Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘I think you better had, Mr Nicholson.’

  He stepped out onto the pavement, then turned back to the woman. ‘I’m terribly grateful for your help. May I ask your name?’

  She shot him a look that made it clear she wasn’t going to answer. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll lock the front gate now.’

  As she bent down to fasten the padlock, he scanned the house. Something definitely wasn’t right.

  ‘There we are. You’ll be wanting to get on your way now. Is there anything you’d wish me to say to Charles when I next write to him?’

  ‘Only to please pass on my condolences.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to give me your address and telephone number?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m waiting to sort out my accommodation – you know how it is. I tell you what, when I find somewhere, I’ll drop Charles a line here. May I ask, had poor Arthur had been unwell?’

  ‘He’d been under a lot of stress, Mr Nicholson.’

  * * *

  He’d hoped to watch where the woman went after he left. He walked slowly down the lane back towards the town centre, glancing round every so often, but she remained standing outside the front gate like a sentry, her arms firmly folded, watching him to make sure he was on his way. He had no doubt that she’d remain there for some time to come.

  On the train journey back to London, he reflected on what had been a largely unsatisfactory visit. He’d learnt little more than he already knew, and his cover story hadn’t been good enough: it wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny if the woman was anything more than a nosy neighbour. But back at the basement flat near King’s Cross, his unease remained. There was something about the house in Gerrards Cross that bothered him. He’d seen or heard something other than the sound of the falling glass; it had caught his attention but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  He put in a call to Lance King through the MI5 exchange.

  ‘How was your trip to Buckinghamshire?’

  ‘Not wholly satisfactory, if I’m honest. Something’s not right.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘That’s what I’m not sure about. Did you have any luck with the request I made this morning?’

  ‘I thought you said tomorrow would be fine?’

  ‘I did, but I just thought maybe…’

  ‘As it happens, you’re in luck. Apparently we have a very good man at the police station in Rotherhithe – an inspector.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There is a Lenny Fenton in their manor, as they call it, who fits the bill: career as a rather unsuccessful house burglar, convictions for violence, a few spells in prison and known to be active on the far right before the war.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Fifty-six.’

  ‘Too old to be conscripted then. And do they know what he’s up to these days?’

  ‘No, our contact at the local police station says that in the past couple of years Fenton’s been quiet. He’s not been arrested since 1940, and even that was bothering you?’

  ‘No, Lance, there was something else. If only I could put my bloody finger on it.’

  Chapter 17

  London, January 1945

  Prince was in Bermondsey, heading for one of the pubs Lenny Fenton was known to frequent.

  ‘I wouldn’t go to both of them on the same evening,’ the inspector had warned. ‘It’ll look suspicious.’

  ‘I realise that. Which of the two would you recommend?’

  ‘Ha! I wouldn’t recommend either of them: the Duke of York can be quiet on a weekend night, so I’d suggest the Tower Tavern on Jamaica Road. Have you ever been to Bermondsey?’

  ‘No.’

  The inspector frowned, as if wondering whether to let Prince in on a confidence. ‘Always feels to me that that area gets dark an hour earlier than the rest of London and gets light an hour later. It’s like another city, not part of this country. Best be on your guard. The Tower’s main entrance is on Jamaica Road, but I’d suggest you use the side entrance on Drummond Road.’

  Prince had walked the mile or so from London Bridge station with the aim of getting a feel for the place and the best routes away from the pub should he need them. It was the poorest area he’d ever seen in England, at times reminding him of bomb-ravaged parts of Nazi Europe. The atmosphere was reminiscent of scenes from a Hogarth painting: it was eight o’clock in the evening, but young children were gathered on street corners and he picked up the sounds of shouting and arguing as he walked along. On almost every block he was asked for money, the demands more pressing and pointed as he reached Jamaica Road. He could begin to see what the inspector meant. Even though he’d dressed in shabby clothes to befit the hapless George Nicholson, he still felt self-conscious. He was beginning to feel as exposed as he’d felt in occupied Europe.

  By this stage of the war the strict blackout had been replaced by what the newspapers were calling the ‘dim-out’, where lighting was permitted as long as it was no brighter than the moonlight. Some of the houses he passed seemed to disregard this, and as he neared the pub, a bright light shone out from a window with its curtains open. There was a loud shout and then the curtains opened at the window next to it, jolting his memory. He now realised what it was that had so troubled him as he’d left the house in Gerrards Cross.

  When he’d first approached the house, the downstairs windows had all been shuttered, and those on the first floor – the bay window and two smaller ones either side of it – had had curtains tightly drawn against them. But when he’d looked up at the house as the woman locked the gate, something had registered in his mind that only now did he recall: the curtains in one of the upstairs rooms had been opened.

  And that jogged another memory. When he’d arrived at the house there’d been an empty milk bottle on the doorstep. It was such a commonplace sight he’d not consciously thought it odd that an empty house would have a milk bottle. But now in his memory he pictured the front of the house when he’d left: the bottle wasn’t there, which could account for the sound of falling glass he’d heard when he was in the garden.

