The Armada Boy (35 page)

Wayne suddenly looked bashful, a
naughty child about to be found out.

'Will you show it to me?' Rachel
smiled.

This seemed to reassure Wayne. He
left the room. They could hear his footsteps in the bedroom above. He reappeared
holding something oblong and shiny. He showed it to Rachel proudly, not
allowing her to touch it. The silver cigarette lighter bore Norman Openheim's
initials and was engraved with the likeness of an animal ... a buffalo,
Rachel thought, during the brief glimpse she had of it before Wayne snatched it
away and held it protectively to his chest.

'It's mine now ... I didn't steal
it. He was dead.'

'When your mum gets back will you
let me write all this down?

We need to if we're going to catch the person who killed him.'

'I didn't steal it.' Wayne said,
protecting his precious treasure.

"Of course you didn't, Wayne. Don't
worry about it. It's more important that we find out who killed Mr Openheim.'

'Was that his name?'

Rachel nodded. 'Did you see anything
else, Wayne ... was anyone else there?'

Wayne hesitated. 'No,' he said
emphatically ... too emphatically. Rachel knew he was lying.

'Where's Rachel?'

Steve looked up from his computer.
'Don't know. sir. She went out half an hour ago with WPC Walton ... said she
wouldn't be long.'

'Great." Heffernan sighed with
annoyance. 'Look in her desk, Wes ... see if you can find this file.'

Wesley hesitated, unwilling to
violate a colleague's privacy. But he knew there was no option. He tried the
desk drawer.
Locked.

'We'll wait till she comes back,
then.' Heffernan lumbered into his office. 'She's got some explaining to do.'

A cheery good afternoon heralded the
arrival of the Reverend Simon Bradshaw. Wesley went out to greet him.

'So glad I found you, Wesley. I went
looking for Neil but someone told me he'd gone off to Exeter. I've found
something that might be of interest to you. It was at the back of the church safe
... behind the old registers. I was looking in the registers for details of the
Spaniard's burial and I came across these things quite by chance. These are
photocopies ... I didn't want to let the originals out of the church. They're
quite difficult to read, as you'll see.' He handed Wesley a sheaf of papers.

'Thanks. I'll have a look at them
later. What exactly are they?'

'They seem to be an account of a
sanctuary case: the Spanish sailor buried in the church gets a mention. It was
presumably written by the vicar of the day . .. looks like a copy of his report
to his bishop or the local magistrate.'

Wesley smiled. 'Paperwork . .. they
suffered from it then, did they?'

'Looks like it. I'll let you get on.
Let me know what you think, won't you.'

Wesley pushed the papers into his
desk drawer. There were more pressing papers to study. He opened the musty file
PC Jones had brought up from the depths and began to read.

Arthur Challinor, a sailor home on
leave, and his friend Charles Mallindale went out shooting rabbits at 7 am on 5
May 1944.
They went into a forbidden area near Bereton village, as rabbits were reputed
to be plentiful amongst the deserted houses and fields. Near the old chantry
they were challenged and shot at by a young GI, identity unknown. The case was
handed over to the US authorities with the information that the GI had been
dark-haired, very young and, according to Charles Mallindale, had lit a
cigarette before the poachers were spotted, using a flashy silver lighter with
an animal's head on it. How he got close enough to see. the report didn't say.
The response from the US authorities was in the .

file. The serviceman had every right
to shoot trespassers on land used for top-secret operations: they would get the
man's version and deal with the matter internally. Another letter from the US authorities
dated a few days later slated bluntly that investigations had been made and
they were satisfied that there was no case to
answer. That was that: case closed. As the police had not investigated the
matter the only items in the file were Charles Mallindale's statement and the
correspondence from a Major Shultz. Precious little detail, but Wesley had a
feeling that at last they were getting closer to the truth. The young,
dark-haired GI with the flashy silver lighter. There were hundreds - thousands
- of American servicemen stationed in the area, but it was too much of a
coincidence that this one fitted the description of the teenage Norman. He went
to tell the inspector the news.

'I think it's about time we had
another word with our American cousins ... find out what really happened.'

'Of course, it might have nothing to
do with Openheim's death.'

'I'll bet my bottom dollar it does...
as our transatlantic friends would say.'

The phone rang. Heffernan picked it
up. He mouthed at Wesley, 'Fern Ferrars.' Wesley dutifully smiled.

'Yes. Ms Ferrars ... yes ... yes,
I've got that... thanks very much.' He put the receiver down with some relief.

'Know what she's told me now, Wes?
She's said that now we've found the Armada boy we're to listen to what he has
to say.'

'How did she know about that?'

'Search me. Bui he's been dead four
hundred years ... he won't be doing much talking.'

'Maybe she didn't mean it literally,
sir.'

'I don't know what she means, Wes.' Heffernan
heard a familiar voice from behind his partition. He stood up. 'Get her in here
now. I want a word with DC Tracey.'

