The Mills of God (23 page)

Roseanna's reaction was endearing. She leant forward on her seat, her hands clasped before her, her chin on her locked fingers. She looked for all the world like a little girl gazing at the Christmas tree and her very attitude made both Tennant and Nick smile.

Richard pulled the mask down and let it hang from one ear. Then he started on about Major's death being suspicious and how the police force had been called in confidentially, not a word of it leaking to the press. Enter the bare-breasted reporter – once more decently clad in the mac – who began to say through the mike she was clutching that rumours were circulating throughout the media that there might have been foul play involved and how the police were doing a secret investigation.

‘Some hopes,' muttered Tennant.

The forensics man launched into a long speech about how skilled was the work he did, then everyone left the stage.

‘Is that it?' asked the vicar, standing up.

‘No, my dear,' answered Roseanna, ‘this is only the interval.'

They staggered back to the bar, both the men feeling desperately in need of alcohol to numb the pain. Roseanna went to the Ladies and Tennant and Nick stared at one another in horror.

‘This is quite the most God-awful thing I have ever seen,' said the inspector.

‘What's it meant to be about? Nobody is connecting with anyone else.'

‘It's a series of scenas, of course,' Tennant answered loudly, and the vicar saw that Marcus had walked into the bar surrounded by sycophants.

‘Richard hasn't got much of a part, has he?' he remarked.

‘Perhaps he'll do more in act two.'

But strangely enough when they took their seats again it was to find that the forensics man did not appear.

‘Is Richard coming back as someone else?' the vicar asked Roseanna.

‘No,' she answered, smiling. ‘He's only in the first act.'

Suddenly Tennant came to life. Why had he never thought of it before? Supposing the fellow decided against taking his curtain call on certain occasions and caught the train back to Oakbridge where he might be keeping a bicycle? A short ride to Lakehurst and he could go about his grisly business unhindered. He could even borrow the protective clothing he wore in the play and next morning, arriving early, put it in the theatre washing machine.

The inspector was so gripped by his theory that he scarcely noticed the play had come to an end. The naked man wearing the Major mask ran across the stage, this time in slow motion, and everyone started to clap. They all appeared to take a bow, Richard included, and then the audience traipsed back through the empty rooms to the bar.

Marcus stood in a semicircle of admirers drinking in their compliments.

‘Such meaning,' said the young man with the buttons on his fly, ‘I mean it left me drained – utterly.'

‘Why did that girl take her top off?' asked Gwendoline, who was turning out to be a bit of a nightmare.

‘Oh, shush.'

‘No, I won't shush. I mean
why
did she?'

‘To show she had decent tits,' said an old bearded gentleman who was making his way out and who obviously had not enjoyed the evening at all.

‘Hear, hear,' echoed the vicar unexpectedly.

But at that moment Roseanna could be seen returning and a discreet silence fell. She glanced at Nick.

‘Did you enjoy it, my dear?'

‘I'm afraid it was rather beyond me,' he said, looking apologetic.

‘And what about you, Inspector?'

‘Well, I'm a bit thick when it comes to a series of scenas,' he answered, just loudly enough for Marcus to hear.

‘The last thing I would have called you was thick, my friend,' she said, and then she turned and flashed her radiant smile as Richard came up to her. Looking at him closely, Tennant wondered if he had had plastic surgery.

‘Well, hello, everybody,' the actor said, putting his arm round Tennant's shoulders. ‘How are we all, tonight? Did we enjoy ourselves?'

‘It was a very interesting production,' said the vicar tamely.

‘Hoh, hoh, hoh,' chortled Richard. ‘Did you know that “interesting” is a euphemism for bloody awful in theatrical parlance.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Neither did I,' said Tennant. ‘Is that a fact?'

‘What can I get everyone to drink?' asked Richard, thankfully changing the subject.

‘I'll have a half of light ale.'

‘And so will I.'

