Even when we’d graduated to a kiss she seemed to be offering it as a reward for some imagined kindness in taking care of her. I should have known then that there was never likely to be any real passion in our relationship. She cared for me but probably didn’t love me.
The night before I’d asked her to marry me we’d slept together for the first time. She cried softly into my shoulder afterwards and I knew she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Her actions in the following days showed she didn’t feel the same way about me.
After we’d met again at Grovestock House we’d seen one another around the place. Even when I knew her earlier, Elizabeth had always seemed to have a knack of putting me off balance, and this hadn’t changed. A few days previously, I was taking an early walk round the village before starting work when I came across her, seemingly doing the same thing, although for a brief moment I thought she was looking for me.
‘Morning Elizabeth. I’m glad I bumped into you, do you have a minute?’
‘What is it, James? Do you have more questions for me? I’m sure I’ve told you all I know.’
She’d bowed her head and her long, auburn hair had covered much of her face, though I could still see the sadness behind her eyes.
‘No. No more questions. At least not for now. I just wondered … well, I thought…’ My brain had screamed at me not to say the words.
She lifted her head again and a smile was playing on her lips. I was prepared for a rebuff but I ploughed on.
‘There’s a new play on next week. The Kenilworth Players — I’ve heard they’re quite good. It’s at the Abbey Hotel and I’ve been given a couple of tickets for a matinée. Could you ... would you come with me?’
She had agreed, and now I was on my way to the hotel to meet her. It had been a fine, crisp afternoon when I’d walked up into the town and the sun was low, throwing the nooks and crannies in the red sandstone of the castle into sharp relief. As I sauntered up the hill I tried to figure out why Elizabeth Parry might have lied to me. Her reticence in our initial interview had certainly raised some questions, and now it appeared it might be because she’d met with a man who we were looking for. This still hadn’t given me grounds to suspect her of committing a crime but I held on to a nagging doubt. Had I been smitten, even blinded, or was she just as she seemed — an attractive young woman with a secret she didn’t want to share with a policeman? She had a solid alibi for when the deaths took place, so what was she hiding? If Dyer found out I was going out with someone associated with a case he’d have my guts for garters.
After I had been waiting around at the Abbey Hotel for some time, Sir Arthur’s driver pulled up and Elizabeth climbed out of the car.
‘Sorry, James, I’m really, really sorry we’re so late. There was a minor emergency at Grovestock House so I was delayed.’ She turned back into the car, speaking to the driver. ‘Thank you, Peter. Could you pick me up again at about 9.30? Outside here will do. Bye for now.’ With this she stepped back to me and smiled. ‘Right then, let’s see what this play has to offer.’
The Middle Watch was a fairly amusing affair, though a little hammy at times. The small portable stage in the hotel ballroom didn’t do much to convey the impression of the vast warship which was supposed to be the setting for the story. But the antics of the captain, the crew and the two errant, pretty young women at the heart of the action did raise a laugh, even though everyone knew warships might not be such funny places in the near future.
I’d booked us a table in the hotel tea-room where we sat after the show discussing the weather and other trivialities.
‘You said there’d been an emergency at the house?’
‘Oh, it was nothing really, James. Only Sir Arthur throwing one of his little tantrums. Crockery ending up smashed on the floor and staff having to clean up before lunch could carry on. You know the kind of thing. It meant I couldn’t leave when I’d intended.’
‘Does he often throw tantrums and crockery then?’
‘Only occasionally. He can be charming and kind, but I suppose things get on top of him now and again, especially after all that’s happened recently. Anyway, it’s the kind of thing you have to get used to if you’re a housekeeper.’
Domestic servants, of whatever rank, are strange creatures. Amongst themselves they might complain bitterly about their employer but outside they keep their lips well sealed. I knew Elizabeth wasn’t going to say any more on the matter when she smiled and changed the subject.
‘I often wondered, James, did you always want to be a policeman?’
