Season Of Darkness (17 page)

“Yes, Mr. Trimble,” said Freckles, and she scrambled off up the ladder.

Molly glared right back at him. “It’s absolutely not true what you just said about us being irresponsible. The opposite is true.”

Her posh accent was cutting, but Trimble didn’t seem dashed.

“Naturally enough, these young women are worried about Rose, given what happened to Elsie Bates,” put in Tyler.

Arthur shrugged. “She’ll be back when she’s good and ready.”

Tyler could hardly contradict him, seeing as how he’d said more or less the same thing not too long ago, but as usual the man rubbed him the wrong way.

“We think she left the hostel about seven o’clock. Did you happen to see her?”

Trimble scowled. “I don’t have time to sit around idle. I was working in the rose garden ’til it got dark, then I went in to get my supper. I haven’t seen nobody.”

Freckles came climbing back down the ladder.

“There’s a little tear in the curtain, Mr. Trimble. I fixed it as best I could but it will have to be sewn.”

“You’d better bloody well get on it, then. Jerry can see a pinprick of light and use it for a guide.”

Trimble’s voice had been harsh and contemptuous. Freckles looked as though she would burst into tears.

“We’re not supposed to do domestic duty,” said Molly.

Trimble’s moustache really was quivering now. Tyler intervened before the man could explode.

“Let’s not get into that, Molly,” he said. “I’ll leave you to sort out the curtain. It should be repaired right away.”

She looked as if she was going to protest, but thought better of it.

“Ladies, you’ve been most helpful. Why don’t you get back and finish your supper? I’ll come over in a minute.”

Molly, somewhat reluctantly, nodded her agreement, and the two girls walked past Trimble, the redhead shrinking against her friend.

“Have you done?” Trimble asked Tyler. “I’m going to lock the door. I don’t want nobody else coming in here until we fix that curtain.”

“In a minute. I just want to have a look around.”

“What for?”

“Police business.”

He walked over to Sir Percy’s Bentley. To give the car a thorough examination he’d need daylight, but he wanted to aggravate Trimble a little more on principle. He couldn’t see any dents or scratches on the Bentley, and he moved over to the Rolls, Trimble behind him.

“I don’t like you being in here with a light on. What are you looking for?”

Tyler ignored him. The Rolls was also immaculate and looked as if it had been polished recently.

“Who looks after Lady Somerville’s car?”

“Me, now. Jack of all trades, me. Her regular chauffeur got seconded or whatever you call it. He’s driving some nob from the Ministry around.”

“Did you clean it today?”

“I did. You never know when she wants to go out. What of it?”

Tyler turned on him. “Look Trimble. I’m conducting a murder enquiry. I’ve got authority to arrest anybody, man,
woman or child, who hinders my investigation. And I’m starting to consider you a hindrance.”

The manager looked at him, his jaw clenched stubbornly. “It’s all very well for you to throw your weight around, but I’m responsible for these cars. Anything happens to them, it’ll be my job on the line.”

“What the bloody hell do you think I’m going to do, piss up the wheels?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” muttered Trimble, but he backed off and sat down on a wooden box by the door.

Tyler examined the Ford, which, in contrast to the other cars, was dusty and battered. He ran his fingers lightly over the bonnet and they left traces.

“When did you use this last?” he called out to Trimble.

“It’s dead as a doornail. Hasn’t been out for a fortnight. I can’t get the right part for it.”

“Who owns the Riley?”

“One of the girls in the hostel. Name’s Hancocks. What a girl her age needs with a Riley is beyond me, but she’s spoiled rotten. Father making a fortune turning out airplane parts. There’s always some sod who gets rich during a war, ain’t there?” He spat on the floor.

The Riley wasn’t new but the chassis looked in good shape. No dents or scratches there either. Tyler went over to the lorry. More to irritate Trimble than anything else, he opened the door on the passenger side and peered inside. It reeked of tobacco but there was nothing he could see of importance. A few feathers drifted around the interior, otherwise it was empty.

He turned back to the manager. “All right. I’m done here. Let’s go.”

