Blood on the Tongue

31

Cooper rang Diane Fry's mobile. He'd never known what she did with herself in the evenings when she went off duty, except that she sometimes drove into Sheffield. Fry had told him once that she'd been trying to trace her sister, but she hadn't mentioned it to him for months. She was much too secret and solitary a person for her own good.

'Ben? Funny you should call. I've got some news.'

'Yes?'

'You were right about Marie Tennent. She was Sergeant Abbott's granddaughter. Strange, isn't it? Two granddaughters of the Lancaster's crew appearing at the same time. One dead and one very much alive.'

'It was the anniversary of the crash,' said Cooper. 'Anniversaries are important. They both felt they had to remember it.'

'That doesn't explain why one of them was dead.'

'No.'

'Ben, we've also had the preliminary results of the postmortem.'

'On Marie Tennent?'

'Yes.'

'It's bad news, isn't it, Diane?'

'I'm afraid so. She suffered from more than just frostbite. She'd been badly beaten. She had bruises to her face and the upper part of her body, consistent with being struck by a fist several times. It looks as though she'd been in a violent struggle not long before she died.'

'Damn.' The news made Cooper feel sick. Despite all the work on the Snowman enquiry, and all the time he'd spent on Danny McTeague and the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor, it had been Marie Tennent he'd woken thinking about each morning. She'd been there at the back of his mind — a sad, cold bundle lying on the hillside, waiting for somebody to explain what had happened to her.

'We've been neglecting her, Diane,' said Cooper. 'We have to find out where she'd been, who she'd been seeing.'

'We'll interview Eddie Kemp again tomorrow,' said Fry. 'But if he moved back in with his wife six months ago, the chances are there's been another boyfriend since then.'

'One who might not have been happy about the baby.'

'Exactly.'

'There's his brother, too,' said Cooper. 'Graham, isn't it? The guy at the aircraft museum mentioned him.'

'Yes, you're right. Graham Kemp was one of the people interviewed over the double assault. We have no evidence against him, though the CCTV film could help get an ID. The meeting with the MDP has been scheduled for tomorrow.'

'Hopefully Sergeant Caudwell might explain why she was interested in Marie Tennent and Sugar Uncle Victor.'

He heard Fry make a noise between a dismissive grunt and a resigned sigh. 'We're promised they're going to share intelligence,' she said. 'It's madness to keep details of this enquiry from us. They're making us work in the dark.'

'It would help to have a little more information of your own before that, wouldn't it?' said Cooper.

Fry was silent for a moment. 'What do you mean, Ben?'

'If you could have some evidence against the vultures.'

' Vultures?'

'It's what Zygmunt Lukasz calls them — the people who take things from the aircraft wrecks. Where are you, Diane?'

'Still at West Street.'

'More overtime? I think we could get some evidence. I think between us we could do it.'

'What? Ben, are you asking for my help?'

'A different approach might work. I thought we could tackle George Malkin again.'

'On what pretext?'

'There's the money.'

'What money?'

'The wages for three RAF bases were being carried on Lancaster SU-V the night it crashed. The money went missing and was never found. I suspect that Malkin once had at least a share in the money from the crashed Lancaster. Maybe his father was involved with the two Home Guards who were suspected of taking it. They could have got the money away and hidden it at Hollow Shaw Farm, to share it out later. I don't know. But Malkin has no money now. And he seems to have sold all the souvenirs he ever had, except for an old watch. I wonder who he sold them to, Diane. And I wonder what happened to the money.'

'I hope you're not on some flight of fancy again,' said Fry. 'Pick me up at the front door.'

It was completely dark when they reached Harrop. As they entered George Malkin's house, Cooper was aware of Fry taking off her coat, then changing her mind and putting it back on again as she shivered with cold. She pulled her collar closer and tightened her scarf.

'Well, I am popular these days,' said Malkin. 'It's a proper social whirl I live in.'

'We're sorry to bother you again, sir.'

'Aye, I'm sure.'

