'I'm sure he is.' said Rachel gently,
leaning across to put her hand on the old woman's wrinkled, brown-spotted arm.
"I've had three more children
but I still think of him ... funny, isn't it?'
'It's natural.'
"My late husband never knew ...
it's not something you admitted to in those days. And my children don't know
they've got a half-brother somewhere.'
'And Litton never knew he had a
son.'
'Best that way.' She looked up,
regaining her strength. 'It doesn't do to dwell on what might have been.'
'You must find it hard to forgive
your father for what he did.'
'He did what he thought was right I
hated him for years ...never even invited him to my wedding. But now I'm too
old to bear grudges, girl... you'll find that when you get to my age.'
'Did you know Norman Openheim ...
the man who was murdered?'
'He were courting young Marion
Miles. She had a baby ...folks swore it was Norman's but Albert Potter married
her. That shut up the wagging tongues. She was lucky,' Muriel added
philosophically. 'Litton and I went courting in the old chantry where poor
Norman was found ... along with half the rest of the US Army.' She laughed.
"The local lads kept away after the shooting, of course.'
'What shooting?'
'Well, it wasn't actually in the chantry
.., just outside. It was all out of bounds - all Bereton was - but it was
overrun with rats and rabbits and the like, there being no people around. Lots
of the locals came to Bereton to shoot the rabbits.'
'Why?'
Muriel gave Rachel a pitying look.
'There was rationing, my luvver. Food was scarce. If you could get a couple of
rabbits for your pot you thought you were eating like the king himself.'
'So who got murdered?'
'A young man called Arthur Challinor
home on leave. He went out shooting rabbits with a friend and an American
soldier shot him. His friend got away to tell the tale.'
'Was the soldier charged with
murder?'
'I don't know ... shouldn't think
so. He'd just say he shot a trespasser, wouldn't he?"
Rachel looked at her watch. 'I suppose
so. I'll have to get back now. Thank you for talking to me.' She looked up.
Something on the kitchen shelf caught her eye. 'Having trouble with rats, Mrs Napp?'
Rachel had recognised the packet... the same brand as
her father used on their farm.
'Aye. The buggers get into the barns
... reckon they come in from the old chantry.'
'Could be.' Rachel stood up. "Thank
you again, Mrs Napp.' She hesitated, wondering if she should mention Litton
Boratski's presence in Bereton. but decided against it Leave Muriel with her memories
and her illusions that Litton didn't contact her because he was dead. That was
probably better than knowing that he hadn't chosen to.
She put her shoes on by the front door
and squelched her way back to the village hall. She felt disappointed: she had
been so sure that Norman's murder had been an act of revenge, but all she had
found was a lingering affection in the women the US soldiers had seduced and
abandoned. She found herself despairing of her own sex.
Wesley drove over to Tradmouth.
parked his car in the police station yard, and realised he was hungry. The file
he was looking for had stayed in the basement since 1944 ... a few more minutes
would make no difference. He treated himself to a pasty.
Strolling back along the cobbled quayside
by the forest of clinking metal masts, he finished the pasty and wiped his
greasy hands on a tissue. The brain, he told himself, always functions best on
a full stomach.
'Hi. Wes.'
He turned to see Heffernan's face
grinning up at him from the deck of a small sailing vessel.' Just rounded the
headland... blew a few cobwebs out. Coming aboard?'
'I'd rather not, sir." Wesley
preferred the stability of dry land. 'I was just on my way to the station.'
'I'll come with you.' Heffernan
checked the Rosie May was securely moored and leaped ashore with surprising
agility for a man of his size. 'Good work last night. Wes. Now all we need to do
is to find out who killed old Norman and then we can take a well-earned rest.'
Wesley smiled at his superior's
optimistic view of police work. Unfortunately the criminals of the area
wouldn't be so obliging; not with the tourist season coming up. Heffernan knew
this too...but it was good to fantasise now and then. And they were no
nearer catching Norman Openheim's killer. There was something - or someone -
they had missed.
When they reached the station they
found Bob Naseby holding court at the front desk with some lost Japanese
tourists. With much bowing, the Japanese were duly directed towards the castle.
As the swing-door shut behind them Heffernan found the melody of Puccini's 'One
Fine Day' going through his head again. He wondered how Marion Potter was.
Wesley made no such association but
made straight for the front desk. Bob Naseby's eyes lit up.
'Wesley ... just the man I want to
see. Can I put you down to bat third against D Division on the thirtieth?'
'Sorry. Bob... still tied up with
this case over at Bereton.'
'But later in the season ... you'll be all right for then?" Bob Naseby's
massive brow furrowed with concern.
'Well, you know my wife's expecting...
it'd be more than my life's worth to commit myself, believe me. Bob.'
Bob. deeply disappointed, looked at
the henpecked husband with pity. 'Next season, eh?'
