Island Madness (29 page)

He sat down and idly opened the drawer, remembering suddenly what was inside. Until Lentsch had spoken to him he had quite forgotten about the man. That’s how good a detective he was. And now he was dead, his head cracked open by the hands of a British policeman. A legitimate act of war or an act of criminality? He picked up the wallet, opened the fold and laid the money out on the table. More than a Lieutenant’s wages, unless he hadn’t spent any money for six months.

He held open the rest of the wallet and shook out the contents. Identity card, driver’s pass, a Lloyd’s chequebook, tide tables, a letter from home, the postmark smudged and indecipherable. Inside three closely written pages, whether wife, mother, brother or father, Ned had no idea. There were photographs, too: one of a good-looking woman of about fifty, holding a white lapdog: another of a young man in a ill-fitting suit, a Homburg raised above his head, and the last, a skinny girl in a summer dress standing astride a bicycle, a sweetheart no doubt, in a sweetheart’s pose and a sweetheart’s hopeful smile on her face. Ned felt helpless in the face of such photographs. Did they know, this man, these women, that their beloved Schade was dead, that he had lost his life pushed down some pointless steps? What would they think about the war then, these people, so content, so happy? What use were pictures, except to wound and hurt? Photographs told you nothing except that you were for ever alone, for ever transient, for ever to be betrayed by those who had held you closest, for ever to betray in turn those who hold you most dear.

As he replaced the letter he discovered an extra flap running the whole length of the wallet’s back, protected by a small lip of leather tucked into the right-hand side. He put his hand in. More photo-graphs. He laid them out on the table.

Though he understood what he saw, to begin with they were recognizable only as blurred mementoes of a soldier’s masturbatory life; women spread out to enliven the bored bunk hours or passed around the mess room to a chorus of obscene jokes and merry gestures. Then as he looked closer he realized that not all the photographs were of strangers. Some were of a woman he knew, and a place he knew too, though which he had recognized first, the low curved ceiling and the open iron door of the escape shaft or the fleshy arms and the shock of tumbling hair of its occupant he could not say. She was smiling at the camera, as naked as the night she had slipped into the summer sea with him and Bernie egging her on, but here her podgy arm was wrapped around Lieutenant Schade’s broad shoulders and the two of them were lying back on a bed of straw. That was how Isobel had come to have straw in her hair. Not from a farm vehicle, not from a stable, but from the tunnel itself.

Ned crossed over the square and walked down Smith Street. There was a queue on the left-hand side, stretching down the hill and round into the Lower Pollet. In the bookshop window halfway down hung yet another huge portrait wreathed in yet another collection of ferns and daffodils. Scattered round the bottom were copies of Britain’s worst-selling sixpenny magazine,
Mein Kampf
an English translation available in eighteen weekly episodes. A hand-written sign informed him that in commemoration of the coming birthday there was going to be a free draw for the whole set.

At the corner he walked up the steps and pushed open the double door. Inside the bank was cool and empty and smelt of floor polish. Monty Freeman sat in his office dictating a letter. His arms stuck out from his jacket sleeves like broomhandles on a scarecrow. A suit in search of a man, his mother used to call him. A girl at the back was writing figures in a long ledger. Ned could hear the scratch of her pen. Elspeth Poidevin sat behind the long teak counter in front of a little sign which bore her name, its lettering only slightly more elaborate than her clothes. She wore a pink blouse with a high collar and mother-of-pearl buttons and a little bow in the front, tied like a shoelace. It looked easy to pull too. She was counting slowly, licking her index finger and fluttering her eyelids at her uniformed customer. Though her pink lips formed the words silently Ned could hear every syllable: twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. He walked across the echoing floor and waited behind the smartly belted tunic. Elspeth snapped a rubber band round the notes and pushed the bundie across. The notes were small and greasy, like all the Occupational currency. The officer put his hands on the counter and looked straight at her.

“I made it twenty-nine,” he said.

“Thirty,” Elspeth said. “But I’ll count it again if you want.”

“If you please, miss.”

“Oh, we aim to please. That’s what we’re here for.”

