The Armada Boy (9 page)

'Perhaps it was a stick after all.
What is it they say? Don't let the facts get in the way of a good story.'

'And nobody likes a good story as
much as people who live in small villages where it's news if the vicar farts.'

Mrs Slater greeted them in her office
behind the reception desk. It was a small, neat room painted in uniform
magnolia; rot a thing out of place. Dorothy Slater herself sat at her desk, a
single ledger open in front of her. He suit was uncreased. her hair cropped in
a style that suggested utility but not vanity. Heffernan would have described
her as scrawny rather than fashionably slim. She was probably in her
mid-fifties: frown lines were clearly visible despite a discreet layer of
make-up. She greeted them formally
and ordered tea.

At Heffernan's nod. Wesley spoke
first. 'Mrs Slater, we've had occasion to take some youths in for questioning.
One of them was begging outside this hotel yesterday. You told him to go.'

Mrs Slater nodded. 'They've been a
nuisance.'

'We've heard they've been more than
a nuisance." Heffernan said sharply- 'We've heard one of them pulled a
knife on you.'

Mrs Slater went pale.

'Why didn't you report this to us?'

'It's nothing I couldn't deal with.'

'Was it a knife?'

She nodded warily. 'He didn't mean
to use it. He was just ...'

'Is there something you want to tell
us, love?' said Heffernan gently. 'Something we should know?'

Mrs Slater sighed and stared at the
silver ballpoint pen laid neatly by her ledger. She picked it up and twisted it
in her fingers. 'He's my nephew ... my sister's boy. He's always been a problem,
always in trouble at school... then with the police.'

"The one with the shaved head?'

She nodded. 'He ran away from home
when he was sixteen ... lived on the streets. No one in the family had heard
from him for eight years, then he suddenly turned up here last week with two of
his hangers-on. I didn't recognise him at first, not after all this time. He
was always so hard ... such a nasty little thing. He was a difficult
 
child right from the start. I thought of my
poor sister and told him to go back home and let his mother know he was all
right but ...'

But what?'

'Some of the things he said about
her ... the words he used, about his own mother.'

'Did he tell you why he came here?'

'He said he came to see his gran. My
mother was the only member of the family who ever really got on with Nigel.'

'Where does your mother live?'

' Here. She has a small flat at the
back of the hotel. She's very fit... very independent,' she added almost with
pride.

'Can we talk to her?'

'It wouldn't be any use. I didn't let
him in. I told him she wasn't here ... that she was in a home. I didn't even
tell her he'd called. I was afraid she might meet him on one of her walks, but
luckily she hasn't so far.'

'Would your mother be pleased to see
him?'

Mrs Slater thought for a moment.
'Mother has always been a little ... eccentric. Her obsessions have got worse
with age. Not that I'm saying she's senile, you understand... just stubborn.'

'I see,' said Heffernan. not really
understanding.

'I would prefer it if you didn't tell
her Nigel was in the area. I think it's best for everyone if he just goes back
to wherever it was he came from. It would upset her to see that he'd turned out
like that.'

Upset her or her daughter? Heffernan
wondered.

'Did your nephew and his friends
have any contact with your American guests?'

'They begged from them outside in
the carpark and on the beach,' she said crossly. 'But mostly they got short
shrift. Veterans who've been through a world war and survived aren't the best
people to scrounge from. They've seen too much to believe a hard-luck story.'

Wesley nodded. Mrs Slater's last
observation was probably right. 'Did they have any arguments with the
Americans?'

'There were a few angry words, but
no actual arguments.'

'The sergeant, Mr Boratski, says
Norman Openheim was threatened by them. Did you hear anything about that?'

Mrs Slater shook her head.

The inspector stood up. 'Thank you
for your time, Mrs Slater. Just one more thing. The knife your nephew has ...
what sort is it?'

'One of those flick-knives... nasty,
vicious-looking thing.'

'Long, thin blade?'
She nodded.

'What's your nephew's full name?'

'Nigel William Glanville ... but his
friends seem to call him Rat,'

Chapter Four

When the residents of this beautiful
part of South Devon returned from their enforced evacuation in 1944, the first
priority was to get the farmland ready for the autumn sowing. The land was
swept with mine detectors; hordes of rats who had feasted in the
neglected barns had to be exterminated. Our allies had left devastation behind
them.

The Spanish who had come up our
beach three hundred and fifty-six years before to invade those fertile fields
were, fortunately, never given the opportunity to reap such destruction.

