Collected Short Stories Read online

  “So, what can I do for you, Don?”

  “I need a trace on three numbers in the Cambridge area.”

  “Authorized?” asked the deputy chief constable.

  “No, but it might well lead to an arrest on your patch,” said Donald.

  “That, and the fact that it’s you who’s asking, is good enough for me.”

  Donald read out the three numbers, and Leeke asked him to hang on for a moment. While we waited, Donald told me, “All they have to do is press a few buttons in the control room, and the numbers will appear on a screen in front of him. Things have changed since I first joined the force. In those days we had to let our legs do the walking.”

  The deputy chief constable’s voice came back on the line. “Right, the first number’s come up; 640737 is a Wing Commander Danvers-Smith. He’s the only person registered as living in the house.” He read out an address in Great Shelford, which he explained was just to the south of Cambridge. Jenny wrote the details down.

  “Number 767 is a Professor and Mrs. Balcescu, also living in Great Shelford, and 787 is Dame Julia Renaud, the opera singer. She lives in Grantchester. We know her quite well. She’s hardly ever at home, because of her concert commitments all over the world. Her house has been burgled three times in the last year, always when she was abroad.”

  “Thank you,” said Donald. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Anything you want to tell me?” asked the deputy chief constable, sounding hopeful.

  “Not at the moment,” replied Donald. “But as soon as I’ve finished my investigation, I promise you’ll be the first person to be informed.”

  “Fair enough,” came back the reply, and the line went dead.

  “Right,” Donald said, turning his attention back to us. “We leave for Cambridge in a couple of hours. That will give us enough time to pack, and for Jenny to book us into a hotel near the city center. We’ll meet back here at”—he checked his watch—“six o’clock.” He walked out of the room without uttering another word. I remember thinking that my father would have got along well with him.

  Just over two hours later, Jenny was driving us at a steady sixty-nine miles per hour down the Al.

  “Now the boring part of detective work begins,” said Donald. “Intense research, followed by hours of surveillance. I think we can safely ignore Dame Julia. Jenny, you get to work on the wing commander. I want details of his career from the day he left school to the day he retired. First thing tomorrow you can begin by contacting RAF College Cranwell, and asking for details of his service record. I’ll take the professor, and make a start in the university library.”

  “What do I do?” I asked.

  “For the time being, Mr. Cooper, you keep yourself well out of sight. It’s just possible that the wing commander or the professor might lead us to Alexander, so we don’t need you trampling over any suspects and frightening them off.”

  I reluctantly agreed.

  Later that night I settled into a suite at the Garden House Hotel—a more refined sort of prison—but despite feather pillows and a comfortable mattress, I was quite unable to sleep. I rose early the next morning and spent most of the day watching endless updates on Sky News, episodes of various Australian soaps, and a “Film of the Week” every two hours. But my mind was continually switching between RAF Cranwell and the university library.

  When we met in Donald’s room that evening, he and Jenny confirmed that their initial research suggested that both men were who they purported to be.

  “I was sure one of them would turn out to be Jeremy,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.

  “It would be nice if it was always that easy, Mr. Cooper,” said Donald. “But it doesn’t mean that one of them won’t lead us to Jeremy.” He turned to Jenny. “First, let’s go over what you found out about the wing commander.”

  “Wing Commander Danvers-Smith, DFC, graduated from Cranwell in 1938, served with Number Two Squadron at Binbrook in Lincolnshire during the Second World War, and flew several missions over Germany and occupied France. He was awarded the DFC for gallantry in 1943. He was grounded in 1958 and became an instructor at RAF Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as deputy commanding officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 1977, when he and his wife moved back to Great Shelford, where he had grown up.”

  “Why’s he living on his own now?” asked Donald.

  “Wife died three years ago. He has two children, Sam and Pamela, both married, but neither living in the area. They visit him occasionally.”

  I wanted to ask Jenny how she had been able to find out so much information about the wing commander in such a short time, but said nothing, as I was more interested in hearing what the Don had discovered about Professor Balcescu.

  Donald picked up a pile of notes that had been lying on the floor by his feet. “So, let me tell you the results of my research into a very distinguished professor,” he began. “Professor Balcescu escaped from Romania in 1989, after Ceauescu had had him placed under house arrest. He was smuggled out of the country by a group of dissident students, via Bulgaria and then on into Greece. His escape was well documented in the newspapers at the time. He applied for asylum in England, and was offered a teaching post at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and three years later the chair of Eastern European Studies. He advises the government on Romanian matters, and has written a scholarly book on the subject. Last year he was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.”

  “How could either of these men possibly know Rosemary?” I asked. “Williams must have made a mistake when he wrote down the number.”

  “Williams doesn’t make mistakes, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have employed him. Your wife dialed one of those numbers, and we’re just going to have to find out which one. This time we’ll need your assistance.”

  I mumbled an apology but remained unconvinced.

  Hackett nodded curtly, and turned back to Jenny. “How long will it take us to get to the wing commander’s home?”

  “About fifteen minutes, sir. He lives in a cottage in Great Shelford, just south of Cambridge.”

  “Right, we’ll start with him. I’ll see you both in the lobby at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  I slept fitfully again that night, now convinced that we were embarked on a wild-goose chase. But at least I was going to be allowed to join them the following day, instead of being confined to my room and yet more Australian soaps.

  I didn’t need my 4:30 alarm call—I was already showering when the phone went. A few minutes after five, the three of us walked out of the hotel, trying not to look as if we were hoping to leave without paying our bill. It was a chilly morning, and I shivered as I climbed into the back of the car.

  Jenny drove us out of the city and onto the London road. After a mile or so she turned left and took us into a charming little village with neat, well-kept houses on either side of the road. We passed a garden center on the left and drove another half mile, then Jenny suddenly swung the car round and reversed into a rest area. She switched off the engine and pointed to a small house with an RAF-blue door. “That’s where he lives,” she said. “Number forty-seven.” Donald focused a tiny pair of binoculars on the house.

  Some early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading toward the station for the first commuter train to London. The paperboy turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily laden bicycle slowly around the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering along in his electric van—two pints here, a pint there, the occasional half-dozen eggs or container of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of redtop milk and a copy of The Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,” said Donald.

  People had emerged from the houses on either side of Number 47 before a light appeared in an upstairs room of the wing commander’s home. Once that light had be