Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  Poppy finally stirred. She too appeared disinclined to abandon the world of Morpheus. Rolling over onto her opposite flank, she faced the drowsy inspector and slid across the bed until they lay chest-to-chest, tickling his nose with her unruly bed head of fine blonde hair. He idly wondered if she used a special shampoo to achieve her unique fragrance or whether it was simply her sublime, natural scent. What Thaddeus Hunloke knew about women could be written on the back of a postage stamp.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting up?” murmured Poppy.

  “Suppose so...” He didn’t want to speak and break the spell. “You get up...”

  “In a while... what time is it?” she asked.

  “Dunno... it’s light.”

  “So it’s tomorrow then?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Tell me...”

  “What...?”

  “Did yesterday really happen?”

  “Dunno, I’m not thinking about it.” He sighed resignedly.

  “Do you think if we just lie here we could stop time? That if we stayed here long enough, time would go backwards?” Her voice held a fey, soothing quality.

  “We could try.”

  “Yes, let’s...”

  Perhaps they fell asleep. Neither of them moved. Two motionless bodies seeking to make the world go away, taking reassurance from their physical convergence.

  An hour past without either of them stirring. Conceivably, they succeeded in arresting time, for the world made no claim on them; it was as if they had been forgotten by the universe, which compassionately decided to proceed in their absence.

  It would have been a neat trick had they pulled it off. That they gained the extra hour was in no small way down to Carey Gladwin.

  Since seven o’clock that morning, Carey had been ensconced in the library, spending a good deal of time on the telephone. When demands were made for Hunloke’s presence by various official bodies, she told them he was away from the house. With the distinguished oral dexterity that for months had bamboozled the Nazis and Pétain’s paramilitary Milice, she thwarted Hunloke’s pursuers. She even arranged for Superintendant Rodney Bidder to be collected from hospital at lunchtime.

  Nevertheless, the world could not be put off indefinitely. At ten o’clock, Carey mounted the stairs carrying a tray and knocked before entering Hunloke’s bedroom.

  She was no fool. She knew he had been sleeping with Mrs Edward Gray. Her initial hopes that Poppy might drive him away back to London had come to nought. She had no idea what either of them took from their nocturnal activities but it didn’t appear to affect his diurnal duties. She wasn’t so sure that others would agree with her sentiment or judgement.

  She smiled when she noticed the two slumbering bodies beneath the quilted eiderdown. She felt a strange reluctance to disturb the lovers, evoking as it did her memories of those perfect summer days in France with François. She had long abandoned any sense of a future. She had spiritually died at the hands of the enemy even if her body had survived. She had become an emotionless shell that lived as an actor performed upon a stage.

  And yet something about the unlikely adulterous relationship between the irascible inspector and the youngest daughter of the Duke of Brocklingby tugged at the last residual vestige of sentiment in the broken mind and body of Carey Gladwin. Perhaps it was that their passionate infidelity was a doomed cause as was her love for François.

  Moving his cigarette packet and ashtray, she placed the tray on the bedside unit before crossing the room to wrench apart the blackout drapes.

  The low sun, approaching the nadir of its seasonal procession, was already well advanced in the southern sky off to the right. Even so, after days of perpetual gloom, the reappearance of the sun in the pale azure sky was almost blinding.

  She chose to sit on Hunloke’s side of the bed. She trusted his likely reaction to her presence. She was not so sure about Violet Gray. She shook his raised shoulder until she felt him stirring.

  “Wakey wakey, rise and shine!” announced Carey with affected zeal. Amid groaning and at least once curse, she watched his head emerge for beneath the Eiderdown, followed by Poppy’s sleepy face. She took umbrage when she noticed the blonde staring uncertainly at her with only one eye before realising that Poppy was simply half-asleep. Hunloke lay with his head on the pillow, blinking whilst he gathered his disparate thoughts.

