Dead Ground in Between (5 page)

She smiled. A nice smile. “Thank you. I'm sure it will be.” She turned to leave. “They really are good children, Inspector. They have had a worse time in their young lives than we can ever imagine.”

“And they're lucky to have you for an advocate,” said Tyler impulsively.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then nodded and walked away.

Tyler refrained from watching her and was saved from further self-admonishment by the rotund clerk who came hurrying up, his clipboard clutched in front of him like a shield.

“Detective Inspector, the two young men are asking if they can leave. I assume you will want to have a word with them before they go.”

“Right. I do. Where are they?”

“In the anteroom, sir. This way.”

Tyler followed him.

“Dreadful weather we're having, aren't we, sir?” he said over his shoulder. “What with these gales and the war, I don't know what the world is coming to. Dreadful.”

Gales, war, and lovers who don't want you anymore. Dreadful indeed
.

It had been well over a year now since he'd been captured. He could still remember the English soldier who'd taken him prisoner. He had a suntanned face, dusty khaki uniform, and Angelo noticed an inflamed sand ulcer on his shin. He stood over the trench where Angelo had taken shelter and waved his rifle at him. “Hands up.” He jerked the rifle upward but the words needed no translation. Angelo shot his arms into the air.

Time froze. He'd wondered if this was to be his last moment on earth. Then what? No prayer sprang to his lips then, no feeling of where he might be going. His eyes locked with the Englishman's. What a strange intimacy passed between them. Potential killer and potential victim. There was no hatred in the other man's eyes. Is that what hell really is? To have hatred the last thing you ever see? And the opposite is to die looking into the eyes of love.

He'd climbed out of the trench, his legs so shaky he could hardly stand, but it was a physical fear only. He could not feel anything except this strange stillness of time. This exquisite connection with the Englishman. There were others on the sandy strip outside of the trenches, his fellows. They were all silent, only the English shouting. Excitedly shouting. Not quite serious, posturing really, but dangerous nonetheless. His captor
waved the rifle to indicate that Angelo should walk over to the group, and he did, his hands still in the air. With his back to the Englishman, he could no longer see his face and for the first time he felt fear, an engulfing fear that both emboldened and weakened him at the same time. He had the sensation of losing his bones, as if the very skeleton of his body was melting. He was amazed his legs were still capable of moving.

He saw that the other captives had been told to sit down, hands on their heads. “His” Englishman gave him a prod in the back. Not hard, but enough. He was not a friend, don't fool yourself. Angelo looked over his shoulder and again their eyes met. He had brown eyes, the Englishman. He looked far more Italian than Angelo himself did, with his blond hair and blue eyes. Angelo actually smiled, as though his captor were a pleasing acquaintance. Much later, when it became clear his captivity was irrevocable, he thought about that smile. He could hardly think of anything else. Why had he smiled in such a manner at this enemy? When he saw the cold, hard eyes of other English soldiers as they rounded up the prisoners, when he saw the way they knocked them with their rifle butts, or kicked them on the legs, he understood why he had smiled. “His” English soldier had not hated him. He supposed he might have been afraid as most of them were afraid but it wasn't just that which had diluted the rage of the other, it was because he had seen Angelo as another human being. Another man like him, forced to be a soldier.

“Crying comes after laughter as sure as night follows day. It is God's will.”

This was one of his Nonna's favourite sayings, said in a hushed voice, as if she were speaking for God himself. Angelo hated it. It was like an insidious poison eating away at joy.

He had known such joy last night. But afterwards had followed sorrow. Just as his grandmother had said it would.

Tyler found Oldham and Wickers waiting in the anteroom. Oldham was sitting on a bench, leaning forward with his head in his hands. Wickers was standing next to him, smoking a cigarette. Even the way he dragged on the fag revealed his pent-up anger.

“Right, you two. In case you didn't catch it first time round, my name is Tyler. Detective Inspector Tyler to you. We need to have a bit of a chinwag before you scarper.”

