James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Did you get anything new out of Sergeant Sullivan?” I asked Big Mike.

“He wouldn’t stop talking about his girl,” Big Mike said, setting down his empty pint glass and licking his lips. “He admitted to taking a fair bit of food to give mom and dad, but that only goes to show he’s a smart kid. I did get this, though.” Big Mike took a photograph from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Sully and Eva standing outside the front door of the Kennet Arms, smiling-no, laughing-as the camera caught them. It was a good picture of Eva, especially. She looked happy, mischievous, and young. Sully’s face was turned in her direction, his gaze admiring. The only thing that marred the picture was Stuart Neville, emerging from the door, a startled look on his face. He was obviously dressed for work, with his topcoat, hat, and briefcase.

“She’s quite pretty,” Kaz said.

“I had to promise to get this back to him,” Big Mike said. “But I figured we needed a good photograph of Neville. Sully said he’d been all apologetic about stumbling into the shot, but it turned out it was the nicest one of Eva, so he picked it when Mrs. Miller offered.”

“Room for a tired copper?” Inspector Payne said as he entered the room. Big Mike did his best to shove over in the booth, but with his shoulders it wasn’t easy. “Wouldn’t mind a constable or two your size on the Berkshire force, I’ll tell you that.”

“Any news?” I asked.

“Just came from the postmortem. Death was instantaneous, from a single strong blow to the back of the head. Your classic blunt instrument, probably tossed into the muddy bottom of the canal. No defensive wounds. There were bruises on his torso, likely from that tumble down the steps. We didn’t find any drag marks in the vicinity, and his shoe heels gave no indication of being pulled over any surface.” He puffed out a long breath.

“Time of death?” I asked.

“Anywhere from ten last night to two o’clock this morning.”

“So we know he was killed on the spot, from behind.”

“Nothing like a Yank detective on the job,” Payne said. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. What’s that you’ve got there?”

“A picture of the victim,” Big Mike said. “Courtesy of another Yank cop.”

“Looks like this round is my shout,” Payne said, signaling to Jack Monk at the bar. “Glad I didn’t say anything about Polish coppers.”

“There is something odd in this picture,” Kaz said, tapping his finger on it. I could tell he was pleased at being included in the police banter, even though he disguised it well. “Where is the briefcase?”

“Right,” Payne said. “This looks like he was headed out, and had his briefcase with him.”

“Maybe at his office. Have you been there yet?” I asked Payne. “No, first thing tomorrow. You’re welcome to come along if you want. I’ve been busy with the coroner and coordinating the search.”

“For the little girl,” I said.

“Aye, it’s all anybody asks about. Sophia Edwards, fourteen years old. Missing two days and nights now.” Payne’s face showed his weariness, and from the bags under his eyes I figured he’d been awake for most of that time.

“Runaway?” Big Mike asked.

“That was my first thought too, but she’s from Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands. Forty or so girls came to this area when they were evacuated. As soon as France fell, it was obvious the Germans would take the islands, even though they are of no military value. There’s simply nowhere for her to run off to. She’s no family except back on Guernsey.”

“Where’s her home here?” I asked.

“A place was set up in Kintbury, a small village midway between Newbury and Hungerford. The girls live there, in a manor house that doubles as their school. By all accounts, Sophia was happy there. Content might be a better word. All the kids are worried about their parents, of course. But children are resilient and adaptable, and they seem to be getting on well. Not since her disappearance, of course.”

“Any theories?

“There’s always the canal. The girl’s house is on the Hungerford Road, not far from the canal. She could have fallen in. The girls often walk into Kintbury-there’s a sweet shop on High Street-but they seldom go alone. She simply vanished in the afternoon. Classes were over, and the girls were on their own until teatime. Several of them walked to the sweet shop. Sophia was with them, and they stopped along the canal on their way back. No one remembers seeing her leave, or seeing anything unusual.”

“Here you go, gents,” Jack Monk said, breaking the dour mood a bit as he set down four freshly drawn pints. “Mind the photograph there. Oh, it’s Miss Eva and Sully. And what a nice snap it is.”

“You know Sergeant Sullivan?” I asked.

“Sure, he comes in a few times a week, after the Millers put out the lights. He’ll have a pint or two and gab on about his plans for Miss Eva. Head over heels that lad is.”

“How about George Miller? Is he a regular?” Payne asked.

“No, not him,” Monk said, shaking his head. “I hold nothing against him, mind you. He stuck his neck out against Hitler, and that must’ve taken guts back then. Got to admire the man, I say. But feelings run hard, you know.”

“Whose?” I asked.

“Well, it was a month or so ago. One of the few times Miller came in. Old Tim Pettigrew, he’d just lost a son who’d gone down in a Wellington over Germany. Miller tried to give his condolences, in a neighborly way. He and Pettigrew hardly knew each other, but everyone knows about the Millers, of course. So George says he’s sorry for the loss, or something close to that, and Pettigrew fair spits in his face, calls him a dirty Kraut, and says he hopes his boy killed plenty of Muellers before he bought it himself. Tim would’ve hit him, the rage was in his face, plain to see. But his pals sat him down, and Miller left without a word. Never saw him in here again.”

“Is Pettigrew in tonight, Jack?” Payne asked.

“Aye, that’s him,” Monk said, nodding to a figure across the room. “Grey hair, brown cardigan.” He squinted and tapped his finger on the snapshot. “I see poor Stuart got himself in that picture. That why you have it?”

“Yes,” Kaz said. “Did you know him?”

“He was a customer. Not every night, but often enough to introduce himself. Seemed like a nice chap, don’t know why anyone would want to do him in.”

“Was he here the night Pettigrew went after Miller?” Payne asked.

“No, I think I would have remembered that. No, I’m certain he wasn’t. I’ll go and fetch your stew, it should be ready.”

“Captain, care to join me for a word with Mr. Pettigrew?” Payne said. I put on my shoes, which were nearly dry, and followed him to the bar. Pettigrew was busy puffing on his pipe and nursing a half-empty pint. “Timothy Pettigrew? May we have a word?” Payne introduced himself, showed his warrant card, and nodded to a quiet corner of the pub.

“What’s this about?” Pettigrew said as he stepped away from the bar. He looked to be near fifty, stooped, with greying, stiff hair and jowls beginning to form. He wore two sweaters and worn corduroy pants, and his hands were callused and rough. “And what’s the Yank for?”

“Captain Boyle is assisting with an investigation that involves an American serviceman, to some degree. I understand you and George Miller had an argument recently. Almost came to blows.”

“So? Almost is a crime now, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Payne said. “And I’m very sorry for the loss of your son. It must have hit you hard.”

“Hard enough, not that it’s any business of yours.”

“I take it you did not appreciate Miller’s comment to you.”