From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale

Rachel was glad when the inspector
suggested that Wesley should go with her to see the mysterious Marion. Wesley
was a contentedly
 
married man awaiting
the birth of his first child ... and always behaved like a gentleman; not like
Steve Carstairs. who lost no opportunity to practise the old hand-on-knee trick
and let no double entendre go unexploited. Besides. Wesley was interesting
 
to talk to, unlike Steve, a local boy whose
horizons did not extend beyond the tawdry nightlife of Morbay. That's what she liked
about her boyfriend Dave (an Australian who'd backpacked around a fair chunk of
the world)... he was interesting.

'Anything new to report?" she
asked as Wesley got into the car.

'Three beggars hanging about: one of
them's the nephew of the hotel owner and a vicious little bastard. He's got a
flick-knife and he threatened his aunty with it.'

'Charming. What does the boss say?
Is he our man?'

'He doesn't seem to be in much of a
hurry to find him. We've pulled his two friends in but the nephew got away. And
do you know what his nickname is? Rat.'

'Hence the rat at the murder scene?'

'Could be. We've alerted all patrols
to apprehend him and we've checked him out on the PNC. He's got a record for
theft and possession of drugs and he's done six months for actual bodily harm.'

'Charming.'

'Who's this Marion, then? Wartime
sweetheart?'

'Sounds that way from the letter. Want to see it?' She passed the letter in its
plastic bag to Wesley.

'The chapel again. Seems our Norman
was a bit of a lad in his day.'

'Him and Mrs O. made a good pair,
then. She's hardly prostrate with grief.'

'Maybe they didn't get on. His old
sergeant reckoned she was having it off with Todd Weringer.'

'I remember him ... quite attractive
for his age.'

'I didn't know you went in for older
men. How's Dave, by the way?" Wesley had met Rachel's Australian six
months before when he had arrested him. Dave's innocence established and his then
girlfriend departed for fresh pastures. Rachel had taken
advantage of the situation and offered him accommodation in a holiday flat on
her family's farm.

She suddenly became serious,
annoyed. 'My dad says he needs the flat for holiday lets ... it's been put in
the brochures already. I don't know what Dave's going to do. Looks like he'll
be homeless if something doesn't turn up.'

'He's not the only one. Our next-door
neighbours are having their house repossessed.'

Rachel's mind was fixed firmly on
her own problem. 'How's Dave going to afford summer season prices? He helps my
dad on the farm and Dad lets him have the flat for peanuts."

'He'll just have to marry the farmer's
daughter. Sounds like he's got his feet well under the table already."
Wesley was unable to resist a bit of mischief.

'Get lost, Sergeant.'

'Not on the cards, then?'

'Definitely not... I'm going to be
Chief Constable by the time I'm forty. 'She laughed.

They reached the ferry. Wesley drove
the car slowly on to the floating platform which would chug across the
glistening expanse of the River Trad to the hill-hung town of Queenswear, Tradmouth's
smaller twin on the opposite bank. The ferry journey took five minutes and they
drove off, past the station which served the quaint steam railway, towards the
outskirts of the town. Rachel navigated; being local she knew the area well.

Marion's home turned out to be a
neat whitewashed bungalow with a spectacular view over the river to the town of
Tradmouth. It was on its own at the end of a track, almost the last dwelling in
Queenswear before the open countryside took over.

They left the car and turned to lake
in the view. The water reflected blue in the March sunshine, and the steel
masts of the boats glinted as they moved on the gentle swell of the river.
Tradmouth stood out. pastel-coloured, against the dark green hills behind the
town, an important port since the days of the Crusades; the hills and its
inaccessibility had ensured the survival of its picturesque character.
Tradmouth had not suffered the fate of
other ports and become the victim of ugly expansion.

Somehow they had imagined Marion to
be a gentle old lady who still possessed the last vestiges of faded beauty; a
sad, elfin figure awaiting the return of her handsome American sweetheart... a
sort of West Country Madam Butterfly.

The capable creature who answered
the door was no romantic heroine but a well-rounded, elderly woman with
straight grey hair, styled without any pretension to vanity, and a wary smile
which disappeared when Wesley and Rachel showed their warrant cards.
She invited them into her sitting room, which was conventionally furnished and
immaculately tidy, and sat down on the edge of the tapestry sofa with nervous
expectation.

Wesley spoke first.' Am I right in
thinking your name is Marion?'

'That's right... Marion Potter. Why?
What's happened? Is it our Carole?'

'Carole?'

'My daughter.'

'Oh no, Mrs Potter. Don't worry.
It's nothing to do with your daughter. Do you know a man called Norman
Openheim? We found a letter from you amongst his belongings.'

Marion extracted a well-washed
embroidered cotton handkerchief
 
from her
sleeve and twisted it in her hands. 'Yes.' she stated quietly. 'I knew him
during the war.' She looked up. 'Is he all right? What's happened?'

Rachel spoke sympathetically. 'I'm
sorry, Mrs Potter ... he's been killed. That's why we're here. I'm sorry to
have to bring you such bad news.'