Her question made me think for a moment before I replied.
‘A policeman? No, I didn’t. As a child I’d think what fun it would be sneaking around and digging in other people’s business, but never thought of it as a career. Always wandering round with a magnifying glass and a notebook, I was. Heavens knows what my mother used to think. I had a friend, Mordi, and we’d play detective games together but he always wanted to be Holmes on account of him playing the violin. I was never cut out for the role of Watson so I’d just play on my own mostly.’
‘So how did you become a policeman?’
I didn’t want to tell her the real reason because I’m not sure she’d have understood about Heather. I didn’t lie, I just didn’t tell her the whole story.
‘I sort of drifted into it. I did a few things when I was younger — travelled around, a series of dead-end jobs, then I decided I needed to settle down and the police seemed like a good option.’ I laughed. ‘Perhaps I was remembering all the good fun I’d had with my magnifying glass.’
Elizabeth’s face clouded and I wondered if I had said something inappropriate.
‘James, can I tell you a couple of things? One of them has been bothering me since that first interview, and I don’t want it to come between us.’
I wiped a few stray cake crumbs from my chin and stared down at my cup, stirring the tea this way and that.
By her sudden change of mood I suspected she wanted to talk about issues concerning the case. Perhaps she was going to tell me the truth about her trip into Priors Allenford on the day of the deaths, something I was hoping she’d do before I needed to challenge her about it. But now wasn’t the time or place.
‘Listen, Elizabeth, if this is relevant to the case can we leave it until tomorrow?’ I leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘It has to be done properly and we can’t be seen to be mixing business and pleasure now, can we? It’s not fair on either of us. Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight and I’ll come and find you in the morning.’
Later that evening, on my walk home, I turned to glance over my shoulder, not for the first time, and saw no-one behind me. The street was dark but the shop doorways were darker. It would have taken no real effort for someone to step into one and immediately disappear from view.
I’m not normally prone to bouts of paranoia but I’d had the feeling of being followed for the last few days. Nothing I could put my finger on, but enough to unnerve me. It might be the case weighing down on me, with no idea of the identity of the murderer, nor even how many murders had been committed, and enough suspects to fill two Agatha Christie books. Perhaps always being on my guard up at Grovestock House had affected me, making me sensitive on the shadowy Kenilworth streets, suspicious of everyone and everything around me.
I scurried down past the park and the silhouetted castle to my front door. My hand was shaking when I turned my key and stepped into the hall, feeling relieved when the bolt clicked across on the inside.
I went straight upstairs to my little office. Without putting a match to the gas lamp I drew the curtains and looked down into the street. Directly opposite, a man was now leaning against a pillar box, staring straight up at me. Bold as brass, he tipped the brim of his trilby and started to make his way towards my front door.
At least this was a real person, not some figment of my imagination. I felt much more able to deal with him than with the terrors I’d had sp
inning around in my head.
‘Who is it?’ I shouted through the door.
‘Come along, Inspector Given, open up. We need to have a word with you.’
We? Anyone using the plural must either be royalty, have reinforcements hidden from view, or be a policeman. I was fairly sure I could discount the first of these and hoped it was the last one. I took a chance and unlocked the door.
‘My name’s Spencer —’ he flashed me a warrant card — ‘Special Branch. Could you get your coat and come along with me.’
There was no question mark at the end of the sentence. It was a command, delivered by someone who was used to being obeyed.
‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘I’m afraid you can’t, Inspector, not at present. We don’t want a fuss out here on the doorstep, do we, so get your coat. You’re coming anyway, so you might as well be warm.’
It seemed I had no alternative. A large black car had drawn up at the kerb and I could see the driver and another man next to him on the front seat. Spencer took me lightly by the elbow.
‘Get in, Inspector, and we’ll be off.’
