on her. Talking to Seaforth for a few minutes had enabled her to find out more about her father than she had discovered in all the years he was alive, and Seaforth had told her at the bus stop that he had more to tell her. She didn’t trust Seaforth. How could she, when he had descended on her out of the blue without giving any adequate reason for his sudden interest? But she couldn’t give up on the chance to know more about her father, even if the price was lying – something she had always hated doing.

‘I can’t go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got plans.’

‘What plans?’ asked Bertram, sounding annoyed. ‘What are you doing?’ He seemed surprised that she should be doing anything, which spoke volumes, she thought, about what he thought her life was worth.

‘I’m seeing someone at twelve o’clock for lunch – my mother’s cousin. She was at the funeral,’ Ava lied, naming the first person who came into her head. But it was a bad choice.

‘Do you mean Mrs Willoughby?’ asked Bertram. ‘I thought she was only up in London for the day.’

‘No, she said she was staying on. And I’ve got no way of getting in touch with her to rearrange, so you’ll have to change the time with the solicitor. I can go later in the afternoon if you like.’

‘No, we’ll go in the morning. Mr Parker offered me an earlier time when we spoke, but I thought twelve would be better. I should have talked to you first, I suppose,’ he said grudgingly.

Ava breathed a sigh of relief. She’d got what she wanted, but she knew that the lie had moved her into uncharted territory. Before it, she could tell herself that there was nothing improper in seeing Seaforth, as he had important information to give her. Now it felt as if she were committing herself to something irretrievable – an act of betrayal.

At the police station, they were put into separate rooms and seen by separate policemen. Trave saw Ava. He waited, watching her carefully while she read through her statement. He sensed the tension in her. It was as if she were coiled up, hiding inside an inadequate shell, trying not to be noticed. But then when she glanced up from her reading, the flash of her bright green eyes made her seem an entirely different person – vivid and alive.

‘How have you been?’ he asked when she’d finished signing.

‘Surviving,’ she said with a wry smile, touched by the genuine concern in his voice. ‘The funeral wasn’t easy, but you had a ringside seat for that.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have told you I was coming,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘My inspector sent me. It’s standard procedure in these cases.’

‘Don’t worry – the more the merrier,’ she said with grim humour. ‘I’m just glad it’s over.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Trave, nodding. ‘Who was the man arguing with Mr Thorn? Do you know him?’

‘No, that was the first time I’d met him. His name’s Charles Seaforth. He worked with my father.’

‘And Mr Thorn and he don’t get on?’

‘No, apparently not,’ said Ava. She looked for a moment as if she were about to say more, but then she lowered her eyes. Part of her wanted to tell Trave about her encounter with Seaforth earlier in the day, but she resisted the temptation. It wasn’t as though she knew anything about the murder that the police didn’t, or at least not yet. And she felt obscurely that she wouldn’t be able to go through with her meeting with Seaforth the next day if it became public knowledge. She wanted to hear what he had to say. Afterwards she could decide what she should do with the information.

‘Have you seen this before?’ asked Trave, taking out a plastic evidence bag and laying it on the table between them. It contained a single black cuff link with a small gold crown embossed in the centre.

Ava looked at it carefully and then shook her head. ‘I don’t recognize it,’ she said. ‘Where’s it from?’

‘We found it on the landing outside your father’s flat, close to where he must have been struggling before he fell. It had rolled into a corner.’

‘Well, it could have been his, I suppose. My father liked his ties and cuff links, just like my husband. I wouldn’t necessarily recognize every one he had.’

‘We don’t think it was your father’s,’ Trave said quietly. ‘We’ve been through all his belongings and there’s no other cuff link that matches this one.’

‘So you think it belonged to the man who killed him – that my father tore it from his attacker’s sleeve while they were struggling?’ said Ava, looking back down at the cuff link with fascination. It seemed strange that something so small could become so significant.

‘Quite possibly,’ said Trave, watching Ava closely. ‘You mentioned that your husband likes cuff links. Could this be one of his?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Is Bertie a suspect? Is that what you’re saying?’ Ava’s voice rose in sudden panic and she gripped the edge of the table.

