by Alex Gerlis
‘He told us Agent Donne’s real name and the identity he’s using here.’
‘Assuming he’s telling the truth.’
‘But it’s something to go on.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ said Audrey, ‘I believe him. You’ve done plenty of these interrogations, Hugh – you too, I daresay, Lance. I think he was telling the truth. We got him to give us the code names of all three contact agents, and when I deliberately got wrong the month of Dryden’s death, he corrected me.’
‘True, Audrey, and nor did he embellish his story or give us lots of extraneous detail; no long tales that we’d lap up. Plus he volunteered Byron’s Chelsea connection.’ Harper now looked less deflated.
Prince stood up and yawned. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ve been up for God knows how long and I need some sleep. How about tomorrow Bartholomew and I head to London and start the search for Jim Maslin? If we find him, that could lead us to Byron.’
‘And who knows, Milton too.’
‘Good idea: Lance you’d better go too. Audrey and I will stay here and go through Rauter’s account with him with a fine-tooth comb. Annoying about Byron, though; if only we had something on him…’
Chapter 30
England, May 1945
‘Christ, this had better be important.’
‘I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t important: you told me only to use that code in an extreme emergency, and I think this counts as an extreme emergency.’
‘Let’s head over there.’
Despite being shorter than Jim Maslin and walking with some difficulty, anyone observing the pair would have discerned that the older man was the one in control, the younger man deferring to him.
‘Is this really the best place for us to meet – behind a fucking prison?’
Byron shot him another angry look and the two men walked on in silence. It was early on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of May, and they were on Wormwood Scrubs, a large open stretch of land behind the prison of the same name, with Hammersmith Hospital next door to it. The ground was still wet from the downpour earlier that morning.
‘I’ve been doing this long enough not to require your advice on where to meet, thank you very much. We’ve got East Acton station over there and at least two bus routes on Du Cane Road, and there’s the hospital: if anyone asks, we’re here to visit a sick relative. You can enter the hospital through the door at the rear and it’s easy to lose anyone in all the corridors that will take you to the main entrance at the front. So please give me some credit, all right?’
‘Do we still need to be so cautious – the war’s over, isn’t it?’
Byron shot him another angry look. ‘Not for us it isn’t: it will never be over for us – all these fucking street parties, idiots celebrating… Let’s sit over here. Tell me what the extreme emergency is.’
The two men were on a bench, their backs to the hospital and the prison. Jim Maslin leaned forward and Byron did likewise.
‘They’re on to me.’
Byron sat bolt upright. ‘What! Who are?’
‘I dunno… the authorities. I mean for Christ’s sake, I…’ Jim Maslin dropped his cigarette and leaned further forward to search for it in the grass.
‘Calm down and start from the beginning. Have you been drinking?’
‘You would too if you were in my position.’
‘I told you to cut it out. You’d better tell me what’s up.’
‘I was meant to be on a ten o’clock start at the hospital this morning – a ten-to-six shift. I finished at eight last night and a few of the other porters were going for a drink and asked me to come with them. It was another bloody victory party, this one at their local off the Edgware Road. I thought if I didn’t go it would look off, so I went along and—’
‘Got drunk?’
‘I admit I had a few drinks, but how would it appear if I’d sat on my own drinking water and looking miserable? Anyway, I got talking to this woman: must have been mid forties, too much lipstick but an enormous pair of tits and—’
‘Get to the point.’
‘She was moaning about how now the war was over her husband would be coming home and she’d no longer be a free woman, and I asked her what she meant by that and the next thing I know she’d got her tongue down my throat and her hand down my trousers and ten minutes later we were back in her flat, which was only round the corner, and when we finished with… you know, we had a few more drinks and then carried on where we’d left off. I must’ve fallen asleep after that ’cos next thing I know it’s ten o’clock this morning.’
‘You fool.’
‘Christ knows how much I must have drunk. So I got dressed and rushed out and stopped at a telephone box near the bus stop and rang the porter’s office at St Mary’s to tell them I’d be a few minutes late, and the girl who looks after the office – Kath – said, “Talk of the devil,” and I said what do you mean and she said, “Your ears must have been burning ’cos there’s been people asking about you,” and I said what people and she said the police.’
‘The police?’
‘She said two men in plain clothes but with police identity cards had turned up at eight o’clock that morning asking for me and said it was routine or something, and she told them I wasn’t due in until ten. She gave them my address in Shepherd’s Bush and obviously I wasn’t there, but now they were waiting outside the porter’s office for me. So a good job I got drunk, isn’t it? If I hadn’t, I’d have walked right into a trap.’
‘It’s not bloody funny; I don’t know why you’re laughing. Did you tell her where you were?’
‘Of course not, I’m not stupid. I made up a story about losing my identity card and said it was probably some misunderstanding over that and I was on my way in. Then I crossed the road and got on a bus going in the other direction and found another phone box and called you and used that code you said was for an extreme emergency, and here we are. Did I do the right thing?’
