‘Perverted it?’
‘No,’ said Hugh. ‘We thought they might have closed the gap, but the methods they used . . .’ Hugh was trembling and I considered calling his daughter, but then I saw the look in his eyes and realised it was anger. Not just anger, but rage – even seventy years later. ‘They did terrible things to live prisoners, to men and women and the fae and . . .’
He stopped, his chest heaving, and looked around his study, blinking his eyes.
‘And, being German,’ he said finally, ‘they wrote it all down, typed it up in triplicate, cross-referenced it and filed it neatly in a hundred filing cabinets in a central bunker in a camp near a town called Ettersberg.’
‘Oh shit,’ I said. I realised the implications. Hugh gave me a reproachful look. ‘They wanted the research data,’ I said. ‘That’s what the operation was all about.’
‘We couldn’t let the Russians have it, or the Americans, or the French for that matter,’ he said. ‘It was obvious to everyone by ’45 that this was the Empire’s last hurrah. The Russians were gearing up to win the Great Game and the Yanks couldn’t wait to get us out of the Far East. I think some believed, including David, that this could put us back in the game.’
‘What game?’
‘Precisely,’ said Hugh and looked so pleased with me that I didn’t explain that I meant the question literally. ‘And we secured the library, the Black Library we called it after that, for all the good that it did us. Nightingale’s job was to cover the extraction, and by god that’s just what he did. But even he couldn’t save the men who were cut off at the camp.’
And so Operation Spatchcock had fallen apart and the raiding force, over eight hundred men in all, was broken up and destroyed in detail while the remnants fled west in squads or as individuals – werewolves on their tail.
‘Were they real werewolves?’ I asked. ‘Or just special forces?’
‘Nobody knows for sure,’ said Hugh.
Nightingale being among the last of the few stragglers that made it across the Allied front line.
‘He made sure the wounded were on the gliders with the Library, me amongst them, and he gave up his own place so that David could escape,’ said Hugh.
‘David Mellenby got out?’ I said. ‘I thought he was killed in action.’
‘No,’ said Hugh. ‘Took his own life, sadly. Locked himself in his lab and shot himself in the head. Wasn’t the only one, certainly not the only one, come to think of it.
‘You have to understand, Peter,’ said Hugh. His voice was shaking and I saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘I regret nothing, and if I could go back in time to my young self I would tell him to stop being a weak sister and get the job done. Sometimes you have to make a choice and sometimes you have to act on blind faith and trust that your mates won’t let you down.’
I heard his granddaughter call his name from below.
‘But when you do that, Peter,’ he said, ‘make sure you know who your mates are.’
Mellissa bounced into the room and made her displeasure known to both of us. I let myself be chivvied downstairs. Hugh looked done in and I didn’t want him to hurt himself. I grabbed the staves along with my other stuff, the heavy wood clonking against my hip as I swung the strap over my shoulder.
In the kitchen I found Beverley seated behind a stack of cardboard pallets containing squat green glass jars with home-printed labels on them.
‘I hope you made her pay for those,’ I said to Mellissa.
‘Got my money’s worth,’ she said and winked at Beverley, who laughed.
‘You can help get them into the car,’ she said.
If I couldn’t speak to Hannah, I figured I could talk to the next best thing. Her mum. So I called up DS Cole and asked if I could interview Joanne. She said in fact Joanne had been asking after me, so I could visit straight away? Providing I agreed to keep it informal. Which is police speak for waiting until the subject can’t see you before taking down your notes. I was getting good enough at navigating the lanes around Rushpool that I could swing around to drop Beverley off at the Swan and then go on to the Marstowe’s without having to do any reversing or tricky three-point turns. I did notice that some of the press pack were back in the Swan’s car park and, when I turned into the Marstowe’s cul-de-sac, I spotted a photographer staking it out. He fired off a couple of shots as I passed, but it was an automatic gesture. Routine.
I also noticed that Andy Marstowe’s Toyota wasn’t parked outside the house, so imagine my state of unsurprise when I found Derek Lacey with his feet firmly ensconced under the kitchen table. I followed Joanne inside and he jumped up when he saw me and shook my hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
And then, surprised to find he was still holding my hand, he let go and offered me a seat opposite him and Joanne.
‘Thanks,’ he said again. ‘It seems such an inadequate word.’
There were two open bottles of wine on the kitchen table and two glasses. As I sat down, Derek, obviously familiar with the kitchen, located another wine glass and plonked it down in front of me.
‘Red or white?’ he asked.
I went with white. After all, I was under instructions to keep it informal. The beauty about the whole ‘coppers don’t drink on duty’ rule is that people think that if you’re drinking you’re not on duty. They’re wrong, of course. We’re always on duty. It’s just that sometimes we’re a little bit unsteady as well. Although, strictly speaking, I should have sought pre-authorisation by a senior officer of Superintendent rank or above before I emptied my glass.
I tasted the wine. A year sitting at Nightingale’s table meant I could at least tell good from bad – and this was not bad.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ said Derek. ‘South African.’
‘So how’s Nicole?’ I asked.
