The Armada Boy (38 page)

June nodded meekly. 'He liked to
have control ... power...over people. He didn't care about their feelings. My
brother never knew ... he was sent away to boarding school and grew up
oblivious to everything that went on.'

'And your mother?'

'I don't know whether she knew or
not... nothing was said.'

Heffernan knew mat sometimes this
was how such families functioned - nothing was mentioned, no questions were
asked: outward appearances were maintained. In this way the mother could
pretend that all was well. The shroud of normality would be
drawn across the rotten, stinking mess beneath.

Wesley changed the subject. "The
vicar's given me some papers from 1588 that were in the vestry safe. They refer
to a case of sanctuary. Have you seen them?'

She nodded.

'You didn't mention this in your
book ... or the Spanish boy's grave in the church. You see, it seemed strange
to me that you left it out. You'd obviously researched the book thoroughly and
with the evidence there in the church …

'It was four years ago ... after my
father had died. The last vicar showed me the papers, told me about the grave.
I saw the similarities and it... it wasn't something I could write about.'

"And you were frightened that
people might notice that one member of the Mallindale family had murdered and
blamed someone else - a foreigner, someone outside the community, someone
people resented. If it had happened once…'

She nodded again.

Heffernan asked the next question
apologetically: he would have to get out of this habit of sympathising with his
suspects. 'Did you kill Norman Openheim?'

She looked up, indignant. 'No. Why
should I?'

'If he found out who had accused him
and put two and two together, threatened to tell the truth .. .'

'I don't think he even knew he'd
been accused ... did he?'

The answer to her question was
probably not.

Wesley's mind was racing ahead.
There was something he had to ask. 'Does Arthur Challinor still have relations
around here?'

'Yes. He owned the hotel on the
sands ... the Clearview. One of his daughters runs it now.'

'Dorothy Slater?'

'That's right.'

Wesley thought hard. Rat had come to
Bereton to see his grandmother. Wesley certainly hadn't met her, although she
might have been interviewed when Norman's body had been found... or had she? He
resolved to find out. 'Mrs Slater's mother ... she'd be
Arthur Challinor's widow?'

June Mallindale nodded again.
'Judith Challinor ... yes.'

'Do you know her?'

'I know her by sight. My father
avoided the family - for obvious reasons - and I never had much to do with
them, the hotel not being in the village.'

Wesley stood up. Heffernan, who had
no intention of leaving at that point, looked at him enquiringly.

'Thank you for talking to us so Frankly,
Miss Mallindale. We may need to talk to you again.' Wesley spoke with hurried formality,
anxious to be away.

June Mallindale smiled sadly, wondering
whether she had been right to reveal her father's secrets; but unexpectedly she
felt a little easier - a burden had been shared.

Gerry Heffernan looked puzzled as
his sergeant marched ahead of him towards the village hall. 'Hang on. Wes ...
where are we going?'

'To arrest Norman Openheim's killer,
sir,' stated Wesley, as if the answer were obvious.

Annie Restorick was paid for two
hours' cleaning per day during the week and on Saturdays. When she received the
phone call from Mrs Slater to say one of the other cleaners had rung in sick and
could Annie pop up to the Clearview for the second time that day to help out,
she thought of the extra cash and reached for her coat.

Wayne would be all right: he had his
orders not to answer the door to strange men. And Mother was asleep so she
wouldn't be any trouble... and Wayne was capable of getting her to the toilet if
necessary.

Annie found Mrs Slater in a talkative
mood. As she donned her overall she was offered a cup of tea, newly brewed. She
was never one to refuse tea. Mrs Slater asked how Wayne was these days.

'He's well enough.' Annie replied,
glad of the opportunity to chat. 'But he does have these fancies. He told the
police that he found that Yank ... you know, the one who was staying here. He said
he found him dead and the police seemed to believe him. I take everything he
says with a pinch of salt. Then he goes and says he's got some secret and he's
promised not to tell. Piffle ... he just says things like that to sound
important. He's not easy. Mrs Slater... not now he's growing up. We all have
our cross to bear, don't we?"

Mrs Slater nodded, her face impassive.
Annie Restorick looked up in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a figure
behind the frosted glass of the office door. But then she could have been
mistaken.
What with the worry of Wayne and her mother to look after single-handed, the
strain was affecting her... was it making her see things as well? Probably.

The tea was finished and Mrs
Slater's manner suddenly became more businesslike. The Americans' rooms needed doing,
she told Annie, and they were very particular ... very
particular indeed.

Annie was halfway through her
labours when Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson arrived. Mrs Slater showed
them into her office. Her face had registered surprise and a little unease when
they told her that they wished to speak to her rather than her
American guests.

