The Armada Boy (31 page)

He searched through the pile of
books until he found the one he was looking for. He reread the account. A man
out shooting rabbits was shot dead by an American soldier. There must be a record
of such an incident, even after all this time. And there must
be someone still alive who would remember. It might be nothing to do with
Norman Openheim's death but. on the other hand, it meant that there might -
just might - be somebody in the district with a festering grudge against the US
forces. He dismissed it
from his mind as he went into the kitchen to open a tin of tuna for supper. He
was allowing his imagination to escape and trample all over the bare known
facts. However, he would make enquiries, see if any records existed at
headquarters ... to satisfy his own curiosity if nothing else.

He opened the tuna and put it on two
plates, then set some oven chips to cook - the limit of his culinary skills.

When Pam returned she found her
husband asleep on the sofa dreaming of rabbits shooting murderous Spanish
sailors with sawn-off bayonets. Like everything else. Wesley's dreams made no
sense.

Chapter Eleven

'Overpaid, oversexed and over here.'
Reportedly that's what the men of England used to say about the Americans
posted here in the war. The first two items on the list might merit some
discussion but the third was indisputable: over here they certainly were, and
their impact on the locality in the war years cannot be over-estimated.

From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale

Rachel put the phone down. Dave had
sounded cool, resentful. She had only told him that she couldn't go to the
cinema with him that evening, that she had to work late. The film was only
about the war anyway ... hardly her taste. He'd have to understand that
her work came first, took priority over everything. Besides, once he'd lost the
flat on her family's farm she might be seeing a lot less of him: she'd have to
get used to that.

She pushed any regrets firmly to the
back of her mind and called across the room.

'Steve, are you doing anything that
can't wait?'

'Why?' When Rachel put on the charm,
Steve got suspicious.

'I wanted someone to come with me to
the Clearview . .. have a word with a witness.'

'Okay.' A visit to the Clearview, a
walk to clear his head, might be just what he needed. He was still suffering
from the effects of too much beer the night before. 'Who are you going to see?'
he asked, wondering what the normally-so-efficient Rachel was up to. He had
never found her secretive before: usually everything was above board, by the
book.

'You'll see.'

"Going to surprise me, are you?'
Maybe it wasn't work. Maybe she fancied him. Maybe his luck was changing. He
wouldn't mind getting his leg over with Rachel Tracey; he'd often thought that.

'Look, Steve, if this doesn't work
out, don't mention it to the boss, will you?'

Better and better. He could use this
to his advantage. She was confiding in him: there was something, a secret, they
would share; a bond between them, the first step on the way to the bedroom. Maybe
she'd suggest a drink after this was over, then back to his
flat. He turned and saw that she was looking at him.

'Don't get any ideas, Steve. This is
purely business.'

Steve was resigned to his irresistible
charms not working every time. There were plenty more pebbles on the beach ...
a good simile, he thought, for a walk by Bereton Sands.

It was dusk. The residents of the
Clearview were about to go into dinner. The American party had been told
earlier that they could go on to London the next day, provided they left
details of their whereabouts. Ed Johnson had been reunited with his wife: they'd
have to sort out their problems themselves. Nobody else could dictate what went
on between husband and wife.

Rachel went into the bar. She looked
around: sitting at the bar was the man she was looking for. She could hear her
heart beating. She had to speak to him alone.

She looked at Steve standing behind
her and began to regret the decision to bring him with her. But she was stuck
with him, so she'd better make the best of it. She stepped forward.

'Litton Boratski?' He nodded. 'My
name's Detective Constable Tracey. Can I have a word with you. sir?'

'Sure, why not." He smiled at
her, friendly, unsuspecting. Rachel was about to wipe that smug smile off
Litton Boratski's face.

'I'd like a word in private, sir.'

'Why?'

'I think it would be best, sir.'

Dorinda Openheim and Todd Weringer
chose that moment to enter the bar. Rachel cursed silently. But Dorinda and
Todd, engrossed in each other, ignored her, and steered themselves towards the
bar to order drinks.

Rachel led Litton Boratski through
into the deserted lounge; Steve followed, looking slightly puzzled. Rachel,
less sure of herself now. took a deep breath and began.

'Mr Boratski, certain allegations
were made against you in June 1944.'

'June '44.I was mighty busy in June
"44. We all were ... liberating France. Who made the allegations? Hitler?'

Rachel ignored the joke, reminding
herself all the time that this was a serious matter... the most serious, apart
from murder. 'It's in the civilian police records of the time that you were
accused of rape.'

"Now hang on ...' Litton Boratski
looked angry rather than guilty. "That was all a mistake.'

'It was handed over to the military
authorities, Mr Boratski. What happened?'

'The colonel will tell you ... it
was a mistake.'

