Fern Ferrars looked at him. There
was a distance in her eyes that was vaguely disturbing. 'The Armada boy ...'
she whispered urgently. 'Find the Armada boy.'
The call came through. Sally Johnson's
hire car had been found, locked and neatly parked in a lay-by just outside
Neston. There was no sign of Mrs Johnson or of her belongings.
PC Miles, who radioed through from
his newly acquired patrol car, also told Inspector Heffernan about the stains
on the front passenger seat. They looked, he said undramatically, rather like blood.
Chapter Six
How those girls from the villages of
Devon who married their dashing American sweethearts fared in their new country
we can only imagine. Some were homesick, no doubt, in the way of exiles throughout
the ages. Many must have longed for the familiar sights and sounds of their
native land.
From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale
The car was being taken away on a
low-loader for forensic examination when Steve Carstairs arrived.
' No joy at Sally Johnson's old
shop, sir.' he reported to the inspector, who was staring at the small
hatchback in hope of inspiration.
'Well, check all her relatives and
known associates in this country, then ... get a list off the husband.'
'Is that her car. sir?'
'Yeah.'
'Abandoned?'
'Mm... looks like bloodstains on the
passenger seat.'
Bloodstains ... that was what Steve
Carstairs liked to hear - better than petty shoplifting. Though perhaps he
should mention the shoplifting just in case it was that Rat character the
inspector was so interested in. 'There's one thing, sir. This shop I went to in
Maleton ... a shoplifter spotted there matches the description of that beggar
we're after.' Steve looked pleased with himself.
'When was this?"
Steve looked down, embarrassed. 'I
don't know exactly, sir...I got the impression it was some time over the
weekend.'
Heffernan rolled his eyes. 'You got
the impression? Find out. Was it reported?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, if you look it up it'll save
you the embarrassment of having to go back there seeming completely
incompetent. You know what to do, don't you?'
Steve Carstairs turned round to sec
WPC Trish Walton looking at him enquiringly. His face flushed, he drove his car
away too fast down the main road to Tradmouth.
Someone had to break the news to the
Americans that they wouldn't be able to leave for London that day as planned.
The only cat they would see that week was Mrs Slater's old black-and-white tom.
London and Lord Lloyd Webber's musical extravaganza would have to wait for
another day.
Heffernan thought he ought to be there
himself to tell the party that they would be enjoying the bracing sea air of
Bereton for longer than expected. The reaction was mixed, but it was the women
who complained most vociferously, until Colonel Sharpe,
the undoubted leader of both genders, pointed out that they could hardly leave
while Sally Johnson was still missing: it would be a gross dereliction of duty.
The inspector left the party to it,
to moan and argue amongst themselves. He had told them how things were ... done
his bit. He was about to make a strategic exit when he saw Colonel Sharpe
approaching. The colonel, tall with smooth, steel-grey hair, possessed the
self-confidence that accompanies rank. He would eat a police inspector for breakfast
if necessary, but today he was in a conciliatory mood.
Heffernan went into the attack.
'Morning, sir Sorry we've got to keep you here like this ... but it can't be
helped.'
'I understand. Inspector. You've got
your job to do. I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say we want Norman's
killer to face justice... and to find Sally safe and well, of course. I knew
Norm as a kid back in '44. There's a real bond between all of us who came out
of that lot alive. Inspector... a real bond.'
'I'm sure there is.' Heffernan took
a deep breath: he could feel wartime reminiscences coming on. He was mistaken,
however.
The colonel took him by the arm. 'Say, Inspector, is there somewhere we can
talk ... privately?'
'Certainly, sir.' Heffernan looked
around. The veterans and their wives were chattering in groups. "The bar's
empty. I expect... not opening time for another ten minutes.'
The colonel glanced back sheepishly
as they entered the deserted bar. The smell of stale beer and tobacco hung in
the air. Heffernan had always liked the smell of early morning pubs ...no doubt
a sign of his misspent youth. He breathed in deeply.
'Well, Colonel, what did you want to
tell me?' He sank down into a comfortable armchair.
The colonel hesitated.
'To be honest. Colonel Sharpe, we'd
be very grateful for any information you can give us. however insignificant it
seems. And if it's about one of the veterans I can assure you we'll deal with anything
you tell us tactfully. Is that it. sir? Have you got something to tell me about
one of the men who served under you in the war?'
The colonel nodded, still reluctant
to speak; he wished he had never raised the matter.
'If this man's innocent he's got
nothing to worry about, and if he's not ... would you want to see a murderer
get away with it. even if you happened to be posted here with him fifty years
back? Well?"
'You're right. Inspector. If he's innocent
he's gotten nothing to worry about. And I'm sure he is.. . positive he is.'
