Wives at War (46 page)

Polly's fit wasn't brought on by fear but, rather, by the weight of the duties and obligations that lay upon her and the realisation that one hitch could ruin Dominic's elaborate plans and possibly send him to jail.

History, her history, had been a long series of ill-timed miscalculations, and she was so furious at Dom, and Christy too, for giving her so much to do and no time to do it in that she drank more gin than she had done in months and wakened on Thursday morning bleary-eyed and alone in the cot in the larder.

Electricity had been restored but not gas. The rooms at the back of the house were boarded up, the breakfast room beyond repair. She locked the door on it and promised herself that when she returned from Lisbon, with or without Christy, she would find someone to render the house habitable again.

She brewed coffee on an electrical plate, drank three cups, black, and tottered upstairs to wash and change.

Christy was not in the master bedroom. He had hit the whisky almost as heavily as she had hit the gin and had fallen asleep, fully clothed, on the couch in the parlour, which from Polly's point of view was all to the good. Much of what she had to do that day was her secret or, rather, Dominic's secret, the beginning of the last act of their marriage that she would play out as instructed before she handed herself over to Christy Cameron and the men who cut his orders.

Four gallons of petrol in the tank of the Wolseley; a hundred and twenty miles of travel or perhaps a little more. Greenock and back would notch up sixty. Babs would drive them to the dock and keep the motorcar in the garage at Raines Drive until she returned from Portugal.

Leaving Christy asleep in the parlour, she eased the car down the driveway and headed for Glasgow, blissfully unaware that everything that could possibly go wrong, would.

*   *   *

It had been her intention to transact banking business in the morning, snatch a spot of lunch in town and drive out to Blackstone before the children returned from school. Fat chance!

The teller was reluctant to part with forty thousand pounds in hard cash and even the deputy manager went into a tailspin. He was full of apologies, of course, but contrition didn't make up for inefficiency and it was after midday before funds were accumulated, forms filled in and the money, in ten- and twenty-pound notes, packed into the briefcase that Polly had brought with her. When the briefcase proved too small to accommodate all the money the deputy manager took twenty minutes to find a canvas carrier large enough to contain the surplus.

Lunch time by now, doors locked, staff vanished; another delay while the keys were found and Polly, staggering under the weight of case and carrier, was left to make her own way around the corner to the Wolseley. Toting forty thousand pounds through the streets of Glasgow in broad daylight made her incredibly nervous and she heaved the case and carrier into the boot with an almighty sigh of relief.

She drove at once to her own bank and parked outside.

It too was closed for lunch. She contemplated trotting off for a bite to eat but the idea of leaving all that hard currency in the boot of a parked car was too much for Polly and she stayed at the wheel, smoking cigarettes and eyeing every innocent citizen who passed along the pavement as if he were Al Capone, until the bank opened its doors again.

In spite of the fact that Polly had had an account there for years, a large sum of cash tipped from a briefcase and a canvas sack was, perhaps justifiably, regarded with suspicion. The manager was summoned from a meeting upstairs and it was only on his recommendation that the deposit was finally accepted. But that was not an end of it. Government regulations demanded accurate records of all financial transactions and Polly, fuming, was forced to fritter away another hour while an aged female clerk noted down a welter of nonsensical details then painstakingly transferred them to a Treasury form that Polly had to sign before her passbook and identity card were returned and she was, as it were, free to leave; too late to catch Dougie before the children came home from school.

Her headache had become worse during the course of the day and she was tormented by a raging thirst. She could hardly see straight enough to walk along the pavement, let alone drive out to Blackstone Farm. She staggered to Cooper's snack bar in St Vincent Street and ordered tea and a sandwich, which she consumed hunched on a stool by the window while the sky clouded over and a fine drizzling rain began to fall.

At five o'clock, riding the first wave of rush-hour traffic, she left Glasgow.

At just on six, in fading daylight, she reached the end of the Blackstone Farm track where to her horror she found her way barred by three trucks, a police vehicle, and a very tall man in a tweed jacket who was leaning on the bonnet of a low-slung sports car and who, when Polly braked to a halt, sauntered up to the Wolseley, nodded amiably and said, ‘Mrs Manone? Mrs Dominic Manone? Ah yes, I've been expecting you.'

