Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry) (55 page)

Randy brushed himself against Cooper's legs as if introducing the other cat. Cooper put out his hand to stroke the newcomer, and immediately saw the drooping belly and engorged teats.

'Oh no. I hope you belong to somebody. You're not having your kittens in here.'

But Cooper looked out of the window at the frozen snow still lying in the garden and the icicles hanging from the branches of the trees, and knew he was just as soft as Mrs Shelley.

'Well, as soon as they're born, you go,' he said firmly. Both cats gazed at him and purred. He could have sworn they were laughing.

One thing that had been missing in his life was a physical relationship, and animals provided it. But why were they so like humans about some things? Why did animals never learn that it was dangerous to give their trust so readily?

33

DCI Tailby turned his head to look at the whiteboard where DI Paul Hitchens was writing names with a big black marker pen, occasionally switching to a red pen to draw lines connecting the names. The board squeaked as he produced curves and little circles, then completed the pattern by decorating his chart with a series of red dots.

'Can you see what it is yet?' said Hitchens.

'You propose to detain all these people?' said Tailby.

DI Hitchens was firing on all cylinders, ready to take over the morning meeting, given half a chance.

'We've liaised with our friends in the Ministry of Defence Police,' he said. 'And together we've drawn up this list of persons believed to be involved in the activities Sergeant Easton was investigating. If we pull them all in now, we expect to be able to start piecing together what happened.'

'As I understand the situation, the RAF Police have been observing a number of servicemen who are suspected of the illegal sale of aircraft parts. Easton was attempting to establish who their contacts were on the outside.'

'Yes, sir. And these names are people involved in a circle of aviation memorabilia collectors. They have a well-established network, both by word of mouth and on the internet. DS Fry has identified the location where the memorabilia trade is based and where the website is run from. From what we're told, it seems to be a lucrative trade in itself. The prices for some of the items are extraordinary – but that's collectors for you. They'll pay the earth for something they really want. Strictly speaking, many of the items of memorabilia are probably illegally obtained, but it might take a lot of work to gather the evidence.'

'It doesn't sound worthwhile,' said Tailby. 'The CPS would say a prosecution wasn't in the public interest.'

'Yes. And it's insignificant compared to the trade that Nick Easton was trying to uncover,' said Hitchens. 'We've looked at the website this morning, and it's difficult to tell where the legal business ends and the illegal begins. Not all the collectibles are Second World War vintage by any means. There are items for use in restoring more modern aircraft, and interspersed among them there are a number of contemporary and definitely illegal items being traded. Some of the messages on the bulletin boards are probably coded anyway. And the addresses given are international.'

Tailby sighed. 'That's going to be out of our hands. But it's just run from a bookshop, isn't it? Here in Edendale.'

'That was what Easton was looking for, but we don't think he ever found it. We think he was killed before he reached the centre of the operation. We have no evidence to suggest he ever visited the bookshop.'

'What about the owner?'

'Lawrence Daley,' said Fry. 'We think he was drawn in because of the money involved in the aviation memorabilia trade. We conducted an initial interview with him last night. He genuinely doesn't seem to be aware of any other type of business going on via the website or the bulletin board other than the memorabilia. One of his partners runs the internet side, which seems to be a mystery to him.'

'A gullible victim pulled into something illegal out of greed?' said Tailby.

'Yes. But he finally confirmed these names for us, which DI Hitchens has listed. These are the men principally involved. It seems possible that they killed Easton when he got too close to them. But we have no evidence to support that idea.'

'It's disappointing that we've haven't located Easton's car yet. That would be very helpful.'

'It will turn up somewhere eventually,' said Hitchens. 'With a bit of luck, we'll still be able to get some evidence from it.'

DCI Tailby looked around the room. 'It's all circumstantial. Do you think we have sufficient evidence to bring them in?'

'Yes, sir,' said Hitchens.

Tailby looked at the MDP officers. 'And you, Sergeant Caudwell?'

'We're in favour.'

'Very well. I suppose you'll need more resources, Paul?'

'Whatever we can get, sir.'

'We'll call in the task force again. They've drawn a blank on the missing baby, so at least we can give them a bit of action.'

As the meeting broke up, Fry saw Sergeant Caudwell approaching.

'You win,' she said, showing her dimples. 'But, if I could make a suggestion, you might want to question what some of your officers have been getting involved in recently.'

*    *    *    *

Cooper picked up Alison Morrissey from outside the Cavendish Hotel and drove her as far as Bamford, to the big pub at the crossroads. He didn't want to be seen in Edendale, not today.

Morrissey had a blue folder tucked under her arm. Not another file, surely? There had been enough of those, and some of the information had been misleading and wrong.

'What have you got there?' said Cooper.

'It's something Peter Lukasz sent to me. He says his father wrote it.'

'Ah. His account of the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor.'

'So you knew.'

'I saw Zygmunt writing it. At least, that's what Peter told me it was. I'm sure it will be very interesting if you can get it translated. But I don't suppose it really matters now.'

'Perhaps not,' said Alison. 'But Peter Lukasz has read it, and he thought there was one thing in it I ought to know straight away. Everyone said my grandfather was to blame for the crash because he ignored his navigator's instructions. But according to Peter Lukasz, Zygmunt's account is different. He says that Klemens Wach made a mistake. It was his fault that they were so far off course. But everybody trusted Klemens, including my grandfather.'

'Have you heard a rumour that Danny McTeague was drunk when he crashed into Irontongue Hill?'

