‘Fancy seeing you here, Colonel.’
She had to give him credit: del Vecchio recovered his composure in a flash. The surprise vanished from his face, replaced by an easy, lazy smile.
‘Chief Superintendent. What brings you out this way?’
‘Murder. I told you the last time we met. We’ve come for another look around. A coincidence, isn’t it? Running into you like this.’
The colonel shrugged. ‘We’ve got more men arriving so we’re going to need more billets. We’ve already got too many with local families. You reminded me about this place when we talked. I thought it might be worth another inspection.’
‘And?’ McMillan asked.
‘I’m not sure. I could probably put twenty guys in here, no problem. But it’ll take money to get it in shape.’ He tapped his head. ‘Now I have to figure out if it’s worth the cost.’
‘I can’t imagine any troops would be staying that long.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. All I’m told is we have men coming, find them somewhere to live. Billeting officer, remember.’
‘Among other things.’
Lottie watched the two of them. She’d once seen a pair of boxers sparring; it reminded her of that, little jabs, darting forward and away. As she remembered, by the end of the round, neither one of them had landed a proper punch.
‘Welfare officer, too,’ del Vecchio added. ‘Organising entertainment for the men.’
‘I was thinking more of other duties.’
It was only there for a moment, but a shadow passed across the man’s face.
‘That’s all I do, Chief Superintendent. Good Time Charlie – I know what they call me.’
‘Then may your good times continue.’ The way McMillan phrased it, the words came out like a warning.
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
‘Just what it says, Colonel.’ An ingenuous smile. ‘We’re all on the same side. That’s what’s on those printed sheets you give all your troops arriving in England, isn’t it?’
De Vecchio came down the rest of the steps until the two men stood no more than three feet apart.
‘Anything else?’
‘There’s always something else,’ McMillan told him. ‘That’s what being a policeman means.’
‘And being a good policeman means knowing when to back off, Chief Superintendent. So you think you know something about me? Great. Even if it’s true, there’s nothing you can do with it. I told you why I’m here, and that’s the truth. Check at HQ if you want, they’ll tell you. Now I’ll ask you again: anything else?’
‘I still believe you had something to do with the young woman who was here.’
Del Vecchio gave a shark’s smile, all teeth and no warmth. ‘Like they say, prove it, copper.’
He began to walk. As he passed Lottie his eyes narrowed, as if he was making sure he’d remember her face. The front door banged behind him.
‘Well,’ McMillan said after a while, ‘what did you make of that?’
‘I know there’s something about him that gives me the creeps,’ she said. ‘The question is, do you believe his reason for being here?’
‘Unfortunately, I do,’ he admitted. ‘But I still think he’s involved somewhere in all this.’ McMillan gave another glance around. ‘We’re not going to learn anything more here.’
Her leg ached. The knee felt a little swollen as she limped back down the drive to the car.
‘The rotten devil.’
‘What?’ McMillan asked.
Lottie ran a hand along the front wing of the Humber. The metal had been scratched and dented. Flakes of dull green paint clung to the damage.
‘He scraped us. I left him just enough room, he must have done it deliberately.’
‘It won’t stop you driving, will it?’ Lottie shook her head in reply. ‘Then we can send the United States Army the bill.’
MILLGARTH felt hot, as if someone had turned all the steam radiators on full. She could see the sweat on men’s faces as they worked, smell it as she walked past them.
‘The boiler’s on the blink,’ McMillan explained after a word with the desk sergeant. ‘Someone’s supposed to be mending it.’
Office windows were open wide, the frigid air welcome in the stuffy rooms. The canteen felt like a Turkish bath. Helen from the switchboard was sitting at a table close to the door, constantly dabbing the perspiration from her face with a handkerchief.
‘I don’t know how they can expect us to work in this,’ she said as Lottie settled across from her with a plate of homity pie. ‘What is that, anyway?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She prodded it with a fork. ‘The woman said they make it in Sheffield. Doesn’t seem to be any meat.’ Lottie shrugged. She was starving; as long as it was filling and tasty, she didn’t care. She was used to doing without. They’d all become experts at it.
