Beware This Boy (36 page)

“I can imagine that is difficult,” said Tyler. It was something he’d experienced.

“Generally people are good and don’t make a fuss.”

The swinging doors opened and two stretcher-bearers entered. They were covered with dust and dirt and had obviously been working for hours. They deposited the stretcher on one of the few remaining gurneys. Tyler felt his heart sink. The mound underneath the blanket was ominously small.

“Do you have an identity for the casualty?” Eileen asked the first man.

“Yes, Sister. She’ll likely be Daisy Marsden from 65 Granite Street. She were in the cellar. House took a direct hit.”

Tyler made a note.

“Approximate age of victim?” Eileen continued.

The man took a notebook from his pocket and opened it up. “According to the warden’s list, she’s five.”

“Colour of hair?”

“Brown, I’d say.”

“Eyes?”

The man glanced at his partner, who had sagged against the wall and was staring at the floor.

“Brown,” said the other man.

Tyler wrote down the details.

“Is the whereabouts of next of kin known?”

The first man consulted his notebook. “Parents are Henry and Ethel Marsden. One child, Daisy. Missus was pulled out but she’s hurt bad, as I understand. He’s overseas. Poor sod. What a thing to come home to.”

He looked on the verge of tears and he pinched the bridge of his nose to keep them back. He was short and skinny, looked to be call-up age, but was probably in a reserved occupation and doing night duty as an ambulance driver. His eyes were red-rimmed, the pupils dilated. He was shaking. Tyler had seen that look before. The poor sod was in a state of shock.

Eileen was keeping her voice crisp and professional. “Is the body intact?”

“Not a mark on her. I don’t understand it.”

She lifted the canvas sheet. Tyler recoiled. He couldn’t help himself – the body was so tiny and doll-like. It was completely covered with red brick dust but there were no visible signs of
injury except for a thin line of blood from the corner of the child’s mouth.

“She died from concussive impact,” said Eileen to the stretcher-bearer. “Typically the lungs burst, but sometimes the heart is crushed inside the ribcage.”

She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped away the blood and some of the dust from the cheek. Tyler could see that when the alarm sounded, the child’s mother had prepared her to go into the shelter, her warm clothes probably at the ready. Daisy was wearing a green wool coat over her nightgown, white socks, and neat black shoes with a V strap. She had been a pretty child. Tyler was glad to bury his head in taking down the facts. He felt a lump in his throat. What a tragedy for the father to come back to. If he came back, that is.

“Thank you,” Eileen said to the two men. “You can put the stretcher in the number thirty-seven spot.” She noted down their numbers, which were on their arm bands. She smiled at them both. “There’s a tea urn upstairs. Go and help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the first man. They nodded their thanks, lifted their all too light burden, and trudged off.

Eileen and Tyler exchanged glances, not speaking.

The doors swung open again and a man came in. He was stooped and was wearing a shabby overcoat, but his badges of authority were his yellow arm band and the tin helmet of an
ARP
warden. He was carrying something at arm’s length that was wrapped in a blood-soaked flowered frock. Eileen intercepted him.

“I’ll take care of this,” she said to Tyler, who had been about to join her. Obedient to her tone of voice, he stopped in his tracks and waited.

“What have you got, John?” Eileen asked the warden quietly.

“Leg, ma’am. Left. Male. Found on the pavement on Fleet Street. There was a dress shop blown out just across the road
and I snatched up the first thing I could find to wrap it in. Didn’t seem right to just leave it lying there.”

Eileen unwrapped the fabric so she could take a look. The severed leg had little resemblance now to anything living. Only the dusty raw flesh and bone at the hip end indicated that it had once been part of a human being. The remnants of the trousers were grey flannel. The foot was intact, still in its black leather shoe and, rather incongruously, bright yellow socks. Not a lot to go on when they tried to identify the corpse.

She rewrapped the leg. “Thank you, John. I’ll deal with it now.”

“I almost forgot … you will need this.” The warden handed her a piece of creased paper. “It’s a list of all the occupants registered on that part of Fleet Street. Numbers 82 and 84 are the worst hit. They’re on fire. Funny thing was, the bomb didn’t drop on them. Maybe it was a delayed-action kind.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Bombs do funny things. I’ll go back and see what’s what as soon as I can hand this over.”

