A Long Time Dead (2 page)

So whether Garrett liked it or not – and he most definitely didn't – he was forced to accept that he was now staring down at the last mortal remains of Robert Kineally. Which the State and Defence Departments were just gonna love, because what they
really
needed at that particular, delicate moment was flack from Senator
Eugene
Kineally.

The high-level meeting had started out amicably enough, but it was now in its third hour, and tempers were becoming heated.

‘For Christ's sake, what's the problem here?' the four-star American General was demanding. ‘First we fight a bloody war for you, then we step in to protect you from the goddam Ruskies. And what do we want in return? All we're asking for is a tiny piece of land, which, even in a rinky-dink country like this one, you'd never even miss.'

The civil servants flanking the Right Honourable Douglas Coutes, Minister of Defence, stiffened. The minister himself bit back the first words which had come to his mind, and forced a reasonable expression to invade his face.

‘No one here disputes that you need land to site your military bases on, Jack,' he said smoothly. ‘It's merely a question of which particular pieces of land we give you.'

‘From the point of view of defending this country –
your
country – the choice of a location is obvious,' the General countered.

Coutes pressed the fingertips of both hands together, in what was a gesture of either contemplation or prayer. ‘You're looking at the matter from a purely military perspective, Jack,' he said.

‘Damn right, I'm—'

‘Which is perfectly understandable, given your particular brief. But we, the government, have to consider the
political
fall-out of any decisions that we make, too. And not only would the site you propose despoil a great deal of open countryside – which would undoubtedly enrage both the nature freaks and any number of other bunches of crazies – but it would also, and much more significantly, mean the compulsory purchase of property belonging to some of our most important and influential families.'

‘Important families? Dukes and earls? Those kinda guys?' the General asked, aggressively.

‘Those kinda guys,' Coutes agreed dryly.

‘Are you trying to tell me that, even today, they're still calling some of the shots?'

‘More than you could ever imagine,' Coutes said. ‘Our last prime minister was, I scarcely need remind you, an earl. And even out of power, the aristocracy is a force to be reckoned with.'

‘Jesus!' the General snorted in disgust.

‘No country – not even your own great republic – is immune from such influences,' Coutes said. ‘Your home-grown “movers and shakers” may not have titles, but their
modus operandi
is probably very similar to those of the lords you seem to despise.'

‘Latin, already,' the General said, his disgust deepening.

There was a discreet knock on the door, and Coutes's Principal Private Secretary slipped into the room. ‘There's a phone call for you, Minister,' he said. ‘It's Mr Braithwaite.'

‘Tell him I'm in a meeting,' Coutes snapped.

‘I will, if you insist, but I rather think you
should
take this call,' the PPS said emphatically.

The minister sighed heavily. ‘All right. Have the call transferred through to here.'

The PPS raised a warning eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it might be wiser to have your conversation with Mr Braithwaite in private,' he suggested.

Back in his own office, Coutes wrenched the phone from its cradle, and jammed it against his ear.

‘What's this all about, Braithwaite?' he demanded.

‘We've been getting some disturbing signals from our intelligence sources in Washington DC,' the caller said.

‘About the military base?'

‘How did you know that?' Braithwaite asked, astonished.

‘How did I know? How did I bloody-well know? I know, you bumbling idiot, because this Calderdale Camp issue has been dominating my life for the last two months.'

There was an awkward – almost embarrassed – pause at the other end of the line.

‘Actually, it's not Calderdale I'm talking about, Minister,' Braithwaite said, almost apologetically. ‘I was referring to Haverton Camp.'

‘But that's been closed for years!' Coutes exploded.

‘I realize that, but …'

‘They shut it down soon after the Invasion of Normandy. The Ministry might still own the land, but that's just a legal technicality.' Coutes paused. ‘Come to think of it, didn't the Chancellor get me to agree to selling it to some development company with plans to turn it into a garden city?'

‘That's quite correct, Minister, but—'

‘So why bother me with it now? Are you under the impression that because I served there briefly myself, I've developed some sort of sentimental attachment to the bloody place?'

‘No, I … Minister, the signals from Washington concern a Captain Robert Kineally. Does that name mean anything to you?'

‘Not a great deal, no,' Coutes said.

‘You don't remember him?'

‘Of course I
remember
him, but then I
remember
what I had for breakfast, and that doesn't mean a great deal to me, either.'

‘It's … er … being said that you didn't get on with him very well,' Braithwaite said uncomfortably. ‘In fact, it's being suggested that a high level of animosity existed between the two of you.'

‘I couldn't stand the sanctimonious little prig. So what? There were a number of people I didn't get on with back then. Anyway, as far as I recall, the bastard disappeared just before the invasion of Europe.'

‘So he did, Minister. But not, it would seem, of his own free will. And now that he's turned up again—'

‘What!'

‘—now that he's turned up again, there are people in Washington who rather feel that you have some explaining to do.'

W
hen the phone on his desk rang, that damp early spring morning in 1965, Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend was not thinking about the War.

But he easily could have been.

He often did.

‘It never even enters my head any more, Charlie,' one or another of his old comrades would tell him at their reunions, after a few pints had been sunk. ‘As far as I'm concerned, it's all over and done with. I can honestly say I've put it completely behind me.'

‘Is that right?' Woodend would ask.

‘It is, Charlie. It most definitely is.'

He didn't believe it. As far as he was concerned, the War wasn't something you forgot – it was merely something you tried not to dwell on too much.

Because when you'd sweated half your body weight away in North Africa, when you'd almost drowned during the landing on the beaches of Normandy and nearly frozen to death in the Battle of the Bulge, when you'd seen for yourself the horrors of the Nazi death camps – and
he
had done all those things – you couldn't entirely vanquish the memories, however much you might wish to.

