Troubled Midnight (12 page)

You wonder in the night,

How much I care and why,

You wonder if it’s big or slight,

You probe and gouge with silent cry

Not realising that you’ve become

My day, my night,

My everyone.

She thought of that now, and the dozens of other little fractured poems he’d written for her, to her. Head down she thumped out of the restaurant, almost flat-footed, and bumped straight into Curry Shepherd, obviously on a recce, searching for her.

“Whoa!” Curry put his hands on her shoulders. “Whatever’s the matter, Suzie? Seen a ghost?”

Her lip trembled, then she steadied herself and took control again. “No, but Tommy … Well, I don’t know if it was him or me … but…”

“Come and sit down,” he edged her towards one of the tables out in the Coffee Room and before she knew it, she was seated and the waiter, the omnipresent Harris, was bending over the table, “Madam didn’t have any coffee. Shall I get one of the girls to serve it here?”

“Yes, please” Curry made a gesture to indicate the sooner the better.

“That waiter gives me the twitch,” Suzie fumbled for her cigarettes. Curry leaned over and lit one for her.

“So what’s up?”

“I think Tommy spent the night with our new sergeant – Cathy Wimereux. Not that it matters,” she spoke low, almost a whisper, a catch in her throat. “But he knew where I was last night, so presumably he knows we were together, and…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think I should be the judge of what matters…” Sharp, sounding confrontational when she didn’t mean to be.

“Suzie, Tommy received this at around six o’clock this morning,” Curry opened his dispatch case, that looked like the one Suzie had used to carry her music to school, and passed an official-looking sheet of notepaper to her just as one of the waitresses set a small pot of coffee on the table and asked for her room number.

Suzie mumbled the number and took the paper from Curry.

“It was brought down by despatch rider and they had to wake him up. I gather he didn’t take too kindly to that.”

“Not at his best first thing,” Suzie gave what she supposed was a brave little smile, then started to read the paper he’d handed to her.

TO: Detective Chief Superintendent Tommy Livermore.

FROM: Commissioner Metropolitan Police, New Scotland Yard.

DATE: 16th December 1943

RE: Woman Detective Sergeant Susannah Mary Mountford.

With effect immediately the above named officer will be transferred from the Reserve Squad to special duties War Office Intelligence Liaison Group. She will still be allowed all privileges within the Reserve Squad such as information concerning cases under consideration of the Squad, attendance at briefings, special instructions, investigations etc.

Also, effective today, Woman Detective Sergeant Mountford is promoted to Woman Detective Inspector.

The signature was scrawled at the bottom of the order, plus a few words neatly written in distinctive green ink.
Tommy,
it read,
this is a significant move and promotion aimed at putting the Met in a very favourable light in backing up the Military. I am sure you will be as pleased as we are that DI Mountford has made great strides, leading her to such an important posting. She will, I know, be a credit to the Met.

Suzie mumbled again and gasped. “WDI? Woman Detective Inspector?…”

“I have the promulgation of your promotion here,” Curry slid a sealed envelope across the table. It was addressed to DI Susannah Mountford and was thick, bulky and with that weighty feel that, in spite of paper shortages, was still a characteristic of officialdom.

“Tommy knew all this before…?”

“Before you saw him, yes. We’ll go to his briefing and follow things up, keeping a watching brief on whatever happens today.”

“But who am I responsible to?… I…”

“To me in the first instance. Finally to Colonel Partridge, the boss of WOIL. I hope to take you up to meet him later on. Maybe this evening. Elsie Partridge, that is. Good man. We’re all responsible to him.”

Couple of dingy offices near Baker Street tube station. Plenty of dust and the odd popping gas fire – the usual appurtenances of people in the spy trade. Bloke called Elsie?

“Baker Street?” she asked.

“Quick learner.”

“Did you get me transferred, Curry?”

“Not me personally, no. Elsie Partridge thought it was about time after I spoke to him last night.”

“So you gave it a little push?”

“Possibly. Look, I’ve got this for you,” he handed her a flat leather wallet, flicking it open to show her ID as a member of War Office Intelligence Liaison under the crown and crossed swords of the army insignia.

She took it and studied it. “So, I’m what Tommy called a secret squirrel?”

“You’re what he calls a Funny, and that’s probably how it’ll feel for a while.”

She grinned, “Do I get inducted, like in the Free Masons? Rituals in dead of night? I get cleared for top secret stuff?”

