by Alex Gerlis
‘No – she said she was keeping an eye on the house for Arthur’s brother Charles.’
‘Who actually has a home in London and is a prisoner of the Japs. Bartholomew, we need to send a team to Gerrards Cross to check this out. What time is it?’
‘Eleven o’clock, sir.’
‘Send in a couple of chaps to keep a watch on the house until the morning, and then I can sort out the local police and get a warrant to go in and have a look at the place. You’re bloody lucky, Prince: doctors say you’ve got away with some nasty bruising and probably a cracked rib or two, but nothing that’s going to warrant an off-games slip. A night here and we should have you back in action tomorrow.’
‘I’d like to see my son.’
‘I think that’s probably—’
‘What day is it?’
‘Well it’s almost Wednesday, but—’
‘Get a car to take me to Lincoln in the morning and bring me back Thursday morning and I’ll be as right as rain. By then you may have found out what on earth’s going on in Gerrards Cross. Now if it’s all right with you, Lance, I would like some of that painkiller.’
‘Of course, just as soon as you’ve given us a detailed description of the woman.’
* * *
Prince was picked up from his home in Lincoln on the Thursday morning and driven straight to the centre of London. He had no idea where he was, other than that they passed Holborn station shortly before pulling into an underground garage. The driver escorted him in a lift to an upper floor and he was shown into a musty-smelling room with its blinds down and four people round a table. Hugh Harper and Lance King were there along with Audrey and Bartholomew.
‘I’m afraid you’ve arrived later than we’d thought – the tea’s cold. There’s plenty of good news, though, not least that I went to see Sir Roland yesterday and he kindly arranged for Audrey to be seconded to his office for a few weeks. It’s a technicality, of course; means she can work for me without colleagues in MI5 realising.’
‘The other good news is that Bartholomew had a most productive trip to Gerrards Cross.’ King gestured towards Bartholomew for him to continue. Prince noticed he was still wearing his raincoat.
‘First of all, the woman who identified you at the pub: one of my chaps does recall seeing a woman matching her description leave just before we went looking for you. Says she appeared to be in a hurry but not so much that it alerted him, if you know what I mean. We asked around in Gerrards Cross: there are twenty-two houses on that road including the Chapman-Collins one, and none of the people we spoke to was able to identify a woman matching that description. None of the women living in that street look anything like her.
‘It’s a very private area, as you know – high hedges, long drives – the kind of place where neighbours don’t have a lot of opportunity to see what’s going on in other houses however much they may want to. The only neighbour who was able to be of any assistance was an elderly gentleman who lives next door who says he was friendly with the late Mrs Chapman. According to him, he received a letter a few years ago from Charles Chapman to say he was keeping the house going and would arrange for a cleaner to visit every so often. He says he does very occasionally see a woman go in or out but he couldn’t give a decent description: I fear his eyesight isn’t terribly good and nor is his memory, to be honest.
‘However,’ Bartholomew leaned back, sounding more animated, ‘I am convinced someone has been living there recently.’ He smiled and folded his arms, bowing his head to indicate that the others should appreciate the significance of what he’d said. ‘The place rather reminded me of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and all of my team who went in came to the same conclusion that someone had been there. Of course there was nothing as blatant as an unmade bed or porridge in the kitchen, but the house wasn’t cold in the way houses are when they’ve had no heating in years, there was little dust and there was just a very clear sense that someone had been around. There were towels in the bathroom, for instance, and a bar of soap by the sink that looked as if it had been used recently.’
‘The cleaning lady perhaps?’
‘Perhaps, but there’s something else: in the kitchen we found half a dozen glasses and two mugs by the sink, and—’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Indeed. We also found two bottles in the lounge, on a side table by an armchair: one whisky and one cognac. I had a fingerprint chappie with us and managed to lift Arthur Chapman-Collins’s prints from both bottles, both of the mugs and two of the glasses.’
Audrey leaned forward. ‘What you ought to know is that in 1939 I had gone to the trouble of obtaining the Chapman-Collins’s fingerprints. It was quite irregular, of course, but then so was much of what we were up to. We lifted them from a glass he used from when he was being questioned.’
Harper clapped his hands in celebration. ‘Well there we are then – the bastard’s alive!’
‘I don’t wish to pour cold water on this, but I thought fingerprints can last an awfully long time?’ Lance King looked apologetic.
‘They can, but our fingerprint expert assures me these prints were less than a year old, and quite possibly from the past month.’
‘Chapman-Collins could well have been in the house last week,’ said Prince. ‘It would explain the open curtain on the upstairs window but doesn’t explain why, if he’s meant to be dead, he’d be hiding somewhere as obvious as the family home.’
‘Who knows, but I imagine until last week he didn’t think we suspected he was still alive,’ said Harper. ‘You turning up like that alerted him, and when you went looking for Fenton in Rotherhithe, the alarm bells really started ringing.’
‘Christ knows where he’s gone to ground. Is there anything in the house that could give us a clue as to where he is?’