The sitting room looked no different from when Cooper had been there a few days before. Malkin didn't bother to draw the curtains at night. There was no point, since there were no other houses to be seen, and no one ever passed on the track outside, except Malkin's friend, Rod Whittaker, who ran his contract haulage business from here and kept his sheep in the fields.

On one window ledge was a collection of empty jars. They were the type that would once have contained strawberry jam or marmalade, but they'd been stripped of their labels and washed clean for some long-forgotten purpose. Now they were left to gather dust instead. The jar nearest to Cooper had several small, dead spiders desiccating on the glass bottom. Their tiny, fragile legs, no thicker than a hair, had folded into their bodies as they curled up to accept death in their incomprehensible prison.

'How long have you been living on your own?' asked Cooper.

'It's nearly three years since Florence went into the home.'

'Long enough when you're on your own.'

'Aye, if you're not used to it. It's thirty-eight years since we were wed. When you find yourself alone, you start to get into funny little ways. You don't realize it after a while, unless somebody points it out.'

'Like living without any heating, perhaps?' suggested Cooper.

Malkin laughed. The sound was like someone shovelling loose gravel. A trickle of spittle formed at the corner of his mouth.

'I don't need it,' he said. 'Not for myself. And I'm not about to start a blazing fire, just in case I get visitors the likes of you. I suppose you live in a town, do you?'

Cooper was about to say 'no', then remembered that he did, in fact, live in a town. He'd lived in a town since Saturday. He was touched by Malkin's concern for his comfort, but strangely offended by the man's assumption that his visitor was some kind of soft townie.

'You don't get the weather the same, not in a town,' said Malkin. 'If you're a bit nesh, lad, you should put on an extra sweater when you go out. That's what our mam always used to tell us.'

Cooper had never thought of himself as 'nesh' — soft, too sensitive to the cold. It was the sort of term normally reserved for southerners in the ironic way that local people had of winding them up. But he wasn't a southerner — he was local himself. Being nesh was for townies.

But Cooper could see that his way of living was a couple of steps away from that of George Malkin these days. His comfort level was several notches up the central heating thermostat. He had a lower degree of tolerance to discomfort and deprivation. So perhaps he was nesh, after all, in the eyes of the George Malkins of the world. Perhaps he'd lost the link with these people that he once thought he had. In the end, the bond between them wasn't genetic but a social link that could be broken if it was stretched too far.

'I dare say Florence would be ashamed of how I live now, if she knew,' said Malkin.

Cooper felt a surge of sympathy. He recognized a man cut off from the support that had kept him on a normal course. Alone, it was too easy to fall into a way of living that seemed abnormal to everyone else.

'Detective Constable Cooper had a long talk to Mr Walter Rowland yesterday,' said Fry. 'DC Cooper is very good at getting information out of people. They seem to trust him.'

Malkin looked from Fry to Cooper, and his stare lingered. Cooper fidgeted uneasily.

'You and your family have always been known for collecting aircraft souvenirs,' said Fry. 'Is that correct?'

'I suppose it might be. A lot of things came our way over the years. My dad was a terror for it, I don't mind admitting. Us lads learned it from him. I picked up my share of souvenirs here and there.'

'More than just a broken watch, then.'

'I'm not saying I kept them. I'm not a collector — I can't see the point. But some folk will pay cash for stuff like that, you know.'

'Yes, we know.'

Cooper wondered if the souvenirs had brought a steady trickle of cash in for Malkin over the years. It would hardly have been enough to pay for private medical care for Florence. Perhaps she'd heard her husband talk about his sideline and got the wrong idea about the value of the items. Poor woman — her husband had not lived up to her expectations.

'But we're enquiring into something more than just a few souvenirs,' said Fry.

'There was the money,' said Cooper. 'The wages for RAF Branton.'

Malkin took off his cap for the first time. It was such a surprise that it seemed to indicate better than anything his emotional response. His hair was remarkably thick, though going grey.

'Poor old Walter Rowland,' he said. 'He must be in a bad way now. He wasn't well last time I saw him.'

'No, he isn't too good.'