‘Don’t they keep you informed?’ asked Joanne.
‘I’m just a constable,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty much the last person that anybody tells anything to.’
‘She’s coming home tomorrow morning,’ said Derek. ‘That’s why I’ve been sent ahead to make sure everything is shipshape and Bristol fashion.’
‘So she’s over the shock?’ I said.
‘Not entirely,’ said Derek and drained his glass. ‘But the doctors think that familiar surroundings might help.’
Help what? I wondered, but sometimes it’s better just to look interested and hope for the best.
‘She’s having trouble talking,’ said Derek. ‘She keeps forgetting words – aphasia, the doctors call it. She was completely non compos mentis when we first saw her, but much better now.’ He paused to fetch another bottle – a Sauvignon blanc this time. ‘I’m just relieved to have them back.’
‘Peter,’ said Joanne, and then stopped and looked at Derek, who took a breath.
‘If something had happened to the girls . . .’ he said. ‘The police wouldn’t keep it from us – to spare our feelings?’
‘No,’ I said.
Not unless you were suspects, I thought, and even then . . .
‘Definitely not,’ I said.
‘You’re sure?’ asked Joanne.
‘Do you think something happened?’ I asked.
Derek filled his glass and topped up mine.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘They’ve always been such happy girls – ask anyone. It’s worrying to see Nicky so withdrawn and uncommunicative.’
‘And we were worried the last time,’ said Joanne.
‘The last time?’ I asked.
Derek sighed.
‘It’s not the first time one of mine has run away,’ said Derek.
This was not in any case summary I’d read and, believe me, in missing kid cases ‘has run away before’ tends to be pretty prominent in the initial assessment.
‘Nicole ran away before?’ I asked. ‘When?’
‘God, no,’ said Joanne. Her glass was empty so I topped it up – it was only polite.<
br />
‘This was a long time ago,’ said Derek. ‘And it wasn’t Nicole. It was my eldest – Zoe.’
‘I didn’t know you had an eldest,’ I said and thought – if it’s in the files Lesley would be so pissed off with me for missing that.
‘By Susan, my first wife. She’s all grown up now,’ he said. ‘Lives over in Bromyard.’
I filled my glass and took a sip – the second bottle wasn’t as good. Not that Derek seemed to notice. I filled his glass as well.
Given the amount of wine we’d necked, I decided to just come out and ask them what happened.
‘Zoe was always a difficult child,’ said Derek.
‘She was a perfectly good girl,’ said Joanne.
‘Well, she loved you, didn’t she?’ said Derek to Joanne.
Joanne turned to me and said in mock confidence, ‘I used to babysit her when she was small.’
‘And spoil her,’ said Derek. ‘And listen to her stories.’
‘She had a wonderful imagination. Loved Harry Potter and all those fairy books,’ said Joanne.
‘Did she say why she ran away?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Derek. But he said it way too quickly, and his eyes shifted unconsciously to look at Joanne, who was pretending to be taking a long sip of her wine while she thought of something convincing to say. I gave her as long as she needed.
‘It was just a silly argument,’ she said, and then uttered the phrase you should never utter in front of the police. ‘It wasn’t anything important.’
‘And we found her quickly enough,’ said Derek.
‘Just in time,’ said Joanne. ‘We were just about to call you lot.’
‘Where was she when you found her?’ I asked.
‘By the lay-by on the main road,’ said Derek. ‘The one you reach if you go left towards Lucton when you come out of the village.’
I pulled out my phone and got them to pinpoint the location on Google Maps. I think they wanted to avoid the subject, but they couldn’t do that without drawing attention to the fact that that was what they wanted to do.
The location was east of Rushpool, the opposite direction from where Hannah and Nicole were reckoned to have crossed the same road while heading up to Bircher Common.
‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Joanne.
‘Habit,’ I said and took a gulp of wine. ‘It’s the way I’m trained – ask questions first, worry about what the information is for later.’
I didn’t stay much longer after that, and I left the pair of them polishing off a third bottle. I wondered what was going to happen the moment I stepped out the front door and was tempted to double back and peer in through the windows. I decided not to – even the police have to have some standards. And anyway, they might see me and that would end their use as sources of information.
I arrived home at the cowshed to find Beverley rifling through my stuff.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
She was kneeling by my trunks, dressed only in a pair of blue silk knickers and a matching camisole, and systematically laying out the contents on the floor around her.
‘I was languorously awaiting your return,’ she said, ‘but after ten minutes I got bored.’
‘That explains the underwear,’ I said. ‘Which is very nice by the way.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Beverley.
‘But what are you doing in my stuff?’
‘We need a present to give to Hugh,’ she said. ‘In return for what he gave you.’
‘I don’t think he wants anything in return,’ I said.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Beverley. ‘He’s given you the most important thing he owns – that’s an imbalance – you can’t have that. He’s an old man – what if he dies?’
She pulled out the Purdey lightweight two-inch self-opening sidelock shotguns, cracked the breeches and gave them a disturbingly professional once-over.
‘Do you think he’d like these?’ she asked.
