Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [37]
“Look at this,” he said without turning around. “Tell me why that chap isn’t in the Navy.”
Bloggs crossed to the window. A horse-drawn baker’s van was at the curb outside the house, the elderly horse dipping into its nosebag while the deliveries were made. That “chap” was a woman with short blonde hair, in trousers. She had a magnificent bust. Bloggs laughed. “It’s a woman in trousers,” he said.
“Bless my soul, so it is!” The Commander turned around. “Can’t tell these days, you know. Women in trousers!”
Bloggs introduced himself. “We’ve reopened the case of a murder committed here in 1940. I believe you lived here at the same time as the main suspect, one Henry Faber.”
“Indeed! What can I do to help?”
“How well do you remember Faber?”
“Perfectly. Tall chap, dark hair, well-spoken, quiet. Rather shabby clothes—if you were the kind who judges by appearances, you might well mistake him. I didn’t dislike him—wouldn’t have minded getting to know him better, but he didn’t want that. I suppose he was about your age.”
Bloggs suppressed a smile—he was used to people assuming he must be older simply because he was a detective.
The Commander added, “I’m sure he didn’t do it, you know. I know a bit about character—you can’t command a ship without learning—and if that man was a sex maniac, I’m Hermann Goering.”
Bloggs suddenly connected the blonde in trousers with the mistake about his age, and the conclusion depressed him. He said, “You know, you should always ask to see a policeman’s warrant card.”
The Commander was slightly taken aback. “All right, then, let’s have it.”
Bloggs opened his wallet and folded it to display the picture of Christine. “Here.”
The Commander studied it for a moment, then said, “A very good likeness.”
Bloggs sighed. The old man was very nearly blind.
He stood up. “That’s all, for now,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Any time. Whatever I can do to help. I’m not much value to England these days—you’ve got to be pretty useless to get invalided out of the Home Guard, you know.”
“Good-bye.” Bloggs went out.
The woman was in the hall downstairs. She handed Bloggs a letter. “The boy’s address is a Forces box number,” she said. “Parkin’s his name…no doubt you’ll be able to find out where he is.”
“You knew the Commander would be no use,” Bloggs said.
“I guess not. But a visitor makes his day.” She opened the door.
On impulse, Bloggs said, “Will you have dinner with me?”
A shadow crossed her face. “My husband is still on the Isle of Man.”
“I’m sorry—I thought—”
“It’s all right. I’m flattered.”
“I wanted to convince you we’re not the Gestapo.”
“I know you’re not. A woman alone just gets bitter.”
Bloggs said, “I lost my wife in the bombing.”
“Then you know how it makes you hate.”
“Yes,” said Bloggs. “It makes you hate.” He went down the steps. The door closed behind him. It had started to rain….
IT HAD BEEN RAINING then too. Bloggs was late home. He had been going over some new material with Godliman. Now he was hurrying, so that he would have half an hour with Christine before she went out to drive her ambulance. It was dark, and the raid had already started. The things Christine saw at night were so awful she had stopped talking about them.
Bloggs was proud of her, proud. The people she worked with said she was better than two men—she hurtled through blacked-out London, driving like a veteran, taking corners on two wheels, whistling and cracking jokes as the city turned to flame around her. Fearless, they called her. Bloggs knew better; she was terrified, but she would not let it show. He knew because he saw her eyes in the morning when he got up and she went to bed; when her guard was down and it was over for a few hours; he knew it was not fearlessness but courage, and he was proud.
It was raining harder when he got off the bus. He pulled down his hat and put up his collar. At a tobacconist’s he bought cigarettes for Christine—she had started smoking recently like a lot of women. The shopkeeper would let him have only five, because