She licked her finger again and brought the notes back. Each time her finger flicked a note the base of her thumb pushed up against her right breast. The bow started to wobble.

“She was right the first time,” Ned said from behind. The man turned round.

“I couldn’t help noticing,” Ned admitted. “It was thirty. She never gets things like that wrong, do you, Elspeth?”

Flattery was always welcome where Elspeth was concerned, even when it interrupted performance. “I’ve got a head for figures,” she admitted. “There you are. Thirty. What did I tell you?”

The officer took his money reluctantly, like a boy who’s only been allowed to fill his sweet bag half full.

“Come again soon,” Elspeth called out, and adjusting her sign, turned her attention to her back to Ned. “Mr Luscombe,” she said brightly. “What can I do for you?”

Ned smiled back. “How’s the trauma?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“The ladies of ill repute. Still offending your sensibilities?”

She sniffed.

“Mr Freeman deals with them after closing time. That way we don’t become…”

“Contaminated?”

“My dad told him he wouldn’t allow me to work here otherwise.”

“What it is to have a father like yours. Anyway, to business.” He looked about. Monty Freeman was watching him through his office window. The girl at the back was blotting her columns. “About the bank?”

“Yes. Come to open an account?” Elspeth suggested.

Ned shook his head and turned back to where the officer was standing by the door, puiling at the creases of his tunic before stepping out. “I was wondering. Do many officers like him bank here?”

“A few from the Feldkommandantur, and the Wehrmacht. The long-term residents. None of the enlisted men, of course.”

“Of course. What about artillery officers?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. They’re all customers to me.”

He took out the wallet and laid it on the counter.

“It’s this lieutenant, see. He’s lost his wallet. A lot of money in it, tucked inside one of your envelopes. Name of Schade.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Have a look at his picture. See if you recognize him.” He opened the identity card. She looked at the picture of the thickset man, grinning into the camera. An air of innocence wafted over the counter as sweet as the perrume rising from her pampered bosom.

“No, I don’t think so. Jolly-looking soul, isn’t he?”

“Well, he used to have lots to be jolly about. Are you sure you don’t recognize him? There’s a chequebook here too.”

She picked up the card. “Come to think of it, I think I might have served him once or twice.” She looked around before lowering her voice. “Trouble is they all look the same in their uniforms, don’t they?”

“What about without their uniforms?”

“Beg pardon?”

“In ciwies. Bathing costumes.
Au naturel
.”

“Bathing costumes? What are you on about?”

“It’s just that I thought you might have known this fellow socially, Elspeth. In less formal surroundings.”

“What on earth gave you that idea?”

“Well, these actually,” he said, and laid the pictures before her. “They were in his wallet too.”

Elspeth paled and clutching at the counter slipped off her stool in a heap. The girl at the back jumped up, knocking the bottle of ink over her carefully written figures. Ned ran to the side and ducked under the counter flap. The girl had Elspeth’s head in her lap. Her inky footprints ran clear across the waxed surface.

“Let’s get her to her feet,” he suggested. Monty Freeman appeared at his side.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, then, kicking at the girl’s foot, added, “Look what you done to my floor.”

“Never mind that!” Ned shouted. “Get her a glass of water or something.” He put his hand under Elspeth’s armpit, and with the girl’s help half dragged her into Monty’s office. He could feel her heart pulse, smell the sudden sweat of her. Though her body was limp and her eyes were closed, she managed to keep her stockinged legs well away from any splinters. She hadn’t fainted at all. She was gaining time. Shooing the secretary out Ned sat her in Monty Freeman’s swivel chair before walking back to retrieve the photo-graphs. When he got back Monty Freeman was standing outside with a glass in his hand.

“I’m afraid you’re going to be short-staffed this afternoon, Mr Freeman,” Ned told him, taking the rumbler from his grasp. “When she’s back on her feet she’ll be coming with me.”

“Coming with you, whatever for?” He looked over to Elspeth’s vacant seat and the teller’s drawer beneath. “It’s not the bank, is it?”

“No, it’s not the bank,” Ned assured him. He closed the door.

