Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

Van Gils shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘You must have seen plenty of suspects lie in the past,’ Conrad said. ‘Was Constance lying? Perhaps she never saw Theo after all?’

‘I certainly have,’ said van Gils. ‘But actually, she was quite convincing. She is a strange woman, Mrs Scott-Dunton, very strange. She comes across as a naive, innocent English girl. She is very young, only twenty-three, and yet there is something else there, a kind of suppressed excitement. Passion. Most un-English.’

‘So you couldn’t arrest her?’

Van Gils smiled. ‘No. I couldn’t even keep her in the country. Remember “my colleagues”, as you called them, had informed me they had evidence that Miss de Lancey had been murdered by a German spy. Hertenberg.’

‘And you don’t believe them?’

‘Not one bit. They let her go back to England. The investigation died. Our spies are happy and I suspect yours are too.’

Could it have been Constance? Conrad wondered. There was certainly something distinctly odd about her. But why would she want to kill Millie? That was something Conrad could try to find out back in England, perhaps with Anneliese’s help.

‘There isn’t any chance that they could be right after all? That Theo von Hertenberg murdered her? Did you speak to him?’

‘In theory there is a chance. We did ask to see him at the German Embassy. He wouldn’t cooperate; he invoked diplomatic immunity, unsurprisingly. He was staying at the Hotel du Vieux Doelen in The Hague that evening, and flew to Berlin the following morning from Schiphol Airport. He has been flying back and forth a lot in the last few weeks. No one whom we spoke to, including the hotel staff on duty, saw him leave his hotel early that morning. Just this mysterious Mr Donkers whom I am not allowed to interview. And of course, if Hertenberg never left the hotel, then it implies he never arranged to meet Millie in the dunes in the first place.’

As Conrad considered the detective’s words, a surge of relief flooded through him; he had hated the idea that Theo could have murdered Millie. He much preferred the possibility that Constance had stabbed her. But perhaps that was too much to hope and he was fooling himself.

He would have plenty of questions himself for Theo when they met the following day in Leiden.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ The detective’s eyes narrowed again.

‘Can you arrange for Millie’s body to be sent back to England? I assume you have already performed a post-mortem.’

‘We have,’ said van Gils. ‘It shows what one would expect: your sister died from stab wounds to the chest. But I am sorry. Technically the case is still open and the investigation is continuing, although in practice they expect me to do nothing more. But it means we cannot release the body, at least for now.’ The policeman sounded genuinely regretful.

‘Inspector van Gils. I am sure I have broken lots of rules I don’t even know exist to tell you what I have told you. Can you not do the same for me? It sounds as if your superiors would not be unhappy to see evidence related to this particular investigation leave your country.’

‘You are right about that.’ Van Gils allowed himself a gruff smile. ‘I will see what I can do.’

Kensington, London

Alston walked briskly through Kensington Gardens on his way back from a luncheon at the Savoy with Freddie Copthorne, a newspaper proprietor and a general. It was late afternoon, dark, but not yet pitch black, and he could still see his way.

Luncheon had gone well. There was no doubt that Alston was widening his circle of influential admirers, to whom he knew he came across as someone who was sound, reliable yet astute. Not a hothead, but one who would take difficult decisions to do what was best for his country.

He was buoyed by The Times leader of that morning, which had floated the idea of a Cabinet shake-up, perhaps involving the War Office, and named him as one of two or three able men with experience of business as well as Parliament capable of providing an injection of vigour into the government.

It was becoming increasingly clear that in war the normal rules of political advancement didn’t apply. Alston might only have been in Parliament since 1935, and he was barely forty, but he was indeed a man of energy and vigour, and his country needed him. More importantly, he could see things clearly — he always had been able to. For him the issues of the day were unobscured by sentiment or traditional patterns of thought. The world was changing in ways that very few of his colleagues in Parliament understood. Modern Germany pointed to the future; Neville Chamberlain, with his frock coat, winged collar and furled umbrella, tugged Britain back to the past.

When the crisis came — and Alston was sure there was going to be a crisis at some point in the future — Alston wanted to be the one important figures such as the newspaper proprietor and the general turned to. He wasn’t at that point quite yet, but he was getting there.

It wasn’t just luncheon and The Times article that were responsible for lifting Alston’s spirits. Constance had said she would drop round to his flat to report on what had happened in Holland. This would be his first opportunity to see her since she had returned to England; Alston had spent the previous few days at his castle in Berwickshire with his wife and son. Alston was worried about Constance: it must have been shocking to discover Millie’s dead body like that. And he felt very sorry for poor old Arthur Oakford. Who had killed his daughter? he wondered.

Of course, what he really wanted to do with Constance was fuck her. It was less than two weeks since Alston had taken Constance to his bed, or perhaps it was the other way round. That afternoon had been a revelation. Alston had just told his wife he might not get a chance to return to Berwickshire until Christmas, citing important affairs of state in London. But really he just wanted to see Constance. And fuck her.

But he would have to be gentle with her. She would be upset. He would have to be patient, wait until she had recovered her strength.

As he strode down Ennismore Gardens in the near darkness, he saw what seemed to be the silhouette of a woman on the pavement outside his building.

It was her!

She approached him. As he drew closer, he saw that her face was flushed with excitement, rather than grief.

‘You must be cold,’ he said, touching her cheek.

She smiled and pecked him on the lips. In the dark street, no one could see. ‘I am. Can I come in? Perhaps you could warm me up?’

Alston felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he pulled Constance’s naked body close to him. Fucking had been, if anything, wilder than before, as if Constance’s experience in Holland had inflamed some primeval passion. Alston, that paragon of culture, intellect and rational thought, had felt like a caveman.

‘Could you tell I was pleased to see you?’ Constance said, running her hand over his chest.

‘Yes.’ He squeezed her. ‘I was worried in case… Well, in case you were distressed about Millie. Are you going to see her brother?’

‘I’ve seen him. In the Russian Tea Rooms, over the weekend.’

‘How is he?’

‘Rather upset, I’d say.’

‘I’m not surprised. Do they know who killed her?’

‘They think it was Theo von Hertenberg. The German spy. Millie’s friend.’

‘But why would he kill her?’

Constance unhooked herself from Alston’s arm and sat astride him, pinning him down against the bed.

‘He wouldn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Because he didn’t kill her.’

‘He didn’t kill her? But you just said he did.’