Eileen carried the gruesome object to the back of the room, where all the severed body parts were screened off.

“An undertaker will try to match the parts to the bodies,” she said to Tyler. “I’ll see if there’s anyone else in the hall.”

She opened the entrance doors and beckoned to two stretcher-bearers. She waited while they put the stretcher on top of the gurney.

“Do you have a positive identification?”

“Yes, Sister, we do.” The ambulance driver was succinct. He’d gone through the procedure too many times already. “The body was retrieved from a house in Water Street. Direct hit with an
HE.”

“Give me the details,” said Tyler, his pencil poised. One of the men checked his slip.

“Body of a male. Formerly one of the residents at 70 Water
Street. According to the registration list, his name’s Donald Jarvis.”

Eileen frowned. “What the—” She lifted the canvas cover sufficiently to reveal the face. “My God!” Her face went white and she stared down at the body in horror.

“Sister, what is it?” Tyler asked.

“There’s some mistake. His name isn’t Jarvis. This is my nephew, Brian Walmsley.”

Eileen Abbott was not the fainting kind, but she sat down abruptly on a nearby chair. “Where did you find this body?” she said to the stretcher-bearers.

“Like I said, Sister, he was caught by a direct hit on his house. Water Street. Number 70.”

“Why is he identified as Donald Jarvis?” Tyler asked.

“That’s the name I was given. The rest of the family was in the nearby public shelter and were not injured. His ma said her son had stayed behind in the house. We took him out of the front room.”

“Did the parents make a visual identification?”

“No, they was too busy looking after themselves. We said we were bringing him here and they could come later.”

Eileen was sitting motionless, her eyes unseeing. Tyler went over to her. He touched her on the shoulder. “I suppose there’s no doubt this is your nephew?”

“None at all.”

Tyler nodded at one of the men to replace the cover over the corpse’s face.

“Where did your nephew live?” he asked Eileen.

“I, er … he’s a soldier. He was stationed in Aldershot. We heard he was coming home on leave.” She looked at Tyler. “We were expecting him at our house. It, er, it … we have more room than his parents.”

“Could he have been visiting the Jarvises on Water Street?”

“No. At least, I don’t believe so …” Her voice trailed off.

Tyler wondered why she was lying to him. He turned to the stretcher-bearers. “Thanks, chaps.”

“We’ll get back to the hospital, then.”

“Grab a cuppa from upstairs. You’ll find a Yank up there helping out. Tell him to come down here, will you?”

They walked away wearily.

Tyler addressed Eileen. “I can continue on here, Miss Abbott, if you want to leave.”

She got to her feet, her self-control shaky but in place.

“Thank you. I must tell my family.” She paused. “Brian was twenty years old, Inspector. He may not have died in the line of fire, but he is a casualty of war just the same.”

The door to the upper level opened and Lev Kaplan came hurrying down. He went straight to Eileen and took her in his arms. She did not resist.

“The ambulance men told me that they had just brought in your nephew. I’m so sorry, Eileen.”

She allowed herself to be comforted for a few moments, then moved back. “I must get home.”

“I’ll take you,” said Lev.

“No! I’ll be all right, thank you. Inspector Tyler is taking over for me. I will come back as soon as I can and conclude the formalities.”

She gathered her coat and hat. As she went past the gurney, she touched it lightly, shaking her head. “Brian, what were you thinking?”

Lev walked her as far as the door. Tyler waited until he returned.

“What rotten bad luck,” said Lev. “They told me there was some sort of mix-up in the identity. What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Tyler answered. “The nephew must have
been visiting the Jarvis chappie who lives in the house that got it. I didn’t want to upset Miss Abbott, but there’s something I want to take a look at.”

He pulled back the sheet. Brian was wearing an army greatcoat, which was unbuttoned. Underneath he was dressed in a woollen Fair Isle jersey, the front of which was soaked with blood. His trousers were not army issue either and looked far too big for him. The shocking thing, however, was a long, deep gash across his throat. Tyler leaned in to take a better look.

Kaplan peered over his shoulder. “That isn’t a shrapnel wound,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. His throat’s been slashed.”

Tyler nodded. “Certainly looks like it.”

“Any ideas as to who did it?”

