CHAPTER ▪ TWENTY
THE SKY WAS CLOUDING over. I could feel a chill creeping into the breeze that swept by me as I sped down the nearly deserted country roads. I had hooked up with the main road going south from Norwich, which would take me directly to Wickham Market and then on to Beardsley Hall. Every time I saw a house I’d wonder if there was a grieving wife or mother inside, and if she was as devastated as Victoria Brey. I began to think that the cost of this war was going to be far higher than anyone had expected, or at least higher than I had anticipated. I tried not to think about a certain house in Boston and my mom getting that telegram: “The secretary of war desires me to express his deep regret . . .”
My kid brother had just turned twenty and would be facing the draft soon. He’d started college, the first person in our family to go. Dad was real proud of that, proud of his good grades, and so proud of his college acceptance letter that he’d had it framed. I thought that was carrying things a bit too far, but I had to admit, I was proud, too. And protective—not that Danny thought he needed it. He was fast with his fists and got into his fair share of fights with the Italian kids from the North End. He usually won, but he was reckless. The Italian gangs carried shivs and weren’t afraid to use them. For a smart kid, he could be pretty dumb when he got his dander up. He’d probably volunteer before he got drafted, which would be in a year, right when he turned twenty-one. Didn’t look like the war was going to be over by then, but he still had boot camp and field training to go through, so maybe he’d be OK, if we wrapped this thing up and got home by Christmas of ’43.
I didn’t want to think about Danny anymore, so I tried to focus on the case. Anders was the key as far as I was concerned. He had something to hide, which made him stand out. So far, his lie about not being up early was the most suspicious thing I had found out about anyone. I had nothing on Jens, and my theory about Rolf was just that, a theory with no proof or motive attached to it. I decided to wait and see if Kaz had discovered anything and if Daphne had been able to put the kibosh on Anders’s orders, before planning my next move, which was a way I had of not admitting to myself that I really had no idea what to do.
The miles flew by, and fast-moving clouds started to roll in from the east. They grew thick and dark as I rode through Wickham Market. I passed the pub and saw Mildred out back, digging potatoes in her Victory Garden. Maybe we’d come back here tonight for dinner again. Glancing up at the sky, I hoped the rain would hold off until I got to Beardsley Hall. As I cleared the village, I noticed a thin line of dark smoke up ahead. It drifted off to the left as the wind caught it, smudging the horizon with a gray stain. I didn’t pay it any mind until I took the last turn toward the estate and saw that it was coming dead-on from the direction of the hall. I got that same sinking, fearful feeling that I used to get as a kid when I was walking home from school and a fire engine would roll by, lights and sirens blazing. I always thought it was going to my house, and I’d always breathe a sigh of relief when I got in sight of home and it was still standing. It was silly, just a kid’s bad daydream, but I accelerated anyway. Beardsley Hall was hardly home, but it would be nice to confirm that everything was all right and that today was just brush-burning day.
I turned a corner and across the heath I could just make out the hall with that plume of smoke right next to it. Fog was starting to rise, and it was hard to see clearly at that distance. The smoke sort of hung in the air, like a question mark, reanimating my childhood fears. My heart raced and my palms felt clammy. I shuddered, not wanting to believe what my body was trying to tell me. A British military truck with the big red cross on the sides sped down the road toward me. As it neared, the driver put on his siren, the wailing sound echoing in my ears as it went by.
The parking lot was full of people, grouped around the source of the smoke. Scattered debris and small sputtering ground fires marred its usually neat surface. Harding and Jens stood watching me pull in, or the ambulance pull out, or both. As soon as I could make out the expressions on their faces, I knew something terrible had happened. I skidded to a halt in front of them and switched off the motorcycle.
“What happened?” I asked. “Who’s in the ambulance?”
“Boyle, I. . . .” Harding looked surprised to see me, and seemed to have trouble getting his words out. “I thought you were in London.”
I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t care.
“Jens,” I asked, “Who got hurt?”
“Kaz. They are taking him to hospital. He’s badly injured.”