Still, on that particular morning – as he sat twisting the paperclips on his desk into an intricate pattern and waiting for the arrival of a major case which might serve to distract him, at least temporarily – his thoughts were dwelling on matters much closer to home.

He was worried about his wife, Joan, and the heart condition which had first manifested itself on their holiday in Spain. He was fretting over the mental health of Inspector Bob Rutter, who'd had a nervous breakdown shortly after his own wife, Maria, had been murdered. And he was very concerned about the emotional balance of Detective Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, who was not only his bagman and confidante, but also Rutter's ex-lover. So, all in all, it was hardly surprising that it came as something of a relief when the phone
did
ring.

‘Charlie? Charlie Woodend? Is that you?' asked the caller.

He did not quite recognize the voice at first, though the shiver which ran down his back told him that when he did put a name to it, he wasn't going to like the result.

‘It's me!' the caller said. ‘Douglas Coutes! You surely remember me, don't you?'

Oh yes, a voice in Woodend's head said ominously, I remember you, all right. You bastard!

‘What can I do for you, Captain Coutes?' he asked.

‘No need to call me that now, Charlie,' the other man replied. ‘The war's been over a long time, you know.'

He laughed, but Woodend could detect no humour in it – no sense of good-hearted joshing. Rather there was an edge to the laugh – a nervousness which almost bordered on hysteria.

‘This isn't a social call, is it?' the Chief Inspector guessed.

‘Not entirely, no,' Douglas Coutes agreed. ‘Though, I must admit, I have been feeling guilty about not having got in touch with an old comrade like you long ago.'

You never felt guilty about anything in your whole life, Woodend thought – which is probably why you're a government minister now.

But aloud, he said, ‘What do you want, Mr Coutes?'

‘Douglas, Charlie!' Coutes said reprovingly. ‘After all we went through together, I think you can call me Douglas.'

‘Is it somethin'
official
you wanted to talk about, Mr Coutes?' Woodend asked, flatly.

‘Semi-official,' Coutes told him, ignoring the deliberate slight. ‘Do you remember an American called Robert Kineally?'

Of course I remember him, Woodend thought. He was a rare bird indeed – one of those few officers it was a pleasure to work with.

‘What about him?' he asked.

‘You remember that he completely disappeared, just before the Invasion of Normandy?'

‘I was told
later
that he'd disappeared,' Woodend said, choosing his words carefully. ‘If you recall, I'd already been posted on by then.'

‘Of course you had,' Coutes agreed. ‘You missed all the fuss – the American military policemen turning over the camp, the helicopters they brought in specially so they could search the whole area from the air—'

‘Like you said, I missed all that,' Woodend interrupted.

‘There were those who thought he'd fallen into the sea, and those who said he'd deserted.'

And what did
I
think? Woodend wondered. To tell the truth, I was already on the battlefront when I finally heard the news – an' with everythin' that was goin' on around me, I hardly thought about it
at all
.

‘There were even those who thought he was a Nazi spy, and had fled before his cover was blown,' Coutes continued.

Woodend sighed. ‘There's always folk who'd rather think the worst of other people, but anybody who really knew Robert Kineally would never have believed he was a Nazi,' he said.

‘Well, exactly,' Douglas Coutes agreed. ‘He and I may have had our differences, but—'

‘Could you get to the point, please, sir?' Woodend interrupted.

‘It turns out none of those things had happened. It turns out he was
murdered
.'

‘So?' Woodend asked, though he was finding it hard to disguise the quickening of interest in his voice.

‘Don't you want to know
how
I know he was murdered, Charlie?' Coutes asked.

‘It was all a long time ago, and I'm not sure I—'

‘I know he was murdered because I've just been informed that they've found his body!'

‘Where?' Woodend asked, resignedly giving in to his ever-increasing curiosity.

‘I don't know exactly. They haven't released all the details yet. But I believe it's somewhere near Haverton Camp.'

‘After such a long time, how can they be so sure it's him?' Woodend wondered. Then the answer came to him. ‘Of course, he'll have had his dog tags on him, won't he?'

‘Yes, he had his dog tags,' Coutes agreed. ‘And the American authorities have also checked his dental records, and come up with a perfect match. So I'm afraid there's absolutely no doubt about it. It really is him.'

Woodend reached for a cigarette, and lit it from the large box of kitchen matches which he always kept on his desk.

‘So Robert Kineally was murdered,' he said. ‘How?'

‘Stabbed, apparently.'

‘Well, he's been a long time dead, so there's not much chance of them solvin' the crime after all this time,' Woodend said. ‘I doubt they'll even try.'

‘I've … I've been told there
is
going to be an investigation,' Coutes said. He paused and took a deep breath – as if he'd been putting off what he had to say next for as long as possible, but now recognized that the moment had finally come. ‘And apparently, the Americans consider me one of the main suspects,' he finished in a rush.

‘Why would they do that?' Woodend wondered.

‘They've … they've apparently found one of my fingerprints on Kineally's dog tags.'

‘After all this time? I'm no expert on fingerprints, but I'm surprised they could still lift it.'

‘It … it was a bloodstained fingerprint.'

‘Bloodstained? In that case, you might as well confess straight away, don't you think?'

‘But I didn't
do
it!'

‘Then how do you explain the fingerprint?'

‘Isn't it obvious? Whoever killed Robert Kineally must have decided to frame me!'

‘How?'

‘I don't know, for God's sake! You can't expect
me
to think like a murderer. But there must be hundreds of ways.'

‘Name one.'

‘Maybe I touched the dog tags while Kineally was still alive. Maybe the killer made a wax impression of my fingerprint, and somehow transferred it to the dog tag. I'm no expert in these matters. That's why I'm calling you.'