‘And I will have a vodka and tonic,' said Roseanna, before throwing her arms round her husband and giving him a look of such adoration that it plucked at Tennant's heart to see it. There could be no doubting that this marriage, regardless of the age gap, regardless of any hidden depths her husband might have – and the inspector thought that they might be deep indeed – had brought her great joy.

‘You were wonderful, my darling,' she murmured. ‘When you were on stage one couldn't look at anybody else.'

Considering, thought Tennant brutally, that there had only been one other person with Richard, this was not difficult to achieve.

The actor hugged Roseanna tightly to him. ‘Dearest,' he said, ‘you truly are so sweet.'

He could have meant it quite sincerely but he had the unfortunate habit of speaking as if every word were a piece of theatrical dialogue. But his wife either didn't – or did not want to – notice, and snuggled up as closely to him as she could possibly get.

Afterwards, going home on the train, she fell asleep on Richard's shoulder and the actor closed his eyes, despite the fact that he had a man next to him who was eating a portion of smelly chips while prattling inanely on a mobile phone. Nick leant across to the inspector.

‘Would you like a bed for the night?'

‘I'd be very pleased. By the way, I saw your ghost.'

‘Did you? I've never seen him. What was he like?'

Tennant laughed. ‘You really believe it, don't you. Actually I had a dream and thought I saw something but in fact I must have been asleep.'

Nick laughed shortly and said, ‘You policemen.' He indicated the dozing Richard with his eyes. ‘What's he doing coming back with us?'

‘Apparently they've got a day off tomorrow. Something to do with judging the St Pancras award.'

‘Blimey. That's going to be a big deal.'

And both men roared with laughter, so much so that the man on the mobile looked annoyed and spilt his chips all over the floor.

They got back to Lakehurst at midnight and after having dropped off the Culpeppers, Tennant called in at the mobile unit before returning to the vicarage.

‘Everything quiet?' he asked the desk sergeant.

‘So far, so good, sir.'

‘Well, fingers crossed.'

On a whim and despite the lateness of the hour Tennant sat down in front of the computer and typed in the words ‘Sieglinde Mauser'. Immediately a picture came up of a somewhat frightened-looking woman standing next to – of all people – Adolf Hitler. The legend came up. ‘Sieglinde Mauser, born 16th June, 1890, only surviving daughter of Fritz and Rosa Mauser. Sieglinde was an associate of Adolf Hitler and worked in the position of his secretary during the 1930s. In 1935 she met Graf Rolfe von Weisshausen, a staunch henchman of the Fuehrer, and married him a year later. (See Weisshausen, Graf Rolfe von). In 1939 their only child was born, a son, Conrad Michael. In 1946 von Weisshausen was tried at Nuremberg and subsequently executed. Sieglinde, however, escaped with her child and reverted to her maiden name in order to avoid detection. It is believed she spent some years in Poland but she eventually came to England, where she lived until her death in 1980.'

Tennant sat back in his chair, breathing hard, and typed in the words ‘Rolfe von Weisshausen'. And up came the photograph of the Nazi war criminal in his high boots and his uniform, the swastika emblazoned on his arm. The inspector had never seen such a likeness between father and son. He could have been looking at the face of Michael Mauser.

TWENTY-ONE

B
roderick Crawford looked terrible after a night in the cells. His face was the colour of a slug's, his normally vivid hair hung limply down upon his grimy collar, his teeth looked as if they had been dipped in seaweed. To crown it all he had a five o'clock shadow in a shade resembling pale putty. Tennant, sitting opposite him, felt that the poor child had nothing going for him at all. To make matters worse Mrs Fothergill, his mother – she had married again after Mr Crawford had gone either to meet his maker or to the divorce court – had arrived in Lewes and was sitting in the waiting room in floods of tears, demanding to see her boy. Tennant sighed. His was not an easy life.

‘Now, Mr Crawford,' he said kindly, ‘can you tell me something?'

‘What?' Broderick responded mulishly.

‘Did you go into the church and pray when the place was empty?'

‘I might have done.'

Tennant shifted in his chair. ‘Did you or didn't you?'

‘Sometimes, yes.'

‘And was it you who bolted out past the vicar leaving him in a state of some shock.'

