Black Out (20 page)

They stepped into the street and instinctively Troy pulled his coat tighter around him, turned up the collar and sunk his hands deep in the pockets. He felt the grit of the bomb blast under his fingernails, and for a split second the blood-red cloud appeared over his eye and he winced at the pain of it, before mentally pushing it over the horizon.

‘I know,’ said the sergeant, reading Troy’s expression wrong and leading the way out into St Martin’s Lane. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. This bugger’ll choke off more than the Luftwaffe tonight.’

A Special in uniform stood by the open door of a taxi, wrapped in his cape. Troy begged a torch off the night sergeant and told the car to go. There’d be enough chaos with two pairs of police feet and a photographer to deal with. Troy looked at the bobby. He was smiling. It seemed absurd, but he was smiling. He was fat and fiftyish and he was smiling. It was just possible that if you volunteered as a Special there was nothing better than a good murder.

‘Well?’ Troy said.

‘I’ve touched nothing. I’ve stood guard since I heard the cry go up.’

The phrase seemed a quaint leftover from the peelers. It irritated Troy. He thrust the torch at him and climbed into the back of the cab.

The Special peered over Troy’s shoulder. ‘Struth,’ he said as the
torch hit the mess of blood and brain in the back of the cab. ‘Struth!’

There was little left of the face. One bullet had caught him in the cheek, another in the mouth and a third had entered at the forehead and taken off the back of the head. Most of his brains were spread across the rear window, and his clothes were drenched in blood. The body lolled against the seat, the head tilted back, lifeless eyes gazing upward.

‘Hold that damn torch steady,’ said Troy. ‘I want to go through his pockets.’

Troy closed the eyes, fished into the inside jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet and a piece of blood-soaked cardboard. He wiped it clean with the fleshy side of his hand.

‘He was a policeman,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a Met warrant card.’

‘Struth!’ said the Special again.

Troy peered at the name on the card, and ducked back out of the cab. The Special was still smiling. Troy realised it was his natural expression, as fixed as rictus.

‘Where’s my constable?’ he asked.

‘Behind the hedge,’ replied the Special. ‘Tossing his supper. It’s hit him bad.’

‘Get him.’

Troy climbed back into the cab. He patted down the man’s pockets and tried to breathe shallowly to avoid the stench of death. He was searching for the policeman’s notebook. It wasn’t there.

‘Freddie?’ came a bleating voice from outside.

Troy faced an ashen Wildeve on the pavement.

‘Who was he, Freddie?’

‘Miller. Melvyn Miller. Detective Sergeant. Special Branch. Are you OK to talk?’

‘I think so.’

‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

Troy set the Special to guard the cab and took Wildeve over to the edge of the park.

‘I’m sorry, Freddie. I didn’t see a damn thing. The traffic had stopped completely. I gave it a couple of minutes and the urge to get out and walk hit me and of course it dawned on me then that Wayne was probably feeling the same, so I got out just to see if
he’d quit the cab and set off. I was two cars behind this one. I thought this was Wayne’s cab. So did my cabbie. He swears this is the cab he followed from Tite Street. When I got to it the door was open, the chap inside was dead and the cabbie was slumped over the driving-wheel with a lump the size of a hen’s egg on the back of his head. I damn near fainted I can tell you. For a couple of minutes I didn’t know what to do, then I ran for the nearest police box, got them to call you. The Special showed up pretty sharpish, but the traffic started to move again, and I lost Wayne. If I ever had him in the first place that is.’

‘You didn’t hear shots.’

‘No. He used a silencer I should think.’

‘Even that makes some noise, but then fog does tend to swallow sound.’

‘Freddie, you don’t suppose Wayne thought that chap was me?’

‘I wouldn’t think about it if I were you.’

‘It just seems like … well … like chance. The worst kind of rotten luck for this poor chap to slip in between me and Wayne in the fog like that.’

‘Jack, he was a Special Branch officer, doesn’t that tell you anything?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’d like to say take the night off and go home, Jack. But you can’t. I want you to get Onions out of bed and tell him. Then get your head down in the office until we send for you. It’s gone midnight now. Onions will have a car sent to Acton to pick him up. It’ll take about another hour and a half.’