‘Do you know they won’t let us take off our jackets while we’re working?’ Helen asked. ‘Even in this. It’s all right for you; half the time you’re out and about.’
They’d been through this so many times since Lottie joined the WAPC. It wasn’t her fault that McMillan wanted her as his driver. But she understood Helen’s resentment: she wouldn’t want to spend her working days answering the telephone and connecting people. It would drive her barmy. Especially when the station was as hot as this.
‘Do you fancy the pictures this weekend?’ she asked. It was a change of subject. Touch wood, her knee would be fine tomorrow.
‘We could.’ Helen lived for the cinema. She knew every film that was playing, everywhere in town, and spent hours reading Picturegoer each week until she could quote chapter and verse. ‘Going My Way is on at the Empire. That’s supposed to be quite good. Bing Crosby. Or Casablanca’s playing again.’
‘Casablanca,’ Lottie answered without any hesitation. It was an easy choice, Bogart over Crosby. She’d seen the film twice before, but that didn’t matter. It would take her away from here for a couple of hours. A little escape from England to somewhere exotic.
On the tram home she glanced through a copy of Woman’s Weekly someone had left on the seat. Their patterns might save coupons, but she wouldn’t have wanted to make any of them. Unflattering. Worse, they looked dowdy. Old lady clothes. Something to wear when you were pushed around in a bath chair. Still, a couple of the recipes had possibilities. She had plenty of potatoes, carrots, and parsnips from the crop she’d grown in the garden. More than enough for her own needs.
Her mind wandered. Del Vecchio. There was something about him. A coldness he tried to hide. She could imagine him killing without a second thought. But perhaps that was what he needed if he really was a spy. He didn’t seem to have much respect for morality or law. She couldn’t see any link between him and Hilliard, though. What would he see in a deserter and a coward? What use could he have for a man like that?
None, she decided.
Yet that didn’t square with everything else they knew. Del Vecchio had been in the house on Shire Oak Road. So had Pamela Dixon; she’d left her knickers behind. And the neighbour had spotted a woman being carried out of the place to a Jeep with a US Army insignia. The local air-raid warden had heard it leaving the area.
But Pamela’s body had been found in a furrier’s cold storage, dead from a bullet that had been fired by Hilliard.
Add to that, she’d been in Leeds for what appeared to be a dirty weekend with a man who was still unidentified.
Make sense of all that, Lottie told herself.
By the time she reached her stop, she still hadn’t managed to connect any of those dots. The only theories that came to mind were all too wild and fanciful.
Rummaging through the larder she found a tin of snoek. Lottie had bought it when the fish first went on sale, curious, but after all the reports she’d never tried it. Now she had no choice; the shelves were bare. She’d need to go shopping tomorrow. Trying it with some boiled potatoes, she could easily believe the rumours that all the
unsold tins had been re-labelled as cat food. After three mouthfuls she gave up. She hated wasting food – even peelings went into a bucket for the compost heap – but this was vile.
She appeared in the doorway of McMillan’s office the following morning holding two mugs of canteen tea. Her knee felt better; most of the swelling had gone down. She’d been able to manage without a walking stick and only the trace of a limp.
‘You’re a lifesaver.’
‘All part of the service.’ Lottie sat in the visitor’s chair and waited as he took out a Four Square and lit it. ‘There’s one thing we haven’t pursued properly.’
‘What’s that?’ Cigarette in his mouth, he gave her a quizzical stare.
‘This man Pamela Dixon was meeting at the hotel. Her lover. He might be able to help us.’
‘Why? Do you think he killed her?’ McMillan asked sharply.
‘No, not that.’ She struggled to put the idea into words. ‘But everything seems to start with her. She was the first victim. If we can find this chap, we can at least get the beginning of the story. He might know something that could help us.’
