Simon Tolkien - Simon Tolkien Inspector Trave Trilogy - Orders From Berlin, The Inheritance, The King of Diamonds

The same glassy-eyed look had come over Ava’s eyes that had been there earlier, and this time Quaid glanced impatiently over at his assistant standing in the corner. Trave hadn’t said anything since they’d got upstairs, but now, as if accepting a cue, he went over and squatted beside the grieving woman.

‘Look, I know this is hard,’ he said, putting his hand over hers for a moment as he looked into her eyes, speaking slowly, quietly. ‘People dying – it’s not supposed to be this way, is it? Bombing makes no sense. But this is different. Somebody killed your father for a reason, pushed him over the balustrade out there. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You saw it. And maybe you can help us find out who did that to him. If you tell us everything you know. Can you do that, Ava? Can you?’

Ava looked down at the long-limbed young man in his ill-fitting suit and nodded. She was surprised by him, touched at the way he’d chosen instinctively to make himself lower than her, treating her as if she were in command of the situation. And he made her feel calm for some reason. Mrs Graves had told her that he was the one who’d caught her from falling when they were downstairs, and then there was the way his pale blue eyes looked into hers with a natural sympathy, as if he instinctively understood how she felt.

Not like Bertram. Behind Trave’s shoulder, Ava’s husband shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making no effort to conceal his mounting irritation.

‘I’m not happy with this, Inspector,’ he said, turning to Quaid. ‘Your boy’s badgering my wife. Can’t you see what she’s been through? In my professional opinion—’

‘I don’t need your professional opinion,’ said Quaid, cutting him off. ‘If I want it, I’ll ask for it. Carry on, Mrs Brive,’ he added, turning to Ava. ‘Tell us what happened today.’

‘He was fine this morning,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the younger policeman as she spoke even though she was answering the older one’s question. ‘I got here about half past one and made him his lunch just like I always do. He read The Times and did the crossword, and then, like I said, we went over to the park, and he was in a good mood – a really good mood for him. It was when we came back here that the trouble started.’

‘Trouble?’ repeated Quaid.

‘Yes, there was a note …’

‘What kind of note?’

‘Just a folded-over piece of paper. I didn’t get to read it. Someone had called while we were out and left it with Mrs Graves downstairs. She brought it to him up here, and he read it a couple of times. He seemed agitated, walking up and down, and then he went over to his desk and he was looking at papers, even a couple of books, acting like I wasn’t there, like he usually does. I went into the kitchen and I’d just started to wash up the lunch things when he called me, shouted, rather, telling me I had to phone him a taxi, that he needed one straight away—’

‘Why didn’t he call one himself?’ asked Quaid, interrupting.

‘Because he could ask me to do it,’ said Ava. Again Quaid picked up on the anger in the woman’s voice and thought, not for the first time, how strange it was the way the newly bereaved could feel so many contradictory emotions all at the same time. Part of Ava was obviously still struggling with her constant irritation at the unreasonable demands of her living father, while another part of her was trying to absorb the reality of his death; trying to come to terms with the impossible experience of seeing him smashed to pieces on the floor at her feet.

But above all, she was clearly terrified of losing control of herself again. Quaid was quietly impressed at the way she bit her lip, gripped hard onto the arms of her father’s chair to steady herself, and forced herself to resume her narrative of the day’s events. ‘The telephone doesn’t work sometimes,’ she went on, ‘and then sometimes the cab company doesn’t answer and I have to try another one. There’s no point trying to hail a taxi outside – it’s too far off their main routes. My dad doesn’t have the patience for any of that, but this time I got straight through and one showed up outside about twenty minutes later.’

‘Where was he taking it? You must have had to give a destination when you made the booking,’ asked Trave, putting in a question as he took out a battered red notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and balanced it on his knee.

‘He told me St James’s Park. I asked him for an address, but he wouldn’t be more specific.’

‘And the cab service – who did you call?’

‘The local one. Chelsea Cars. Their office is just over Albert Bridge, at the bottom of Oakley Street.’

‘I know it. Thank you,’ said Trave, putting away his pen.

Ava nodded. ‘And that was that,’ she said. ‘I went and waited with him outside, made sure he had his coat and scarf, tried to make conversation, but he wasn’t interested. Just kept looking at his watch, jumping about from one foot to the other, like every minute mattered. And then when the cab came he got in without saying goodbye, and that was the last time I ever saw him—’

Ava broke off, putting her hand up to her eyes as if trying to ward off the pain. Trave tried to get her to drink her tea, but she waved it away.

‘About what time was this – when he left?’ asked Quaid.

‘About half past four, maybe later. I’m not really sure.’

‘And was he carrying anything? A briefcase? Anything like that?’

‘No,’ said Ava, shaking her head.

‘What about this?’ asked Trave, showing Ava the piece of paper he’d taken from the dead man’s pocket downstairs – ‘Provide detailed written report. What are the chances of success? C,’ and the name written underneath with a question mark, Hayrich or Hayrick. ‘Have you seen this before?’

Ava shook her head.

‘Do you have any idea what it means?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s your father’s handwriting, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking at the piece of paper again.

‘So it can’t be the note that was left for him while you were out, not if he wrote it himself,’ said Trave, thinking aloud. ‘Do you know what happened to that note?’ he asked, ignoring Quaid’s look of irritation. He knew how the inspector liked to control the flow of an interview, bringing in his assistant only when it suited him, like when Ava had got upset and stopped answering his questions.

‘No,’ said Ava, shaking her head. ‘As I said, I saw him reading it when we got back from the park, and then I went in the kitchen. He was upset and I didn’t want him taking it out on me. I think he threw something on the fire at one point. I don’t know if it was the note.’

‘He had one burning – this afternoon?’

‘Yes, a few coals. It’s died out now.’

There was a pause in the conversation. The dead ashes in the fireplace added to the atmosphere of forlorn emptiness in the flat.

‘And these documents – were they there this afternoon?’ Quaid asked, pointing to the mess of papers on the floor by the desk that Brive had tried to pick up earlier, the ones that Trave had pointed out as being out of place when they first came into the room.

‘No. My father never has papers on the floor like that – everywhere else, but never there. I know the flat looks a mess, but really he knew where everything was. Do you think …?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid we do. Whoever killed your father was looking for something. I wonder whether he found it,’ said Quaid, leaning down to pick up a thick-looking legal document from underneath the other documents. ‘The last will and testament of Albert James Morrison of 7 Gloucester Mansions, Prince of Wales Drive, London SW11—’ he began to read once he’d opened the folded vellum. But then he broke off, running his eyes silently over the contents before he looked back over at Ava, frowning.