Wives at War (44 page)

‘Gangsters, you mean?'

‘Quite.'

‘Which is where Dominic Manone steps in.'

‘Old Carlo Manone still has considerable “influence”, shall we say, over some of the lesser Italian unions and he's known to, if not exactly a friend of, the big labour bosses. Dominic used his father's connections to offer himself to Emilio as a trading agent and broker.'

‘Through my brother, Jamie?'

‘So I believe.'

‘So it wasn't Jamie's idea?'

‘Manone made the offer; Jamie relayed it; Emilio accepted.'

‘Are you telling me,' Christy said, ‘that the only guys Emilio regards as trustworthy are crooks?'

‘A beautiful irony, don't you think?'

‘Yeah,' Christy said drily, ‘beautiful.'

‘Manone suggested that he represent himself as a diamond trader – Lisbon is full of them, by the way – to control the flow of funds to Emilio's organisation. However, none of the intelligence services was willing to hand over a hundred thousand dollars worth of diamonds to a known criminal. Manone upped the offer. He said he would supply his own stock and trade with his own money – on two conditions.'

‘American citizenship?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's the other?' Christy said.

‘He wants his wife back,' said Marzipan.

*   *   *

Archie was in the back office and didn't hear the motorcar draw up. He had been rushed off his feet since the moment he'd arrived that morning and had almost reached the screaming stage when the policeman made his appearance. Clad in a belted raincoat and slouch hat, his identity card held out before him like a talisman, the chap fitted Archie's image of a detective to a tee.

Inspector MacGregor's first words were, ‘Is that what I think it is down at the end of the street?'

‘An emergency fuel dump,' said Archie, ‘yes.'

‘My God! How do you put up with it?'

‘Well,' said Archie, ‘I confess it does provide one with a certain
frisson
when the siren sounds, but so far we've been lucky.'

The Inspector was looking around without appearing to look around.

He said, ‘Why did the Labour Exchange people stick you out here in the middle of nowhere where nobody can find you?'

‘Precisely because it is the middle of nowhere and nobody can find us,' said Archie. ‘You're Barbara's brother-in-law, aren't you?'

‘I am,' said Kenny. ‘Where is she?'

‘Powdering her nose,' said Archie. ‘I trust you're not the bearer of more bad tidings?'

‘Official business,' said Kenny.

‘What could the Glasgow CID possibly want with us?' Archie raised an eyebrow and adjusted his glasses. ‘Unless, of course, it pertains to the poor young woman from Belfast, who is lately deceased?'

Kenny smiled. ‘I can see why Babs likes you.'

‘Does she?' said Archie, gruffly. ‘I – erm – I wasn't aware of that.'

Kenny glanced at the door of the lavatory with, Archie thought, a certain apprehension. ‘The Belfast girl, Doreen Quinlan, left an orphan child, Davy, who is now in our care.'

‘I know,' said Archie. ‘Babs told me. Your wife took the child in.'

‘Temporarily.'

‘Ah!' said Archie. ‘She wants to keep him, does she?'

‘Strictly speaking,' Kenny MacGregor said, ‘it's a matter for the district authority but, given the unusual circumstances…'

Behind the painted door of the toilet the cistern flushed.

Kenny dug his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets and looked, Archie thought, not so much nervous as depressed.

‘Kenny!' Babs emerged from the toilet. ‘What brings you here?'

She kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek and stepped back, frowning.

‘He's in search of documentation relating to Doreen Quinlan,' Archie said, ‘to enable him to trace the little boy's next-of-kin.'

‘Oh! Doesn't Rosie want to keep him?'

‘Unfortunately,' said Kenny, ‘Rosie does want to keep him.'

Archie cleared his throat. ‘Would you like me to leave you two alone?'

‘No,' said Babs. ‘Stay. We might need your expertise.'

‘I have to do what's right,' Kenny said.

‘What's right for Rosie or what's right for you?' said Babs.

‘I can't just snatch a child from the street and pretend he's ours.'

‘Of course you can't, Inspector,' Archie put in. ‘Every effort must be made to trace the father and ensure that he takes responsibility for his offspring's welfare.' Babs shot him a look that would have made a lesser man quail. Archie ignored her and pressed on. ‘Of course, the probability exists that the chap in question will deny that he is the father or that he ever had intimate relations with Doreen Quinlan.'

