A Willing Victim (45 page)

‘I don’t think—’ began Stratton, but Tynan, who looked as if he were choking, cut him off with a gasping sob.

‘I have to. I need to tell him … This is all my fault. I’ve done a terrible thing.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Ballard, seating himself on one corner of the desk, ‘but you’re going to have to tell us what you’re talking about.’

Tynan shook his head miserably. ‘Miss Kirkland came to me a few weeks ago – asked me if I knew who Michael’s father was. If I’d only told her the truth, none of this would have happened.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Ballard.

‘I told her I didn’t know.’

‘But you
do
know, don’t you?’ said Stratton. ‘At least,’ he put
his head on one side, ‘as far as you can be certain.’

‘Yes …’

‘You’re his father, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He spoke slowly, testing the words for the first time. ‘I am Michael’s father.’

‘All that business Mrs Milburn gave us about nervous breakdowns and what she told Roth about discovering her miracle pregnancy after Billy died was eyewash, wasn’t it? I accept that you knew nothing about Tom or Billy, but you didn’t tell us you knew Mrs Milburn before she arrived at the Old Rectory with Michael. You’d known her in Suffolk, in the summer of 1945, and that’s when Michael was conceived. What was it, a fling?’

Tynan nodded. ‘I had no idea about the American soldier or … any of that.’

‘I’m prepared to believe that. Mind you, she seems to have been pretty free with her favours – we know of at least one other candidate, possibly two, so how—’

‘Michael is
my
son!’ Tynan spoke loudly, his mouth open wide, mucus strands at the inner corners of his lips. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘When did you first meet her?’

‘I can tell you exactly.’ He fished a small black book out of his overcoat pocket. ‘Diary for 1945. Keep them all. After Ananda’d taken my car and gone, I was going over it all in my mind – the dates – and I looked it up. Here.’ He tapped a page with his forefinger. The entry for 1st May read
7.30 p.m. USAF Debach.
‘It was a dance,’ he said. ‘I’d been invited there to dinner, and we looked
in afterwards. That’s when I saw her. I’ll never forget that moment … I thought she was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen.’

‘Excuse me for asking,’ said Ballard, ‘but wasn’t your wife there?’

Tynan shook his head. ‘It was to do with some business I’d undertaken – can’t go into details.’

Stratton, who remembered what Diana had told him about Tynan and Colonel Forbes-James, said, hastily, ‘That’s not important. So you danced with her, did you?’

‘Yes. Rather a lot, as I remember. We made an arrangement to meet the following week.’ He pointed to an entry for 7th May, which read
Rose Hotel 1 o’clock
. ‘We had lunch,’ he said, ‘and then we went for a drive in my car.’

‘Did intercourse take place on that occasion?’

‘Yes. Several times that month, in fact. She told me that her husband was dead and she might be going abroad to live.’

‘Did she say where?’

Tynan shook his head. ‘Just that she’d had enough of this country and wanted to travel and see the world. I was crazy about her. She was so beautiful, so
vital
…’

‘How did you contact her?’

‘I wrote to her in Woodbridge. Then she told me she’d moved to London, and that she was pregnant.’

‘By which time,’ Stratton said, ‘Michael Carroll, the American airman, was dead, Billy – conveniently, because he was too old to be your son – was also dead, and she’d decided that you, despite being married, were her best bet.’

‘Michael is my son!’ Tynan banged a fist on the desk. ‘I may never have acknowledged him before, but I’ve always done right by him.’

‘You gave him a loaded gun,’ said Stratton.

‘I acted like a fool, Inspector. Shooting was something we always did together, and I wanted us to …’ He shook his head, momentarily lost for words. ‘To make up for not … not …’

‘For keeping him in ignorance?’ said Stratton. ‘For allowing this ridiculous charade to continue?’

‘Yes … But I looked after Ananda when she was expecting him, and gave her regular money for his keep. Ananda never liked living in London, and I didn’t like them being so far away. I’d planned to bring them to the Foundation early on, but the place needed a lot of work before it was suitable for a child to come into. So, when Michael was two, I introduced him and Ananda – Mary, as she was then – to Roth. I said I’d met her at a party in London and told her about the Foundation and its work and she’d been interested … Roth took to her immediately, and he obviously liked the idea of having a child about the place, so he asked her to stay.’

