by D A Kent
‘That’s something,’ Sylvia thought, cattily.
‘But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. And Sylv, she was an absolute bitch. I don’t know and I couldn’t care less what happened to her in the end. All I know is, she damn nearly got me pinched by the Germans. And I think she killed our baby. Don’t ask me about that part, please. I really can’t...’
Her arms were round him, tightly.
‘Just tell me whatever you want, darling,’ she soothed him.
He told her that the last time he had seen his daughter was in a room above a café. Madeleine had been feeding her. She looked like a Madonna, he had thought, bathed in candle light. She had handed him the baby and was buttoning her dress and doing her hair in the mirror. Josephine was replete with milk and very content. She was like a doll, as light as a feather in his arms, a tiny finger hooked around his. Then she smiled.
‘She’s beautiful. Look at that smile, Maddie.’
The words which had come out of her mother’s mouth could not have been a bigger contrast.
‘It’s wind. And you can take her. For good. I can’t do this anymore. ‘
‘But Maddie, don’t you dare…you know I can’t…You don’t mean that.’
‘Watch me,’ she had said. Horrified, he pleaded with her. He would get them out somehow, to his father in Brighton. They’d already discussed this, she had to be patient. She told him she wasn’t interested; she was ready to walk out and leave the baby. He had managed to persuade her to take the baby again, telling her that she was exhausted, and that he would be back as soon as he could.
‘I think I convinced myself, not her. And I left them, Sylv. I had no choice. And I have had to live with that. I’m pretty sure Josie died. I hope she didn’t suffer. I hope she didn’t lock her in a drawer or smother her. Some of the grannies on the Sidonia were talking about children who survived, whose identities were completely changed. Do you remember?
‘And this is the really strange thing. Dad received an envelope, after the war was over. It had an acte de naissance inside, and my name as the father. Mark Gunn, Captain, HM Army. Looks official but I doubt very much that it was…And a lock of hair.’
He got them out of a side table to show her. ‘Postmarked Cognac.’
‘I did try to find them, Sylv. I went back, but the café had shut down. The cognac house was all locked up. It was as if the whole town was closed. Nobody would talk. Not even the parish priest. I had him in a choke hold against the church wall. But I drew a total blank. The only conclusion I could reach was that Maddie was dead, Josephine was dead, and I had to try to forget. She’d be nearly five now.’
‘And you never told me?’
‘I only ever told Dad.’
‘We’ll find out what happened.’ Sylvia was determined. ‘And we’ll bring Josephine home. I’m glad you told me. We’ll kill that bastard tomorrow and then, well, we can talk about everything, can’t we?’
Giving him another hug, she went back to the sofa. It still felt strange to be talking in such a matter of fact way about ‘killing someone the next day,’ and the revelations about her family were unsettling. She had, she supposed, become acclimatised to having no family. Just before she left for Nuremburg, she had received a short letter from Cumberlands, to the effect that they had ‘received information’ that her mother and her sister were dead. She had torn the letter into small pieces. It meant nothing. Now she wondered how Cumberlands knew – and what else they knew. As the firelight flickered, making patterns on the ceiling, and the coal sizzled and spat, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Gunn skirted around the edges of sleep, drifting in and out. He hadn’t told Sylvia the full story, but their conversation had taken him back to territory which he had tried to put firmly behind him. As he had said, he was pretty sure Maddie was responsible for his almost getting his collar felt at the Gare de Lyon. There had been a Gestapo-approved Citroen outside the local station. He had only glanced at it in passing but he thought he had caught a glimpse of her in the back seat, smoking a cigarette and laughing. She had not been a prisoner. He had feared the worst for Josephine after that and his momentary lapse in concentration had almost been his downfall.
He put those images out of his head and looked across at Sylvia, under his greatcoat on the sofa, and started going over the plans again and again. He had a feeling there was something they had missed, but could not for the life of him think what it was. After a while, he dozed off.
Both he and Sylvia were awake with the dawn. He chatted to her as he shaved, thinking how much he liked having her around.
‘I’ll pop down and make us a cuppa in a minute. Then I’ll have to smuggle you out before the old battle axe spots us.’
