A Late Phoenix by Catherine Aird Page A

Lightning Brown pessimistically. “That sort of marriage doesn’t last.”
    â€œSir,” said Crosby as they left the Records Department, “who’s Moaning Minnie?”
    â€œA siren, Constable.”
    â€œIs she, sir?”
    â€œA warning siren,” he said swiftly. “Meaning danger overhead.”
    Sloan stared out of the car windows as Crosby drove out of Berebury towards Kinnisport. He had no idea what the time was. The day had somehow slipped away, unmarked by food, unpunctuated by any clock. When he was going to eat next was anybody’s guess.
    So was where he was going to pluck information about an old bullet in an old body.
    Before as he had gone about his business in Berebury he had merely been subconsciously aware of the casual intermingling of old and new houses and shops. Today Sloan looked at them with new eyes as he realized for the first time that this randomness was the randomness of bombing.
    The new buildings—the postwar buildings—suddenly irritated him. They were an intrusion. He was only interested in old Berebury now. Then the police car swung away from angular unmellowed brick and overdone plate glass and out onto the main road west to Kinnisport.
    Leslie Waite was obviously younger than his brother Harold. Younger and more carefree.
    They ran him to earth shortly after opening time in a tiny fisherman’s pub on the waterfront.
    Already the little bar was crowded and noisy. “Let’s try the table in the corner,” Waite shouted above the hubbub. “Quieter.”
    He led the way across, glass in hand. The attractive youngish woman with him came too. “The wife,” he said.
    She smiled.
    â€œSit down here, Inspector,” said Waite. “You did say you were an inspector, didn’t you?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œAnd you’ve come over from Berebury to see me?”
    â€œThat’s right, sir. About a strange discovery in Lamb Lane.”
    â€œSomething nasty in the woodshed?”
    â€œIn the cellar, sir.” Sloan looked round. The whole place was full of sailors and fishermen and their wives.
    â€œDon’t worry, Inspector. A crowd’s the best place for a quiet chat.” Leslie jerked his shoulder towards the bar. “Fellow over there thought he’d have a private row with his wife out in their boat. The whole mooring heard every word. Better than a play actually …”
    â€œSound does travel over open water,” agreed Sloan.
    â€œTell me, Inspector,” said Mrs. Waite, “what was in the cellar?”
    Sloan told her, omitting the pregnancy and the bullet. Leslie Waite plunged his face into his beer mug.
    â€œAnd you’ve got no shortage of bodies on the books so to speak?”
    â€œNo, sir. As it happens we haven’t.”
    â€œA skeleton, eh? Well, well …”
    â€œA woman’s skeleton …”
    Leslie Waite sat back on the pub bench, quite relaxed. “I was at sea when the house was bombed.”
    â€œI’ll make a note of that”
    â€œCame home on leave to find the place a shambles. First thing I knew was when I got one of my own letters back marked Gone Away.” He gave a short laugh. “It was the address that had gone away.”
    â€œYour father,” said Sloan, “appears to have been quite unaware of the skeleton when he willed the house to your brother …”
    Leslie Waite’s face changed. It was no longer quite so relaxed. “You’ve looked that up, have you?”
    â€œYes, sir. A skeleton—er—requires investigation.”
    â€œHarold was always the white-haired boy. I was always the black sheep.” He swept up the glasses from the table. “Quite sure you’re not drinking, Inspector?”
    â€œQuite sure, sir, thank you,” said Sloan.
    Crosby said nothing.
    â€œI’m afraid I sowed a few wild oats too many for the old man.”
    â€œI see, sir.”