by Eliza Graham
‘I’ll send the usual contact,’ he said. I assumed he meant Atkins.
‘When?’ I asked. ‘We’re due in the studio shortly.’
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant Hall.’
Grey-suit Man had perhaps not believed I had anything important to tell him. Maybe he knew that my days here were numbered.
I returned to our own office, sat down at my desk and folded my arms across my chest, feeling cold, heavy.
William went into the garden for a last breath of fresh air before the car arrived to take us to the studio. From the window I watched him throw the ball for the terrier, looking almost like a schoolboy. In turn Micki watched me. ‘Anna? Can you talk about it?’
I shook my head.
She folded the POW interview transcription she had been marking up. ‘You have to go to Milton Bryan, Anna. I do not. I can try to find him.’
What a fool I’d been to think Micki hadn’t guessed what I was suspecting.
‘What did Father Becker do to – what’s the English expression – tip you off, Anna?’
‘His Christian name is Paul. St Paul’s feast day isn’t today. I checked in one of Beattie’s reference books.’
‘Are there not lots of saints with the same name? Or is there a middle name he uses for this religious stuff?’
‘I checked them all.’
‘What made you suspicious?’
‘My father’s church is St Paul’s. We’re not Catholics and we don’t celebrate saints, but I vaguely remembered Dad mentioning St Paul’s feast day being in June.’
‘That wasn’t all, though, was it?’
I looked at Micki sharply.
She shrugged. ‘A priest who freezes when someone asks him to hear their confession?’
‘Even the pope himself might baulk at doing that in Wardour Street on a Saturday night.’
‘Becker didn’t look frightened when he dealt that hook.’
I recalled the expression in the priest’s eyes when he’d hit the soldier. ‘Just because he’s in holy orders doesn’t mean he’s not a man. He might have been quite a bruiser before he was ordained.’ I sighed. ‘That’s what I told myself.’
‘We wanted to believe in him.’ She took a breath. ‘He was a good colleague. I argued with him but I liked him.’
‘He must have fooled the people he boarded with, too,’ I said. ‘They didn’t suspect he wasn’t a priest.’
‘A bunch of Jews like me? What would they know?’
‘That wasn’t all,’ I said, my arms still wrapped around myself, the world seeming to slow down as I thought back.
‘A fit and agile man who pretends to be clumsy?’ she said.
‘A blunt knife.’
She stared at me.
‘My sister once told me that blunt knives were more dangerous than sharp blades. Father Becker’s been acting as our very own blunt knife. I wonder who he really is?’ A writer by trade, possibly a scriptwriter? A German military intelligence agent or someone employed by the Gestapo? There were God knows how many different Nazi security services operating overseas. The scar tissue on my cheek seemed to tighten, igniting my nervous system; I felt an impulse to scratch the cheek raw, feel it bleed. Perhaps hurting myself would release some of the feelings sweeping me.
Control yourself, Hall.
‘And how the hell did he get here? Ah.’ Micki nodded slowly. ‘Beattie didn’t actually interview Father Becker in Switzerland himself, did he?’
He’d been busy with the new studio, with interviewing German POWs over here. Intelligence had carried out the interview.
‘Becker was swapped?’ I thought about it. ‘The Germans sent someone else? Someone who looked enough like him to be convincing?’ I remembered Beattie telling me how initially reluctant Becker had been to leave Zurich. Then he’d changed his mind. What had happened in the intervening days?
‘I’ve heard of people being blackmailed into letting someone take their identity,’ Micki said. ‘Perhaps the real Becker had family in Germany who were threatened.’
Like damp seeping through a wall I felt the full horror of the situation slowly wash over me. I wanted to run away, to creep back to the vicarage, to tell everyone that I couldn’t do this any more.
‘Anna?’ Micki said my name sharply. ‘You’ve reported this. It’s not for us to dwell on the how and why Becker deceived us.’
‘More than deceived us – killed one of us.’
