Simon Tolkien Inspector Trave Trilogy: Orders From Berlin, The Inheritance, The King of Diamonds

‘Because there are other things I’ve got to tell you, things you need to know – about your father, about his death. I only need a few minutes. It isn’t much to ask.’

A bus was coming, and she reached out her hand, hailing it to stop. She turned away from him, getting out her purse for the fare. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

The bus came to a halt beside her and she took hold of the grab pole in her hand but didn’t mount the platform. She knew Seaforth was waiting for an answer, but she felt unable to respond – caught between curiosity and suspicion.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’

‘The Lyons Corner House – the big one in the West End, by Piccadilly Circus,’ she said, saying the first place that came into her head. Only later did she realize its unsuitability – it was the same restaurant where Bertram had proposed to her over tea and cake three years before.

‘Come on, dearie, make up your mind. Are you getting on or are you getting off?’ asked the conductress impatiently. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Ava stepped onto the platform and the conductress rang the bell. The bus moved off, away from the kerb.

‘When?’ asked Seaforth, shouting over the noise of the engine.

‘Tomorrow,’ she shouted back. ‘Twelve o’clock.’

Seaforth raised his hand as if in acknowledgement, but she didn’t know for sure whether he’d heard her. And as she sat down, it occurred to her that she didn’t even know whether she’d wanted him to.

She closed her eyes, and out of nowhere a memory rushed to meet her from the remote past. She was a small child in a snow-suit, standing with her father at the top of a steep hill. The world was white and he was bent over a wooden toboggan that he was holding in position a few inches back from the beginning of the slope. He was telling her to get in – she could hear his voice, and she could remember how his face was red in the cold – but she continued to hesitate, frightened that they would crash and that she would be smashed to pieces against the line of ice-laden birch trees that she could see in the valley below.

‘Are you coming or not?’ her father demanded, impatient just as the bus conductress had been a moment before. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember whether she had got in the toboggan and gone screaming down the hill or given in to her fears and slunk away. It was too long ago.

In the afternoon, Bertram got out the car and drove them over the river to Scotland Yard. The young policeman Trave had rung up in the morning to say that their statements were ready for them to read through and sign.

And then halfway down the Embankment, Bertram announced in a self-important voice that the next day at 12.30 had been fixed for the reading of her father’s will at the solicitor’s office – a champagne moment for him at which he wanted her present. Ava was taken aback. She’d been worrying all day that she had made a mistake agreeing to meet Seaforth in the West End, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the arrangement would cause her a problem with Bertram. He’d been out a lot in recent days, revelling in his new role as her father’s executor, and she’d thought it safe to assume that her absence from the flat for several hours in the middle of the day would go unnoticed.

Now, without warning, she was faced with a choice between lying to her husband and not going to her meeting with Seaforth. She had no means of contacting Seaforth to change the time, and she was sure he would assume that she’d decided not to see him if she didn’t show up. Moments before, she had been contemplating staying away, but she felt differently now that the decision was being forced on her. Talking to Seaforth for a few minutes had enabled her to find out more about her father than she had discovered in all the years he was alive, and Seaforth had told her at the bus stop that he had more to tell her. She didn’t trust Seaforth. How could she, when he had descended on her out of the blue without giving any adequate reason for his sudden interest? But she couldn’t give up on the chance to know more about her father, even if the price was lying – something she had always hated doing.

‘I can’t go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got plans.’

‘What plans?’ asked Bertram, sounding annoyed. ‘What are you doing?’ He seemed surprised that she should be doing anything, which spoke volumes, she thought, about what he thought her life was worth.

‘I’m seeing someone at twelve o’clock for lunch – my mother’s cousin. She was at the funeral,’ Ava lied, naming the first person who came into her head. But it was a bad choice.

‘Do you mean Mrs Willoughby?’ asked Bertram. ‘I thought she was only up in London for the day.’

‘No, she said she was staying on. And I’ve got no way of getting in touch with her to rearrange, so you’ll have to change the time with the solicitor. I can go later in the afternoon if you like.’