'But you know something about him
that's made you suspicious?"
'Not suspicious exactly ... just
uneasy.'
Heffernan sat with his head tilted
expectantly. The colonel would speak in his own good time.
It was on the Sunday evening ...
when Norman died.' He hesitated again. 'About 9.30. We'd eaten and most folk
were in the bar or had gone back to their rooms. I felt like I needed some fresh
air so I went outside. I intended to walk over to the war memorial, pay my
private respects ... have a quiet time to remember the men who didn't come back
out of that sea alive. You understand?'
'Yeah.' Heffernan nodded.
'I did just that. It was strange
being on that spot without the barbed wire and the noise of the guns. There's a
theory that ghosts are some kind of recording of events... emotions, imprinted
on a location. If that was true, boy, would there be some ghosts on Bereton
Sands.' He lowered his voice. 'There were one hell of a lot of casualties. Some
general made the decision to use live ammo ... men fell like ninepins as they
came up from the sea. It was all hushed up ... bad for morale. There are some
things the war memorials don't tell you.' He shook his head disbelievingly. 'Then
a German E-boat attacked. Seven hundred died in terror in those freezing
waters. Their landing craft were sunk, covering aircraft shot down ... men were
trapped inside their tanks and vehicles. It was a slaughter... we lost more men
here on Bereton Sands than we did in the real thing in Normandy.' He paused.
The memories still had the power to bring him to the verge of tears. 'I was a
young captain at the time ... in charge of some of those men. You can't imagine
what it was like ... such a waste. Have you seen the tank?'
'Yeah. Brought up off the seabed,
wasn't it?'
'That's right. It says it all. that
tank. Some poor mothers' sons were sitting in it on a landing craft, waiting to
drive it up the beach. They went down with it... trapped inside. I can still
hear the screams, the shouts for help ... then that terrible silence. But I
guess that's war.'
'At least we won. sir.'
'We sure did." His face lit up
with pride. 'You should have seen the armada of boats coming out of Tradmouth
harbour on D-day. That was some sight... some sight." He smiled sadly,
preferring to remember the glory rather than the pain.
The colonel had been sidetracked but
Heffernan had no wish to
rush him. In this mood he'd be more likely to share his confidences.
'So, er. you went to the war memorial
..." he prompted gently.
'Yeah ... and when I was coming back
I saw them sneaking out of the hotel.'
'Saw who?'
'They sure looked like they didn't
want to be seen. I hung back... didn't want to embarrass them.'
'Where did they go?'
'They took the road up to Bereton
village. They were linking arms. He was under my command back in '44... always
one for the ladies back then too. Look, Inspector, forget it. They can't have
anything to do with Norman's death.'
'Possibly not, but you were right to
tell me.'
It was probably quite innocent...
they went for a walk.'
'Probably. Just one thing.
Colonel...'
'What?'
'Who are we talking about?'
The colonel swallowed hard. 'Didn't
I say? It was Todd Weringer ... and Norman's wife. It was Todd and Dorinda.'
Heffernan made for the Bereton Arms.
Wesley was waiting for him.
'Am I going mad. Wes? Remind me ...
where did Todd Weringer and Openheim's wife say they were on the night of the murder?'
"In their respective rooms if I
remember right, sir.'
'All night?'
'That's what they said, but I did
suspect there might have been a bit of hanky-panky going on ... but then I
might just have a dirty mind.'
'So why would they leave the hotel
and walk up to Bereton?'
'Did they?'
'So the colonel says.'
'We'll have to have a word with
them. then. Shall we invite them down to the station?"
'No, Wes. I think it might be better
to have a little chat with them on home ground.'
'Excuse me.'
They looked up. Standing before them
was the young vicar of Bereton, an earnest man of medium height with a shock of
fair hair. He smiled awkwardly as if he were afraid he'd just made some
dreadful social gaffe.
'Hello, Vicar,' said Heffernan heartily.
'Please join us. Fancy a pint?'
'Not for me, thank you. I came to
introduce myself. Simon Bradshaw.' He held out his hand. Heffernan took it and
shook it heartily.
'You're the inspector in charge of
this murder investigation. I believe.'
'For my sins.' answered Heffernan
appropriately. He turned to Wesley. 'This is Detective Sergeant Peterson ...
he's into archaeology.
He's a mate of
the bloke who's digging up your chapel.'
'Oh, it's not mine, Inspector. The
Church abandoned that site many years ago. I understand Henry VIII had
something to do with it. Pleased to meet you. Sergeant.' He shook Wesley's
hand.
'You took the memorial service for
the American veterans, didn't you?'
'That's right. Colonel Sharpe wrote
to me a while ago and asked if I would do it I was delighted to, of course.'
"Did you get to talk to any of
the Americans?'