Instinctively, Trave leant forward and put his hand over Ava’s for a moment, trying to reassure her. ‘I know this is difficult, but please try to stay calm,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at every possibility because that’s our job. As soon as we have some news, you’ll be the first to know.’

Ava nodded, visibly trying to control her anxiety.

‘But in the meantime, I think it would be best if we kept this evidence between ourselves …’

‘Don’t tell Bertie, you mean?’

‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’

‘All right, but Mr Trave …’

‘Yes?’

‘Please get this right. Find the man who killed my father – the right man, so you’re sure. Promise me you won’t leave any stone unturned.’

Ava looked at Trave hard, waiting with her green eyes fixed on his until he nodded his assent.

‘Well, did she recognize it?’ asked Quaid when Trave returned to their shared office after showing Ava and Bertram out.

Trave shook his head.

‘Pity,’ said Quaid. ‘But I’d still bet my bottom dollar it’s his. Do you think she’ll tell him about it?’

‘She said she wouldn’t.’

‘And did you believe her?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Well, it probably won’t make any difference one way or the other. We’ll see if we can dig up anything more on our friend the medicine man, tomorrow, and then, whatever happens, I’ll apply for a search warrant and we can find out what he’s got hidden away. I reckon we’ll find a lot more than just the matching cuff link.’

‘So you’re sure he’s guilty?’

‘Yes, have been from the moment I clapped eyes on him. I’ve got a nose for criminals, remember? And murderers are my speciality.’

‘But don’t you think we should look at other possibilities, even if just to eliminate them?’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, did you find out anything about what happens at that place where Morrison used to work – 59 Broadway?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It’s exactly as I thought – the building’s a department of the War Office and the people there don’t need us poking our noses in where we’re not wanted.’

‘You were told to stay away?’

‘No, of course I wasn’t,’ said Quaid irritably. ‘I’ve got the right to take a search team into Buckingham Palace if that’s what a case requires, but this one doesn’t. We don’t need to complicate the investigation just for the sake of it, not when we’ve got the murderer staring us in the face. I’ve already told you that.’

‘Do you know who you spoke to?’ asked Trave, refusing to be put off. There was something terrier-like about his persistence.

‘It’s none of your business. And I don’t want to hear any more of your damn fool questions about the place,’ said Quaid, getting visibly annoyed. ‘You’re to stay away from St James’s Park, do you hear me? And concentrate on Bertram Brive. He’s the culprit and we need to bring him in – the sooner the better. I’m in court tomorrow morning, but we can catch up when I get back.’

All things being equal, Trave would have preferred not to cross his boss, but he felt he had no choice about going back to Broadway. There were too many unanswered questions associated with the place. Why had Albert Morrison rushed over there on the day of his death? And why was there no record of his visit? Was it because he had been intercepted? And if so, by whom?

Albert had worked at Number 59 until he retired. Thorn worked there still, and according to Ava, so did the man Seaforth, whom Thorn had attacked at the funeral. What was it that they were all doing inside the building with the flat, featureless façade and the blacked-out windows? And why had Thorn lied to him about the purpose of his visit to Albert’s flat and the note he had left with Mrs Graves? Because he had lied – Trave was sure of it. Just as he was sure that someone associated with Broadway had got to Quaid and told the inspector to call off the dogs. Why? It had to be because someone there had something to hide. But who? And what?

Questions leading to more questions – Trave felt as if he were in a blindfold, groping around in the dark, and he knew that the only way he was going to get answers was to find them out on his own. He remembered the dead man lying broken like a puppet on the hall floor at Gloucester Mansions and the promise he’d made to Ava to find the man responsible for putting him there. He couldn’t honour it without going back to Broadway, so first thing the next morning he took the Tube to St James’s Park and stationed himself behind a cup of coffee and a copy of
The Times
in a café diagonally across from Number 59 with a grandstand view of the front door.

Between half past eight and nine, a succession of furtive-looking people went into the building, starting with Jarvis, the ancient doorman–caretaker in grey overalls whom Trave had encountered on his first visit. Thorn arrived on the stroke of nine, head bowed and back bent and with t
he smoke from h
is cigarette blowing away behind him down the street each time he exhaled. Such a contrast to Seaforth, who showed up soon afterwards, strolling down the pavement as if he hadn’t got a care in the world.