Tim Binding - Island Madness

“Terrible business, Mr Luscombe,” he pleaded. “Terrible business. My missus is terrible cut up.”

Ned stirred a discarded coupling with his foot and looked about him.

“This the break-in I’ve heard so much about?” George nodded. “Made a bit of a mess, didn’t they?”

“Blooming nuisance, those foreigns. Should be kept under lock and key, not allowed to come and go as they please.” He pointed in the direction of the shed. The door hung off its hinges. “When they broke in all the paperwork was blown to buggery. No idea what’s where any more. This week of all weeks. I’m having the devil’s own job.”

“So Mr van Dielen hasn’t been here today?”

“Not today. Saw him yesterday though, and Saturday.”

“Miss van Dielen was here Saturday, is that right?”

George nodded. “They came round to the house first. Elspeth told him where I was and that.”

“He wanted to see about the break-in.”

“No, he wasn’t worried about that.”

“Oh?”

George drew a deep breath.

“We get instructions every Friday, see, what we’re doing the next week. What deliveries to make, what materials need to go where. It’s my job to sort it all out.” He waved his hand over the mess. “I usually do it on the Saturday morning. Get a bit of overtime that way. Well, last Friday he gives out the instructions as per usual. Number One lorry on metal rod run up over to Fort Hommet. Number Two up over to St Peter Port to piek up the colours for some extra tunnel work.”

“I don’t understand. The colours?”

“Each construction firm has been given a different colour. Ours is red. Every container that comes in from the mainland has the firm’s colour stamped on a little square on the side. Like that one there. That way there’s no mix-up at the harbour. It’s all done through the Organisation Todt. They specify the materials, the time of arrival, where they have to be delivered, what job it’s for. Mr van Dielen sorts it out with Major Ernst every Friday morning, and by the time we knock off, he’s worked out the schedules for the next week. But that night the foreigns broke in, so instead of doing what I normally do on the Saturday I spent all morning trying to clear up the mess. Saturday afternoon I’m back at the yard writing up the roster, when in he barges, dancing up and down like he’s got a banger up his arse. Forget the old running order, he says, everything’s changed. It’s all hands to the tunnels at La Vassalerie and the gun emplacements over L’Ancresse Bay. Everything else has to stop. And if Major Ernst changes his mind and wants us to do something else, we’re not to hang about waiting for confirmation, we do it, no questions asked. Well, that’s irregular for a start. We’re not supposed to take orders direct from the Germans. It’s against the rules. I looks at him and he claps me on the back, all friendly like, first time I’ve ever known him do that, and tells me to sort it out as best I can. Said he’d come round Sunday and help me out.”

“And Isobel was here with him that Saturday?”

“She were waiting by the gates when we come out. But I knew she was there earlier ‘cause I heard them coming across the road. Hammer and tongs, they were.” He paused. “Found up by the cliff, they say; horribly mutilated, that’s the word. Breasts sliced off, things in her private parts,” he said hopefully.

“You heard wrong,” Ned told him sharply. “What was the quarrel about? Did you hear any of it?”

George shook his head.

“Same old palaver, I reckon. Wouldn’t do as she was told. ‘Once more unto the breach,’ he says, when we were done, her standing over there, looking like thunder at a picnic party. ‘What she needs is the back of your hand,’ I tells him. ‘That’s what my Elspeth gets’.”

“You never spoke to her.”

“No. Never have, as a matter of fact. Never will now.”

“And where were you on Saturday night, George?”

“Saturday. Me and the missus went out, first to the Britannia, then on to the Albion. Very nearly missed the curfew.”

“That would never do. And Sunday…”

“He was waiting for me when I arrived! Would you believe it? Went through it all calm as anything. You wouldn’t think that…I mean, he never let on.” He coughed. “Do you think he might, you know, have done her in himself? It’s a thought, isn’t it, considering he’s gone AWOL.”

“Very helpful, George. Anything else?”

George looked round, making sure they were alone.

“About the break-in.”

“George, we’ve been through this.”

“No, no, Mr Luscombe. I wasn’t criticizing. I know how stretched you are. I was thinking, well, of deputies.”

“Deputies, George. How do you mean?”

“Well, seeing as you’re so busy with this murder and the Feldkommandantur not really interested, I was thinking, if you were to deputize me I could go looking for the crates myself—search houses, question folk. Like a proper policeman.”

“Forgive me for mentioning it, but didn’t you have some difficulty a couple of years back with receiving stolen goods?”

“That were a long time ago, Mr Luscombe. I had bills of lading, receipts. It was what you call a mistreatment of justice.”

“Sorry, George.”

“But the break-in! No one’s doing anything about it.” He looked around at the confusion. “What about the foreigns?” he persisted. “Has anyone searched their billets, noticed anything odd going on? Stains on their clothing, like?”

“George, what are you talking about?”

George pointed to one of the empty containers.

“Paint,” he said. “The bastards nicked a load of yellow paint.”

“What would the foreigns want a load of paint for?”

“There’s no knowing what they get up to, is there? They’re parts of this town it’s not safe to walk through of a night. Slant-eyes roaming the streets in little better than nightshirts.”

Ned couldn’t help himself. “So you think they’ve been painting the town yellow, do you?”

He walked back along the promenade. A light mist hung over the sea about a mile out. The tide was on the turn. A group of Todt workers came trotting round the corner, the rasp of their breath louder than the fall their feet, the smell of them lingering as they passed; a company of cycle infantry approached in the opposite direction, their heavy bicycles hissing on the wet road. Across the way a line of lorries were loading up on the quay and by the little sentry hut a motorcycle patrol was starting off on its hourly circular inspection, the outrider waving a rueful farewell to his mate retreating back into his warm wooden shell. Over by the harbour an anti-aircraft gun, its muzzle protected by a thick tarpaulin, was being hoisted up from one of the barges heaving on the oil-spilled water. Ned stood still and gripped the railing, the only islander in sight.

When he got back to the station he found his outside door swinging in the wind. He kicked a loose stone in temper. One of the amateur dramatics had forgotten to close it again. As he starled up the stairs he heard a rattling noise directly above him. Someone was trying his door handle. He moved quietly, trying to remember which boards creaked and which didn’t. Coming up level with the landing he saw Veronica pushing an envelope under his door. He rested his chin on the floor and spoke to her ankles.

“So it’s you is it, writing all these anonymous letters?”

Veronica straightened up, unable at first to see him. She wore a pale blue patterned dress and a blue hat and her coat was unbuttoned, held together only by the belt. He blew up her legs. She stepped back.

“There you are. Gave me a proper fright.”

“Not like you, V, telling tales out of school.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The little white envelope lay on the floor.