Season Of Darkness (34 page)

Clare smiled at him. “Not today, thank you, Mr. O’Connor.”

Tyler noticed that the man had a tattoo himself at the junction of his thumb and forefinger. A green and red snake crawled up from his wrist.

He tapped him on the arm. “I’d like a word with you, Mr. O’Connor.”

O’Connor frowned. “Beg pardon, sir. But we didn’t have the opportunity to get introduced.”

“Sorry,” said Clare. “Michael O’Connor, this is Inspector Tom Tyler.”

The Irishman showed his tobacco-stained teeth, presumably smiling. “I’d have put you down for a nark any day. What’s
your business here? There ain’t no Irish for you to hassle. They’re all Germans.”

O’Connor’s manner sent a jolt of anger flooding through Tyler.
Little Paddy prick
.

“We’ll catch up with you,” he said to Clare. “Come, Mr. O’Connor. Police business.” He took the Irishman by the arm so he had no choice but to accompany him. “Is there anywhere we can have a little privacy?”

The Irishman showed his yellow teeth again. “ ’Tis joking you are, Inspector. Unless you want to sit in the latrines, there isn’t anywhere. Anyway, the lav’s not even that private at this time of day.”

Tyler looked around. “We’ll use the major’s tent. Come on.”

He led the way back to the gate and the sentry opened it for them.

“Don’t get any ideas of running away, O’Connor.”

“Now Inspector, I’ll bet you didn’t say that to the doctor. Why would you think I’d be more likely to try something than anybody else?”

“Because you’re a Paddy prick, that’s why. You’re probably plotting every minute of the day to get out of here and blow up a railway station in the name of independence. As far as I’m concerned you can have your independence up the fanny. Who’d want to hold on to such pieces of bog shite anyway?”

O’Connor stopped dead and stared at Tyler. Then he laughed. “Very funny. I almost believed you for a second there.”

Tyler shrugged. “Isn’t that what you expected me to say? Or if not say, at least be thinking?”

“I did that, Inspector. I’ll confess I thought that, like all other fecking English coppers, you’d automatically take me for an enemy.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Depends on how you want to look at it. I was interned with all these fecking foreigners because I said I was a conchie and a card-carrying communist to boot. Jesus love me, that got their knickers in a knot. I think they’d rather I was an Irish Nationalist committed to overthrowing the imperialist English oppressors. That they can understand.”

They were at the tent.

O’Connor hesitated. “Do you mind if we bring the chairs out here? I haven’t been outside of the barbed wire since I arrived in May. It feels good to be out here. Reminds me that there is such a thing as freedom.”

“If the Nazis invade us, you’ll be in worse trouble,” said Tyler. “They hate Bolsheviks.”

“I know it.” He gave Tyler a playful punch on the arm. “Even though I’m an Irish Paddy prick, I hope in this case England is victorious.”

Tyler brought out the canvas chairs. He took out his case and offered a cigarette, which O’Connor accepted greedily. They each drew in a few drags, then O’Connor said, “What’s this police business you were so keen to talk to me about?”

“It concerns your tattoos.”

The Irishman burst out laughing. “Don’t say you want one. I could do a nice heart with the initials of your lady love entwined.”

“This is serious, O’Connor. Elsie Bates used to come here to help people with their English. I’m trying to find out everything I can about her life.”

O’Connor blew out smoke. “Tragic that was. A smasher of a girl.” He swivelled around to look at Tyler. “Is that what you mean by me and me tattoos? She was keen as mustard to have one herself.”

“Did she?”

“Not exactly. She said she had something special and private
she wanted, so she was going to get her boyfriend to do it. She bought an indelible pencil from me. The only tattoos I can do here are with an indelible pencil.”

That fitted.

“Has anybody asked you for any … well, unusual, tattoos?”

The Irishman smirked at him. “One man’s unusual is another man’s usual. Do you mean pussy and pricks or what? Not too many of them, to tell you the truth. Not in this place. In fact, to be truthful, nobody has asked for anything like that.”