At the start I badgered Spencer with questions but after an initial “all in good time” he fell silent and stared stonily at the darkness floating past the window. Even though I knew this to be a standard technique to put suspects under pressure it still unnerved me. We travelled like this for nearly half an hour and I was almost grateful when the car slowed down at a sentry post. Spencer rolled down the window and spoke a few words to the young soldier on guard, who raised the barrier to allow us to drive in.
The army camp was well lit and row upon row of barrack huts stood out from the surrounding night. We drove past the parade ground where men were being drilled by a sergeant barking at them, even at this late hour. We stopped outside one of the huts and as Spencer stepped out I discovered my door wouldn’t open from the inside. It was only when the others had also left the car and entered the building that Spencer let me out and guided me into the hut.
To my surprise it wasn’t the dimly lit concrete clad bunker I was expecting from the latest batch of spy films, with a single electric bulb swinging above a table in the middle of the room. Instead, it was a canteen with rows of wooden trestles and bench seats, probably sufficient seating for sixty hungry soldiers. At the far end an enormous tea urn and the crockery to go with it sat on a long table. My only concern was raised by the windows, which were covered with shutters on the inside to protect the occupants from prying eyes.
The man who’d been the other passenger in the car now sat at one of the tables and indicated I should take a place beside him. Spencer placed himself on the other bench and the driver took up a spot on a single chair by the door we’d entered. Spencer introduced his companion.
‘This is Mr Mitchell of MI5, he’ll be asking you a few questions this evening.’
The man named Mitchell leaned over and offered his hand. I shook it and noticed how cold it was, even though he was dressed in a good quality overcoat.
‘Perhaps it’s me should be seeking some answers before this goes any further,’ I snapped. ‘Why have you got me here and on whose authority?’
Mitchell cut me off before I could protest any further.
‘We’ll cover that shortly, Inspector. You know the drill. For the time being let’s say you’re helping us with our enquiries. You don’t mind doing that, now, do you?’
‘In fact I do mind, but I assume I’ve no option, so let’s get on with it.’
‘Thank you so much.’ The man offered a cool smile which barely covered a hint of menace. ‘You are Inspector James Given of Warwickshire Police?’
‘You already know who I am.’
‘Just confirm it for the record, Given, and we’ll all be out of here a lot quicker.’
I shrugged. ‘All right, have it your way. Yes, I am Detective Inspector James Given.’
‘And you live at 15 Burton Lane, Kenilworth?’
‘Yes.’
Mitchell reached down below the table and pulled some documents from a briefcase. He leafed through them, laid a photograph on the table and pushed it towards me.
‘This is you and Mr Alan Haleson?’
The photo showed Haleson and me sitting in the Victory, with Cudlip standing behind the bar. It seemed to have been taken from the direction of the dartboard. I tried to hide my shock, with little success.
‘It is, but what’s going on? How did you get this?’
‘Never mind that for now, Inspector, let’s get on, shall we?’
He placed a second photograph alongside the other. It was Haleson and me again, but a different location. This one was in the station buffet, with the two of us deep in conversation whilst a wedding party celebrated in the foreground. I confirmed the obvious.
‘So you’re not denying you met with the civil servant Alan Haleson on at least two occasions, once in a public house in Priors Allenford and a little over a week later in Birmingham New Street railway station?’
‘No, I’m not denying it, why should I?’
‘We also understand you’ve had correspondence with him.’
‘Hardly correspondence. I had a letter from him and then I dropped him a brief note asking for the second meeting.’
‘Can I ask you what the nature of your relationship is with Haleson, Inspector?’
‘You tell me, Mr Mitchell. You seem to have all of the information on me you need.’
‘Just humour me, if you would. Remind me why you’ve been meeting with him.’
‘I’m a bloody police inspector! I’m investigating three suspicious deaths and Alan Haleson was present when they happened. Why the hell do you think I’ve been meeting him?’