I sat down on the bed and started taking off my clothes.
‘I think he’s done with weapons,’ I said. ‘Don’t you?’
I decided to leave my boxers on – a man should maintain a certain amount of mystery after all.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘And Mellissa would only give them to her harem.’
Beverley closed the trunk and looked at me.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I’m waiting languorously,’ I said. ‘For you to get into the bed.’
‘What make you think I’m still in the mood?’
‘Unlike some people,’ I said, ‘I’m committed to this state of languor. I’ve been putting in the hours. If necessary I can maintain it for an extended period.’
‘I could go back to my room at the Swan,’ she said.
I slowly put my hand behind my head and cocked my left leg provocatively.
‘But then,’ I said, ‘you’d be all alone and I’d still be here being irresistibly languid.’
She made me wait at least a minute, and then she climbed onto the bed with me. There followed some kissing and some grabbing of parts – the details I will not bother to bore you with, except to say that just as we were getting down to business I paused long enough to ask – ‘We’re not going to be, like, fertilising this garden or something are we?’
‘Peter!’ snarled Beverley. ‘Focus!’
Afterwards we lay sweating on top of the duvet, spread-eagled to catch the faint breeze coming in through the door, not touching except where her hand rested on my thigh and my hand covered hers.
‘When you were eleven,’ I said, ‘did you ever sneak out of your house?’
‘All the time,’ said Beverley.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Into the river of course,’ she said. ‘Where else?’
‘You didn’t dance about?’
‘On dry land?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Might have done – don’t know.’
‘Naked?’
‘When I was eleven?’
‘I just wondered if it was a fae thing,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen you swimming around without your kit on.’
‘I know,’ she said and rolled over to face me, propping her head up with her hand. ‘I’ve seen you watching me.’
‘Couldn’t take my eyes off you,’ I said.
She reached out and twirled her finger tips around my belly, making me laugh and gasp at the same time.
‘Children do strange things,’ she said. ‘They don’t have to be different to want to dance around as free as a chimpanzee.’
She swept her hand up to my chest, pushing ahead a little wave of water, my sweat I realised, coalescing in a way that could not be explained by momentum and surface tension.
‘I was naked the first time I saw you – do you remember?’ she asked. Her palm swept across my shoulders like a child gathering material for a sand castle.
‘That was you in the river at Richmond,’ I said. ‘What happened to your wetsuit?’
‘I was at mum’s house and my wetsuit was at my place – when we got the alarm I had to go as I was. We went up the river like crazies – me, Fleet, Chelsea and Effra – if you’d seen us then you’d have freaked big time.’
With a twist of her wrist she held out her hand out palm up, and above it floated a globe of water.
‘We’d chased Father Thames’s little boys back to their boat, and we’re just giving them some lip when down swoops the Jag and the Nightingale comes storming out. I was totally stealthy because, you know, Nightingale . . . Mum’s got views about us getting into too much trouble. The next thing I know I’m seeing this gormless looking boy standing on the shore.’
The globe started to rotate and flatten out slightly.
‘You swore at me,’ I said.
‘I cut myself on a wire cage,’ she said. ‘Some stupid environmental anti-erosion measure or something.’
I extended my hand and concentrated, which wasn’t easy with one of Beve
rley’s breasts brushing against the side of my chest. Aqua was a forma I’d only learnt quite recently, but I managed to get a respectable globe of water hovering over my own hand.
‘Why, thank you,’ said Beverley and without any fuss my globe jumped over and merged with hers. She saw my startled look and grinned.
‘How did you do that?’ I asked.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ said Beverley, and with an elegant flick of her hand the globe shot up towards the ceiling and exploded in a puff of vapour. A cool mist floated down around us, beading her shoulders and hip and making me shiver.
I could tell she knew I was going to ask again, because she leaned over and kissed me until I’d forgotten what I was going to say. After that one thing led to another, but fortunately Beverley paused long enough to do the vapour thing again so we didn’t collapse from heat exhaustion.
Alas all good things must end – even if only to avoid back strain.
‘And what’s your plan for tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘I’m going high tech.’
12
Passive Data Strategy
‘I knew it was something to do with aliens,’ said the man from the electronics shop whose name turned out to be Albert but apparently I could call him Al.
‘No comment,’ I said, which of course merely confirmed Call Me Al’s most cherished suspicions. He’d done a good job quickly lashing up a batch of Peter Grant’s patented wide-area magic detectors. These consisted of a disposable pay-as-you-go phone, modified to my specifications and mounted inside a brightly coloured plastic box with rounded corners. One third were yellow, another third blue and the rest letter-box red.
I flicked one with my finger – it was heavy duty PVC.
‘Where did you get these?’ I asked.
‘Sports warehouse,’ said Al. ‘They’re children’s floats for swimming pools.’
He’d picked them up on his way back from Birmingham where he’d bought the phones. Reputable shops won’t sell you more than three disposables at a go, but fortunately everyone else will – especially for cash. One of the advantages of being the police is that when you want to buy something slightly dodgy, you generally know where to shop.