Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry) (59 page)

'I could have done it sooner. I found Lawrence's bookmark in one of Marie's books almost a week ago. I knew she'd been here. Marie read all sorts of books, not only Danielle Steel. They were there in her house, on her shelves. She spent money that she couldn't afford, just to buy more books. Lawrence Daley was her type really, not Eddie Kemp. She was following her mother's advice and doing better for herself. When Marie told her mother that the baby's father ran his own business, she didn't mean he was a window cleaner, for God's sake.'

'There's nothing more we could have done, Ben.'

'No, there is,' said Cooper. 'We could have found the baby.'

Fry had to stand aside as he brushed past her. He went down the first flight of narrow stairs and into the big room where Lawrence's aviation memorabilia was displayed. The Irving suit and the flying helmets and the personal possessions of long-dead airmen looked particularly ghoulish now that their owner was himself dead. Cooper was starting to feel stifled by the atmosphere. He pushed open the outside door and stood at the top of the fire escape, allowing the cold air to blow into the room and stir the cobwebs. Below him, the yard was still untouched, its unidentifiable shapes covered by yesterday's fresh snow.

The back alley was full of police vehicles with their engines rumbling. There was a ripping sound and a loud snap as a member of the task force levered the padlock off the yard gates with a crowbar. But then the team found they had difficulty pushing the gates open against the weight of the snow. The more they cursed and heaved, the more the snow built up and compacted, so that they might as well have been pushing against a brick wall.

'Shovels,' called a sergeant. 'We'll have to dig a space clear.'

Cooper went down the fire escape. The steps were treacherously slippery, and his hands left imprints in the snow frozen to the top of the rail. Under the snow was a layer of ice, so that he felt as though his knuckles were scraping against sandpaper.

He stopped at the bottom and looked around the yard. Last week's snow had lingered here because no sun ever reached the yard, at any time of day. The backs of buildings were all around it, and they were too high to allow any sun through at this time of year. There was a pink glow behind the buildings in the east as the sun rose, but it only made their outlines darker, their shadows longer, so that they almost seemed to meet here in this yard, like old men leaning towards each other to whisper their secrets. They might have been saying: 'Have you seen Baby Chloe?'

Black cast-iron drainpipes formed an intricate spider's web on the back walls of the buildings, and a large part of Edendale's starling population was clustered on the edges of the guttering, chattering at the sunrise over the rooftops.

Cooper followed the paw prints of the cat that had walked through the fresh snow in the yard. It had crossed the tracks of the birds, but hadn't paused – presumably the birds were long gone by the time it arrived. Starlings weren't very bright, but they knew enough to make themselves scarce when there was a cat around. The prints went almost the full width of the yard, then veered away towards one of the snow-covered mounds. Cooper scraped some snow off it. It was a wheel, and part of an undercarriage leg. He caught a whiff of an acidic smell. There was a yellow stain at the base of the wheel, and a spattering of small, melted holes in the surface of the snow, where the cat had marked its territory. Then the animal had walked towards the next object and had circled it for a while, before leaping to the top and from there on to the wall and way into the adjoining yard.

It was easy to see what the object was. The barrels of two rusted Vickers machine guns poked through the snow from a domed shape like a giant helmet. It was a gun turret. Cooper touched the end of one of the barrels, and found it moved slightly on its pivot, dislodging a few inches of snow that slid slowly from the Perspex hood. Through the hole he'd made in the snow, he could see the gunner's seat and something dark thrown over it.

Behind him, members of the task force were backing a Land Rover through the gates and unloading shovels to clear the snow. The vehicle's exhaust fumes began to fill the yard, and the reek of them overlaid the cool, clean smell of the snow.

