Touching the Wire (20 page)

Dr Adam Bancroft scratched his two-day stubble.
The application on his desk was for a peach of a job at The Imperial War
Museum’s Department of Documents at Duxford, working with foreign war
documents. He was in with a chance, already employed by the IWM in London, and
being good at languages: in fact, at forty, he was over-qualified.

To apply, or not to apply?
Duxford would be a dream-come-true, but here, in the darkest recesses of the
museum, he managed to hide from public view and, to a large extent, the
management. It allowed him to work undisturbed, and get away with wearing jeans
with holes in the knees, and a sloppy cotton sweatshirt whose original colour
was doubtful. It would be of dubious value as an oil rag and was now a pale
grey that matched his eyes.

‘Adam.’

He pushed the form away,
decision made: Duxford was closer to Effie and Gabrielle. ‘Roger.’

‘Have you found those
letters home you promised me?’

He looked up at the older
man. ‘I had the file somewhere. Fuck it, why can’t I ever find anything?’

‘You’re asking me? Have you
noticed the mess in here, recently?’

His office couldn’t have
been more chaotic if the Luftwaffe had dropped a full payload on it. ‘I’ve been
busy.’

‘You’re always busy. You
work all hours. All you talk about is work, and you wonder why women find you
boring.’

Effie had found him boring.
‘You’re right, Roger. I need a holiday. I’ll look the file out later. Have you
seen this?’ Papers rustled and he drew something from a cardboard box that
exuded the mustiness of age; it was a drawing of a gun barrel, standing erect, in
the shape of a penis.

Roger laughed. ‘Some Tommy’s
idea of a joke. Probably not far off the mark.’

‘It came in yesterday. Never
fails to amaze me how they drew humour from waiting to be blown to bits.’

‘We all have coping
mechanisms. Can I take it with me?’

‘Give me half an hour? I
haven’t quite finished sorting through.’

Roger stopped by the door.
‘Some of us are going for a drink tonight. You coming?’

‘Too much work, Roger.’ He
patted a stomach that was flat for his age. ‘And I need to get down the gym.’

‘Working off frustrated
testosterone or hoping to meet a fit bird? Get a life, Adam.’

Roger knew where to hit:
hard and low, but there was no malice in his taunt. Effie had gone, and taken
his daughter with her. He’d accepted they were over, and he’d only ever be a
part-time dad, but the closer he lived and worked to them the more he’d see of
Gabrielle. If he got the Duxford job he could take a couple of weeks off before
he started: spend time with Gabrielle before Effie whisked her away to France
for the rest of the summer.

He stretched.
Get a life,
Adam
. All he needed was a suit and a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t go
amiss. He rifled through the box of papers. After an hour he had a sizable file
of material for Roger. 

He put the folder on a table
next to the glass cases that would house the more fragile exhibits. ‘Here’s the
stuff I promised you, Roger.’

‘Thanks.’ Roger flicked
through it. ‘I don’t see the penis drawing.’

‘Must have left it on my
desk. I’ll see if I can find it.’ 

He strode through the public
areas, and caught up with an elderly couple who’d stopped to look at a Battle
of Britain Spitfire suspended from the ceiling: the husband pointed, gesturing.
Reliving a mission? A passing youth took his hand from his pocket. Something
flashed. 

Another flash and the boy
walked on almost without pause. The elderly woman would notice nothing, until
she found her handbag gone. Her generation had given their lives for the
freedom of this scum. He followed the boy, who passed the handbag to a blonde woman
before targeting his next victim. 

His arm went around the
youth’s neck and he gripped his knife arm. ‘Keep quiet or I’ll break your arm.’
The youth grunted and he propelled him to the nearest security guard. ‘He cut
the strap of a woman’s handbag with a knife. His accomplice is a woman…
mid-thirties, tallish, with long blonde hair. She’s wearing jeans and a pale
top.’

The security man searched
the youth. ‘A craft knife. I’ll call the police. Meanwhile we’ll see if we can
locate the woman.’

He left the youth to
security’s tender mercies and went in search of Roger’s drawing.

***

A sign informed Charlotte that the museum was
built on the site of the old Bedlam mental hospital. Sirens wailed in the
bombed-out ruins of burned homes, bombers droned, shells exploded. She could
smell smoke. Was the past leaking into the present? She followed an arrow that
pointed to an exhibition of paintings, sculpture and trench art. Sculpture
sounded hopeful. The area was closed when she got there, the exhibition still
being set up.