Troy watched the police photographer do his work. Then the ambulance crew took away the body, and he climbed back into the cab to look for the bullets that killed Miller. The torchbeam was too feeble to go by. He judged the trajectory from the angle of the body and felt along the blood-sodden seat with his fingertips. There were tears in the black leather. It was probable the bullets had gone right through the cab. He turned out the contents of the boot and found one slug lodged in a horse-blanket the driver used to wrap the engine and had folded over at least sixfold to form a dense mass that had stopped the bullet as surely as a sandbag. The other two had come to rest in the tarmac of the road. He prised
them out with his penknife, but they were splayed beyond any recognition. One out of three wasn’t bad. He knew Kolankiewicz would be able to identify the slug. It was surely a .45? If only they had another to match. The Special Constable was down on his hands and knees on the pavement feeling around in the dark for the casings. Troy could hear him grunting and cursing as his hands found everything from cigarette ends to shards of glass.

‘Buggeration,’ he was saying. ‘Buggeration.’

Then ‘Gertcha!’ The final grunt of triumph, and the man stood up with two spent shells in his fist and brought them over to Troy. The permanent rictus smile made his expression seem like a look of great satisfaction.

Onions had shaved before coming out. Nothing in his appearance would have given away the fact that he’d been dragged from his bed at past one o’clock in the morning to be driven across London at a crawl. By the time he met Troy in his office it was nearer 4 a.m. He sat in his overcoat behind his desk, looking as though he was waiting for an early commuter train.

‘You look dreadful,’ he said.

Troy looked at himself. His coat was filthy again, he had no tie, his shirt was black at the cuffs and his shoes were sodden. Next to him Wildeve looked scarcely better and smelt of vomit. He was having difficulty staying awake and Troy could see him fighting the inevitable flutter of his eyelids.

‘I called the Branch from home,’ Onions said. ‘I talked to Charlie Walsh, the CI in charge of Miller. He was grim about it all, but he’ll let us get on with it.’

‘That won’t stop him carrying out his own investigation. I’ve never known them not to look after their own.’

‘There’s not many Special Branch officers killed in the line of duty. In fact I can’t remember a case. That’s our lot more often than not. I think you’d better give him a day or so on the paperwork.’

‘What?’ This struck Troy as an outrageous request. ‘A murder. A copper shot to death on the street and he wants a day or two?’

‘I get the impression this Miller was bit of a loner.’

‘For god’s sake, Stan. This is madness!’

‘A bit of a loner,’ the timbre of Onions’s voice changed slightly but in a way that spoke volumes. ‘You know the sort of bloke. Doesn’t keep his Super up to date. Goes wandering off on his own.’

Troy knew he had gone too far in raising his voice to Onions. He was now coming around the desk heading for the hapless Wildeve, who had fallen asleep with his legs crossed and one foot sticking idly into air. Onions kicked the foot and it shot to the floor tilting Wildeve’s posture so that he almost fell off the chair.

‘Wake up, boy!’ Onions yelled in his ear.

‘Yah worra,’ Wildeve said, his head pivoting madly in a desperate attempt to locate his bearings.

Troy steadied Wildeve with a hand and shot him a ‘say nothing do nothing’ look.

‘You’ll have plenty to do,’ Onions went on.

‘I’m doing it. The bullets have gone off to Hendon. I got Thomson and Gutteridge out of bed. One to watch at Tite Street, the other at Norfolk House. And I’ve two chaps in uniform doing the cab ranks to find the driver of Wayne’s cab. The driver of Miller’s is in the Paddington Hospital. They won’t let me see him till tomorrow. I’ll be ready for whatever Walsh has by seven o clock.’

‘Chief Inspector Walsh to you. And, like I said, give it a day or two.’

Troy pushed luck. ‘You have at least established that Miller was following Wayne?’

‘It’s hardly a coincidence, is it?’

‘But Walsh did confirm he was following Wayne?’

‘I’m satisfied that he was following Wayne.’

‘Why?’

They were both standing now, squared off to each other across the desk. Onions opted to lower the stakes, resumed his seat, slicked back his hair in his habitual gesture and waited a few quiet seconds until Troy too had sat down again.

‘I’ve known Charlie Walsh the best part of twenty years. If he has a slight problem … ’

Troy bit his tongue at the word ‘slight’, but forced himself to say nothing.