Wickers blew out smoke, keeping it just barely within an acceptable distance from Tyler's face.

“We've got to get back to work, we do. We can't hang around here all day. There's always jobs to be done.”

The young man was good-looking, Tyler thought, with tanned skin, wavy fair hair cut short, and blue eyes. He had the compact muscular frame of a man used to hard physical work. But there was an expression of shrewdness in his face that Tyler hadn't expected. For a minute, he wondered if the defiance and bravado weren't more of a pose than anything.

“Look, Wickers,” said Tyler, “we're at war, in case you hadn't noticed. My constables have got plenty to do making sure nobody's cheating honest folks in the black market, never mind the everyday misdemeanours that thick lads like you think are funny. I don't give a toss if you're stupid enough to ride around in the pitch-black without your lights on. If you end up with a broken neck because you fell off your bike, that's your business. Mine is to enforce the rules, which are made for ignorant blokes like you. When you're out at night, you have to have some light on your vehicle. That includes bikes.”

Wickers shrugged, not intimidated in the least by Tyler's rant. “Like we said, we could see well enough. We live here. We know the roads.”

“I heard all that,” said Tyler. “But I tell you what, Wickers. And you too, Oldham. What really ticked me off was the fact that you used bad language to my constable. You were almost ready to take a swing at him, according to his report. Now that, in my book, is a serious offence. You're lucky the magistrate listened to me. He could have had you both sent down for three months hard. That would have been really tough on the cows, I would imagine.”

Oldham was staring at him in dismay, but Wickers only lowered his head a little while he stubbed out his cigarette.

“Cows? What cows?”

“I was under the impression you had urgent work to do. The only job that urgent is milking cows.”

“No. Mrs. Mohan don't have cows. We're general handymen, you might say.”

Tyler could feel the younger man's tension. Wickers was a man who talked with his fists first.

He raised his voice slightly. “That's good to know. So you can report to the police station by one o'clock this afternoon. You'll spend two hours every day for the next week doing some work there.”

“What sort of work?” asked Oldham.

“The station hasn't been given a good scrubbing for years. We'll start there.”

“Christ. Scrubbing?” exclaimed Wickers. “Don't you have painting or fixing we can do? That's more up our alley.”

“You've got to clean before you can paint and fix. Scrubbing it will be. And no swearing. We have a rule around the station. Anybody heard using the Lord's name in vain or any other profanity has to put a shilling into the Spitfire Fund.” In fact, Tyler had just instituted this rule on the spot. “Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Oldham.

“Wickers? Got that? What I just said?”

The young man nodded.

“Say the words for me, Mr. Wickers. Say you have understood what I just said.”

Wickers stared at him, but he was the one to look away first.

“I understand what you just said.”

“I understand what you just said,
sir
.”

“I understand what you just said, sir.”

“Good. That wasn't so hard, was it?”

Tyler knew that Wickers would rather have swallowed glass than wrap his tongue around
sir
, but the young man was obviously wily or experienced enough to know who had the upper hand.

“I'll see you at the station at one, then.”

Oldham stood up, keeping his weight carefully on one leg. He was taller than his mate, brown-haired, but with the same husky build. At the moment, he looked so woebegone that Tyler almost felt sorry for him.

“What'd you do to your ankle?” Tyler asked.

“Twisted it in a rabbit hole.”

Tyler didn't miss the flash of anger that his mate sent Oldham's way.

“At least, I – I think it was a rabbit hole,” stuttered Oldham.

“Do what you can, then. Your pal here might have to do the lion's share of the work. All right with that, Wickers?”

“Course.”

“Go on, then. Off with you.”

“Come on, Tim,” said Wickers. “Let's get out of here.”

Tyler let them go a few paces. “Oh, by the way, boys, you were obviously three sheets to the wind on Tuesday. I was wondering how you came to be so inebriated given the shortage of booze these days. It's almost impossible to even get tipsy with what they are serving at the pubs.”

