James Benn - Rag and Bone

“Are you going?”

“Why not? It will be interesting to meet the man who is spying on me. And someone will have to keep you awake. You won’t be able to turn down an official invitation, you know.”

“I could get lucky and get arrested.”

“By Scotland Yard or the military police?”

“Funny,” I said, as I drank my coffee. I resisted telling Kaz that he was the one who should worry about Scotland Yard, but now that I had MPs from High Wycombe to London looking for me, I had enough trouble keeping myself from behind bars. Anyway, there wasn’t enough evidence to do more than question him, and he’d been through worse than that.

Something about how we were looking at it was off, and that’s why it wasn’t making sense to us.

I needed that number five. Number five would add up, I was sure.

I decided to head to the Met first, in case an unarmed bobby had captured the Chapman gang and rescued Uncle Sam’s peaches. I took a cab, avoiding the worst of the downpour and arriving just as Inspector Scutt was shaking the water off his raincoat.

“Miserable weather today,” he said. “DS Flack will be soaked to the bone, probably is already.” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk as he settled in, glancing at the paperwork and messages waiting for him.

“What’s he doing?”

“Out hunting Jerries,” he said. “There’s still a dozen unaccounted for from the raid the other night. Most give themselves up right away, glad to be alive and hoping not to get impaled by an angry farmer with a pitchfork.” He laughed, more to himself, as if remembering an unfortunate German who had met that fate. He lit his pipe, fussing with it the way pipe smokers did, tamping it down, filling the room with clouds of smoke until he was satisfied. “The Bromley station called for assistance, since the airfield at Biggin Hill is close by, and they’ve had reports of two or three Germans in the area. Flack is heading up the search down there.”

“This rain ought to drive them in,” I said. It was hard to imagine how the fliers could manage to evade capture this long, especially after the violence of being blown out of the sky, floating down in the dark, and landing in enemy territory, most likely alone.

“I’d guess it will, but the RAF wants them all caught, so they can stop worrying about some Fritz pinching an aircraft. That would be the only way off the island, and it would be an embarrassment for all, wouldn’t it? At least they don’t expect an old retread like me to tramp about the fields, that’s something. Now, what news do you have?”

I gave him the short version of the truck heist, trying not to sound like a rookie.

“Well, there’s some chance of finding the truck. Minus tires and engine. Peaches, you said? I couldn’t even guarantee you’d get them back if I found them myself,” Scutt said, winking to let me know he didn’t mean it. I think.

“Yeah, I know. Any part of the vehicle would be appreciated. But there’s more. Part of the deal, before it went sour, was for Topper to give me the inside story on the Russian. I think he kept that side of the bargain.”

“He’s an odd one, our Topper is,” Scutt said, raising more smoke from his pipe. “Smart, I’ll give him that. And protective of his father. I’ll make no excuses for Archie Chapman, but he’s not been right in the head since the war.”

“He says he served with Siegfried Sassoon.”

“True. I checked with the War Office the first time I heard Archie spout verse. They served together in the First Battalion, in Flanders. Did he recite for you?”

“Twice. Dead drunk first time, stone sober the second, as he robbed me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive. Archie Chapman could have slit your throat in front of a hundred East Enders, who’d all swear he was at their dinner table at the time. Some like him, most are afraid, and for good reason.”

“Topper is different?”

“Cold, I’d say. Archie enjoys what he does. Topper does what is necessary. Without regard for the law, which makes him as bad as his old man, but I don’t know if he has his heart in the family business. Don’t rightly know if he has much of a heart, at that.”

“Any idea why he’s not in the service? He looks fit.”

“Doctors can be bought, like anyone else. Maybe he has some sort of condition, maybe not. He did try to join up, at least.”

“You sure?” I asked, remembering Archie cutting me off as I asked Topper why he wasn’t serving.

“I remember it well. The army inquired about any criminal record, since he was known at the local recruiting office. We’ve never been able to charge him, so I had to say he was clean. I thought he was going off to war to follow in his father’s footsteps, but a few weeks later, there he is, at Archie’s side, conducting business as usual. Or better. He’s got a talent for it.”

“Evidently,” I said. “I wonder how he got out after enlisting.” My thoughts went back to my own army physical, and how Dad and Uncle Dan had hoped I would fail, to avoid the chance of serving altogether. After I’d passed, we’d hoisted a few pints at Kirby’s, toasting to my health with an odd mixture of pride and wistfulness. The next step would be to pull some strings in D.C., with Mom’s distant, somewhat obscure relative. Dad was certain he didn’t want me to end up like his older brother Frank, buried in a French cemetery for helping the English fight a war. But there was something in his eyes, along with the certainty that he could pull this thing off-a sadness, perhaps, or a sorrowful joy, that I would not share his visions of the trenches, an experience that had made him the man he was. That was a good thing, but a thing that would always divide us.

“I said, Boyle, tell me what Topper told you about the Russian.” Scutt spoke loudly, maybe for the second time, to bring me back from woolgathering.

“Topper said Egorov himself had no connection to them, and that they weren’t responsible for the killing.”

Scutt had the well-earned policeman’s distrust of a criminal’s protestation of innocence.

“But he did say the map had been for them. He as much as admitted they’d been behind the supply hijackings, and that there was a business arrangement with someone, probably at the Russian Embassy, although he never said so exactly.”

“All to be denied if asked again.”

“Yes, that was the deal. With everything else they did, without worrying about being caught, why would he lie about Egorov?”

“Murder means the rope, Lieutenant Boyle. Reason enough.”

“Could be. Maybe he’s trying to throw us off the track.”

“We haven’t much of a scent to pick up, much less be thrown off,” Scutt said with a weary sigh.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” a constable said, approaching Scutt and handing him a sheet of paper. “This just came in. A body was dug out of the rubble from the raid the other night, over on Tower Bridge Road. Looks suspicious, according to the report.”

“Very well, I’ll go take a look. Haven’t had one of these in a while.”

“One of what, Inspector?” I asked as he put on his raincoat.

“Murder, perhaps. Disguised as a bombing victim. Had quite a rash during the Blitz, as soon as people started getting the idea it would be a fine way to get rid of a body. Bash a fellow you don’t like on the head, bury him in a bit of rubble from a bombed-out building, and as soon as he starts to smell, he’s dug up and written off as done in by Herr Goring.”

“What makes it suspicious?”

“Well, you take this fellow. About thirty years of age. No identification papers, and no one in the area knew him. Likely killed by a blow to the head. Now most people go about with their papers, and if you’ve seen a body after a ton of bricks falls on it, you’d know there would be other injuries. There are usually massive physical injuries. But only a crushed skull, and a stranger to boot? Unlikely.”