Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

‘Laurens was told Poacher would reach London within forty-eight hours of his initial telephone call, at which point he’d contact him and they’d meet at a pub called the Thornhill Arms. It’s on the Caledonian Road, only a few minutes’ walk from King’s Cross, which is the mainline station you’d arrive at from Lincolnshire, so that all fits. Laurens was then to bring Poacher back to his house in Clapham, keep him there for a few days, make sure he had enough money and the right documentation – ration cards and the like – and drive him down to Portsmouth. We think he may have a contact there, so it was essential for us to let him get there. If there is indeed a Nazi cell operating in our largest naval port, we’d rather like Poacher to introduce us to it.’

  The man with the Scottish accent paused and looked at Prince, who’d clearly absorbed the information in a way the Chief Constable hadn’t. He smiled, indicating he was finding the story interesting rather than one he felt he had to pick holes in.

  ‘And Poacher has disappeared?’ He was well-spoken, his voice strong.

  ‘Why that presumption, Prince?’

  ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be visiting us, would you?’

  ‘We know Poacher must have arrived in the early hours of Monday morning because Laurens received a telephone call that lunchtime with the correct code word to indicate his safe arrival. And at low tide that evening the shore patrol spotted a section of barbed wire that had been cut on the beach just north of Mablethorpe. Do you know the place?’

  ‘I do, actually.’

  ‘The actual point was at the northern end of what I understand is called the Town Beach. On the other side of the beach are sand hills and then open fields. The assumption has to be that Poacher landed on the early-morning low tide; the subsequent high tide then washed away his footprints and whatever he landed in. Since then – nothing. Not a whisper.’

  ‘He’s probably miles away by now. I told our—’

  Prince interrupted his Chief Constable. ‘There’s not much around there apart from fields and sand dunes – and it’s very open, nowhere for him to hide. But I don’t think he’d have got far. He must have had some help; he’s most likely to be in a safe house.’

  ‘We need to find him. Can’t have a German spy wandering around, can we? Until now we’ve been reluctant to do anything that would attract attention. We gave him the benefit of the doubt: perhaps he was exhausted after coming ashore, maybe he needed to keep his head down for longer than planned, possibly his journey to London was not as straightforward as he’d hoped. It’s even possible he was injured, who knows? But it’s Thursday now, he’s been in this country for the best part of four days and we want to know where the hell he is, not to put too fine a point on it. My sense is that for whatever reason, he has not got very far. He may well be too frightened to move from his safe house. But we need to be careful; we don’t want word getting out that a Nazi spy is on the loose, do we?’

  There was a long silence. From somewhere in the room a clock ticked noisily; the only other sound was the Chief Constable clearing his throat. Richard Prince stood up and walked over to a large framed map slightly askew on the oak panelled wall. The man with the Scottish accent joined him, the Chief Constable eventually moving in behind them. Prince studied the map carefully before speaking.

  ‘There are two obvious ways out of the Mablethorpe area: by road or by rail. Even by road it’s a long way to anywhere and I’d have thought it risky. The area’s teeming with army camps and RAF stations; there are roadblocks and patrols everywhere. He’d be exposing himself for far too long going that way. You say you think the plan was to arrive in London by train?’

  ‘Only because it makes sense with the pub on the Caledonian Road being the rendezvous point.’

  ‘It would certainly be wise for him to use the rail network. There’s a station at Mablethorpe, on what they call the Mablethorpe Loop. There are four or five trains a day in either direction. He could either have gone north to Louth and from there connected to a mainline station such as Lincoln, or – which I think more likely – gone south to Willoughby, where at least one train a day connects with the Cleethorpes to King’s Cross service.’

  ‘How long’s the journey?’

  ‘From Mablethorpe to Willoughby? A quarter of an hour.’

  ‘And what would security be like?’

