“You heard wrong,” Ned told him sharply. “What was the quarrel about? Did you hear any of it?”
George shook his head.
“Same old palaver, I reckon. Wouldn’t do as she was told. ‘Once more unto the breach,’ he says, when we were done, her standing over there, looking like thunder at a picnic party. ‘What she needs is the back of your hand,’ I tells him. ‘That’s what my Elspeth gets’.”
“You never spoke to her.”
“No. Never have, as a matter of fact. Never will now.”
“And where were you on Saturday night, George?”
“Saturday. Me and the missus went out, first to the Britannia, then on to the Albion. Very nearly missed the curfew.”
“That would never do. And Sunday…”
“He was waiting for me when I arrived! Would you believe it? Went through it all calm as anything. You wouldn’t think that…I mean, he never let on.” He coughed. “Do you think he might, you know, have done her in himself? It’s a thought, isn’t it, considering he’s gone AWOL.”
“Very helpful, George. Anything else?”
George looked round, making sure they were alone.
“About the break-in.”
“George, we’ve been through this.”
“No, no, Mr Luscombe. I wasn’t criticizing. I know how stretched you are. I was thinking, well, of deputies.”
“Deputies, George. How do you mean?”
“Well, seeing as you’re so busy with this murder and the Feldkommandantur not really interested, I was thinking, if you were to deputize me I could go looking for the crates myself—search houses, question folk. Like a proper policeman.”
“Forgive me for mentioning it, but didn’t you have some difficulty a couple of years back with receiving stolen goods?”
“That were a long time ago, Mr Luscombe. I had bills of lading, receipts. It was what you call a mistreatment of justice.”
“Sorry, George.”
“But the break-in! No one’s doing anything about it.” He looked around at the confusion. “What about the foreigns?” he persisted. “Has anyone searched their billets, noticed anything odd going on? Stains on their clothing, like?”
“George, what are you talking about?”
George pointed to one of the empty containers.
“Paint,” he said. “The bastards nicked a load of yellow paint.”
“What would the foreigns want a load of paint for?”
“There’s no knowing what they get up to, is there? They’re parts of this town it’s not safe to walk through of a night. Slant-eyes roaming the streets in little better than nightshirts.”
Ned couldn’t help himself. “So you think they’ve been painting the town yellow, do you?”
He walked back along the promenade. A light mist hung over the sea about a mile out. The tide was on the turn. A group of Todt workers came trotting round the corner, the rasp of their breath louder than the fall their feet, the smell of them lingering as they passed; a company of cycle infantry approached in the opposite direction, their heavy bicycles hissing on the wet road. Across the way a line of lorries were loading up on the quay and by the little sentry hut a motorcycle patrol was starting off on its hourly circular inspection, the outrider waving a rueful farewell to his mate retreating back into his warm wooden shell. Over by the harbour an anti-aircraft gun, its muzzle protected by a thick tarpaulin, was being hoisted up from one of the barges heaving on the oil-spilled water. Ned stood still and gripped the railing, the only islander in sight.
When he got back to the station he found his outside door swinging in the wind. He kicked a loose stone in temper. One of the amateur dramatics had forgotten to close it again. As he starled up the stairs he heard a rattling noise directly above him. Someone was trying his door handle. He moved quietly, trying to remember which boards creaked and which didn’t. Coming up level with the landing he saw Veronica pushing an envelope under his door. He rested his chin on the floor and spoke to her ankles.
“So it’s you is it, writing all these anonymous letters?”
Veronica straightened up, unable at first to see him. She wore a pale blue patterned dress and a blue hat and her coat was unbuttoned, held together only by the belt. He blew up her legs. She stepped back.
“There you are. Gave me a proper fright.”
“Not like you, V, telling tales out of school.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The little white envelope lay on the floor.
“You’d better come in and tell me what this is all about,” he said. Veronica stayed put.
“It’s not about anything,” she said. “Just a ticket for the show next month. Thought you might like to come along. For old times’ sake.”
Ned put his finger under the flap. Inside was a pink slip, smudged and badly printed. April Frolics, it read. Sparkling Wit, Excellent Vocalism, Vivacious Dancing, Mysterious Conjuring, and those Irresistible Coons, the Nigger Minstrels.
“What are you?” he said. “Vivacious Dancing?”
“And Excellent Vocalism,” she said. Ned nodded.
“Come in anyway. I wanted to talk to you about the party on Saturday. I didn’t know you mixed in such high-flown circles.”
She stood in the doorway, defiant.
“Don’t you start getting at me again! You can question me all you like, but I’m not having you looking down your nose like that.”
Ned sighed. “Sorry. Just tell me. I won’t jump down your throat, promise.”
“Scout’s honour?”
“Scout’s honour.”
“Go on then, make the sign.”
“V, I’m a policeman.”
“Not to me you’re not.”
“That’s the trouble with this place. I’m not a policeman to anyone. Albert thinks of me as his brother’s son, Mrs Hallivand thinks of me as her gardener’s nephew, Mum thinks I still wear short trousers and you…”
“I think you put on long trousers too soon.”
“Thanks!”
Veronica relented. “It’s not easy for either of us, Ned, seeing what we were. But what we were is what we were. Not what we are.”
She sat down. It was strange the two of them sitting opposite each other, him with his notebook, her with her hands folded in the lap of her buttoned dress. Time was when he had held her and kissed her, when they had leant back and whispered private things to each other that made thetn laugh. All right, he thought, be what you are, but whether you like it or not you’re also what you were. He leant back. He wanted to see her body relax and assume that volupruous familiarity his mother had found so disturbing. He spoke softly.
“Teil me about the party, then.”
“Nothing much to tell. Molly invited me. Said it would be fun. It was all right at first, down at the Casino, but as the evening wore on and Isobel didn’t turn up things went from bad to worse. By the end it was more like a wake than a party. Molly was all for sending the car over again, but the Major wouldn’t allow it.”
“Again?” Ned asked quickly. “He sent the car over before?”
“No. We drove past there on the way back to the Villa. Dr Mueller, one of the nurses in the front with the driver, and me and the Major in the back.”
“When was this?”
“Ten thirty, eleven, I don’t know.”
“And?”
“The house was in total darkness. I was all for banging on the door but he wouldn’t let me. Said she’d be up at the Villa. She wasn’t, of course.” She paused. “How’s he taking it?”
“Badly.”
“Do you think I should go round later, to offer my sympathies?”
Ned couldn’t help himself. “You’ve only just met him, V.”
Veronica rose to her own defence. “It’s not like that. We’ve a lot in common, that’s all. Singing. Music. Fritz Kreisler.”