Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

Melrose looked doubtful. “I’m not sure about that, sir. Not much is kept secret between a man and wife, is it?”

“Speak for yourself,” said Logan, the comment slipping out before he had a chance to rein it in. He was sending dense clouds of sweet-smelling Erinmore into the still morning air, which was now heavy and pungent with the smell of fresh earth venting the rain. “Some of these jokers never tell their wives. Part of the cover, y’see. Don’t think Philby’s wife ever knew. I mean not until—” His voice trailed off. “Melroad, ask the duty sergeant in Oxshott to draw up four-on, four-off watches here around the clock. No cars visible. Don’t use the house phone. Have Perkins call it through.”

“Yes, sir.”

“C’mon, you two,” the inspector instructed the other two constables. “Let’s have a look in the house.”

When Melrose reached the car, he shook his head at Perkins, telling him the newspaper they’d seen on the porch was the Telegraph, so that Melrose now owed him another twenty p.

“Rubbish,” said Melrose genially. “He’s called me ‘Melroad’ about six times. You owe me a quid.”

“Not likely, mate. I never took the bet.”

“Welcher,” said Melrose. “Well, anyway, you can chalk one up to our Wilkins, wherever he is. Logan’s in a right pickle.”

“Wasn’t his fault,” said Perkins.

“Balls. Should’ve let London in on this first up. Special branch. Cloak-and-dagger boys. But he wanted glory. Local lad lands big fish.”

“Well, he couldn’t call early last night, could he?” said Perkins. “Lines were down. Besides,” Perkins added philosophically, “if Wilkins shows up, Logan could still come out smelling like roses.”

“And if he doesn’t?” asked Melrose. “The CID’ll eat old Logan alive — pipe an’ all.”

Perkins made a pouty face, conceding Melrose’s point. “Course, the Wilkins kid might be making it all up.”

“You think so?”

“Melroad!” It was Logan, calling from the house. When they got there, the first thing they saw was Mrs. Wilkins, sitting boldly in the lounge chair by the fireplace, looking very pale. Logan beckoned them to follow him into the dining room.

“Feast your eyes on this,” said Logan. He opened up a Marks and Spencer shopping bag. There were neat bundles of one-hundred-pound notes. “Must be twenty thousand at least,” said Logan. “All used, looks like. Nonsequential.”

“From the bedroom?”

“Just where the lad told us.”

Melrose glanced over at Mrs. Wilkins, still in her housecoat, eyes downcast, fidgeting with the ribboned edge of her robe.

“No way she didn’t know,” said Logan quietly. “Course, she says she knows nothing about it.”

“Course she doesn’t,” said Melrose, the uncharacteristic informality between inspector and constable a product of their mounting excitement. “Everyone leaves twenty grand hanging around the bedroom,” he said. “Pay the milkman.”

The inspector chuckled. “Good. Very good, Melroad. Well, lads — all we have to do now is sit tight and wait. I’ve got a call in to Leatherhead for a turnoff check. Nothing’s come through yet, but as soon as his car turns off the M1, we’ll have a half-hour warning.”

“How about our friend, Mr. Corbett? Did he leave his coat, like he says?”

“Yes,” said Logan. “He was telling them the truth after all. Here he is in glorious Technicolor.”

Melrose saw from Corbett’s National Health Plan card that he worked for Southern Dairy.

Melrose couldn’t help feeling sorry for Mrs. Wilkins. Two men in her life, and neither of them any good. And she just didn’t seem the type — the kind of person to betray her country. But then, none of them ever did, he reminded himself. That was the whole point. He saw her get up, and one of the two constables blocking her way. She stopped, cleared her throat, her tone braver than he would have expected under the circumstances. “Am I allowed to go to my own bathroom?”

Logan didn’t bat an eyelid. “Of course, Mrs. Wilkins. As soon as the constable checks it out.”

“What on earth for?”

“Razor blades — that sort of thing,” said Logan, unfazed by the rising contempt in her voice. “We wouldn’t want any other member of the family trying to do an injury to themselves, would we?”

She said nothing but folded her arms defiantly, turning her back on Logan, waiting, going into the bathroom, firmly shutting the door, after the policeman had emerged, holding a shower cap with several Bic safety razors and three bottles of pills inside it. Logan read the labels. One was for blood pressure — the other two tranquilizers. “As needed,” Logan read from the tranquilizer vial before dumping it back into the shower cap. “I should think she needs them every time she lies to her husband. Not that I feel sorry for the swine, mind, but I can’t abide a woman who cuckolds a man.”

It was such an old-fashioned expression that it took Melrose by surprise, and for a moment he wondered if Logan’s methods were just as old-fashioned, especially when Logan, a moment later, told him to take the pills out to the unmarked car as possible evidence. How tranquilizers might help the Crown’s case, Melrose didn’t know, and as he made his way to the car, it occurred to him that now they’d found a swag of money — something concrete — they should be calling in Special Branch — if the lines were up. If Logan didn’t, maybe he should do it himself. It might save him some grief, put him and the others in the clear in the event that Logan botched up and missed nabbing Wilkins. On the other hand, Melrose knew, going over your superiors’ head wasn’t exactly cricket. And no matter how grateful Special Branch might be for the information, the word would be out.

Melrose rejected the idea and decided to wait, to do it Logan’s way. If they were lucky, Wilkins would walk smack into the trap. It was only then that Melrose remembered the two bottles of milk he and Perkins had noticed outside the house when they’d first arrived. The two bottles were still there. If the milkman was her lover, surely he would have taken them inside with him. “Bit of a puzzle,” Perkins conceded, but added, “Maybe he couldn’t wait to dip his wick.”

“Maybe,” said Melrose, looking uneasily across at Perkins, “he isn’t the milkman.”

“Bloody hell,” said Perkins, his head jerking around. “Then he was Wilkins? “

“What — no,” said Melrose. “Christ — he couldn’t be.”

“Why not?” pressed Perkins, the tone of alarm growing. “He didn’t have ID on him. Said it was inside the house. Anyone find it yet?”

“Yes, calm down. That’s right. We did find his ID.”

“But we didn’t have any mug shots of Wilkins, though, did we?” continued Perkins. “All we were given, squire, was a man and his address. No priors.”

Melrose tried to think hard, what Corbett’s face was like. Was it the face in the photo of the married couple on the mantelpiece? He tried visualizing the man in the greenhouse, but all he could see were shards of bloodied glass.

“Forged ID?” he said.

“I think,” said Perkins, “we’d better tell the inspector.”

“You tell him,” said Melrose.

“Not me,” protested Perkins. “You thought of the milk bottles, mate.”

“Bloody ‘ell,” said Melrose. “You think it was forged ID. Right?”

“Don’t ask me. I never saw it.”

Suddenly Melrose relaxed, slumping into the passenger seat. It would be easy enough to check. The man would be in hospital. Where was he going to go with a broken leg and—

“Oh Christ—” All they had seen was a lot of blood and the man moaning. A mustache meant nothing — shave the damn thing off in two minutes flat. Even less. Melrose tried to get through to the ambulance, but he couldn’t, the waves “frying”—sizzling with the static of jammed frequencies— a Russian bomber raid under way. From the unmarked car Melrose watched the neighbors in the cul-de-sac peering from behind their curtains at the collapsed greenhouse, and he felt irrationally angry at them, as if it shouldn’t be any of their business, when in fact he knew it was everyone’s business.