“What the hell happened here?” I yelled as I got off the bike.
The two men looked at each other and I realized they were in a state of shock. They weren’t going to tell me anything. I went over to the crowd, where several men were using fire extinguishers to douse the fire that was producing the smoke. It smelled like burning rubber. I pushed through the bystanders. Harding followed me and gripped my shoulder.
“No, Boyle, wait—”
It was too late. Too late to stop me from seeing the smoldering wreck of the Riley Imp, with its burning tires still giving off choking black acrid smoke. Too late to see that someone had been at the wheel when something had gone very wrong. Too late to stop me from seeing the charred, unrecognizable corpse that had been caught up in a furious fire from the fuel tank.
The only person who ever drove her beloved red Imp was Daphne.
I felt dizzy as a swirl of smoke blew itself around me, hitting me like a hammer blow with the smell of burnt flesh. The world started to spin. Harding tried to hold me up, but my knees turned to jelly and I went down on all fours, and retched.
The next thing I knew we were in the kitchen. Someone handed me a wet towel and I lowered my head into it. That awful smell of soot was still in my nostrils. I tried to get a grip on things. Daphne was dead. Kaz almost. This was bad, real bad. I had to pull my head out of the wet towel, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face it. What the hell was happening? Why?
“Billy.”
It was Jens. I tried to straighten up, and managed to wipe my face and look at him. He didn’t say anything. We were at one end of a long wooden table, and there were people milling all around us, buzzing, talking, whispering. Harding was seated next to me, a medical orderly wrapping his hands in bandages. I tried to ask about that, but no words came out.
“Major Harding tried to get into the car to pull Daphne out,” Jens explained, “but it was impossible. The flames were everywhere, all of a sudden, as if there had been an explosion.”
“What happened?” I managed to croak. I held up my hand before either one could answer. “Tell me everything, exactly, from start to finish.” Something in the back of my mind was trying to get through to me, but I didn’t know what. I needed to know everything.
“Take it easy, Boyle,” Harding said with real concern. “It must’ve been a loose fuel line or something.”
“It was an accident, Billy,” Jens said, “a terrible accident. What else could it have been?”
I couldn’t accept with their assurances. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that they both outranked me and that Harding could ship me off to the Aleutians.
Daphne. I couldn’t believe it. I told myself to hold on, to think, to fig-ure this out before I fell apart. I had to pull myself together and get the story from them, just like a cop interviewing witnesses. That’s it, just be a cop. I took a breath, trying to ignore the taste of black soot at the back of my mouth, and fell back into that role. My screaming brain slowed down. I could do this.
“Tell me everything, and don’t stop before you get to the end!” I said.
I felt Harding’s eyes on me as the orderly finished his bandages. He looked at Jens, nodded slightly, then winced as he tried to flex his hands.
“I should start with yesterday then,” Jens said. “Daphne drove in at midmorning in that red sports car. She asked for Major Harding, who was in conference with the king. She told me it had to do with Major Arnesen, that you wanted his orders canceled, that he was not to leave England.” He looked at me for confirmation.
“Right,” I said. “Go on.”
“She had to wait for Major Harding. I told her Anders was under orders from the king, but that the British government, as our host, could certainly request a change of plan. Then things got busy. Rolf returned unexpectedly. He asked if I had heard from you. I said I had not. He didn’t explain himself further.”
“When did Kaz get here?”
“Late afternoon. By that time Daphne had spoken with Major Harding and Major Cosgrove. Kaz came bursting in, looking for you and Daphne. He wouldn’t speak to anyone else. He and Daphne went into the library and stayed there for quite a while.”
“OK, stop for a second,” I said, trying to keep everything straight. “So Daphne got through to both you and Major Cosgrove about Anders?” I asked, looking at Harding.
“Yes, she did.”
“Where is Major Arnesen now?”
“On board the Norwegian naval submarine Utsira, somewhere in the North Sea, approaching the Norwegian coast.”
“Damn! Couldn’t you or Cosgrove get his orders changed, sir?”