  ‘Assuming his papers are in order and he didn’t attempt to purchase his ticket with Reichsmarks, he oughtn’t to have had any problem. I presume they’ve sent over someone who speaks decent English. Likewise on the King’s Cross train. We rely on the railway staff to be alert. I assume there’s no description of him, nothing like that?’

  ‘Of course not. You’d better get to Mablethorpe tonight, Prince. Be ready to start looking for this chap first thing in the morning.’

  Prince looked at the Chief Constable, hoping he’d say something. The Chief Constable glanced away.

  ‘I’d prefer to go first thing in the morning, sir. One or two things I need to sort out first. How will I contact you?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll be joining you.’

  * * *

  ‘I need to have a word with you.’

  Prince had left, and the Chief Constable followed the Scotsman into the corridor outside his office. The windows were draped in blackout material and the only lighting came from a couple of weak bulbs high above, casting a yellow gloom over them.

  ‘It’s about Prince. I hope you don’t think he was being rude just now. You know… telling you he’s not going to Mablethorpe tonight.’

  ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘There are… reasons.’ The Chief Constable sounded awkward. ‘Two years ago, his wife and daughter were killed in a motor accident, just outside Lincoln. She was turning out of a minor road onto the main road and they went smack into an army lorry – didn’t stand a chance. His daughter was only eight. Tragic, of course, and for reasons I’ve not quite fathomed, Prince blames himself. I suppose that’s what you do… blame yourself.’

  ‘How dreadful.’

  ‘Indeed. His son, Henry, was supposed to have been on the outing with his mother and sister but stayed at home with a nanny as he was unwell. He’s a smart little chap; Prince brings him in here every so often. He was just a year old when the accident happened. Prince is absolutely devoted to him. They have a nanny and a housekeeper, but Prince is wonderful, doing the kind of things for the boy you wouldn’t imagine a father doing: he takes him for walks and even gives him baths, I’m told. He likes, if at all possible, to be there when Henry goes to bed and when he wakes up in the morning. He’s such a smart detective I’m happy to cut him a bit of slack. I simply thought you ought to be aware, though he wouldn’t expect any special treatment. If this German chappie is in that area, Prince is by far your best chance of finding him.’

  * * *

  The North Sea wind was throwing everything it could muster at the coast road and Prince was drenched by the time he returned to the police station on Victoria Road. He’d gone for a walk to clear his head and the storm had certainly done that. Now he had an idea.

  Before leaving Lincoln, the Chief Constable had taken Prince into his confidence, reaching up to lean unnecessarily close to him, his bad breath causing Prince to pull away.

  ‘Entre nous, I’m pretty sure that chap is MI5 – or MI6, one of the two.’ He’d coughed as he said ‘MI5’ and mispronounced entre as entray, and he’d clearly hoped Prince would be more impressed than he evidently was.

  ‘I know, sir. Of course he is.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I knew he couldn’t be anything else.’

  The Scotsman told Prince he could call him Douglas, though it was unclear whether this was an assumed first name or an assumed surname. They’d been in Mablethorpe for three days and were no nearer to finding the German agent, and they were close to admitting that the German must have left the area. He’d disappeared.

  Their one last shot was a plan to draft in officers from across the
county and visit every house in the area on the pretext of searching for a missing soldier. They’d come up with a story that the soldier was Norwegian, which they hoped would alert people to and account for a foreign accent. Though Prince thought if the agent had managed to stay in hiding for a week, a knock at the door and a few questions about a missing Norwegian soldier would be unlikely to flush him out.

  But as he was sprayed with half of the North Sea and much of the sand from the beach, he had another idea. In 1938, he’d been asked to compile a list of political extremists in the county. The communists were easy enough because someone had already helpfully provided them with a list. The fascists were a bit harder, even once he’d managed to persuade some sceptical senior officers that they were indeed a threat. Then he’d had a brainwave: the British Union of Fascists had a newspaper called Action, which was posted to members every week. Prince had alerted the postal sorting offices and within a fortnight had a detailed list of all recipients in the county.