  Carey watched Poppy licking her lips and performing loosening exercises with her mouth before speaking. “Do you know what, Artie? I think we failed to turn back time. She’s still bloody here...”

  “Good morning, Poppy. I take it you slept well?” asked Carey with a smile. Poppy slid up the bed, exposing her bare shoulders and raised herself upon her elbows.

  “Come to serve my eviction notice have you?” sneered Poppy with practiced aloofness. Carey reached across, took one of the set of cups and saucers, and passed it to Poppy, who accepted the drink without rancour, as if it was her right.

  “No one is evicting anyone,” answered Carey with her forced bonhomie. “The deal has yet to be done. Moreover, what I didn’t say last night was that my client will be needing someone to run the house when it is purchased. Who better than you and your husband?”

  “Act as servants...?” It was Poppy’s turn to take offence at such a servile suggestion. She made no response to the mention of her husband.

  “No, paid administrators to supervise the much needed restoration of the property. At least you won’t be burdened with the escalating repair bills. I’m sure the house will be very grateful.”

  Poppy’s face relaxed. Carey might have been unaware of pushing a few of the right buttons, but she had. Poppy may well not have been totally convinced regarding the merits of selling Flash House but the seed had at least been sown.

  “Don’t I get one?” asked Hunloke, nodding towards the cup beside the bed. He fought to hide the awkwardness at being found in bed with the lady of the house. Still, it was something he could live with. No one had died at their expense.

  “You can reach it yourself,” chided Carey. “They’re expecting you at Flash Camp before noon, to announce your fate, no doubt.”

  “What, for capturing one of the escaped POW’s and releasing the kids from the school?”

  “No, I assume for letting one of the POW’s escape, killing the other one, and blowing up half the school. You were lucky they weren’t all killed!” Carey sounded critical but her feelings were anything but. With her experience of sabotage and mayhem, she guessed the improvised explosive device had been on a timer. Without Hunloke’s intervention, the children and teachers would have certainly been blown to smithereens. The wrecked side of her character found the idea fascinating as opposed to abhorrent.

  Poppy drove Hunloke to Flash Camp on a cold and crisp December morning. He was dressed in his new suit as befitted his status of police inspector, preferring the civilian sartorial look after the events of the previous day. Impersonating an Army officer was a charge he could well do without.

  POW work details had been cancelled for the second day running. The camp was again without a commanding officer and eight guards down. There was a sense of mourning in the air.

  The concrete apron was littered with vehicles Hunloke did not recognise, both military and civilian. That things had changed in the camp was exemplified when, despite his distinctive appearance, he was asked to present proof of identity at the main gate.

  The guardroom bustled with activity and he recognised the distinctive camouflaged smock uniforms of paratroopers amongst the ubiquitous serge olive drab of the regular camp personnel. Peering into the commanding officer’s office through the open door, he spied Captain Philby of the Paras on the phone and the backs of two anonymous officers.

  Sergeant Donovan appeared beside Hunloke.

  “Morning, sergeant,” voiced Hunloke quietly amid the activity of the office.

  “Morning, Mr Hunloke.” Donovan’s subtle change in greeting was plainly interpreted.

&
nbsp; “I never really got chance to speak to you yesterday. I assume nothing was said about Grass and König?”

  “No, acting Corporal Bird is credited with the shooting of Flohe.”

  “Good... And thank you.”

  “That’s alright, Mr Hunloke. Just don’t do it again.” Donovan buried the intended smile. It would not be well received given the current circumstances.

  “Any news on Bonhof and Mrs Maxfield?” enquired Hunloke.

  “Found the staff car on the outskirts of Burton. No sign of either of them. No reports from Irish Sea crossings. They appear to have vanished.”

  “I somehow doubt we’ll find them. Mrs Maxfield had planned things most methodically.”

  “It would seem so...”

  “Hunloke...!” The summons came from the office of the late Major Beevor, his apostrophe-less name still adorning the office door. The waving hand beckoned the inspector onwards.