She wasn’t at all sure she’d
come to the right place, but she wasn’t going to be denied access now. She
pushed open the door. Images frowned from the walls, stark in black and white.
A glass case held the diaries, pencil sketches and letters home of the soldiers
on the front line. She approached a man who was arranging a collection of
sculptures: some bronzes and some carved in stone or wood.

‘We’re not open until
tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

She showed him the
photographs of the carvings. ‘Have you seen anything like these?’ She put the
copies Grant had made of the fragmented messages on the table beside him.
‘These were inside them.’

He studied the photographs
and messages for a long moment. ‘Can’t say I have. What makes you think I
might?’

She explained what little
she knew about the carvings and pointed out the initials on the back of the
second slip of paper. ‘IWM. It’s a bit tenuous, but it’s the only clue I have.
My grandmother thinks they were carved to express Grandpa’s wartime experiences.
They aren’t trench art but they have to be connected to the war.’

He frowned. ‘Doesn’t mean
it’s the Imperial War Museum, London.’ The man glanced at her left hand.
‘Miss…’

‘Masters.’ The pale band of
heartbreak on her ring finger accused her, but the name on her lips was
comforting: it had been who she was all her life, before Robin. Saying
Cummings, now, would only cause confusion.

The man glanced at his
watch. ‘I can fax copies to our departments, and the other IWM sites. It’ll
save you traipsing all over the country. It won’t take a minute.’

She gathered the papers
together. ‘Thank you. That would be an enormous help.’

The man returned, papers in
hand. ‘The fax machine’s playing up. If I can keep these I’ll do it later.’

‘That’s great, thank you.’
She wrote Charlotte Masters, and Lucy’s home number, on one of the sheets of
paper.

He reached in his top
pocket. ‘Roger Evans… this is my card if you need to contact me. I’ll give you
a ring if I get any joy but I can’t promise anything.’

She headed for the exit and
Oxford Street. Charlotte Masters… Charlotte Cummings…

An iron hand gripped her arm
and fear galvanised her. Robin… She twisted round, lashed out, and Lucy’s
handbag hit something solid.

‘Ouch! Bloody hell…’ A
stranger’s voice.

Not
Robin? Her heart thundered as the man gripped her tighter,
pinning both her arms. She kicked out. ‘Get off me!’

‘Stop attacking me and I’ll
let go.’

‘I didn’t attack you.’
Bedlam: the straightjacket tightened. She stopped struggling and glared into
grey eyes.  The catch of the handbag had sliced the skin on his
cheek.      

He pulled her to her feet,
blood dripping down his face and onto his faded sweatshirt. ‘If you weren’t a
woman… The police are on their way.’

‘Good. I’m the one who’s
been attacked, you… weasel. Get your filthy hands off me. I’ll see you charged
with assault.’

‘Not before I see you done
for pick-pocketing, inciting a minor to steal, receiving stolen goods… I
suppose they’re in this holdall.’

‘What the hell are you
talking about?’

‘Don’t deny it… I saw you.’
He propelled her into the security office, where a youth sat pale-faced but
rebellious, and pushed her into a chair. ‘Stay there and don’t bloody move,
you… hellcat.’

She shook off his hand. ‘I
haven’t done anything.’

Two policemen shouldered in.
She leapt to her feet. ‘This man attacked me.’

‘We’ll take your statement
in a moment, madam. Sir, you should get that cut looked at.’

The man fingered his face
tentatively.

She got to her feet. ‘It was
an accident.’

 ‘You want us to charge
her with assault, sir?’

He waved an impatient hand.
‘I don’t have the time to waste.’

‘I shall need a formal
statement, sir. Perhaps you’d come into the station when it’s convenient?’

‘I’ll come when I finish
here.’

***

Dr Adam Bancroft. Assistant Keeper. Department of Documents
.

Adam let the door slam behind him. Bloody
woman… He threw aside papers, increasing the chaos on his desk and floor. The
drawing he wanted found, he glanced at his watch. The hellcat had wasted more
than half an hour of his precious time. More doors crashed and he strode into
the exhibition hall.

Roger looked up. ‘What
happened to you, Adam?’

‘Citizen’s arrest. Some
lunatic woman… wasn’t impressed. Called me a weasel.’

‘You need to work on your
chat-up line, mate.’

He gave Roger the drawing.
‘I wouldn’t chat her up if the only other female in the galaxy was a gorilla
with bad breath. Caught her virtually red-handed and she has the balls to deny
everything. I expect she’ll flutter her outraged eyelashes and get off with a
bloody caution.’ He glanced at the photographs on the table. Curiosity overcame
anger. ‘Where did these come from?’

‘A woman brought them… now
her
you would fancy, single too. It’s a bit of a puzzle. She has these two
carvings and this is what was in them. She wants to know if we’ve seen anything
like them.’