  Once back in the police station he made a call, and an hour later Inspector Lord arrived from the divisional headquarters in Skegness.

  ‘You’ve brought the files?’

  Lord placed a manila file bound with white string on the desk, the words Fascists 1938/9 typed on a peeling label on the front.

  ‘And this is up to date?’

  ‘It’s up to date to the start of the war, sir. As you know, we started playing a different game after that, taking them more seriously. There were thirty-three members of the British Union of Fascists in this division by the summer of 1939. I’ve checked the file and just over half of these would be what I’d describe as nominal members, people who weren’t active and who just received that newspaper – many of them had probably ceased being members years previously. Probably a dozen of them were what we’d describe as active members. Two of those have since died, four no longer live in the area and four of the remaining six have been interned on the Isle of Man.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘We keep an eye on them: they’re a married couple in Skegness, but the husband had a stroke last year and the wife looks after him.’

  ‘So the twenty or so what you describe as inactive members – let me see their files.’

  ‘The inactive members? Surely—’

  ‘They’re the ones I’m interested in. Let me have a proper look.’

  * * *

  By Tuesday morning, Prince was confident his hunch was right. He’d been through Inspector Lord’s list and narrowed it down to three former members of the British Union of Fascists who lived in the Mablethorpe area. Two of them were visited that morning and were ruled out, but a schoolteacher called Lillian Abbott was more interesting. Lord had found another file on her that showed that in the early 1930s she’d been a much more active fascist than had originally been realised. Prince sent two officers to her isolated cottage that morning with a brief to have a discreet look. When they returned, they reported that they were sure they’d spotted some movement inside, even though they knew the owner was at work.

  They followed Lillian Abbott as she cycled home later that afternoon and watched as she stopped at two farms. Both of the farms later confirmed she had started buying food from them in the past week. She told us she’s got two soldiers billeted with her.

  Richard Prince decided to keep a watch on the house that night and raid it first thing in the morning. That evening he went for another walk along the seafront, a sentry allowing him through the barrier to the sea wall. It was completely deserted and he soon found the spot they’d come to on their last family outing two years before.

  It was meant to be a pleasant day out after he’d worked for two weeks without a break. Grace was running in every direction chasing seagulls and Henry wasn’t letting his father hold him. He only wanted his mother. His wife was on the verge of tears.

  ‘I simply can’t cope with looking after them on my own all the time.’

  ‘But you have help, we—’

  ‘It’s not the same, Richard, and you know that. I can’t remember the last time you had a day off. Surely—’

  ‘But if I’d been conscripted, I wouldn’t be here at all, would I? I could be on the other side of the world.’

  He’d moved to put his arm around her, but instead she passed Henry to him, her arms now crossed tightly as they walked along the front, a gap between them.

  ‘You know I’ve been feeling so miserable ever since Henry was born. You keep telling me to snap out of it, but it’s really not that easy. If only you were around more. Will you at least promise me you’ll try?’

  He was walking in the same spot now: the sudden dip in the pavement and the boarded-up café with a rusted ice cream sign swaying noisily in the breeze. They’d seemed to move further away from each other and he’d failed to answer. Jane had looked across at him, angry, tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Are you listening? I asked whether you could be around more. Surely that’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  He could feel the tears filling his own eyes now. Why on earth had he not answered and told her he was sorry and of course he’d do his best to be around more? He could even have told her he loved her and that he understood how she felt. Maybe he should have said he’d try and take a week’s leave, though he had no idea as to how he could have managed that. But at least it would have cheered her up. Instead he said nothing for quite a while, until the silence became too awkward.

  ‘You know I can’t say that, darling. I can’t possibly promise something I may not be able to do.’

  She shrugged and said nothing. They walked on a bit further, gathered up the children and drove home. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember whether they’d said anything to each other that evening. What he could remember was spotting her in the gloom of the front room. She was unaware of him watching her as she poured a very large measure of whisky, quickly followed by another. The following morning he’d left for work even before the children woke up, and it was that afternoon when one of his colleagues had appeared alongside his desk and told him about the accident that had killed Jane and Grace.