‘… And needs, say, twenty-four hours’ grace, I’ll let him have it. We know Miller was following Wayne. That’s what matters. And at seven o’clock you’ll be too damn busy with MI5. You’re not the only one getting buggers out of their pits. I had that ponce Pym on the line and told him I wanted to see him and Zelig and whoever else is in charge of this mess a.s.a.p. He offered me noon, we compromised on 7 a.m.’

Troy would have hated to be in Neville’s shoes when he took that call.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see. Walsh can’t talk until he’s gone through channels.’

‘That’s not what he said.’

‘No, but it’s what he means.’

Onions leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

‘We’re stabbing at shadows, Freddie. Give him till tomorrow evening, or this evening as it now is. If nowt comes through, call him. And if you talk to him the way you talk to me he’ll knock your block off. Now if Sparky here can keep his eyes open we’ve a couple of hours for the pair of you to tell me everything before you and I have to set off to meet the spooks. And I mean everything.’

He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of Woodbines and a box of Swan Vestas. He lit up and sat back in patient, authoritative, listening mode.

If looks could kill Pym would have assassinated Troy in the wink of an eye. He opened his office door to Troy and Onions looking white and drawn. Being up this early did not agree with him. Troy had not seen him in uniform before. The muted blue of the RAF contrasted sharply with the efflorescence of his off-duty image.
The office was barely big enough for the number of people it now held. In front of Pym’s desk sat Zelig. On his left almost in the corner of the room was a woman in a charcoal-grey twin-set. Pym took the chair on Zelig’s right, which left two facing for Troy and Onions. It formed a tight, antagonistic circle.

‘There’ll be no introductions,’ Pym said. There was a weariness and a paper-thin tolerance in his voice.

Troy did not know the woman. Apart from Onions she was the only one who looked at all comfortable or presentable at this ungodly hour. She was small, the wrong side of fifty, but it was still evident that she had been good-looking. The signs of age showed most clearly in the lines around her eyes and lips – the eyes of someone who had spent years with small print and reading lamps, lips that had drawn on too many cigarettes. It was not a face to have been destroyed by laughter lines. It had an intimidating, humourless look. Her arms were folded across a small bundle of buff-coloured foolscap files, grasped to her bosom like a deterrent barrier. If Pym was anxious to avoid revealing an identity it could only be hers. Zelig coughed and stared at the floor between them. He looked jaundice yellow and distinctly unhappy about the situation in which he found himself.

‘Colonel Zelig has a statement he wishes to read,’ said Pym.

Zelig unfolded the single sheet he had sat clutching. He read in a hesitant, jerky voice, as though unfamiliar with the meaning of the words he used. He coughed frequently and had clearly skipped breakfast in his haste, as his stomach rumbled all the way through.

‘We have been informed by MI5 liaison that Scotland Yard is investigating a shooting that took place in Manchester Square last night at approximately eleven fifteen in the evening. We understand that you wish to interview in connection with this incident Major James Wayne of the Office of Strategic Services. The High Command of the United States Forces in Britain, and the Commander of the Allied Forces are anxious to co-operate in any way that will further the interests of justice. Between the hours of ten thirty p.m. on the night of the nineteenth of March and three a.m. on the morning of the twentieth Major Wayne was in a planning meeting of Operational Command in General Eisenhower’s Head
quarters at Chenies Street, WC I with General Eisenhower and General Patton.’

Zelig looked up, folded the statement away once more, and for the first time found himself looking straight at Onions, a pose he could not sustain more than a second. As his eyes darted across to Pym, Pym spoke.

‘I think that concludes our business, gentlemen. I do hope that answers your questions.’

‘That’s it?’ said Troy. ‘That is it? You cook up an alibi, a complete tissue of lies and tell me that’s it. Like hell it is. Where is Wayne? I want to talk to Wayne.’

‘That won’t be possible,’ said Pym.

Troy leaned forward to Pym and said slowly and quietly, pegging back the anger he felt, ‘I have a witness who saw Wayne in Chelsea at eleven p.m. I saw him myself in the Strand at ten past ten. He was not in a meeting with Ike as damn well you know. If you do not produce this man I’ll swear out a warrant for his arrest on a charge of murder.’

‘That won’t be possible,’ Zelig echoed with a croak in his voice. ‘The Major isn’t your man. Don’t you see that? He’s innocent. This proves it.’ He waved the paper feebly.