He dabbed at his cheek with
a crumpled tissue. ‘They mean nothing to me… curious though.’ He put the
photographs down, already thinking of the task at hand. He was soon lost in the
past: caught up in the private lives and wartime humour of the men who’d fought
for liberty and peace… he fingered the wheal on his cheek… and justice.

***

Charlotte stormed towards the door. ‘Why did you let him
go?’

‘Sit down please, madam. I
haven’t finished with you. Your name, please.’

She answered without
thinking. ‘Charlotte Masters.’

The police officer held out
his hand for her handbag. ‘You won’t mind proving that, then.’

‘Why should I have to prove
anything? What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’

He emptied it, stony-faced,
onto the desk and took out the credit cards. ‘So who is Mrs C. M. Cummings?’

‘Cummings is my married
name. I’m… separated.’ It wasn’t quite a lie.

He held out a breakdown
service card. ‘I suppose this is you, too, is it? Mrs L. M. Garrett.’

‘That’s my sister’s. I
borrowed her handbag. It matches my shoes.’

He looked unconvinced. ‘I
suppose the mobile is registered to you?’

‘It’s my…’

‘Sister’s? And I suppose you
don’t know this youth, either.’

‘I’ve never seen him
before.’

The other officer looked
across at the youth. ‘And what have you to say for yourself?’

‘Don’t know her from fucking
Adam, Pig. I ain’t done nothing.’

‘We have a witness.’

‘One who should wear
glasses.
’ She couldn’t shake the memory of the pale grey
eyes, or the deeper feeling they’d stirred.

‘And someone is fetching the
CCTV footage.’

‘Good. Ring my sister if you
don’t believe me.’

‘We will, Miss Masters… we
will. In the meantime I’d like you both to accompany us to the police station.’

 She was still shaking.
Not at the thought of going to police station, a phone call to Lucy would put
things straight, or even the shock of being assaulted, but the fact that she’d
believed Robin had followed her, and that the belief had terrified her.

Adam twisted the throttle of his BMW
motorcycle. The thrum of the twin cylinders sounded as smooth as twenty-year
old silk could be expected to sound. He rode into the airfield, set in the flat
Cambridgeshire landscape, and parked his bike. He checked his hair in the
bar-end mirror. Stubble he could do nothing about: his cheek was too sore to
shave.

He made a beeline for the
Airspace hangar. An Anson drew him in, and nearby, dwarfed by a Sunderland,
stood a Spitfire. He wanted this job, really wanted it, and not only for the
planes: Effie and Gabrielle lived only ten miles away. He ran his hand over his
chin. He was crap at interviews. Damn that hellcat. If he lost this job because
of her… Maybe a coffee would help get his thoughts in order.

On the way to the café he
paused; in a display case stood a weird carving that had to be the product of a
demented mind. He’d seen something in a similar style quite recently, hadn’t
he?  He read the label.

Lime-wood
carving donated by a survivor of two world wars, in memory of those who died
under the shadow of the wolf
.

Hitler had liked to be called Wolf. He rubbed
his chin again and walked on. It would come to him eventually.

***

Adam shook the proffered hands. ‘Mr York, Dr
Chapman.’

Mr York showed him to the door.
‘Thank you, Dr. Bancroft. We’ll be in touch.’

He left the office in the
old airfield HQ; the interview had gone better than he’d hoped. The wait to
hear if he’d be offered a second interview would be hell. He consulted his
watch: five o’clock. He had time to see Gabrielle, if she was in.  He rang
Effie’s number: Gabrielle answered.

‘Hi, sweetheart. It’s Dad.’

‘Hi, Dad. You just caught
me. I’m off to Sasha’s. We’re doing each others’ hair. You want to talk to
Mum?’

‘I was hoping to see you.
I’m in the area.’

‘I could ring Sasha… put her
off.’

‘No, don’t change your
plans… I should have called earlier. I’ll catch you next week?’

Her voice was breezy. ‘Okay.
See you, yeah?’

‘See you. Love you.’

‘Love you too, Dad.’

She was growing up fast, too
fast, fourteen already. He rang off. He had nothing to say to Effie that hadn’t
been said a hundred times. There was no point telling her about the job unless
he was offered it.

