War Damage (14 page)

‘The thing is, Muriel can be a bit … fanatical.'

How unfair to blame his wife! But how like a man. He didn't have to marry her, after all.

‘We've all got more serious since the end of the war,' said Hilary. ‘Funny, isn't it, you'd have thought people would be more cheerful and instead – I often think of the Vale of Evesham, don't you, and how carefree we all were then. When we were absolutely losing the war.'

She smiled. ‘Wasn't it wonderful!'

They'd met on the boat home from Shanghai and embarked on one of those insubstantial shipboard romances that flared up and died down like burning paper. She was on her way back to England, with a British passport, courtesy of her husband. It was, of course, odd that Eugene, so totally Irish, had a British passport, or, for that matter, that his name was Smith, but she didn't worry her head about that. The main thing was, he'd got her one too.

A friend of Hilary's found her a clerical job in a publishing firm. Then, when war broke out, Hilary told her they were looking for people with foreign languages. He'd put his solicitor's practice in mothballs and would be working somewhere in the country. His mother was German – he was bilingual. He could probably get her included. They were sent to the Vale of Evesham and became part of the ‘Ears of Britain', mucking in with a polyglot group of refugees, Jewish exiles, Spanish communists, Austrian intellectuals and White Russians.

‘Remember how horrified the local people were the first time they saw Sergei in his ankle-length fur coat and astrakhan hat, that very cold winter, 1940?' And Hilary glanced at her: ‘Ever hear of him again?'

Regine shook her head. She tried never to think about Sergei. But now she couldn't help remembering and there was a lump in her throat as she thought what fun it had all been. They'd lived in a communal household at first, where you had to get water from the well. On washday they boiled up rainwater in a huge copper in the wash house, and the washing itself was done out of doors in a great big tub. Eventually the well ran dry and they had to split up, billeted on different villagers.

She remembered the thrill of skidding on her bike over roads that had become an endless sheet of ice that freezing winter. They even skated on the fields, which was extraordinary. The ditches were piled high with enormous blocks of ice and the branches and twigs of the trees were coated in ice like giant icicles. And then the Siberian winter was followed by a scorching summer, which made the village, with thatched roofs and cottage gardens and orchards groaning with fruit, seem even more like a world lost in time, a hundred years behind London.

As she cycled to the night shift the moon shone on the silent glassy river and turned it to mercury, and the blossomladen orchards glimmered in the moonlight. Then, when she biked home along the old Evesham road in the early morning the sun would be coming up and there'd be mist over the river, and the cows would stand peacefully under the heavy hanging trees.

Hilary must have been remembering too, for he said: ‘The extraordinary thing was, it was the most peaceful place in the world, wasn't it, and yet we were in the middle of the war.'

‘I was heartbroken when the whole outfit was moved to Reading and I went to the War Office in London,' said Regine. For that was when Sergei had left on some secret mission abroad.

The key turned in the lock. Neville was back. He came down the passage to the kitchen. ‘Oh! Hilary.' He seemed put out.

‘They were interviewed by the police,' said Regine.

‘We've all had a visit from the police. It's their job. But why are you sitting in here? I need a drink. Noel Valentine can be so exhausting – on and on at me to invest in his bloody gallery.' He sat down and took out his pipe.

‘Yes, but – well, Muriel got the wind up.'

The two men exchanged a look.

‘That's absurd,' said Neville. ‘It's nothing to do with her.'

‘No … but it was difficult talking to the police; as you can imagine, Neville.'

‘No I can't, actually. Her politics has nothing to do with Freddie getting murdered.'

‘Freddie wasn't interested in politics,' said Regine.

They ignored her. ‘Muriel's worried about Arthur, you see,' said Hilary.

‘
Arthur
?' said Regine. ‘Why should she be worried about him?'

Hilary leaned forward earnestly. ‘You know, Neville, if I hadn't met you I wouldn't have met Arthur, and if I hadn't met Arthur I wouldn't have met Muriel.'

Neville made a rasping noise, halfway between a cough and a laugh. ‘Don't blame me! Reggie introduced the two of us, come to that, so maybe your marriage is all her fault.'

‘I'm not complaining about my marriage! I'm just saying it's a bit ironic, isn't it. You saw through it all and – and they didn't.'

Regine looked from one to the other. ‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘The fact is, kitten, before the war Arthur and I were both rather starry-eyed about Oswald Mosley. It was just youthful indiscretion on my part. It didn't take me long to see through all the posing and claptrap. What a frightful man Mosley was – well, still is, of course, although he's a spent force now. Back then even Freddie fell slightly for the – the glamour of fascism, I suppose you could call it. 1937. He even dragged Vivienne along to one or two meetings, I seem to remember. I think they both rather loved the theatrical aspect of it all. In our defence, we weren't alone. Half of what Alan would term the British ruling class thought Hitler was wonderful. Now of course no one will ever take Nazism seriously again.'

