The Armada Boy (4 page)

'What time did your husband go out?'

I've no idea. He was downstairs.'

'Did he say where he was going?'

'No.'

'And you didn't think to report him
missing when he didn't come back?'

'I took one of my pills... nothing
wakes me when I take one of those little beauties. I thought he'd come back
last night when I was asleep and gone out again this morning before I woke up.
I was a bit worried when he didn't turn up at the service. It was the
highlight of the trip for the old soldiers ... apparently.' She looked bored.
Wesley caught a note of irony in her voice.

'Is there anyone who can sit with
you. Mrs Openheim? I don't like to think of you being on your own at a time
like this.'

'I can manage. Don't you worry about
me. honey. I'll be just fine.' Her chin jutted out determinedly.

Wesley had no cause to doubt her
last statement. He muttered his condolences again then left her alone in the
small room off the main bar while he reported back to the inspector. It
occurred to him that she hadn't asked the obvious question ... how did her
husband die? But grief did strange things to people. They didn't necessarily
act in the way you'd expect.

Wesley had gone, leaving Dorinda
alone. She studied her shiny, manicured nails carefully. She felt numb. She
should have felt something for her husband of thirty-five years. She should
have felt something ... but she didn't

The door opened and Todd Weringer
poked his distinguished
grey head into the room. 'You on your own, Dorry?'
 

'Sure... come in. They think it's
Norman. They want me to go and see him at some hospital.'

'You want me to go with you?'

'That sergeant guy said something
about a woman officer ... I don't know, Todd. I can't think straight.'

Todd Weringer put a large,
comforting arm about her shoulders. 'Just keep cool, honey. Everything's going
to be fine.'

She stood up. He took her in his
arms.

'It's okay, honey, it's okay.' Todd
Weringer bent and kissed Dorinda Openheim. She responded, putting her arms
about his waist and writhing gently under the pressure of his lips. If they kept
cool it would be okay . .. everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Two

Who knows what would have become of
England if the Spanish Armada of 1588 had succeeded in its aims; or, for that
matter, if the D-day landings, so courageously rehearsed on our beach and in
our countryside here at Bereton in 1944 had failed. The whole history of our
island rests on the outcome of events such as these.

Back in 1588, Sir Francis Drake, a
local man who knew the Devon coast well, sailed out of Plymouth to engage
Spain's mighty Armada. Drake captured the crippled flagship the
Nuestra Senora del Rosario
, sending his
prize back to the port of Tradrnouth. As
the rest of the ships continued eastwards along the Channel, the
San Miguel
became separated from the
main Armada: her foremast had been damaged during the engagement with Drake's
ships, making navigation difficult. She ended up on the rocks of Bereton Bay.
Many of her crew drowned in the chill waters of the English Channel but a
number escaped, swimming to the shore aid crawling exhausted, up Bereton Sands.

From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale

Detective Constable Rachel Tracey
held on to the gatepost and stood on one leg. The new shoes were killing her
... especially the left one. It wasn't the wisest decision to wear them for a
house-to-house.

Steve Carstairs, wearing his expensive
leather jacket, inspired by his favourite TV cop shows, looked at Rachel
unsympathetically. He longed for car chases, drugs raids and armed stake-outs.
The realities of day-to-day policing in rural Devon. had
never quite matched up to his fantasies.

'Come on, Steve ... just one more.'
Rachel, methodical and down-to-earth, didn't mind routine in the least.

'They're all blind and deaf round
here .. . nobody's seen
anything.'

'Somebody might have.'

"They'll all have been tucked
up in front of the telly with their cocoa. Not much night life round here.'

"There's a pub.'

'Wow... the village that never
sleeps.'

Rachel ignored her colleague's last
remark and marched up the neat garden path to the flaking front door of Apple
Cottage. 'These trees'll yield a good crop come autumn.' Rachel, the farmer's
daughter, surveyed the apple trees that lined the path like a guard of honour
approvingly.

Steve, thinking himself above such
bucolic talk, said nothing and rang the white plastic doorbell.

A woman of indeterminate age opened
the door wide and studied her visitors. She was overweight with straight,
greasy, shoulder-length hair. Her clothes were cheap, market-bought, and did
nothing to flatter her appearance.

'Mother's asleep,' she announced
unexpectedly, her accent pure Devon.

Rachel held up her warrant card.
'We're police officers. We'd like to ask you a few questions ... nothing to
worry about. Did you see anything unusual between nine o'clock and eleven o'clock
last night?'

The woman suddenly looked wary; her
eyes narrowed. 'How do you mean ... unusual?'

'A man was found dead up at the old
chantry this morning. His clothes were quite distinctive: a baseball cap and a
jacket with the name "
Buffalo Bisons
"
on the back. You didn't see him yesterday evening by any chance? He was an
elderly man."

Rachel was confident that she wasn't
mistaken. The woman looked worried as she shook her head.

