‘What date?’
‘September, nineteen forty-four.’
‘How old is the child?’
‘Not sure. I’m guessing two years, perhaps three.’ She pushed her plate to one side, stood up, and went to the hall for her bike leathers. ‘I have to go. I’ve got geology second years in an hour. Keep reading. See if you can find anything I’ve missed.’
She pulled on her suit and sealed herself inside it with its full-length zip. The suit had padded shoulders and elbows that made her arms look like Popeye’s.
Spargo watched. Then without a word, he leaped past her, jumped at the stairs and raced up them. ‘Hang on a sec, don’t go. I’ve something to show you.’
He came down the stairs with Bar’s contract file and held it out. Jez had picked up her helmet. Put it down again and took the file from him.
‘Bar’s contract,’ Spargo said.
‘But it’s Canada!’ she said. ‘Is this the mine? How the hell do you pronounce it? It looks native Canadian.’
‘Obviously a change of plan.’
‘Obviously you got it all wrong.’
He grunted. Took the file back.
‘At least you’ve got real work out of them at last,’ she said. She looked at him narrow-eyed. ‘It is real work? Yes? No?’
‘It’s real. Upstairs there’s a pile of reports this big.’ He held one hand high – an exaggeration. ‘And a cheque this big.’ He did the size thing again.
‘It’s about time they came up with something, you’ve waited long enough. So what happened to the bronze box? I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you take it to Marie with the journals?’
‘Do you know how heavy it is?’
‘Is that a no?’ She looked at the wall clock. ‘I’ve a few minutes. Can I see it?’
‘It’s in the basement.’
She shoved him out of the door and followed him to the back of the house. The police had slid the bronze box under the workbench and he tried, unsuccessfully, to drag it out with his foot. He bent down, grasped the top edge and tugged it to the middle of the floor. Jez pointed to a slab of metal, propped against the wall.
‘Is that the lid?’
Spargo went for it and put it on his workbench. Jez crouched beside the box. He was sure he saw her put something in her pocket.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing. Just wiping my hands.’ She was picking at a small patch of black adhering to the bronze. ‘What’s this stuff?’
‘Not sure. Mitchell’s people thought it was rubber.’
‘This box weighs a ton. A prisoner of war couldn’t have carried this thing around even if he was allowed to. It’s ridiculously heavy.’
Spargo shoved it back under the bench. Ridiculously heavy just about summed it up.
‘What do you think it was really made for?’
‘Not for books, that’s for sure. Why bronze?’
‘Bronze doesn’t corrode in sea water.’
She gave him a tell-me-something-new look.
‘Why use a box like this for a few personal diaries? Why were they so important to Volker? We’ve missed something, Dad.’
When Jez had gone Spargo made himself comfortable in a soft chair, putting his feet on a low table with his laptop on his lap. Three hours later he was still there, still reading. It was gut-wrenching stuff, page after page of Volker lamenting the death of his family. Then a note from Lewis, a comment at the foot of the page: the child is not dead.
After the second year lecture Jez was free again. Free to set up next week’s lectures and the Easter trip to Arran; free to chase up her postgrads and check on their progress; free to assess the results of the First Year Civil Engineers’ attempts at mineral identification, where anything black was coal and anything white was chalk. Free to work in the mineralogical lab.
She chose the latter. She had less than a thimble-full of dirt from the bronze box. Had she been taking a proper forensic sample she would have scooped it into a sterile container rather than the creased manila envelope still containing her bank statement. The sample had dried out, which would have been inexcusable for official material. But this was not a forensic examination.
She transferred the dirt she had scraped from the bottom of the box to a Petri dish, placed it under a binocular microscope and focused on a mix of sand and clay. Some of the grains had formed clumps she broke up with a glass rod. The sand was mainly quartz, but it was not beach sand. The grains were angular rather than rounded. They hadn’t been ground down by the waves.
And there was something else, another mineral. She adjusted the microscope and zoomed in on one of the grains.
