The Armada Boy (30 page)

'Kevin Martin's place. You've got
the address.'

When they arrived and parked outside,
the place looked a little more lively than it had when Wesley had last been
there with Rachel. The front door stood open, revealing a dingy interior of chipped
paintwork, tattered woodchip and a filthy linoleum floor.

'Des res,' commented Heffernan as
they climbed the worn stone steps. He studied the names above the plastic bellpushes.

'Here we are ... K. Martin. Flat three.'

They stepped inside, their nostrils
assaulted by the stench of unemptied bins. Rat three was on the first floor.
They knocked on the flaking door. There was a noise inside, someone closing a cupboard
or drawer, then footsteps.

The first thing that struck them
about Kevin Martin as he opened the door was that Norman Openheim's genes had
battled with rivals to give his grandson his nose, eyes and mouth .. . but nature
had subtly rearranged them so that Kevin lacked the young

Norman's good looks. Kevin even had
his grandfather's reputed shock of dark hair... or would have done if it hadn't
been scraped back into a ponytail.

'Hello. Kevin. We've come to have a
word about your granddad. I take it you know about his death?'

Kevin Martin looked nervous. He
nodded and stood aside to let them in. The inside of the flat was as gloomy as
the rest of the house. Peeling wallpaper and bare light bulbs bore witness to
the fact that it probably hadn't been decorated since the 1970s. The landlord,
whoever he was, was running the place on a shoestring... and probably driving
round in a Jag on the profits, Heffernan thought fleetingly.

'We're sorry about your grandfather,'
Wesley said formally.

'You understand that we want to find out who killed him?'

Kevin nodded.

'Did you meet him?'

'Er... no. I didn't'

'Did you know he was staying at the
Clearview Hotel on Bereton Sands?'

'Yeah ... er. my mum mentioned it'

'Weren't you curious... to see the
grandfather you never knew existed, all the way from America?'

'Yeah ... suppose I was.'

'Did you get in touch with him?'

Kevin looked nervous. He didn't answer.

'May we sit down?'

Kevin had sat in the only chair.
There was only the bed. A balding green candlewick cover was spread on top of a
series of angular lumps and bumps. Kevin looked at it, sudden panic in his eyes.
He stood up. crossed to the bed and pushed whatever it was
under the cover back so that the edge of the bed could be used to sit on. He
took great care to keep the mysterious objects covered, but Wesley saw that the
bedspread had slipped in the comer, revealing something hard, black and square.
He looked towards
the inspector, who was busy studying the decor. Kevin Martin was watching
Wesley warily as he sat down.

'So, Kevin, did you say you managed
to get in touch with your granddad?'

Kevin looked round at Gerry Heffernan,
who was still standing by the door.

No... no. I didn't'

Where were you last Sunday night?'
asked Heffernan.

Dunno.'

Think.'

At the pub.' Kevin said
mechanically.

Which pub?'

Can't remember.'

Were you with anyone?'

No.'

Did you see anyone?... anyone you
know?'

Dunno.'

Wesley look the opportunity to tweak
the candlewick bedcover aside. 'Are these yours?'

Kevin Martin looked round in horror.
He opened and closed his mouth, goldfish style. 'Er ... yeah. I'm ... er...
looking after them for a friend.'

'Course you are. Kevin. Mind if I
have a look? I'm after a video myself.' Heffernan strode over and pulled the
cover off the bed. Beneath it lay a number of video recorders, along with a couple
of camcorders and a trio of mobile phones.

Wesley looked under the bed: more
video recorders and a cardboard box which, on investigation, contained a
selection of jewellery and small silver objects. Among the shiny objects was a
long ornamental dagger with a jewelled handle.

Heffernan turned to look at Kevin
Martin, who sat, transfixed with terror.

"They're not mine ... they're
nothing to do with me.'

'You're looking after them for a mate
... 'course you are, Kevin. What's your mate's name?' Heffernan opened the cupboard
beside the fireplace. Staring blankly at him were the screens of five portable
televisions.

'Quite a little electrical shop
you've got here. Kevin. What's your mate's name?'

'I don't know. I met him in a pub.'

"Very generous of you to allow
a stranger to take up all this room in your flat with his stuff.'

'He's paying me."

'What pub?'

'I can't remember ... one in the
middle of town.'

'Kevin Martin, I'm arresting you for
possession of stolen goods.. .' Heffernan recited the caution while Kevin
Martin stood like a naughty boy before the headmaster, eyes downcast.

'Let's get him back to the station,
Wes. Get a patrol car down here. I'm putting my money on these things coming
from the weekend cottages that have been done over. Come on. Kevin, let's have
a nice cup of tea back at the station.'

Kevin, resigned to his fate, allowed
himself to be led down to the car. Wesley was surprised by his acceptance of
the situation.. . that he didn't protest his innocence. Unless he would rather
be done for receiving stolen goods than for murder.

A call came through to say that Mr
Chard's bicycle, stolen on Sunday evening, had turned up in some undergrowth
near the war memorial: Rat's fingerprints were all over it. But Heffernan felt little
triumph at the news. Colin Bowman had used his influence
with the Royal Navy to confirm that a bayonet was the most likely murder
weapon. That, and the fact that Norman's money had still been in his pocket
when he was found, meant that Rat was hardly his prime suspect.

