We drove along a body of water to our left, a series of small, despoiled cottages to our right. At one time, it must have been a beautiful spot. On the other side of the water, low hills rolled across the horizon. The smell of salt air was sharp on the wind. As the road curved, we saw the long beach beyond the hills and a large beachfront hotel that had certainly seen better days. Gaping holes showed in the masonry, and smoking craters dotted the grounds.
“That’s what the P-47s were aiming at,” Quick said. “It was scheduled for demolition but kept in place for target practice. This stretch of beach is Slapton Sands; the water on the other side is called Slapton Ley. A few miles up the beach is the village of Slapton itself.”
Several LCIs-Landing Craft Infantry-sat on the beach disgorging GIs. These weren’t the small Higgins assault craft, but much larger vessels that could carry over two hundred men and deposit them on the far shore, with dry feet, via gangways on either side of the bow. They were designed as follow-up craft, so the good news was that if you were on one of these, you wouldn’t be charging across the beach into machine-gun fire. Or at least, that was the plan.
GIs wandered about, clustered in small groups, smoking and chatting as if on holiday. A few officers yelled and hollered as they pushed the men off the beach and up the road we’d driven in on. If this was training for D-Day, no one was taking it seriously.
Quick directed us past the bombed-out hotel to the shingle beach, the pebbles making a continuous click clack sound as the waves washed over them, drawing them back into the deep. We left the jeep and walked a few yards as Quick got his bearings. The wind off the water was cold, and I buttoned up my trench coat as it flapped around me.
“Here, I’d wager, or close to it,” he said. Slapton Sands was long and straight, hardly a curve or landmark in sight.
“He had petroleum in his hair,” I said. “Have any ships sunk along this stretch of Channel?”
“Not for a while, no,” Quick said. “Although there has been a lot of traffic. Landing craft, destroyers, escort and smoke-laying vessels, all sorts. Any of them could have leaked oil.”
“Was anyone else around when you found him?” I asked.
“No, I was alone,” Quick said. “It was one of the few days no landings were scheduled. I patrolled the village and walked down to the hotel, to make sure no one was about. That’s when I found him. When the MPs came to fetch me, they called for a lorry to take him to Kingsbridge. They wanted nothing to do with it beyond getting him out of the area.”
“So black market is your best guess?” I said, gazing out to the Channel. A destroyer moved offshore, one of the old four-stackers from the last war. It almost looked peaceful.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Quick said. “It explains why no one reported him missing. He probably wasn’t local, maybe part of a gang moving in. We have so many Yanks quartered in Devon these days that it’s black-market heaven.”
“Did you question any of the local suspects?”
“Not me,” Quick said. “You’d have to ask Inspector Grange. I believe he planned to, but I haven’t heard from him about it yet.”
“That’s our next stop,” I said. “We’ll drop you off at your place, if that’s where you’re headed.”
“Home is the division headquarters in Dartmouth,” Quick said. “They have rooms for single men.” I glanced at his left hand. I thought I’d seen him wearing a wedding ring. He noticed the look and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go, then,” he said, and turned back to the jeep.
Nearby, an LCI revved its engine as it backed off the shingle, the last of the GIs having disembarked. About a dozen dogfaces took off their helmets and stretched out on the beach, lighting cigarettes and laughing.
“What the hell are you guys practicing for?” I said.
“The invasion, sir,” a corporal said, standing, brushing off his pants, and tossing me a salute. “We just landed.”
“You just landed on enemy territory, and the first thing you do is take off your helmets and bunch up for a smoke break? One mortar round could take out all of you idiots.” I never enjoyed spouting off like a loudmouth officer, but I’d seen enough combat to know these guys didn’t have a clue.
“Sure, Captain,” the corporal said. “But this is only an exercise.”
“Yeah. Be sure to tell that to the Krauts. Shape up, soldier, or you’ll get your men killed.” I gave him a hard glare, which wasn’t my best face. I tried to think about Dad chewing me out when I was a rookie cop, and that helped. The corporal nodded and put on his helmet.
“Okay, men, spread out and move up to the road. Now!”
They did, but it was with the reluctance of children going back inside after recess. They dawdled and cast surly glances my way.
“They do not comprehend where they are going,” Kaz said, whispering his words to the wind.
I knew he didn’t mean a particular place. There were no map coordinates to mark the location. He meant that point in time and space where bullet meets bone, where grown men cry rivers of tears; the point you can never return from, even if you live to be ninety.
“How could they?” I said, and walked back to the jeep where Quick stood, hands still stuffed in his pockets.
CHAPTER FOUR
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” I said, and washed down the last of my sole with a sharp, tasty ale. As Kaz mentioned, the dead can wait. They don’t get tired or hungry, impatient or demanding. But they don’t ever go away either, especially not the victims of murder. They’re quiet but determined, unsettled by their violent end, present in every waking moment and some nightmares, reaching out for justice and remembrance. I can see the face of every victim I’ve ever known. After a case is solved, they retreat into the hazy recesses of memory, but they’re impossible to forget. Maybe someday.
Maybe not.
We’d dropped Tom Quick off at the Dartmouth constabulary and gone to look for Inspector Grange. Quick had left us with hardly a word, a far cry from the friendly constable we started out with. The inspector was attending to a court case in Exeter and was not expected back today. That left us with only one move: lunch. The George and Dragon pub was a block from the station, with fresh fish and a view of the waterfront. Which meant a view of LCIs, LSTs, destroyers, and the odd fishing boat for as far as the eye could see. Dartmouth sat on the west bank of the River Dart, where it widened before flowing into the English Channel. It was well protected from the weather and the Luftwaffe, which made it a prime harbor for naval vessels training for the invasion.
“Good,” Kaz said. “I’d like to get to Ashcroft as soon as possible.”
“How long since you’ve seen your pal?” I asked.
“It was the summer of 1940,” Kaz said. “David left Oxford to join the RAF, and had just earned his wings. He piloted a Hurricane during the Battle of Britain, then was sent to North Africa. We kept in touch, but I hadn’t heard from him in months when I got his letter inviting me to visit.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind me tagging along?”
“Not at all. David will be pleased to meet you,” Kaz said, finishing his drink.
“Did he mention how serious his injury was?”
“He was rather silent on the subject, and of course I didn’t press. The English are not the most demonstrative people, as you may have noticed. He may not wish to discuss it, even with an old friend.”
Kaz and David Martindale had been friends at Oxford, where they both studied European languages. Flight Lieutenant Martindale was recuperating from injuries received in Italy. He’d been discharged from the hospital to rest at home, which was not far north of Dartmouth. He’d invited Kaz about a month ago, but a case we were on had kept him away. When we’d learned an investigation would take us to the Kingsbridge area, Kaz had written and set up the visit.