‘Even so, we must concentrate on what we can control now: tonight’s broadcast.’ She was just a girl of eighteen, stateless, almost without possessions, but I sat up straighter and checked my watch as she spoke to me. Our audience must not be left without the programme. That family of listeners I’d created in my mind’s eye – the mother with her knitting, the father returning late from fire-watch duties, the daughter doing her homework – they’d be waiting, wireless switched on.
William was still outside playing with the dog in the garden. ‘Should we tell him?’ I asked Micki. What would Beattie have done?
Micki shook her head. ‘You know how highly strung he is.’
William always found the lead-up to his broadcasts nerve-wracking. ‘You know, I was almost starting to suspect him of something. I don’t even know what,’ I said, ‘because he filled in a form at the post office. I thought it was for a telegram but it might have been for a postal order.’
‘I can’t think of a more unlikely traitor than William,’ she said. ‘He’s devoted to the team. Even if he was sending a telegram it would have been completely innocent – some girl, perhaps. People here do break the rules, you know. Like you going to the pub. It doesn’t mean anything sinister.’
I shuffled. ‘It’s just that he’s so jumpy sometimes.’
‘It’s the medication. I told you, he takes too many pills.’ Her expression darkened. ‘Unless he’s communicating with someone who sends him drugs?’
‘If he runs out, he can’t exactly jump on the train and go to that hospital pharmacy in London for more supplies. You may be right.’ Relief flooded me. Suspecting William of a drugs problem was better than the nebulous suspicions that had started to form in my mind, ones I couldn’t even articulate to myself.
‘There’s nothing we can do about it now. Go to the studio as normal, Anna. Keep William calm.’
‘Suppose . . .’ I trailed off, not sure I could even imagine my worst fear taking shape: Becker gaining access to the studio, disrupting the broadcast. But he couldn’t get in, I reminded myself, because he didn’t have a pass.
‘Beattie always said those guard dogs would snap the necks off anyone trying to poke around.’ Micki seemed to know what I feared. ‘It won’t be dark for ages. I’ll take a bicycle and have a scout around.’ She sat up. ‘You know one of them’s missing?’
I shook my head. ‘You can’t go cycling around the countryside alone.’ Micki was an alien, even though her ID showed she worked for a government ministry. A suspicious policeman might arrest her. Without Beattie to advocate for her, it might be difficult to have her released.
Micki made a scoffing noise. ‘Everyone knows me by sight. It’ll save time if I can find out where the sainted priest is heading.’
‘If Father Becker’s done what we suspect, he’s a dangerous man.’
‘He’s no Father Becker,’ she almost spat. ‘And I can be dangerous too.’
I recalled the knife she’d pulled out in Lisbon and smiled involuntarily. Then I imagined the reaction if the police caught her cycling around with a blade in her possession. Or worse, witnessed her apparently attacking a cleric.
‘Wait here until Atkins arrives, Micki.’
‘What’s so great about Atkins? She’s just a posh girl who likes motorcycles and horses.’ There was an edge to her voice.
I walked over to her desk and touched Micki’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take personal risks. I can’t . . .’ I heard a door open, William’s uneven footsteps on the parquet. ‘I can’t lose you, too.’ My voice trembled on the
last words. She raised a hand and placed it over mine. The vitality of the girl pulsed through her warm skin. I felt as though I might be able to manage the situation after all.
William was opening the office door. I swept my papers into the satchel.
‘The car’ll be here any moment.’ I glanced up as he came in, giving him a brief smile. I was employing every ounce of my acting skills to keep my shoulders relaxed, my voice busy but not over-worried, just as they would be on any working afternoon as the adrenaline built up towards the broadcast.
‘Where’s Father Becker?’ William looked at the priest’s empty desk. ‘There’s a Latin pronunciation I’d like to go over with him.’
‘Left early,’ Micki said. ‘His feast day, apparently.’
William looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I was suddenly reminded of Schulte’s intensity the first time I met him.
Schulte. That was where Father Becker, or the pretender, was going: to the farm. To hush the traitor before he could impart any more useful information to the enemy.
William was packing his script into his folio case, looking away from me. I mouthed, ‘Tell Atkins he might be at the farm,’ at Micki as I left the room.
Should I telephone Mary Waites? Warn her to bring Schulte inside, lock the door and not admit anyone? She’d want to know why. I’d have to tell her who and what we suspected. I couldn’t do this without permission.
The car pulled up outside the house, breaking into these thoughts.
Pay attention, Hall. What’s most important right now?
William held open the car door for me.
The driver this evening was a Liverpudlian I’d seen once or twice before. ‘No Atkins?’ William asked brightly.
‘Tonsils, apparently.’ The driver shrugged. ‘Very sudden. She was fine at breakfast, but these infections go around like wildfire.’ She spoke in a way that didn’t encourage further conversation. Drivers weren’t supposed to talk to us nor us to them. I should have noticed that Beattie had broken this convention with Atkins. But then, he’d broken so many of them.
‘Poor old Atkins,’ William said. I looked at his open face, feeling the familiar sense of comfort in his presence. I wanted to tell him the role Atkins had played the morning of Beattie’s death, and about Father Becker betraying us and doing even worse. I still had Micki and William; the three of us were still a team, could cope with whatever was going on.
What would Beattie be doing now? Even now – especially now, nauseous with nerves – I felt his loss.
You know damn well what I’d be doing, Hall.
Preparing to go over every detail, double-, triple-checking that we had a flawless programme.
An image of Grace flicked through my mind. Grace was no theologian but had believed in Providence. She’d have been flustered if questioned about doctrine but would probably have said that God put you in situations where He intended you to be. Then it was up to you. I didn’t share her faith, but this seemed like a good way of looking at life.
The exasperated voice of my dead boss spoke to me again.
Stop having a fit of the vapours like some sixteen-year-old about to step onto the stage in the school play.
Even from the grave, it seemed Beattie could simultaneously annoy and inspire me.
I opened my satchel and reread the evening’s broadcast schedule. We slowed, about to turn into the drive leading up to the studio. As usual we halted at the guard post. I felt an urge to open the car door, to run into the guards’ hut and tell them to find Father Becker. But it was better to wait for Grey-suit Man or Atkins.
They let us through. Outside the main door stood another armed guard. He nodded at me. ‘Evening, Sergeant Hall.’
‘Go inside and set up,’ I told William. ‘I’ll catch up in a moment.’
‘Of course.’ He gave me a quick appraising glance but didn’t say anything. It was right not to tell him, I reminded myself. He needed to be calm, undistracted for his performance. I waited for him to disappear. ‘If anyone arrives for me, please let me know at once.’
The guard’s face lost its relaxed smile and tightened. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m expecting a visitor.’
‘No visitors to the studio, sergeant.’ He folded his arms. ‘Not without prior authorisation.’
‘This man or woman will have vetting.’
‘Ah.’ The guard gave me a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure Lieutenant Nathanson has organised everything.’
A riposte was on my lips but the purr of a motorcycle engine distracted me. The door opened.
‘Sergeant Hall?’
A crystalline, authoritative voice.
Atkins herself stood behind me in the doorway, those baby-blue eyes of hers now colder than polar ice. She wore her dispatch rider’s uniform: black breeches, shining boots, cap on head, messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She handed some kind of signed authorisation to the guard. He stood up straighter. ‘I’m authorised to deal with this situation,’ she said to us both. ‘Others in my team have also been deployed.’
Who exactly are you? I wanted to ask.
She looked at her watch. A frown creased her smooth brow. ‘Do you absolutely need to be here for the whole broadcast, sergeant?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out crisply. No matter what was happening outside, I knew Beattie would have wanted me here. I’d be the one given the scrambled telephone messages about bombing raids on Germany to insert into my news script. The one who might need to pull the censor switch and stop the broadcast if anything went wrong. Our eyes locked. I held my gaze.