'If Walter knew about the money, he's kept quiet about it for fifty-seven years. I wonder what made him say something now.'

'He didn't. Not exactly,' said Cooper.

'Oh?'

'So you admit that you took the money that was on board the Lancaster?' said Fry.

Malkin turned his attention back to her. 'You've got good timing, you folk. You know when to ask your questions, all right. It doesn't matter to me now, you see. Not at all. So you might as well know everything.'

'Go on, sir.'

'Yes, it was me and my brother Ted who took the money. We were only lads at the time. I was eight years old, so I didn't really know what I was doing. But I don't suppose there's much point in me saying that now.'

'I think it's unlikely there will be a prosecution after all this time,' said Fry. 'Not for something you did when you were eight years old.'

'Oh, well,' said Malkin. 'It doesn't matter.'

'There was a lot of money,' said Cooper. 'We'd like to know what you did with it. What did you spend it on?'

Malkin smiled then, a sheepish, embarrassed smile. 'You won't believe me.'

'Try us. We've heard all sorts of things that people waste their money on. Foreign holidays? Women? Did you gamble it away?'

'None of those things.'

'What, then?'

'I didn't spend it at all. I've still got it.'

Cooper stared at him. 'You're kidding.'

'I said you wouldn't believe me.'

'You found yourself suddenly in possession of a fortune, and you're telling me that you just put it in the bank and saved it up for a rainy day? You didn't spend any of it?'

'No, I didn't. But I didn't put it in the bank either.'

'You're not making any sense.'

'I'm going to have to show you,' said Malkin.

George Malkin led Cooper and Fry up to the top of his garden, through a gate and across a snow-covered paddock. They had to lean into the wind and lift their feet high out of the snow to make progress. But Malkin seemed almost unaware of it. He ploughed across the field like a carthorse, with his head down and his shoulders hunched forward inside his overcoat.

At the far side of the field was a stile built into the dry-stone wall. They crossed it carefully, and found themselves floundering waist-deep in a drift that had been blown up against the other side. When they struggled out of it, they were panting with the effort. In front of them was another field, but this one sloped gently up to the rocky base of the hill, and the snow became less deep as they crossed the last few yards.

It was only when they were standing at the foot of the hill that they saw they'd reached the entrance to an old mine. It was no more than a cleft in the rock face, about as wide as a man's shoulders — not wide enough, in fact, for George Malkin, who had to slide through it sideways. A fine layer of snow had blown a foot or two into the entrance, but beyond that the rock floor was only damp, so that it gleamed in the light of an old bicycle lamp that Malkin took from his pocket.

'We should have brought a Dragon light from the car,' said Fry. 'I can hardly see a thing.'

'We'll manage,' said Malkin. 'We'll not be doing much reading or anything.'

Like all caves or mines, even the smallest and most insignificant, there were unidentifiable noises and echoes in its darkest corners, and angles of rock that made sudden black fists in the edges of the shadows. The smell was of wet sand, and the dampness was as heavy as a blanket, as if they'd stepped below the level of the water table.

George Malkin used the wavery beam of the bicycle lamp to locate a deep crack in the wall. He lifted a foot-wide boulder clear and fumbled inside with one hand until he drew out a length of baling twine. The twine was bright blue, and it seemed to be the only flicker of colour in the gloom. At first, there seemed to be no weight on the end of it, but then a small rope appeared, knotted to the twine.

'Maybe you could help me pull,' said Malkin.

Cooper took hold of the rope and they pulled on it together, while Fry held the lamp over them. The light failed momentarily and left them completely in the dark until she shook it, rattling the battery inside the casing to restore the corroded connection. Cooper could hear a dragging sound deep inside the rock. He could feel the resistance on the rope of something heavy that snagged on every bump. They seemed to be pulling at about a forty-five degree angle.

'It's a leather bag of some kind,' said Fry, peering over the shoulders of the two men into the hole. 'No, two bags — there's another one tied behind it.'