Cooper couldn't wait for the orderly progression of the search. He wanted to know what was inside the gun turret, what items had been left behind in the confines of the same kind of prison in which Sergeant Dick Abbott had died on board Sugar Uncle Victor. Maybe there was another Irving jacket like the one he'd seen in the upstairs room. Perhaps there was a parachute harness, a flying helmet, or some other personal piece of equipment that he could hold in his hands, hoping it would tell him the story of the man who'd lived and fought, and perhaps died, in this cramped space.

The area he'd cleared wasn't quite wide enough for him to see inside properly. Cooper wiped his hand across the Perspex of the turret, so that another patch of snow broke away and landed on his boots, with a faint swish and a crunch. He had trouble for a moment because of the water that streaked and blurred on the Perspex. But soon it pooled and ran away down the curved surface, and began to drip quietly into the snow.

The sound of the dripping water seemed to absorb Cooper's concentration, so that the noise of the officers behind him and the revving Land Rover engine retreated from him and became no more than distant intrusions on the edge of his hearing. He had to drag his attention away from the dripping sound and back to the blurred window he'd made in the Perspex.

It was only then that he saw the eyes.

*    *    *    *

Grace Lukasz took the wafer in her mouth and closed her eyes as she sipped the wine. The body of Christ lay on her tongue, His blood dampened her lips. Christ had given His life, a voluntary sacrifice. But Grace also knew the Old Testament story of the Scapegoat, which had been forced to take the sins of the tribe on itself and had been driven into the wilderness. Not all sacrificial victims were willing.

Andrew had always been hot-headed, stubborn, a chip off the old block, the old people said. He was more like Zygmunt than Peter. He had the same stubborn jaw, the same blue eyes, the same capacity for single-mindedness. But Andrew was different in one important matter – his desire was for money. She'd understood that, at least. She understood that it was Andrew that Zygmunt meant when he talked about vultures. Peter had been forced to choose between them – and he'd chosen Zygmunt, choosing his origins rather than his future.

Grace would have to make herself feel glad. There was no other way of facing it. It was the time of forgiveness, for reconciliation. The sacrifice had been made, and now there would be peace in the family. This morning, Peter had looked content. Not happy, perhaps, but less haunted. She had always been the one accused of living in the past. But there was no one like these Polish families for that, no one like these old men clinging to their wartime memories, their gnarled hands grasping so tightly at remembrance of the time when they were needed so badly, a time when they had a role in life. A time when they had an enemy to fight.

Grace knew that Detective Constable Cooper was sitting at the back of the church. He hadn't come forward to the altar for communion, but had stayed in his seat watching. He looked like a boy who could be helped by faith, if he could only let God into his life. He was about the same age as Andrew, too. She felt the beginnings of a tear fill the corner of her eye. She felt for a tissue in the pocket of her skirt. The young people these days knew nothing except their own concerns. They hadn't learned the value of perspective. They cared only for their own short-term personal interest. They didn't know that a small sacrifice could be for the greater good.

She eased her wheelchair away from the end of the pew and turned it in the aisle. The squeak of the wheels on the strip of carpet in the aisle sounded too loud. Members of the congregation turned to watch her as she propelled herself to the side door and wheeled down the ramp into the churchyard.

*    *    *    *

Cooper was conscious of the faces turned in his direction as people watched her leave. He waited until the attention of the congregation had settled back on to the priest, then he slipped out, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could. He was glad to be out of the church and back in the cold air. It had a purer, cleaner feel to it that was closer to his own idea of something sacred. He saw that Grace Lukasz hadn't gone far. Her wheelchair was on the path between the gravestones, close to where the giant figure of the black Madonna and child was built into the outside wall of the church.

Mrs Lukasz didn't look around, but had heard him approaching. 'Will you take me back to the bungalow? Peter was going to come for me, but he'll be a while yet.'

'Of course.'

Cooper had handled a wheelchair before. He helped Grace Lukasz to position herself next to the passenger door of his car and held the chair steady while she manoeuvred herself in. He could see that her legs were almost useless. She had to lift them in after her. When she was settled, he folded the wheelchair into the back of the Toyota.