“The decision was made not to alter his orders.” Now Harding sounded more like himself. Unfortunately, that was a know-it-all hard-ass. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“You let him go?”
Harding gave me a cold stare. “Major Arnesen is on a dangerous mission for our valued ally, the Norwegian government in exile. It is hardly a matter of ‘letting’ him go. He is the king’s representative to the Underground army, not an escaped convict.”
I tried to take it in. I didn’t like it, but I needed to focus on Daphne and Kaz. I nodded to Jens to continue. I thought it best not to say anything right now to Harding, to let my anger settle. I urged myself to make believe I was wearing a blue coat, sitting in someone’s Boston kitchen. I’d feel bad that their life had been shattered, but then I’d leave, file a report, head home, and have a beer at Kirby’s.
Then it hit me. Diana! Oh my God. Had she left yet? Would she know her sister was dead? Who was going to tell her? And the captain, who had been worried about the wrong daughter! I guess some of what I was feeling showed despite my resolve.
“Billy? Are you all right?” Jens asked.
“Yeah, go on.”
“Well, it was obvious that Kaz had some important information, and that he wanted to get it to you. Daphne wasn’t sure when you’d return, so they decided to wait here. This morning, I saw Daphne and Rolf standing by her automobile. He was carrying her bag.”
“Where was she going?” I asked.
“To meet you in London,” Harding answered, as if it were obvious. “You called here and left a message for Daphne and Kaz to meet you at headquarters.”
“Who took the message?”
“Rolf,” Jens spoke up. “He gave them the message himself.”
“And you saw him help Daphne put her things into the car?” I asked.
“Yes. I stopped to chat with them. He was interested in her vehicle. . . .”
“A 1934 Riley Imp. Red,” I filled in.
“Yes. She told us it was a gift from her father, and that Kaz was always wanting to drive it, but she saved that pleasure for herself.” Jens’s face clouded over.
“Soon after, Rolf left in his jeep for Southwold while Daphne waited for Kaz. I said good-bye and went inside to my office. Several minutes later, there was an explosion.”
“Did you see it?”
“No,” Jens answered.
“I did,” Harding said. “I was having a smoke and walked over to a window for some fresh air. I opened it and looked at the countryside for a minute. The car park was to my left. I was on the third floor.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw. Sir.” Harding half closed his eyes, recreating the scene in his mind.
“Daphne was standing next to the Imp. Kaz came out with his bag and stowed it. I couldn’t hear them, but I could tell they were excited. Just as Kaz was about to get in on the passenger side, he stopped. He made a gesture to Daphne like, Wait a minute, and ran back inside, as if he’d forgotten something. Daphne got in the car and started it. She sat there for a minute, idling.”
“Did she move the car at all?” I asked.
“Not right away. I saw Kaz come out the door, carrying a briefcase, which is probably what he’d forgotten. He walked toward the car. Daphne must’ve seen him, and decided to back out, so he could just hop in and they could drive off.”
I held my hand up for him to stop. I tried to relax and just let the thought surface. It was right on the edge of getting through. Then, suddenly, I knew.
“As soon as she started to back out, there was an explosion. It was on the passenger side of the car and caught Kaz as he walked toward the car door,” I said calmly, seeing it all in my mind. “Then a second or two later, the gas tank went up.”
“You’re right, Boyle,” Harding said in surprise. “I remember hearing a loud noise before the car burst into flames. It happened so fast . . . how did you know?”
“Let’s go outside and check the car. I’d like to be certain.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Billy?” Jens asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m a cop, remember? I see this stuff all the time.” I stood up and held on to the table for support, trying to convince myself. We went outside.
Men were cleaning up. Daphne’s body hadn’t been moved, but someone had placed a sheet over her. The wreckage of the Imp was still smoldering and the place stank. Two staff cars that had been parked on either side of the Imp had also been badly damaged. Glass, metal, and charred leather debris littered the area. The Imp was at a slight angle from the others, evidence that Daphne was pulling out of the space when it blew up. I walked toward the passenger side and studied it. It was ripped open. If Kaz had been in the car, he would’ve been in a dozen pieces even before the gas tank went. A blackened hole in the crushed gravel driveway had been blasted down to the hard-packed dirt. It was right under the passenger seat.