‘Is this your usual routine with your conquests?’ asked Sylvia.
Gunn decided to ignore this. His ‘conquests,’ as she called them, were irrelevant; in the past. There hadn’t been that many, contrary to what she imagined. More recently, there had been that Sophie girl who hung round with the Free French crowd but she was history now.
‘And then I’ll smuggle you back in so we can ask her about the room,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure the one next door is empty. It’s not as big as this but it’s quite nice, it catches the sun in the mornings’
In the end, there was no need for subterfuge. Mrs. O caught him on his way back upstairs with two mugs of tea.
‘What have I told you, Mr Gunn? About young ladies in your room? And fires?’
She didn’t miss a trick, he thought. Sometimes, he thought she plugged herself into an electric socket so that she could avoid sleep altogether.
‘Sorry, Mrs O,’ Gunn said contritely. With a smile that would have charmed the birds out of the trees, and which never failed to work on Mrs. O, he explained that his friend needed somewhere to live and that she would be interested in renting the room next to him if it were available. Hearing them talking, Sylvia came downstairs. It was settled in minutes and Sylvia was given a key from a huge bunch in the cupboard.
‘And I don’t want any goings on up there. This is a respectable household,’ she called after them. ‘Nice girl,’ she thought. ‘Classy. What he needs. Much better than that last little piece he brought back. Now, if I was thirty years younger…’
‘No goings on’ and ‘respectable household’ kept them highly amused over their tea. Gunn regaled Sylvia with Mrs O stories on the bus all the way to Clements Inn. They were going in early because Joan had the day off and Kiwi was in Blackpool on an adultery case.
They stopped in their tracks as they went up the stairs to the bunker. The door was hanging off its hinges. Desks were turned over. A telephone had been half buried in the soil of a rubber plant. A set of reference books had been arranged on the floor and then urinated upon. A new packet of coffee had been opened and poured over every available surface. Panes of glass had been punched out. Gunn stepped into the room and then turned to Sylvia.
‘Somebody is panicking.’
‘I’m bloody well panicking at the moment,’ Sylvia responded, trying to think whether she had renewed the insurance. ‘Don’t touch anything until the police get here. I’ll call them. Thank goodness we took most of the camera stuff with us.’
‘Just a shame there isn’t much of a dark room left,’ said Gunn. ‘Wait a minute, what is this?’
He sat back on his haunches and picked up a note from the floor. It was doggerel, the sign of a mordant wit, but it was a message nonetheless. He stood up and recited:
‘Where prospects are grim and the wall is dark, come and meet those who have made this mark.’
Sylvia wasn’t paying attention; the reference books had belonged to her father. She had very little else of his.
‘Very funny,’ commented Gunn. ‘Prospect of Whitby. Has to be. Sylv, don’t bother with the police. The excess on the insurance would probably be more than this lot’s worth. We can get some new reference books. I know they were your Dad’s.’
He came over and gave
her a hug.
‘I’ll go over there and sort this as soon as it’s open. It’ll be one of Cumberland’s stupid goons. I’ll put the door back on its hinges while you start cleaning up. Make us a cuppa in a minute, would you, sweetheart? I’ll go and get the toolkit out of the props cupboard. ‘
Sylvia poked at the sodden mess disdainfully, wondering whether she had, at a stroke, been relegated to making tea and clearing up. Feeling rather resentful, she began clearing up the broken glass which seemed to have got everywhere and then set to with a mop and disinfectant. It would take all morning to get this shipshape.
‘Right, that should hold up now,’ said Gunn, as they drank their tea and inspected his handiwork. ‘Keep it locked until I get back; don’t let anybody in. I’ll take the spare key. Shame Kiwi and Joan aren’t here, but I think the accountants are in downstairs if you’re worried. We need to leave here at half past one for Cumberland’s. I should be back in plenty of time but if by any chance I’m not, I’ll see you there.’
Shortly after opening time, Gunn walked into the Prospect of Whitby. It was almost empty. The landlord rated him a passing glance and nodded to a snug to the left of the bar. Garner and his mob were sitting waiting. Garner raised a glass to him in mock salute.
