The Night Raids

by Jim Kelly

  ‘I don’t care what people say,’ said Alice, leaning forward and placing the flowers on the stone. ‘God brought us justice and this man was his instrument.’ She leant even further forward, stretching out her gloved hand, to touch the etched name: Leutnant Helmut Bartel.

  Brooke had described the final scene, the broken bodies amongst the wreck of the Heinkel, when he’d gone back to their home a few hours after the crash. His own clothes had reeked of air fuel and ash, and his face and hands had been stained with blood. Elsie had made him tea, with a shot of gin.

  Alice straightened up. ‘Far worse the enemy within. To repeat the sin – the robbing of the dead – is beyond forgiveness.’

  Brooke touched his hat and turned to go.

  ‘Did you come all this way just to solve this little mystery?’ asked Elsie.

  Brooke shook his head. ‘A private visit. I need to find a grave. Goodbye.’

  The east end of the church looked out from the small clay island on which the village stood towards a long, unfolding curve of the river as it ran towards the sea. Trees obscured the view, but Brooke knew that a chain ferry crossed the Cam at this spot, and that on the near bank a pub called The Plough was a mecca for pilots from Marshall airfield, their cars parked lazily on the grass of summer evenings.

  Which is why they’d chosen St Mary the Virgin.

  The stone was new, and cut with the RAF insignia, the name and a simple dedication:

  Pilot Officer Timothy James Vale 1921–1940

  Killed in action over the city of his birth, in pursuit of a German bomber

  And the hero shall never return

  Roly Cleaver had been sent down for ten years, partly because his meticulous records revealed an impressive black-market empire. They also revealed that Tim Vale had indeed been delivering packages to hospitals on the day Peggy Wylde had died.

  There were flowers here too, but they looked blown and dusty, and Brooke walked away as a Spitfire flew low overhead.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  When it came to it, after all the soul-searching and the endless talk, they simply walked out of Stalag Luft I with a work party of Polish prisoners, heading out with axes over their shoulders, to chop firewood down by the river. Ben was nominally in command, especially as the other four had served with him on the Swordfish, so they trusted each other, and had come to a kind of solemn pact that the war might last ten years, or twenty, and that their real lives were back in England and if they waited and stuck it out behind the wire, in effect they’d have died that day they were picked up on an ash-grey sea, the scuttled submarine belching oil and debris to the surface all around them.

  The final plan, cleared by the top brass the night before, had been to get close to the gate, overpower the guards and sprint to the apron of the forest, which lay just sixty yards to the north. But the harpoon man – Stone – had kept his wits about him and spotted the line of Polish prisoners dragging their feet across the compound, heading out to cut timber. Crucially, while they had a guard leading them, there was nobody at the rear. The work detail coming in were all Royal Navy, and so Stone had simply collected their picks, and then they’d all tagged on the end of the line of Poles going out. Ten minutes later they were in the woods. When he thought they were safe, Ben – leading – simply ducked into the shadows of the trees and they all melted away.

  It wasn’t a reckless thing to do. They’d got hold of a map, and they’d saved food, and they’d paid a woman in the canteen to make them reversible jackets, which would just about pass for a peasant’s harvest coat. They’d all sat in the dark shadows of that wood, rubbing peat into their faces, but unable to stop grinning stupidly. Ben had been overcome by the idea that he might answer the question that had come to define his life: had his child been born, and what was its name? One desperate night, before they’d decided to make a break for it, he’d lain in the chipwood bunk and made a pact with God: that he’d die happy if he could just have the answers.

  Now there was a chance he might hold the child.

  He found out later that in those first few moments of freedom they’d all been thinking the same kind of crazy thoughts, which is why they hadn’t heard the rear guard trudging along, stuffing his shirt into his trousers, because he’d had to run into the latrines to ease his bowels, stricken by the runs which were endemic in the camp.

  Eddington, stepping back out onto the path to check the work detail had gone, walked straight into him.