A door opened inside the cottage and
a teenage boy came into view. Rachel guessed that he was about eighteen; he had
cropped hair and a vacant expression on his pasty face. Overweight like his mother,
his jeans displayed an unfashionable expanse of backside and his overstretched
T-shirt strained across his chest.

'Who is it, Mum?'

'Nobody, Wayne. Just go back in.'

'May we speak to your son, Mrs
...er...?'

'Restorick. No point in speaking to
him ... he didn't see nothing. He was here with me all night.' Defensively.

'Mum .. .' Wayne's voice wafted from
inside the cottage, an importuning whine. 'Gran's wet herself again.'

I'll have to go. I didn't see
nothing.' The door was closed firmly.

'Believe her?' asked Steve.

'No.' Rachel smiled at her colleague,
hoping he wouldn't take it as a come-on. Steve Carstairs considered himself
irresistible to women, but he was too obvious for Rachel's taste. And Steve's attitude
to Wesley - the racist wisecracks he'd made when the
sergeant first arrived - had hardly endeared him to her.

'I think we should ask around in the
pub this evening. There might be some regulars we haven't spoken to in the
house-to-house ... ones that live further afield.'

Rachel had never rated Steve's deductive
abilities very highly, sometimes asking herself how he had ever made it into
CID. But she realised this suggestion was a good one ... as long as she wasn't
going to be the one forced to spend an evening in his company. She had other
things planned ... a quiet evening in Dave's flat with a takeaway and a bottle
of wine would be the preferred option. But police work had the habit of mining
the most
carefully laid plans.

'I'll suggest to the boss that we go
for a drink tonight, then ...chat up a few locals. How about it. Rach?' He
winked at her knowingly. Rachel turned and marched off down the path, trying hard
not to limp.

It was going to be a long day. There
were statements to take from all the veterans and their wives: someone might be
able to throw some light on Norman Openheim's movements. Wesley had just taken
Dorinda Openheim back to the hotel. She had identified her husband's neatly laid
out body without a hint of emotion. Wesley had never seen a newly bereaved
widow so coolly self-possessed.

Heffernan told him to take a break
and get something to eat He drove the six miles back to Tradmouth and home. He
would check on Pam... see if she was all right. With the baby due in ten weeks -
their much-longed-for, much-tried-for first-born - he felt the
impulse to ensure that no disaster had occurred in his absence.

It was a quarter to five. Pam's VW
was parked in the drive. As Wesley opened the front door he heard voices, one
distressed, the other comforting. He felt a stab of irritation. He had come
home for a respite from the pressure of the day. What he didn't need was
aggravation.

Wesley opened the living-room door.
Pam was sitting on the settee, her arm placed comfortingly round the shoulders
of a sobbing young woman. A baby, about a year old. crawled dangerously near
the dried flower arrangement in the fireplace; they would have to do something about
rearranging the room when their own was born.

Sue, their next-door neighbour,
looked up when she heard Wesley come in and tugged a tissue out of her sleeve
to dry her eye.

'What's up?' asked Wesley.

'Those bastards at the building
society,' Pam pronounced angrily.

Wesley knew that the small
engineering works owned by his neighbour, Jim, had gone into liquidation some
months back. Jim had looked for work but to no avail. Now Sue and Jim had come to
the end of the road ... they were to lose their heavily mortgaged

home. There were no words that
Wesley could find. 'Sorry' seemed inadequate.

Sue gathered her baby up as it began
to investigate the dried flowers and it screamed loudly. She took her leave
bravely. She would have to feed the baby ... life went on.

When Sue had gone Wesley took Pam in
his arms and kissed the top of her head.

'I feel so useless,' she said
bitterly.

"They can't just evict them,
surely. Where will they go?'

'Bed and breakfast in Morbay ... go
on the waiting list for a council house.'

'Shit First the works and now
this....'

'It's time they had some good luck.
Poor Sue . .. Short of winning the lottery and paying off their mortgage
arrears there's nothing we can do to help them.'

Wesley felt as bad as Pam did about
their neighbours' plight, but he had a job to do if they were to keep a roof
over their heads.

'Sorry, love, I've only got an hour
to grab myself something to eat. I've got to go back to Bereton. There's been
an American tourist found murdered... war veteran over here for a reunion.'

'Bereton? Was he over here in the
war for the D-day landing practices?'

'Yeah... How do you ... ?'

She got up and walked over to a pile
of school books on the dining table. 'Here' She threw one over to Wesley and he
opened it The handwriting was good ... a credit to the teacher. 'It's a project
my year sixes are doing. Local history. The whole of the area round Bereton was
evacuated late in 1943 and 1944 ...people were thrown out of their homes, pets
put to sleep, livestock moved to farms in different parts of the county. It was
quite an operation. Just like poor Sue really ... you're told to get out of your
home and you have no choice.'