L'Aimant – Chapter 62
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 62: The drama in the alley is over... or is it?
Disclaimer:
The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.
Author's Notes:
Thanks to all my faithful reviewers (lauriehart, your private messaging function is disabled, so I couldn't reply).
Back in the Forties, married women in clerical and shop employment were commonly addressed by their maiden names.
Thomas Cunningham belongs to Wolseley37 :o)
...
I can't apologise to the characters for neglecting them so long, so I'll just say sorry to my readers. dancesabove fortunately still remembers who I am, and has once more licked this bit of prose into shape. I'll say this for her: she is cheaper (and more honest) than a literary consultant (some of whom should probably be shot for taking money in return for a crap service).
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
"What's—in—the bag, Mate?" inquired Brooke between greedy breaths. "Couple'a—bricks? A bloomin'—cannonball?"
"A broken telephone," intoned the tall chap, flatly.
"That so?" Brooke walked towards him and reached out. "Yeah, well... Best hand it over, now. We don't want no one getting coshed, now do we?"
"No. No indeed." Griffiths blinked down at the mound of men that he'd created, and added doubtfully, "Is there anyone else?"
Kiefer, several yards away, cleared his throat.
"Yeah, Griffiths. There's one over here you've missed."
Griffithsturned. The bag dropped from his fingers.
"M-major Kiefer?"
"Hey, Mr Chairman." Kiefer gave a flip salute. "Does this come under 'Any Other Business'?"
Chapter 62
Friday afternoon, 4th May, 1945
The voice—laconic transatlantic tones—brought Brooke's head sharply round. The day's events were turning curiouser and curiouser: first, a quiet Hastings back street had turned into Cutthroat Alley, and now the face on this newcomer looked familiar.
"Don't I know you?"
Kiefer both dodged and answered the question. "You outta uniform today, pal?"
Brooke nodded warily. "As it 'appens. Sergeant with the Hastings police."
Kiefer gave a soft salute. "Then, yeah, Sergeant, you oughtta know me. Kiefer. Major. 215th U.S. Engineers. We built the airbase, once you guys had finished tryin' to arrest us."
Brooke snapped his fingers. "Right! That rotten business with the girl... er—?"
"Susan Davis," supplied Kiefer. He didn't even have to think. The name was branded on his brain. "And, buddy," he nodded towards the pile of bodies on the ground, "don't try hangin' this one on the U.S. Army."
Brooke exhaled sharply through the side of his mouth. The situation baffled him. What had occurred before he stumbled on the scene? "Don't take this the wrong way," he shifted purposefully away from Kiefer's affable rebuke, "but I can't promise, till I've unpicked what's gone on here."
And where to start? The weedy, nervous type—Griffiths, Kiefer had called him? His face was actually familiar, too: Brooke had shown him into Mr Foyle's office at the station. Griffiths had a peaky, mithered look about him; but the startled-looking fellow pinned beneath the lanky chap who'd bashed his face in falling on the pavement, seemed to offer better prospects of some sense.
Brooke bent, and helped him free himself. "Hallo, Sir. Now then, who might you be? What's been going on?"
The chap accepted Brooke's hand, though still clearly stunned. "Ziegler. Henry Ziegler. Doctor Ziegler. You're a policeman?"
Brooke grinned. "I am. Don't let the mufti fool you. Sergeant Brooke. You must've been here first, since you're the bottom of the pile. How'd you like to shed a bit of light on all this, eh?"
Ziegler struggled to liberate his legs. "Completely unprovoked. Completely..."—he pushed at Longmate's dead weight with the sole of one foot—"...chilling."
Brooke watched with interest. "Take your time."
Ziegler strained from under his assailant to free himself, eventually rolling Longmate's body to one side. He climbed painfully to his feet and gazed down at the figure on the ground before raising his eyes to Brooke.
"I was attacked." The expression on his face was incredulous.
Brooke scratched his head. "So... why d'you suppose that happened, then? You all right, by the way?"
"I've absolutely no idea why. And yes, I think so." Dusting himself off, Ziegler stepped across the prone, unconscious form of his attacker and found his proper voice. "This," he gestured down, "is Martin Longmate, respectable hotelier, contender for a seat in parliament. And utter, bloody lunatic, apparently. He tried—my God!—he tried to stab me in the belly, cool as a cucumber. The man has clearly lost his marbles."
Griffiths stood through this on jelly legs, observing the exchange with eyes unblinking. The canvas bag still dangled from his grip when Ziegler crossed to him with outstretched hand.
"Can't thank you enough, old chap. I'd be a goner if you hadn't stepped in, there."
Griffiths' arm, with bag, had been extended toward Brooke. Now, in a state of some confusion, he presented it instead to Ziegler.
"That's the spirit!" Brooke swiftly interposed himself to take charge of the satchel.