McMillan steepled his fingers in front of his face and looked at them.
‘We haven’t been able to trace him. He left a false name in the register, remember. We have fingerprints from the room, but we don’t know which ones are his. Anyway, I’ve got them to check everything they found down at the Criminal Records Office the Met has. Nothing on file that could be our man.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘It’s a dead end. We know we’re after Hilliard, let’s focus on that. We’ll worry about everything else later.’
‘Nothing more overnight?’
‘Not a peep.’
‘Hilliard hasn’t tried anything since that Johnson girl,’ Lottie said slowly.
‘That we know about, anyway.’
‘OK,’ she acknowledged. ‘No one’s mentioned it, and nobody reported missing. What would make him stop, just like that? He had four of them in about as many nights.’
‘That’s easy,’ McMillan said. ‘Right now he’s probably more concerned with saving his own skin. I’m not one of those trick cyclists, but that seems rather self-evident.’
Maybe that really was the reason, Lottie thought, back behind her own desk. As simple as that. Survival. Stronger than the compulsion to murder. The phone began to ring and she picked it up without thinking.
‘Hi.’ There was no mistaking the accent.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘How’s your knee?’
‘It’s much better, thanks.’ She swung her leg a little. Definitely on the mend.
‘That’s great.’ Ellison sounded as though he genuinely meant it, not simply a question for form’s sake. ‘Listen, I was wondering if you were doing anything tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Tomorrow?’ The question puzzled her. What was there to do on Sunday? Everything was closed. He must have learnt that about England by now. ‘Nothing. Why?’
‘The USO has organised a dance. One of the service bands is coming through. Since your knee’s improving I thought you might like to go. You don’t have to dance or anything if you’re not up to it,’ he added quickly.
‘I don’t know.’ She felt dumbstruck by the invitation. It caught her by surprise, scrambling for an answer. For a second she almost said no. She’d never been much of a dancer. The foxtrot and the waltz were her limit. And she daren’t even try those at the moment.
But she was curious, too. What would an American dance be like? She’d heard rumours about the events they put on: plenty of food and drink, even better than England in peacetime. She’d never have another chance to find out how the other half enjoyed themselves. She couldn’t turn that down, could she?
‘It’ll be fun.’ He dangled the words like a promise.
Still Lottie hesitated. Would it be fair to accept? After all, she’d doubted him, if only for a little while. He knew their agreement, but what would he think if she said yes? Would he read too much into it? She took a deep breath.
‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ she told him. Curiosity had won out. Then a thought came: ‘Did del Vecchio organise the dance?’
‘Yeah, he’s the entertainments officer; it’s his job. Don’t worry, he’s not going to be there. I wouldn’t have invited you if he was. I heard John talked to him yesterday.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The whole base must have heard, he was yelling so loud. Anyway, he left for London last night.’
That was something. She wouldn’t need to look over her shoulder the whole time.
‘I’ll pick you up at home about one. OK?’
‘Fine, yes.’ What else was she supposed to say? She’d need new stockings. The kick and the fall the other night had ruined her only good pair. At noon, once her working week was done, she’d go shopping. And perhaps the Co-op salon could fit her in for a quick shampoo and set. She was making a list in her mind when she realised McMillan was standing in the doorway, watching her.
‘It must be something good,’ he said.
‘Sorry. I was miles away.’ Lottie felt herself starting to blush.
He placed a bundle of files on her desk. ‘Could you file those? Unless something comes up on Hilliard, I need to look at some of the other cases.’
She went down to the Records room, gossiping with Margaret as she worked. Boring work, but chat helped the time pass quickly.
‘What’s going on with that American of yours?’
‘He’s not mine,’ Lottie said. She was straining to keep her tone light. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why everyone thinks he is.’
‘You were out with him the other night.’
‘Come on, that was work and you know it.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘We were trying to catch Hilliard. The boss wanted people who didn’t look like coppers.’
