Simon Tolkien Inspector Trave Trilogy: Orders From Berlin, The Inheritance, The King of Diamonds. Simon Tolkien

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СКАЧАТЬ dead man was called Albert Morrison. We think he may have come here, and we need to know why and whom he spoke to.’ Trave noticed a definite reaction on the old man’s face to the name, but it was gone too quickly to tell whether it was one of pain or pleasure.

      ‘Well, dead or alive, ’e didn’t speak to me,’ said the old man. ‘I’m the one who opens the door and the only people who came ’ere yesterday were the people that have got a right to be ’ere – the people who work ’ere.’

      ‘What work? What goes on here?’ asked Trave, his curiosity aroused by the old man’s unnecessary rudeness.

      ‘None of your business,’ said the old man, beginning to close the door.

      But Trave was too quick for him. He put his foot out and pushed the door back with his hand. The old man took a step back, looking furious.

      ‘Do you live here?’ Trave asked.

      But the old man ignored his question. ‘I’m calling security,’ he said, but he made no move away from the door.

      ‘All right, I’ll take that as a no,’ said Trave. ‘The man I’m talking about – he came here late in the afternoon, so maybe you’d already gone home. Maybe someone else answered the door.’

      The old man looked Trave up and down for a moment and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’ll check the book,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You wait ’ere.’

      This time Trave did not stop the old man from shutting the door. He waited patiently on the step, resisting the temptation to knock again. Something told him that the old man might be cantankerous and unpleasant but that he was no liar – if he said he was going to check the book, then that was what he would do. Several minutes later, he was proved right when the door opened and the old man reappeared.

      ‘There were no visitors yesterday before or after I left,’ he said with sour satisfaction, turning to go.

      But Trave hadn’t finished. ‘Does a man called Thorn work here?’ he asked. ‘Middle-aged, balding, no glasses—’

      ‘I know what ’e looks like,’ said the old man, interrupting.

      ‘Is he here? I need to see him.’

      ‘That’ll depend on if ’e wants to see you,’ the old man said laconically. ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’

      The old man stepped aside and Trave went past him into a wide, dimly lit entrance hall. There was a threadbare colourless carpet on the floor, and the walls, void of pictures, were badly in need of a coat of paint. There were several doors on either side, but they were all closed and probably locked, Trave thought, noticing the large bunch of keys attached to the old man’s waistband. Maybe one of them contained the visitors’ book, Trave speculated, but the old man didn’t ask him to sign anything. Instead he pointed to a hard-backed chair set against one of the walls; told Trave to wait, speaking in the same peremptory tone he’d used outside; and then went up the staircase at the back of the hall. Trave could hear the sound of the old man’s knee joints cracking even after he’d disappeared from view.

      The sound faded away and then, after an interval of several minutes, began again – the old man was coming back down the stairs. But immediately there was the sound of quicker feet, and a man who matched Mrs Graves’s description was the first to appear in the hall. He looked tired and preoccupied, and his clothes were just as crumpled as she’d described them.

      Trave got up and held out his hand, which Thorn took absently for a moment. ‘I’m Detective Trave,’ he said. ‘Are you—’

      ‘Thorn. Yes. Alec Thorn. Jarvis here said you wanted to see me. I haven’t got long, I’m afraid. I’ve got a lot of work to do today.’

      ‘Do you know a man called Albert Morrison?’

      ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

      ‘Did you go and see him yesterday – at his flat in Battersea?’

      Thorn paused, not answering. His eyes flickered over to the old man, who was standing listening to them at the bottom of the stairs. Trave had noted the look of interest in the old man’s eyes as well as Thorn’s when he’d mentioned Albert’s name.

      ‘We’d better go in here, I think,’ said Thorn, opening a door halfway down the hall – Trave had been wrong about them being locked. ‘That’ll be all, Jarvis,’ he added, shutting the old man out once Trave had gone past him into the room.

      It was a small, primitive kind of waiting room. Two rows of armless, hard-backed chairs faced a wall on which a photograph of the King in his coronation robes hung slightly askew. There were no windows and there was no fire. Neither man sat down – Thorn stood with his back to the door, facing Trave.

      ‘I know you went there,’ Trave said quietly. ‘Mrs Graves, the neighbour downstairs, says she saw you. You left a note that she gave to Mr Morrison when he returned from a walk in the park, and after he got it he became agitated and came over here in a taxi. Did you see him here yesterday, Mr Thorn? I need to know.’

      ‘No. No, I didn’t,’ said Thorn adamantly. ‘What’s this about, Detective? You can’t come in here asking questions without telling me why. Has something happened to Albert?’

      ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. He died last night. I’m here because he was murdered—’

      ‘Murdered!’ Thorn looked thunderstruck and his face collapsed as if under the impact of a blow for which he had been entirely unprepared. He turned away, putting up his hand as if to ward off further attack, and then staggered to a chair and sat down.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Trave. He hadn’t been prepared for the intensity of Thorn’s reaction to the news.

      ‘Murdered!’ Thorn repeated the word, shaking his head to express his incredulity. ‘How?’

      ‘He was pushed over the balustrade outside his flat. His daughter saw him fall.’

      ‘Ava was there. My God! Did she see who did it?’

      ‘No, it was too dark. Could you please tell me how you knew Mr Morrison?’ Trave asked.

      ‘We were friends. We’ve been friends a long time. Oh God, poor Albert,’ he added, his voice cracking. He put a cigarette in his mouth but couldn’t light it because his hands were shaking too much. Trave had to help him with the match.

      He inhaled deeply and then collapsed in a fit of coughing. The smoke filled up the airless, windowless room and Trave was tempted to open the door for ventilation, except that he suspected Jarvis was on the other side listening.

      ‘How did you become friends?’ asked Trave. ‘Did you work together?’

      ‘Yes, we used to.’

      ‘Here?’

      Thorn nodded.

      ‘And what kind of work was that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

      ‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ said Thorn. ‘It’s confidential.’

      ‘Well, СКАЧАТЬ