The Consequences of Fear by Jacqueline Winspear (the best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

“That won’t amount to much,” said Billy.

“I don’t want anyone going round there to see my dad, miss. Please don’t turn up at our gaff or anywhere looking for him—and don’t you, Mr. Beale. I’ve got to consider my mum and Iris.”

“Don’t worry, Freddie,” said Maisie. “We won’t be going to see your dad, but I will be popping into Scotland Yard a bit lateron, to have a word with a detective I know, and he’ll ask for more information, just in case he wants to talk to you. ButI’ll make sure he doesn’t go off to see your mum and dad without you knowing.”

The boy seemed relieved as he stood up. “I’d better go now.”

“Right you are, son. Let’s be on our way.” Billy pushed back his chair and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder as he turnedto Maisie. “We’ll go and get a taxicab while you lock up, miss.”

Chapter 2

“This is it,” said the boy.

Maisie tapped on the glass, instructing the taxicab driver to stop. Freddie Hackett clambered out of the cab, followed byBilly, who held out his hand to Maisie.

“Watch them puddles, miss—there was a shower or two last night,” said Billy.

Maisie turned to the driver. “Would you mind waiting here, please? We’ll only be a few minutes.”

She paused to look at the bomb sites around them, where a few remaining houses stood like solitary teeth. Mounds of rubblewere piled along the side of the street and between homes, enabling the thoroughfare to remain open for horse-drawn cartsand other vehicular traffic—a sign that life was carrying on in a city under siege.

“Over here, miss,” said Billy, who had found a long, thin piece of discarded iron and was poking away at granulated cementseveral inches thick that was covering the pavement. Freddie Hackett knelt at his feet.

Maisie joined them. “It didn’t take you long to find it, Billy—the victim was definitely a ‘bleeder,’ wasn’t he?”

“All I can say is, the copper who came out with young Freddie here couldn’t see to the end of his nose.” Billy stopped moving the sand around and rested on his haunches next to Freddie Hackett. “Look at this. Big old puddle of blood. I don’t know where the constable’s head was, but it wasn’t on the job.”

He stood up and continued to prod with the iron rod, revealing more of the dark brown stain that was expanding as he clearedaway sand and dust.

“There’s no doubt that someone made sure this was well disguised with cement dust,” said Maisie. She leaned over and touchedthe stain, then stood up and looked around her. She began to walk backward and forward, peering down while expanding the breadthof ground covered.

“What’s she doing?” asked Freddie.

“It’s what they call a ‘grid search,’ son—instead of just wandering around looking for something when you don’t know whatyou’re looking for, you sort of mark out a grid in your mind so you don’t miss anything within a certain distance to and froma central point—this here is the central point.”

“Sort of like geometry at school.”

“Yeah, son, sort of like that. But then you look for something that just doesn’t seem right, something that stands out oris a bit odd, as if it doesn’t belong.”

Maisie continued her search until she had walked every inch of a twenty-foot square around Billy and the messenger boy, whichentailed negotiating a good deal of rubble. She looked up toward the bombed-out buildings and piles of masonry and squinted,standing for a few minutes before beginning to make her way back, adhering to the grid she had just walked while still concentratingon the ground. Then she stopped, and reached down.

“What is it, miss?” asked Billy. Freddie stepped toward Maisie, but Billy stopped him. “Hang on, mate—we don’t want to disturbanything.”

Maisie felt for the small drawstring cloth bag in her pocket, and drew out a pair of tweezers. She leaned forward with the tool and picked up half a cigarette.

“Looks like someone’s old smoke to me—and I don’t know who’d have a mind to throw away half a ciggie. It’s hard enough gettingthem on the black market,” said Billy.

Maisie nodded. “And that’s exactly what this is—a half-smoked cigarette.” She drew her attention to the boy. “Freddie, wasthe murderer smoking?”

The boy closed his eyes tight, furrowing his brow so that at once he seemed like an old man in a youth’s body. He nodded andopened his eyes. “I was just remembering—and I reckon he was smoking when him and the other bloke started having a barney,and then he flung his smoke down before he started on him.”

Maisie turned to Billy. “It’s a French cigarette.”

“Blimey.”

“And there’s something over there, on that pile of rubble—do you think you can reach it for me, Billy?”

“Right you are,” said Billy, walking to the edge of the pavement, where mounds of broken bricks, cement and the remains ofwhat were once homes had been shoveled away from the road.

“Can you see it?” Maisie watched as her assistant scanned the area she’d indicated.

Billy smiled. “Got it, miss—it’s a wallet.” He stepped down and handed the old, worn wallet to Maisie.

As she suspected, there was nothing inside; no identification, no money, no photographs. She closed the wallet and brushedsand away from the back and front.

“There it is,” said Maisie.

“What?” said Freddie Hackett.

“It’s a bit damp, but you can see the words ‘Fabriqué en France’ embossed into the leather on the back. It was made in France.”She took a handkerchief from her bag and wrapped it around the wallet, along with the somewhat soggy half-smoked cigarette.“Of course, it could have been bought in London or anywhere else, but it’s an interesting discovery. I would imagine thateither it dropped from the victim’s jacket in the struggle or was thrown there. Did you see the men on that pile of rubbleat any point, Freddie?”

Freddie shrugged. “They were all over the place, going for each other, so they could’ve stumbled up there.” He closed hiseyes. “I was so scared, Miss Dobbs,