  As he replayed this in his mind, he paused, and a boy took this as a cue to ask for money. Prince handed him a threepenny bit and carried on walking towards the pub, looking up at the windows in the hope that they might tell him more. By the time he reached Drummond Road, he was certain of what he’d seen. When he’d approached the Chapman-Collins home, the house was firmly locked and bolted and all the windows were covered either by shutters or curtains. When he’d left, one curtain had been opened. And a milk bottle had disappeared.

  Someone had been in the house.

  * * *

  He’d expected the pub to fall silent when he entered it, for a roomful of heads to turn towards him, eyes to remain fixed on him as people whispered into their companions’ ears. He was familiar with the atmosphere of suspicion that greeted the police in places where they weren’t wanted, and this sense had been heightened many times over entering bars and cafés in occupied Europe, where his life depended on him not standing out.

  One or two people glanced at him, but most seemed anxious not to lose their place at the crowded bar. A couple of prostitutes eyed him up as a potential client: one of them said something to the other and they both laughed loudly. Prince smiled weakly in their direction and looked round for a friendly face, someone he could say good evening to and remark on the weather: ‘nice and warm in here!’

  He always made a point of doing this, striking up some kind of conversation – ideally a brief one. It helped if anyone was watching him; they would hopefully think he knew people – that he wasn’t a stranger. That was the worst thing you could be if you didn’t want to arouse suspicion: a stranger.

  A gap opened at the bar and he slipped in and ordered a pint of bitter, telling the barmaid to keep any change. The pub was L-shaped and the part he was in – by the side door – was the smaller part. The front of the bar was a much larger room, and he edged his way round i
nto it.

  By the time he got there, he was aware that people were looking at him; not many, but a few men certainly, and one group in particular: half a dozen men in their forties and fifties standing together at the far end of the bar, a cloud of greyish-brown cigarette smoke hanging over them. Along the wall near them was a silent piano, and Prince walked over to it, placing his pint glass on top and getting out a packet of cigarettes. It was too hot and smoky in the pub for him to really fancy one, but the process of taking it out and lighting it gave him an opportunity to look round the room. He reckoned nine out of ten customers were men, quite a few of what he reckoned would be military age. On a Saturday night he’d have expected to see more women. This was probably the kind of place where men didn’t take their wives.

  He moved over to the bar to pick up an ashtray and found himself alongside the group of men who’d been watching him since he came in. As he reached for the ashtray one of them pushed it beyond his reach. It was a deliberately provocative act, the kind designed to start a fight, and Prince’s instinct was to ignore it and walk away.

  ‘People usually ask if they want to borrow an ashtray.’

  The man was leaning back, like a boxer moving away from the reach of a punch. He could have been anything from his mid forties to his late sixties, two or three days’ growth of beard, the complexion of someone who worked outdoors and bright blue eyes filled with menace.

  Never be too polite… Don’t appear to be too reasonable or understanding… Standing your ground arouses less suspicion than walking away with your tail between your legs…

  ‘Didn’t realise it was your ashtray.’ The accent: dropping the ‘I’, the ‘was’ sounding more like ‘wuh’.

  ‘Not seen you in here before.’ It was a voice at the back of the group.

  Six pairs of eyes were now trained on Prince, all daring him to say something.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have done ’cos I’ve not been in here before, have I?’ He sounded matter-of-fact rather than aggressive.

  The man who’d first spoken to him – the one who’d pushed the ashtray away – bent towards him.

  ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

  Prince shook his head, wondering if now was the time to offer them cigarettes. Not yet.

  ‘Don’t say a lot, do you?’

  He was aware that two of the group had now moved round behind him and he was surrounded.

  ‘Less said the better.’

  ‘Mister smart-fucking-arse, eh?’

  He kept his head slightly bowed, avoiding eye contact, and noticed they all wore steel-capped boots. He reckoned he’d be able to push his way away from the group but doubted he’d get as far as the main entrance.

  ‘No, I’m just minding my business and trying to smoke a fucking cigarette.’

  The men glanced at each other, as if deciding what to do.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m knackered, I’ve been walking around all day and all week trying to find a job. Here…’ He looked around furtively as he took out his cigarettes. ‘I nicked these the other day. Help yourselves.’

  They all helped themselves. ‘You got any more packets you want to get rid of?’

  ‘Not on me.’

  It seemed to help. One of them brought Prince’s pint over from the piano.

  ‘You not in the forces, then?’

  Prince laughed sarcastically and stared into his pint. Angry. ‘I was, and I can tell you they were the worst three fucking years of my life, and there’s some competition for that, believe me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He looked round and edged closer to the men, dropping his voice as they crowded round him.

  ‘A fucking Jew officer tried to tell me what to do: so I told him what to do!’

  The men laughed, a couple of them slapping him hard on the back.

  ‘What happened? You deserve a bloody medal for that!’

  ‘I hoped I’d get slung out, but they threw the book at me. You heard of the Glasshouse in Aldershot?’

  The group all grimaced and one of them pointed at a man at the back of the group. ‘Sid’s been in there, haven’t you?’

  The man called Sid nodded and stepped forward. ‘Worst fucking prison I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in a few. I was on the fourth floor: what floor were you on?’

