Written in Blood(67)

‘No, sir.’ Not much.

‘But it’s important not to come to over-quick decisions. Also to hold any theories lightly. Especially one that you’ve set your heart on.’

Troy did not reply, but the curve of his mouth hardened.

‘You must learn to argue against yourself. If you’re right it can only make your case stronger. If you’re wrong it can stop you looking foolish later on.’

‘Yes.’ Troy looked up and his expression lightened. ‘I know that really, but with Jennings . . . You must admit it does look completely open and shut.’

‘And the chances are it is,’ replied the chief inspector. ‘But I’m always wary of anything handed to me on a plate. What do we keep, sergeant?’

‘Our options open.’ Troy tried to look respectful and only succeeded in looking desperate for a fag.

‘The outdoor lot all back?’

‘Bar Flash Harry and partner. And they’re on their way.’

‘Inspector Meredith to you, sergeant.’

‘I’ll try to remember,’ said Troy, grinning. ‘Sir.’

‘Debriefing in half an hour then.’





Rex sat in front of his bureau looking down into the open space where his iron rations had been. Crisps, biscuits (sweet and savoury), chocolate, boiled sweets, pickled onions - he had devoured them all. Well, Montcalm had helped.

There were three tubes of Smarties left. Rex prised out the little white plastic disc with a yellow, horny nail. The dog’s drooling jaws gaped wide. Rex poured the sweets in. The jaws closed. A single incisive mashing was followed by a noisy swallow and they were open again. It really was extraordinary. Like standing by a factory bench feeding a machine. Open, crunch, gulp, close. Open, crunch, gulp, close. Open . . .

Rex, his spherical frizz of hair now drooping sadly, picked up a second tube then stood distractedly staring at the closed curtains. The truth was he did not know what to do with himself. He had no heart for the downfall of Byzantium. Or for map reading. Nor making out mock orders for bully beef and hard tack on his faded pink pad of quartermaster’s forms before polishing his medals. Even his Dictionary of Weapons and Military Terms for the first time ever failed to enthral. For Rex was gripped by the most devastating remorse.

If only, he moaned silently, I had hammered on the front door the moment it was closed, and kept hammering. Or gone round to the kitchen and got in that way. Anything would have been better than running away like a frightened rabbit. Ten-year-old drummer boys under fire had shown more courage. Rex recalled with shame the feelings of embarrassment that had kept him from persisting. For the sake of mere self-consciousness a man had died.

And if only, once back in Borodino, he had talked to someone. Anyone. For Gerald would surely have understood that it was only concern for his well-being that had forced Rex to break his promise. Or he could have rung Gerald up himself from the box. And why, when he finally did return, had he not taken Montcalm? Instructed, the dog would have barked and thundered and skittered his claws till someone had responded. He would not have slunk away, at the first little set-back, to the safety of his own bunker.

But the hardest question of all, the sharpest lance, was why he (Rex) had been so quickly seduced into complacency by the sight of a relaxed Max smiling, sipping a drink and chatting, with apparent amiability, to Gerald.

Oh! that word ‘apparently’. For, with hindsight, it seemed to Rex that Max could well have sensed that he was being observed and was merely faking benevolence. Maybe by that time poor Gerald was already disabled in some way, lying wounded, or gagged and bound, just beyond Rex’s line of vision, praying that someone would break in and save him from the coup de grâce.

Last night Rex had had a dreadful dream. He had been staring through the kitchen window at Plover’s Rest, obsessed with a fearful knowledge that something terrible was about to happen. Inside, Gerald was making a sandwich. He had lain down a slice of white bread the size of a dinner plate then taken down his mortar and pestle and emptied into it a large brown bottle of tablets that Rex understood to be lethal. Grinding them slowly into powder he had then shaken this on the bread and folded it over. Pacing up and down the room, he started to eat very fast, pushing the sandwich at his mouth, knuckling in the edges. Rex pounded on the window but the glass simply gave way under his hand then sprang back, smoothly undented, making no sound. Gradually, as Gerald ate, his skin became all red and shiny, like wet paint.

Rex shivered. He was very cold. It was bedtime but he had forgotten to fill his hot-water bottle or switch on the tiny electric fire in his bedroom. He felt Montcalm’s head, the beard still damp with salivary gratitude, nudging his knee.