Exposure (44 page)

Julia went straight up to her room. She put the tape recorder on the table. The voices were clear. The opening gambit of her confrontation with him, ‘What did you do out there, Mr King …? Murder unarmed British prisoners …?' How confident she sounded, how calm. No sign of the pounding heart, the feeling of apprehension.

‘What do you have in your veins, anti-freeze …?' Leo Derwent had sneered at her. He wanted to savour his personal triumph. If King had dropped dead in the room, he'd have kicked the corpse. By the end, Julia had felt numb. King, voice rising, accent thickening, jeering and insulting them, falling into the trap.

‘What did you do out there, Mr King, that you've taken so much time and trouble to hide for all these years?' And he had told her. The voice didn't sound slurred or the sequences confused. It was a strong voice, full of self-confidence and contempt.

‘We were on patrol … Armoured cars … We picked up one of our own men – he'd been taken prisoner and been left behind—' Her own voice interrupting him. ‘What do you mean? You were the one they captured!' His brusque denial, ‘Me? No, I wouldn't have surrendered. I was a German soldier by Christ! I wouldn't let the enemy piss on me! This was just a boy … he'd got a leg wound, no weapons … But I didn't like him for putting his hands up. He told us where to find the British. We came on them, two officers, an NCO and four men. They didn't even fight, yellow bastards. They put the officers in a lorry and then I laid into the kid, in front of the rest of them. I kicked his arse and told him he was a disgrace to the Corps. Nobody tried to stop me. I was tough. I scared them. They looked the other way. I got so angry with the kid … then he told me. He told me they were going to kill him. He knew a bit of English and he heard them talking. Going to stick him with a bayonet. Like a bloody pig.' The angry voice filled the bedroom. She felt as if she might look up and see him standing there. Then her own tones, still deceptively calm and unemotional. ‘So what did you do, Mr King?'

‘I said to the boy, don't you worry, forget I kicked you around a bit. I'll sort them out for you. And just you remember, you're a German soldier! You ever forget that and I'll kill you … It was so hot. I remember, I'd got prickly heat in my crotch and under the arms, the itch was driving me crazy. We had some brandy in the scout car. One of us had pinched it off a dead officer. We made the British form up and marched them back towards our base. We went on ahead with our machine-gun trained on them. Any move and that was it … Their sergeant was leading them. And you know who he was, don't you? You found out when you went to Jersey, eh? William Western. Lord Western of Bradenham.' His ugly laugh boomed out, ‘Peer of the realm, upholder of public morals … Wanting my hide just to save himself … You heard the story, didn't you?'

‘Yes', Julia's answer. ‘I heard it. But I thought you were the prisoner they were going to kill.' He wasn't listening to her, caught up in his own flow of words. ‘I watched them trudging through the sand, all set for a nice base prison camp and then back to Germany and out of the war, while we had to fight on, and maybe die.' He paused then. The tension had been broken suddenly by Leo Derwent. ‘So tell us, Harold, what did you do about it?'

‘Do?' King sounded like a lion. ‘Do?' It was a roar, and it ended in a sharp German expletive.
‘Scheisse!
I'll tell you what I did. I took over the machine-gun and I started to play with it, swinging it from one to the other of them, making them sweat. Like the kid sweated when he was going to be stuck … I had fun with them, real fun.' Listening to the disembodied voice, Julia shuddered. ‘I called the kid and he came to the back of the scout car and sat with me. I said, “You know English? You tell them … you tell them I'm going to teach them to respect the rules of war … You tell them that …” And he did; I'd given him a few sucks at the bottle, and he was shouting at them. You know what happened? Western turned and ran like a fucking rabbit, left his men and ran to save his own skin. So I gave him the first burst and dropped him. He hadn't got far. Then …' There had been a deliberate pause for dramatic effect. ‘Then I shot the rest of them. I just kept my finger on the trigger and went on firing, making them jump about on the ground … Raised so much bloody dust it got into my throat … Then the stupid kid started to vomit. Perhaps it was the brandy or the corpses. I don't know, but he hung over the side of the car, puking his guts out.' There was a breathless, ‘Jesus,' from Leo in the background.