“Tire bomb,” I said.
“What?” asked Harding and Jens together.
“Tire bomb. It’s a tube filled with plastic explosive and a detonator. One end is flat, and you jam it under a tire. That depresses a switch. The bomb goes off when the tire moves off it and frees the switch. Daphne had the car parked facing in. The device was placed under the left rear tire. When she pulled out, it went off under the passenger’s seat and lit up the fuel tank.”
“Sabotage?” Jens asked.
“Murder,” I answered. “To cover up the murder of Knut Birkeland.”
“Where would you get this tire bomb?” Harding asked.
“It’s standard equipment for SOE commandos.”
“Why would someone want to kill Daphne?” asked Harding.
“The criminal knew Kaz had been snooping around in London. He hotfooted it back here to see if Kaz had found out anything. I bet he had, and he’d confided in Daphne. Then he concocted that phony message from me to get them right where he wanted them. In the car, together.”
“Who did?” asked Jens.
“A guy who had access to commando equipment. The guy who gave them the message and helped Daphne out to the car. Rolf Kayser.”
Jens opened his mouth, as if to deny it, but the logic of was undeniable.
“But why commit murder?” Harding asked. “Why kill Birkeland?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I’ll bet Daphne did. And now she’s dead. Kaz is our only hope.”
I turned and walked inside. I had to wash and change my clothes. The smell of death was everywhere. I scrubbed my face, hands, and hair. I threw everything I was wearing into a pile on the floor and changed into fresh khakis. I still smelled the smoke on my skin.
Twenty minutes later Harding and I were in a jeep heading to the British military hospital in Ipswich. We had left Jens on the phone with the Southwold base, issuing orders in the king’s name for Lieutenant Rolf Kayser to be held for questioning as soon as he showed up. For the moment, all I had to do was drive and worry about Kaz. There wasn’t time to mourn Daphne yet. I wanted Kaz to be all right, and part of me felt guilty that I might care more about finding out what he’d discovered than about him. I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and hoped I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell him. Things just seemed to get worse and worse. How would Kaz take it? He and Daphne were so different, yet so alike. They had been perfect for each other. How could you live, knowing the perfect thing you once had was gone?
“You know what, Boyle?” Harding said. I was grateful to him for breaking into my thoughts. “This means that going after Anders Arnesen would have been a wild goose chase. Now that this has happened, it’s obvious he isn’t involved.”
I hadn’t even thought about Anders. I was so pissed at Harding for not stopping him that it hadn’t even occurred to me that he couldn’t be the killer.
“That’s right, sir. But we still need to talk to him. I want to know why he lied about being up and around early that morning.”
Harding shrugged, as if what I wanted didn’t count for much.
“That reminds me of another thing, Boyle,” he said. “I thought you had ruled out Rolf as a suspect because he was with the king when Birkeland was killed?” He finished his question as he pulled up to the gate at the hospital. The sentry asked for our IDs and we went through the drill with him.
“It’s a long story, sir. Can it wait until later when I can lay it all out for you?”
“OK.” Harding pulled into a parking place. “Let’s see how Kaz is doing.”
He wasn’t doing well. A doctor took us into his room and read from his chart. Broken leg, a large gash on the left side of his face, multiple lacerations, probable concussion, a collapsed lung, and second-degree burns where his clothing had caught fire. Plus they were concerned about the effect on his heart, which wasn’t very strong to start with.
I stopped listening and pulled up a chair next to the head of his bed. His face was wrapped in bandages. All I could see was one eye between the layers of gauze. I gently put my hand on his arm, afraid the slightest touch would hurt him.
“Kaz? Kaz, can you hear me?”
“He can’t hear you, Lieutenant. The pain medication has put him out,” the doctor said.
“When will he wake up?”