The act of letting go the strap seemed to rob Griffiths of not only of his backbone, but also his remaining colour. Spontaneously he folded at the knees, and would have toppled forwards, had not a burly arm reached round his midriff from behind and held him fast.
"Whoa! Too much litter on the ground already." Kiefer hauled the man's drooping form across the alley, dumping him unceremoniously on the paving. And so Griffiths sat in a limp pile, legs folded to the side, back propped against the wall.
The fugitive flag merchant stirred, roused by the new commotion, and let out a painful groan. Brooke brought a firm foot down upon his shoulder.
"Just you stay there, Sunshine. When I want you on your feet, I'll wave this little flag here." Bending, he plucked a Union Jack protruding from the man's inside jacket pocket. "A two-quid jobby, this one, was it? Looks as if you're going to have a two-quid shiner, trippin' on the paving stones like that."
"I didn't trip. He hit me!" An accusing finger rose and indicated Griffiths.
Brooke's foot pressed harder. "Nah. You tripped, Mate. Seems to me you want to watch your step. In lots of ways. You're nicked, so stick a flag in that."
...
Longmate was still out cold when, after brief consideration, Brooke took his right wrist and cuffed it to the flag entrepreneur's. This way, his perps were facing different directions, and Brooke astutely reasoned that the two of them would have a tricky job of legging it, if such an idea came into their minds. Two disparate problems of arrest thus solved, Brooke took himself off to commandeer the butcher's phone and summon backup from the station.
Dr Ziegler followed him soon after, having stooped to size up Griffiths' state of shock, and realising that the man who'd saved his life would benefit from at least a drink of water.
Depleted numbers in the alley meant that Kiefer found himself co-opted as the guardian of the scene. Ironically, although his uniform and rank made him the logical choice for honorary deputy, he was in fact the fox guarding the henhouse. Here was Griffiths, sitting quietly alone, at some remove from the two prisoners, and Kiefer slowly lowered himself onto the pavement next to him.
"Saw what you did there," he offered conversationally.
Griffiths stayed mute. Violence in all its forms remained abhorrent to him. He understood he'd saved a life, but he could barely credit his own action, or the raw aggression that had wrenched it from him.
"The knife," pressed Kiefer, nodding toward the patch of weeds where the failed murder weapon was now lodged. "A piece of work, huh? Came from the museum?"
Griffiths closed his eyelids. Although no blood had been shed today, his mind was conjuring the wounds that such a knife could have inflicted. Could inflict.
"Yes... indeed. Quite possibly," he managed through his queasiness.
"Sure looks that way," continued Kiefer brightly. "Longmate musta had it in for Ziegler. Why, d'ya figure, Griffiths?"
The man fidgeted under interrogation. "I've really no idea. I'm not his minder."
"No? Ziegler thinks so. Ziegler thinks you're Jesus Christ."
"Well, I assure you..."
Kiefer raised a hand. "That's his rosy opinion. Guess I'm harder to convince. I'd hafta see you walk on water first." His eyes hardened. "Somewhere off Slapton Sands."
Griffiths head snapped round. This, then, was the author of his torment! In the space of an instant, as he tried to breathe, no air seemed able to reach his panicked lungs. He threw his head back, tugging weakly at his collar even as his throat went into spasm.
Kiefer watched him with the cool detachment of a practised flyfisher about to land a catch. The specimen was hooked, and struggling on the line. Shortly, it would be reeled in gasping, given a smart whack to stop it flapping, and...
Heyy, a voice needled his conscience, this man is gonna choke. Narrow-eyed with irritation, Kiefer leant in and, overpowering Griffiths' momentary flinch, took a firm hold on both halves of the man's shirt collar and yanked it open with such force, the collar button popped and pinged across the alley. For several seconds, with the stiffened fabric crumpled in his grip, the American's eyes bored into Griffiths' frightened features. Neither man drew breath. Then Kiefer shook him.
"Breathe, you dumbass," Kiefer hissed. "What kinda screwup drowns in air? Just. BREATHE!"
Obediently, Griffiths took a strangled, wheezing breath. Kiefer pushed him testily away, then sank back next to him against the wall, adding through gritted teeth, "Goddamn you, Griffiths!"
...
Foyle twisted in the office chair and pressed a speculative knuckle to his lips. By Brooke's account, there'd been a mêlée in Staines Passage that would have rivalled London's Jack the Ripper trail. He almost felt put out at being the only member of the Victory Day Committee to have missed the show—albeit with a tingle of relief that the attempted murder hadn't been John wreaking retribution on Mark Griffiths.
By rights, it should have worried Foyle that Brooke had left the pair unchaperoned while telephoning in, but somehow, the events' strange cast of characters had revised his expectations about any of these men's behaviour.
Foyle summarised the scenario in his mind: Griffiths shocked out of his nervous state enough to save the day; Ziegler out of danger; Longmate disarmed and immobilised; and Kiefer...