‘Even if we do track him down,' said Babs.

‘Which,' Archie said, ‘will make it necessary to uncover marriage and birth certificates and, given what I believe to be Miss Quinlan's reckless disregard for the truth, let alone her reckless disregard of legal obligations and formalities, will almost certainly take – pardon my French – for bloody ever.'

‘Have you spoken to Polly?' Babs asked.

‘On the telephone this morning,' Kenny answered.

‘She told you the whole story, I assume?'

‘Some garbled tale about the girl living in London, yes.'

‘Polly has a lot to answer for.' Babs shrugged. ‘I suppose I do too, since it was my idea to stick the poor girl and the kid with Polly in the first place.'

‘Why did you?' said Kenny.

‘Spite,' said Babs.

‘Expediency,' said Archie. ‘There's a lot of it about right now.'

Kenny took off his hat and stroked his hand over his hair. ‘If – and I'm only saying if – Rosie and I wanted to adopt the little boy I assume we'd have to go through the whole procedure.'

‘A paper chase,' Archie chipped in. ‘Oh yes, an interminable paper chase. Dealing with the Irish authorities at this time will not be easy.'

‘What would happen to the boy while all this is going on?'

‘He'll be made a ward of court, I think,' said Archie.

‘And kept where?'

‘In an orphanage,' said Archie. ‘In actual fact I have the impression that he'd be shipped back to Northern Ireland, given that's where his mother hailed from originally.'

‘What about the aunt?'

‘The aunt threw Miss Quinlan out.'

Kenny seated himself on the edge of Babs's desk and fingered his hat brim. ‘This trail of paper, where does it begin and where does it end?'

‘Lord knows where it begins.' Archie paused, glanced at Babs, then said, ‘But it ends right here in that big green filing cabinet.'

‘May I see the documentation?'

‘By all means,' said Archie. ‘Babs?'

The drawer grated open, the brown card folder emerged; Babs handed it to Inspector Kenny, who laid it on his lap and opened it. He bent forward, frowned, and looked up. ‘Is that it?'

‘That's it,' said Babs.

‘One sheet of paper?'

‘Form number eight-o-nine-nine-one to be exact,' said Archie. ‘Where and when will the girl be buried?'

‘Tomorrow,' said Kenny, absently, ‘in the old Manor Park cemetery. Polly made the arrangements.'

‘Who holds the death certificate?' said Archie.

‘Polly, I expect.'

‘There's no marriage line, no birth certificate?'

‘None.'

‘Well then,' said Archie, ‘what we have in our possession are two small pieces of paper that represent the full available record of Miss Quinlan's life and death. We'd better preserve them carefully, had we not, Inspector? If, say, one were to go missing – destroyed in the bombing or lost in the files – there would be no feasible means of tracing next-of-kin and the child would belong to anyone willing to care for him, at least until the war's over, by which time he might be grown up, married and have children of his own.'

‘You don't want him, Kenny, do you?' Babs said.

‘Rosie does.'

‘I didn't ask about Rosie,' Babs said. ‘I asked about you.'

‘I just want Rosie to be happy.'

‘So?'

‘God knows what my sister, Fiona, will have to say about it.' He picked the form from the folder and scanned it again. ‘I can't do it,' he said. ‘I can't ignore my legal responsibilities and destroy evidence.'

‘Evidence of what?' said Babs. ‘Evidence of neglect, of indifference, of prejudice? What sort of life is the wee guy gonna have if you hand him over? Better than the life Rosie and you can offer him? I doubt it.'

‘I don't even know who he is or who she was.'

‘She had dimples,' said Archie, ‘that much I can tell you.'

‘Dimples,' said Kenny. ‘Dear God!'

‘However,' said Archie, ‘I'm afraid I can't condone the destruction of government property either. Unless you come up with a warrant, Inspector MacGregor, I do not intend to relinquish Miss Quinlan's form of registration.'

‘Archie!' Babs shrieked. ‘What are you saying?'

‘So, Inspector, if you'd be kind enough to step into my office,' said Archie with a flourish, ‘I will provide you with a fair copy of the next-of-kin's address while retaining the original form for our records.'