‘Of course you did, Jim, you’ve done well. It’s… what, a quarter to twelve now. I’m going to be late for work myself. Let me think, give me a minute. Wait here.’
Maslin watched as Byron stood up painfully and paced up and down in front of him.
‘Goes without saying you can’t return to your flat in Shepherd’s Bush. You’re going to need to leave town. Get as far away from London as possible but obviously steer clear of any of your old haunts.’
‘Leave when?’
‘Today, as soon as possible, and you’ll have to get rid of your Jim Maslin identity card; you can’t risk having that on you if that’s who they’re looking for. Get a new one wherever you end up.’
‘What about if I’m stopped before then and haven’t got one on me?’
‘By law I think you’ve got up to forty-eight hours to go to a police station and show it there. Just be very contrite and say you’ve left it at home or something.’
‘I’ll need money for a new card – that will have to be a black market job.’
‘You’ve been given enough. I suppose you’ve spent it all on drink?’
‘It’s in the flat in Shepherd’s Bush.’
Byron resumed his pacing, deep in thought, glancing occasionally at Jim as if to check he was still there. ‘Christ knows how they’re on to you. I hope they’ve not got Milton. You didn’t let anything slip out to anyone, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Even when you’ve been drunk?’
‘Nope. Look, if I’m going to be all right and not go and get myself caught, I’m going to need a fair amount of money, aren’t I?’
Byron opened his wallet and took out some pound notes, folding them into Maslin’s hand. ‘Here’s some cash.’
‘Eight pounds – are you joking?’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
‘Jesus,’ said Maslin, ‘maybe I’d be better off turning myself in. A couple of years in prison and then I can have a new start without having to worry all the bloody
time…’
‘Come on, Jim, pull yourself together. You don’t want to be turning yourself in. It will be a lot more than two years, I can tell you; in fact they’ll probably throw the book at you.’
‘They won’t if I cooperate, eh?’
Byron smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what, Jim, I’ll tell you what… hang around until tonight and I can get you more money.’
‘How much?’
‘How much did you have in mind?’
‘It’s going to need to be a hundred at least if I’m going to keep out of trouble.’
‘I can get you a hundred, maybe a bit more.’
Maslin’s eyes lit up.
‘Look, walk north from here into Harlesden and keep to yourself. Maybe use that money to buy yourself a new hat and jacket and a bag. There are cheap boarding houses round there; get yourself a room for tonight. Some of them off the Harrow Road won’t bother with asking you to register if you slip them a bit extra. Then meet me back here at nine o’clock: wait if I’m a few minutes late.’
‘Nine o’clock?’
‘I won’t be able to get away from work before then, and anyway, I need to get the money, don’t I?’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Better hurry, Jim, I need to get a move on.’
‘How did you start working for them?’
‘Who?’
‘You know… the Germans.’
The older man stopped and frowned in concentration as if it was a good question that required careful consideration.
‘Like so many of us, I didn’t start working for them, I started working for a cause, and then they came along and I suppose they became that cause, if you see what I mean. That guy you killed in February…’
‘Rodney Bird?’
‘Yes, he recruited me: that was his speciality, finding people to work for them. He found Milton too. Once he found you, it was too late: he reminded me of Count Dracula in that respect – you were under his spell. It’s not been a bad cause to work for, but now… who knows. I’ll see you here at nine, Jim.’
* * *
Prince, King and Bartholomew had returned to London on the Friday morning, the day after Rauter had been brought to England. They agreed King and Bartholomew would concentrate on the search for the person going by the name Jim Maslin, while Prince would check out John Morton.
He’d headed straight to the MI9 office on the fourth floor of the Great Central Hotel and assured an annoyed secretary that although he didn’t have an appointment with Tom Bennet, he needed to see him nonetheless. The MI9 man was surprised to see him.
‘How did you get on with your Danish lady, the one at Ravensbrück?’
‘I’m still looking for her.’
‘And is your visit in connection with that?’
‘No, sir: you remember you told me the tale of the RAF pilot who was arrested in Brussels, and how they’d brought someone over from Berlin to interrogate him?’
‘Ted Palmer, yes, that’s right. Anything come of it?’
‘As it happens, it did, sir, and we’re very grateful to you. My visit is indirectly connected to that. How easy is it to check on one of our prisoners of war?’
‘When you say check…’
‘A name has come up in the case I’m investigating – one of our prisoners of war is alleged to have been helping the Germans. We urgently need to check this out.’
‘I take it he’s a prisoner of the Germans then?’
Prince nodded.
‘Do you have a name?’ Tom Bennet had removed his jacket and placed a sheet of paper on his blotter.
‘The name we have is John Morton, most probably a private with the Middlesex Regiment, captured at Dunkirk in May 1940.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, Registry is out in Wiltshire these days.’ The MI9 man was screwing the cap on his fountain pen. ‘But I could telephone them if you want this now?’
‘If you don’t mind, yes please.’