King didn't notice. He went on, ‘But I made a mistake. I didn't stop the car and go and check. That shit was hit but he was still alive. One of our patrols came along later and picked him up and took him to hospital. I thought I was safe. I thought I'd killed them all. We were back at base when I heard about it; some talk about British casualties being caught in crossfire and only one survivor. In the very same place on the same day … I knew then it could mean trouble for me. When we lost the war I knew it might mean big trouble. So I deserted, got myself in as a refugee … Faked the whole story … Clever, wasn't I? Poor stateless, homeless victim … I was so thin I even looked the part. We hadn't eaten for days on end, grubbing for roots and berries like bloody animals … Then the nice lady from UNRRA took pity. All she wanted was my hand up her skirt.' His laughter rasped in Julia's ears. ‘Crossfire,' he said. ‘He thought that up to hide his own stinking cowardice. Running off, leaving his own men …
I
was the crossfire!'

She remembered so vividly, seeing him get to his feet, reaching the climax of his self-imposed performance. His harsh voice rising in exultation. ‘I killed them all,' he shouted. ‘And you know something? I'm proud of it … Proud … I'd do it all again if I had the chance!'

Then her own voice broke in, a scream of loathing.

‘You bloody murderer! You filthy bloody murderer! You'll go to jail for the rest of your life … You had Jean Adams murdered …' And then she had broken down in a flood of tears. He had answered with surprising calmness, almost indifference.

‘She asked for it. She was stupid. Stupid meddling little bitch …' The next sound was a crash as he knocked a side table over and the splinter of glass as it crashed to the floor. She heard her own gasp and Leo's shout of warning, ‘Look out,' as he sprang to safety himself. Without warning, Harold King had gone berserk. He had lashed out blindly, and then launched himself at Leo Derwent, hurling himself into the wall. The tape played it all back to her, the shouting, Leo's taunting voice, the megalomania of that last boast as King was leaving.

‘There's nothing you can do … I'm too powerful … I'm more powerful than God …'

Julia switched off the machine. She felt sick and exhausted. The last piece of the jigsaw was in place, and the hideous story of cowardice, treachery and evil was complete. She had been duped by William Western. He was a coward who had deserted his comrades and lied about their murder to protect himself. He'd lived with that betrayal, safely buried with the bones of his own men until his enemy and rival Harold King had unearthed an ex-officer with a tender conscience living in retirement in Jersey.

Both were public figures, neither recognized each other after thirty years. That was the irony. Why should King connect a British infantry sergeant with the millionaire newspaper owner, Lord Western? Why should Western identify the mega-rich King with a drunken German sitting behind a machine-gun?

When King went on trial it would all come up. The two would be each other's nemesis. Leo might drink champagne in triumph, but for Julia there were too many losers to warrant any celebration. King's description would haunt her for a very long time. Perhaps she would never get it out of her mind. ‘I just kept my finger on the trigger and went on firing, making them jump about on the ground … So much bloody dust …' Jean Adams, his casual dismissal, ‘She asked for it … Stupid, meddling little bitch.' She had died an obscene death. Poor deluded Phyllis Lowe, in love for the first time. She had ended in a brain-damaged twilight. No, Julia thought, there was nothing to celebrate except that justice would be done to all of them at last. The shrill of the telephone made her jump. It was Leo Derwent. He sounded in high spirits and slightly drunk.

‘Julia? Had a listen yet?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘You can pick up the tape any time you like now. I'm going to bed. I'll leave it downstairs for you.'

‘We won't be needing it,' he said. ‘Get over here. The bastard's dead.'

Gloria had been waiting for her father. She avoided the sitting room where her mother was immersed in some mindless TV quiz show. The vacuity and banality of her mind amazed Gloria and made her furious with contempt. She read the financial papers in the study and tried not to watch the time and wonder what was happening with Leo.

He had been secretive and teasing with her, refusing to be drawn when she asked him what it was he wanted to see King about … about her? In a way, yes … But why, why wouldn't he elaborate? Then the hints, the sly looks and the hard probing kiss with the injunction to open her mouth and stop talking. She switched on the big set, ranged through the channels and found nothing to interest or distract her. If he did want to marry her, would she want to take such a big step? Leave home, commit herself to another man than her father – leave that stupid woman with a clear sphere of influence …? She havered, clinging onto Harold King, yearning for Leo at the same time. How late he was! Her own dilemma had made her forget that it was past their time for dinner together.