John.
Perhaps this incident would defuse Kiefer's bloody-mindedness, and diminish his hard-line attitude towards Griffiths? It was the one good thing that might come out of this.
In more sardonic mode, it niggled Foyle that members of a small committee couldn't plan a peacetime celebration without one man trying to carve a piece out of another. But then, that was committees for you. As for Longmate, well his Heep-like handshake might have hinted at his character being more veneer than virtue, but the puzzle to be solved was how a man could leap from slimy-palm to slayer in a single afternoon. There lay the challenge.
Foyle stroked his chin. It might be tricky to unearth a motive. And without one—(Foyle felt his lip twist in grim appreciation)... watch a politician wriggle out of anything—irrespective of two eyewitnesses, one surviving victim, and a murder weapon, they still might have a struggle on their hands.
He pondered his limited exchanges with Longmate. The man hadn't served. His given reason? Eyesight. Now Foyle thought of it, there didn't seem to be a fat lot wrong with Longmate's eyes. Unless...
Foyle snorted. Funny how, some days, things slotted into place. If he were frank, he'd spent the last weeks nursing misery over the Kiefer situation. But now, in what you'd think would be the least propitious circumstance, the pall had lifted to reveal a chink of light.
Shrugging on his coat, he grasped his trilby by the crown and sauntered down to Milner's office, smiling quietly at his shoes. He grasped the open door's jamb and wheeled jauntily into the room.
"Get y'r stuff, we're going on a little field trip."
Paul looked up from his paperwork. His boss's face wore a jovial cast that Milner hadn't witnessed since the day that Mr Reid had nearly lost his index finger to a confiscated ferret.
"That right, Sir?"
"Yep," declared Foyle happily. "Peace has been postponed. There's been a little fracas 'mongst the great and good of Hastings." He nicked his head towards the exit. "Tell you on the way. And bring a blank search warrant form."
...
Within the Edwardian villa of Her Worship Mrs Iris Minchin-Smythe, JP, a symphony of barking greeted Foyle's push upon the bell. The door was opened by a tall, white-haired, unshaven gent in waistcoat and shirtsleeves.
Foyle raised his chin, and gave a blink that flirted with perplexity, then settled on the side of recognition. "Guy?"
"Oh, hullo, Christopher." There was a nervous fidget in the doctor's voice.
"Um. LLLady of the house not indisposed, I trust?"
Guy's hand crept to his whiskers. "Er, nn... I was, er, just..."
"Quiet, hounds!" A brisk clap of the hands, and Iris sailed with purposeful demeanour out of a doorway down the hall.
Though levelled at the dogs, her order brought an instant silence to the company. She shooed her Labradors and Guy out of the way, and faced her visitors.
"I'm perfectly well, Mr Foyle. Dr Grindley is not visiting in a professional capacity."
"Putting up a trellis for the sweet peas," muttered Guy.
Foyle raised a polite eyebrow. Guy and gardens weren't a happy mix, which tended to support his swift conclusion: Love was in the air. Ah, well. It came to one and all. Turning, he made the necessary introduction.
"This is my sergeant, Mr Milner. You may recall him from the hearing?"
"Yes, of course. How do you do, Sergeant?" Iris extended her hand to Paul; then addressed Foyle. "Mrs Foyle fully recovered, I trust, Chief Superintendent?"
Foyle's face spelt pleasure. "Yess—and blooming."
Iris nodded with wryly suppressed amusement. "So pleased. What brings you to my door?"
Dipping at the knees, Foyle curved a shoulder into the request. "Hoping you can grant us the authority to search a premises."
"I see." The magistrate's eyes widened in interest. "Do come along into the study."
"Thhank you."
Foyle and Milner filed along the hall behind their hostess, Christopher flashing Guy a broad grin as he passed.
"I can sign your warrant," Iris assured him, "provided you can furnish me with grounds."
"Wull, I have reason to believe the premises in question harbour evidence of motive."
"Motive for what, Mr Foyle?"
"... a case of, um, attempted murder earlier today."
"Good god! Anybody hurt?" Guy fell into step behind the small procession.
"Nnn—well, yyyes, in that the assailant was knocked cold." Christopher glanced back over his shoulder. "Fancy coming over? Take a look?"
"Overpowered, was he?" Guy rubbed his hands. "It'll be a pleasure. When d'you want me?"
"Nnno rush. Give us until five to do our search." Foyle glanced after Iris, who had disappeared with Milner into the oak-panelled room ahead of them, then poked his tongue into his cheek and added sotto voce, "Y'know, if you're leaving your home comforts for a spell of duty, y'might want to drag a razor over those whiskers, first..."
...
Mark moistened his dry lips. "The tiger... and the sand... All you." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, pressing his temple to the cold brick of the alley wall.