  ‘Second – but there are only three floors at the Glasshouse.’

  ‘Course, mate, I get my prisons mixed up!’

  The others nodded, and one of them asked, ‘What happened after that? You get thrown out of the army?’

  Prince turned round to check no one was listening in, then moved even closer to his new friends. ‘I didn’t wait around to find out… I thought they might send me to one of those labour battalions – too much like hard work for me. So I disappeared. They’re still looking for me.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Two and a half years back. At least I’m my own man, but now I’ve had enough. I thought it might be easier to find work if I came to London, but no luck so far.’

  ‘Where you living?’

  ‘Some doss house up near King’s Cross.’

  ‘Long way from here.’

  ‘I know, you don’t need to tell me. I thought I’d come down to this part of London to see what the docks are like – I’d heard you can get hired for a day, no questions asked.’

  ‘Not on a Saturday night you can’t.’

  ‘I thought I’d look around first, work out where to go before I come back next week.’

  ‘What did you say your name is?’

  ‘It’s George.’

  ‘Just George?’

  ‘Nicholson, George Nicholson.’

  ‘We may be able to help you out, George. Come back here Monday evening and—’

  ‘Nah, best make it Tuesday, Sid.’

  ‘Roy’s right, come back here seven o’clock Tuesday evening. And don’t say anything to anyone before then.’

  Prince finished his pint and muttered something about needing to get back. He’d see them on Tuesday.

  ‘And you could bring some of those cigarettes you said you nicked.’

  He turned to leave but had only taken a couple of steps when he heard ‘Come back here!’ He felt himself go cold and wondered if he was close enough to the door to make a run for it. He turned round slowly. It was one of the men who hadn’t spoken before. He had a pencil in his hand and a piece of paper in front of him on the bar. ‘What regiment was it you said you were in, George?’

  * * *

  They gathered in his basement flat on the Sunday afternoon: Lance King, Audrey and the police inspector from Rotherhithe police station. Prince carefully recounted every detail he could recall.

  ‘So none of them looked like this man?’ The police inspector was showing him a mugshot of Fenton. He’d already apologised for not bringing it on the Friday.

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘I think the one you said was called Sid – darkish complexion, blue eyes – that’s probably Sid McConnell, a known associate of Fenton’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lenny’s there when you go back on Tuesday.’

  ‘I imagine they’ll wait until then to check you out,’ said Audrey. ‘That’s a promising sign.’

  ‘Don’t forget I promised them some packets of the cigarettes I said I’d nicked.’

  ‘I’ll get you a carton, don’t worry,’ said King. ‘What brand was it?’

  ‘Player’s Medium Navy Cut – packets of ten.’

  ‘Twelves packets in a cartoon: give them nine, looks more plausible.’

  ‘I could try and get someone in the pub if you want – to keep an eye on you?’ The inspector seemed keen to help.

  Prince was about to say that was a good idea, but King said there was no need.

  ‘And you’re certain no one followed you back here last night?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Very well. Spend Monday wandering around the do
cks – the ones on the south bank, where Fenton’s most likely to hear about you: Greenland, Quebec, Canada, Albion and Lady – go to all of them and ask if there’s any work. Make sure you give your name.’

  ‘What if I get offered something?’

  ‘Doubt you will, but in any case they’d usually start you the following day.’

  * * *

  From King’s Cross Lance King went straight to his office in Mayfair. He was still wearing his overcoat as he stood at his desk and picked up the telephone.

  ‘Bartholomew? You’d better come to see me first thing in the morning: I have a job for you on Tuesday night.

  * * *

  Prince timed his entry into the Tower Tavern for ten past seven: any earlier felt like he was being too eager, but arriving too late wouldn’t do either. The collar of his thin and stained raincoat was turned up and he was wearing a cloth cap against the drizzle. Twice on the walk from London Bridge station he’d taken detours around the side streets off Jamaica Road to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He was sure he wasn’t, but as he approached the pub, he noticed a man leaning against a lamp post opposite the main entrance: the man kept his eyes on him, carefully tracking his movements. There was no doubt he was watching him. Prince was used to more subtlety. He was sure he could see another man in Drummond Street, watching the entrance there.

  When he entered the pub, he paused, looking around, unable to see anyone from the group he’d met on Saturday. The main bar was quiet but the sand-strewn wooden floor was already damp and the room smelled of rain and sweat. A barmaid caught his eye and waved him over.

  ‘You’re George, aren’t you?’

  He nodded and said he was when he last looked, and she smiled as if it was the first time she’d heard that, revealing a set of yellow teeth stained with dark red lipstick. ‘See that door over there, at the end of the bar? Go through there and up the stairs. Here’s a pint to take with you.’

  Sid met him at the top of the stairs and said he was sure George would understand if he searched him. Prince said he did and took out the opened carton of cigarettes he’d been keeping under his coat. Sid took them, saying nothing as he showed him into a narrow room lit by a bare yellow bulb. The wood-panelled walls were unevenly stained with what looked like dark paint. A couple of tables had been pushed together and a man was sitting behind them in the gloom beyond the light. Sid pointed to a chair opposite him and then pulled up a chair behind Prince.