‘Mr Gunn. Join us for a snifter before the games begin.’
Gunn walked over slowly, his right hand unclipping the catch on the sheath of his army issue knife, which he kept sewn into the right hand pocket of his jacket.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
At Lord’s, George, Edward and Louis were already on their second glass of champagne. Their guests had started to arrive. Edward was looking forward tremendously to the day’s play. Louis did not profess to understand cricket but never turned his nose up at champagne. George was doing his best to be civil to the boring little bank manager who had almost become surgically attached to his side. His thoughts were elsewhere. There were ‘assets’ who needed removing from Cadiz this evening, as a matter of urgency.
He had spoken briefly to Garner late last night at home. He had pushed his wife into the bedroom upstairs and slammed the door on her while he took the call. Usually, he made sure that her bruises were not visible; last night he had perhaps been a little careless. At least, from what he could make out, the first part of the mission had been successful. Hopefully Gunn would take the bait and that would be him out of the way. Then he would handcuff that little bitch, and, after he had enjoyed her, she would be out of the way too.
He turned to the bank manager.
‘Do excuse me,’ he said.
‘Going back to the office,’ he told Louis shortly.
‘What’s he up to?’ Louis wondered idly. George did normally slope off on these occasions, but not until after lunch. Play was only just starting. Probably one of his ‘assets,’ he told himself. He watched thoughtfully as George disappeared into the distance.
At the Prospect, Gunn turned to Garner and the assembled crowd.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ he enquired.
‘To a very short acquaintance and a very profitable transaction, both for myself and for my associates’
‘I will drink to the first part of the toast.’ Gunn sipped the brandy and lit a cigarette. He let a match burn a little, allowing the others to be transfixed by the flame. Then he threw the rest of his brandy across the room and into Trip’s lap. He dropped the match. While Trip screamed and ran round, with the others trying to put him out, Gunn put his blade to Garner’s throat and dragged him out of the pub and down a dark alleyway. The landlord did not bat an eyelid.
With one hand round Garner’s throat and the other holding the blade, perilously close,
he said: ‘I suggest you start spilling the beans, mate. Who are you working for?’
Garner struggled in Gunn’s grip. He cursed his useless team silently. He was either going to end up strangled or sliced, at this rate. Neither, if he could help it. He growled ‘Cumberland’ and then head-butted Gunn full in the face. Gunn wheeled back, his grip lost and his nose split.
Garner took his chance and went for the Webley in his waistband. Gunn swung his arm, his blade a cold extension of his grip. Garner ducked, and the tip of Gunn’s blade scored across the brickwork, snapping the tip. Garner laughed and pulled his Webley clear. Gunn, gobbets of blood lacing the air, volleyed Garner’s hand. The gun kicked and barked out a shot which rang off the opposite wall as Garner’s knuckles gave way under the blow and Gunn raced in hard and low, his shoulder hitting Garner under the ribcage. Gunn returned the head butt with interest, smashing Garner’s already off kilter nose.
Garner, screaming in anger and pain, laced his arms around Gunn’s chest in a bear hug and squeezed, lifting Gunn clear off his feet. Gunn leaned in and bit Garner’s right ear, twisting it in his teeth. The gangster loosened his grip. That was all Gunn needed; he brought his knees up into Garner’s belly, knocked the breath out of him and dropped him flat across his knee, breaking his back. Garner was a bundle of rags on the newly washed cobbles. Gunn, short of breath, dropped to his knees and finished Garner off with his broken blade. ‘Bastard!’
Inside the pub, Gladwin had managed to roll Trip up in his coat and put the flames out. Trip was grilled like a seven day steak. Gladwin’s hands were charred at the edges. He looked up at Mendelson, Coop and Irish.
‘Make yourselves fucking useful. Get out there and give that guy a twice over. Beat him so hard that he’ll need lessons from Lazarus to come back.’
As they tumbled out of the pub and arrayed themselves across the street, Gunn heard them coming. He wiped his mouth down. He had Garner’s Webley in one hand and a razor in the other.