‘I wouldn't know how he was feeling, would I?'

‘So it was you,' said Potter, who was sitting beside Tennant.

‘I didn't say so, did I?'

‘Listen, mate,' Potter answered, losing his cool, ‘stop playing silly buggers. And don't ask questions. We're doing that. Understand?'

There was silence during which Broderick cast his watery gaze to the floor and Tennant cleared his throat.

‘Well?' he said.

‘No comment.'

‘Right,' the inspector answered, ‘switch off the recording and bring in Mrs Fothergill. We're going to have to explain to her about her son's sexual proclivities.'

Broderick jerked to life. ‘No, please don't tell my mum. I'll answer your questions but don't say anything. Yes, it was me who prayed late in the church. And do you know what it was I was praying for? I was praying to sort out my life. I was praying that I could stop loving Mr Bridger and find someone my own age? It's all a total mess at the moment – and I hate it.'

He burst into passionate sobs, slumping forward on the table, shoulders heaving with grief. Tennant looked at the constable who stood by the door.

‘Take Mr Crawford away, will you. And get him a cup of tea while you're at it.'

As soon as Broderick was out of the room Tennant said, ‘Potter, I want to run an idea past you.'

‘Right, sir.'

‘It happened in the theatre last night.'

And he proceeded to tell his sergeant all that had occurred in the few hours during which they had gone their separate ways.

‘What do you think?' Tennant asked at the end.

Potter grinned. ‘I believe you could very well be right about Culpepper. But what a turn up about poor old Mauser. Son of a Nazi war criminal, eh!'

Tennant looked very thoughtful. ‘But is it possible that he has inherited his father's killing instincts, I wonder.'

‘I don't know, sir. We'd better go and have another chat with him.'

At that moment the phone rang and Potter picked it up.

‘What!' he exclaimed. ‘OK. We'll be with you in thirty minutes.'

He put the phone down and turned to the inspector. ‘There was an attempted murder this morning in Lakehurst. Giles Fielding. He's all right because he was rescued. And you'll never guess who by.'

Tennant shook his head.

‘The offspring of the Hitlerite himself.'

They did not bother with the mobile unit but went straight to Giles's farm in Speckled Wood. Two police cars were drawn up outside and there was a strong presence of uniformed officers. Tennant strode up to one.

‘Has he been taken to hospital?'

‘Yes. He was admitted to A and E but they have discharged him. He's got nothing more than a very sore throat.'

‘What happened exactly?'

‘Apparently he went out into his field because his sheep were making a noise. In the darkness somebody crept up on him, putting some wire round his neck, but he shouted out and his neighbour, who's in the habit of going for early walks, heard him and fired a pistol and the assailant ran off.'

‘What time was this?' asked Potter.

‘About five o'clock. It's still dark then.'

‘Christ almighty,' said Tennant. ‘If only I could get my hands on this lunatic, whoever he is.'

‘Come on, sir. We'd best go and see poor Fielding.'

But Tennant had despair in his walk and went silently into the farmhouse, deep in gloom.

Giles was sitting in the kitchen by the range, which had been stoked up and was throwing out a considerable heat. He was wrapped in a blanket and was sipping as best he could from a mug of coffee which, the inspector thought, had a good slug of brandy in it. Sitting beside him, also drinking the brew, was the son of the war criminal.

‘Well, Mr Mauser,' Tennant said slowly, ‘I hear you saved the day.'

‘Yes, since you put it like that. I happened to be setting out on my walk and I heard Giles shouting. So I shot at the person and they ran away.'

‘Did you see who it was?'

‘All I could make out in the gloom was a figure clad in white. I could not tell you whether it was male or female.'

‘And you shot at him or her. Do you think you hit them?'

‘I can't be certain. But I certainly scared them off.'

Tennant paused, realizing that he ought to ask Mauser about whether he had a gun licence but horribly aware that the man was dying, that he had a past that must have been almost impossible to bear. He saw Potter open his mouth but signalled to him with his hand to remain silent.