The Armada Boy (8 page)

'You can be there while I look
through his things if you like.'

'What's the point? You've got an
honest face, honey. You ain't going to steal nothing.'

There didn't seem much point in
Rachel's next question but she asked it anyway. 'Will you be all right on your
own. Mrs Openheim? Is there anyone you'd like to sit with you?'

Dorinda gave her a look of contempt.
'At my age, honey, I can take care of myself. I'll get along to the bar. That
okay with you?'

Rachel, speechless, nodded.

In the first-floor bedroom
overlooking the sea, she looked through the wardrobe and the drawers. She
thought how her mother and her aunts would have loved this part of the job. coming
as they did from a generation that kept itself to itself and thrilled at any
glimpse into the private world of others. Dorinda had brought far more clothes
with her to England than her husband had: dresses, suits, skirts and sweaters
filled all the
available space, while Norman's clothes (a blazer, three brightly coloured
shirts and two pairs of casual slacks) were pushed into a far corner of the
wardrobe. The drawers told the same story: all but one contained Dorinda's
things. Norman had been lucky to get
one small drawer in which to store his brightly coloured golfing jumpers.

Rachel looked round. There was
nothing out of the ordinary. Even the pockets of Norman's blazer contained only
a handkerchief,
 
some loose change and a
couple of used ferry tickets printed with Sunday's date.

Ferry tickets. She returned to the
wardrobe and took them from the pocket. What had Norman been doing on the
Tradmouth passenger ferry on the day he was to die? She put the tickets in a plastic
exhibit bag (she had come prepared), then she searched the
suitcases beneath the bed.

Norman's underwear was well worn and
washed out. Dorinda's was lacy, sexy and new-looking. Rachel allowed herself
the hope that she would still be wearing pants and bras like that when she reached
Dorinda's age.

The search of the cases yielded nothing
of interest. Rachel was about to leave the room when she spotted the wastepaper
basket pushed under the kneehole of the dressing table. Beneath the make-up-covered
lumps of cotton wool and the used coffee bags.
Rachel saw the telltale blue of airmail paper. The paper was crumpled
 
into a ball, but she drew it out carefully and
flattened it out on the floor. It was an air letter, postmarked Tradmouth,
Devon.

'My dear Norman
.' it began.

'When I got
your letter I didn't know what to do after all these years. There's been a lot
of water under the bridge since 1944.

I'm a widow now
with a grown-up daughter and two grandchildren. If you're coming to Devon I'd
like to see you again. I still think of you as that handsome boy who used to
take me to that old chapel... do you remember? I suppose I wouldn't recognise
you
now ... or you me. Time does awful things to people, doesn't it?

I'd like us to
meet. I've got something to tell you that you should know. I still remember you
fondly. I prayed you would be safe in France and I'm so relieved to hear that
my prayers were answered. You were always the sweetest of all those Yanks.

Ring me when
you get here (I've put my number at the top) and we'll arrange to meet. Yours
affectionately, Marion.'

Rachel looked at the address on the
top of the letter. Queenswear. just over the river from Tradmouth. He had
visited Marion on Sunday afternoon ... hence the ferry tickets. She pulled
another exhibit bag out of her handbag and put the thin paper carefully inside
it.

It was obvious from the letter that
Marion still carried a torch for her handsome young Yank, even after fifty
years. She wondered if, when they had met, the reality of old age had
extinguished
 
that flame for good.

Heffernan and Wesley lunched in the
Bereton Arms; a working lunch. While they were there they asked whether Wayne Restorick
had honoured the establishment with his presence on Sunday night. The landlord knew
Wayne well: he was sure he hadn't been in on Sunday. It had been a quiet night.
Everyone had been at home watching that
Inspector
Morgan
, the landlord stated bitterly. It looked as though Annie Restorick
might have been telling the truth after all.

The two police officers tucked
themselves away in a quiet comer with their drinks and their ploughman's
lunches. The half-empty pub was a haven of peace; no piped music; no juke-box; only
a flashing games machine stood incongruously against the oak-beamed wall of the
lounge bar like a tan at a Mothers Union meeting . .. tawdry and out of place. Heffernan
was pleased to see that no one was playing on it.

An angry shout of 'Get out... we
don't want your sort in here... sling your hook' from behind the bar made them
look round.

A young man stood defiantly just inside the doorway. He wore a grey military
overcoat, tattered and torn; his lank mousy hair was swept back into a tiny ponytail.
The last time they had seen him he had been begging outside the Clearview
Hotel. Bereton wasn't
giving him much of a welcome.

'And don't you think of coming back...
and tell those mates of yours the same.' The landlord, a portly middle-aged man
with a military moustache, marched out from behind his bar and held open the
door for the departing beggar.

Heffernan strolled up to the bar with
his empty glass. 'Give you a lot of trouble, do they?'

'They've been hanging round the
village a couple of days now... idle buggers. I can't think what they're after.
I told them to get back to London where they belong.' He made the name London sound
like the nether reaches of Hades.

'Has he been in here before, then?'

'No, but his mates have. Two of them
... more strangers to soap and water. Soon as I saw them I told them to get
out. I don't want the likes of them putting off my regulars. Where do they get the
money from to drink anyway? Begging and scrounging most
likely.'