He watched while she regained her composure. Her head was just level with the desk. She struggled in her seat, then reached down and adjusted the height of the chair. She made one attempt to drink but her hand shook water out of the glass. Through the window she could see the other girls gathering around where she had fallen. She looked back, horrified.

“It’s all right,” Ned reassured her, tapping his pocket. “I’ve got them here. No one saw them.” He stood up. “Come on, Elspeth. We can walk up to the station. The air will do you good.”

Back in his office he pulled the chair over from the stove and indicated for her to sit down. She sat with her handbag in her lap, looking askance at the grimy walls. Ned walked to the other side and sat opposite.

“Got a cushion?” she asked. “This seat ain’t half hard on my bum.”

She wriggled impatiently. Ned couldn’t help but admire her. She had some stuffing inside her still. He leant over.

“Might as well have a look in this bag of yours, since you’ve brought it with you. See if there’s anything else of interest.”

He tipped out the contents. A bar of German chocolate, a packet of German tobacco, a little purse with two scrunched-up ten-mark notes, a bank book, a packet of hairpins, a powder compact, a mirror, and a three sticks of different coloured lipsticks. All brand new.

“Now these pictures,” he said, taking them out and shuffling them like a deck of cards. Elspeth tried to snatch them out of his hand.

“Do you mind! Them’s private. You’ve no right to oggle at them like that.”

“I’m investigating a crime,” Ned said. “These could be evidence.”

“Of what? They’re just photos, that’s all. Who I let take pictures of me is my own affair. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Actually I’m not sure if you’re right, Elspeth. First, there’s the question of what you were doing.”

Elspeth looked at him indignantly. “Figure studies, that’s all they were.”

“I think the Lord Chamberlain might disagree. Leaving that aside there’s the question of what went on before or after and whether any remuneration took place.” He held her protestations at bay. “And lastly there’s the question of where all this took place. Strictly out of bounds, those bunkers. Do you have any idea of the dangers you were putting yourself in if the military thought you were spying?”

She looked up. “We was just having a bit of fun, that’s all.”

“You and this Schade?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet him?”

“Conrad? I don’t know. At the bandstand, I think. Or it might have been the cinema. They have these mixed evenings most Tuesdays.”

“Well, it looks like they were a great success. When did you last see him?”

“Couple of weeks ago. He’s on leave now.”

“And he’d take you down there?”

“Yes. We’d have a bit of a party.”

“We?”

She looked annoyed with herself.

“Me and couple of girls from Boots, if you must know.”

“What about the girls at the bank?”

Elspeth shook her head.

“Happen often, did they, these parties?”

“Once a week, maybe. Whenever they were on duty.”

“And you’d go there when? At night?”

“They’d piek us up after curfew, up by St Saviour’s Church, drop us off at the top and walk through the security gates, change shifts. Then one would pop up to give us the all-clear and we’d climb down.”

“And you’d spend the night there?”

“We’d leave early morning, when the coast was clear.”

“Bit risky for them, wasn’t it?”

Elspeth brushed her sleeve. “Perhaps they thought we were worth it.”

“And that’s all that happened there—these parties.”

“It’s enough, isn’t it?”

“What about your parents?”

“Said I was staying with a friend. We didn’t do anything bad, Mr Luscombe.” Her nose started to quiver. “You’re not going to tell my dad, are you? He’ll beat me black and blue.”

“That depends on what else you tell me, Elspeth. The trouble is, that bunker, that gun emplacement, also happens to be the place where Miss van Dielen’s body was found.”

“But that can’t be! Conrad would have told me.”

“Conrad’s dead,” he told her.

Now she faltered. Her hands began to shake. Ned felt sorry for her. She was just a silly girl, that was all. She reached out and touched the back of one of the photographs. He felt tempted to give them back to her and tell her to go home. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Nothing to with this. An accident.”

“I had nothing to do with it, Mr Luscombe, honest. Never even spoken to her.”

“What about the men there? Did any of them know her, do you think? What were their names, Rupp? Bauer?”

“Rudi and Co.? No, she was too posh for them.”

He nodded. He picked up the bank book and flipped through the pages. To date Elspeth Poidevin had £3,175 in her bank account. Three thousand pounds! Ten years of his pay!