‘Don't be so sure about that,' said Hilary. ‘Muriel does. And she's not a crackpot. Actually she's an idealist. That's the problem.' Without being asked, Hilary poured himself more tea. ‘When I met her I didn't think – I mean, I know Arthur's mad, but … and to be absolutely frank, in many ways I agree with a lot of it. I'm a libertarian. I can't stand all this socialist regimentation, rules and regulations, I'm all for liberty and freedom. And Arthur was a persuasive speaker in those days.'

‘Perhaps you should have been an anarchist,' said Neville drily.

Hilary took the remark seriously. ‘Anarchism is quite similar in some ways. You know what they called the Nazis in Germany before the war: armed bohemia. Hitler wanted to be an artist. Goebbels was a novelist. Some anarchists embraced violence. And I'm not a pacifist. There's a place for violence in politics. But what I can't stand is all this stuff she's started to spout about Jewish conspiracies, niggers and Arabs – she seems to hate everyone who isn't Aryan. Perhaps that's why she fell for me, because I'm part German,' said Hilary, half joking, half bitter.

‘I don't see what it has to do with the Freddie business,' said Neville.

‘Muriel sees conspiracies round every corner. But then they are beleaguered.'

‘They certainly are.' Neville's sharp gaze was trained on Hilary. ‘I hadn't quite realised,' he said slowly, ‘that Muriel was still … involved. Are you saying she still takes it seriously? Even Arthur—'

‘Oh, Arthur's part of the problem. He's been behaving quite oddly lately. And all this business with the police worried Muriel. She told them Arthur was with us the evening – you know, when it happened. And now she's regretting it. She feels he's vulnerable, you know, because of what happened in the war.'

Neville removed his glasses and pressed his fingers against his eyes. He blinked, put the spectacles back on and said: ‘And was he – with you that evening?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘I met Freddie up here. It must have been very soon before he was murdered. He said he'd met Arthur earlier and they'd had a row.'

Hilary frowned. ‘Arthur didn't say anything about that.'

‘Exactly what time was Arthur with you? All through the evening, or—'

‘Good God, Neville, you're not suggesting he had anything to do with it? I don't remember what time he arrived – after we got home from here, obviously.' He stared at Neville. ‘I say, old chap, you having seen Freddie so soon before he died – doesn't that put you in an awkward position?'

‘I don't see why,' said Neville huffily. ‘Anyway, it's always best to be as frank as possible. You're a lawyer, you know that.'

‘Oh – Muriel wouldn't hear of that. Absolute secrecy; that's the rule.'

The whole conversation was utterly mysterious to Regine. ‘Surely Freddie's death hasn't got anything to do with any of our friends,' she said. ‘It must have been a thief, a hold-up – it must have.'

‘Well, let's hope so.'

They subsided into gloomy silence. After a while Neville said: ‘It's hard to believe now, isn't it, how Arthur was so impressive … then …'

Hilary hauled himself to his feet. ‘I must be off. Muriel will wonder where I've got to.'

In the hall Neville said: ‘Tell Muriel not to panic. They won't be interested in Arthur. But can't you try and wean her off it all?'

Regine followed him into the drawing room.

‘Gin?' Neville poured the drinks without waiting for an answer.

She watched him as he sat down in his usual chair by the fire. ‘What was all that about Arthur Carnforth and Muriel? Why did you never tell me about her? Freddie used to refer to Muriel as ‘that fascist', but I never realised he meant it literally.'

‘Well … it's best to let sleeping dogs lie, don't you think.'

‘And why are they worried about Arthur?'

‘He was interned in the war. He was quite a prominent figure in the movement – well, not prominent, exactly, but he wrote stuff for them. He used another name, though.'

‘You told me he was a conscientious objector!'

‘I thought it was best. What was the point in dragging all that up? I felt sorry for him … I don't know why, old loyalties, I suppose. I'd known him such a long time, before all the Mosley business. We were at school together, you know. And there's something about Arthur – he always seemed unable to look after himself. But in those days, well, I know you'll find this hard to believe, but there was something – attractive about him, compelling in a way. Anyway, in spite of everything I didn't cut him out of my life – I even visited him once or twice. Then he had a nervous breakdown and was in hospital for a while and after that they let him out.'

‘But what has it got to do with Freddie?'

‘It's a question of motive, isn't it. He hated Freddie's guts.'

‘
Was
it an accident you met Freddie that evening, Neville?'

‘
Yes
. I told you!' He hesitated.

Regine sat down again abruptly. Neville stared at her. After a while she said: ‘Shouldn't you tell the police?'