The landlord turned towards the
optics to pour himself a whisky. He had said his piece. Heffernan went to sit
down.

'Wes, have you seen a list of what
was found in the dead man's pockets?'

'Yeah. Nothing unusual. Handkerchief,
few leaflets about local tourist attractions probably picked up at the hotel,
some loose change, mints, a ten-pound note. Why?'

'Nothing. Another theory shot down
in flames, that's all.'

'What theory's this?'

'Well, if he still had a tenner on
him the motive wasn't theft.'

The landlord approached their table,
collecting glasses. And another thing ...' He bent over confidentially. 'They
threatened Mrs Slater up at the Clearview Hotel. A barmaid here does breakfasts
for her and she told me. One of them pulled a knife on her.'

'Didn't she report this to the
police?'

'I don't know. All I know is that I
don't want them anywhere near my pub.'

'I think we should have a little
word with our young gentlemen of the road,' said Heffernan as they left the
pub. 'I'd like to see what they find so fascinating about a place like Bereton.'

They drove the half-mile to the hotel
at the edge of the beach. Wesley had wanted to leave the car in the village and
walk bat the inspector had said he was feeling lazy: he needed to conserve his energy
for Mrs Slater.

Wesley put the car (a nondescript
blue Ford, standard police issue) in the carpark near the memorial and walked
towards the hotel. Heffernan nudged his sergeant and nodded towards the Sherman
tank that had been dragged up from the seabed, restored
and placed on a concrete platform in a far comer of the carpark as an
additional reminder of the events that had taken place there during the war.
Leaning against the newly painted body of the massive vehicle was the young man
who'd just been ejected from the Bereton Arms. Sitting precariously astride the
gun turret was another figure with a shaved head; he was pale and unhealthy-looking
and dressed in scruffy grey garments that made him look like the victim of some
disaster, war or famine. A third boy, aged about sixteen, with dark greasy hair
and spots, crouched on the ground stroking a mangy-looking dog of dubious pedigree.
The dog lay contentedly on the ground held by a lead made of dirty string.

As the policemen drew nearer, the
beggars watched them, assessing how much the newcomers might be worth. Then the
one with the ponytail bent down and whispered something to the custodian of the
dog. They turned away. Police were bad news.

'Can we have a word, son?' shouted Heffernan.

It was the shaven-headed man on the
gun turret who spoke. He looked older than the others - mid-twenties — and
possessed an air of leadership. 'You pigs?'

'Pigs are supposed to be very
intelligent. Did you know that?"

Heffernan looked up at the gun
turret enquiringly.

Shaven-head stared at him. 'You what?'

'Do you want me to shout my questions
to you up there or will you come down?'

Shaven head shrugged and stayed put.

'Fancy a chat down at the station?
They make a lovely cup of tea there, don't they. Sergeant?'

'Excellent, Inspector.' Wesley was
watching the reaction of Shaven-head's two companions, who were looking
decidedly nervous.

'I'm not fucking thirsty.' He looked
at Wesley with contempt.
I didn't know they had black pigs in the filth round here.' He leaned forward,
leering unpleasantly. Wesley stood his ground, his face impassive.

'What are you doing here?' Heffernan
interrupted. 'Not much happening in a place like this?'

'What do you think, Scouse?' He
turned his hostile gaze on the inspector, a sly grin on his face.

'Just answer the question,' Heffernan
snapped

'Fancied a bit of peace and quiet,
didn't we.'

Heffernan seized his chance. 'We're
investigating a murder... American tourist staying at that hotel there. Heard
about it?'

'We've seen a lot of filth about,'
said the spotty dog lover.

'We've heard one of you's got a
knife. That true?'

'Piss off, Scouse. Who told you
that?'

'You threatened a woman at the
hotel.'

'Her eyes are going ... can't tell a
fucking stick from a blade.'

The other two looked at Shaven-head nervously. 'That right. Snot? It was a
fucking twig, wasn't it?'

Snot, the pale wearer of the
ponytail. nodded eagerly. Shaven- head had quite a hold over his followers.

Divide and conquer. Heffernan and
Wesley returned to the car and radioed for assistance. The unsuspecting trio
were still loitering round the tank when the police car arrived. As Shaven- head's
two companions were being led away, he jumped from the
tank, made an obscene gesture and ran with the speed of an Olympic athlete
inland towards a copse of trees.

'We can pick him up later,' said Heffernan
with a confidence he didn't feel. 'We'll let our two friends enjoy the custody
sergeant's hospitality for a while, then we'll have a little chat.'

'What about the other one?'

'We'll find out as much as we can
about him. Information is power, remember. When we pick him up we'll have
something on him. He's got away so he'll think he's untouchable. That'll make him
careless.'

Wesley could just about make out
some logic in his boss's arguments. He looked out to sea. 'Wonder how the
diving's going... the Armada wreck.'

'It'll be freezing down there in
March. You're better off where you are. Let's go and have a chat with Mrs
Slater. We've not got a statement off her yet. I wonder why she didn't report
the incident with the knife. She didn't look the type to ignore that sort of
thing.'