‘You can deny it, of course, but who do you think will believe you? Who do you think will hire you after such a scandal?’ He paused. ‘Am I making myself clear?’
She nodded, making no attempt to mask the hatred in her face.
‘Now, why don’t you tell me everything you know about Miss Lillian and this Conrad Labarde.’
Manfred and Justin returned from the Maidstone Club around six o’clock. They were flush with victory, Justin having chipped in at the eighteenth to take the match for them, and they insisted on a bottle of Champagne by way of celebration.
‘We’ll have it by the pool, please,’ said Wakeley to Rosa.
The poor thing was in turmoil, but he’d made it clear to her that it wouldn’t be in her best interests to do anything foolish like resign her position. There was no reason for the Wallaces to suffer because of the bad feelings she now harbored towards him.
He was pleased to see she’d come round to his way of thinking over the course of the afternoon—in between the bouts of tears—her only protest being the brusque and silent manner in which she poured the drinks before leaving them.
‘Is something the matter with Rosa?’ asked Manfred.
‘She’s had better days,’ said Wakeley, and he told them what he’d learned from Rosa about Lillian.
‘She was screwing a fisherman!?’
‘And had been for a few months.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ mumbled Justin.
‘How did they meet?’ asked Manfred.
‘By chance, I don’t know, Rosa’s not sure, and it’s not important. This, on the other hand, is—’ Wakeley slid the file across the table. ‘It’s his military record. I had it flown up from Washington. You were right about the tattoo— the red arrowhead.’
Manfred turned to the first page. ‘First Special Service Force? I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Sounds like some kind of support unit,’ said Justin.
‘That was the idea. Unfortunately, they were anything but that. It was a joint US-Canadian commando outfit. They recruited outdoorsmen—hunters, trappers, loggers, quarrymen—men already accustomed to harsh weather, a hard life. Read it.’
Manfred placed the file on the table and they perused it, side by side. After a couple of pages Justin muttered, ‘Jesus Christ, how many silver stars does a man need?’
‘There’s also a Distinguished Service Cross in there.’
‘I think we get the picture,’ said Manfred.
‘Only part of it. That was the bad news.’ Wakeley handed over the other file.
‘And this is good?’
‘It helps us, yes, quite a bit.’
‘Skip the dramatics, Richard,’ said Justin irritably. ‘Just tell us.’
‘He cracked up in southern France. Badly. He spent the last year of the war in a psychiatric hospital in England.’
‘That’s the good news?’ asked Justin. ‘We’re not just dealing with a war hero, we’re dealing with a deranged war hero!?’
‘He’s unreliable,’ said Manfred, catching on. ‘It discredits anything he says.’
‘Exactly,’ said Wakeley. ‘The question then becomes: what does he know? I think we can safely say he didn’t witness the accident, so we have to assume he heard about it from Lillian.’
‘It’s hearsay.’
‘Right. The word of a dead woman, relayed via her mentally unstable lover, against ours, the three of us. It would never stand up.’
‘But it might create a scandal,’ offered Manfred. ‘The sort of talk we’d never recover from.’
‘We’d gag him as soon as he went to the police with it. Which begs the question: why hasn’t he, gone to the police, I mean?’
‘Because he knows he doesn’t have enough.’
‘And he’ll never get it, as long as we all keep our heads.’
Justin unwound his long legs from beneath the chair and leaned forward, pensive.
‘Justin…?’ said Wakeley.
‘Huh?’
‘Is something bothering you?’
‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Tell us anyway.’
‘The day of Lilly’s funeral, just after she was buried, this policeman approached me. He asked a bunch of questions about her.’
