Simon Tolkien Inspector Trave Trilogy: Orders From Berlin, The Inheritance, The King of Diamonds. Simon Tolkien
closed door and the floor. Instinctively he reached inside his jacket, looking for his gun, but then realized that he wasn’t carrying it. He was off duty – he had no business in the flat, and if he got hurt, that was going to be his own bad luck.
He edged forward, keeping his back to the wall. Opposite, through the open door of Albert’s bedroom, he could see the made-up corner of the dead man’s bed. It looked as though Ava had not yet begun to dismantle the flat, unless she was the one inside the living room, going through her father’s possessions. Of course, Trave thought. That was the obvious explanation. And she would be frightened out of her wits, assuming she’d heard him come in, which seemed likely. He hadn’t made any particular effort to be quiet when he’d first entered the flat.
‘Police, this is the police. Who’s in there?’ he called out, but there was no answer, just the sound of the siren. So he tried again. ‘Is that you, Ava?’ he asked. ‘This is Detective Trave. You know me. There’s nothing to be frightened of.’
But there was still no response, just a sound of rustling; of muffled, furtive movement on the other side of the door. And the smell of smoke. As far as Trave could remember, Ava didn’t smoke, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps she did.
Trave’s heart was beating fast, and he knew that if he was going to open the door and face the unknown, he needed to do it now. Any further delay and he risked losing his nerve. He took hold of the brass handle of the door, and then in one rapid movement he pulled it open and rushed inside.
Immediately he had to force himself to stop. Facing him across a carpet littered with books and papers was a middle-aged man. Trave recognized him straight away – it was the same man who had lied to him at 59 Broadway on the day after Albert’s death and had provoked the scene at the funeral. Alec Thorn. Trave remembered the downstairs neighbour, Mrs Graves, struggling to put her finger on the name when he’d talked to her on the night of the murder after everyone else had gone home.
For a moment, he thought that Thorn would go for a gun. But he did nothing, just stood with his back to the blacked-out window, his eyes flicking between Trave and the open door behind Trave’s back. He looked taut – defiant and anxious and curious all at the same time. A half-smoked cigarette burned uselessly in an ashtray on the desk in the corner.
‘Why didn’t you say who you were when I asked?’ Trave demanded breathlessly. He realized with surprise that he was angry. Very angry, in fact. But that made sense, he realized. It had required a lot of nerve to burst unarmed through the door. He’d felt he was taking his life in his hands, and Thorn could have saved him the trouble.
‘I’m sorry. You didn’t give me any time,’ said Thorn, looking Trave steadily in the eye. Trave had that same sense he’d had at 59 Broadway that Thorn was assessing him, working out his next moves as they spoke.
‘Okay,’ he said, mollified by the apology. ‘So what are you doing here? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me that.’
‘Saying goodbye to an old friend. Albert and I go back a long way,’ said Thorn, choosing his words carefully.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that,’ Trave said severely. ‘You lied to me before about why you came here, and I don’t need you to do it again. I’m sure you know who the most likely candidate is for returning to the scene of a crime.’
‘A murderer, you mean,’ said Thorn with a thin smile. ‘I can assure you I’m not that. The old lady downstairs let me in an hour ago. Murderers don’t knock on doors, or at least not in my experience, and I’m here looking for clues, not trying to destroy them.’
‘Clues? Clues to what?’
‘To who killed Albert, of course. I don’t think it was Bertram, whatever the newspapers say, and I don’t think you do, either, or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘All right, who, then? If you know something I don’t, you’d better tell me. I think your old friend at least has the right to expect that out of you.’ Trave sensed that Thorn was trying to play him, turning his questions back on him so as to take control of the conversation, and he was determined not to let that happen.
‘Tell me,’ he repeated when Thorn didn’t answer. But still Thorn stayed silent. He looked troubled, as if he couldn’t make up his mind about what to do. Behind his knitted brows, years of training in the ways of silence and concealment were competing with his longing for a confidant – someone, anyone, who might share his view of what had happened. Eventually he went over to the desk and picked up the still smoking cigarette from the ashtray; he inhaled deeply, and as he blew out the smoke, he seemed to come to a decision.
‘I think Charles Seaforth killed Albert,’ he said gravely. ‘He works with me – for me, in theory, although that’s been a fiction for some time now.’
‘I know who he is,’ said Trave.
‘How?’ asked Thorn, looking surprised.
‘I’ve been following him around London, or trying to,’ Trave said with a wry smile. ‘But that’s another story. Finish what you were going to tell me.’
‘All right,’ said Thorn, eyeing Trave with renewed interest. ‘I believe he intercepted Albert outside the building where we work, the one where you came to visit me; gave him some excuse about everyone having gone home; and then followed him back here and pushed him over the banister out there because he knew too much.’
‘About what?’ asked Trave.
‘About a plot of some kind that’s being hatched in Germany—’
‘By someone called C?’ asked Trave, interrupting.
‘Yes. How do you know that?’ asked Thorn sharply, looking shocked. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.
‘It was in a note we found in Albert’s pocket. Here, read it if you like,’ said Trave, taking his wallet out from inside his jacket and extracting a folded-up piece of paper that he handed to Thorn. ‘Don’t worry – it’s not the original. It’s just a copy I made for my own use.’
‘Why didn’t you show this to me before – when you came to see me?’ asked Thorn, looking up.
‘Because you lied about why you came over here and about the note you left for Albert. How was I supposed to trust you after that?’ said Trave, sounding exasperated.
‘It was my duty to lie,’ said Thorn. ‘I didn’t feel I had a choice.’
‘Because you’re a spy,’ said Trave. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Thorn shrugged. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I wish I had now, but there’s no point crying about it,’ he said shortly, and then went back to studying the note Trave had given him. It was very short – ‘Provide detailed written report. What are the chances of success? C.’ – and on the line below, the name HAYRICK, transcribed by Trave in capital letters, followed by a question mark.
There was something he was missing. Thorn kept reading the note again and again. And then suddenly he reached up and hit the side of his head with the flat of his hand. Hard – and not once but twice.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t I see it before? It was staring me in the face.’
‘See what?’ asked Trave, mystified.
‘Who C is. Look, Albert wrote it down,’ he said, jabbing his finger at the word Hayrick.
Something to do with farming, Trave had thought. Not like a name at all. But he’d clearly been wrong about that.
‘The name’s spelt wrong,’ Thorn explained. ‘That’s all. Maybe Albert scribbled it or you didn’t read it right. It should be Heydrich. That’s who C is. I can’t believe I didn’t work it out myself.’
‘Who’s Heydrich?’ asked Trave, beginning to feel out of his depth.
‘Reinhard