  ‘Cosy’ might best describe fitting four adults in the office of the commanding officer. “Close the door, inspector,” instructed David Philby. He chose not to introduce the two red tab officers keeping him company. “You’ll be pleased to know that the powers-that-be have decided not to press any charges against you.”

  “Charges for doing what exactly?” asked Hunloke peevishly.

  “Oh, there’s a whole raft of charges they could have come up with. Impersonating an Army officer, being a pain in the arse...”

  “There is no such offence as the last one.”

  “No...?” challenged Philby with a smile, “well, perhaps there should be. Nonetheless, they could have come up with something to put you away. Seems they’re not going to.”

  “So?” asked Hunloke.

  “So what?”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Well, I’m told you still have to find the murderer of Major Charles Beevor. I suppose you could pin it on the Jerries. What’s one more death?”

  “They didn’t do it...,” answered Hunloke earnestly.

  “Then I suggest you hurry up and find out who did and quickly.”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “Excellent. Oh, and please stay away from the camp in future. I’m sure the new CO won’t appreciate your meddling.”

  “What if my enquiries lead be back here?”

  “Go through the normal channels for requesting a visit. Just don’t turn up unannounced...”

  Hunloke seethed with a mixture of confused emotions. Anger ebbed and flowed, tempered by undoubted relief. His actions had been rash although, in his mind, vindicated. No one had thanked him and yet he didn’t want their gratitude. He was happy to be absolved of any responsibility for the camp; nonetheless, he still resented the banishment. He wanted the chance, after a night’s rest, to justify his actions but cold military logic told him to walk away whilst he still could.

  And that was what Thaddeus Hunloke did. He walked away from the camp and strolled backed towards Flash House. With the constant conversational hum and all-pervading odour of the camp receding with every step he took, he listened to the mocking carrion wheeling overhead, revelling in the winter sunshine.

  Carey Gladwin was nowhere to be found when he return to Flash House. She had been replaced by Superintendant Rodney Bidder. He was reposing in the morning room, his ankle bandaged, a crutch resting against the side of his chair. Someone, whom he assumed to be Poppy, had found a threadbare pouffe on which he rested his sprained ankle.

  The flying fedora attracted Bidder’s attention when it landed on the sofa. Hunloke was not long in following the hat. He felt warm enough after his energising walk but bent forward to warm his hands in the glow of the electric heater.

  “Where’s Poppy?” asked Hunloke, now slouched decadently on the sofa.

  “How the hell should I know? I’m under orders to rest my ankle,” replied Bidder tetchily.

  “How’s the head?”

  “Nothing wrong with it. How’s your arse after the kicking you thoroughly deserved?”

  Hunloke’s face twisted asymmetrically as he grinned at his boss’ comment. “Received a lot worse from you...”

  “So are you going to tell me what happened? And I mean what really happened, not some fairytale.”

  Hunloke recounted the whole story as he remembered it. It was odd how during the retelling certain images flashed before his eyes. He could have done without the sight of Brian Conway’s ashen face lingering longer than necessary.

  “I want your report written up asap,” insisted Bidder, “the factual one and the one you’ve been telling everyone else. I assume you kept quiet about arming two German POW’s?” Hunloke shrugged his indifference to the charge. “So now we concentrate on the murder of Major Beevor.”

  “I already know who’s responsible, well sort of...,” declared Hunloke. The inspector’s reply startled Bidder. He tossed Hunloke one of his cigarettes to allow him time to compose his thoughts.

  “So why haven’t we arrested someone?” Bidder’s enquiry was not unreasonable.

  “Because I’m not sure for certain and I’ve not established a motive.”

  “But you know the identity of the murderer?”

  “Not specifically, but Beevor’s own journal hinted at a few possibilities.”

  “Then I suggest you get on with writing your reports and get to grips with these ‘possibilities’ so we can put this Beevor case to bed.”