‘No, we’ll go in the morning. Mr Parker offered me an earlier time when we spoke, but I thought twelve would be better. I should have talked to you first, I suppose,’ he said grudgingly.

Ava breathed a sigh of relief. She’d got what she wanted, but she knew that the lie had moved her into uncharted territory. Before it, she could tell herself that there was nothing improper in seeing Seaforth, as he had important information to give her. Now it felt as if she were committing herself to something irretrievable – an act of betrayal.

At the police station, they were put into separate rooms and seen by separate policemen. Trave saw Ava. He waited, watching her carefully while she read through her statement. He sensed the tension in her. It was as if she were coiled up, hiding inside an inadequate shell, trying not to be noticed. But then when she glanced up from her reading, the flash of her bright green eyes made her seem an entirely different person – vivid and alive.

‘How have you been?’ he asked when she’d finished signing.

‘Surviving,’ she said with a wry smile, touched by the genuine concern in his voice. ‘The funeral wasn’t easy, but you had a ringside seat for that.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have told you I was coming,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘My inspector sent me. It’s standard procedure in these cases.’

‘Don’t worry – the more the merrier,’ she said with grim humour. ‘I’m just glad it’s over.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Trave, nodding. ‘Who was the man arguing with Mr Thorn? Do you know him?’

‘No, that was the first time I’d met him. His name’s Charles Seaforth. He worked with my father.’

‘And Mr Thorn and he don’t get on?’

‘No, apparently not,’ said Ava. She looked for a moment as if she were about to say more, but then she lowered her eyes. Part of her wanted to tell Trave about her encounter with Seaforth earlier in the day, but she resisted the temptation. It wasn’t as though she knew anything about the murder that the police didn’t, or at least not yet. And she felt obscurely that she wouldn’t be able to go through with her meeting with Seaforth the next day if it became public knowledge. She wanted to hear what he had to say. Afterwards she could decide what she should do with the information.

‘Have you seen this before?’ asked Trave, taking out a plastic evidence bag and laying it on the table between them. It contained a single black cuff link with a small gold crown embossed in the centre.

Ava looked at it carefully and then shook her head. ‘I don’t recognize it,’ she said. ‘Where’s it from?’

‘We found it on the landing outside your father’s flat, close to where he must have been struggling before he fell. It had rolled into a corner.’

‘Well, it could have been his, I suppose. My father liked his ties and cuff links, just like my husband. I wouldn’t necessarily recognize every one he had.’

‘We don’t think it was your father’s,’ Trave said quietly. ‘We’ve been through all his belongings and there’s no other cuff link that matches this one.’

‘So you think it belonged to the man who killed him – that my father tore it from his attacker’s sleeve while they were struggling?’ said Ava, looking back down at the cuff link with fascination. It seemed strange that something so small could become so significant.

‘Quite possibly,’ said Trave, watching Ava closely. ‘You mentioned that your husband likes cuff links. Could this be one of his?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Is Bertie a suspect? Is that what you’re saying?’ Ava’s voice rose in sudden panic and she gripped the edge of the table.

Instinctively, Trave leant forward and put his hand over Ava’s for a moment, trying to reassure her. ‘I know this is difficult, but please try to stay calm,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at every possibility because that’s our job. As soon as we have some news, you’ll be the first to know.’

Ava nodded, visibly trying to control her anxiety.

‘But in the meantime, I think it would be best if we kept this evidence between ourselves …’

‘Don’t tell Bertie, you mean?’

‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’

‘All right, but Mr Trave …’

‘Yes?’

‘Please get this right. Find the man who killed my father – the right man, so you’re sure. Promise me you won’t leave any stone unturned.’

Ava looked at Trave hard, waiting with her green eyes fixed on his until he nodded his assent.

‘Well, did she recognize it?’ asked Quaid when Trave returned to their shared office after showing Ava and Bertram out.

Trave shook his head.