Spargo was still reading when the phone rang. He had his feet up like before and the laptop, appropriately, on his lap. It was Jez, calling from work.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Right now? Talking to you.’ She was in no mood for his humour and he got no response to it.
‘When were in the basement I took a sample from the dirt in the bottom of the box.’
‘I wondered what you were up to.’
‘I wondered what it could be. There’s not much of it to work on, about half a teaspoonful. It’s about fifty-fifty clay and sand.’
‘So, not much help.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. You should see it for yourself.’
‘See clay and sand?’
‘You know you sometimes say you’ve never seen where I work?’
‘I haven’t. You keep saying you’ll show me around.’
‘Well now’s your chance. Get in your car, Dad. Call my mobile when you arrive and I’ll come out.’
Both sides of Edinburgh’s West Mains Road were lined with parked cars. By the time Spargo had found a space, phoned Jez and walked back to King’s Buildings, she was waiting for him at the kerb. He expected her to take him to the geology block. Instead she took him between the main buildings and into what looked like a builders’ yard.
‘Portacabins?’ he asked.
‘Our new lab units. I do my forensic stuff out here, it’s the only way I can keep samples secure.’
She used a keypad on the door jam, stepped into a small lobby and handed her father a white Tyvek oversuit. Suited up, they pulled on thin overshoes and entered a compact, neat lab. It reminded Spargo of one of the geology labs at his old university, only smaller and much newer. A lot of electronics Spargo didn’t recognise.
‘Spectrometer,’ he said with a nod at a grey box.
‘Photometer,’ she corrected. ‘Leave it. Look at this.’
On a sheet of black paper on a bench Jez had sprinkled fine sand.
‘Is that what you took from the box?’
‘Part of it. It was mixed with clay. I’ve washed it and dried it. Switch off the lights.’
He did what she said. The white lights went out. A lamp he’d not noticed before stayed on, bathing the workbench in deep blue light. The sand on the paper glowed. It was as if the light came from inside each grain.
‘What are the ones that glow yellow, fluorite?’
‘No, it’s too hard for fluorite. Also, fluorite tends to glow white under ultraviolet light.’ She reached out, switched on another blue light and switched off the first. ‘The lamp was long wave UV. This one is short wave – UV-C – so don’t look at the lamp. By rights we should be wearing goggles. Trouble is, they obscure the mineral’s colours.’
The grains changed from bright yellow to bright blue.
‘Scheelite,’ she said. ‘Could be apatite, but the blue isn’t quite right.’
Spargo nodded. He wasn’t that interested, just wished she’d get to the point. If she was trying to impress him then she was succeeding.
‘Scheelite, Dad!’ she repeated. ‘Scheelite! They mined scheelite at Kilcreg, it was the tungsten ore.’
Spargo nodded. ‘Sorry. Wasn’t thinking straight. No surprise it’s scheelite, is it? Not if it was at Kilcreg.’
‘You don�
�t get it, do you? If there is scheelite in the box it’s likely it was opened at Kilcreg. Somebody opened it and then resealed it.’
‘So the box was once in the mine?’
‘Not necessarily. The scheelite could have come from a waste tip. Or perhaps the processing plant.’
‘There were no waste tips. Back then the waste went into the sea. There was no processing plant either, the ore was crushed underground and shipped out for processing.’
‘The important thing is that someone at the mine opened it, Dad. Someone knew what was in it.’
‘Or they wanted to check what was in it.’
She switched off the ultraviolet and put the room lights on. Outside, the keypad clicked. The inner door opened just enough for a middle-aged man to get his head through.
‘Sorry Jez. Didn’t know you had company.’
‘My father,’ she said. ‘Come to see how I earn my daily bread. How was Aberdeen?’
The man nodded, acknowledging Spargo. ‘Cold and windy. My father’s fine,’ he said. Then to Spargo: ‘Broke his hip. Took me three hours to drive there.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been quicker to fly?’
