“I’ll inquire with Broadmoor again,” Cook said. “Perhaps they overlooked someone. I’ll go through the files and make sure none of the chaps who received lesser charges went on to more serious offenses. They might blame their first brush with the law for everything that followed.”
“Maybe you should check up on anyone from the village who was sent to the asylum,” Tree said. “Criminal or not. It could be any local nut case.”
“Fair point,” Cook said. “I’ll talk with Doc Brisbane, the coroner. He’d likely know who has been committed over the years.”
“Good thinking, Tree,” Payne said. “Were you a detective yourself in the States?”
“Naw,” Tree said, grinning mischievously. “I was a criminal, according to the judge.”
“Hardly a criminal mastermind,” I said. “But that’s a good idea. I’ll come by tomorrow, Constable, and see what you’ve found out. I’ve got to get Tree back to his unit.”
“I will be back at the Newbury Building Society in the morning,” Payne said. “I want to find out if Neville might have made any notes after his last visits. I still think finding Razor Fraser in the midst of all this is damned odd.”
“He’s kept his nose clean, that’s all I can say,” Cook offered. “The gossips say his wife craves the respectable country life. In a comfortable sort of way, of course.”
“You think he’s reformed?” Payne asked.
“No, his type seldom do. But quieter than in his youth, I’ll bet. Smarter maybe. I’d say the driving force behind his new image is the wife. She’d not like her reputation besmirched by the inconvenience of her husband going to prison. Certainly not over a bank loan.”
“Still, there’s something fishy there,” Payne said, “even if it’s not about Neville’s murder.”
“The missing girl?” Tree asked.
“No,” Cook said. “Not Razor’s area of interest. Well, good night, gentlemen. I’ll go and see if I can reclaim my office.”
Cook returned to the station, Payne walked to his car, and Tree and I got into the jeep. I buttoned up my coat against the cool evening air, and was about to start the engine when Cook burst out of the front door.
“He’s unconscious,” Cook yelled. “Cosgrove. I’ll get Doc Brisbane.” As he raced across the street to the coroner’s office, we rushed inside, Payne not far behind. I didn’t know what we’d find, and I felt a surge of fear it would be a corpse.
Cosgrove was sprawled on the floor in front of Cook’s desk, but he wasn’t dead. Yet. His face was flushed and sweaty, his mouth agape as he tried to draw in air with ragged, wheezy gasps. One arm clutched the edge of the desk, as if it were a life raft floating upon the deepest sea. Papers were scattered around him, spilled out of the files he’d been carrying.
“The doctor’s on his way,” I said, kneeling next to Cosgrove. I took his hand from where he was grasping the desk and laid it on his chest. His skin was clammy. I loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, the collar soaked with sweat. Tree took off his jacket, folded it, and slid it under Cosgrove’s head. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” came the answer, a hiss of air, no more. Cosgrove’s eyes darted left and right, looking for something. I prayed for the doctor to hurry.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“Pa … papers,” he whispered. The papers from the file he had on the desk. Secrets.
“I’ll take care of them, Major,” I said. “I promise. Relax and wait for the doctor, you’ll be okay.” He didn’t really look like he’d be okay anytime soon. Payne entered the room with a stretcher and set it down next to Cosgrove.
“How’s he look?” Payne whispered.
“Bad,” I answered, in a low voice. “I think it’s a heart attack.”
“Boyle,” Cosgrove said, his voice surprisingly strong.
“Yes,” I said, my face close to his.
“Get … the papers. No sedative.”
“Okay, the papers,” I said. “But do you know what’s wrong? Have you been ill?”
He thumped his chest, weakly. His heart.
“Out of the way, young man.” Doctor Brisbane, at last.
“It’s his heart,” I said.
“Well, you don’t need me then, do you?” Brisbane pulled open Cosgrove’s shirt and listened with his stethoscope. I decided against further diagnosis as I gathered up the files on the floor. Brisbane checked his eyes, spoke to the major, and got the same insistent rejoinder about sedatives. He and the others got Cosgrove onto the stretcher, and we each took a corner to carry him across the street. He was a big guy.
“Boyle,” he rasped out. “Call the number, the one I gave you. No sedatives, remember.” His eyes went to the file tucked under my arm, and for the first time since we’d found him, he seemed to relax. “No sedative.”
Doc Brisbane got Cosgrove settled in his examination room. I reminded the doc about Cosgrove’s insistence on no sedation, and vaguely hinted at state secrets.
“If he rests quietly, there will be no need,” Doc Brisbane said. “It does look like a heart attack, you were right. Not much we can do beyond bed rest. He could stand to lose some weight, though. I’ll keep him here overnight and check his vital signs. You’ll see about getting him picked up?”
I said I’d attend to it, then asked Inspector Payne to drop Tree off at his battalion, and to explain the situation to his CO, and to let me know if that wasn’t enough.
“Thanks, Billy,” Tree said before he got into the car. “I owe you.”
“What are friends for?” I asked. “Take it easy, I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.” Payne and I made plans to meet at the building society at nine o’clock the next morning, and I went back to the station to make the call.
I sat at Constable Cook’s desk and dialed the number on the piece of paper. It rang twice, and a female voice answered, repeating the number. I said I was calling for Major Charles Cosgrove.
“He is unavailable.”
“No, I’m calling on his behalf. He’s ill, probably had a heart attack.” More questions about who I was, where I was calling from, and how I got this number. I promised to call with an update and the woman said someone would be in Hungerford by morning. Then she hung up, no goodbye, no “tell Charles to get better.” Nice bunch he worked for.
I hadn’t mentioned the file, and they hadn’t asked. No one had told me not to look in it, but MOST SECRET stamped in red on the cover was a pretty strong warning. I’d had to look at the papers when I picked them up, I told myself, so another glance wouldn’t hurt, would it?
They looked like personnel files. Sergeant Eugene Jackson, Inspector John Payne, and me. Photographs, service records, a local address for Payne. My photo was from my identification papers. Tree’s wasn’t so formal, a bit blurry, like it was taken with a telephoto lens. Was MI5 spying on Tree?
Carla and George Miller were there too, along with their son, in his naval uniform, and their daughter, Eva. Lots of details about their lives, but no conclusions, no assessment of their loyalty. Sergeant Jerome Sullivan was pictured arm in arm with Eva Miller.
There was Michael Flowers of the Newbury Building Society, along with Miss Gardner, the helpful secretary. Razor Fraser and Ernest Bone. Laurianne Ross and the missing Sophia Edwards. Jack Monk from the pub, and old Tim Pettigrew. Can’t tell the players without a scorecard.
But what was the game?
CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE
It was still light when I arrived back at the Prince of Wales Inn. The sun was down, but the clouds were backlit from the sunset, casting a soft golden glow over the landscape. It shouldn’t be so pretty, I thought, with a young girl dead and another missing, the innocent behind bars, and a good man dying. I found Kaz, Diana, and Laurianne Ross from the school seated outside, the flagstones warm from the day’s sunlight. I’d half forgotten that Diana and Kaz had paid a visit to the Avington School for Girls today. Diana was in her brown wool FANY uniform, which I guessed she’d worn to interest the kids, since her brass buttons and leather belt were polished to a gleam.