Atkins addressed the guard. ‘Set up a patrol of the studio perimeter fence.’
‘Nobody can get in here, it’s—’
‘One pair patrolling the fences and another between the gates and lane,’ she told him. ‘Quickly as you can.’
‘I’ve got to go.’ William would be in the studio, adjusting the microphone, moving his chair into position. I headed for the control room. Only there did I remove my scripts from my satchel. Beattie had made it clear that nobody unauthorised should see any of the material, not even here.
Was I certain that nothing in tonight’s broadcast was compromising? Had Father Becker inserted anything into it that might alert the German authorities to what was going on in this quiet part of England? I scoured each line: a sermon about rendering unto Caesar what was Caesar’s. Becker had outlined this script with Beattie at their usual weekly meeting before writing it in full and it had been signed off by Sefton Delmer. The twist lay in the last thirty seconds when the radio character Father Friedrich reminded his audience that rendering to Caesar meant giving the state what the state was owed. A coin. Loyalty. Work. But not your soul. Your soul belonged to God. The state could never claim it.
William would surely have spotted anything out of the ordinary, any words that didn’t belong, a tone that was unusual, a reference that seemed off. By now he knew his radio character inside out.
The light switched on. The opening news broadcast was delivered by the announcer. He finished. Now it was William’s turn. Yet again I marvelled at his complete transformation into the role. Father Becker’s swan-song had done us proud.
William stiffened. He was still reading his script but I could see him frowning. Only a very attentive listener would be able to make out the slight tightness in his voice now. Only someone watching would see the furrow appearing on his brow. He was scanning ahead for the next line. Whatever he saw was troubling him.
I stood up. The announcer sitting beside William turned his head and raised his eyebrows at us. William was still speaking but more slowly, his hands falling open on the table, his face white. He pushed the script aside. It fell to the floor.
The last sheet, representing the final thirty seconds of broadcast and containing the essential twist, was blank.
21
William glanced towards me. For a moment neither of us could move, but he continued to address his audience, his radio flock.
He’d have some memory of the lines on the missing page, I told myself. He’d read the draft several times earlier in the day. William was a professional. But his words were coming out more slowly. Any second he would freeze. Would he have the nous to jump forward to the final Latin blessing? The audience might notice that the homily had ended without its usual style of conclusion. There’d be a missing half-minute to fill with pre-recorded music, but beside me the technician was already moving towards the turntable.
If William froze so completely that he didn’t go to the Latin benediction, we’d have to pull the switch on him. There’d be less than a second to decide. Silence on air was forbidden; that was how frequencies were taken over, was probably how we’d done it ourselves at times. Even if this didn’t happen to our station, the German audience would know something was wrong, some doubt would enter their subconscious.
I looked at the clock. Less than twenty seconds to decide. I’d never used the censor switch or even seen it deployed before. I’d thought it would only happen in extremis, if German paratroopers stormed the gates and tried to shoot their way into a studio during a broadcast.
This was an emergency.
What’s that in your hand? Beattie’s voice asked me silently.
My own copy of the script. I flicked to the last page and saw the typed paragraphs I remembered. I removed my headphones and waved at the announcer, pointing to the door between us. William now had his eyes closed, obviously pulling words from his memory.
The announcer stood up and unlocked the door. Our eyes locked momentarily. I handed him the last page of the script and closed the door silently, grabbing my headphones and returning to the window to watch and listen.
William was still word perfect, but his face was the colour of the paper and sweat ran down his cheeks.
The announcer touched William’s hand lightly. The last page of my copy of the script was in front of him now. William’s eyes opened. He sat straighter. The colour seemed to rush back into his cheeks. His voice relaxed into Father Friedrich’s again. The announcer flopped back in his chair. The broadcast was secure.