It was seven o’clock before
he arrived home at his flat in the four-storey Georgian townhouse. Flat was an
optimistic term. The impressive door at the end of the huge hall led only to a
palatial broom-cupboard: palatial if you were a broom. The house’s owners had
maximised their investment by giving the cupboard running water, a gas supply and
a small window. A single bed, with cupboards beneath, ran along one wall and
beyond that squeezed a tiny sink, hob and microwave. The rest of the space was
taken up with a chair and fridge.  He put a potato in the microwave and
broke eggs into a jug, replaying the day in his mind. Had he said the right
things? He beat the eggs with a fork, turned the potato and tapped in another
four minutes. He reached in the cupboard under the sink for an omelette pan and
frowned at a small damp patch. If it was a leak, it was little more than a
sweating joint; he couldn’t see or feel where it was coming from. He dried the
patch and turned on the gas hob; he’d check if it was wet again in the morning.
Butter spat and sizzled as he tipped the eggs into the hot pan, making the
flames spark blue and yellow. Flames… That odd carving… he’d seen something
like it before.

An image filled his mind,
the perfect figure: thirty-six, twenty-four,
thirty
-six.
What made him think that, other than being sex-starved? He pushed the egg around
the pan and cut slabs of cheese. He’d seen a photograph… Roger had shown him
photographs of carvings. 

He had Roger’s mobile number
in case he ever decided to
get a life
and go for a drink after work. He
thumbed it in. ‘Roger, those photos of the carvings that looked like flames.
Did you fax them to Duxford?’

‘Adam. How did the interview
go?’

‘All right, I hope.’

‘So, what did you want to
know?’

‘I’ve found a carving. It
looks like it may have been made by the same person. Did you fax Duxford?’

‘No,’ Roger confessed. ‘When
I came to do it the whole lot was missing. Lord knows what I did with them.’

‘I didn’t think chaos was
catching.’

‘I don’t even have the
lady’s name or phone number. I only remember the code was Lyndhurst… my aunt
lives near there.’

‘What’s the code?’

‘Zero, one, seven, zero,
three.’

‘Thirty-six, twenty-four,
thirty-six… You said I’d fancy the woman who brought in the photographs and
that she was single. I remember thinking that if her figure was as good as her
phone number you could be right.’

‘It was I assure you. Are
you going to phone her?’

‘It was you she approached.’

‘Yes, but I’m married. Just
be sure you think up a better chat-up line than the last one. You don’t want
matching scratches.’

‘There can’t be two women as
insane as that hellcat. Was Miss what’s-her-name really a looker?’

‘Stunning, Adam.’

‘Oh hell, I’ve set fire to
my omelette.’

‘Bugger the omelette. Give
the woman a ring. What have you got to lose?’

He put down the phone.
Get
a life?
With luck, life was about to be delivered prettily packaged.

***

Charlotte thumbed in Robin’s number. ‘Robin…’

‘Charlotte? How are you?’

It was like talking to a
stranger. ‘I’m good… you?’

‘Lonely… feeling stupid…
Missing you.’

Maybe not a stranger. He
made it hard for her to be angry with him for long. ‘You wanted to talk… where,
when?’

‘Well, here of course, now…
where else are we going to be?’

‘I’m not ready to come
home.’

The silence at the end of
the line could mean anything. She gripped the phone harder. He was angry? Thinking?
He broke the silence at last. ‘I’ll book a table at The Crooked Man. Remember
it? Say six o’clock, or seven if that suits better? We can chat over a meal,
like we used to.’

The Crooked Man was in the
Cotswolds, about halfway between them. It held memories. Words stuck in her
throat. ‘A… a meal would be nice. This evening?’

‘Why not?’

She couldn’t think of a
reason. ‘Okay. Oh, and can you bring my phone charger?’

‘Will do. Thanks, Charlotte…
look, I know I’ve a lot of apologising to do. I promise I’ll make it up to
you.’

She replaced the receiver.
Lucy’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘What did he say?’

‘We’re going for a meal this
evening. I’ve nothing to wear…’

‘What did you buy in
London?’

She reached into a store
bag, stuffed into the under-stairs cupboard, and drew out a flimsy,
off-the-shoulder dress in deep burgundy. Not one of her more rational
purchases. She held it out to show Lucy. ‘I can’t wear this. I don’t even know
why I bought it.’

‘To make yourself feel good?
You’ll look fantastic.’

Robin
had
said he
missed her. ‘You think so?’

‘I know you still love him,
sis. So fight for him. Show him you’re still the woman he married. Independent,
sassy, sexy. If all he wants is a baby-machine then let him get on with it.’
Lucy smiled. ‘You’ll knock him dead.’

She slowed her breathing.
Lucy was looking at her strangely. She laughed. ‘Anyone would think this was a
first date… I’m nervous…’

‘He wants to see you, sis.
Listen to what he has to say. He’s had time to think. Time to realise you’re
more important than children. He adores you. Anyone can see that.’ 