“Some, only we call it ‘Classified’.” He grinned back.

“Go ahead then, tell me all,” she sipped her foul coffee and grinned, beginning to feel a little better.

“Nothing to tell you as yet, except what I’ve already told you, that we’re concerned about Tim Weaving’s position, his access to COSSAC, whatever he might have had in Classified information regarding
Overlord
…”

“Overlord?”

“Ah, yes, that’s your first bit of inside guff.
Overlord
is the code word for the invasion of Occupied Europe, and that’s about all you’ll have for the time being. Oh, you have signed the Official Secrets’ Act haven’t you?”

“Every copper in the land has to sign it, Curry. Yes.”

“Good, then we’re all set for Tommy’s briefing. Finish your coffee, go and get yourself prettied up and we’ll go down to Mill Street nick as you coppers call it.”

“I
am
prettied up,” she said with a slice of anger.

Chapter Eight

EVERYONE WAS THERE – the whole team – seated at desks, and on desks, with Tommy standing by a recently acquired blackboard looking like a Prep School master. There were seven names written on the board:

Sergeant ‘Monkey’ Gibbon

Sergeant Peter ‘Mulfy’ Mulford

Sergeant Peter Alexander

Sergeant Christopher Long

Sergeant Major Pearce ‘Kissme’ Hardy DSM

Major ‘Shed’ Hutt MC

Captain Wilson Sharp

Captain ‘Bomber’ Puxley MC

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said when Curry and Suzie opened the door. He wasn’t smiling and he stressed the
gentlemen
like the old joke about the butler walking in on the master and a chambermaid.

Dennis Free was a gent, got up and offered Suzie his chair. “Thanks, Dennis, we’ll stand at the back.” Generous smile and a nod of the head. She followed Curry to the back and they leaned against the wall like a couple of oiks waiting for something to happen, to give someone a kicking but that rarely happened these days.

“I’ve already explained you’re not with us any more, WDI Mountford.” He hadn’t had much fun explaining it judging by the acid in his voice. “But I have told them you’re still on this case with the Funnies. Welcome.”

He turned back towards the blackboard and, as though he’d suddenly remembered something – “Oh, yes. I’ve also told the Squad that you’re too precious to lose, DI Mountford, so I’ve made an application to the Commissioner. I’m asking to have you back and I’m offering the Funnies WDS Wimereux in your place.” Smirk and twinkle.

Suzie and Curry smirked back and as though by prearranged signal they both silently shook their heads; went on shaking them.

She saw the particular glint in Tommy’s eyes, recognised it and thought, Jesus, he’s jealous, bloody jealous. He thinks Curry and me … beast with two backs … Golly. Probably wouldn’t say no come to think of it, if the light was right and there was a following wind.

“Something you want to share with us at all, Mr Shepherd?” Tommy digging a grave for himself.

“Major Shepherd, please, DCS Livermore, sir.”

“Oh, of course,” any charm had gone, replaced by sarcasm laced with a tincture of cynicism.

“All right,” he pronounced it
orl right.
“Royal Reserve Squad and the Royal Funnies,” trying to be amusing. “You’ve heard this before. Received wisdom is…” that was a favourite of Tommy’s, ‘received wisdom,’ “received wisdom is that when you get a brutal murder the first people you take a look at are the family. In this case that’s Mr and Mrs Adrian Fletcher Weaving who’re living out retirement in glorious Devon – he’s in the Home Guard and she’s doing auxiliary nursing which ain’t bad for late sixty-year-olds. His brother Ralph’s a CPO in the Royal Navy, aboard HMS Formidable while his sister’s Land Army, farming away like Old McDonald in Somerset, not going too fast for you Major Shepherd?”

“I’m keeping up remarkably well, DCS Livermore. Sheep go baaah and the pigs go oink, that’s how it goes I believe.”

“Congratulations.” Pause, another smirk. “So, I think we can reject Colonel Weaving’s side of the family as possible suspects. Regarding Mrs Bascombe there is the question of her husband, Captain Robert Bascombe VC. Well, I don’t suppose our Bobby Bascombe would be too pleased to know that his wife was doing the post horn gallop with Colonel Weaving, but, alas, Captain Bobby’s decorating a POW Camp in Germany at the moment and I should imagine the War Office is searching its collective intelligence regarding breaking the news of his wife’s death to him. Not easy at all.”