“Not yet. It appears he was in the front room of the Jarvis house. The parents thought this was their son Donny.”

“Good God. Jarvis. Donny Jarvis.” He stared at the corpse. “That’s definitely not him.”

“How d’you know?”

In answer, Lev reached into an inner pocket in his jacket and took out a card. “There’s something I should tell you, Inspector. Read it. It’s legit.”

Before Tyler could do more than assimilate the actual profession of the supposed photographer, the upper door opened again and the constable came hurrying down the stairs. “Is there an ambulance man here?” he asked Tyler. “Apparently the gas main has broken at the house on Water Street where they took out that body. They found out there’s a bloke trapped in there. They need to get him out quick.”

Lev looked at Tyler. “Do you think that’s Donny?”

“Could be. Let’s go find out.” He tapped Lev’s arm. “Come on. It’ll be faster if we go on foot.”

He was right. They arrived at Water Street in a few minutes, bypassing the clogged streets.

The destroyed houses were still sending up trails of smoke and a group of people was gathered not far away, being watched over by a florid-faced constable.

Tyler went over to him. “I’m
DCI
Tyler, working out of Steelhouse Lane. I’m looking for a bloke named Donny Jarvis.”

“Sorry, sir. He’s a dead un. He was packed off to the mortuary not so long ago.”

“That wasn’t Jarvis. Case of mistaken identity. We’re looking for the real Jarvis. We heard there’s a bloke still trapped in the rubble. That might be him.”

“If it is, he’s an unlucky sod. The upper floor collapsed into the living room. That’s where we got the other bloke. The entire house was more or less pushed into the cellar. They should have been in the shelter, but there you go, too late now. Go and have a word with
PC
Markle, sir. He’s been talking to somebody over there.”

“The lad who’s buried – is he still alive?” Kaplan asked.

“Apparently. One of the wardens just now made contact. He’s gone to fetch the poor bloke’s mam. See if she wants to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“There’s gas leaking into the space he’s in. Nothing we can do at the moment. He’s a goner. Matter of time. You can hear he’s getting groggy.”

“Come on, Kaplan,” said Tyler.

He showed his police badge to the constable at the barricade, who lifted the rope so they could duck underneath. They crossed the littered backyard and went to where the original door had been. Tyler shoved aside some bricks, knelt down, and put his face as close as he could to what had once been the living room floor.

“Hello! Hello, Donny? Donny Jarvis? Can you hear me?”

He pressed his ear against the boards and heard Donny’s voice, thin and faint.

“When the fuck are you getting me out of here?”

“Let me talk to him,” said Kaplan, and he bent over the small space.

“Donny, it’s Comrade Hitchcock talking to you. The police are working on getting you out but it’s going to be difficult.”

“Tell them to fucking hurry up. I can smell gas. It’s making me feel sick.”

“Donny, what happened? The police pulled out a man called Brian Walmsley. His throat had been cut. Did you kill him?”

Tyler could hear a chuckle floating up. “It was him or me, stupid sod. Comes at me with a knife. I’ll plead self-defence. Then the bleeding bomb landed, so I probably needn’t have bothered. We was buried.” He coughed. “God almighty, this is getting worse. How’s the digging coming along?”

“Slowly. Listen to me, Donny, truth is there’s not much chance of getting you out before the gas gets to you. You’re probably starting to feel nauseated and sort of sleepy. Am I right?”

“What the fuck are you telling me? Can’t you make an air hole or something?”

“Can you move over this way? I can try to get a pipe down to you.”

More coughing. “No, you dumb sod, I’m trapped. The entire fucking upstairs fell on me. I can’t move a bleeding inch. Shit, shit, my legs have gone.” He choked again. “You know what, Yank? You’re dead jammy, you are.”

“Why is that, Donny?”

“You’re getting a nice package from America. Made it myself, with a little help. But it doesn’t look like you’ll be the one to open it. Which is just as well, if you get my meaning.”

“Who else was getting a present?”

“The ponce. Couldn’t be trusted either. He’d have shot his mouth off if the police had come to call.”

“What about Chopin and Cardiff?”

“No packages. Don’t need them.”

Lev put his mouth to the boards again. “Donny. Were any of the comrades responsible for the explosion at Endicott’s?”