She parked outside the
hotel, checked her makeup in the visor mirror and changed her driving shoes for
strappy black heels. She reached for her handbag and adjusted the cashmere wrap
around her shoulders. The dress clung to her hips: smoothing the fabric, she
pulled in her stomach and bottom and walked towards the oak-beamed entrance of
The Crooked Man.

A hand on her arm made her
stiffen: she turned to stare into Robin’s dark eyes.

He smiled, perfect teeth
framing teasing lips. ‘You look beautiful.’ He opened the door for her and led
her to a table. ‘Would you like a drink before we order?’

‘A fruit juice… thank you.’

Robin returned with drinks
and a menu. ‘The barman was in a talkative mood. Thought I was never going to
get away.’ He handed her a menu and put her phone charger on the table. ‘No
excuse not to ring me, now.’

‘Thank you… sorry.’ She
opened the menu and stared at the words without seeing them. ‘How have you
been?’

‘I’ve had a lot of time to
think… I do want children, you know that.’ He put a hand on hers, gentle,
reassuring. ‘The clinic… I should have listened… We may not be too old to adopt
if… I’m prepared to give it a go. I’ll do anything you want… if you can forgive
me.’

‘You were under huge
pressure, Robin. I do forgive you… it’s just… We can go back to the clinic
together and find out exactly where we stand… but children aren’t
the  real
issue here, are they?’

‘You don’t trust me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I should have expected
that. I don’t know how I can convince you of…’ He put a hand on his chest.
‘…what’s in
here.
 How I feel.’

A waiter approached. ‘Are
you ready to order, sir?’

Robin waved him away.
‘Charlotte, come home with me. Let me prove I mean what I say.’

She hadn’t missed Robin’s
flash of anger at the interruption ‘You had a traumatic childhood, Robin. It’s
still affecting you, and it will until you come to terms with what happened.
You’re like a pressure vessel without a safety valve. How would you cope with a
baby that cried all night when you’d had a bad day? Or a toddler that stuffed
biscuits into your DVD recorder? You have your father’s temper, and look at the
harm that’s done.’

His eyes sparked. ‘I’m
nothing like my father.’

‘No?  You must learn to
control your temper. I can’t live my life never knowing if I’m saying the wrong
thing. I won’t live like that.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I can
control my temper, believe me.’ He was controlling it now? His finger touched
hers. ‘You’re not wearing your wedding ring. Why aren’t you wearing it?’

‘It’s to remind me to stay
strong. If…
when
I come home it will be on my finger, I promise. If I
give in now and come home, what’s that saying to you? It’s alright to hit me… yell
at me? I’ll come running back, no matter what? Do you think I don’t want to
come home? You frighten me, Robin.’

‘You will come home. We will
make it work. I’ll do anything it takes, anything.’ He smiled and the tension dissolved.
‘What would you like to eat?’

They ordered. Conversation
turned to safer ground and she relaxed. Work, the colour scheme they’d been
planning for the lounge, the holiday they could take later in the year:
ordinary, everyday things. Perhaps adoption would be possible if IVF, or some
other treatment, wasn’t an option. Maybe they could be a proper family, after
all.

Robin poured a glass of wine
and raised his glass. ‘To us.’

She smiled and clinked her
glass against his. ‘To the future.’

It was already late when she
looked at her watch. ‘I should go. I don’t want to disturb Grant and Lucy’s
sleep… Duncan does enough of that. None of us are getting enough sleep.’

He leaned towards her and
tilted his head to one side. ‘Do you have to go?’

‘It’s a long drive back.’
She reached for her handbag.

‘I booked a room…’ His
fingers stroked the back of her hand and tiptoed up her forearm, sending a
tingle before them. His eyes promised her the world. ‘You could ring Lucy and
say you won’t be back. You shouldn’t drive if you’re tired.’

‘I should really…’

‘You and
me
are the important thing, tonight.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed
her wrist. His eyes met hers. ‘Say you’ll stay, for me.’

Her resolve melted away. ‘I
suppose…’

‘That’s settled then. We’ll
have a nightcap. Brandy?’

***

Charlotte looked around the first-floor flat in
Totton and sighed: the only thing in its favour was the rent. She and Robin had
reached an agreement: he’d promised to get counselling. It would be a while
before they knew if it helped, and in the meantime she needed somewhere to
live. To remind herself she was an independent woman, capable of making her own
decisions, she’d decided to stick to her maiden name, as well as not wearing
her wedding ring; Robin must prove himself. She loved him, and she understood
his problems, but she wouldn’t go home to find nothing had changed.