Tyler took out his notebook and made a quick sketch of the tattoo that had been on Elsie’s buttock. O’Connor looked at it.

“Nope. Not mine. Nothing I’ve done. I’m more original than that. Must have been the boyfriend.”

“Any idea who that might be?”

“Nope. Nobody in this place, I’ll tell you. They’re either too old to remember what it’s for or too young to know.”

“Did you ever meet a young woman named Rose Watkins?”

“Ain’t that the one the major said was offed as well? Shite, what the hell’s going on?”

“She used to come here for Mass sometimes. Did you see her?”

“No. I gave up religion for Lent years ago. I stay as far away from all that mumbo jumbo as I can.”

“Do you know who Dennis McEvoy is?”

“Nope. Never heard of him.”

“Okay. Thanks for your help. We’d better get back.”

“T’weren’t much. But you wouldn’t be able to spare some fags, would you?”

Tyler snapped open his cigarette case. “Here. Take some.” He held out his hand. “Are you above shaking hands with a Limey?”

O’Connor grasped his hand. “Nope. As long as you don’t mind pressing the flesh with a Paddy Bolshie prick.”

Tyler decided to forgo the lemonade. He’d met up with Clare, and even if it was brief, his conversation with Bruno Beck had given him something to think about. The two murders were very different in style. Was the doctor right? Did this indicate two different murderers? The killer had placed a gun beside Elsie and she had been left in the open where she could be discovered. There was something respectful about the way she’d been laid out. And then there were the bloody flowers.

Rose’s killer had taken pains to hide her body. Who knows when she would have been found if it weren’t for Janet and Dennis. There certainly wasn’t anything reverential about the way
she
had been treated.

T
YLER SPENT THE EVENING WITH
J
ANET, COMFORTING
her when she broke into tears, talking about anything and everything when she was calmer. He spent the night on the couch, claiming he was too het up to sleep in the bed. This turned out to be true and he tossed and turned until he finally fell asleep in the early hours, only to be catapulted into wakefulness by the ringing of the telephone. Groggily, he squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece. Seven o’clock.

He hurried to answer, not wanting to wake everybody up on Sunday morning. It was Sergeant Gough.

“Crikey, Guff, don’t you have a home to live in?”

“I thought you’d want to know right away, sir. Dennis McEvoy has been caught.”

Tyler gave a soft cheer. “Where was he?”

“He got as far as the Welsh border when he was picked up. He claims he was just out for a drive but he had a haversack stuffed with enough rations for a week.”

“You said, ‘out for a drive’?”

“He was on a motorcycle.” There was a pause and Gough cleared his throat. “It’s registered to your son Jimmy. McEvoy says he borrowed it because his is out of commission.”

“I see.”

“The Welsh plods are bringing him directly to the station,” said Gough. “They should be here shortly.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Tyler got dressed and shaved, made a fast breakfast. and headed across to the station. He looked in on Janet, who was fast asleep, and Jimmy for once was at home, also asleep. He debated waking him up, but decided to see what Dennis had to say for himself first.

When Tyler walked into the station, two Welsh police officers were waiting for him. They were having a good natter with Sergeant Gough while a subdued Dennis McEvoy languished on the bench. He got to his feet when Tyler entered, and one of the officers caught his arm and shoved him back down.

“Steady, mate. I’d prefer it if you had your arse on the bench if you don’t mind.”

“That’s all right, sergeant,” said Tyler. “I’ll take care of Mr. McEvoy. Sergeant Gough, would you take him into my office.”

He didn’t say hello to the frightened young man; he was too angry with him.

Gough did as requested and Tyler turned to the two other officers. “Thanks, lads. How are you, Bryn?”

Tyler had played against Bryn Jones in several police league football matches over the years. In fact, Jones had given him a solid “accidental” kick on the shins in their last game, which he intended to repay when he could. They shook hands and Jones introduced his constable, Evan Llewellyn.

“How did you catch McEvoy?” he asked Jones.