‘So you had your mistress and your son conveniently to hand, although I don’t imagine that Roth was aware of that.’

‘I couldn’t tell anyone,’ said Tynan. ‘That was out of the question. It wasn’t only because of Roth, there was my wife as well. Dorothy was a wonderful woman in many respects, but I never felt for her the way I felt for Ananda.’ Tynan shook his head, sadly. ‘But I didn’t know her at all, did I? I simply had no idea … And even when all this happened, I’d been silent for so long, I just couldn’t … I thought it was more important for the Foundation – the damage it might do … God!’ he groaned and sank his head into his hands. ‘What a
mess.
’

‘Mr Tynan.’ Stratton put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think it would be wise to see Michael tonight. The doctor’s given him something, and I imagine he’s already asleep. Why don’t you come back in the morning?’

Tynan raised his head and got slowly and painfully to his feet. ‘I have to make amends,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens to him, I’ll be there.’

Stratton put down his
Daily Express
and rubbed his eyes. He was glad to be home and looking forward to a couple of days off, but he must have read the same piece –
TITO TELLS RUSSIANS: QUIT HUNGARY
– at least five times, because all he could think of was Michael: how small and vulnerable he’d looked in the box at the Ipswich magistrates’ court that morning, where both he and Miss Kirkland had been remanded in custody. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed nine o’clock. It was a bit early for bed, and anyway, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep any better than he had the night before. He didn’t fancy the wireless, but
Lucky Jim
was upstairs on his bedside table. Perhaps that would hold his concentration better than the newspaper.

He’d just decided to go up and fetch the book when there was a knock at the front door. When he opened it he found his brother-in-law Reg standing on the porch. He did not speak, and made no move to enter and, for a moment, his arrival had a tentative feeling, as if he’d been a holiday acquaintance arriving unexpectedly after a year’s lapse, unsure if he’d be welcomed. Pete had been right, Stratton thought. Reg was definitely thinner, grey about the gills, and, as if this weren’t enough, the whites of his eyes looked like boiled rhubarb. Masking his anxiety with a hearty,
‘Don’t stand on ceremony, come on in!’ he ushered his brother-in-law into the hall.

Reg, who usually made himself at home straight away – and rather too much for comfort by immediately pointing out things like damp patches and chipped paintwork – gazed around him uncertainly. He looked, Stratton thought, rather like a man who, bidden for the first time to a secret gathering, was afraid he’d come to the wrong house and didn’t want to utter the password for fear of giving himself away.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Stratton, helping him off with his coat.

This question would normally have elicited a detailed rundown of the more troublesome aspects of Reg’s bunions, bowel movements, and so forth, but instead, his brother-in-law asked, ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

‘Of course not. I was just reading the paper – trying to find some good news, for a change. Go on through and I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘You needn’t do it on my behalf.’

Stratton’s eyes widened involuntarily. This was becoming bizarre: Reg never turned down anything on offer, even if he’d just come from having a great deal of whatever it was at home or in the pub. ‘No, no,’ he said hastily, retreating down the passage into the scullery, ‘I was just about to have a cup myself.’

Reg came after him, fixing his red eyes on Stratton as he filled the kettle from the tap and then accompanying him into the kitchen to put it on the gas, not speaking but watching as if he thought Stratton might disappear in a puff of smoke if he let him out of his sight for even a second. Having offered a couple of usually reliable topics for conversation to no avail, Stratton, feeling increasingly out of his depth, made the tea, plonked cups, saucers, milk and sugar on a tray, and went through to the sitting room, trailed by his brother-in-law.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Stratton asked when, tea poured, they’d settled themselves in the armchairs.

‘Bit under the weather,’ said Reg. Then, glancing down at the newspaper Stratton had left on the floor, added absently, ‘Don’t seem to understand the world any more … all these new things happening. Wonder if I ever did understand it, really.’

Stratton felt seriously alarmed. In the family – and, for all he knew, outside it as well – Reg’s reputation for unearned worldliness was legendary; given half a chance, and sometimes not even that, he’d make pronouncements on anything and everything. He was just about to ask what the matter was, when Reg looked straight into his eyes and, said, ‘I’m not like you, Ted. Or Don. I’ve never been popular. Not at school, or work, or with other chaps. I’m not even popular with you two, am I?’ Holding up a hand like a traffic policeman to forestall anything that Stratton might have to say, he continued, ‘Oh, you tolerate me all right. Don’t have much choice, I suppose … When I was younger, I made myself into a character, hoping it would make people like me – or at least hoping they might find me amusing. By the time I realised it wasn’t working, I was stuck with it.’ Glancing down at the newspaper once more he said quietly, as if to himself, ‘Ah, well. Nothing to be done about it now.’