“Bleeding waste of my time, this is,” growled Trimble.

He followed Tyler out and locked the door carefully behind
him. Tyler walked back across the yard to the house, leaving Trimble to shuffle himself off to his quarters.

The thought was going round and round in Tyler’s head:
Rose, Rose, please come back to us unharmed
.

The common room was deserted except for Florence Hancocks. She was sitting on the couch with her feet up, smoking yet another cigarette. Tyler thought she still looked nervous and too haggard for a young girl.

“The others have gone off to have their baths, Inspector. Miss Stillwell is in her office. I gather from Molly there are no indications as to where Rose has gone.”

“No. Any ideas?”

“None. I wish I did.”

“By the way, Miss Hancocks, I believe you own the Riley that’s in the barn?”

“Yes, I do.”

She was gazing at him and she seemed tense and wary.

“You were with your mother in Bath and returned to the hostel shortly before nine tonight?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Which route did you take?”

That question caused a stiffening of her body. “I came straight down the canal road. It’s better surfaced than some of the others.”

“Take you about two hours, did it?”

“Yes, about that.”

“Good for you. Last time I did that drive, it was in daylight. I would have thought driving in the blackout would take twice as long.”

She stubbed out her cigarette.

“Are you stringing me a line, Miss Hancocks?”

She opened her case and removed a fresh cigarette but didn’t
light it. “I apologize, Inspector. I was being slightly devious. In fact, I left Bath at about eleven in the morning. I stopped off at Shrewsbury. Frankly, I seized the opportunity to do some shopping and have a good meal.”

“That’s not such a sin. Why’d you lie about it?”

“I didn’t want to upset Miss Stillwell. She’s big on loyalty and hard work. If she knew I could have been back earlier, she would be disappointed in me. Please don’t tell her.”

“I had no intention of doing that, Miss Hancocks. Well, I’ll wish you good night. Try to get some sleep. And if you do need to reach me, you can ring at any time.”

“Thank you.”

At the door, he paused. “What did you buy in Shrewsbury?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you did some shopping.”

“Not quite. I said I was going to do some shopping but I didn’t find anything I liked. The shops are quite bare these days.”

Tyler nodded, and closed the door behind him.

The rendezvous was to be used only in cases of utter necessity and he’d received the sign requesting a meeting tonight, usual time, early hours when it was the safest. He’d gone to sleep right after lights out, knowing he was always able to wake himself at the appointed time. Tonight, however, he woke well before two. The men in his tent were restless, the usual relentless cacophony of snuffles, grunts and snores. Their straw palliasses were covered with canvas which creaked when they moved. The sound reminded him of the sailing ship he worked on as a boy when the sails stirred and snapped in the wind. A ship is never silent, and sometimes the tent felt the same way. He’d loved those few years, the toughness of it, the comradeship, the rare peace he’d found when he was on the night watch, the boat moving like a live creature under his hands. If he allowed himself such a feeling, he would have said he was lonely now, an alien in more ways than these mumbling, dreaming fools knew
.

He lay on his back, his hands folded across his chest, as he tried to ascertain from the level of breathing if the other men were all asleep. He heard somebody moving outside, the sound of the tent flap as the man returned to his bed. He held his watch close to his eyes, the moonlight sufficient for him to read the time. He had to wait another twenty minutes. He heard a faint distant barking, not a dog, more likely a fox
.

His overseer was not much given to poetics, but shortly before he was to leave, he’d said, “Think of yourself as a fox. You must operate by cunning and stealth. You must be as ruthless and …” here he’d actually chuckled “… you must have teeth that are just as sharp.”