‘If there was a direct flight from Edinburgh I’d take it.’
He excused himself and closed the door. Jez waited until she heard the outer door close before she spoke.
‘You told me the other day Murphy flew from Edinburgh to Aberdeen.’
Spargo nodded. ‘By a late flight. He was going from there to Oslo.’
‘You heard what Andy just said. There are no flights from Edinburgh to Aberdeen.’
‘He must be wrong.’
‘Have you ever done it?’
‘I’ve never needed to, I’ve always driven. Perhaps I misheard Murph. He might have said he was driving, going on to Aberdeen.’
‘Don’t make excuses for him, Dad! I remember exactly what you said. You told me he had three hours to kill before his flight. He wouldn’t have had three spare hours if he had been driving.’
‘It doesn’t make a lot of sense.’
‘It does if Murphy lied to you.’
‘He wouldn’t do that. You don’t know him. You’ve never liked him.’
‘Whether I like him or not is irrelevant. If he said he was flying from Edinburgh to Aberdeen then he lied. Murphy lied to you, Dad!’
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
THE FIRST TIME THEO VISITED Artur’s farm he was courting Erika. He visited at the invitation of Artur who wished to inspect the young man, the young mining graduate who would soon be his son-in-law. Theo stayed for three nights, not in the same house as his beloved Erika but at a neighbouring farm. To Theo, brought up amongst mines and miners, the land around Ingolstadt was isolated, backward, even. Now, passing through what was once Poland, he had those feelings again. Advancements of all kinds seemed to have passed this place by.
With Walter driving the truck keeps up a good speed, he seems to have the knack of driving on ice. The few people they see on the road are heavily laden. Some have handcarts and a few, the lucky ones, have horses, half-starved like their owners. Most are women, elderly men and children. Later they encounter soldiers on foot, straggling lines of fellow countrymen heading west. Occasionally there are vehicles, all of them military.
‘Russian Front,’ Walter grunts. ‘Refugees from the bastard communists. That we are losing this war does not surprise me. Look at them, Theodor, Germany’s dregs! A defeated army!’
Theo stays quiet. Walter seems to have missed the fact most of the troops are bandaged and many have missing limbs, their progress aided by makeshift crutches; others are carried on stretchers by struggling, limping men. Walter’s remark is ill-founded and offensive. Walter’s war, Theo guesses, has been fought from a desk.
‘Tell me,’ Theo asks, ‘why we are heading east when the rest of the world is moving west?’
Walter pulls the truck off the road and takes maps from his briefcase. When he has found the right one he spreads it over the steering wheel and traces with his finger the route they are taking.
‘They have come from here, the north east,’ he says, tapping the sheet. ‘Soon we will take this road, the southerly one. With luck we will soon be free from this rabble.’
Theo’s knowledge of the seas is superb; his knowledge of the land – particularly land so far from home, is poor.
‘Is that where we are going, Krakov?’
‘God no! I am told Krakov is overrun by the Soviets. We turn south, I told you – look – this road here.’ For Theo’s benefit he draws a pencil line and, for emphasis, thickens it with several strokes. ‘The Soviets will not trouble us,’ he says. ‘They will make straight for Berlin.’
He folds the map and half-stands, twists himself round, and gestures Theo to slide over. Changing drivers without alighting into deep snow is a tight squeeze.
‘I am tired,’ he murmurs. ‘I shall sleep. Tonight we will not stop, I will drive through the night.’
The road that leads south takes them away from the refugees, the soldiers and the traffic. By nightfall they are the only thing on the road and driving is easy – the sky has cleared to reveal a bright, helpful moon. Walter stirs from sleep and takes over. Remains behind the wheel until Theo and Peter wake at dawn.
Without retreating troops and refugees the world is silent and bleak, the villages they pass through seem lifeless. Theo tries to imagine the landscape in summer – in peacetime – its soils tilled by folk like Artur and Barbara. The world now is so far from this peace. Such imaginings do not come easily.