‘Reg,’ said Stratton helplessly. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then don’t,’ said Reg, matter-of-factly. ‘No sense wasting your breath lying about it, when we both know the truth.’

Mention of the word ‘truth’ made Miss Kirkland flicker, momentarily, across his mind. What he’d just been listening to, he thought, was true self-knowledge; raw, absolute and appalling. And he could see from Reg’s face that there was more to come.

‘I haven’t always been as kind as I should to Lilian. I’ve been damn lucky to have such a forgiving wife, really … Johnny’s a different thing altogether. Despises me, and I can’t say I blame him for it. I’m just sorry he’s gone down the wrong path. I never
did thank you, Ted, for helping to keep him out of prison like that when he was younger. I can hardly bear to think of my behaviour then, going off my head like that … but I am grateful to you and I wanted you to know that. I’ve always admired you, you see.’

By the end of this little speech, Stratton, who’d been adding together his memories of what Pete had said, the Billy Graham business and the physical evidence in front of him, thought, Reg is ill. No, he corrected himself. He’s more than ill. He’s dying. That’s why he’s here, saying all this – he knows he’s running out of time.

He’s telling me first, Stratton thought suddenly. He’s not told anyone yet, even Lilian. He couldn’t have said quite how he knew this, but he was positive that it was true.

‘… had a friend from before he was married,’ Reg was saying. ‘They’d known each other before Dad met my mother. They spent all their free time together, making model boats. That was his hobby … the pair of them used try them out in the tin bath in our back yard, and sometimes they’d take them to the ponds at Hampstead Heath. They used to talk about them all the time. I never remember my parents going anywhere together, it was always him and Joe.’ Stratton had no idea how he’d got onto this topic, and wondered, with trepidation, if it was leading to some awful revelation. ‘We used to call him Uncle Joe. Saw him almost every day – he lived in the next street. He even came on holiday with us a couple of times, when Dad started earning a bit more and we could get to the seaside. My mother didn’t resent it.’ Reg stopped suddenly, frowning and shaking his head. ‘No … the truth is, I don’t know if she resented it. She never seemed to, but then I never asked her, so I can’t say. That was just how it was, and I suppose she made the best of it … It was Joe who was with him when he died, not her. He used to come and see Dad every day when he was bedridden. My mother’d put a tray
on the bed to make a flat surface, and they’d play cards for hours. We’d hear them in there, talking about the boats and laughing. We knew he was going downhill, of course. One day, Joe came downstairs and told us he’d gone. He died quite soon after Dad did.’

Reg fell silent and stared into the fire. Stratton couldn’t imagine what on earth he was supposed to say in response to this. Reg surely couldn’t be telling him what he
seemed
to be telling him, could he? If so, why was he telling him? Was it – could it possibly be – meant as an oblique reference to Monica? No … Not Reg. Surely not …

He racked his brains for something that wouldn’t sound either prurient or banal, and settled for offering more tea as the safest option, realising, as soon as he’d opened his mouth that Reg hadn’t drunk the first lot, and neither had he. How long had he known he was ill, Stratton wondered. He must have gone to the doctor, assuming his symptoms to be caused by some minor, if irritating, ailment, and been given the news … And he was what? Sixty-one? Sixty-two? Only just retired. He and Lilian must have made plans for days out and there’d been talk of him helping Mr Kendall with the scouts. Presumably, none of this would now happen …

‘My mother never mentioned Joe’s name after he died,’ said Reg, cutting across Stratton’s train of thought. ‘She’d talk about Dad, sometimes, but him, never. I’ve wondered, over the years, about their friendship. It’s easier, sometimes, not to admit … if there was anything
to
admit, of course. I don’t know. He certainly never showed any signs of being … well,
that way
, and neither did Joe. But, you know …’ Reg sounded wistful. ‘My father was a popular man. Well thought of. People looked up to him. I suppose, with these sorts of things, it doesn’t make any difference in the long run. It seems better not to … make a fuss about it.’