‘Not yet, Lance: we’re searching it thoroughly but I’d be surprised if we turn anything up.’
‘I’m not sure what we do now,’ said Prince. ‘If we can’t find Chapman-Collins then we need another way of finding Milton.’
‘And Byron and Donne too… either one of those will lead us to Milton.’
‘Could Fenton have been either Byron or Donne – or the woman, or indeed any of the others on that list of people at the Pimlico hotel?’
‘Not sure, Hugh. As far as I understand, there are just… what, seven more names on that list? Seven surnames, no first names or even initials, and no locations: is that correct, Audrey?’
She looked down at a folder in front of her and nodded before reading out the names: ‘Bannister, Spencer, Davies, Philips, Cummings, Carver, Kemp: all fairly common names. It would be impossible to know where to start.’
‘From what we’ve gathered about Fenton, it’s not him. We found the bedsit he lived in and there was nothing there. Everything we know about him indicates he had neither the discretion nor the intelligence to be an undercover agent.’
‘I wonder if we’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along.’ Prince looked quite miserable.
‘Possibly, but we have one last card to play.’ Audrey looked up at him, a hint of a smile on her face. ‘I think we should send you to prison.’
* * *
Prince was familiar enough with prisons to know that each had its own unique soundtrack. At Brixton Prison in south London he was struck by unidentifiable mechanical sounds, desperate shouts, lengthy echoes, the occasional scream followed by moments of total silence.
They were in the governor’s office, a man with the appearance of a funeral director. He was being difficult: it was early evening and he’d made it clear he’d hoped to be home by now. A telephone call from the Home Office had told him to stay put. Two men from one of our sections are on the way: ask them as few questions as possible and do what you can to help.
‘But what if Curtis refuses to see you?’ he asked now.
‘You’ll need to persuade him, won’t you?’
‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘This is a prison
, isn’t it?’ As Lance King leaned forward, the governor nervously sat back. ‘I thought you could force prisoners to do things?’
The governor shook his head.
‘He’s held under Defence Regulation 18B, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, we have a number of prisoners held here under that law and all are damn difficult. They think they’re political prisoners and ought to be treated accordingly. Curtis is held because of what is termed “hostile association”.’
‘And does he have the right to challenge his detention?’
‘They attempt to challenge their imprisonment all the time.’
‘Tell him it’s in connection with that then,’ said Prince. ‘Tell him two men from the Home Office have come to see him regarding his possible release. Don’t look so worried, Governor: we’ll deal with any consequences.’
* * *
Vince Curtis stared at the two men he’d been told were from the Home Office as if they were mad.
‘What do you mean, you’re here in connection with my release: what release?’
‘You applied to be released from your 18B detention.’
‘I applied when I was first arrested five years ago. I’ve appealed and hired a lawyer but haven’t heard a thing for two years now, so what’s all this suddenly about?’
‘Don’t you want to be released, Curtis?’
‘I didn’t catch your names.’
‘We told you we’re from the Home Office and I asked you whether you wanted to be released.’
‘Of course I want to be bloody released: I’ve been kept in prison because of my political views. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Other than visit Nazi Germany on numerous occasions prior to the war, meet with officials of that country and be involved with individuals and movements hostile to the interests of the United Kingdom, thereby making yourself liable for detention under Section 1A of the Defence Regulation but not excluding,’ Prince paused and looked up from the sheet he was reading from, ‘liabilities under other sections of the Regulation.’
Vince Curtis shrugged. ‘That was all before the war. I was entitled to my opinion. I still don’t get why you’ve turned up now. Are you anything to do with that woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘The one who came at the end of last year. She shoved a photograph under my nose and wanted me to tell her who it was and give his address, weight, height and shoe size.’
King started to speak but felt Prince tap him on the thigh. Wait.
Neither of them said a word for a while, during which time Curtis’s demeanour slowly changed from cocky to shifty and uncomfortable.
‘You said you recognised the man as Arthur Walker.’
He looked around, hesitating. ‘I said it could be him. I wasn’t sure.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Curtis?’ King pulled his chair forward. ‘The distinct impression my colleague got was that you recognised the man and knew more about him than you were willing to say. I’m authorised to make you a promise here and now: if you supply us with information that leads us to this man, not a soul will know you were involved and furthermore you will be released from detention. An order from the Home Secretary can have you out of here within hours.’
The two men watched Vince Curtis think. They could almost read his tortured mind as he weighed the pros and cons: the price of freedom against the cost of betraying a comrade. Then he had to think about whether to believe them, whether they would take the information only to deny any knowledge of a deal.
Sweat started to glisten on the prisoner’s brow and he ran his fingers through his hair and shifted in his seat. For a while he looked down and bit his lip; when he eventually glanced up, his eyes were watery and his voice uncertain.
‘The war’s nearly over, they say.’
‘What does that have to do with it?’
‘Means I’ll be released soon anyway, won’t I?’
Prince moved his chair close to the iron table separating them. ‘It would be a mistake to assume that, Curtis. You’ll be seriously underestimating our capacity for malice.’