  Since that day he’d avoided Mablethorpe. He had hoped that being back there might at last give him some peace of mind. But instead it had made him feel worse. The place was haunted with ghosts who would never go away.

  * * *

  They’d made it back to her cottage safely enough, and Lillian had sorted him out as best she could. He’d removed his wet clothes and had a bath and she’d showed him where he was to stay when she was out. ‘Don’t flush the toilet until I return, and under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near the windows or the door: you understand?’

  She made him a cup of tea and a sandwich before cycling to work. She hurried out of school during her lunch break – something she rarely did – and walked briskly to the nearby small parade of shops. From a telephone box, she called a London number. Uncle Andrew is much better. He arrived home from hospital early this morning. He’ll be visiting you as planned, hopefully very soon.

  On her journey home after school, she stopped at a farm she only rarely visited and bought some eggs, vegetables and a rabbit. She resented paying black market prices and wasn’t convinced the rabbit was as fresh as they said it was.

  Back at the cottage, she prepared supper for them both. ‘I made the call. They know you’re here.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I am fine, thank you. I managed to sleep. I have barely slept for many days.’ His accent was appalling.

  ‘You don’t need to give me any details, but what identity do you have?’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘Your papers – what nationality are you supposed to be? I hope to goodness you’re not pretending to be English?’

  ‘My papers show I am a Dutch refugee. I am an engineer, travelling to London to work. I specialise in electic, is that how you say it?’

  ‘You mean electric –
electricity. I’d better write it down for you. Do you speak any Dutch?’

  ‘No. Do many people in this country speak Dutch?’

  She assured them they didn’t, but she couldn’t help thinking it was obvious he sounded decidedly German rather than Dutch. ‘And you will leave tomorrow?’

  He shrugged, as if he hadn’t got round to thinking about it. Without being invited, he poured the rest of the stew she’d made onto his plate, some of the sauce dripping onto the white tablecloth. She had hoped it would last another meal.

  ‘I understood you have to be in London within forty-eight hours of arriving here?’

  He shrugged again as he reached across the table and helped himself to bread, which he then dipped into the stew. She tried hard not to show her disapproval.

  ‘There is a station in the village: a train leaves tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Maybe twenty minutes later it arrives at Willoughby. From there you can catch another train to London, to King’s Cross.’

  ‘Maybe I go Wednesday.’ He shrugged again, drinking from his glass of water while still chewing, wiping his mouth with an already heavily stained sleeve.

  But Wednesday came and went and he still showed no signs of leaving. He told her he’d hurt his ankle coming ashore and wanted to wait until it healed. It will draw attention to me. She hadn’t spotted even a hint of a limp, but she thought better than to question him.

  ‘You’ll have to leave by Friday; there’re no trains over the weekend on that route.’

  He told her he’d need to see how his ankle was. And maybe she could buy some beer? He liked strong beer, he told her. He’d heard most English beer could be very weak and he really didn’t want that.

  * * *

  He’d stayed the weekend, and on Sunday night told her Tuesday would be safer than Monday. He didn’t admit it to her, of course, but after all he’d been through, he was rather enjoying the rest, and also the opportunity it gave him to make his own arrangements. The past couple of months had been so hectic and stressful: he’d had no intention whatsoever of being conscripted, and believed he’d got away with it. He’d managed to assume a false identity in what even the Gestapo acknowledged was an expert manner and had started a new life in Leipzig, managing to convincingly add ten years to his age, which ought to have prevented him from being conscripted. But then a night of madness: too much to drink, a woman who was difficult but who he still shouldn’t have beaten up, and then arrest, a night in the police cells and his whole story began to unravel. Within days he was presented with a choice that wasn’t much of a choice: a punishment battalion on the Eastern Front or working for the Reich.