Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

“Yes — wish Melrose was round here with us. Could do one of his flying tackles.”

“Not to worry, old son — he’s coming right for us. All we have to do is step back and wait. I’ll give him one of my half nelsons. That’ll quieten—”

There was a yell, a tremendous crash of glass, and before the two constables had time to break cover, running for the house, Melrose was coming around the western corner of the house. Seeing one of the constables slowing, unable to go farther, Melrose assumed he’d been wounded but then realized the constable couldn’t run for laughing.

“You see this?” he called out to Melrose. “Our boy’s fallen into his ruddy pumpkins!”

By the time the three of them reached the greenhouse, the jagged edge of the broken glass panel was etched in blood, the man’s face badly lacerated and bleeding as he tried unsuccessfully to extract himself from the pumpkins and kept falling back, each tumble making a bigger and bigger mess. Exhausted by the shock, he finally sat still, gazing up helplessly at the three policemen as Logan arrived on the scene. The constable who had been unable to run for laughing used his handcuffs to smack away a shard of glass that was dangerously close to the man’s throat. “Fancy a little pumpkin pie, then?” said the constable.

“Be enough of that,” said Logan sternly. “Go on, help him out of it. Melrose, go back in the house. Call an ambulance.” It struck Logan as odd that Mrs. Wilkins hadn’t appeared.

Staring down at the dejected pile of humanity before him, the inspector felt his pockets for his “rights” card. Fifty years on the force and he still hadn’t memorized it exactly. The fact was that since his retirement, he’d found himself remembering less and less. Still, Logan doubted they’d throw out a spy case because your advisory to the defendant hadn’t been word-perfect. “You are under arrest. I must warn you that anything—”

“Bloody ‘ell—” The man’s eyes were closed as he winced from pain, his left thigh bleeding badly. Logan saw Melrose coming down the half dozen steps at the rear of the house after checking inside, stepping over the broken glass and the remains of several cucumbers. “Did you call an ambulance?” asked Logan.

“On its way, sir.” Melrose looked down at the man’s bloody race. “Don’t try to move, Mr. Wilkins. You’d better stay put until—”

“I’m not Wilkins—” said the man angrily. “Bloody ‘ell.” He grimaced. “Fink my knee’s busted.”

There was an amazed silence, the three constables looking at one another but carefully avoiding Logan’s startled expression.

The man was moaning, “Oh, ‘ell, me bloody leg’s broken.”

“Who are you then?” asked Logan fiercely.

“Corbett.”

“Of course,” said Logan sarcastically, thinking of the famous comedy team. “And I’m Ronnie Barker.”

“Yeah — I get that all the time,” moaned the injured man. “Very funny, I’m sure.”

“All right then,” said Logan harshly. “Show me your driver’s license.”

“ ‘Aven’t got it. Didn’t ‘ave time, did I?”

“Where is it?”

“In my coat.” He paused. “In ‘ouse.” He looked up in agony at Melrose. “I told you. Name’s Corbett. I’m the—” He hesitated, eyes moving from one constable to another, then wincing. “I’m the bloody milkman. All right? Ask Mary — Mrs. Wilkins.”

Logan nodded at one of the constables. “Ask Mrs. Wilkins to come out.”

The moment the ambulance arrived and began the tricky business of first getting all the shards of glass out of the way, Logan heard one of the constables still chuckling about the squashed pumpkins. “It’s no bloody joke,” said Logan, upbraiding him. “Now we’ve tipped our hand, God knows where Wilkins’ll be.”

“Yes, sir,” the offending constable said, and fell silent.

“You think it amusing,” Logan kept on, filling his pipe from the pouch, tamping the tobacco in so tightly with his thumb that Melrose knew it would never burn. Logan waved vaguely south with the stem of the briar. “People are dying at sea because bastards like Wilkins are telling the Russians what ships are carrying what — departure times, how many escorts — the bloody lot.”

“Sorry, sir,” the constable apologized. “I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

Melrose, seeing the constable was about to burst out laughing again, quickly interjected, “Inspector?”

“Yes?” growled Logan.

“Well, sir — I doubt if Mrs. Wilkins’ll tip him off. I mean, she’d have to tell him about Corbett—”

Logan was thinking about it, too. “Maybe not, but there’s this bloody great shambles…” said Logan, waving back toward the greenhouse debris with his pipe.

“The storm, sir,” suggested Melrose. “We did have a spot of hail. Anyway, with the greenhouse behind the house, I doubt if it’s the first thing he’ll look at when he comes in. Can’t see it from the cul-de-sac. And if she tries to phone out to tip him off, we’ll know.”

Logan seized on the idea, stopped for a moment to light his pipe, waving the match’s flame back and forward over the bowl, his teeth sucking furiously, making a whistling noise.

“We could cut service,” suggested one of the other constables. “Lots of lines went down in the storm. Station couldn’t reach London. That’s why we had to call on you, sir.”

Logan ignored the unintentional implication that he had been Oxshott’s last choice.

“No,” said Logan. “We cut the line and he tries to ring in — suspect something straight off.”

“The boy,” one of the other constables put in. “We could move her out, leave a message on the answering machine saying she’d gone to be with the boy. Only natural the boy’s mum would go to see him.”

“Does he know yet about the boy trying to do himself in?” asked the policeman who had been laughing before and was now trying for redress.

“Don’t know,” said Logan, sucking thoughtfully on his pipe. “I don’t think so. She’d hardly risk having him barge in while she was entertaining our flying milkman, would she?” He turned toward Melrose. “Melroad?”

“Inspector?”

“Tell that ambulance crew I don’t want that bloody milkman talking to anyone at the hospital. Call Oxshott and have them send one of our lads over there to stay with him.”

“Very good, sir.” Logan saw the policeman he’d sent to the house coming down the back stairs. “She’s in a right state,” said the young constable. “Says she doesn’t want to come out. Sight of blood upsets her.”

“I should bloody well think so,” said Logan.

“We could tell her exactly what to say when he calls,” suggested Melrose. “Make everything sound normal. I’m sure she’ll be willing to go along with us. I mean, she won’t want it getting out that she was having this Corbett character on the side.”

“No,” said Logan, the tone of his rejection of the idea absolute. “They only do that on the stage, laddie — telling ‘em exactly what to say. Doesn’t work in real life. Man and wife have a hundred ways to convey to one another that something’s up. No — we’ll have to take her in. Slip a note through the mail slot saying she’s at the hospital and then wait.”

Constable Melrose nodded his agreement. “Yes, but it’s a sure bet he calls ahead when he’s coming home. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had Corbett in.”

“She’s a smart one then,” said one of the other two constables. “They might have arranged some external sign in the driveway or at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.”

“Of course, it’s possible,” said Logan, “that she doesn’t know what her husband does — I mean, what he does in addition to being a claims agent.”