"Can't figure you, Griffiths." Kiefer dug out a Lucky and a lighter. "Why stick your neck out for one guy? You sent a thousand to their deaths. What's so special about Ziegler?" He cupped his hand around the flame and lit up. "Those lives were in your hands. And now your ass is in a sling."
Cigarette smoke enveloped them, and Griffiths coughed.
"Don't care for smoke, huh? Well, tough luck." Kiefer took another, measured drag, then filled the air again. "'Cos this is a smoke signal: heap big stuff to answer for."
"Leave me alone." Mark's voice was no more than a whisper, but Kiefer rounded on him with a sudden fury.
"A few damn numbers, Griffiths. Was it too much for the Royal Corps of Limey Signals?" He spat the words. "Those boys died because your mind wasn't on the job."
Griffiths flinched under the onslaught. There was some truth there. Some. He had no expectation of being allowed to explain, but still the words he'd used in Ziegler's surgery only a day ago fell from his lips as if by rote.
"I was... not responsible," he began.
"HorseSHIT, Griffiths. It was your name on the roster."
Mark shook his head. "I was in no state."
Kiefer let out a bark of humourless laughter. "You're not kiddin'. You fouled up."
Griffiths dragged thin fingers down his face. "I mean to say," he offered weakly, "I didn't supervise the signal. Nor was it sent by me."
Kiefer cast his cigarette aside. "Don't feed me that. I've seen the paperwork. Your name was on the roster. Not another guy's, goddammit! Yours!"
Well, God forbid the facts should contradict the paperwork. What was the point? Mark made to rise, but Kiefer yanked him down again.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Mark slumped against the wall. Resistance was beyond him. With the realisation that there was nothing he could do, came a strange calm.
"Do what you think you must," he answered levelly, "but there was nothing that I could have done. I'm sorry for it. And those men's lives haunt me every day. But understand that it was outside my control."
Kiefer pushed his cap back and considered his captive at length. He'd expected protestations and excuses, but this bone-weary resignation hadn't figured in his plans. He brought one leg up to his chest, and settled back against the bricks, hand dangling over the bent knee.
"I got all day, Griffiths. Talk."
...
The plush pile that carpeted the foyer of The Majestic Hotel gave way to even plusher nap of all-wool Wilton at the threshold of Longmate's office. A nervous Janice Hylton showed Foyle and Milner inside.
"Mr Foyle, can I ask why... ?"
"Nup."
"Where is Mar—? Where is Mr Longmate?"
Milner exchanged glances with his boss. "We're interviewing him at the police station."
"Is he in trouble?"
Foyle's expression closed the conversation, and Miss Hylton's fingers fluttered at her sides. "I hope you gentlemen won't displace things too much. Mr Longmate is most particular about his filing."
"Wull, that's good news." Foyle pivoted to take in the layout of the office. "In which case, should take relatively little time to find what we're looking for. Know where he keeps medical papers...?"
"Oh?" Janice began to wring her hands. "Is Martin ill?"
Foyle canted his head and blinked slowly. "Nnnup."
"Medical records? Hospital bills?" Milner prompted.
The young woman blanched. Counselled by a master in the fine art of self preservation, she understood that one always—always, mark you, Janice—looked a person steadily in the eye when one was being less than truthful. But Janice never had been a good liar. Her feeble bid to pull the wool with Eddie had left an already-suspicious husband sulky and aggressive. Shakily, she tried the Longmate method on the two policemen.
"Nnno. I'm sorry. It's... you see, it isn't something that I handle for him."
Foyle watched her try to brazen out the lie. Wide-eyed, she had the look of prey when neither he nor Milner could reasonably be cast as predators. Smoothly, Foyle turned away to halve the perceived threat, and Paul took his boss's cue to soften the atmosphere.
"I wonder if you remember me, Miss Hylton?" he began, affably. "We met outside Dr Ziegler's surgery a day or two ago. My wife Edith and I. You were with your husband."
The brief encounter on the street had left Paul and Edie puzzling. Quite confident of knowing Janice, Edith had found her friendly greeting met with a rebuff.
"Mmm?" Janice pinkened. "I, er… yes, I do. Your wife believed she recognised me."
Paul frowned. Edith had called her Janice, and here 'Janice' was. Paul's brows knit closer. Here was the same guilty look he'd seen on Jane that fateful week when she'd returned from Wales. That plumpened, well-fed bloom about her. At the time, he'd put it down to rich, Welsh country valley fare, fresh air and...
He should have thought of it before. Light dawned, and comprehension came out as a flash of anger.
"You did recognise my wife, didn't you? You just didn't want to say so in front of your husband."
Janice took a step away, her fear intensifying; she shook her head, entreating. "No, I..."
"Oh, come on, Janice!" Championing wronged husbands everywhere, Paul went for the kill. "Edith knew your name!"
Indeed, a bewildered Edie had gone on to tell him more. It's strange. I'm sure I know her from the Wednesday clinic. The one that gives out iron and vitamins!
