closed it, seeing his wife behind Osman’s shoulder. It was one thing to imagine Titus Osman with his hands on Vanessa; it was quite another to see them together in the flesh. A current of rage surged through Trave, momentarily blacking out his reason, and, taking two steps forward, he punched out at Osman with all the force he could muster. But instead of connecting with cheek and eye and bone as he had hoped, Trave’s hand flailed through thin air. Osman had seen the blow coming and had had time to duck out of the way, and then, just as Trave was readying his arm for another punch, Clayton came from behind and pulled Trave backwards towards the car. Taken by surprise, Trave lost his balance and fell over onto the ground with a thud.
Sprawled on his back, Trave looked up into the grey indifferent sky and felt a terrible humiliation. He’d broken every rule in the book; he’d made a fool of himself in front of Vanessa; he’d played into the hands of his enemies. He sensed them all looking down at him and closed his eyes tight shut. He could imagine the different expressions on their faces: contempt and, even worse, pity, and triumph too. He knew he was finished unless he could prove a connection between Blackwater Hall and the prison escape, if there was one… But Trave refused to acknowledge the possibility that he might be mistaken. He felt sure that the vital piece of evidence was there, just out of reach. He’d come to the wrong place — that was all; he’d allowed his anger to swamp his reason. Clayton had been right — it was the police station that he should’ve gone to from the prison, not here. Eddie was the key. Trave saw that now as clear as day. He could offer Eddie a deal, lean on the cocky bastard until he coughed up the truth. Except that Trave would never get the chance once Creswell got to hear about what he’d done in the last two minutes. And that was only a matter of time. Osman would complain, and Clayton would have to make a report to Creswell once he got back to the station. He’d have no option. Trave would do the same if he was in Clayton’s shoes.
Trave knew what he had to do. He had to get out of here now and leave Clayton behind, and then trust to luck that no one could get hold of Creswell on the phone before he’d had a chance to talk to Eddie. Picking himself up from the ground, he looked over at Vanessa, trying to make her understand that he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it to turn out this way, but she refused to meet his eye, and instead reached out and took hold of Osman’s hand.
All right, to hell with you too, he thought as he turned away, running toward the car. He got in and reached over to lock the passenger door just as Clayton took hold of the handle, and then, throwing the car into gear, he drove in a fast arc round the mermaid fountain in the centre of the courtyard and away down the drive. Overhead there was a clap of rolling thunder, and rain started to fall in heavy drops down from the leaden sky.
Trave had Eddie back in the interview room within five minutes of his return to the police station. He took a young uniformed constable in there too so that there’d be a witness and a written record if he managed to get Eddie to talk.
‘I told you I wanted a solicitor,’ said Eddie defiantly.
‘And you can have one once you’ve heard what I’ve got to say,’ said Trave. ‘You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ve just read you your rights.’
Eddie lit a cigarette from the open packet that Trave had left lying on the table and breathed the smoke in deep. He glanced over at Trave and then looked away. He seemed even more nervous than he’d been earlier, Trave noted with satisfaction.
‘All right, so what is it?’ Eddie asked.
‘The visits officer at the gaol picked out Bircher as the man who came to see you four times in the last month, the same John Bircher who’s a friend of Franz Claes, who lives at Blackwater Hall. Does that name mean anything to you, Eddie? Franz Claes?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you mean maybe?’
‘Swain mentioned him a couple of times.’
‘And what about Bircher? Did he mention Claes?’
Eddie looked at Trave and said nothing.
‘Bircher, Eddie. The man with the beard. Here, let me refresh your memory.’
Trave already had Bircher’s photograph face-down on the table. Now he turned it over and slid it across to Eddie, who flicked his eyes down to it for a moment before looking away.
‘He’s the one who helped you over the wall, isn’t he, Eddie? Got you a car, got you money? Gave you a place to stay in London? Why, Eddie? Why would he do all that?’
Eddie ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and began chewing his thumb nail. ‘You’ve got nothing,’ he said, spitting out the words. ‘Nothing.’
‘Not yet maybe. But I’m only just beginning. I’ve been in this game long enough to know there’s always evidence if you know where to look. And I know where to look now. I’ll find Bircher, and if he talks, I won’t need you. You’ll be hung out to dry, Eddie. Conspiracy to murder: you’ll be an old man when you get out.’
He was getting to Eddie. Trave could feel it. He was an expert at this: playing his man like a fish, reeling him slowly in. He saw the telltale signs: the beads of nervous sweat forming under the hairline on Eddie’s forehead, the way Eddie chewed his nails and smoked hungrily on yet another cigarette. Not much longer now, provided Eddie knew something, of course. But he had to. Trave had no room left for doubt.
‘You talk, Eddie; you testify against Claes and Bircher, and I’ll protect you,’ said Trave, leaning across the table. ‘Immunity from prosecution, early release, a new start, you name it.’
Trave knew he was going out on a limb. He needed authority to make these kinds of offers, but there was no time for that now. Time was the one thing he didn’t have. And he was close if he could just catch Eddie’s eye. But Eddie had withdrawn into himself — he was bent over, chewing his nails, eyes on the floor. Trave longed to take hold of Eddie and shake the truth out of him, push him up against the wall, make him confess, but he knew he couldn’t. He’d been an honest copper too long to change his ways now.
‘What do you owe them?’ asked Trave insistently. ‘Nothing,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Think of yourself, Eddie. Don’t be the fall guy.’
Eddie looked up, and Trave tried to read the conflicting emotions written across his face. Fear was there, but what else? Indecision? Hope? Eddie opened his mouth, about to speak, and closed it again. He was no longer looking at Trave but over Trave’s shoulder toward the door that had just opened. Turning round, Trave saw Creswell in the doorway and behind him, waiting like a vulture, Macrae.
‘I need to see you, Inspector. In my office,’ said the superintendent. It was an order, not a request.
‘I’m coming,’ said Trave, hoping Creswell would give him a minute or two more with Earle. That was all he needed. But it was a vain hope.
‘Now, Bill,’ said Creswell in a voice that brooked no opposition.
Trave looked across the table at Eddie Earle one last time and knew he was beaten. He got up to go and then, just as he was turning away, Eddie shot him a look of hatred. ‘I’m no rat,’ he said, spitting out the words. ‘I told you I’m no rat.’
Trave sat in Creswell’s office, looking utterly deflated. Macrae had tried to come into the room too, but Creswell had at least put a stop to that. The superintendent seemed sad more than angry.
‘Mr Osman called, told me what happened out at Blackwater,’ said Creswell. ‘You’re off this case, Bill. And there may be more trouble. I don’t know. I’ll do my best for you. You can count on me for that. You’re a damned good policeman, and you’ve been put under more strain than anyone should have to cope with. I feel responsible: I should have replaced you on day one.’
‘I insisted.’
‘Yes, you did. But that doesn’t mean I had to listen to you.’ Creswell paused, shaking his head. ‘What a mess! What a bloody awful mess!’
‘Who’s getting the case?’ asked Trave, although he already knew the answer.
‘Hugh Macrae…’
‘Christ!’
‘I don’t want to hear it, Bill,’ said Creswell — there was a warning note in his voice. ‘He’ll find Swain…’
‘Yeah, and that’s not all he’ll do…’
‘Enough!’ said Creswell, banging his desk. ‘I’m in charge of this police station, not you, and I’m not interested in your opinion of Inspector Macrae. You’ve caused enough trouble round here for one day. You should be bloody grateful I’m standing by you. Stay away from this case, you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ said Trave, bowing his head. ‘And I am sorry, sir, for what it’s worth. I don’t need you to tell me what an idiot I’ve been.’
