The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (4 page)

Quick directed us past the bombed-out hotel to the shingle beach, the pebbles making a continuous
click clack
sound as the waves washed over them, drawing them back into the deep. We left the jeep and walked a few yards as Quick got his bearings. The wind off the water was cold, and I buttoned up my trench coat as it flapped around me.

“Here, I’d wager, or close to it,” he said. Slapton Sands was long and straight, hardly a curve or landmark in sight.

“He had petroleum in his hair,” I said. “Have any ships sunk along this stretch of Channel?”

“Not for a while, no,” Quick said. “Although there has been a lot of traffic. Landing craft, destroyers, escort and smoke-laying vessels, all sorts. Any of them could have leaked oil.”

“Was anyone else around when you found him?” I asked.

“No, I was alone,” Quick said. “It was one of the few days no
landings were scheduled. I patrolled the village and walked down to the hotel, to make sure no one was about. That’s when I found him. When the MPs came to fetch me, they called for a lorry to take him to Kingsbridge. They wanted nothing to do with it beyond getting him out of the area.”

“So black market is your best guess?” I said, gazing out to the Channel. A destroyer moved offshore, one of the old four-stackers from the last war. It almost looked peaceful.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Quick said. “It explains why no one reported him missing. He probably wasn’t local, maybe part of a gang moving in. We have so many Yanks quartered in Devon these days that it’s black-market heaven.”

“Did you question any of the local suspects?”

“Not me,” Quick said. “You’d have to ask Inspector Grange. I believe he planned to, but I haven’t heard from him about it yet.”

“That’s our next stop,” I said. “We’ll drop you off at your place, if that’s where you’re headed.”

“Home is the division headquarters in Dartmouth,” Quick said. “They have rooms for single men.” I glanced at his left hand. I thought I’d seen him wearing a wedding ring. He noticed the look and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go, then,” he said, and turned back to the jeep.

Nearby, an LCI revved its engine as it backed off the shingle, the last of the GIs having disembarked. About a dozen dogfaces took off their helmets and stretched out on the beach, lighting cigarettes and laughing.

“What the hell are you guys practicing for?” I said.

“The invasion, sir,” a corporal said, standing, brushing off his pants, and tossing me a salute. “We just landed.”

“You just landed on enemy territory, and the first thing you do is take off your helmets and bunch up for a smoke break? One mortar round could take out all of you idiots.” I never enjoyed spouting off like a loudmouth officer, but I’d seen enough combat to know these guys didn’t have a clue.

“Sure, Captain,” the corporal said. “But this is only an exercise.”

“Yeah. Be sure to tell that to the Krauts. Shape up, soldier, or you’ll get your men killed.” I gave him a hard glare, which wasn’t my best face. I tried to think about Dad chewing me out when I was a rookie cop, and that helped. The corporal nodded and put on his helmet.

“Okay, men, spread out and move up to the road. Now!”

They did, but it was with the reluctance of children going back inside after recess. They dawdled and cast surly glances my way.

“They do not comprehend where they are going,” Kaz said, whispering his words to the wind.

I knew he didn’t mean a particular place. There were no map coordinates to mark the location. He meant that point in time and space where bullet meets bone, where grown men cry rivers of tears; the point you can never return from, even if you live to be ninety.

“How could they?” I said, and walked back to the jeep where Quick stood, hands still stuffed in his pockets.

CHAPTER FOUR

“W
E’LL COME BACK
tomorrow,” I said, and washed down the last of my sole with a sharp, tasty ale. As Kaz mentioned, the dead can wait. They don’t get tired or hungry, impatient or demanding. But they don’t ever go away either, especially not the victims of murder. They’re quiet but determined, unsettled by their violent end, present in every waking moment and some nightmares, reaching out for justice and remembrance. I can see the face of every victim I’ve ever known. After a case is solved, they retreat into the hazy recesses of memory, but they’re impossible to forget. Maybe someday.

Maybe not.