“We hope tomorrow. But in his condition, it may be hard to predict.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. I wasn’t crazy about the answers I was getting. Harding went out in the corridor with the doc. I didn’t know what to do. Hospitals always made me nervous. But Kaz was my partner, or at least as close as a Boston cop could get to one over here. So I stayed. I looked around to make sure the door was shut, and then I started talking to Kaz. I filled him in on everything that had happened since we left him at Daphne’s father’s place. Until this morning, anyway. I told him about Southwold, Anders, Victoria Brey, everything I had seen and done.
“That’s it, Kaz,” I finished up. “Now I just need to hear from you. What did you find out in London? It must’ve been good.”
The slightest of little sounds escaped his lips, just a puff of air. One finger moved.
“Kaz, it’s me, Billy.”
I could see him try to move his head, but it was too much. He winced. He lifted his hand, holding it as if he wanted to shake hands.
“What do you want, Kaz?” I heard another little sound. I leaned closer to his mouth.
“Bbb ...”
“Yeah, it’s Billy. I’m here.”
“Bb . . . Bbbb . . .”
It was like he was trying to say my name but couldn’t get it all out. I tried to take his hand, thinking that’s what he wanted. He shook me off with an effort that must have been painful. He gasped, then didn’t say anything for a long time.
“I’ll stay right here, Kaz. When you feel strong enough, try again.”
His eyelid fluttered and I could see he was trying to open it. A thin slit appeared and he tried to focus on me. He must have been really doped up, because he faded pretty quick. I waited. Minutes passed. Long minutes.
“Bb . . . bbb.” Again, the hand. He tried to open his eye again. This time, he got the lid halfway up. I was sure he saw me.
“Bbb . . . re . . .”
“What?”
He worked his hand again, holding it like he was gripping something. His eye was fully open now, and he held me in his gaze, willing me to understand. I got it.
“Briefcase!” I shouted. “Your briefcase! I understand, Kaz. I’ll find it. That’s where the evidence is, right?” This time when I took his hand he squeezed it. Yes.
“I’ll get it, Kaz, I promise. Then I’ll come back to see you.”
I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and if I should tell him. But I wanted to get out of there, away from the antiseptic hospital smell and Kaz’s suffering. Then I saw the tears leaking from his one good eye. He knew. He had delivered his message and now he was done. All that was left was grief. I squeezed his hand.
“I know, buddy, I know. I know.”
I stood up and let his hand slip from mine. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, just above his eye, about the only patch of skin that wasn’t wrapped in bandages. I sniffed and guiltily wiped my own tears away, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. Boston cops don’t cry, much less kiss Polacks.
I stood back from the bed and let out a sigh that came from way down in my gut. Kaz was out, his strength used up by uttering half a word and squeezing my hand. I felt the hardness of the linoleum floor through my feet. The close, warm air of the room brought beads of sweat out on my forehead that dripped down my temples.
It had been a long time since I’d been in a hospital room. I wasn’t counting Doc O’Brien’s office, where I had taken Danny to get his leg stitched up last summer, or even the emergency room, where I’d escorted my fair share of bums, drunks, and Brunos who thought they could take on a guy who knew how to use a billy club with their fists. No, a hospital room was different; it was a place where they stashed you until they killed you or you happened to get well enough to walk out. At least, that’s what most everyone in my family said, ever since somebody’s great-aunt got taken down to Cork and put in a hospital she never came home from. I wasn’t sure about it myself, but the tightening in my stomach now was the same as it was the last time I’d stood at the foot of a bed like this, hat in hand, trying not to cry and feeling the room close in on me. The uniforms had been blue then, and it had been Dad on the bed.
Uncle Dan had picked me up on my beat, siren blasting away, and brought me straight to the hospital. We didn’t know what had happened, just that Dad had been shot and was alive last anyone heard. The place was crawling with cops—out front, in the main lobby, all of them parting like the Red Sea as Uncle Dan looked at everyone and no one, demanding to know where his brother was. Somebody led us up a flight of stairs and down a hall to a room. A room like this: too warm; hard floor; smells of chalky gauze, antiseptic cleaners, and open wounds mingling.