He sat up, waited to make sure he’d disturbed nobody, then slipped out of bed. He picked up a black fedora. He didn’t need it; the nights were still warm. However, sometimes it was better to be slightly conspicuous if afterward you wanted to be inconspicuous. As expected, he saw the faint glow of a cigarette as the guard walked the perimeter of the camp, his fag cupped in his hand. He paused, timing his move so that the soldier would be at the farthest northern side, then he walked swiftly and confidently, simply another man in a hurry to get to the latrine. Sensibly, the authorities had situated the row of latrines in the southeast corner of the camp where the prevailing Welsh wind would blow the odours away from the tents. The rear wall was a mere inches from the barbed wire, underneath a stand of trees, the idea being that the shade would also keep the place from getting too noisome. The outer design was reminiscent of an English park, the entrance by way of a canvas-covered walk; discreet, private. Ah, the foolish English. A fence post stood a couple of feet from the latrine and the wire was fastened to one of its walls. It had been so simple to loosen the screws. The gap between the fence and the wall was just wide enough for him to slip through. The adjacent copse was still lush and thick with summer growth and provided a perfect cover
.

First, he made sure there was nobody inside any of the stalls, and then, waiting for a cloud to cross the moon, he slipped out. The guard would complete his circuit in about ten minutes but he would never notice the wire was not secure at the latrine. He smiled to himself. He could stay out until dawn if he wanted to
.

The rendezvous spot was close by, and for once, his contact was waiting. They didn’t greet each other; words had to be as few as possible
.

“Get down,” he ordered, and crouched low on the soft moss. In order to hear each other, their heads were as close together as if they were lovers; for him, unpleasantly intimate. A sour smell came from the other man. The stink of fear
.

“Well?”

“A girl saw me. She saw what I was doing. I had to silence her. There was no other way. I couldn’t take a chance.”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

He listened to the story, forcing himself to be patient
.

“You did the right thing. Did you hide the body?”

“Temporarily.”

“Hmm. We need to do better than that. Is there somewhere you can put her that will, shall we say, mislead the police?”

“I don’t know …”

“Think. Can you tie it to the death of the other girl?”

“Maybe. No, I can. I’ll think of something.”

“Good.”

“I’ve got to get away. The police are combing the woods.”

“Where do you intend to go?”

“Fuck that. You know bloody well where I’m going. And I want more money.”

“Very well. But it will take a while to get it.”

“Sooner the better.”

The other man sounded less frightened now, more belligerent. His usefulness would soon be over
.

“You must be careful. Don’t do anything to get yourself noticed. I have no desire to be hanged and I’m sure you don’t either.”

Initially, he’d regretted accepting this particular task. He considered himself a man of action. A warrior. But he was ripe pickings when the others had approached him. He was still seething at being virtually cast out in spite of his protestations that his old wound didn’t impede him. But the others flattered and soothed him. His excellent English was such an asset; the job required a man of intelligence and subtlety, as well as the mindset of a soldier. However, time seemed to pass slowly and he fretted at the inaction. He’d done everything that was required of him
,
including working with this useless piece of English shit. Worse, in spite of the assurances he’d been given as to the value of the information he was after, sometimes it seemed as if it would merely add one more small piece of flotsam to one more useless pile
.

“Be patient. When you must strike, do so quickly and ruthlessly.”

These were the words that kept him going
.

F
OR THE SECOND MORNING IN A ROW
, T
YLER WAS
awakened by somebody shaking his shoulder.

“The warden from the hostel rang. She wants you to ring her back right away.” It was Vera.

“What time is it?”

“Half past six.”

He swung his legs out of bed. He’d been so tired when he went to bed he’d slept soundly, no dreams to torment him. His head was clear, his stomach quiescent, for which he was most grateful.

“Damn. I should be up. I thought I’d set the alarm for six.”

“I turned it off. You know how I hate the bloody thing. It sends my nerves through the ceiling.”

Vera was in her dressing gown, her hair in the inevitable curlers.

She went over to the dressing table. She was still a good-looking woman, but time had worn away at the lush beauty he’d first found attractive. She was pinched where she had been full. Even though Tyler knew he’d been on the rebound from Clare, at first he thought he and Vera might be happy together. She was caring, accommodating, and for one or two years, they had lived in the glow of youth and sex. It didn’t last, though; couldn’t really. She knew he wouldn’t have married her if he hadn’t put her in the family way, and that knowledge lay buried deep in her heart like a sliver beneath the skin. Invisible but constantly festering. He wished he could have
given her the love she wanted, but had long ago lost even the desire to try.