“A bit of luck really, good for us, bad for him. He ran out of petrol just outside of Presteigne. He tried to buy some at the local petrol station, but the owner wondered what a Brit was doing on our side of the border with a heavy rucksack on his back and a nervous manner. He thought he might be a Jerry spy so he rang us up while the lad was waiting for his fill up. We’d had his description come over the wire, so one of our constables hopped over there right away. First off, he said his name was Bobby Walker. I happened to know that wasn’t true
as I’ve met that particular lad before at one of our away games. We did a recce of this one’s identification papers, which confirmed his name was, as suspected, Dennis McEvoy, private in His Majesty’s army. His rucksack was stuffed with rations, tins of meat, powdered milk, you name it. He said his mother had given them to him for a picnic. Not too imaginative that one.” He looked at Tyler curiously. “What’s McEvoy wanted for, Tom?”

“He’s a witness in a murder case I’m investigating. He took off before I could talk to him.”

“The bike’s registered in your lad’s name. Did McEvoy steal it?”

“That’s what I’ve got to find out. Let me go and have a word or two with our boy here. Help yourself to some tea before you start back.” He winked. “Sergeant Gough has got something he can add for the journey. A nice little pick-me-up. That is unless you’ve become teetotallers?”

“Not this side of the border. Thanks, Tom. Much appreciated. If there’s anything else you need just let us know.”

Tyler turned to go to his office, and Jones said, “Our team’s in good fettle now. The next match is as good as won. Start shaking in your boots.”

“Don’t count your chickens, Jones.”

He went into his office. Dennis was now slumped in the chair, with Gough standing beside him.

“Thanks, Sergeant, I’ll take over now. Look after the Taffies, will you?”

Gough left and Tyler took his seat behind the desk. He did some unnecessary shuffling of his papers, not looking at Dennis. Finally he sat back and laced his hands behind his head.

“You’ve got yourself in a shit load of trouble, Den.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked so miserable, Tyler almost felt sorry for him. Almost; not quite.

“Where did you think you were going?”

“I didn’t have a very clear idea, sir. I thought I’d head for Ireland.”

“Fat lot of good that would have done you. They’re a neutral territory. They’re interning our own pilots who are shot down. You’d have been stuck there for the duration. You were supposed to report for duty on Saturday night. You didn’t do so, and that makes you absent without leave. A serious crime. You could go to prison.”

“I know, sir. I wasn’t thinking. I … I just had to get away.”

“From what?”

“Just things. The war—”

“Did you steal our Jimmy’s motorcycle?”

Dennis stared at him, round-eyed. “Oh no, sir. He said I could borrow it.”

“Didn’t he know you were supposed to report for duty?”

“Er, no. I didn’t tell him. I just said I wanted to go for a ride. Clear my head.” Dennis wriggled uncomfortably on the chair. “I need to use the lavatory, if you don’t mind, sir.”

Tyler pointed to the toilet. “It’s over there. Leave the door open.”

The lad scuttled off. Tyler could see his back. It seemed to take him a long time to start urinating but finally he did, finished up, and returned to his seat.

“Hurt, did it?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I said, did it hurt to piss?”

“Er, yes, it did rather.”

From outside the room they heard a burst of laughter. Sergeant Gough was no doubt plying the Welshmen with whisky and football stories.

Tyler got to his feet, came around the desk, and sat on the edge so he was only a foot away from Dennis.

“Now then lad, there are a few things we need to clear up. First off, I had a chat with a young Land Army girl, name of Florence Hancocks, nice girl. You know her, don’t you?”

“I, er …” He saw Tyler’s expression and the denial froze on his lips. “Yes, sir.”

“You were aware that she was off at the hospital on Thursday? She had to get some treatment – for a venereal disease she’d picked up from her boyfriend. Any idea who that might be?”

“I think that was me, sir.”

“Are you saying you’ve got the clap, Den?”

“It seems that way, sir.”

Tyler leaned to within a few inches from the soldier. “It might have been a nice gesture of support to accompany her at least to the hospital. She was all by herself.”