'Hopefully.' Wesley turned to see Heffernan
behind him. grinning mischievously. He decided to ignore his boss and tackle
the matter in hand. 'I wonder if you could do me a favour. Bob. I'm looking for
a file ... it'll be 1944. Is that a problem?'
Bob shook his head. 'We had young
Rachel in looking for a filefrom 1944 the other day ... you lot doing
historical research, are you?'
Wesley and Heffernan looked at each
other. Rachel hadn't mentioned this: they each wondered why this was ... and
what she had discovered.
'What file was she looking for?'
'Rape case,
it
was... if that's the one you're
after she's still got it.'
'It's another one. a murder ... a
man out shooting rabbits. Sorry I've not got more details, but it's just a long
shot.'
'No problem ... I'll send PC Jones
down to the cellar.' Bob picked up the phone.
'ls that the probationer?'
'Aye. He were moaning about his mum
having to get his uniform cleaned after getting Rachel's file. I told him it
was an occupational hazard. I said, you wait till a drunk's sick all over you.
then your mum'll have something to moan about.'
It was half an hour later that a
dusty, cobweb-strewn PC Jones emerged from the cellar clutching a mildewed,
dank-smelling file.
When Rachel returned to the village
hall, she picked up the phone and rang Bob Naseby. She asked sweetly for
another favour, then Bob gave her the bad news. The inspector and Sergeant
Peterson were already in possession of the file she was enquiring about.
They'd left five minutes ago. Rachel put the phone down ... too hard.
Resentment rose within her like a wave of nausea. It was her discovery: now her
superiors would take the credit. She had taken a chance - leapt at it when it
came along, pushed her personal life,
her relationship with Dave, aside - all for nothing.
But she was a realist. She knew that
showing bitterness, making enemies in the force, was the route to disaster.
There was something else she could do... and she would do it now.
WPC Trish Walton was young and keen,
anxious to please: she reminded Rachel of herself when she had first joined the
force. Rachel summoned her over and explained that they were to pay a call on a
possible witness ... one who would need careful
handling.
The fact that it was Saturday was
auspicious. Rachel had stored the information that Annie Restorick cleaned at
the Clearview Hotel on a Saturday in some deep compartment of her brain to be nurtured
and used when the time was right. The time was right now: she would talk to
Wayne without his guardian dragon.
She knocked on the door of Apple
Cottage and heard a shuffling noise from within coming nearer until the door
opened and Wayne's head peeped out cautiously. 'What do you want? It's only me
and Gran in. My mum said I wasn't to let anyone in.'
'That's all right. Wayne. I'm sure
she didn't mean us. She meant bad men ., . people who'd hurt you. We're from
the police: we're here to look after you.'
She smiled, watching Wayne as he
performed slow mental somersaults, trying to reason out whether his mother's
orders applied to friend as well as foe. He made up his mind. These two ladies
would do him no harm. They were nice ladies ... they smiled. He opened the door
wide to let them in.
'Would you like me to make a cup of
tea, Wayne?' asked Rachel gently. Wayne nodded keenly. 'Would your gran like
one?'
He shook his head. 'Gran's asleep.'
Better and better. Rachel thought;
they wouldn't be interrupted.
The kitchen, in Rachel's judgement,
could have done with a good clean. No concession had been made to modem fads
and fashions. The cupboards were laminate, circa 1965. An army of industrious
ants marched purposefully across one comer of the
stained lino floor.
'You should put some ant powder
down, Wayne,' Rachel said, making conversation.
' I couldn't kill nothing.' Wayne
replied with solemn conviction.
No, I don't think you could, Rachel
thought to herself as she poured the tea into the chipped china mugs.
When they were sealed. Rachel leaned
forward. Trish Walton watched her intently. Watching CID at work was still a
novelty... still like something off the telly.
'Wayne ... look, we know you
wouldn't harm anyone, but it would help us a lot if you told me what you saw up
at the chapel last Sunday night. There's a very bad person around who killed the
American gentleman and I want to catch that person so that
they can't hurt anyone again. Do you understand. Wayne?'
He nodded.
'Were you at the chapel last
Sunday?"
He nodded again, more nervously this time.
'Can you tell me what you saw?' Rachel asked in her sweetest, most
unthreatening voice.
'He was dead ... just lying there.
He had his eyes open.'
Wayne giggled. 'He looked surprised.'
"What did you do when you found
him?"
'I asked him if he was all right."
'And he didn't answer?"
Wayne shook his head.
'So what did you do then?'
'I wanted to run away.'
'And did you?'
Wayne nodded.
' Did you do anything before you ran
away? Pick anything up... touch anything? Don't worry, Wayne, you won't get
into trouble.'
'There were some fags. My mum won't
let me buy them. I wanted to try them. I didn't like it... made me cough."
'Did you take anything else?'
'It was just lying there ... he didn't
need it. not if he was dead."