  He was so close, so quickly, he was able to get his arms round the guard so that he couldn’t level his rifle, but it went off, and the rest of them ran deeper into the woods, blindly, in the kind of panic which Ben thought would probably end with a bullet in the back. Eddington must have held on, because they were able to run for twenty minutes, hearing a few more shots, then silence, until they finally found a shack, full of coiled wire for telegraph poles, which meant they were close to the edge of the forest, or a road. So they slept, exhausted, not even bothering to post a watch.

  Two things saved their lives. Andersen, whose father was Danish, could speak the lingo like a native and knew where to go: north skirting Lubeck, missing Hamburg and Kiel, striking for the lonely west coast of Denmark, and the small fishing village of Tonning. Perhaps they could get aboard a boat and sail far enough across the North Sea to rendezvous with a sub, or a convoy.

  It was eighty-five miles to Tonning and it was clear by the third day that they would not make the journey. They were close to the border, but Denmark was occupied, and the autumn was wet, the harvest over, so there was no food in the fields, and they couldn’t risk getting close to the farmhouses they skirted at night. By day there were regular German patrols on the roads. The woods were interspersed with marsh. The nights were cold, and they were all soon soaked through and couldn’t get dry.

  The other thing that saved their lives was a moonlit meeting on that fourth night at a crossroads on a heath.

  By the time they’d seen the man on the open road it was too late to hide, and anyway, there was nowhere to hide. It took three minutes for him to reach the crossroads and they’d decided that if he was Danish they’d plead for help, and if he was German they’d have to kill him, and bury the body, although Ben felt, looking back, that they were so demoralised that they might not have carried the plan through. They might have just given themselves up, for a warm fire and a plate of beans.

  Luckily, the peasant was called Poul Melsing, and he was in the Danish resistance, out waiting for the RAF to drop a cache of arms, despite the rain. He must have seen them for what they were because at twenty yards he simply announced that they had nothing to fear.

  ‘He says he can take us to a farm, and then organise a lift in a lorry, but we’ll have to go one at a time,’ said Andersen. ‘I think we should trust him.’

  ‘So we did,’ said Ben, raising a glass of red wine. ‘And that’s why I’m here.’

  The table was lit with candles and the first course – of figs and cheese – had disappeared from the plates. It was icy cold outside so the windows of the Roma were impenetrable with condensation.

  Ben had been given the place of honour at the head of the table.

  Brooke surveyed the rest of the guests, family and friends, all talking at once. Grandcourt was deep in conversation with Rose King, who’d dug out a summer dress of green and white, because she said she couldn’t imagine eating Italian food in a jumper. Jo Ashmore was next to Brooke, and the only guest really struggling to share the celebratory mood. Her wounded pilot had discharged himself from hospital, heading to Canada to fly transport planes, leaving a note to explain that the failure of repeated surgery meant he felt he couldn’t ask her to marry him.

  ‘You could go in pursuit,’ said Brooke, filling up her glass with Montepulciano.

  ‘I might,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I will. It says a lot about what he thinks of me – doesn’t it? That he fears I couldn’t put it aside – the burns, and the surgery. I think he’s happi
er running away from that than trying to make a go of things. It just shows you, Brooke, that there are all kinds of heroes.’

  Brooke, listening, was watching Joy, sitting next to her husband, Iris on her lap. Claire was opposite, flushed and happy, but haunted – as was Brooke – by the empty chair at the other end of the table.

  Bruno Zeri appeared, ferrying out plates of ragu and tagliatelle. The Roma was open for one night only. His father was on Joy’s ward at Addenbrooke’s, recovering slowly, while his mother was still in the camp on the Isle of Man. Zeri’s sister had been dragooned into helping in the kitchen. The meal was a special occasion, but there were plans to reopen if the old man recovered enough to return as maître d’.

  On Brooke’s other side sat Edmund Kohler.

  ‘When do you sail?’ asked Brooke, transferring the bottle to his right.

  ‘A week. It’s via Gib, of course, so it’ll be hell. But I’m looking forward to it, Eden. It’s my home.’

  Kohler had been appointed adjutant to the British commander in Alexandria. Egypt, an armed camp, was embroiled in the desert war on the Libyan border.

  ‘What does Celia think?’