Oldham answered. “We was drinking cider. Powerful strong stuff, that is. Called Stun 'Em Dead. You don't need much of that, I can tell you.” He grinned. “Cheaper that way. Two pints is all we need.”

“Good to hear that. Because I wouldn't want to think you'd been trafficking with somebody who's selling black market liquor. I'd expect you to turn him in, if that was the case. National interest. Selling on the black market is a serious offence, but so is buying.”

“We know that,” interjected Wickers. “We're very patriotic, aren't we, Tim?”

Oldham nodded vigorously.

“And where was it you imbibed this Knock 'Em Dead cider?” asked Tyler.

Oldham hesitated for a moment, but Wickers gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “The Feathers. And the proper name's
Stun
'Em Dead, not
Knock
'Em Dead.”

“Right. Same result, presumably. And the publican's name?”

“Mr. Harold Johnson.”

“He'll vouch for you then, will he? Just two pints of cider?”

Oldham shifted slightly. Wickers was the one to answer.

“It was a busy night. He might not remember.”

“I'll ask him anyway. These chaps usually know exactly what their customers are up to.”

Tyler was sure they weren't telling the whole truth. Didn't mean Johnson was crooked, but he might have turned a blind eye if the lads had brought in their own illicit booze. Men did it all the time in order to get around the regulations. Beer wasn't rationed but the supply was limited. Two strapping young men like these would need a lot of cider to get drunk. He didn't for a minute buy the excuse that they didn't have heads for liquor. Most farmers made their own strong cider and quaffed it down like water.

“All right then, boys, you'd better go and tackle your important chores. See you at one o'clock. Sharp.”

The big clock on the mantelpiece bonged out the half hour as the men made their escape. Crikey. He'd almost forgotten his appointment, in spite of Sergeant Rowell's helpful reminder. Somewhat against his will, he'd arranged to meet with a Mrs. Hamilton, a purveyor of “sincere introductions for the single.” Rowell had talked him into it only last week. Given the letter he'd received yesterday, he didn't know if this was perfect timing, or the opposite.

“Won't hurt, sir,” Rowell had argued. “You know how difficult it is for men in our line of work to meet suitable prospects. At the very least, it'll make you get out a bit more.”

“What if I don't like these women? Or they don't like me, for that matter?”

Rowell had shaken his head. “That's why Mrs. Hamilton is so good. She knows how to match people up so they're compatible. Look how well I've done with Dorothy. I'd never have met her without Mrs. Hamilton.”

Two months earlier, Rowell had been introduced to a widow, Dorothy McPhail, through Mrs. Hamilton's service, and they'd got along like a house on fire. Where formerly all he'd talked about was his deceased wife, now Rowell's conversations revolved around Dorothy, what she thought, what she said. Tyler thought she was a sweet, placid sort of woman, who was a perfect match for his lonely, anxious sergeant.

Should he cancel the appointment? He had work to do at the station, but he didn't like to back out at the last minute. Better follow up and see what the lady had to say. He wouldn't have to take it any further if he didn't want to.

The two boys had managed to huddle into a corner of the school assembly hall. It was playtime, but because of the foul weather the children had not been allowed outside. The girls had remained in the classrooms but the boys had been sent to the hall so they could run around, and the noise in the close confines was deafening.

Jan and Pim were ignored. Jan had already shown he could react quickly if threatened and, in spite of his skinny build, his blows hurt. None of the other boys were willing to risk taunting them, and nobody was generous enough to coax them to join in the wild games of tag that sprang up spontaneously. Even though at least half a dozen of the children were evacuees from London and Liverpool, they had arrived shortly after the outbreak of the war and were now pretty much assimilated. They weren't sympathetic to these newcomers either. The brothers kept entirely to themselves. Pim never fought but he simply wouldn't join in. He stuttered badly, and he mostly hovered in the background, looking miserable. It didn't help that the boys had learned English in the East End of London when they'd first arrived in England. A lot of the other children couldn't understand them. Or professed not to.