The difference was, Dad could talk. “Bastard couldn’t shoot straight” was the first thing he’d said, wincing with the pain the words brought him. He lay on his side, his right shoulder packed with thick gauze front and back, bandages around his chest and neck holding everything in place. Dried blood the color of rust showed through the gauze, and the sheets were pink where blood had dripped and spread. Dad’s skin was so pale it was almost as if I could see through it to the flesh and muscle beneath. He looked old, weak, and hurt. That scared me more than the bandages.
“A through and through,” Uncle Dan said, his hands clenching and unclenching as his fear turned to anger. “Who did it?”
“Don’t know,” Dad said. “I heard somebody come up behind me from an alleyway, then a click, like a hammer pulled back.” He stopped, closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and then flinched, the act of filling his chest with air causing shredded muscle to shriek in protest.
“I started to turn,” he said, “and then he fired. I went down, heard another shot, but he missed. Must’ve been nervous, there were cops close by.” He closed his eyes again.
“Where?” I asked. “Where were you?”
“A block from the district courthouse, not ten minutes after I left the D Street Station.”
“Did you see the guy?” I asked. I looked at Uncle Dan and saw him exchange glances with Dad, then look at me.
“Naw,” Dad said. “Didn’t see a thing.”
“Who would shoot you two blocks from the courthouse, in broad daylight? And why?” Dad didn’t answer; he just looked at Uncle Dan.
“Well, Billy, I’d say someone who didn’t want your da to get to the courthouse,” Uncle Dan said with slow certainty.
I had a million questions, about open cases and guys getting out of the slammer, but neither of them wanted to talk. Uncle Dan had given me the keys to the squad car and told me to go home and get Mom, tell her everything was OK. I wasn’t so sure it was, but I did as I was told. I took my dad’s hand, something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid, and held it tight. He squeezed it and smiled, a brave smile, and I gave him one back. As I walked out of the room, I turned to pull the door shut behind me. Uncle Dan was already leaning over Dad, nodding his head as Dad whispered to him. I shut the door and walked down the hallway lined with cops—plainclothes and bluecoats—all thankful Dad was all right, patting me on the back and telling me all I had to do was ask if we needed anything. I remember nodding and saying thanks, all the while wondering what had led to an ambush just steps from the South Boston District Court.
Dad was home in a week and we had constant visitors and meals brought in by neighbors and the wives of cops. Everything from corned beef to platters of cold cuts, pickles, and cheese to lasagna and meatloaf. We needed it all, too, with cops visiting Dad at the end of every shift, sometimes just sitting outside on the front stoop, watching the traffic go by, waiting. Uncle Dan brought some of his IRA pals around, too, quiet men in black suits and cloth caps who spoke Gaelic to each other whenever someone they didn’t know came into the room.
The case was never solved. Dad went back to work, desk duty at first, after three weeks at home. Every day after work one of the IRA boys would pick Dad up at the station and drive him home. That went on for a week, then Basher McGee was found floating in Quincy Bay, hands tied behind his back and two slugs in the back of the head. Just like an IRA execution, although no one commented on that. There was a big police funeral, with black armbands, brass, and bands. After that, Dad took the trolley home.
Someone dropped a tray outside the room, the loud metal-against-linoleum sound echoing in the hallway. I took another look at Kaz, then walked out of the room. The door closed behind me.
It was as if I had walked out into another world, where all the rules were different; everything had changed as sure as the door shutting behind me. Daphne Seaton, a kind, sweet person, was dead. Kaz was shattered and would never be the same again without her. My first two friends in England. Destroyed. I didn’t really care about the war any more than I had before. But I did know one thing. The man who had killed them was going to die soon, at my hands. My world had been attacked this time and I was going to hit back. This was my war.
As I went to look for Harding, it occurred to me that I didn’t give a damn about what happened after that. Maybe I’d get killed, maybe thrown in prison, it didn’t make a bit of difference. It was kind of restful not to have to think about the future.