We’d dropped Tom Quick off at the Dartmouth constabulary and gone to look for Inspector Grange. Quick had left us with hardly a word, a far cry from the friendly constable we started out with. The inspector was attending to a court case in Exeter and was not expected back today. That left us with only one move: lunch. The George and Dragon pub was a block from the station, with fresh fish and a view of the waterfront. Which meant a view of LCIs, LSTs, destroyers, and the odd fishing boat for as far as the eye could see. Dartmouth sat on the west bank of the River Dart, where it widened before flowing into the English Channel. It was well protected from the weather and the Luftwaffe, which made it a prime harbor for naval vessels training for the invasion.

“Good,” Kaz said. “I’d like to get to Ashcroft as soon as possible.”

“How long since you’ve seen your pal?” I asked.

“It was the summer of 1940,” Kaz said. “David left Oxford to join the RAF, and had just earned his wings. He piloted a Hurricane during the Battle of Britain, then was sent to North Africa. We kept in touch, but I hadn’t heard from him in months when I got his letter inviting me to visit.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind me tagging along?”

“Not at all. David will be pleased to meet you,” Kaz said, finishing his drink.

“Did he mention how serious his injury was?”

“He was rather silent on the subject, and of course I didn’t press. The English are not the most demonstrative people, as you may have noticed. He may not wish to discuss it, even with an old friend.”

Kaz and David Martindale had been friends at Oxford, where they both studied European languages. Flight Lieutenant Martindale was recuperating from injuries received in Italy. He’d been discharged from the hospital to rest at home, which was not far north of Dartmouth. He’d invited Kaz about a month ago, but a case we were on had kept him away. When we’d learned an investigation would take us to the Kingsbridge area, Kaz had written and set up the visit.

To be honest, we weren’t exactly in demand at SHAEF. There was a shortage of murder—criminal murder, in any case—and other crimes that impeded the war effort. With the big invasion looming, it seemed as if everyone had been drawn in to the planning and training for D-Day, leaving little time or energy for our stock-in-trade.

Kaz and I, along with Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, or Big Mike as everyone from generals to privates called him, made up General Eisenhower’s Office of Special Investigations. Our job was to deal with low crimes in high places that got in the way of the war effort. And to deal with them quietly, although quiet wasn’t always in the cards. Every now and then the Brits borrowed us for some dirty work, which usually involved keeping me totally in the dark about everything until it was almost too late. We’d gotten in a bit of trouble because of our tendency to dig too deeply on our last job, and I half wondered if we had been sent here to get us out from underfoot.

Now all we had on our plate was the case of the rotting corpse. None of us needed to know anything about the invasion, for reasons of security. “Need to know” was the popular phrase of the day, often preceded in our case by “you don’t.” If you worked at SHAEF and weren’t involved in D-Day, then you just sat back and watched everyone else scurry around being busy and important.

The fact that I understood why we were left out of planning for Operation Overlord—and I only know the code name since I’m nosy and can read upside down—didn’t make it any easier to swallow. I hate being on the sidelines, no matter the logic. So when the opportunity came along to spend a few days at an English country home with a fancy name like Ashcroft, I thought, why the hell not? It’s got to be a classy place, since Kaz only has classy friends.

Not counting me, of course.

We paid the tab and got into the jeep, Kaz unfolding the map to figure the best route to North Cornworthy, where his buddy’s family estate was. Martindale’s in-laws, to be precise. As Kaz studied the map, I noticed Tom Quick exit the police station. He caught my eye, then looked away. As he did, I realized something odd. He had said his injury left him with a limp. I hadn’t paid much attention to his gait before, but as I watched him stroll away, I didn’t see that he had any trouble walking. Kaz caught my look and saw it as well.

“It seems our Constable Quick has secrets,” Kaz said.

“Or miraculous healing powers,” I said. “He wouldn’t be the first guy to exaggerate an injury to get out of combat. I can’t imagine what it’s like in a bomber at night, loaded with high explosives, as every gunner in Germany tries to blow you out of the sky.” I pressed the starter and tried to put Quick out of my mind. He bothered me. The wedding ring, the sudden change in mood, the supposed limp—it all added up to something more than malingering. But what? And what did it matter anyway? Not my business.

