by Unknown
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ he said.
‘Not a ghost,’ she said. ‘I thought I saw Detective Trave when I came in – he’s one of the policemen investigating my father’s case – but then he disappeared.’
‘Where was he sitting?’ Seaforth asked.
‘On his own over there,’ said Ava, pointing across the room towards the bar.
‘Wearing a tan raincoat and hiding behind a well-thumbed copy of The Times?’
‘Yes, how do you know?’ asked Ava, surprised.
‘He arrived just before you, looking like he was up to no good. I’m trained to keep my eyes open for suspicious-looking characters. Remember?’ said Seaforth with a grin.
She smiled back, relaxing a little. ‘I wonder what he was doing here, if it was him. Perhaps I was mistaken,’ she said.
‘Maybe,’ said Seaforth. ‘But whoever it was, he’s gone now, so why don’t we have a drink and forget about him?’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m just a bit on edge, that’s all. I had to go to the solicitor’s with my husband, and then the train was delayed. And maybe this wasn’t the best place to meet,’ she said, glancing around the restaurant. ‘You could get lost in here – there are so many people.’
‘It was your suggestion,’ said Seaforth, smiling.
‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else. I’ve only been here once before, and it wasn’t like this. I don’t know the West End very well.’
‘So, do you like it?’
‘It’s not like Battersea.’
‘It certainly isn’t,’ said Seaforth, laughing. ‘But that wasn’t my question. I asked you if you like this place.’
Ava forced herself to think. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘I think I do.’ It was an understatement. She felt excited by the Corner House; by the vast throng of people; by the music and the lights. The band was playing a Vera Lynn song: ‘We’ll meet again, Don’t know where, don’t know when …’ The words seemed significant somehow, like a promise of some kind.
‘I like it too,’ said Seaforth. ‘People need to feel alive. They have a right to it, I think, particularly in wartime. If a bomb has your number on it tomorrow, then you want to make sure you live a bit today. All the West End is like this, you know – the picture palaces and the dance halls – they’re bursting at the seams since the Blitz started.’
She thought of going with Seaforth to a dance hall – feeling his arms around her waist, swinging to the rhythm of the music so fast that she could forget all about Battersea and Bertram and her father and the war. But then she shook her head, banishing the vision conjured up by her unconscious mind as she remembered her earlier resolve to stay on her guard and keep her wits about her.
Seaforth ordered for both of them. He obviously knew the place well: he didn’t even have to look at the menu. He could have his pick of pretty girls, thought Ava. He was so confident and handsome. The waitress hung on his every word, and Ava could see women turning to look at him surreptitiously from other tables. Yet he seemed interested solely in her. Why? She needed to know why.
‘You said you had something you wanted to talk to me about,’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m worried about you,’ he said, leaning towards her as if to emphasize his concern.
‘About me? I thought you wanted to talk to me about my father.’
‘Well, that’s true. It’s because of what happened to him that I’m concerned about you.’
‘What? You think I’m going to be next?’ she asked with a false laugh, trying unsuccessfully to hide her anxiety.
‘I hope not,’ he said seriously. ‘I hope I’m wrong and that you’re not in any danger.’
‘Wrong about what?’ she asked, unable to keep the alarm out of her voice.
‘About your husband.’
‘What about him?’ asked Ava, taken aback. It was the last answer she’d expected Seaforth to give. ‘I don’t understand. You don’t even know Bertram. How can you know something about him that I don’t?’
‘I talked to the police—’
‘How? Why would they talk to you?’ asked Ava, interrupting. Each answer that Seaforth gave seemed more preposterous than the last. And presumptuous too. What business did he have interfering in her family’s affairs?
‘The inspector in charge of the case – Quaid, I think his name is – called me because I used to work with your father. He wanted to check up on Albert’s background, and while he was on the phone I was able to find out a little about the investigation. I’m afraid I think that your husband is the main suspect.’
‘Why?’ asked Ava, although she thought she already knew the answer to her question.
‘Because of your father’s money. Apparently he was quite a wealthy man, and your husband is named alongside you as the main beneficiary in your father’s will. Of course you’re aware of this, but I wonder if you know that he’s heavily in debt and that he desperately needs your father’s money if he’s going to stay solvent.’
‘Yes.’ Ava nodded. ‘It doesn’t surprise me. But … well, I keep on going over it in my mind, and I just don’t think Bertram’s capable of murder.’ She swallowed hard, trying to resist the upsurge of fear that had come with the utterance of the awful word. ‘I’m not stupid,’ she went on with an effort. ‘I can see he’s the one who had the motive, but that’s not the same as saying he did it.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Seaforth. ‘I suppose the real question is how well do you know him?’
‘We’ve been married for over three years,’ said Ava curtly. She understood now why Seaforth wanted to talk to her. He was obviously going to be concerned if he thought she was in danger, but she still felt uncomfortable discussing her private life with somebody who was almost a stranger.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Seaforth, backing off. ‘I know it’s not my business, but I just want to help. Let me ask you this instead: Do you have any idea how he ran up all these debts?’
