The Far Side of the Sun (37 page)

She looked at them through
his
eyes. Not through police eyes.

She noticed that the skirting board possessed scarcely any paint and in places was toppling forward drunkenly, releasing its hold on the wall. Dodie went down on her knees and pulled at a length that looked secure. As she expected it didn’t budge. She moved further along and tugged at a loose piece that crumbled in her hand, so that a black hole opened up at the base of the wall. She inserted her arm and wriggled it along.

‘Help me, Flynn.’

The sound of a step on the stair drifted through the open doorway. Dodie yanked out her hand. Cobwebs wreathed it and a speckled spider sat motionless on her wrist, but her fingers were clutching a small canvas bag. Roughly she propped up the broken section of board, closed the door and stood with her back jammed against it before she opened the drawstring neck of the bag.

‘Flynn,’ she whispered, ‘talk to me.’

Inside lay two items which she removed one by one. First came a compact roll of American dollar bills. Dodie didn’t stop to count them but pushed them into her pocket. The second item was folded small, but when she opened it up it proved to be a flimsy airmail envelope, its pale blue surface blank. Inside lay two sheets of airmail paper written on both sides. She looked at the signature at the bottom, a bold and aggressive scrawl –
Oakes
. His cold dead finger seemed to touch her neck. Quickly she began to read.

‘You!’

The voice came from the other side of the door, the handle was rattling.

‘Out!’

Dodie was trying to imagine the emotions that drove Flynn to conceal this letter from prying eyes rather than destroy it. What does it do to you to have a man like Oakes say
What a team we would have made
? No wonder he kept it rather than burn it.

‘Lady!’ The handle rattled. ‘What you doin’?’

Dodie stepped away from the door and it swung open with a bang, rebounding off the wall. The landlord barged in, his eyes swivelling around the room, hunting for what mischief she had been up to. He was wearing loud checked trousers and a dusky orange shirt, his limbs as restless as a boxer in the ring.

‘What’s goin’ on here?’ he growled.

‘That’s what I want to know,’ she said, hissing it quietly in his face. ‘I want you to tell me how that wallet got into Mr Hudson’s mattress.’

‘That no-good Mr Hudson put it there hisself, lady.’

Dodie’s fingers slid to the tight roll of dollars in her pocket. ‘Whatever they’re paying you,’ she told him, ‘I’ll pay you more.’

The police questioned her. Of course they did, Ella was right about that. They hauled her into the police station and politely but firmly put her through her paces, but this time she was ready for them.

‘Where did Mr Hudson spend last night?’

‘With me.’

‘All night?’

‘Yes.’ She lowered her eyes in a good imitation of embarrassment. ‘He was with me all night. Until six o’clock this morning.’

‘Are you sure he didn’t sneak off while you were asleep?’

She touched her throat and watched their gaze follow her hand, She covered one cheek with her palm, awkward and uncomfortable.

‘I’m sure. I’d have known immediately.’ Scarcely more than a whisper. ‘It’s a very narrow bed.’

It was the big detective, Calder, asking the questions. She made herself look straight back at him, so that he wouldn’t think she was lying or avoiding his sharp inspection, but how do you look at a man who hurled you to the earth and pinned you there? How do you look at him and not spit in his face?

The questions went round and round in circles until her tongue started to stumble and her words wouldn’t come out straight any more.

‘How did you meet Hudson, Miss Wyatt?’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Why did he find a house for you after the fire?’

‘Was he looking for somewhere to hide?’

‘Did he ever talk of Sir Harry Oakes?’

‘Did you know about the gold coins?’

‘Has he ever mentioned Morrell?’

Then back to the beginning. All over again.

‘How did you meet Hudson?

‘Do you know he carries a gun?’

A young officer sat beside Calder taking notes and wearing a pin-sharp suit that shouted his ambitions and made Calder’s look as though he’d slept in it. But it was Calder whose questions felt like sticks poked into her flesh. She kept the lies to a minimum. Stay with the truth, as near as possible. Remember each lie. But her mind was splintering. The room grew hot and his eyes felt like pokers. He offered no water, no respite, no time to regroup her thoughts.

‘Hudson said that you know more about Morrell than you are telling us,’ Calder said suddenly.

She froze. Flynn wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

‘He told us that he believes you stitched the wallet into his mattress. You were the only one, he said, who had the opportunity.’

She banged the flat of her hand on the table. ‘You are lying to me.’

Calder didn’t flinch. His grey eyes were steady on hers and he sighed dispiritedly, which was worse than the lie.

It had to be a lie. Had to be.

‘Please, Detective Calder, may I visit him now in his cell?’

Slowly he shook his head and in a brief flash she saw him again with Ella Sanford, when she caught them together, his broad hand claiming her shoulder.

‘No, Miss Wyatt, not yet.’

‘When?’

‘When I say so. For the moment he sees nobody but his lawyer.’