'I suppose you're wondering,' she said. 'It was a car accident. Andrew was driving.'

'Before he went to London?'

'Yes. We'd been very close until then. But after the accident, he couldn't live with the guilt. He couldn't bear to look at me in the wheelchair, day after day. So it was me who drove him away, you see.'

Cooper couldn't think what to say to that. Guilt, like other emotions, was hardly ever logical.

'But you can't separate yourself from your family for ever,' said Grace. 'He came back, in the end.'

'Why did he come back?'

'Andrew was starting to feel isolated in London. Isolated from his family, isolated from the community he grew up in. After a year or two, he started to regret cutting himself off.'

'Did he tell you this?'

'Yes, when he arrived. Do you know, he remembered all the stories that Zygmunt used to tell about the RAF, about the Lancaster crash. And of course, about his cousin Klemens, who died.'

Cooper got into the driving seat and fastened his seat belt. 'We think Andrew had started to collect Second World War aircraft memorabilia,' he said.

'Yes, but I bet he was looking for things with a Polish connection. The links are very strong, you know. The way our children are raised, they can't break the links so easily.'

'That's how he came across the cigarette case, then. He bought it from the website that Frank Baine and Lawrence Daley ran. He was a customer of theirs.'

'That's how it started,' said Grace. 'But it became his means of reconciliation.'

Cooper put the car into gear and drove towards Woodland Crescent. 'I don't really understand.'

'I managed to get it out of Peter and Zygmunt in the end,' said Grace. 'I think they're both ashamed. Peter certainly is. Zygmunt – well, I don't know about Zygmunt.'

'But reconciliation …?'

'The way Andrew was feeling, I think that when he heard Zygmunt didn't have long to live, he knew it was time to be reconciled. He made his own enquiries into where these souvenirs or memorabilia came from, and who was involved. That's how he made contact with Lawrence Daley, here in Edendale. Daley trusted him, and Andrew worked out that there was far more to the business than the memorabilia. He contacted the RAF Police and told them the story.'

'He was getting on to dangerous ground,' said Cooper. 'Didn't he realize that?'

'I suppose so. But he's single-minded, you know. Stubborn, like his father and his grandfather. He had his mind set on
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. It was the time for reconciliation. He had to come here and show his grandfather that he was doing something about the people Zygmunt called vultures. Andrew thought his grandfather would be proud of him.'

They turned the corner into Woodland Crescent. Cooper had slowed down, because he wanted to hear what Grace Lukasz had to say before she reached the bungalow.

'But it wasn't enough for Zygmunt,' she said. 'I think he mocked Andrew for simply passing the information to the police, which was what he intended. I think Zygmunt said he should have found out names. He asked Andrew where his courage was.'

Cooper pulled up to the kerb and put the handbrake on. He sat for a moment, saying nothing. As he hoped, Grace kept on talking. It was as if communion had prompted her to thoughts of confession. But surely it was somebody else's sins she was talking about, somebody else's need for forgiveness.

'It was seeing the cigarette case that made Zygmunt so angry,' she said. 'They argued terribly. I couldn't make it all out, but I'm sure that's what it was. Then Andrew walked out.'

'Did you know where he'd gone?'

Grace shook her head. 'All I know is that he went off to prove himself to his grandfather, to show that he was worthy of forgiveness. He decided not to wait to speak to the policeman. And that's all I know.'

'I see.'

She turned her head wearily to look at Cooper. 'Andrew got himself into trouble, didn't he?'

'Let's go inside.'

But still Grace didn't move. 'There was another thing that Zygmunt always talked about too much,' she said. 'Sacrifice.'

*    *    *    *

At Grace's direction, Cooper opened the side gate and pushed her wheelchair down the passage past the garage to the back of the bungalow. He could see Zygmunt Lukasz in the conservatory. The lighting was strange inside because of the covering of snow on the glass roof, which gave a blue cast to the sunlight. But it seemed to Cooper that the old man was praying.