Tommy looked round the room as though he’d just set some weighty problem that called for profound knowledge of integral calculus. “So, I doubt if hubby could have arranged for someone to come here, to Berkshire, and batter the adulterous couple’s brains out.”

Suzie thought, Lord help us, as if Tommy Livermore’s patent and pompous schoolmasterish manner was being revealed to her for the first time. Then her mind whirled and she saw again the broken bodies in the cellar of the house on Portway, wondered about the minutes that led up to the deaths, thought about the anguish, the fear and pain that must have swept through the two wretched people who died, bludgeoned to death, in that alien, cold and hostile vault.

Among the pictures in her head she wondered about pain, she, who had never felt excruciating hurt, only the bumps and knocks of childhood, the petty violence – the Chinese burn, the Indian rub or the penny stamp, all in the arsenal of school bullies, yet nothing like the horror of the real thing which ended only in death.

“So, not having any leads
en famille
…” Tommy started again, more composed, putting the nasty little digs to one side. “We have to move to the slightly wider family, the family of the Regiment, the people serving immediately under him at Brize Norton.” His hand swept down the list on the blackboard. “And here we have them, the officers and NCOs of the Heavy Glider Conversion Unit – the people we’re going to talk to today, people who’re going to help us with our enquiries.”

He looked around, slowly catching each face, giving Suzie a long stare so that she finally felt she knew what the word lupine meant.

“I don’t want to go in there mob-handed,” he continued, looking a shade smug. “So we’re all going.” Laugh. Oh, Tommy you are a wag, Suzie thought.

“What I suggest is that WDS Wimereux and I do the interviews, with Ron as muscle.” Ron Worrall nodded agreement. “The rest of you should mix with the customers and talk with them – nice and gentle, make mental notes, keep your eyes and ears open. I want to hear if anyone sounds like they had problems with Colonel Weaving: or if there was ill will of any kind.” Nods from around the room and Tommy asked if anybody had queries.

Dennis Free asked, “We going to divide up the officers and NCOs, Chief?”

“No,” the self-satisfied smile again (Oh what a bastard, Suzie thought). “What I thought we’d do is put the officers on the hop; make arrangements to interview everyone in the sergeants’ mess, eh? Good, eh?”

Murmurs of ‘good’ and ‘yes,’ everyone happy and bright, what a clever bloke the Chief is. Good on you, Chief, and someone else asked if the Glider Pilot Regiment had separate messes for their people, there being piles of Brylcreem boys at RAF Brize Norton. Originally, in 1940 the fighter pilots of the Battle of Britain were the Brylcreem boys after the sleek advertisements for the hair cream showing a pilot with polished hair, glossy, lustrous. A ‘corker’ as Suzie would have called him. Now any aircrew seemed to be referred to by this sobriquet, while most other ranks and non-flying personnel were ‘erks’.

There was ten, fifteen minutes chatter during which Curry asked how they could help with the questioning of the GPR officers and NCOs. This made Tommy treat him to the long state, the evil eye look. “Well I suppose you’ve got to be there, Major Shepherd, but if I had my way you’d carry out a completely separate investigation…”

“Don’t want to duplicate it,” Curry drawled, a little loudly, as if he was spooked by Tommy’s suggestion, but Tommy’s eyes flicked away, not really meeting Curry’s.

“You’d better sit in with us, then,” the invitation came with ill grace.

Later Curry said that he imagined old Elsie had spoken to the Commissioner, or to Tommy Livermore himself.

“Elsie?” Suzie asked. They were driving to Brize Norton – forty miles or so from Wantage – following Brian driving the Wolseley, with Tommy and Cathy, Tommy in the front passenger seat, Cathy behind with Laura Cotter, all girls together and the Chief being as witty as hell, talking about how they’d go through the GPR people like the proverbial dose of salts. Suzie knew because she’d been there too many times, going off to scenes of crimes with Tommy all worked up, ready to take on the world, a bit of a show-off.

“Elsie?” she asked again.

“Our boss,” she knew that already, his eyes watching the road and the brake lights of the Wolseley ahead, as he needed to for it was cold and freezing fog drifted in patchy waves over the hedgerows across the road. The other car was behind them, making up the little convoy, Dennis Free at the wheel with Shirley Cox beside him and Ron Worrall in the back.