'I'm sorry to hear about your
nephew, Mrs Slater,' Wesley began. 'The Met have informed his family in London,
I believe. Your sister didn't come down when he was taken into hospital?'

The last remark was a question rather than a statement of fact.

'I don't blame her after all he'd put
her through. Still, it's over now.' She sighed. Rat's demise had been a relief,
although convention forbade her to say it.

'How did your mother take the news?
They'd been close, hadn't they?'

'That was a long time ago when he
was a child. She never knew he was here ... it was best. She's an old woman.'

'She doesn't know he's dead?'

Mrs Slater shook her head. She had
dealt with the subject of the black sheep of the family with her usual calm
efficiency ... and ignored it.

Wesley's next question was
unexpected. 'Have you got a bayonet?' He asked it casually, as if asking for
the sugar bowl.

Mrs Slater's eyes widened, but her
calm exterior was unruffled. 'A bayonet?'

'Yes. Have you got one around the
place ... wartime souvenir?'

'Er. - -I think there was one amongst
my father's things. They were in an old trunk in the attic. He was killed in
the war.'

'Do you know how he died, Mrs Slater?'
She didn't reply.

'Can we see the bayonet, please, Mrs
Slater?'

She looked as if she were about to
refuse, then she opened the drawer in her desk and produced a key. They
followed her upstairs in silence.

The attic wasn't the dusty, neglected
roof space of Wesley's imagination, but a series of fairly well-ordered rooms
containing furniture and equipment not currently needed by the hotel. In the furthest
of the rooms, well lit by a dusty skylight, the family's
unwanted possessions were stored. A large trunk, the old-fashioned kind that
children took to boarding school, stood against the far wall. Mrs Slater knell
by it and opened it slowly, as though she were afraid some Jack-in-the-box
would leap out at her. She gave the trunk a perfunctory search and turned to
the two policemen.

'It's not here. It's a very long time
since I've seen it . .. probably since before I was married. I suppose someone
must have got rid of it-"

'Would your mother know what
happened to it?'

'1 really couldn't say.'

'Where were you when Mr Openheim was
killed? I know you've told one of my officers, but just remind me,' said Heffernan.

'I was in my office ... dealing with
some bookings. I've told.. -'

'And your mother. Where was she?'

'She was in her flat. Why?'

'Can we talk to her? It might help
us clear up a few things.'

'I don't want her bothered .. .
she's an old lady.'

'We're very good with old ladies,
aren't we, Sergeant?'

Wesley said nothing but tried to
look sympathetic. Mrs Slater thought for a moment. They could see her weighing
up the situation in her mind.

'Very well... but one of your officers
told me that it wasn't necessary to interview her.'

'Really?' The inspector resolved to
have a word with whoever that officer was. 'By the way. Mrs Slater, did you
know that your father was supposedly shot by an American serviceman who fitted the
description of Norman Openheim?' He watched her carefully,
noting her reaction.

The woman's mouth fell open and she
stared at Heffernan. 'No...' she mouthed. Then her self-possession began to
seep back. 'It can't be ... I don't believe you.'

'It's true. Mrs Slater.' Wesley took
over. 'You knew about it, didn't you? Your mother told you. It's not something
she'd keep to herself. It's not as if he'd died disgraced like a deserter... he
was murdered. How did you feel when the Americans booked in here? One of them
had murdered your father. Did you wonder if it might have been one of your guests?
Then when you saw Norman Openheim flashing that lighter around ...'

'There must have been a lot of
silver lighters around then .. .'

'But this one was distinctive. And
with a bit of imagination he could have fitted the description of your father's
killer fifty years back. That's why you killed him, Mrs Slater. You could have lived
with it if he'd been killed in France, but when you saw he'd
got away with it...'

'No.' She shook her head. 'It wasn't
like that.'

'You can tell us what it was like
down at the station.' said Heffernan. 'In the meantime we'd like a word with
your mother.'

'She's not well,' Mrs Slater said
with some vehemence.

'We won't alarm her... just a quick
word. Where's her flat?"

'Sir...' Wesley tried not to show
his alarm. His boss couldn't burst in on a sick old lady. He should at least
get a WPC to go with him. Heffernan ignored him and marched down the stairs
after Mrs Slater.

The stair carpet in the family
quarters was threadbare: all resources had been concentrated on the hotel and
the comfort of the guests.

They reached a plain wooden door.
Mrs Slater raised her hand to knock. It was. Wesley noticed, a surprisingly
gnarled hand: she was a wartime baby, no longer a young woman. She knocked very
softly. There was no sound from within the room.

'Try again, please. Mrs Slater.'

She knocked again, louder this time.
'She must be asleep. I'll not disturb her.' She turned to face them, defiant.

' I don't want to disturb her
either, love ... but I do want to have a look at her room.'