Dodie lowered her face into her hands. Flynn was alone in a police cell, unable to help himself. His lock-picks and gun stripped from him, along with his stubborn pride in his own strength. He had nothing now. Except what was in his head. In his heart. In the intricate depths of him. Staring legal execution in the face for a crime he didn’t commit. What did that do to you? A single sob escaped her lips, but when she heard the detective push back his chair she lifted her head warily.

Hold on, Flynn. Hold on to me
.

Calder was standing at her side, a tall presence right next to her, but his eyes had changed. They were the silvery grey eyes she had seen in Ella Sanford’s kitchen, a real person’s eyes, instead of the ones that seemed to be standard issue to policemen along with their uniforms.

‘Go home, now, Miss Wyatt.’ His tone matched his eyes. ‘I will let you know when you can visit Mr Hudson.’

She turned her head away from him and stared at a poster on the wall. It had a picture of an airman with the words
Keep us flying. Buy War Bonds.

‘The landlord is lying,’ she stated. He had refused her offer of money point-blank but she had seen the fear in his eyes. He had been threatened. ‘Question him again.’

‘You should not be talking to witnesses.’

‘If I don’t, who will?’

‘It’s our job to do so,’ the young officer said pompously. ‘Leave it to the police. You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Dodie swung round to him. ‘But at least I’m doing something, which is more than —’

‘Miss Wyatt,’ Detective Calder interrupted, ‘you are free to go.’

Without a word, she rose to her feet and left.

‘You’re not eating. I’m worried about you, my dear.’

Ella looked up from pushing food around her plate. It was a mushroom omelette, one of her favourite dishes. It was something Emerald always cooked for her when she thought Ella was ill. Immediately her fork froze mid-push. How long had she been not eating?

‘Oh, Reggie, don’t be silly. I’m fine. Just not peckish, that’s all.’

‘You didn’t eat anything yesterday either.’ His gaze lingered on her cheekbones. ‘Not sickening, are you, old thing?’

‘No, of course not. No appetite, that’s all.’

That wasn’t strictly true. Now she thought about it, she was ravenous. But she couldn’t bring herself to put food in her mouth because… Abruptly she put down her fork and sipped her glass of water. A shiver ran up her spine. She was punishing herself, that’s why she wasn’t eating, she was punishing herself for being so shameful. So sinful. So disloyal. There were other words for it. Depraved, immoral, scandalous. She felt colour creep into her cheeks at the images in her head of the things she had done.

Her hands fastened to the brass bedstead. Flat on her back on the crisp white sheet, Dan’s face between her legs, his tongue hot, making her hips buck. Her lips open in a groan that rose to a shriek as she cried out for more. Her whole body shaking with need for him.

‘You’re looking flushed, Ella. Are you sure you don’t have a temperature?’

‘No, Reggie, honestly I’m perfectly well. Just shaken by this terrible tragedy. Poor Eleanor.’

Eleanor was the Australian widow of Sir Harry Oakes, half his age when he married her, and at the moment she was still at their house in Maine.

‘She’s flying in with Nancy.’ Nancy was the Oakes’ eighteen-year old daughter.

Ella tried to reach deep within herself to imagine what Eleanor was feeling. She conjured up a picture of Reggie with a bullet wound in his head, a small trickle of blood dripping down on to his clean white collar, and to her horror she started to cry. Instantly Reggie was out of his chair and at her side, just as Emerald sailed into the room with a tray of coffee.

‘My dearest,’ Reggie crooned, wrapping his arms around Ella, ‘don’t cry.’ He kissed her hair. ‘Go to bed and rest. You are generous-hearted to a fault and have taken too much on yourself.’

‘Mr Reggie is right, Miss Ella. You gone all queer. I’ll make you some broth and bring it to you in bed.’

Gently but firmly Ella extricated herself from her husband’s embrace. ‘Thank you both, but no. I’ll have that coffee, Emerald.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Reggie. Now sit down and tell me what is going on. The Duke is bound to be out of his mind with concern. You must be inundated with work and worry. Forget about my silliness.’ She smiled at him reassuringly and watched him resume his seat, but she felt guilty that she had not noticed earlier the slump of his shoulders and the lines of tension that had crept on to his usually smooth skin while she had been looking elsewhere.

‘Freddie de Marigny has been arrested.’

‘What?’

‘For the murder of his father-in-law.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Freddie may be a bit of a wastrel but he’s no murderer. Surely Colonel Lindop knows better than —’

‘The Duke has removed the case from Lindop’s hands.’

Ella’s jaw dropped open. ‘He what?’

Reggie ran a tired hand across his forehead. ‘The Duke has taken complete control of the investigation himself. He tried to enforce press censorship but was too late, the news of Sir Harry’s murder was already out. So he has flown in two American detectives from Miami Police Department to deal with the case, a Captain Melchen and a Captain Barker.’

‘Why in heaven’s name would he do that?’

‘He says that our local police lack the necessary expertise to investigate such a crime. Normally detectives would come over from London’s Scotland Yard in a case like this but,’ he sighed discreetly, ‘it’s impossible for anything to be normal with this wretched war on.’