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

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СКАЧАТЬ CHAPTER 10

      Trave sat in the office he shared with Quaid at Scotland Yard and waited for the inspector to return, expecting the worst. Now that it was too late, he bitterly regretted going back to Broadway again. He’d been a fool to think he could track Seaforth without being seen. The man had eyes in the back of his head.

      Trave had been careful this time, remembering the lessons he’d learnt at the police training school and trying not to repeat the mistakes he’d made the day before. From the moment he’d followed Seaforth into the Underground station, he’d kept himself at maximum distance from his target, staying close to other travellers and waiting patiently at the top of each set of escalators and at the turning of every passage until Seaforth had disappeared from view, and only then hurrying forward until he had caught sight of him again. And there had been no sign that Seaforth knew he was being followed. He’d walked at a brisk pace, turning left and right without a backward glance until he’d finally come to a halt halfway down the westbound platform and stood waiting for the train, examining a government information poster on the opposite wall with apparent rapt attention.

      Suddenly there’d been a whistle and a rush of wheels as the train rolled into the station, and Seaforth had got in. He’d looked as if he had no idea he was being followed. Trave had waited until the last moment and then jumped aboard a carriage two away. The air-operated doors had closed and the train moved off, and there on the platform was Seaforth, standing just where he’d been before, watching with a smile as Trave was borne away into the tunnel heading for Victoria.

      Trave had never stood a chance; he realized that now. Seaforth had eyes in the back of his head because he was a spy, just like everyone else who worked in 59 Broadway. There was no other explanation. But Trave knew that the knowledge wasn’t going to do him any good. Seaforth held all the cards. He’d wasted no time complaining to Quaid the day before, so why would he not do the same today? And Trave knew what would happen then – he’d be transferred out of Scotland Yard and he’d never have any more dealings with this case ever again, or any case at all, for that matter, if Quaid had anything to do with it.

      Trave had been pacing the office backwards and forwards like a prisoner in his cell as he reflected on his position, and now he banged his head against the door in frustration. But there was nobody to take any notice, just the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes until Quaid’s return. With a sigh and a sore head, Trave sat down and began to work his way through the backlog of paperwork that had been building up on his desk over the last few days. It had always been the part of his job that he least enjoyed – he hadn’t worked hard to become a detective in order to turn himself into some kind of glorified postal clerk. He wanted to be out in the field pursuing leads, not sitting here immured in some faraway corner of Scotland Yard writing up reports and listing evidence exhibits. But he’d better get used to it, he thought bitterly. He’d be lucky to be doing even that once Quaid had finished with him.

      The inspector arrived back on the stroke of twelve. And he was not alone – he had Bertram Brive in tow, squirming in the grip of a burly uniformed policeman with bright red cheeks and small mean eyes. His name was Twining, and he had a reputation at the Yard for doing whatever Quaid told him to do, no questions asked.

      ‘Book him in, Constable,’ Quaid ordered, speaking to Twining. ‘Make sure he hasn’t got any hypodermic needles hidden up his sleeves.’

      ‘This is an outrage. I want my solicitor—,’ Brive began indignantly.

      ‘What? The same one you used to cook up old Morrison’s will?’ asked Quaid with a grin, cutting him off. ‘Don’t worry – you’ll have your chance to tell us what you’ve been up to in a little while, but Constable Twining here is going to process you first. We need to do everything properly, you know. I’m sure you wouldn’t want it any other way, now, would you, Doctor?

      ‘Soften him up a little too. That never did any harm,’ said Quaid, turning to Trave with a wink once Brive had been dragged away, his protests still dimly audible from the other end of the corridor. ‘A good morning’s work if I say so myself,’ he said expansively, sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction in the expensive swivel chair that he’d had installed behind his desk and stretching out his legs. ‘Case cracked and should be case closed by the end of the afternoon once we’ve got our confession. And then I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate. They keep a good Islay malt whisky for me under the counter at the King’s Head over the road, a nice chaser for a pint of their London ale.’

      ‘What happened?’ asked Trave, feeling more than a little disoriented. He’d been expecting summary dismissal from his boss, not an invitation to a party.

      ‘Ava, the victim’s daughter, gave us the break. Full credit to her – the bastard’s been trying to dispatch her too, from what I can gather. She searched her husband’s desk this morning after he’d gone out and found the cuff link that matched the one we recovered from off the landing outside Morrison’s flat.’

      Quaid said nothing about Seaforth’s role in facilitating the search. He knew that Bertram would be less likely to confess if he could claim the evidence had been planted, so it wasn’t information that he intended to disclose to the doctor when he interviewed him. And if Trave didn’t know what had happened, then there would be no risk of him blurting it out to Bertram.

      ‘And the cuff link’s not all we’ve got, either,’ Quaid went on happily. ‘I went through Brive’s desk myself while we were waiting for him to come back, and guess what – he’s being blackmailed.’

      ‘Blackmailed! For what?’

      ‘Sex. That’s what it’s usually about, isn’t it? Turns out he’s homosexual and someone somewhere’s got photographs to prove it. Look, here’s one that the blackmailer sent him with his first demand – standard stuff, but not very pleasant,’ said Quaid, handing Trave a photograph that he’d extracted from one of the evidence bags he’d deposited on his desk when he came in. It was a grainy picture no bigger than a snapshot, but there was no mistaking Brive, naked apart from a sheet pulled hastily across his lower body. He was lying next to a younger man on an unmade bed in what looked like a cheap hotel room somewhere. The shock and terror on Brive’s face were palpable. The flash photograph had obviously been taken at the moment of discovery.

      ‘He knew he’d be ruined if it came out, and so he’s been paying the blackmailer off for over a year,’ Quaid continued. ‘Borrowing money right, left, and centre to do it, but then recently whoever it is has got a bit more greedy, just like they always do. Result was our doctor friend couldn’t come up with the money, and not just that, he started defaulting on interest payments on the debts he’d already run up. So his creditors started to call in their loans, which must have scared him quite a bit because he’s in hock to some pretty unpleasant people, south London sharks of the worst kind. Anyway, the whole house of cards was just about to come tumbling down when Albert Morrison conveniently broke his neck, since when Brive’s been able to use the promise of his inheritance to stabilize his debts and get the blackmailer off his back. Everything’s here. All the dates match up,’ said Quaid, tapping the evidence bags. ‘All we need now is his confession.’

      ‘And you’re sure it’s him?’ Trave asked. He had to admit that the new evidence sounded compelling, and it made him uncomfortable to realize that he was disappointed by the new developments. He didn’t want Brive to be guilty. He wondered whether his obsession with 59 Broadway and its occupants had warped his view of the case.

      ‘I’m positive he did it – have been from the first time I clapped eyes on the bastard,’ said Quaid expansively. ‘Some people have got a nose for a good wine; I’ve got a nose for guilt. You know me – I rely on my instincts, СКАЧАТЬ