Morrissey frowned. 'The old man, Walter Rowland, put that rumour about, according to Frank. It was something Rowland had heard Zygmunt Lukasz say, something to do with celebrating the night before. Danny McTeague had been celebrating the birth of his first child – my mother.'

'There was certainly no reference at the inquest to the possibility that your grandfather might have been drunk. That might have been discretion, though, the withholding of allegations that might cause distress to relatives. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if McTeague had ever been found.'

'Perhaps.'

Cooper wondered if Rowland had mentioned the rumour about McTeague to George Malkin's father. He gazed past Morrissey at the wall of the pub, where there was a print of Chatsworth House, not unlike the one that Marie Tennent had kept under her bed. It was a favourite view for tourists. It appeared on all the postcards and in every guide book.

'Alison, how did you come to meet Frank Baine?' he said.

'Via the internet.'

'Really?'

'I found a bulletin board for aviation archaeology enthusiasts, and I put up an appeal for anyone with knowledge of aircraft wrecks in the Peak District. Frank saw the message and e-mailed me. He was a godsend. He had so much knowledge, and he was willing to research the details that I needed. At that time, I barely knew where the Peak District was, though my mother had mentioned it often enough. I'm doing all this for her, you know, as much as for me.'

'Baine says he's a journalist.'

'Yes.'

'I phoned around a few editors this morning. None of them had even heard of him.'

'Perhaps he just writes a few articles for magazines here and there.'

'Perhaps. And is that a living?'

'I don't know.'

'I'm sorry, I haven't helped you,' said Cooper. 'We're no nearer knowing who sent your grandfather's medal. George Malkin had parted with everything except the money. Walter Rowland has nothing. If it somehow ended up in Lawrence Daley's shop, he didn't know about it – and from there, it could have gone anywhere. So, unless Zygmunt Lukasz has anything to say about it in his journal, I don't know where else to look. And I can't see Zygmunt hanging on to something like that – he believes people who collect souvenirs from the aircraft wrecks are vultures. Even his own grandson, Andrew. They argued about a cigarette case that had belonged to Klemens Wach.'

Morrissey listened to him carefully.

'Where did Andrew Lukasz get this cigarette case?'

'I expect he'd bought it from a collector in London. It must be a widespread hobby, I suppose.'

'Yes, worldwide. I found that on the bulletin board. There were a lot of US citizens and Canadians.'

Cooper watched her drink her cider for a while. She looked up and met his eye, and smiled at him. Cooper smiled back.

'Did you find out about the money?' said Morrissey.

'Yes, George Malkin still had it. He's never done anything with it.'

'Malkin?'

'At Hollow Shaw Farm. He was only a boy at the time, of course.'

Cooper stopped talking abruptly. He realized that Morrissey had never heard Malkin's name until now. Of course, she'd said at the Chief Superintendent's meeting that she was unable to trace the boys who'd seen her grandfather walk away from the crash. He searched for something else to say, before she started asking him questions.

'Do you want dropping at the Cavendish Hotel?' he said.

'Yes, please. Ben, this George Malkin –'

'How do you like it there? I don't suppose Edendale's hotels are up to Toronto standards.'

'No, not really,' said Morrissey, with a small smile.

Cooper looked at his watch. Time was catching up on him. If he stayed any longer here, Fry would be paging him, wondering where he was, ready to give him another warning.

'Don't you think Zygmunt Lukasz could tell us so much about the crash?' said Morrissey.

Cooper shrugged. 'I don't know. Perhaps he's already said all he's going to.'

He wanted to add that it was George Malkin who remembered the crash best, but he'd already said enough.

'I really have no more time to help you now,' he said. 'There was a meeting this morning. I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think there's going to be some action. The chiefs will be wanting arrests for the death of the RAF policeman, and I think the Ministry of Defence Police have come up with all the information that we were waiting for.'

'You'll be busy, then,' said Morrissey.

'I expect to get called away at any moment.'

'I want to say thank you for what you've done.'

'I didn't do anything.'

'But you tried hard, Ben. That's more than anyone else did. You must have thought you were doing something that was worthwhile. That was what you said, wasn't it? That you needed the feeling you'd done something worthwhile. That drug. You said it was the only thing that could give you the buzz and make you feel really alive.'

Cooper looked at her, watched her push the lock of hair from her forehead, knowing he didn't want to say goodbye to her, wanting to do something to keep the connection between them.

'I didn't say it was the only thing,' he said.

*    *    *    *

Fry sat in her car with Gavin Murfin and watched the front of the Cavendish Hotel. She felt no sense of surprise when Cooper's Toyota pulled up with Alison Morrissey in the passenger seat.

'Ben's already talked to her, then,' said Murfin, puzzled.

'I don't imagine they were talking about what
we
want to discuss,' said Fry.

They had a perfectly clear view as Alison Morrissey leaned across the seats of the Toyota and kissed Cooper on the lips. They saw her hand slip behind his head, and Cooper's arm leave the steering wheel. The kiss seemed to Fry to last for a long time.

'I think Ben's a bit taken with her, like,' said Murfin.

Fry couldn't have said what else happened for a moment or two. Her view was obscured by a kind of red veil that rippled in front of her eyes, blurring the shape of Cooper's Toyota and its occupants. She took some deep breaths, and the veil gradually fell away. She found she was gripping the ends of her scarf so tightly that she was in danger of strangling herself.

Murfin popped some chewing gum in his mouth and rustled the wrapper as if he were in the cinema watching a Hollywood film.

'He's never had much luck with women, hasn't Ben,' he said. 'Maybe I should give him some tips.'