‘He said they were bad investments.’
‘But do you know that or are you just taking his word for it?’
Ava dropped her eyes, not answering.
‘Have there been any letters about the money that you’ve seen?’ he asked, pressing the question.
‘I’ve read a few,’ said Ava, colouring. She hadn’t liked steaming open Bertram’s letters, but she’d felt she had no choice. She’d needed to know what was happening in her life.
‘Good for you,’ said Seaforth. ‘Did they tell you anything?’
‘No … except that the debts were much larger than I’d suspected. Apart from the bank, they were to companies I’d never heard of.’
‘So maybe the answer is that you don’t know him that well,’ said Seaforth, giving Ava a searching look. ‘Maybe you don’t know what he’s capable of.’
‘No. Yes … I don’t know,’ said Ava. She had a habit of gnawing on her thumbnail when she was nervous. She was doing it now but stopped when she became aware of Seaforth watching her.
He drummed his fingers on the table, his brow wrinkled in thought. ‘I don’t like it, Ava,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to tell you I don’t like it. Tell me, has he done anything out of the ordinary since your father’s death?’
‘Like what?’
‘Has he tried to get you to do anything?’
‘Just go to the solicitor’s today. He spent all his time organizing the funeral, and now the will’s his new obsession. He told the solicitor that he’s going to the Probate Office first thing in the morning.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Seaforth, nodding. ‘He needs to have the will made official before he can get his hands on the money. It sounds like he’s in a race against time with his creditors. What about medicines?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been overwrought. Has he offered you sedatives or anything like that?’
‘No. Like I said, he doesn’t seem to notice me much unless it’s about something he’s organizing.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ said Seaforth,
stroking his chin pensively. ‘I honestly think you’ll be safe as long as you don’t give him any reason to think that you suspect him—’
‘But I did,’ Ava broke in, sounding frightened. ‘I got angry, on the night before the funeral. I told him I knew about his debts and I said …’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said it was pretty convenient my father died when he did.’
‘How did he react?’
‘He swore he had nothing to do with it.’
‘And did you believe him?’
‘I didn’t know what to think. We haven’t discussed it since then.’
‘So he probably thinks it’s no longer an issue.’ Seaforth smiled, defusing the tension. And she felt herself relax in response. Live for today. Wasn’t that what Seaforth had been saying she should do earlier? Because a bomb might have her number on it tomorrow …
Seaforth left for a moment to make a telephone call and returned with a waitress bringing their food and a second glass of wine. Ava couldn’t remember when she had last drunk alcohol in the middle of the day. It went to her head, making her feel that anything was possible. And the food was wonderful. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she started eating. Inside this pleasure dome, all the months of thrift and ration-book shopping seemed a distant memory. At first she tried to eat delicately, like a lady, but then she gave up on the attempt. She caught Seaforth’s eye as she reached for another slice of bread to clean her plate and saw that he was watching her with amusement. She felt annoyed for a moment, but then she laughed. No girl could be unhappy for long in a place like this, she thought – not with a handsome, clever man like Charles Seaforth for company.
But then in the bus on the way home, her doubts returned. Seaforth had confirmed the impression she’d got from Trave at Scotland Yard. The police thought Bertram had killed her father. She thought back to that moment when she had peered up through the darkness towards the shadowy figures struggling on the second-floor landing at Gloucester Mansions. Was Bertram the man with the soft voice who had pushed her father over the balustrade? Was that what he would do to her if she got in his way? She shivered, trying to control her anxiety as she got off the bus and began walking up the deserted street towards her flat. The sky had clouded over, and it was beginning to rain.
Trave walked back to Scotland Yard, puzzling over what he had seen, unprepared for the reception awaiting him on his return. Quaid exploded as soon as Trave came through the door of their shared office.
‘How dare you disobey my orders?’ he began angrily. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to go to St James’s Park? Didn’t I tell you to leave the people in there alone?’
Trave bowed his head, saying nothing because there was nothing to say; he had no defence. But his brain was racing as he waited for Quaid to vent his fury. It had to be Seaforth who’d complained – he must have telephoned Quaid from the Corner House soon after Trave had left. And if his call had had such an effect on the inspector, then didn’t that imply that Seaforth was the one who’d spoken to Quaid before and got the inspector to agree to keep 59 Broadway out of the investigation? How had he been able to do that? And why?
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Trave when Quaid finally paused for breath. ‘But is the man who complained about me called Seaforth?’
‘How on earth do you know that?’ asked Quaid, looking surprised.
‘Mrs Brive told me about him. He was at the funeral. And then today he was with her at the Lyons Corner House—’
‘And they can be there tomorrow too if they want and the day after that, but without you spying on them,’ interrupted Quaid, working himself up to another tirade. ‘I’ve had enough of your insubordination. Any more of it and you’ll find yourself working for the military police. And in case you think that’s a soft option, let me tell you that it’ll be in one of the new internment camps for enemy aliens that the Home Office has opened up on the north end of Scotland. Not where I’d like to spend the winter, but it’s up to you. Do we understand each other, lad? Do we?’