"You're hiding something, aren't you? Something that your husband mustn't be allowed to know?"
The young woman coloured scarlet. "Please, Sergeant—you have no idea what he'll do if this comes out..."
Foyle regarded Janice Hylton. A part of him was smarting for her now, as all the pieces slid together: her nervous fawning round her boss at the committee; a married woman, husband absent beyond possibility of fatherhood, running into Edith Milner at a clinic for expectant mothers. Janice Hylton's moral hiccup with her boss would never turn into a happy ending. Foyle felt a rush of pity—even a smattering of guilt. With Longmate in the frame for murder, and hence off the scene, there'd be no redemption, no recourse.
Pinning his sergeant with a holding look, Foyle stepped in to take the reins.
"What who'll do? Your husband... or Martin Longmate?"
Now met with silence and a trembling lip, Foyle's instinct was for sympathy. It was the human thing to do.
"Janice... your child... He? She?"
The young woman's eyes pleaded with him. "A little girl."
"Where is she now?"
"She's with my mother. Eddie doesn't know. Have you got children, Mr Foyle?"
"One grown-up son. A baby on the way."
She bit her lip. "Couldn't do it. Couldn't let her go."
"Vvvery understandable."
"Martin helped. He paid, you see..."
Foyle nodded his understanding. "Well, be assured that any medical bills or hospital stays that Martin Longmate might have funded for you aren't what interest us here. Nor are we in the business," his sideways glance made Milner shift uncomfortably on the spot, "of making people's already difficult lives more difficult for them."
"Thank you." Janice's voice barely reached a whisper.
"Listen, what and when you tell your husband is entirely your affair, but wwe need to have sight of Martin Longmate's personal papers, now."
Janice cast around her, wrestling with her loyalties. "What's Martin done? He's been so good to me... He's going to see me right... I don't like to..."
Tears spilled, and Paul, relenting, handed her his handkerchief.
Foyle watched, tight-lipped, as the young woman blew her nose and battled bravely to compose herself. He could see at least four filing cabinets along the wall, but there was no guarantee that any one of them contained what he was looking for.
And time was marching on. He reached inside his jacket.
"Wull, if I were you," he began carefully, "I'd ask myself... where my future lies." He produced a neatly folded page of newsprint, and opened it.
"Hastings Chronicle. Today's edition." Foyle scanned the page and made a speculative moue. "Sseems as if your job is being advertised." He held the paper out to the young woman.
Frowning, Janice Hylton took the page.
...
Griffiths closed his eyes. Unpleasant memories throbbed against his eyelids.
"That... afternoon..." he began haltingly, "I was struck down. A migraine."
"You're telling me you had a headache?" Kiefer's every pore exuded scorn. Bad heads belonged to maiden aunts with cases of the vapours. "Couldn't take the strain, huh? Had to lie down in a darkened room? Jeez!"
Griffiths had expected nothing different. When he spoke, his voice was patient. "Headache, yes, Major. But the other symptoms were what rendered me useless for my duties. I could neither focus, nor communicate. A migraine is a spasm of the arteries in the brain."
Indeed, he'd spent the last part of the day in semi-darkness, unable to see properly, or form his words. The random spots of light across his narrowed-to-a-tunnel vision had brought a pulsing pain in both his temples and a palling nausea that felt like a rough crossing to the Isle of Wight. Each time he'd tried to move, his head had borne him down again like lead. All told, a bad end to the worst day of his life—a day when, even before news of the deaths off Slapton Sands had reached him, he'd plodded through a shattered world of personal bereavement.
"Until you've suffered one yourself," Mark offered quietly, "you can't know."
"I can and do know that a thousand lives were lost for no good reason, Griffiths. That's the thing I know."
Mark nodded gravely. "Had I been on duty, things would have turned out differently."
Kiefer's brows contracted. "Yeah? How come?"
"If you'll be patient, I'll explain."
As he watched, Griffiths slender fingers plucked a fountain pen and notepad from an inside pocket.
"Please observe now, Major. Here's a figure one"—mastering the slight tremble in his fingers, he made a short, angled upstroke followed by a long downstroke. "Written in haste,"—he sketched a second number one, using less care, "the upstroke tends to lengthen. Thus, it can be taken for a figure seven,"—he drew a tilted horizontal line and angled downstroke on the page. "Had I been duty supervisor, I would have stressed the discipline of crossing written sevens thus"—he added a crossbar through the downstroke of the seven—"in the Continental style. This is the way I've always favoured writing sevens in notation. A tragic error of interpretation occurred that day, and it meant that every wireless signal warning of the U-boats was transmitted on a frequency fully sixty-six points out."
Kiefer studied both the note, then Griffiths, weighing up the implications.
"How come your name was on the roster documents?"