The inspector asked Rachel to try to
have a word with Wayne Restorick. Wayne could well have seen something, but
getting at the truth would need tact and sensitivity: Heffernan had thought
Rachel was the person for the job, but today she was preoccupied, not her usual
efficient self. Steve Carstairs noticed this. She hardly said a word as they
walked to Apple Cottage. Annie Restorick told them that Wayne was out. Rachel,
unprepared to challenge this, turned round and walked meekly back to the village
hall.

'Anything wrong, Rach?' Steve asked,
wary of her new and unfamiliar mood,

'I don't know.'

Feel like telling your Uncle Steve?'

She winced. Patronising bastard. If
she'd been with Wesley, say, she would have been tempted to share her
knowledge; instead she told Steve she wanted something from the village mini-market:
she would see him later back at the incident

room.

She made for Mrs Sweeting's cottage.
The old lady was pleased to see her and hobbled off into the kitchen to put the
kettle on without asking the reason for her visit.

'Mrs Sweeting.' Rachel called through
lo the kitchen. 'Do you know a woman called Muriel Carmichael?'

There was no reply. Perhaps Mrs
Sweeting hadn't heard.

Rachel repeated the question when her hostess brought the tray of tea and
chocolate biscuits through.

'She was a friend of my sister's.'
the old lady said as she put the
tray down. I didn't know her well.'

'Can you tell me anything about
her?'

'I never repeat tittle tattle, my
luvver. It ain't Christian to go gossiping about folk behind their backs now.
is it? And I never really knew her ... she was a few years older than me.'

'Whatever you can tell me might be
important. Mrs Sweeting. It might help us catch the person who murdered that
American up at the chantry." Rachel leaned forward, pleading.

'I don't see how ... but I suppose
it can't do no harm, as long as you keep it to yourself and remember I'm only
guessing. Muriel still lives round here ... I shouldn't like it to get out that...
"

'I'll be very discreet. I promise.'

Mrs Sweeting hesitated, then she
began quietly. 'I was evacuated to Tradmouth. I'm only saying what I heard when
the war was over, and that was only snippets ... my sister never said nothing.
There was some talk of her getting into trouble. She went
away and didn't come back till the war was over. It's all a bit hazy but I
remember hearing my sister say that Muriel was going out with some Yank ...
mind you. that wasn't unusual in those days.'

'Think carefully. Mrs Sweeting. You
mentioned someone being raped during the war."

'It's all hazy. I was a child ... I
overheard things, things I shouldn't sometimes. I remember my mother telling my
sister someone had been raped and to watch herself... I remember her laughing
and saying it was nonsense. Of course, when they realised I was listening they
shut up. It wasn't like it is nowadays— there were things that were never
spoken of in front of children.'

"You said Muriel still lives
round here. Do you know where?'

'I don't want her to think I've been gossiping.'

'Your name won't be mentioned. I promise.'

'She lives at Seaheld Farm, on the road out of Bereton past the chantry. She
married Cyril Napp. He's dead now, mind; died last year. Her son runs the
place.' She put her teacup down and looked up at Rachel. 'So what are you
thinking, then, my luvver? That
Muriel got raped by a Yank in the war, then murdered him last Sunday for
revenge?"

Rachel's mouth fell open. The old
lady was sharper than she'd given her credit for. Mrs Sweeting started to
laugh. 'Oh. you're way off the mark there, my luvver. Muriel would never do a
thing like that... not Muriel Napp.'

'What makes you so sure?"

'You'll see for yourself. You go up
to Seafield Farm and see for yourself.'

Rachel, pride wounded, bade Mrs
Sweeting a polite goodbye and resolved to do just that.

Wesley was home early. Heffernan had
told him to go and get something to eat and check on Pam. He was due back at Tradmouth
HQ at 6.30 when they'd interview Kevin Martin.
Kevin was on the lower rungs of the ladder of crime, Wesley thought to himself:
burglary, receiving. Inadequate and dishonest... but murder was a different thing
altogether. Had Kevin moved from one league into another?

When he arrived home, Pam was on her
way out. She was going to see Sue next door. For the past couple of days her
idea about having them to stay hadn't been mentioned: Wesley hoped it had been
quietly forgotten.

The dining table was covered with
Pam's schoolwork again. Wesley was becoming concerned about her: she should be
taking it easy. But whenever he mentioned the subject he was accused of fussing
- of being unaware that pregnancy and childbirth were the most natural things
in the world. But they'd waited so long for this baby Wesley couldn't bear to
think of anything going wrong now. He resolved to be firmer with her... to
enlist the help of his mother-in-law if necessary. After all, she wasn't far
away: only in
Plymouth. It was time Pam began to put her feet up and rest.

The sight of the pile of exercise
books on the table jogged something in his memory. Mallindale ... a child's
account of a wartime murder, a child called David Mallindale. Wesley silently cursed
himself for not asking June Mallindale if David was any relation. But then, was
it important? Probably not