‘Arthur would never
kill
anyone. Anyway, it was the other way round. Freddie was threatening
him
. If only I could remember the time more exactly … they said Freddie was killed about ten, it must have been nearly ten – he wouldn't have had time to go off and meet Arthur again … no, it's just not feasible. Anyway, how would he have got hold of a gun?'

twelve

B
LEAK, BATTERED TERRACES
stretched away to the left of the Seven Sisters Road near Finsbury Park station, like wings of a prison advancing in grim parallel lines. Cobwebs of thin fog clung viscously all day, softening the edges of the buildings into further decay, muffling the ring of his feet on the pavement.

Four little boys dragged a cart made from an old crate up and down the road, shouting. They were childishly dressed, in worn flannel shorts, thick socks slipping towards the ankles with bare knobbly knees in between, yet they looked like little old men.

‘Mister! Mister! Penny for the guy!' As he drew alongside them, he saw the ‘guy' was actually a much younger child in the cart, trussed up, face red, eyes screwed shut, round mouth opened to emit a yell.

He chucked them a couple of pennies and the dwarfish creatures scrabbled on the pavement for the coins. Abandoned, the cart lurched towards the gutter. The infant guy howled.

He walked on until he came to the house. It was a risk, going to the house. Suppose someone else, not Kenneth, answered the door. But Kenneth was expecting him. He looked up at the blank façade. It was slightly less slummy than its neighbours; less peeling, broken stucco; neater curtains at the windows.

He knocked; waited. The door opened with a creak. Kenneth stood there, swelling muscularly out of his serge suit. ‘You're late,' he said. And: ‘Where are we going? Mum's inside. I don't want to—'

‘Let's walk.'

‘Wait a sec.'

When Kenneth reappeared he'd wound a muffler round his neck.

‘It's not cold.'

‘You're wearing gloves. But, fact is, I went back for – you know …'

They marched slowly along the main road, under the railway bridge and towards the park, but he steered Kenneth left and up the rise towards Stroud Green, talking all the while about the future, as if he had no idea what Kenneth had been up to. He discussed the outcome of a recent trial as they followed the road that wound off to the right and towards another railway bridge. Beyond that was the disused track, now overgrown and concealed by the trees that had sprung up during the war, a raised pathway, rural and secluded. He led the way and Kenneth followed him trustingly. Kenneth was not one to pay much attention to his surroundings.

He wasn't entirely sure why he'd brought Ken out here, he hadn't decided exactly what to do, but he liked to spring a surprise, he was annoyed with Ken for making such a mess of things and wanted to give him a fright. As they walked along, in silence now because he'd run out of things to say, he dwelt on the way Ken had cocked things up and his anger rose like bile in his throat. How he hated the lot of them. Ken was thick, an idiot, a stupid, fucking peasant.

After a while Kenneth, as if sensing hostility, seemed to get the pip. He did a sort of skip closer and touched his companion on the arm. ‘About the money,' he said, more wheedling than threatening.

‘All in good time, Kenneth. I'm grateful for what you've done.'

‘You bleeding well should be, mate.'

His companion suppressed an acid swell of rage at the impertinence. Kenneth would regret that remark.

‘It wasn't easy. I didn't get him first go off. He tried to scarper. It was a bloody great mess at the end.'

‘I know it wasn't easy, Kenneth.' They walked on. ‘You have got the gun, haven't you.'

‘I told you. That's what I went back for.'

‘Like I said, I need it. I've got a plan – to send the police scarpering off in the wrong direction. And I need your help again, Kenneth, if you're ready and willing.'

It was risky, but in fact, Kenneth drew the weapon out of an inner pocket and handed it over like a lamb. That was the trouble with these cosh boys and riff-raff: they were stupid. And Kenneth was so stupid he'd made a fatal mistake. In fact the whole idea of using a gun had been a mistake. But it was too late to worry about that.

He'd decided what to do now. Now he had the gun he had to get Kenneth unawares, seize a moment when he was off guard. But Kenneth
was
off guard. Kenneth had no suspicions, hadn't even asked why they were walking along this deserted path that no one knew about, hadn't even thought it was odd he was wearing gloves at this time of year – though in fact, it had turned colder.

He turned the revolver over in his hands. Thinking, thinking all the time. It had to be done quickly. He stopped, bent as if to pick something off his shoe, then as Kenneth halted, grabbed his arm, the revolver was against his temple before he knew what was happening; there was only his wide-eyed astonishment as the trigger was pulled. The report was loud, yet stifled in the dank air.

So Kenneth had helped him again, was part of the plan. It was almost impossible to drag the body to the ditch alongside the path, Kenneth weighed a ton, but he managed it, toppled it in and kicked dead leaves over it. With any luck Kenneth would be lying in that ditch for quite some time.

Only later that evening did it dawn on him – with a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach – that eliminating Kenneth might have sent the law in the
right
direction after all.