Mendelson came at him first, pliers at the ready, looking for eyes to pop and teeth to break. Seeing the others were coming up close behind, Gunn rolled forward and past Mendelson and nicked the man’s hamstrings. Mendelson went down as Gunn rolled up and swayed, as Coop’s bayonet nearly took his throat out. He shot Coop full in the face.
Irish was not armed. Gunn considered for a moment, then, thinking ‘this is not tea at the Ritz,’ he shot him in the shoulder and the knee. Irish went down. Gunn stood over him. ‘Come near me again and you are in the river.’
Gunn turned away and went over to Mendelson.
‘Nasty little shit, aren’t you?’
Mendelson said nothing. He just glowered at Gunn with eyes as angry as the weals on Mueller’s back. He spat.
‘Save it,’ Gunn laughed. ‘Step out of this part of town, assuming you can ever walk again, and I will kill you.’
Gunn left them and walked into the Prospect. He strolled up to the bar and gave the landlord a couple of guineas for his trouble. He looked at the clock over the bar. Bugger. It was nearly 2 o’clock. Hoping fervently that Sylvia had not decided to go to the appointment alone, he rushed downstairs to the gents to make himself presentable and then gave a taxi driver outside a fistful of notes to take him to Queen Anne’s Gate as quickly as possible.
Chapter 19
In the bunker, Sylvia had been working tirelessly. The glass would have to be mended, and the dark room re-assembled, otherwise the office was almost back to normal. She had managed to collar a telephone engineer, using the accountants’ telephone downstairs, and had sweet-talked him into reconnecting them. She settled down to read through the ledgers and the post. Joan had done an impressive job, as had Kiwi. He had left her a set of photos for one of the cases, which she turned into a report.
As she put it into an envelope for the client, along with an invoice, she was startled to see that it was already 12.45. Where was Gunn? She picked up the note he had discarded. She knew the Prospect; it was in Wapping. A notorious meeting place for villains; she had never been there. Well, he needed to get a move on. She had a bad feeling about this. It looked as if she might have to tackle Cumberland on her own.
She opened the props cupboard and got out the navy jacket she always wore when seeing solicitors or going to the City and
some matching court shoes. She pulled out a briefcase and put the set of papers she had made up inside. Every inch the partner in Clements Investigations, she told herself proudly, applying some lipstick in the cramped loo they shared with the accountants downstairs. The problem was that her part in the plan they had sketched out in Marguerite’s courtyard extended to getting inside George’s office and talking to him about the papers. Gunn was meant to be there for the next part.
Praying that he would be, she checked her handbag for her Beretta, locked up carefully and set off towards St James’s. Gunn had taught her in the past how to spot and shake off a goon; so far, so good, nobody about. She went over the plans again in her head, trying to work out how she was going to get a confession out of George and then ‘take him out,’ to use Gunn’s terminology. She was surprised to find herself already by the pelicans. Normally, she liked to stop and watch them. Edward had told her once that they were a gift from the Russian Ambassador to King Charles II and that they had been in the park ever since.
She was early, so she sat on one of the benches, watching a mother and her little girl feeding the ducks. Josephine would be about that age now. She thought about what Gunn had told her. The fact that he had been in love with her sister did not bother her. It was just bizarre coincidence. What had shocked her to the core was the cruelty. In spite of the statements she had typed up at the trials, she found it difficult to believe that of anybody, let alone her own flesh and blood.
Watching carefully for goons, she crossed the rest of the park, arriving on the corner of Birdcage Walk. She headed down an alley and lit a cigarette. She had five minutes to make her decision. There was no sign of Gunn. While George still walked this earth, she and Gunn were dead men walking and so were Marguerite and Lev. But what was it Gunn always told her? ‘Don’t go that extra mile if it is going to put you in danger.’ That wasn’t a piece of advice he tended to apply to himself. In these circumstances, would Gunn want her to pull out? What if he was already there, concealed, ready to implement the next stage of the plan? If he wasn’t, and she would have a surreptitious scout round shortly, it would probably be better if she cancelled the appointment.