Mitchell didn’t seem disconcerted by my outburst. He simply nodded and looked briefly across the table at Spencer. He placed two more photographs down, this time outside the Birmingham station buffet. In one I was handing a sheet of paper to Haleson, in the other he was placing the folded document in his jacket pocket.
‘Ever been to Germany, Inspector?’
‘Germany? Hold on a minute. I’m not saying another word until you tell me what this is all about!’
Spencer stood up abruptly and walked behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. When he spoke it was with firm, controlled anger.
‘Now you listen here, Given, we’re going to get through this and you’ll answer Mr Mitchell’s questions by hook or by crook. You keep blustering and we’ll be here for days. If it takes too long and we need to leave then you’ll go in a cell until we get back again, and so it will go on until he’s happy. Alternatively, you be nice and co-operative and there’s no reason we shouldn’t have you back home in bed in no time. All you need to understand is I’m a police officer, senior to you, also investigating criminal activity, and we have reason to believe you may be connected in some way. So tell Mr Mitchell about your time in Germany.’
There was no point in arguing. I’d used the same methods myself plenty of times. Unnerve the suspect by how much you know and hope they slip up in the details. I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Very well, have it your way. I was in Germany for a few months in early 1925, Bremerhaven mostly. I’d left one boat and was looking to find a berth on another. I was a merchant seaman. If you’ve really done your homework you’ll know I wasn’t only there. I went all over — Africa, the Mediterranean, even America — before I finally came home.’
‘By “home” I take it you mean England?’
‘Of course I do, I’m English.’
‘But this isn’t really your home, is it, Inspector? You’re Russian, at least your dad is. And your mother. Russian parents and a Jew-boy to boot. Hardly English, is it?’
If he’d slapped me it couldn’t have stung more. He tapped the two latest photographs.
‘Tell me about these, Inspector. We’ve blown them up as much as we could but the only word we could pick out was “Bremen”. That’s in Germany, isn’t it? Friend
s with the Nazis, are we?’
‘Now listen, I don’t know what you’re insinuating but I was giving Alan Haleson the address of my uncle who lives in Bremen. You’d know as well as anyone what’s happening over there to Jewish people. Haleson’s in the Foreign Office and I just thought he might have contacts who could help to get my Uncle Gideon and his family out.’
‘So you’re interviewing Haleson as a suspect but you’d trust him enough to do you a massive favour? And you expect us to believe that?’
‘Frankly, Mr Mitchell, I don’t care what you believe. As far as I could see he appeared a decent enough chap and happened to be in the house when the deaths occurred. I was only interviewing him to check out some of the things he’d written to me about. There’s a couple of points in his story that don’t quite add up, that’s all.’
Mitchell and Spencer looked at each other again, but this time a question flashed between them, whether to trust me or not. Mitchell seemed to arrive at a conclusion.
‘You’ll have to give us a few minutes to reflect on this, Inspector. Mr Spencer here is going to make some phone calls, then we’ll finally decide what we’re to do with you.’
Spencer stood up and walked over to a door at the back of the room, stepping through to an office. For five minutes or more I could hear his muffled voice before he eventually came back. He gestured for Mitchell to join him and they whispered in the corner until they apparently reached agreement. The two resumed their places at the table and Mitchell indicated to Spencer he should take over.
‘It looks as if your story checks out, Inspector. Your Superintendent Dyer speaks very highly of you and our sources confirm your father does have a brother in Germany. As for Alan Haleson being a “decent enough chap” as you put it, you’re way off the mark there. We’ve arrested him this morning for spying for Russia.’
Haleson sat huddled in the corner of an airless cell; the dapper and sophisticated young man I’d met with in Birmingham had all but disappeared. His tie and jacket had been removed and he was handcuffed to his chair. A red welt across his cheek suggested his interrogators hadn’t exactly been gentle and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, regardless of what he might have done. I could be tough enough in interviews myself, quite prepared to raise my voice and act the bully, but I’d never resorted to beating a suspect into submission.
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