'Aye, there were two,' said Malkin as the bags appeared over the lip of rock. 'We managed one each, just about. Of course, in those days, I was only a little lad. I was small enough to slide right down into that hole. It levels out at the bottom, like a shelf. Ted sent me down there and passed the bags to me. I remember they blocked the way at first, and they were so heavy I didn't think I was ever going to be able to get out again. But Ted was there. I knew he would rescue me if I got stuck.'

Malkin grabbed a leather strap as Cooper took the weight on the rope. 'It was totally dark down there,' he said. 'I hated the dark, always have. I've been scared of it since I was tiny. Darkness and deep water — those are the things that frighten me. I always had nightmares of being trapped somewhere with water coming in. You'd think you would grow out of that when you're not a nipper any more. But it just got worse after Ted was killed. I reckon it was because I knew he wouldn't be there any more to rescue me.'

They set the bags on the floor. Fry crouched over them with the lamp, rattling it every now and then to keep its beam alive. 'We really should have brought some more light,' she said. 'This is ridiculous.'

'Let's have a quick look, then we'll take them up to the house,' said Cooper.

'It won't take you long to see what it is,' said Malkin. He was standing above them, and his voice sounded unnaturally distant and echoey, as if he were back in the hole that his brother had sent him into as a child.

Cooper's fingers were clumsy in his gloves, and the straps of the first bag had stiffened and cracked, so that he had difficulty pulling them through the buckles. Finally, the flap fell open, and he saw it was a sort of saddlebag like those carried by Wells Fargo riders in western films. Inside, it was packed with something solid and white. Cooper couldn't believe what he was looking at.

'Bring the light closer,' he said.

Fry crouched alongside him. He could hear her breathing in his ear, and he could see a cloud of her breath drifting through the beam of light from the lamp. He tugged at the contents of the bag, and a lump of the white mass broke away into his hand. It wasn't solid at all, but consisted of tightly packed bundles which had stuck together in the damp that had seeped into the leather bag.

Cooper tilted the bag more, and the heaps of paper slid out. They were like wedges of frozen snow slipping on to the ground and separating into dirty crystalline rectangles. They were unfamiliar, yet he knew what they were.

'Bank notes,' he said.

'They can't be,' said Fry.

'I think you'll find they are.'

'But they're white. Has the colour faded? Is it foreign currency?'

'No,' said Cooper. 'They're British sterling.'

Cooper looked up. He could barely see George Malkin's face. His expression was impassive. For a big man, it was surprising how easily he'd almost faded into the rock among the shadows outside the light of the lamp. 'Mr Malkin?'

'Aye, you're right,' he said. 'But I'm not surprised you've never seen them before. You're much too young, the pair of you.'

'I've heard of them, though,' said Cooper. 'These are?5 notes, aren't they? White fivers. They haven't been in circulation for nearly fifty years.'

'That's right. White fivers. They're part of the wages for RAF Branton.'

Together, they carried the bags back to the house. On the sitting-room table, the bank notes looked almost at home, as if they were back in their own time again. It was as if a part of George Malkin's life had been frozen in 1945 and had never changed since.

'We thought at first it was a German plane that had been shot down,' said Malkin. 'There had been stories just before that of a Junkers that had been downed near Manchester. So we didn't think it was wrong to take the bags.'

'But you must have heard later that the aircraft was British.'

'It was too late then. We knew we couldn't tell anybody about the money. Ted threatened me not to say a word. Not that I needed telling. I always thought Ted would know what to do with the money. I thought he had a plan. He never told me what it was, but then I was only his annoying little brother, and I didn't need to know. When he went off for his National Service, I thought we'd do something with the money after he came back. I thought he would tell me what the plan was then, because I'd be seventeen and grown up enough. But, of course, Ted never came back.'

'What happened to him?'

'Ted was called up when he was eighteen years old, and they sent him to Malaya. He was dead before he was nineteen — shot by a Chinese communist rebel when his troop train was ambushed.'

'Did your mother and father never know about these bags?' asked Cooper. He watched Malkin shake his head. 'How on earth did you keep them secret all that time?'