Griffiths screwed the cap back on his fountain pen, and slotted it inside his jacket with fussy precision. "The duty roster would have been amended once I was taken ill. I can only conclude that there were those who wanted me cashiered for reasons unrelated to my military record."
Kiefer squinted at him. "Cut the riddles Griffiths. What reasons?"
Mark took a deep breath. "It was... suggested to me, privately, that I should take the blame and leave, or take the legal consequence of my proclivities."
Met with an uncertain look, Mark filled the gap. "One might kindly call me temperamental, Major Kiefer. Or, less kindly, an invert. I would have faced a prison sentence."
Now it was Kiefer's turn to give a bitter laugh. "Jesus, don't you Limeys all come out of private school that way? And the army throws you out for that?"
"Er, well..." Griffiths supplied cautiously, gazing at his lap, "cashiered if one is lucky. Otherwise it's gaol."
Kiefer turned to him, incredulous. "But some halfwit can kill a thousand men and walk?!"
...
Milner climbed into the back of the Wolseley, and settled his long legs diagonally across the well.
"I'd say we have him, Sir."
"Oh, I say, how exciting!" piped up Georgie from the driver's seat. She glanced across at her father-in-law. "Will you be charging him this afternoon? Can I come in and watch?"
Foyle pulled his coat around him. If he'd heard her speak, he gave no sign.
"Is that a 'maybe' or a 'no'?" she pressed hopefully. Foyle bestowed a slow blink on the windscreen, then parked his jaw and turned a hooded glare on Georgie.
"So it's a 'no', then? Oh well..." Georgie jammed the engine into reverse, craning her neck over her shoulder to steer the car onto the gravel drive. Paul found himself caught in her line of vision.
"We'll let you file the paperwork," he offered with a sympathetic smile, patting the folder at his side.
"Thanks a bunch."
...
They'd sat a while in silence after Kiefer's outburst. Finally, Mark ventured quietly, "This war... have you lost anybody, Major Kiefer?"
"My whole damn company went down off Slapton Sands. You got a point?"
"But... family?"
A sigh. The American fumbled for another cigarette, his voice softening. "My kid brother. To a U-boat back in '41."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Kiefer exhaled smoke through his nostrils, this time away from Griffiths. "Hell, those boys felt like my family, though. You?"
"Me?"
"Didja lose any family?"
"The person dearest to me, yes."
Kiefer studied him through narrowed eyes. "Tough times, huh? There's no easy way to hear that kinda news."
"How true, Major." It had been the very morning of the exercise when news of Gerald's death had reached Mark, in a letter from the young man's mother. Worse still, Gerald had been dead for eight weeks, unbeknownst to him.
Mark's hand slid down unconsciously to pat his pocket. The letter was still folded there, but truth to tell, the written copy was redundant. Its contents were impressed upon his memory, word for word.
'... and so, in writing to you now, I am admitting to myself that Gerald's life was not the one I would have wished for him. This is my third attempt at putting pen to paper. The previous letters were discarded, as were yours to him, returned with his effects. I would ask you to respect our family's privacy, and not to seek contact with us. I have kept my knowledge of you to myself, and see no virtue in reviewing my decision. Gerald's father's health will not withstand the shock.'
Kiefer's voice broke Mark out of his reverie. "You had no hand in any of it, Griffiths?"
"As I've explained."
"Who, then?"
The question drew a bell-like laugh. "You don't imagine that I'd give you ammunition, Major, so that you can take your drawing pin campaign elsewhere?"
Kiefer scowled and flicked his ash aside. "I could report you for unnatural practices." The hollow threat-after-the-fact sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.
For Mark, it was a sign the heart had gone out of his persecutor. He dared a jibe. "Or... pin a Caravaggio to my door?—Oblique is more your style, I fancy, Major."
A soft snort from his target told him that the barb had hit home. When Mark turned to read his neighbour's mood, he found the other man staring resolutely forwards. He took the opportunity to study Kiefer. The major's cheek, for all his time in Europe, bore the still-bronzed glow of a Caucasian skin exposed to sunlight year on year. His profile spelt the strong-jawed hero, florid, distant-eyed and unattainable. Men of this kind were fashioned differently. And Mark had once believed that there could be no bridging of the gap between his kind and Kiefer's, but war and its perverse configurations had disproved that—Gerald had disproved it, for as long as they had served in parallel—a Signal and an Engineer. And when their duties took them separate ways, there'd been the dream of quieter times shared on the other side of conflict. A dream—a hope—abandoned now. Mark bit his lip.
Kiefer, who'd felt the prickling sensation of being observed, had turned in time to see the eyes that studied him freeze and slip out of focus. Now he produced a hip flask and nudged Griffiths with it.
"Have a slug of this. It takes the edge off."
Mark took the flask and sipped with pursed lips and one pale, extended finger. Gin was his tipple, but the harsh tang of the bourbon on his palate faded to a welcome warmth.
