James Benn - Billy Boyle

“Skak takes a walk every morning at six. A man of precise habits, he says. Cosgrove, whom I don’t see as the walking type, supposedly asked to go along to talk about Skak’s plans for the underground. When I asked Cosgrove about it, he politely told me that it was a matter of security and to butt out.”

“So we found out nothing today,” Daphne said sadly.

“Something else happened.” I gestured for them to lean in closer and whispered to them about the maps. Their eyes widened in surprise. It felt good to impart something new, even if it didn’t help to figure out who the spy or the killer was.

“Who do you think-,” Kaz asked before I cut him off.

“We shouldn’t talk anymore about it here,” I whispered. “But there’s something else. It hit me today that the live round fired during the exercise wasn’t aimed at me. It was a near miss, aimed at Birkeland.”

“That means it was a planned murder,” Kaz said thoughtfully. “The killer missed Birkeland at the exercise, so he got him in his room.”

“In both cases, he went to great lengths to cover his tracks. If that bullet had hit Birkeland, there wouldn’t have been any suspicion at all. It would’ve been just a tragic accident,” I said. “But once you see both events as connected, then it’s obvious it was premeditated murder.”

“Murder? Or assassination?” Daphne asked in a low voice. “Are the maps and his death connected?”

“Connected, maybe, but I can’t really see the same person at work on both. What’s the advantage to the Germans of killing Birkeland? He was an important member of government, but what effect would his death have on the war?”

“None, really,” shrugged Kaz.

“That’s awfully callous, darling,” responded Daphne.

“Yes, it is. But detectives must be objective and dispassionate, yes, Billy?”

“That’s a good place to start, Kaz. But it usually gets complicated, much more complicated than you ever bargained for.”

I thought about Jens again, and how he had described his relationship with the mystery woman. Complicated, but how complicated? Just how deep had he gotten himself? Were we sure the spy was a man? I drained my glass and went to the bar. This was thirsty work. Robert pulled another pint for me and I returned to my seat.

“Daphne,” I asked as I sat down, “what do you know about Major Cosgrove?”

“He seems very well connected to intelligence circles. We think he works for MI-5, British military intelligence. But he claims to be just a liaison from the British General Staff, which fits in with his role here, so maybe our imaginations are overactive. Why? You don’t suspect him of anything, do you?”

“Before we got here, did either of you ever tell him anything about me?” Kaz and Daphne looked at each other, maybe thinking I had drunk my limit. They each shrugged.

“No,” Kaz answered. “We hadn’t seen Major Cosgrove since a week before you got here. Why?”

I leaned in and whispered again. This was getting to be a habit.

“When we first got here, and Cosgrove walked in on us, he said two things about me. First, in Harding’s room, he said he doubted a lieutenant fresh from the States could find a spy when MI-5 had failed.”

“So?” Daphne asked.

“So how did he know I was fresh from the States? I could’ve been here for months.”

“Well,” said Kaz, “most Americans are here fresh from the States. It could have just been an informed guess.”

“Could have,” I agreed. “But I doubt he could have guessed I was from Boston.”

“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.

“Later, at lunch, when I said I hadn’t heard about the gold being smuggled out of Norway, he got snotty and asked if they didn’t report the war news in Boston. It didn’t strike me until later, but then I asked myself-how did he know those two things-that I was new here and from Boston?”

“You do have a distinctive accent, Billy,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “You tend to drop your r’s at the end of a word. It’s noticeable, but then I’m a student of language. Is that a purely Boston accent?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But would an Englishman know what a Boston accent sounded like? Not a Beacon Hill accent, but a real Irish South Boston delivery?”

“No,” said Daphne. “You do sound terribly American, but I wouldn’t know a New York accent from a Boston one unless you pointed out the difference. I doubt Major Cosgrove would either. He’s not very fond of Americans, you know, thinks them brash and arrogant. He’d think it beneath him to discern any difference.”

“What do you think,” I asked her, “about Americans?”

“You are brash and arrogant, or at least more so than we English. We could use more brashness and you a bit less. But, back to Cosgrove. What do you think it means, if he knows more about you than he lets on?”

“I think it means he can’t be trusted.”

“Here you are, my dears!” Mildred’s singsong voice interrupted us as she laid down three steaming plates of fish and chips. “You tuck into that now!”

I inhaled the delicious aroma of the fried fish. I glanced up at Daphne and Kaz, who were looking at each other in stunned silence, taking in what it might mean not to be able to trust a representative of the General Staff, if that was what he really was. Kaz’s glasses steamed up, and I thought, Right, that’s just how I feel. Can’t see a damned thing and no clue as to what the hell is going on.

“Not trust him? What does that mean?” asked Daphne, as she absorbed the implications. “Why would the major hide the fact that he knows something about you? There must be a reasonable explanation.”

“Yes, what purpose would it serve?” Kaz asked as he wiped his glasses.

“Excellent questions. I mean to pursue them tomorrow, among other things. Right now I intend to demolish this plate of food.”

I tried to sound confident and upbeat. In charge. Three pints later I almost believed it myself.

“No, Boyle, you cannot question the king!”

I was sitting across from Major Harding, who was at his desk in the map room. He was sitting upright in his chair, not a wrinkle showing on his uniform, his clear brown eyes drilling me dead center. I was trying not to slouch, my uniform jacket smelled faintly of ale and smoke, and last time I looked in the mirror my eyes were more red than their usual blue. I was trying to ignore the jackhammer going off in my head and concentrate on being told off. I vaguely remembered buying some more pints the night before, someone, maybe me, singing; and Daphne driving us home. Wait, make that an angry Daphne driving us back, and it was me and Kaz singing.

By the number of pound notes left in my wallet, we must’ve had a really good night. I know Robert, the innkeeper, did. Harding wasn’t too happy about us having taken the car without permission, but he was more interested in learning how the investigation was going. He must’ve been in a fairly good mood, though, since there was coffee for two. On the other hand, it was six thirty in the morning, or rather 0630 hours, as the orderly who knocked on my door a while ago had informed me. But that was pure Harding. He must’ve been up early playing another round of switch the maps.

After the first cup of joe had cleared the fur off my tongue, I told Harding I needed to speak to the king. Rolf had gone up to the base at Southwold, and I needed to know if he and the king had run across anything suspicious. They were the first ones up and about the house, I explained to Harding, as if that was enough reason to question royalty.

“King Haakon is off limits to you, soldier, and that’s an order. Understand?”