*   *   *

‘Don't you have a name?' said Polly.

‘He won't tell you,' Dougie said. ‘He's one o' them secret service Johnnies. He arrived with the Mine Disposal squad, so my guess is he's Navy.'

‘Is that true?' Polly asked.

‘In the right direction,' Marzipan told her.

‘You're not a bomb disposal expert, though?'

‘No, I caught the call by pure chance.'

‘I know who you are,' said Polly. ‘You're Christy Cameron's controller.'

‘I'm your controller too, Mrs Manone.'

‘Where are the children?' Polly asked.

‘Bernard's driven the girls an' Margaret an' Lizzie into Breslin,' Dougie answered. ‘The girls were upset. Margaret thought it would be best if they weren't here when the bomb went up. They've gone for ice cream.'

‘And Angus?'

The stranger answered. ‘He's sheltering behind the stables with Petty Officer Mirrilees. I thought we should allow him to stay to watch the fireworks as a reward for his prompt action.'

‘Angus found the bomb?'

‘Mine actually, a parachute mine. His sisters stumbled on it, apparently, but it was the boy who had the sense to report it to Giffard, who duly reported it to Peabody, who, in turn, telephoned us.'

They were huddled in falling rain behind the farmhouse, Dougie, the stranger and she. She could see nothing of the ratings from the Mine Disposal unit. The mine, so the stranger informed her, was snagged in a tree about sixty yards from the edge of the wood, about seven hundred yards from the stable-barn. The blast range of a parachute mine was calculated at four hundred yards but the Navy boys were taking no chances. If they couldn't bring it down safely they would detonate it with rifle fire once the Garscadden Road had been closed and the wood sealed off.

‘You said that you were expecting me,' Polly said. ‘Why?'

‘Because Blackstone Farm belongs to your husband.'

‘It belongs to me,' Dougie put in. ‘It's mine, nobody else's.'

‘Perhaps,' Marzipan agreed, ‘but you're really only Manone's caretaker. I suspect he signed the farm over to you to look after because there's something of value here that he couldn't risk being found.'

‘Fairy tales,' said Dougie, sullenly.

Marzipan turned to Polly. ‘I presume that Cameron has told you that you're leaving for Lisbon tomorrow night. Is that why you're here? To collect whatever it is that your husband told you to collect?'

The intelligence officer, Polly realised, had outsmarted them. If it hadn't been for the parachute mine, however, he might have been content to let matters take their course. The appearance of the mine had obviously rattled him and he had hurried to the farm to ensure that Dominic's plan was not disrupted.

She looked up at him, at the moisture clinging to his eyebrows and the fringe of tight fair curls that protruded from under his cap, at hazy blue eyes that didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular.

She said, ‘You know all about me, don't you?'

‘Quite a bit, yes.'

‘My brother-in-law supplied you with all the sordid details, I suppose. Between them Kenny MacGregor and Christy Cameron have – what's the phrase? – stitched me up good and proper.'

‘Mrs Manone,' said the officer, quietly, ‘I think you already realise that you were stitched up, as you put it, the day you married Dominic Manone. You mustn't blame Cameron or Inspector MacGregor for what's happened, nor must you blame me. I'm not here to pass judgement; I'm here to help.'

‘Why did you have to involve my family?'

‘Family? If you mean Giffard—'

‘I mean my sister Babs.'

‘That wasn't my idea.' Marzipan glanced up at the sky. ‘Light's fading. If they're going to send in a sharp-shooter they'd better be quick about it.' He stepped away from Polly and leaned his shoulders against the damp stonework of the cottage wall. ‘What have you done with the money, Mrs Manone?'

‘What money?'

‘The forty thousand pounds you withdrew from the private account to pay Giffard off?' He seemed totally unconcerned about what was going on in the wood and had ceased listening for the explosion that would signify that the mine had been safely detonated. ‘Or is it part of your husband's devious scheme to make us
believe
he's paying Giffard off.'