Trave nodded. Quaid had threatened him with a transfer before, but this time he sensed the inspector was serious. He’d never seen his boss this angry, and the threat was considerably more detailed than it had ever been in the past. It would certainly spell the end of his career if Quaid went through with it. He might as well be interned himself.
Trave knew that almost anyone in his position with a basic instinct for survival would have decided to toe the line after the warning he’d received from Quaid, yet by the end of the day he had resolved to ignore the sword of Damocles hanging over his head and go back to Broadway the next morning.
Trave’s stubbornness was at the same time one of the best and one of the worst characteristics of his contradictory personality. As a boy at school, he’d been punished over and over again for refusing to abide by rules that he considered arbitrary or unfair and, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, he was man enough to realize that he’d often rebelled just for the sake of it, just to be different. But the cussed independence that he’d shown in his early years had stood the test of time and innumerable beatings by angry schoolmasters, and it had become second nature to him to be prepared to stand alone and do what he thought was right, regardless of the consequences.
He wasn’t intimidated by his boss. Quaid’s intemperate fury had only increased his curiosity about the occupants of 59 Broadway and Seaforth in particular. Ava’s new friend must be a powerful figure if he could have such an effect on Quaid, and he must care a great deal about his privacy to feel the need to put such pressure on the inspector. And then what was he doing with Ava, who had said nothing about meeting him in the West End when Trave had seen her the day before? Every time Trave went to 59 Broadway, he was left with more questions, and he knew that the only way he was going to find answers was by going back there, regardless of Quaid’s threats. All that had changed was that next time he was determined to be more careful about being seen. He’d underestimated Seaforth’s watchfulness once, and he didn’t intend to make the same mistake again.
CHAPTER 8
Ava took out her key and unlocked the door, and came face-to-face with Bertram, waiting for her in the narrow hallway of their flat.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.
‘I told you. I went to see Mrs Willoughby.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ he countered. ‘I called her. Her phone number’s in the book, but perhaps you didn’t know that. She says she’s back in Tunbridge Wells with her cat and has been since the funeral, and she told me she doesn’t know anything about an arrangement to see you.’
‘How dare you?’ she said. ‘How dare you check up on me?’ They were the first words that came into her head.
‘I’ve got a right to,’ said Bertram, standing his ground. ‘You’re my wife, in case you’ve forgotten.’
She was still standing in the doorway, and she thought of turning around and running back the way she’d come, but she knew there was no point. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel, and besides, this was her home – she hadn’t anywhere else to go.
‘Tell me,’ said Bertram, taking a step towards her. ‘Tell me where you went, Ava. You were in one hell of a hurry to get out of the lawyer’s office this morning. It must have been something important. Or someone. …’
Bertram’s eyes were bulging and his fists were clenched. Ava wondered if he was going to hit her. He’d never done that before, but there was always a first time. Was this how it had happened with her father? she wondered. Had Bertram got angry about something – a loan of money, perhaps – and lashed out in frustration? Maybe that was what her father was saying before he fell: ‘No. No, I won’t’ lend you money. Was that what he’d meant?
Ava felt like two people. Part of her was scared, backed up against the door, but another part of her was watching her husband with a strange detachment. He was hideous, she thought, and ridiculous too, with his green bow tie sticking out at righ
t angles from under his double chin.
‘Who were you with?’ shouted Bertram, infuriated by her lack of response.
‘It’s none of your business,’ she said, shrinking away from his panting breath.
‘Of course it’s my business. You’re my wife. You do as I say.’ He had hold of her hand now, squeezing her wrist so it hurt her. ‘It was Alec Thorn, wasn’t it? I’ve seen the way he used to stare at you when we were over at your father’s, undressing you with his eyes like you were some kind of scarlet woman. Admit it, Ava!’ he shouted. And when she didn’t respond, he reached back with his free hand and smacked her hard across the cheek.
She was frightened, but she was angry too, angrier than she’d ever been in all her life. The stinging pain enraged her. What right did this pathetic excuse for a man have to hurt her? He was the one who deserved to be hurt.
‘What’ll you do if I don’t admit it?’ she demanded, spitting the words in his face as though she was laying down a challenge. ‘Kill me, like you did my father?’
He took a step back, visibly shocked by her accusation. His hold on her wrist weakened for a moment and she seized the opportunity to twist out of his grip, then pushed him hard in the chest using both hands. He staggered back against the wall and she ran past him through the hall and into the bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind her.
She stood in the centre of the room, listening. She could hear him moving around outside. She bent over, clutching her left side, trying to catch her breath and calm the wild beating of her heart. She felt frightened – she didn’t know what he was going to do. She’d seen the look in his eye when he hit her, and now she was convinced that he had killed her father. Perhaps he hadn’t set out to do it, but once their argument had got out of hand he’d lost his temper and pushed the old man over the balustrade to his death. Then he’d returned to the crime scene not because he was concerned for her, but because he wanted to secure the will so that he could get his hands on his victim’s money. Bertram would do anything for the money. That much was obvious.