Curtis raised his eyebrow, surprised. ‘I’ve thought about it and realise I was mistaken. I don’t know the man, no idea about him or his shoe size. I thought it could be an Arthur Walker, but I was wrong. Five years inside does things to your mind.’
Once the warder had taken Curtis back to his cell, Prince and King remained in the interview room. Both men looked surprisingly relaxed, even quite cheerful.
‘I think that went rather well, don’t you?’
‘Indeed. How long do you think it will take?’
‘No more than ten to fifteen minutes, I’d have thought.’
* * *
‘You all right, Vince?’
Curtis looked round. It was just him and Len, the warder he most trusted. Len was more of a friend than anything else – in fact, he was a comrade.
‘You know, Len… bastards wanting me to spill on comrades again. I remembered what you told me, stick to our principles and stick to our story and our cause will triumph.’
‘It will indeed, Vince, as long as you don’t allow yourself to be tricked by those commies and Jew-lovers. Come on, there’s a nice meat pie waiting for you in my office.’
Curtis laughed and his paced quickened. Len was a true comrade who looked after him. He’d come to trust him.
The warder’s office was cosy and warm and the meat pie excellent. Len locked the door and passed Curtis a hip flask. He knew Curtis could hold his drink but not his tongue.
‘That was a treat, thanks, Len.’
‘Well, with what patriots like you have to put up with, you deserve it. What were they after this time?’
‘Arthur Walker again… they’re obviously desperate to find him.’ He leaned forward, so close the warder could see the thin red veins in his eyes. ‘His name is actually Arthur Chapman-Collins and he’s the real deal, Len. About as important as you can get – direct links with our friends in Germany.’
‘So what happened to him?’
‘Shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know I can trust you. They were on to him just before the war but for some reason let him slip away and he then managed to fake his own death. He’s still involved with… you know… our friends. I heard he spends some of his time at his old house somewhere in Buckinghamshire but most of it here in London, right under their noses!’
Vince laughed, whisky fumes catching the warder. Len laughed too, shaking his head in admiration, then patted Vince on his forearm. ‘I don’t know, clever bastard, eh? We need more like him. Whereabouts, Vince?’
‘Whereabouts what?’
‘You said he’s right under their noses – I was wondering whereabouts that was.’ He expected Vince to clam up again, but the prisoner shifted his chair closer and beckoned him forward.
‘He’s staying with the King and Queen, isn’t he… in the palace!’ He laughed almost manically but stopped suddenly when there was a knock at the door. By the time Len had assured a fellow warder that all was fine, Vince had decided it would be best if he went back to his cell.
* * *
‘That’s all he said?’
‘Christ, sir, that’s enough, isn’t it? He seemed to know enough about Arthur Chapman-Collins and even said he’s living in London.’
‘Right under their noses apparently?’ Prince had written everything down and was checking his notes.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you asked him where, and he replied…’
‘Staying with the King and Queen – in the palace.’
Prince glanced at Lance King, who shook his head. ‘He didn’t say any more?’
‘No, I told you: someone knocked on the door, but I think by then he’d said all he was going to say anyway.’
King nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thank you Len – as helpful as ever.’
Prince closed his notebook. He was very pleased with how things had gone.
Berlin, February 1945
By the start of February, Franz Rauter felt he was possibly the only person working for the regime in Berlin with cause to feel upbeat. He knew full well there were probably a few thousand people in the city who’d be glad to see a German defeat, and he was also well aware of the rumours that hundreds of Jews were still hiding there.
But for everyone else the pall of gloom that had descended since Stalingrad had now turned to despair. Everyone he knew was pessimistic and depressed, and although no one would admit it, most were frightened of what defeat would mean. He’d had one or two nervous conversations with some of the very few people he could confide in about when the Red Army would reach Berlin and what that would mean.
And on the morning of Tuesday 6 February it was clear that that was an even more likely prospect. The news had come through the previous day that the Red Army had crossed the River Oder. Soon they’d hear their artillery. There’d been an episode of gallows humour at work the previous week when they’d heard that Ecuador had declared war on Germany. This led to an amusing session with colleagues in Tirpitzufer as they studied a map of South America to check exactly where Ecuador was and then planned sophisticated espionage operations against it that would necessitate their being dispatched to the area immediately.
But that mood hadn’t lasted long. On the Saturday night there’d been a massive air raid on Berlin. Schöneberg had been quite badly hit, although fortunately not around the Bayerisches Viertel, where Rauter lived. As a consequence of the air raid he’d spent much of the Sunday going over his plans: he’d wait until the Red Army was close to the city and then assume the civilian identity he’d been nurturing for the past few months. With luck it would get him away from the Russians and to some kind of safety.
But that wasn’t the reason why he was feeling so upbeat. Since he had activated Milton, the agent in London had been producing first-class intelligence. The army High Command was delighted with what he had passed on about Arnhem, and while the intelligence about the Ardennes offensive had been more mixed, there was no question Milton was regarded as an excellent source. And now they were relying on him to provide information on the Allied plans for crossing the Rhine.