Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

She got off the bus at Covent Garden and walked up Floral Street to the sandbagged courthouse, past the Royal Opera House, which had been converted to use as a Mecca Dance Hall since the start of the war. She was dog-tired after her sleepless night in the shelter, and there had been no chance to rest when she went back to her flat in Battersea to wash and change her clothes. Pure adrenaline was keeping her on her feet.

Inside, a huge crowd of people from all walks of life were milling about in the lobby outside the courtroom: down-at-heel crooks looking wistfully towards the exit doors; impoverished young journalists hoping for a hot story to please their editors; journeymen lawyers in threadbare suits conferring with their clients or waiting for their cases to be called on; stolid-looking police officers in blue serge uniforms waiting to give evidence. And coming towards her where she stood just inside the entrance was another policeman, but one wearing plain clothes instead of a uniform. It was Detective Trave, whom she had last seen watching her across the crowded restaurant in Coventry Street.

‘How have you been?’ he asked, shaking her hand.

‘All right,’ she lied. The truth was too complicated, and she didn’t want to talk about her troubles. Even the thought of such a discussion made her feel exhausted.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘I was going to pay you a visit.’

‘Why?’ she asked, surprised. She’d thought the police would have finished with her now that they’d charged Bertram with the murder.

‘Well, it’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s your father’s flat.’

‘What about it?’

‘There was a bomb last night, a land mine. It destroyed the entire block. I think quite a lot of your father’s neighbours were killed. They were sheltering down in the basement.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Ava, sounding shocked.

‘I was there, with someone you know. With Alec Thorn. He was hurt in the blast too.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘I think so. I rang the hospital this morning and he’s still quite concussed. But the injuries aren’t as bad as I thought they would be, judging from how he looked last night. He was in a bad way and there was a lot of blood. He’s dislocated his shoulder but not broken it, apparently, and the shrapnel injuries around his right eye don’t seem to have affected the eye itself. He’s a lucky man — I thought it was going to be a lot worse.’

‘What hospital’s he in?’

‘St Stephen’s in Fulham. I’m sorry about the flat. Insurance companies don’t cover destruction by bombing, but you probably know that. You can put a claim in to the government, but they won’t pay out until the end of the war, whenever that’s going to be.’

Ava nodded. She couldn’t really absorb the news about the flat and what had happened to Alec Thorn. There were too many other things she was trying to deal with. And she sensed there was something else the policeman hadn’t told her yet. ‘What’s happening with Bertram?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, although it’s more for form’s sake, really. The magistrate’s not likely to need to hear from me. The charge is too serious for bail and so he’ll just set a date for the committal hearing — probably in about a month, when they’ll go through the evidence and see if there’s a case to answer. Which there is, of course, given that your husband’s confessed-’

‘But you’re not so sure,’ Ava interrupted, picking up on an uncertainty in Trave’s voice which was at odds with his words.

Trave looked at her for a moment, as if deciding how to respond, and then nodded. ‘I’ve got some concerns, yes,’ he said. ‘But I may be wrong.’

‘What concerns?’ demanded Ava, ignoring the caveat.

‘About Charles Seaforth. I know he’s a friend of yours. In fact, that’s something I wanted to ask you about. ‘

‘Ask me what?’ asked Ava, reddening. She felt under pressure suddenly, as if she were in trouble of some kind.

‘I saw you together at the Lyons Corner House. I followed Seaforth there …’

‘I know. I saw you there too.’

‘But what bothered me was that you’d said nothing about where you were going when I saw you at Scotland Yard the day before, even though I asked you about him. Why was that, Mrs Brive? Why did you keep that back from me?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ava, feeling flustered. ‘I was curious to know what he wanted, and I didn’t see how I could go through with the lunch if everyone knew about it,’ she finished lamely. She didn’t want to tell the policeman that she’d lied about the meeting to her husband.

‘I see,’ said Trave, looking unimpressed. ‘The reason I’m asking you is because Alec Thorn told me last night that Seaforth was the one who opened your husband’s desk — the desk where you found the matching cuff link. And he said that there were only the two of you there when you found it.’

‘And you think that I helped him put it there. Is that what you’re saying?’ Ava demanded, looking outraged.

It was Trave’s turn to be taken aback. Ava’s shocked, angry reaction to his implied accusation was clearly genuine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It just seems like you and Seaforth have been spending a lot of time together, that’s all. I didn’t know what to think.’

‘Well, now you do,’ said Ava, still clearly upset. ‘The reason I’ve been seeing him is because I’ve been trying to find out what he’s up to. And after last night, I’ve got to say I’m beginning to think the worst.’

‘What happened last night?’

‘I was in his apartment and he got angry — I mean, really angry. And so I ran away. I was lucky to be able to get away from him. And afterwards it felt like that person that got angry was the real Charles Seaforth, that he’d been pretending to be someone else when I’d seen him before.’

‘Which would make sense if he needed to get in your flat to plant the cuff link,’ said Trave, expanding on the idea.

‘Oh God, is that what happened? cried Ava, as if glimpsing the truth for the first time. ‘How could I have been such a fool?’ Tears welled in her eyes as her emotions got the better of her. Her legs felt weak. She was tired and overwrought; she thought she was going to faint.

Trave took her arm and led her outside. It felt better in the fresh air, away from the press of people, but she was still swaying from side to side. Trave watched her anxiously for a moment and then seemed to come to a decision.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You need something to eat. I’ve had you faint on me once before and I’m not going to let it happen again. There’s a cafe I go to sometimes when I’m here for court hearings. They’ll give you a good breakfast and we can talk.’

‘But Bertram …,’ she protested weakly.

‘His case won’t be called on for a while yet,’ Trave reassured her. He had hold of her arm again and they were already crossing the road.

Trave was right. The food did revive her, and the coffee was excellent — more like the real thing instead of the awful Camp version made of chicory essence that she drank at home. She was still tired, but at least she wasn’t going to pass out.

‘Is that really what you think?’ she asked, looking hard at Trave as she put down her knife and fork. ‘That Charles planted the cuff link? That he killed my father?’

‘I wish I could tell you,’ said Trave. ‘But the truthful answer is that I just don’t know. We need more evidence. Did you find anything at Seaforth’s flat?’

‘There was a diary in his bedroom. That’s what got him so angry — seeing me reading it.’