Simon Tolkien Inspector Trave Trilogy: Orders From Berlin, The Inheritance, The King of Diamonds. Simon Tolkien
you’ll know where to reach me. And if you don’t, I’ll be back. You can count on that,’ he added as he went out the door.
But then out in the hall, another question occurred to Trave. He hesitated and then turned on his heel and went back in the room. Thorn had stood up and appeared to be wiping his eyes with a crumpled red handkerchief.
‘What is it, Detective?’ he asked, looking annoyed. ‘I thought you said you were done here.’
‘Just one more question,’ said Trave. ‘Do you know anyone called Hayrick?’
‘Hayrick? No, nobody. It doesn’t sound like a name at all.’
‘No, you’re right. It doesn’t,’ said Trave. He nodded reflectively and left.
Back at Scotland Yard, Quaid listened distractedly to Trave’s account of his interview with Mrs Graves the previous evening and then interrupted his subordinate just as Trave had begun to describe Thorn’s evasiveness when questioned about his visit to Battersea the previous day.
‘Whose investigation is this?’ he asked, glowering at Trave.
‘Yours, of course. I just thought we should follow up what happened in the afternoon …’
‘You thought,’ Quaid repeated sarcastically. ‘I don’t know who you think you are – running round London wherever the fancy takes you! Check with me next time. All right?’
Trave nodded, and Quaid decided not to push the point. There was no need to create unnecessary hostility. Trave had done well with the victim’s daughter the previous evening. He could be an asset if he could just learn to toe the line.
‘How do you know this Thorn character wasn’t telling you the truth?’ he asked. ‘Why shouldn’t he go and see an old friend and leave a note to say he’d called?’
‘No reason,’ said Trave evenly. ‘But if that was all it was, it doesn’t explain Morrison’s rushing across town in a taxi …’
‘All right, maybe he did want to see Thorn, but that doesn’t mean Thorn murdered him. Didn’t you say Thorn seemed genuinely upset when you told him about Morrison’s death?’
‘Yes, I know – it doesn’t add up,’ said Trave with a frown. ‘It’s just I think we need to find out more – about what Morrison’s job was; about what’s going on over there.’
‘What did you say the address was?’
‘Fifty-nine Broadway.’
‘I’ll look into it. It’s probably some kind of government office, which is why Thorn’s keeping quiet about it,’ said Quaid. ‘The Home Office is just around the corner from there, isn’t it?’
Trave nodded, looking unconvinced. ‘What about the note?’ he said.
‘What note?’
‘The one in Morrison’s pocket, the one asking for the written report—’
‘Well, it doesn’t incriminate Thorn, does it? You were the one who saw it was in Morrison’s handwriting. And, you know, the point is maybe we’re never going to find out what that note means because we haven’t got the time or the resources in the middle of the Blitz to go up every blind alley, particularly when the solution to the case is staring us in the bloody eye,’ Quaid said impatiently. He paused a moment as if for effect and then leant across his desk. ‘It turns out that Dr Bertram Brive is up to his neck in debts. Without the money he’s hoping to get from old Morrison, he’ll be bankrupt by Christmas.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Trave.
‘It wasn’t difficult – I phoned up his bank. The manager there told me they had him in last week because they were calling in his overdraft. He stopped making payments in the summer, apparently.’
‘Do they know why?’
‘The bank manager thinks he’s a gambler. I’ve got Twining out making enquiries. I’d have sent you if you hadn’t been otherwise engaged,’ he added.
‘But Brive’s got a business,’ said Trave, ignoring the dig. ‘Doctors must be in even more demand than we are these days.’
‘Only if they want to work, and I’d bet my last pound that Brive doesn’t – which isn’t such a bad thing, actually,’ said Quaid with a harsh laugh. ‘From what I saw of him last night, I’d say that the man’s got the bedside manner of a Nazi. He’s the one who gave the old man the heave-ho, you mark my words. It’s just a question of finding the evidence. And that’s where we need to concentrate our efforts from now on,’ Quaid added, giving his subordinate a sharp look.
‘Anyone would think that you’re enjoying this.’
The sound of Ava’s voice cutting in on him as he replaced the telephone receiver made Bertram jump – it was the first comment she’d addressed to him all day. And the day before hadn’t been much better. She’d followed him around the flat from the time he got up until the time he went to bed, staring at him while he was talking to her and then saying nothing in response. He couldn’t tell what she was feeling – grief or anger or both, perhaps. She’d never behaved like this before, and it made him nervous.
‘Enjoying what?’ he asked. He had no idea what she was talking about.
‘My father’s funeral – making the arrangements, organizing the stupid flowers, transporting his body round town, getting to the church on time. You know what I mean, Bertie. Don’t pretend you don’t.’
‘Of course I’m not enjoying it,’ he said angrily. ‘But someone has to do it, and you didn’t show any signs of wanting to get involved.’
‘What’s the point? He made you his executor, didn’t he?’
‘I think he just thought it would be easier that way,’ he said defensively. ‘I know how these things work.’
‘What? Because of your job, you mean? The job that you don’t do.’ Ava’s bitterness was obvious.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know damn well what I mean. You know how you sit at home all day, neglecting your patients, listening to news bulletins on the radio, poring over old copies of The Times, moving your stupid pins around on that map over there like the war’s some stupid game made up for your amusement, like you think you’re contributing to it in some way.’ Ava’s voice rose as she jabbed her finger at a large map of Europe taped to the kitchen wall. And then silent suddenly, she looked over at her husband on the other side of the table as if assessing his likely reaction, then reached up violently and pulled the map down, tearing it through the centre as it fell. A cascade of coloured pins rolled away in every direction across the lino floor.
Bertram was white with anger. He wanted to hit his wife with one of the pots on the stove, make her pay for what she’d just done, but he held his hand. And an instant later, he realized that it wasn’t just good sense that had stopped him; it was fear too. He’d never seen her like this. She’d been cold to him, keeping him at arm’s length, but she’d always basically done as she was told. Now, since her father’s death, she was different – it was as if something inside her had been broken or released and she’d become a new person whose actions he could no longer predict.
He got down on his hands and knees and started to pick up the pins. He couldn’t stand mess and disorder. She knew that. That was why she’d pulled down his map – to see him like this, crawling around on the floor; to humiliate him. He looked up and saw the contempt written all over her face.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, I did,’ she shot