  “Yessir...” Hunloke’s response lacked finality.

  “Yessir but what?” responded Bidder.

  “I need to go to London.”

  “Now is not the time to be homesick, inspector.”

  “I don’t have a home, sir.”

  “No, you don’t, I’m sorry... So why London?”

  “I want to track down a few of the individuals Brian Conway spoke to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe there is something significant that Brian didn’t get around to telling me and he missed in his notes.”

  “And this is to do with Beevor?”

  “Yes. I also need to see Christine Baldwin; she’ll know where I can find the individuals I want to interview.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “Hopefully a day, two at most.”

  “I’m supposed to be here supervising you, inspector. Now finish your reports and bugger off before I change my mind.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Talk to the ghosts?”

  “Very funny,” sneered Bidder.

  “Oh, and I hope you like gin rummy and Artie Shaw.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mrs Gray does...”

  Hunloke scribbled his reports in less than half an hour. He would type them up properly later. Upon completion of the task, he perused the notes remaining upon the office desk in the library and found what he was looking for.

  By two o’clock, he was on his way to Derby in the borrowed Snipe. It took him the best part of an hour to reach the county city and a further hour to find Edgware Terrace, the home of Mr and Mrs Baldwin. Dusk was well established by the time he located number twenty-four. It was a token of wartime austerity and the economic class of the inhabitants that only one other car stood parked in the street.

  The terrace of grimy back-to-back houses was deserted save for a gang of youths loitering by the corner shop at the far end of the street. The area seemed to have avoided any bomb damage and only a handful of houses still had white anti-blast tape stuck to their windows as a precaution against flying shards of glass.

  He knocked on the peeling yellow front door. A small man wearing a white shirt with rolled up sleeves and a grey sleeveless pullover answered the door. He did not speak; he merely stared questioningly at the tall blonde haired man with the scar on his left cheek. He thought the visitor looked like a loan shark’s henchman.

  “Mr Baldwin? My name is Thaddeus Hunloke. I’m a policeman. May I have a word with your daugh
ter?” Hunloke held up his warrant card for inspection though he might as well have been proffering a betting slip. That at least might have been of interest to Ted Baldwin.

  “This to do with what she’s bin doin’ up country?” asked Baldwin. It amused Hunloke that the north of the county should be viewed as ‘up country’ by someone living in the south of Derbyshire. “Best come in I suppose...,” agreed the man with a heavy Derbyshire accent.

  The front door opened out onto the street from the parlour. A flight of stairs ran up to a pair of bedrooms. Behind the parlour was what might in years to come be described in a middle class home as a kitchen diner. In the Baldwin household, kitchen sufficed.

  “Beverly is still out working,” declared Ted Baldwin. “She works two days a week for Alex Denham.” He said it in such a way as to imply the name carried sufficient fame or notoriety for Hunloke to recognise. Hunloke went along with the charade by nodding knowingly. “I’d offer you a cup of tea but we’ve no milk ‘til she gets home.”

  The kitchen reminded Hunloke of the home of his youth. It did not commend scrutiny. Upon the table lay a copy of the Daily Mirror and it occurred to him that he hadn’t read a newspaper since his arrival in Derbyshire.

  “Where is Christine?” asked Hunloke, never one to beat about the bush in such situations.

  “Upstairs...” The emphasis was on the guttural ‘u’. “She’s upset. Says a friend of hers died.”

  “Yes, that is true. May I speak to her?”

  Baldwin shrugged as if to intimate it was no skin off his nose. He ducked past Hunloke into the parlour and hollered up the stairs. “Christine, me duck, there’s a policeman to see you!” He repeated his message but gained the same negative response.

  “I’ll go up,” said Hunloke, now standing at the man’s shoulder.

  “Well, I’m not sure that’s proper...”

  “It’s okay; I took a course at Scotland Yard. I’m exclusively qualified to enter young ladies’ bedrooms alone.”