Bennet spoke with a clerk, carefully repeating the information Prince had given him. Yes, I’ll wait. He lit a cigarette, clamping it between his teeth at the side of his mouth and then filling his fountain pen. He was halfway through this when Prince heard him say, ‘Yes… Oh really? Well, well, fancy that, eh? … Hang on, slow down, let me write this carefully.’
Prince watched him anxiously, noting a broad grin emerge on Bennet’s face.
‘Looks like this could well be your man: Private John Morton, the Middlesex Regiment, captured at Dunkirk in May 1940, as you say. Last heard of in Stalag IV-B, which is one of their larger prisoner-of-war camps; it’s in Saxony – near the town of Mühlberg. Dates are unspecific, but it seems Private Morton was one of a very small number of our prisoners who were attracted by the idea of joining a British SS unit, would you believe. Apparently he was something of a fascist agitator at the camp. Last heard of in Berlin. I’d like to get my hands on the bastard.’
‘So would I.’
* * *
Prince had to admit it had been easy enough to track down John Morton, though he’d have preferred Bartholomew and Lance King to have been slightly less grudging about it. They all knew he wouldn’t be using that identity: the man they needed to find was Jim Maslin.
It was Friday afternoon, 11 May, and the three of them were sitting round a small table, Bartholomew reading from his notes. ‘Rauter said agents Byron and Donne were both in London, so I suggest we work on the assumption Donne is still in the city.’
‘What date was it that Edward Palmer disappeared?’
‘He went missing on the twentieth of April.’
‘So three weeks ago today?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Jim Maslin could well have gone with him.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Prince, ‘but I very much doubt it. Two of them travelling together makes them more exposed. I agree with Bartholomew: let’s work on the basis that Jim Maslin is still in London. If we’ve not got anywhere in a week, then we can think again.’
‘Christ, this is going to be a tedious job.’ Lance King was now sitting by the open window, his feet on the table. ‘You obviously know how it all works, don’t you, Prince?’
‘The National Registration Identity Cards? Of course I do… the bane of our lives in the police force. Everyone needs to be registered at their local police station, and if you move to another area and don’t register, it’s an offence. I doubt an agent who’s been here so long would have made the basic mistake of not registering.’
‘Every bloody police station in London will have a register… It’ll take us forever to go through them. Perhaps if we speak to Scotland Yard we can get them to send a message round to all their stations instructing them to check for a Jim Maslin.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘And why would that be, Prince?’ King was busy lighting another cigarette.
‘Because it’s unreliable, Lance. I know how police stations work: they’re undermanned and overworked and when an instruction comes in from headquarters half of them will leave it in the pending tray. If we want to do a thorough job, we need to have one of our own people – preferably a couple of them – visiting every police station in London and looking through the records themselves.’
‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew.
‘How many police stations are there in London?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but certainly in excess of two hundred.’
‘We’d better get started then, hadn’t we?’
* * *
By the Wednesday morning, they’d checked the registers at every police station in London with no sign of a Jim or James Maslin. They’d found a few Jim Martins and a James Masters and a dozen male Maslins, one of whom – a John Maslin – was in his forties. It turned out he’d been invalided out of the army and lived with his family in Leyton. They reconvened on the Wednesday morning, Lance King making it clear he’d doubted all along that Agent Donne would’ve re
gistered with the police. Or he’d used another name. Or had left London.
‘There is another possibility, sir.’ Bartholomew had allowed King to finish.
‘Go on.’
‘Police stations carry separate registers for some of the places of work in their patch, usually larger ones deemed to be of some importance, such as government departments and hospitals. They’re more of a list of people who work there than their identity card details: it’s useful to have a record in case the place is bombed. I believe the practice began during the Blitz.’
They started with the larger central London police stations, and it was Bartholomew himself who found him just before nine o’clock that evening. Later that night, they gathered in King’s office.
‘Perhaps you’d like to bring Hugh up to date, Bartholomew?’
‘Paddington police station has a register of all staff employed at St Mary’s Hospital, sir. They have a Jim Maslin down as a porter: he started work there last September.’
‘Which would fit in with Agent Donne’s arrival here, would it not?’
‘Yes, sir, but unfortunately there’s no home address for him: that would be kept at the hospital.’
‘I’ve just returned from the hospital.’ They all turned to look at Prince. ‘I found the porters’ office and kept it low-key in case he’s working there tonight. Turns out he’s on the rota to start at ten o’clock in the morning. I think the safest approach would be to wait for him to turn up tomorrow. The woman who looks after the office gets in early and we can get his address then.’
* * *
It had been a disaster from the start.
In between the few hours’ sleep he’d grabbed that night, Prince worried he’d made yet another error. He’d been far too cautious. They should have found the woman who looked after the porters and found out Maslin’s address that night.
He and Lance King arrived at the hospital the following morning just as a woman called Kath turned up for work at the porters’ office. Once they’d shown her the police warrant cards they were carrying, she gave them Jim Maslin’s home address. They assured her he wasn’t in any kind of trouble. Routine.