"Thank you." With a nod of satisfaction, he returned the flask. "It's a temporary refuge, Major. But a welcome one."
They sat for a few moments, savouring the whiskey, chins up, backs against the wall, and watched the clouds sail overhead across the narrow strip of sky above the alley.
"I guess... I owe you an apology." —the American shook his head, as if dispersing echoes. "Still mad as hell, but not so proud of what I did. You did fine. Saved a good man's life today."
Mark stretched his long neck upwards, suddenly aware of sunlight on his face. "I think that, possibly, I saved my own as well."
...
Paul Milner parked himself discreetly in the corner of Room C, and nodded to his boss. Seated at the table and awaiting interview, an out-of-features Longmate picked disgustedly at the warm, wet patch darkening the calf of his right trouser leg.
"I feel I'd be within my rights to make a formal complaint, Chief Superintendent." His suave tone flirted with annoyance. "Your constable failed adequately to control his dog."
Through the open doorway giving onto the corridor, the figure of Constable Davis, with Hector on a lead, could be seen stooping down to the Alsatian's level and looking up apologetically at Brooke. His stage-whisper carried easily along the hallway.
"He couldn't 'elp it, Sarge. That bloke's so tall and thin, no sooner did we 'ave 'im on his feet, than Hector took 'im for a lamppost,"—Eddie ruffled the fur between the panting dog's untroubled ears—"didn't you, me ole mate?"
Across from Longmate in the interview room, Foyle pulled out a chair.
"Nnnot here to discuss dog handling," he lowered himself into the seat and gave his reluctant guest a frank look, "as you perfectly well realise."
"Oh, but before we discuss anything else, Mr Foyle, I really must insist on seeing my solicitor."
Foyle assessed his detainee. Unruffled would be putting it mildly. Longmate was acting like a customer complaining of the service.
"Let's see, now," Foyle closed one eye, evaluating, "and your solicitor would be... Alan Spurlock?"
Longmate leaned forwards; his expression lifted. "You use his services too?"
"Nnnnup." Foyle crossed his arms. The brash, off-colour conversations apt to come from cultivating men like Spurlock turned his stomach. Hugh Reid—more 'clubbable' of habit—could overlook the man's style for his legal competence, but none of Foyle's own business—personal, familial, or professional—was ever going to land on Alan Spurlock's desk. Or line his pocket.
With the Spurlock package came Tom Cunningham, defender of the well-heeled Sussex criminal community. Some men saw trials as legal brinkmanship—a game of eloquence and erudition over ethics. Cunningham had made his name out of a Mephistophelian talent for opening escape holes in seemingly airtight cases. Foyle weighed Longmate's chances as a client of this virtueless alliance, and found that the prospect of an acquittal upset his digestion. He shifted in his chair. He'd seen deserved convictions lost before, and this case needed to be tied up very carefully indeed.
"Please call Mr Spurlock," Foyle instructed Milner coolly. "Superintendent Reid will have the number. Wouldn't like this matter to drag on longer than necessary."
As Paul rose, he fancied Longmate tried to smirk, but the bloodied nose and split lip didn't react well to being stretched. Instead, as the hotelier reached around to touch the burgeoning egg lump on the back of his head, his dramatic wince gave Foyle the feeling Longmate was about to milk the injury for maximum effect.
"Most irksome when I'm fighting an election, Mr Foyle. I shall to be out of features for the victory celebrations."
"Sseems likely," Foyle agreed, minus sympathy.
"Most irksome," persisted Longmate. "And all down to a bizarre misunderstanding, as I hope you'll see."
Foyle crossed his arms and leant back in his seat. "Wull, certainly looking forward to hearing your account of things."
Longmate sent him a sharp look. "When my solicitor arrives."
"Naturally."
"In the meantime," mirroring Foyle's relaxed posture, Longmate stretched his legs under the table, "may I trouble you for a mirror?"
"Wull, we can ask..." Foyle raised a finger, signalling to Milner as he was about to leave the room.
There was a knock. A clean-shaven Guy Grindley stood in the open doorway, taking in the show.
"I'm here," he announced baldly. Foyle raised an eyebrow in salute.
Longmate turned. "Do I know you?" His tone touched on the petulant.
Guy strode in, and invaded Longmate's space, plonking his leather bag before him on the table. He exchanged a swift glance with Foyle.
"Grindley. Doctor. Hope I'll do. The police beautician's been delayed."
Friday evening, 4th May, 1945
Sam looked down at a sink full of potatoes. Not much excitement there.
She heard the click of the front door closing, and next the welcome sound of footsteps along the hall. She cast an eager look over her shoulder.
"How was your day?"
"Passable." Then Christopher was at her back, hands sliding round her middle, lips nipping at the soft, pale skin beneath the honey-gold upsweep behind her ear.
"Mmm. Not a bad day, Sam. How 'bout you? Sit down to that." He dragged a tall stool from the corner and encouraged her to perch.