Nine o'clock. What were they discussing? What was happening? She reached for the telephone to call the Regent Hotel when she heard the front door open. Immediately she sprang up and ran out into the hall. He was standing there, still in his heavy overcoat; he was so red in the face, so odd and unlike himself that she hurried up and caught him by the arm.

‘Daddy? Daddy, what's the matter – are you ill?'

He didn't answer. He just looked at her with bloodshot eyes, and put his free arm round her, drawing her close.

‘What is it? Daddy, for God's sake …'

‘I'm all right,' he said. He sounded out of breath. ‘Just don't ask me any questions. Don't take any notice of me. Leave everything till the morning. You're my girl and I love you.'

He lifted her face up and kissed her on the forehead. He seemed unable to let go. She had never been so frightened as she was then. Not of him, but for him. It gave her unexpected strength. ‘I won't ask anything,' she said. ‘Just come and sit down. You need a doctor … you don't look at all well. Not at all well.'

He let her guide him to the study, take off his coat, minister to him as if he were a big, helpless child. He sank into his favourite chair.

‘I'll get Doctor Halperin,' Gloria said and moved to the telephone. He must have had a heart attack. She couldn't think what else it might be. That terrible red, purplish colour, the laboured breathing …

‘No!' His voice was loud and rough and it stopped her. ‘No! I don't need a doctor. Leave that alone.' She put down the telephone. He said slowly, ‘My darling girl, I didn't mean to shout at you. I'm not ill, believe me. Just get me a glass of water, will you? That's all, iced water.'

She opened the cabinet where there was a supply of iced Perrier and soft drinks always at hand for him. She poured a glass and hurried back with it.

‘Here you are. Do you want anything else … anything to eat? It's so late for you …' She had forgotten Leo Derwent. She thought only of her father in her terror that something was wrong and he wouldn't admit it.

‘Nothing,' he sounded breathless again. ‘Nothing to eat. There's nothing to worry about, silly girl. I'm not sick. I'm never sick, you know that. Just do as I say. Switch on the news, will you, and go out and leave me for a while. Leave me alone till I call you. And give me a kiss. I'm proud of you. Never forget that. Now go on and don't worry about me …'

She did as he told her; she switched on the set and gave him the remote control. She bent over and kissed him, and went out, closing the door quietly. Her mother came into the hallway. ‘Is he back? What happened? How did it go?'

‘He didn't say,' Gloria cut her off. ‘He doesn't seem well, but he won't let me call Doctor Halperin. He wants to be left alone for a while. Don't go in. He doesn't want you!'

Marilyn shrugged. ‘No need to shout. I know his moods better than anyone. Look, I've told Monique to serve supper. She can't wait all night. I take it he's not eating with us?'

‘No,' Gloria snapped. ‘I asked him.'

She looked backwards at the closed door. She could just hear the faint murmur of the English television newscaster. Gloria's anxiety always expressed itself in hunger. She devoured potatoes, two omelettes, and stuffed herself with the hot fresh rolls and butter. Her mother said to her at last, ‘You're such a pig, Gloria. You shouldn't eat so much.' She gave her a look of malice. ‘Perhaps your father and Leo have had a row. Maybe you should go and see if he's all right?'

‘He'll call me, he said so. Why don't you go? You never take any care of him. All you think about is yourself!'

Marilyn ignored that. ‘I think I'll have some fresh fruit. Oh, Monique, bring me some grapes and some of those nectarines … they are ready, aren't they? Good. You want anything more, Gloria … Chocolate torte, ice cream?'

‘I hate you, Mother,' Gloria said when the maid had gone.

‘I know,' the beautiful smooth face was quite impassive. ‘You've never said that to me before. Why now, suddenly?'

‘I'm going to see how my father is,' Gloria stood up. She turned her back on Marilyn. The door to the study was open. The room was empty. The fire was low. The television set was blank, with the single red eye glowing below the screen.