‘Archie!'

‘My office, Inspector, if you please.'

Hesitantly Kenny followed Archie into the back room. Babs stood in the open doorway, hands on her hips, her plump cheeks flushed with anger. She watched Archie lay down the form, place it casually across the big glass ashtray on his desk then, fishing in his pocket, produce a packet of cigarettes. He offered a cigarette to Kenny who shook his head.

‘Mind if I do?' said Archie. ‘Soothes the nerves, and all that.'

‘Please smoke if you wish,' said Kenny.

Archie struck a match, lit his cigarette and dropped the match, still burning, into the big glass ashtray.

Together Kenny and he watched the paper ignite.

‘Oh dear!' said Archie. ‘Oh dear me! I do believe there's been an accident.' He stooped and blew – gently – on the sheet of paper, watched the flame spread and Form 80991 char and blacken. ‘Goodness, wasn't that careless of me?' He looked up. ‘I'm afraid the form is no more, Inspector, unless you want to gather and preserve the ashes?'

‘I don't think that would serve much purpose, do you?'

‘Actually, no,' said Archie. ‘Dreadfully sorry.'

‘Accidents,' Kenny said, ‘do happen.'

Babs covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes round with astonishment as her brother-in-law poked at the burned sheet with his forefinger and Doreen Quinlan's last known home address melted away like snow.

*   *   *

‘I thought you'd be pleased,' said Marzipan, ‘to be sailing with an armed convoy. Isn't that what you want?'

‘Why don't you fly us over?'

‘Too risky,' said Marzipan.

‘Riskier than U-boats in the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay?' Christy said. ‘How long will we be at sea?'

‘All in, about a week,' said Marzipan. ‘Emilio's meeting with Manone is scheduled for the last day of the month.'

‘That won't give Polly much time,' said Christy.

‘I question if she needs much time,' said Marzipan. ‘I have the distinct impression that your Mrs Manone is one step ahead of us.'

‘You mean she already has the diamonds?'

‘Or knows where to find them,' said Marzipan. ‘You'll be sailing in convoy from Greenock on Friday night and will link up with another section from Liverpool to join the main convoy at Milford Haven. Thirty-eight merchant ships, plus five escorts and a rescue ship.'

‘All bound for Lisbon?'

‘Lord, no. Your vessel will peel off and the others will carry on to Montevideo.'

‘Cargo?'

‘None. You'll be sailing under ballast,' Marzipan said. ‘I won't deceive you, Cameron, it won't be a luxury cruise.'

‘What about papers?'

‘I'll be on the quay to furnish you with everything you'll need.'

‘Except the diamonds,' Christy said.

‘Yes,' Marzipan agreed, ‘except the diamonds.'

*   *   *

Rosie was swaddled in a blanket in the chair in the kitchen. She had stoked up the fire in the grate and opened the vent as wide as it would go. There was a breeze that night, the first sign that the settled spell of fine spring weather was about to change, and the draft of air in the chimney had drawn the fire into a soft red glow.

Rosie was drowsy but not asleep. The baby was cradled in her arms and she was crooning an old Scottish lullaby in a quaint, quacking, tuneless voice. Davy was dressed in a nightshirt and dressing gown, both new, that Rosie had purchased with the last of her clothing coupons. Even in the gloom of the kitchen, with the window boarded up and blackout curtains drawn, there was a certain homely charm to the sight that greeted Kenny when he returned from St Andrew's Street at a little after nine o'clock.

He stood quietly in the doorway until the child, sensing his presence, lifted himself up and peeped sleepily around the wing of the armchair then, curiosity satisfied, flopped down into the folds of the blanket, stuck his thumb in his mouth and rested his head on Rosie's breast once more.

‘Are you on fuh-fire-watch?' Rosie asked.

Kenny placed himself before her. ‘No, not tonight.'

‘Good,' Rosie said, smiling. ‘Once I put him down, we'll have supper.'

‘Where's he sleeping?'

‘With me. You can have Fiona's room.'

Kenny nodded stoically then reached out. ‘Give him here.'

Rosie shrank back, pressing herself into the blanket. ‘Yuh-you're not taking him away?'