‘Nobody's payin' me for anythin',' Dougie said. ‘I haven't a bloody clue what you're talkin' about.'

‘Where is it?' the officer said.

‘Where's what?' said Dougie.

‘The package Dominic Manone left with you?' Marzipan said. ‘The diamonds Manone bought with counterfeit money in September 'thirty-nine and squirreled away somewhere on the farm.'

‘Diamonds?' Polly said.

‘Bloody diamonds!' Dougie exclaimed. ‘Hah! You're dreamin', man.'

‘You're obliged to give them to Mrs Manone, so why don't you just tell us where they are or, better yet, go fetch them?' said Marzipan.

The headache had vanished. She was alert and alive again. For too many months she had lived with the fear that what Dom had buried on Blackstone had been the murdered body of her father. Now doubt on that score lightened her spirit and brought her out from the shadow of complicity.

Diamonds: yes, diamonds were exactly the sort of thing that Dominic would buy with counterfeit money. She should have known better than to doubt Dominic. The deal he had cut with the Americans involved diamonds, not cash, for diamonds would neither rot nor rust nor be affected by fluctuations on foreign exchange markets. The forty thousand pounds she'd collected from Fin Hughes was Dominic's nest-egg to start him up again when the war finally ended and he returned unblemished from America, when he came marching home to Manor Park once more.

‘Oh dear,' said Marzipan. ‘You're not going to be difficult, Giffard, are you? Come on, where have you hidden them?'

‘I haven't hidden nothin',' said Dougie, defiantly.

Marzipan drew in a deep breath. ‘Why did you buy a pig?'

‘T' keep the kiddies amused.'

‘Didn't you buy it before the children arrived?'

‘What if I did? Everybody was buyin' pigs t' fatten up.'

‘But you haven't had it slaughtered, have you?'

‘The boy dotes on that pig.'

‘If I were given the task of hiding a potful of diamonds,' Marzipan said, ‘I might consider hiding them where no one is liable to want to look. In a pigsty, for example, in the shed in the pigsty perhaps. You wouldn't be the first person to think of hiding valuables among the pigs.'

‘There's nothin' hid anywhere,' Dougie said.

‘Standard search procedure,' Marzipan said, ‘would involve taking the farmhouse apart room by room and digging up the floor in the stable. Standard search procedure would allow me to have the pig – clearly a dangerous animal – shot so that we might search—'

‘All right, y' bugger,' Dougie capitulated.

‘All right?' said Marzipan.

‘I'll get your bloody diamonds for you.'

‘Are they really buried under the pig trough, Dougie?' Polly asked.

‘Where the hell else would they be?' said Dougie just as shots rang out in the woods and, half a minute later, the parachute mine exploded with a flash that lit up the sky.

*   *   *

Babs opened the front door.

‘Christy!' she said, ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Looking for Polly.'

‘She isn't here.'

‘Have you any idea where she might have gotten to?'

‘None at all. Sorry.'

April came running from the lounge. She still wore her coat and had been struggling to unlace her shoes when the doorbell rang. It was a little after half-past six and Babs had only just returned from the Millses' house with April.

‘Christy, Christy, you come back.' April threw herself into his arms. He caught her deftly and gave her a hug, then carried her over the threshold into the hallway and, following Babs, into the kitchen.

‘How long has Polly been gone?' Babs asked.

‘All day.'

‘Didn't she tell you where she was going?'

‘Nope,' Christy said. ‘She took the car.'

‘She probably had business to attend to,' Babs said, ‘or she may have gone out to the farm.'

Christy seated himself on a chair with April on his knee. He unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off then held her while she made another attempt on the recalcitrant shoelaces.

‘We're leaving tomorrow night,' Christy said.

‘Leaving? Both of you?'

‘Yeah, sailing for Lisbon to meet with Manone.'

Babs blew out her cheeks and whistled. ‘Won't that be a wee tad awkward?' she said.

‘Why should it be awkward?'

‘Well, Polly's still his wife an' you're … you know what I mean.' She filled the kettle at the tap in the sink, placed it on the stove and lit the gas. ‘Are you runnin' away with Polly? Have you come to tell me you're not comin' back?'