"So-so. Quite tired, actually," she settled her bottom and stretched in his embrace. "Feeling a bit—I don't know—cut off, and bored. Anything exciting happen at the station?" she asked hopefully. "Anything you'd like to share?"
"Mmwell. Could be." Sam's belly was the ideal size for him to reach around to rest clasped fingers on her pregnancy. He let his hands stray just beneath her apron to smooth over the taut mound, and was rewarded with a now-familiar nudge from a small foot inside. His mouth curled into an elastic smile of pure contentment, and his eyes regarded her sidelong. "Wwwhat would you say to an early night?"
Sam grinned round at him from her perch. "As long as we can eat a proper dinner first! I'm awfully hungry."
"Knnow better than to come between you and your food..." His cheek found hers, and Sam could feel the scratch of evening whiskers.
"...as long as Georgie doesn't mind being landed with the washing up," she teased.
Christopher pulled a face. "Sseems to be a lot of stipulations and provisos, Sam, before we get a bit of quiet time alone."
"Yes, and imagine," Sam added with mischievous brightness, "how much less of it we'll get when Andrew's back, and once the baby's born."
"No more conditions." Christopher's hand claimed a soft breast, and there was a splash as Sam dropped the potato knife into the sink. "If you come to bed in reasonable time," he dangled the incentive, "since you're keen on a juicy murder, I'll share all the details of my day, and you can ask as many questions as you like."
Sam tried to turn in his embrace, eyes wide with eagerness. "Has someone…? Oh, there hasn't been... it isn't... ?" Then she calmed. If this was serious, he wouldn't bait her so. She elbowed him, arching an eyebrow in annoyance.
"DCS Foyle, are you bribing me with promises of gory details in return for intimate relations?"
She felt the twitch of cheek against her own. "Mmmyep."
"I could foil you by asking Georgie what she knows."
Christopher's voice dropped to a growl. "Can't foil a Foyle, Miss Stewart. I'll pull rank on her."
Their noses brushed as Christopher petitioned for—then gave and got—a long and luscious kiss, gathering Sam's wet hands in his own and warming them.
"You have," said Sam, "the most delicious, fascinating, mobile mouth."
"I have?" He pulled away and Sam was treated to a tantalising glimpse of tongue-tip tickling the soft, moist flesh behind his upper lip.
"Mmm. Even before I'd ever felt what they could do, I used to watch you—used to love the tales your lips told, but especially the way you do this..."
She brought her index finger to the corner of his mouth and pushed up gently.
With a wolfish look, Christopher captured her fingertip between his teeth and let his tongue brush lightly round the top rim of her fingernail.
"Nomm!"
Sam's insides swooped as he enveloped her finger down to the second joint and pulled away again, repeating the movement with eyes locked on hers.
...
Pans scrubbed and dishes stacked or left to soak, Christopher tossed aside the flowered apron Sam had tied around him before she'd retired upstairs.
"Thanks for your help," he offered wryly, eyeing his daughter-in-law, seated at the kitchen table in sullen silence.
Georgie looked up from her sulk. "That awful man left grimy thumbprints on my compact. And he spilt the powder. You have no idea how difficult it is to get a Creme Puff refill. And you wouldn't let me in the room, or tell me what was going on."
"Don't want you mixing with his sort. In any case, I saw you pumping Brooke for information."
"When Mr Milner asked would I mind lending you my mirror, I didn't expect to get it back in such a state."
"Yup. Sorry 'bout that." Christopher waited to see if there was more to come. There was.
"Your son is an awful correspondent," Georgie flicked a convenient crumb from the tabletop.
"Can't argue with you there."
Their eyes met, and Christopher's contained a twinkle.
"We're on the home run, Georgie. Won't be long now." He leant across the table and squeezed her hand. "Don't sit up too late reading."
"Hmmf!" she grinned in spite of herself. "Sometimes I think my eyes are going to pack up, I read so flipping much in bed."
"There was a time, and not so long ago," said Christopher, "when I felt just the same."
Sighing, Georgie pushed her chair back from the table and gathered her sleeping puppy from the kitchen basket where the spaniel lay curled. "This one's going to whine if she wakes up and finds herself alone."
She paused at the doorway and frowned down at Wommel cradled on her chest. "Life can be such an effort, can't it?"
"Wull, I think you'll find that time's the only thing in life that carries on without us putting any effort in."
"Is that good or bad, d'you think?"
Christopher's eyes crept sideways. "Still pondering the answer. Good, on the whole, I think." He gave her a half-nod of reassurance. "You'll get him back, you know."
She smiled a little sadly. "'Night, Christopher."
"'Night, Love."
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
No prizes for guessing how the next chapter begins. I quite realise that Sam and Foyle are well overdue for some fun, but there was plot to fix...
More soon. And thank you for your patience.
GiuC