CHAPTER SEVEN
“Glad you’re here, Boyle,” Major Charles Cosgrove said, sitting down at the conference table and puffing his cheeks as he let out a deep breath, wiping away beads of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. “Congratulations on your captaincy, by the way.”
“Thanks, Major,” I said. “But what’s the rush?”
“We have a bit of a problem, and it seems you are the perfect solution, Captain Boyle.” It was odd to hear the word captain in front of my name. To me, a captain is a high-ranking cop, not a soldier one step above dime- a-dozen lieutenants. It was also odd hearing Cosgrove say I was perfect for anything.
Major Cosgrove worked for MI5, the British security service charged with counterintelligence. He was an older gent, the kind of guy who would have been long retired if it hadn’t been for another war coming around. He was grey-haired and portly, with a white mustache that gave him a grandfatherly look that was at odds with his deadly, steel-blue eyes.
Cosgrove and Harding sat on one side of the table in the conference room just a few doors down from Uncle Ike’s office. Kaz and Big Mike flanked me on either side. We eyed the manila folder with MOST SECRET stamped in red.
“I’ve asked Colonel Harding for help in this case,” Cosgrove went on. “For reasons I cannot let on, it will be better for an American team to investigate this murder.”
“Who’s been killed, and where?” I asked. I’d only been back in England for less than a week, and I liked the idea of staying put for a while.
“A chap named Stuart Neville. He was found at his rooming house in Newbury-west of London-this morning.”
“Newbury is close to Hungerford,” Kaz said. “We passed through it yesterday.” The look he gave me said it all. Close enough to look into Angry Smith while we were at it.
“Are the police investigating, or is this a hushed-up MI5 case?” I said.
“The Berkshire Constabulary are on the scene now. We want this treated as a normal criminal investigation,” Cosgrove said. “Publicly.”
“It won’t be normal once we show up,” I said. “What’s our role?”
“There is an American involved. He discovered the body, actually. Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, stationed at the nearby US Air Force base at Greenham Common. That will explain your presence. It is a joint investigation with the local police. Inspector John Payne is expecting you and will cooperate fully. He has primary jurisdiction, of course.”
“What is MI5’s involvement?” Kaz asked, not unreasonably.
“For reasons of security, I can only say we have an official interest that must be kept quiet.”
“Do you have an official interest in the killer being apprehended, or not apprehended?” I asked. Having dealt with Major Cosgrove before, I knew enough not to assume either.
“I am confident that you and Inspector Payne will ensure that justice is served, Captain Boyle. I cannot say more without prejudicing your investigation and military security. I have prepared some basic information for you which you can review on your way there. If you leave immediately you will be able to inspect the crime scene with the inspector before the body is removed.” Cosgrove slid a folded piece of paper across the table. I handed it to Kaz.
“Hold on,” I said. “Newbury is about fifty miles away. You’re telling me that you found out about the murder this morning, had time to contact Colonel Harding, come out to Bushy Park to brief me, and I can still get to Newbury before they move the body?”
“There are telephones, you know,” Cosgrove said.
“Who called you?” I wondered if it had been the killer.
“That is not germane. One thing I can tell you is that the owner of the rooming house, George Miller, emigrated here from Germany. He and his wife were active in the Social Democratic Party and had to flee after Hitler took power. He was originally Georg Mueller, but changed his name for obvious reasons.”
“Is that common knowledge?” I asked.
“Yes. He keeps to himself these days, but his background is not a secret. He and his wife, Carla, have had some trouble since the war began-they have slight but noticeable German accents-but are reasonably well accepted in Newbury. Lots of foreigners on our shores these days, people have got used to it.”
“By trouble, do you mean violence?” Kaz asked.
“Not that I know of. More along the lines of taunts in the street, that sort of thing. Inspector Payne can fill you in.”
“And you know of Miller how?” I asked.
“It is my business to know of the Millers in our midst, Captain Boyle.”
“I assume they’ve been investigated, since they are interned.”
“Quite. Although technically enemy aliens, the Millers were defined as Category C, which means they present no security risk, especially since they were vocal opponents of the Nazi regime. Their son serves in the Royal Navy, actually. Now I suggest you leave promptly for Newbury, if that is all right with you, Colonel Harding?” Cosgrove glanced at Harding as if he really needed his permission. Cosgrove wore a major’s uniform, but I’d always thought that was to blend into the scenery. Dollars to donuts, he ranked a lot higher in the secret world of MI5.
“Of course,” Harding said. “Big Mike can drive you. Good luck.”
“One final item,” Cosgrove said as we all stood up to leave. “Be sure to report to me as soon as you learn anything. There is a telephone number on the paper I left you. Call that number when you have something. Under no circumstances are you, or Inspector Payne, to take any action before contacting me. Understood?”
“I get it, Major. But will Inspector Payne?”
“Consider that part of your brief, Captain. Make sure he understands. And the Millers are not under suspicion. Leave them out of the investigation, other than a basic interview about Neville.” With that, Cosgrove patted his brow with his handkerchief and stalked out of the room. When we’d first met, Cosgrove and I hadn’t seen eye to eye. He thought I was a useless Yank with political connections and not much more. I thought he was a stuffed-shirt imperialist of the old school. Neither of us had been far off the mark, but as time passed and we worked together, sometimes not without danger to us both, we’d come to understand and respect each other, to some degree. But this performance today was the old Cosgrove, vintage bluster and orders handed down to the stumblebum colonials.
“What’s up, Colonel?” I asked Harding as soon as Cosgrove cleared the door.
“All I know is orders came down direct from General Whiteley, SHAEF G-2, to cooperate fully and without question with Major Cosgrove. That’s what I’m doing and that’s what I expect you to do, Captain, so shake a leg.”
In other words, Harding was in the dark as well, and probably didn’t like it much, but was too professional to let on. I also knew Whiteley was a British officer, and Cosgrove probably had an easy time getting him to cooperate. But I was smart enough to leave that unsaid. Uncle Ike didn’t like Brits or Yanks criticizing each other based purely on nationality, so I let it slide.
“I’ll bring the jeep around,” Big Mike said, adding in a whisper, “and I’ll tip off Estelle that we got called away.”
Kaz and I retrieved our trench coats and walked outside to wait for Big Mike. It was a cold morning, and a thin layer of late spring snow lay across the park. Ice crinkled beneath our feet, the last gasp of winter’s grip. Spring had come ahead of schedule, a rare treat for England in March. Camouflage netting was draped over the buildings, lending the scene a graceful, almost festive look. A bit like circus tents under the winter sun, shading the hastily built wooden structures housing SHAEF personnel from the elements. And German reconnaissance aircraft.
On the gravel drive, Major Cosgrove stood talking with a man in civilian clothes. The guy was middle-aged, tall, and slim, with angular cheekbones. He looked as if he’d been an athlete in his youth, his easy stance and smooth gestures beneath the topcoat hinting at strength and agility. He and Cosgrove could have been about the