Wesley found Rachel looking very
pleased with herself. A shadow of apprehension passed over her face, however,
when he broke the news that the boss wanted to see her and he wasn't pleased.

She decided to take the initiative,
marching into the inspector's lair with a confidence she did not feel. 'Sir,
I've been making a few investigations and..,'

'And you didn't think of sharing
these investigations of yours with your colleagues?'

"I was going to. sir, but then
I got this lead and…'

'
The rape file?'

Rachel's mouth opened and closed.
'Yes. sir."

'Come on. Rach. we work as a team.
We don't go haring off doing our own thing without telling everyone else.'

'I took WPC Walton when I went to
talk to Wayne Restorick. sir.'

Heffernan looked as if he were about
to explode. 'Wayne Restorick? Was his mother there?'

'Not exactly.'

The inspector put his head in his
hands. 'I would have credited you with more sense, Rach. Don't you know there
has to be an appropriate adult present when we interview...'

'It wasn't an interview, sir ...
just a cup of tea and a chat.'

Heffernan rolled his eyes. 'And what
did our Wayne have to say for himself during this cosy tea party?'

"He took Norman Openheim's lighter,
sir. And I'm sure there's something else. I'm sure he saw the killer.'

'And what's this about a rape?'

"There was no rape. In 1944 Litton
Boratski got on the wrong side of a local girl's parents. They reported that
their daughter had been raped... as a sort of revenge, I suppose. The charges
were dropped. The girl was pregnant-I just thought it might have had something
to do with the murder... just a long shot.'

She told him about her visit to
Seafield Farm.

'Another Madam Butterfly, eh?'

'Pardon, sir?'

'I like to see my officers using their
initiative, but cover yourself, Rach. Do it by the book. Right? And let me know
what you're up to.'

Rachel looked suitably chastened
She'd got away with it. Her only worry was that Annie Restorick might make
waves when she found out about her visit.

This time Rachel went to Apple Cottage
accompanied by the inspector himself. Annie Restorick answered the door and
made for Rachel like a possessive mother tiger.

'What do you think you're doing
sneaking round here talking to my Wayne... making him say things he doesn't
understand? I've seen it on telly how you lot fit people like him up, people
who aren't clever and can't answer back ... anything to get an arrest, that's
all you lot are interested in. Well, it won't work ... I'm getting my
solicitor.' Annie, well versed in the jargon from nightly rendezvous with her
favourite cop shows and exposes of miscarriages of justice, stood her ground,
daring the officers to come any nearer.

'Okay, love ... calm down now. Your
Wayne's not a suspect. We just think he might have seen something, that's all.
Any chance of a cup of tea? I'm gasping.'

Annie opened the door resentfully,
thinking better of her initial hostility. It wouldn't really do to get on the
wrong side of the law.

Over the worst cup of tea Gerry Heffernan
had tasted in a long time, he managed to persuade Annie that Wayne would come
to no harm if he and DC Tracey took a statement - with Annie herself present,
of course - to the effect that Wayne found
Norman Openheim's body and took his lighter, thinking the dead man would have
no more use for it. Charges would not be brought and Annie could stop the
proceedings at any time if she thought it was in her son's best interests. He
couldn't say fairer than that.

Annie had to agree. Wayne, a model
witness, repeated what he had told Rachel. Annie was satisfied and the crisis
was averted. Rachel knew she had had a narrow escape.

When the police had gone, muttering
their gratitude, Wayne turned to his mother. 'I didn't tell them. Mum.'

'Tell them what? What didn't you
tell them?' All Annie's satisfaction that she had kept control of the situation
drained away.

'I didn't tell them my secret.'

'What secret? Wayne ...' She was
nearly screaming at him with frustration. 'What secret? Tell me…'

Wayne, calm, grinning smugly, tapped
the side of his nose. 'If I told you it wouldn't be a secret ... and I
promised. You can't break a promise.'

'What did you promise? Who made you
promise? Wayne, tell me ...' She took her son by the shoulders and shook him.

Chapter Thirteen

Sir, I would advise you of all matters
concerning this case of sanctuary. Master Mallindale did come to me with true
penitence in his heart and I, as prescribed by custom and the law of the
church, did grant him sanctuary. I do assure you, sir. that this is in no way in
defiance of your office. Despite his blaming his heinous crime on a young man
truly innocent (albeit that he was a foreigner and a papist) I do judge Master
Mallindale truly repentant and will continue to grant him sanctuary for as long
as he observes all the conditions thereof.

Extract from
the report sent by Rev. James Tracey to
Master Joseph Fawley, Justice of the Peace, September 1588

'Rather you than me, Sarge.'

Wesley looked up to find Steve looking
at him, lolling back in his chair, a copy of the Sun open at page three on his
desk.