  ‘She’s coming. It’s an adventure, and I’ve told her so many stories about Cairo, and the old house, she thinks it’s terribly exciting. Let’s hope the Germans don’t feel the need to lend Mussolini a hand.’ Kohler took a mouthful of the wine. ‘And when it’s over we might stay. Let’s be honest, I’m a fish out of water here.’

  He searched his pocket and produced the stone scarab beetle that he used as a paperweight at the Fitz. He set it down on the checked tablecloth. ‘I’m taking him home too. Technically, that’s theft of course, as he’s part of the collection. So maybe you should clap me in irons.’

  Later, Brooke found Zeri in the kitchen. ‘Can you add two bottles of the Montepulciano to the bill, I’ll take them with me.’

  Doric had been unable to get away from his duties for the evening at Michaelhouse, while Peter Aldiss’s experiments into circadian rhythms had reached a crucial stage in the laboratory. Brooke planned to deliver consolation bottles.

  He counted out pound notes and added a tip.

  The Italian gave him an envelope marked ELSIE WYLDE.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s some money. I lied – I think you knew I lied, yes? The money I have in Glasgow is no from the safe, no from savings. Peggy, she ask her grandmother for help, help for me, for us, for the child. She likes me, she is happy to see Peggy happy, so I have the money. Peggy say it is now our nest egg. Give it to Elsie.’

  Brooke was going to argue when there was a huge cheer from the dining room.

  The occupant of the empty chair had arrived after all. Luke, his son, stood in the light, raindrops on his great coat, a kit bag slung to the floor, looking fit and a stone lighter.

  He took off his green beret and kissed Claire. Joy burst into tears.

  ‘I’m off to Portsmouth first thing, Dad,’ he said, seeing Brooke. ‘I hope the bar’s not closed; I could do with a farewell drink.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Eden Brooke books would not be possible without two invaluable sources of reference: Jack Overhill’s diary – the wartime section of which was published in 2010 by Peter Searby – and the digest of the Cambridge News compiled by the city’s own local historian, Mike Petty. Both help flesh out day-to-day life between 1939–45. Anyone who wants to dig deeper should go to www.mikepetty.org.uk. Bradley and Pevsner’s The Buildings of England – Cambridgeshire has also been an unbeatable guide. The Night Raids also draws heavily on The Fitzwilliam Museum – a History, by Lucilla Burn, and First Light – the wonderful memoir of Spitfire pilot Geoffrey Wellum. I am indebted to the expertise of all those at the Cambridge Museum of Technology, and the Conservators of the River Cam, in helping me understand the daily miracle that is fresh water. Anyone interested in the story of Britain’s Italian community can do no better than start at www.ancoatslittleitaly.com.

  I must thank my publisher Susie Dunlop and the team at A&B; particularly my editor Kelly Smith, Kirsten Munday in marketing, and my copy-editor Becca Allen: the success of these books reflects their high standards of professionalism. I am grateful to fellow crime writer Chris Simms for reading the draft of The Night Raids and providing valuable suggestions on the plot, despite being immersed in his own books. My agent, Faith Evans, represents a constant call to meet the highest standards in storytelling for which I am forever grateful. Lastly, my wife Midge Gillies inspired the whole idea of The Night Raids, and often cast a professional eye over the progress of the narrative.

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  About the Author

  Jim Kelly was born in 1957 and is the son of a Scotland Yard detective. He went to university in Sheffield, later training as a journalist and worked on the Bedfordshire Times, Yorkshire Evening Press and the Financial Times. His first book, The Water Clock, was shortlisted for the John Creasey Award and he has since won a CWA Dagger in the Library and the New Angle Prize for Literature. He lives in Ely, Cambridgeshire.

  jim-kelly.co.uk

  @thewaterclock

  By Jim Kelly

  The Nighthawk Series

  The Great Darkness

  The Mathematical Bridge

  The Night Raids

  The Dryden Mysteries

  The Water Clock

  The Fire Baby

  The Moon Tunnel

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

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  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2020.

  This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 by Jim Kelly

  Map © 2020 by Peter Lorimer / Pighill

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–2487–1