By afternoon Theo dozes, his boy in his arms. He is jerked awake by Walter hitting the brakes. The truck’s many wheels have a mind of their own and the truck keeps moving, slides on ice, comes to an uneasy stop against a wall of deep snow. Theo’s stomach tightens and takes time to settle.
Disregarding Theo, Walter starts rummaging. ‘Where the hell are we, Theodor? Give me the damned map!’
Theo finds it, unfolds it and hands it to Walter who studies it and does his finger tap thing.
‘Here, this is Tichau. While you were sleeping we passed through it. If I am right then there should be a railway track to our left.’
He looks left and tries to see out. The window is iced over with frozen condensation from their breath, they can neither see through it, nor will it open. The door, too, is iced shut; the outside of the truck looks as if it has been sprayed with molten glass. Once they are moving again Walter takes his eyes off the road and looks down at Peter, down by the pipes again, bundled up tight.
‘How is he?’
‘I gave him one of your pills. He should sleep for some time.’
Not a whole pill. One quarter was clearly enough because the boy sleeps heavily, his breathing is noisy. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch in his dreams like he did before.
‘We have to move him,’ Walter says. ‘If we are where I think we are then in a few more kilometres there is a checkpoint manned by regular soldiers. They will stop us. They will look in the back but they will not search, they dare not touch SS property. The boy will be safe there.’
‘But the cold! He will freeze to death!’
‘I doubt that. Would you rather we left him here to be found by the army?’
They stop again, refuel the truck and move Peter. The snow at the roadside is thigh-deep but with Walter’s help Peter is soon safe in the den with the quilt wrapped around him. Now Theo drives. The road is straight, long and narrow and there is more traffic, not the remnants of a retreating army this time but regimented convoys with military escorts.
‘Telegraph poles to our left,’ Walter says. ‘It’s the railway. Watch out for a bridge. Then two kilometres beyond it, go over the crossroads. I am sure we will be stopped. If so, keep your mouth shut. I will talk.’
Again Theo ponders the wilderness that surrounds him. That the Reich should bother with such places makes no sense. He supposes it was the same with the British and other Europeans when
they colonised the world, when they pushed into America, Australia, India and Africa. And later, when the pioneers in North America went west through the lands of the red man to further their own ends. Now his own countrymen are doing it. But so what? Such matters have never concerned him.
Walter shouts: ‘Concentrate Theodor! Checkpoint…! Slow down to walking pace. Take care not to skid. The last thing we need is for you to run down the guards.’
Theo slows, stops, and follows the routine. Present papers to the guard. A quick nod when the man salutes. Then look away as if there is something more interesting to see. The guard is a tall man with his rifle slung against his back. Pointless having it there, Theo thinks. Pistols, he decides, are much more sensible for duty like this, it takes too long to unsling a rifle. When – if ever – he returns to his boat, he will have his deck guards armed with pistols, not rifles.
That his mind is wandering doesn’t surprise him. Never has his life been at stake in a way that is out of his hands – a way that endangers not only himself but a child of his own. This strange little boy who, against all odds, seems to trust him.
Walter is shouting. He does it so well. It is as if all around him are deaf.
‘I want the Buna plant, soldier! Here is my authorisation, take it and read it. Hurry! I do not have all day!’
The man takes the paper. For the first time he notices Walter’s high rank and it surprises him so much he forgets to salute. He gives the paper no more than a glance and hands it back.
The land surrounding them is no longer rural. It is as if a giant hand has swept away trees, hedges, farms and houses. It has been militarised, there are troops everywhere. In the distance, beyond the few remaining trees, is what appears to be part construction site and part factory complex, an immense enterprise of buildings, processing plants and oil tanks. To one side of it are vast railway marshalling yards with rows of wagons and tankers. Everything is under snow and looks oddly unused.
The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park Page 35