'I left them in the old mine workings, where we'd put them. Sometimes, as a lad, I would go up there with a torch, and I'd get the bags out and look at the money. I didn't know what to do with it, but I knew I'd do something with it one day. It made me feel different from the rest of the kids. I really believed I was a secret millionaire. That helped a lot when I had bad times. They were like friends waiting to help me out when I needed them. Even after Mum and Dad died, I didn't bring the bags into the house. They never knew about the money while they were alive, and it seemed wrong to produce it when they were dead. As long as their memories still hung around the house, I felt as though I'd be giving away my secret to them. It's surprising how long it takes people to leave a place after they're dead.'

Cooper nodded. 'So you never moved them?'

'Once. One day I saw some potholers coming into the mine. They had ropes and helmets and lamps, all the proper tackle. There was nothing I could do while they were in there, but I was terrified they would find the bags — my bags. I pictured one of them shining his lamp into the crack, and that would be that, all those years of waiting wasted. I thought of starting a rock fall to block the mine entrance, so that they would all die in there. It seemed like the only option. Then at least nobody would have got the money.'

Malkin paused, momentarily shaken by a desperate memory. 'But eventually they came out with their ropes, and they went away. And the bags were still there, where I'd put them. I dragged them out and brought them up to the house. But then I started worrying about Florence finding them, so I took them back.'

Cooper stared at the bundles of notes. Those in the middle looked as though they might be as clean and pristine as when they were first issued.

'I don't know much about currency,' he said. 'But I've a feeling…'

'Oh, I know,' said Malkin 'They took those notes out of circulation in 1957. I should have spent them when I was thirty years old, when I could have made proper use of them and set myself up for life.' He began to toss the bundles back into the bags. 'I remember the day I read the news that white fivers wouldn't be legal tender any more. It was like all my dreams had been smashed. That money was my future, as I thought. It felt as though I'd just lost a fortune. It was like thinking you'd won the jackpot on the National Lottery, then finding you'd lost the ticket. They're not even a secret any more, are they?'

'But why didn't you spend it when you were thirty?' said Fry, staring at him in bafflement.

Malkin shrugged. 'It might sound daft,' he said. 'Maybe it was daft. But I'd never been abroad or anything back then. I was too young to have gone away in the war, too old to take foreign holidays for granted like the young folks do today. I honestly didn't know what to do with the money. I thought if I took it to a bank they'd know straight away it was stolen and I'd be arrested. I was frightened to do anything with it. It seemed better to keep it as my secret. It was safer to sit here at home and dream of what I might spend it on. There seemed to be no risks that way.'

'Does your wife not know about the money?' said Cooper, recalling Florence's constant questions about her private medical treatment.

'I'd met Florence about three years before, and we'd started saving to get married. It was daft, but I let her think I had some money saved up. Well, I had, in a way. Then I found out they were scrapping the white fivers. Without Ted, I didn't know what to do. It was a couple of days later that I got the chance to go out to the old mine and check the bags one last time. I had to make sure the money was what I thought. Yes, white fivers, all of it. I knew I couldn't take it all to the bank to change it — it would look too suspicious, and the police would be round here. I couldn't risk that, when I was planning to get wed. So there was no money, as I'd always let Florence think.'

Cooper picked up the bag. 'What happened to all the souvenirs that you had, Mr Malkin? Who did you sell them to?'

'The only man who deals in that sort of thing around here — the bookseller in Edendale, Lawrence Daley. If you want to have a look at some stuff, you have to ask to see his upstairs room.'

Fry exchanged a glance with Cooper. 'We'll do that,' she said.

Malkin looked at the bag in Cooper's hands. 'There's just one thing,' he said. 'It's too late now, but it's something I won't stop thinking about until the day I pop my clogs.'

'What's that?'

'I wonder if I could have spent some of that money on getting treatment for Florence. Do you think it would have helped? Do you think I could have used the money to save her life?'

'But Mr Malkin,' said Cooper, 'your wife is in the Old School Nursing Home.'

'Not any more, poor old lass. They phoned me just before you arrived. She died about two hours ago.'