'There couldn't have been much time
for an investigation. You were off to France.'

'I told them what happened.'

'And they believed you?'

'It was the truth.'

Tell me.'

'I wouldn't repeat things like that
to a lady.'

Rachel, seething at this challenge
to her professionalism, nevertheless had to play along with it. 'Will you tell
my colleague here?'

'Guess so. Not much to tell.' He turned
to Steve. Rachel moved her chair away and strained to hear what was being said.
'I had a girl... a local girl,' Boratski began softly, glancing at Rachel.
'Lots of the guys did. The old chapel was out of bounds but it was a good place
for... you know.'

Steve nodded, a man of the world.

'I took this girl Muriel up there a
few times ... regular thing. We'd been seeing each other ever since I arrived
in England. She was keen ... all over me. you know, never objected. I met her
one night as usual and a couple of days later word comes that I've been accused
of rape. That was a hanging offence in those days. I just didn't understand it.
We'd been.. . you know ... for a couple of months. I couldn't think why Muriel
would say a thing like that. She was a sweet girl. I was shocked. Luckily some
of the other guys - Norm included, as a matter of fact - backed up my story. We'd
been out in a foursome a couple of nights before, me and Norm with Muriel and
his girl... what was her name?'

'Marion.' said Rachel. Boratski
looked at her awkwardly, not realising she'd overheard.

'Yeah, right... Marion. Anyway, the
case was dropped... just like that. I don't know to this day why she accused me
... we'd parted on good terms. I went over to France and I never saw her again.
I can't understand why she would have lied.' Boratski looked genuinely puzzled.
'Nobody believed it, mind. They knew me better than that.'

'Did they. Mr Boratski?' Rachel stood
up. stiff with suppressed anger. 'I'll be having a word with the woman
involved, of course.'

Boratski looked up. 'Is she still
around here? I sure would have liked to have seen her again if it wasn't for
the things she said ...the lies she told about me. She sure was a pretty girl.'

'We might want to talk to you
again,' said Rachel, cool.

'Sure. And if you find out why
Muriel said what she did you let me know ... right?'

Rachel turned and left the room
without a word.

'You were a bit hard on the old boy,'
said Steve when they got outside.

'He's a bloody rapist. Steve. He was
in a position of power and he abused it. They must have thought they were God
Almighty with all those local girls throwing themselves it them.'

'Don't you think you should find out
what really happened before making judgments? Or do you think ill men are
rapists, eh?'

Rachel walked ahead of him in silence.
Normally Steve would have admired her legs from that vantage point, but somehow
tonight he didn't feel inclined to.

Pam woke Wesley up gently, complaining
that she could smell the oven chips burning.

'How's Sue?" he asked sleepily.

'There's good news. The housing
association say there's a small maisonette up at Dukesbridge. but they can't
get it till they're actually homeless. Let's hope it's not gone before the repossession.
It's not ideal but it's a bloody sight better than bed and breakfast'

'So they won't be coming to stay?'

'Well... er... only for a few days
until it's all sorted out'

'Great,' said Wesley, unconvinced.

He was getting the over-browned
chips from the oven when the phone rang. Pam answered it. 'It's Neil ... for
you.' Her voice held a note of disapproval.

'Hi, Wes... been talking to Simon,
the vicar. Can you get here now?' Neil sounded depressingly awake and
enthusiastic.

Wesley, who could hardly keep his eyes open, answered in the negative. He had a
suspect to interview at half past six.

'Afterwards, then. Simon had a drink
with us last night. He says we can have the church key any time.'

Neil had well and truly got his feet
under the ecclesiastical table, thought Wesley.

'Meet you at the Bereton Arms when
you've finished fitting up some unsuspecting innocent'

Wesley put the phone down. His
problem now was how to tell Pam he'd be late... and that his lateness wouldn't
be entirely due to the administration of law and order.

Kevin Martin sat, his chin resting
on his hand, studying the tape recorder as it whirred round. The duty
solicitor, a dark-haired young woman, stifled a yawn and looked as though she'd
rather be somewhere else. It was seven o'clock, and so far Kevin Martin
had told them very little.

A young constable entered the room
and Wesley announced the fact for the benefit of the tape. The constable thrust
a note into Heffernan's hand. The inspector read it and looked up at Kevin, a triumphant
grin on his face.

'Well. Kevin. I'm happy to tell you
that you're well and truly nicked. It seems some diligent householder
security-marked his valuables with a pen that only shows up under ultraviolet
light. The lads downstairs shone their little machine over your things and lo
and behold...a miracle. There it was, the gentleman's postcode. Anything to
say, Kevin?'

The solicitor whispered something
into her client's ear.

'No comment' Kevin looked at Heffernan
defiantly.