Traffic was backed up with military vehicles in every direction. In a few minutes, we were idling on a residential street of neat red-brick semi-detached houses, flower boxes in spring bloom. A boy zipped by on his bicycle, his dark blue cap and leather pouch
marking him as a telegraph messenger. Lace curtains fluttered in his wake, closing in relief as he passed each residence, until he braked and stopped farther up the lane, racing up the steps and knocking at the door of a house where moments before a wife or mother had been sitting in blissful ignorance that a husband or son had been killed in Burma or Italy, over Germany or under the sea, in any of the terrible far-flung battles of this war. That was what a telegraph meant these days. Bad news, each and every one. The traffic moved, and we watched as the boy stood at the door, clutching the telegram, waiting to confront the face of grief.

We drove out of town, past the red-brick Royal Naval College high up on the hills overlooking Dartmouth. The slopes were blindingly green in the sunlight, the River Dart flowed peacefully to the Channel on our right, and I was pretty sure I didn’t smell like death anymore. I banished thoughts of corpses and Tom Quick from my mind. It was like playing hooky, something I’d been pretty good at back in Boston.

My mental vacation was interrupted by the blast of a jeep’s horn behind us. “It’s Colonel Harding,” Kaz said from the passenger seat. “Pull over.” We got out and approached the colonel’s jeep. Several staff cars and other jeeps passed us, Harding giving a friendly wave to the occupants. I tossed off a lazy salute and Kaz did the British equivalent, palm out, with a lot more élan. As always.

“I’m glad I spotted you,” he said. “Saves me a trip. I telephoned Ashcroft House, but a fellow named Williams said you hadn’t arrived.”

“What’s up, Colonel?” I asked.

“We just finished a planning meeting at the Royal Naval College, preparing for upcoming maneuvers. I need you at Slapton Sands early tomorrow. The local police will be out in force, keeping people as far as possible from the exercise area, several miles out from the regular boundary.”

“Why?” Kaz asked.

“There’s going to be a live-fire exercise tomorrow morning, and we don’t want any civilian sightseers anywhere near the place. Plus, with senior brass thick on the ground, we want to have as much
security in place as possible. A lot of them will be out on ships observing from the Channel, but others will want to watch on land. To complicate matters, in a few days there’s an even bigger exercise, codenamed Operation Tiger. All eyes are going to be on Slapton Sands, so I don’t want any screw-ups.”

“What’s our job?” I asked.

“I need you to be my eyes and ears while I’m offshore with Ike. I spoke to Inspector Grange of the Dartmouth police, and he has agreed to provide a liaison officer for you.”

“We were just looking for him,” I said. “About the dead man who washed up at Slapton Sands.”

“Grange was at the meeting,” Harding said, hooking his thumb in the direction of the Royal Naval College up on the hill. “Any news on the body?”

“We met the constable who found the corpse. The general consensus is that it was likely a black-market deal gone bad. Colonel, if we’re going to work with a local cop, Tom Quick would be the fellow.”

“He is the constable who found the body,” Kaz added. “He knows the area.”

“Fine,” Harding said. “I’m headed back to Dartmouth, so I’ll see Grange and have Quick made available. Pick him up at police headquarters at zero five hundred.” I groaned at the early hour.

“What are we looking for?” Kaz asked.

“Whatever shouldn’t be there,” Harding said. “Your theory of a black-market killing makes sense, but I’m not taking any chances. Watch for anyone who shouldn’t be in the area. It’s a long shot, but if there are any German agents around, they’d have a field day given half a chance.”

“You want us there when they’re using live ammo?” I asked. It didn’t sound like a day at the beach.

“The cruiser
HMS Hawkins
will shell the beach from zero six thirty to zero seven hundred. Be at the checkpoint outside the restricted area before that starts. At zero seven hundred, the beachmaster will inspect the beach and give the order for the landing to proceed if it is safe. I want you two close by to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“What could go wrong?” I asked.

“Everything,” Harding said. “Nothing. I don’t know. That’s why they call it the fog of war. I need you two close to the action. Now let’s switch jeeps.”

Harding had a field radio installed in the back seat, and he went over the frequencies we were to report on. “I’ll be on one of the LCIs with General Eisenhower. If you see anything out of place, contact me immediately. Got it?”

“You don’t think there’s any threat to the general, do you?” I asked.