Margaret arched an eyebrow. ‘If you say so. I wouldn’t mind having an American. Money to spend, free nylons, all those things from their commissaries. And they always smell so nice, have you noticed?’
She had. It was impossible not to. But everything in England was in such short supply here. Even soap was impossible to find sometimes. No wonder people smelt bad and looked grubby. It had become one of those facts of life. Most of the time she never even thought about it.
‘There are plenty of Yanks around,’ Lottie told her.
‘I know.’ Margaret sighed. ‘But my Peter would kill me if he came home and found out I’d been messing around.’ A quick shrug. ‘A girl can dream. They can’t hang you for that.’
Back upstairs there was no sign of McMillan. His coat and hat were missing. Nothing urgent, she decided, or he’d have come looking for her. She passed the rest of the morning with the Agatha Christie novel, one eye on the clock, willing the small hand to twelve.
He reappeared just as she was tying her scarf around her neck.
‘Come in here a sec,’ he said. She followed him into his office. ‘Close the door.’
Mystified, she obeyed.
‘I’ve just been to see the Assistant Chief Constable.’ She stood, waiting for more. Very slowly, he brought his right hand out of the overcoat pocket, his fingers around the grip of a Webley revolver. Lottie said nothing. She just stared at the weapon. ‘He’s authorised it. Four dead, an officer wounded, a shot at Ellison.’
‘How many of you are armed?’
‘Only Andrews and myself.’ He paused and looked away. ‘For now, anyway.’
‘I see.’ She didn’t have a proper response. She hated guns. But Hilliard would kill again if he had the chance, she was certain of that. She adjusted the cap on her head. ‘I’m off. Don’t work too hard, please. And make sure you go home and see Sarah.’
He pushed the gun back out of sight. ‘I will. I might even take tomorrow off.’
Lottie woke refreshed. She and Helen had enjoyed the evening, a drink and then Casablanca. But she’d adored the film from the first time she’d seen it; by now she even knew some of the lines by heart. It was a perfect weepie, exact
ly what the doctor ordered. She pulled back the blackouts. Outside, the day looked clear and cold, frost heavy on the grass and the windows.
It was a good morning for turning the rest of the soil. By noon she’d worked up a fair sweat, digging up heavy clods of earth then breaking them apart with the fork. Once the weather warmed a little she’d get some manure on there, work it in, and she’d be ready for spring planting. The winter cabbage and leeks hadn’t done too well this year. But it was too late to worry about that now.
In the bathroom she scrubbed the dirt off her hands, rubbing with a pumice stone where it was ingrained into the skin, before giving herself a thorough wash. She slipped into the Utility dress she’d worn the other night, the CC41 label prickly against the back of her neck. Stockings straight from the packet, another two coupons gone. She rolled them up very carefully and attached them to her suspenders, finishing the outfit with a pair of brown Seltona shoes that she’d purchased in 1940; she’d only worn them twice and they still looked smart. A touch of powder, eye shadow and lipstick, then she ran the brush through her hair and looked at herself in the dressing table mirror.
Quite presentable.
Lottie took her coat out of the wardrobe and removed the mothballs.
Deep red wool with a pale fox fur collar. Her luxury coat. Geoff had bought it for her birthday the year before he died. She hadn’t worn it since she’d been alone, but maybe this was a good occasion. He’d approve. A small hat, red and black, decorated with three feathers, set everything off perfectly. She checked her watch: five minutes to one.
‘YOU look a million dollars.’
Ellison was in uniform, dark olive wool jacket, tan shirt and beige tie, fawn trousers. He’d had his hair cut, and now it shone with oil.
‘Thank you.’ How long was it since anyone had complimented her appearance? ‘You don’t look half bad yourself.’
‘Ready?’
Sitting in the passenger seat of the Jeep she felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball. It was a change simply to take in all the scenery, to enjoy a journey without thinking of directions or traffic.
He headed out of Leeds, driving along the road towards York.
The Year of the Gun Page 20
