The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  “She took a picture?”

  “Several—of the woman, and of the dog. Then of them both together. Then she’s off again.”

  Sarah paused to finish her drink. “I followed her to three more houses and a flat. And at all of them she took pictures—of the women there. One of them had a baby, one had a small girl. One had a cat. She took photos of them all.”

  “A hobby?” Guy wondered.

  “But there wasn’t any pattern to it. Just random houses in south London. And it didn’t seem like she knew any of the people, but they were happy for her to snap away at them. Then she headed off back to Whitehall, and that’s where I saw her meet up with Green.” She leaned forward again. “What’s the place he was coming out of? Just some office?”

  Pentecross forced a smile. “Just some office,” he lied.

  Luckily, she didn’t pursue it. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Before that, after all the photos, she went somewhere else on the way back. Just down from Clapham High Street.”

  She waited, obviously expecting Guy to ask her where Miss Manners had stopped off. He didn’t disappoint her.

  “The YMCA,” she said. She nodded vehemently before he could react. “Yeah—that’s what I thought. Why the hell does someone like that call into the YMCA?”

  “Maybe she’s been bombed out and has a bed there.”

  “No. She was only there for a couple of minutes. Five at the most.”

  If Guy had hoped to get some answers from talking to this woman, he was just getting more and more confused. “In the scheme of things,” he said, thinking out loud, “I think we can probably leave aside the photography and the YMCA, given everything else.”

  He told her about the burned German in Ipswich hospital. So many people must have known about him that Guy didn’t think he was giving anything away that he shouldn’t. He glossed over the fact that it was eight months ago, but he told Sarah how he’d been intrigued by Green’s presence and the mention of Colonel Brinkman.

  “There have been other things too,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t push him for more details. “I saw Green at an RAF base when I was delivering a message. Ran into Brinkman when I was following up on a … a downed German airman. A guy on a tube station who tried to warn me off. Each time I felt I was missing something, something important—something I should know about and be able to help with, only it’s just out of reach.”

  “I know the feeling. You just want to know what the hell’s going on, right? Even though you know, deep down, that you shouldn’t ask.” She gestured at a poster pinned to one of the pub walls: “Be like Dad—keep Mum.”

  “We should drop the whole thing,” Guy said. “There’s so much going on that the likes of you and me know nothing about anyway. One more shouldn’t matter to us.”

  “No,” she said. “It shouldn’t.”

  * * *

  The building was bland and nondescript—just one of a row in a Regency street. If the street had a name, it was probably lost in the rubble where the end block had taken a hit from a bomb. The only thing that marked out the building where Sergeant Green and Miss Manners worked was the pile of sandbags outside. The windows were shuttered, and the stone façade was stained with age and London smog. It looked just like any of a number of offices or government departments across the city. It could, Guy thought, have been chosen for precisely this reason.

  “So that’s Station Z,” he murmured, examining it from the other side of the unnamed street.

  “Station Z?”

  “Just a name I’ve heard mentioned.”

  “So what now?” Sarah asked. “Is this it? We just walk away and leave well enough alone?”

  “We should,” Guy conceded. Before she could respond, he caught her shoulder and pulled her back into the shade of a doorway.

  “Why, Mr. Pentecross—we only just met.”

  He nodded at a figure on the other side of the road, striding toward the building they’d been watching. “That’s Colonel Brinkman,” he said quietly.

  As Brinkman went inside the building, Guy caught a glimpse of a uniformed soldier just inside the door. Slightly embarrassed, he realized his hand was still on Sarah’s shoulder, and he was standing rather close to her.

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping away. He tried to ignore the way she was smiling at him.

  They stood in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, Sarah said: “You need to be anywhere this afternoon?”

  Guy shook his head. Was she going to suggest they go for another drink? Or maybe lunch—it was past one o’clock. He wouldn’t mind. Perhaps she wanted him to ask her. “What about you?”

  “A couple of days leave.” She tilted her head to one side, looking past him. “Brinkman’s back. You going to grab me again?”

  He was tempted to say yes, but Guy hadn’t really got the measure of Sarah Diamond yet. He wasn’t sure quite how serious she was about anything. Instead he stepped back to stand beside her in the doorway.

  Brinkman was walking briskly away from them, Miss Manners by his side. Brinkman was carrying a briefcase.

  “Stopped off to pick up some papers or something,” Sarah said. “Let’s see where they’re going.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise.” Now they’d got this far, now he’d seen where Green and Brinkman worked, Guy wasn’t sure how far to push this. He was past the point where he could pretend it was part of his job to know what the mysterious Station Z was doing.

  “I thought you said you were free this afternoon.”

  “I am.”

  “Then come on.”

  * * *

  Because some of the roads were still closed off after the previous night’s bombing, it was impossible to tell where Brinkman and Miss Manners were heading. It wasn’t until they arrived at their destination a good half hour later that Guy realized:

  “They’re catching a train.”

  “Then so are we,” Sarah told him.

  She didn’t wait for him to argue, but followed Brinkman into Euston station. When Guy caught up with her she was biting her lower lip and staring across the concourse.

  “What is it?”

  “I was going to stand behind them for a ticket,” she said. “Listen out for where they’re headed. But…” She pointed to where Brinkman was disappearing onto one of the platforms.

  “He’ll have a travel permit,” Guy said.

  “So we’re scuppered.”

  “Not really.” It would be easy just to agree and walk away. But it was also a chance to show her he wasn’t a complete fool, and that he was as committed to this as she was. “Check the departures board and see where the train from that platform is headed. Then we buy tickets to the end of the line.”

  Five minutes later, Guy was buying two returns to Denbigh Hall. “Is your journey really necessary?” a poster beside the ticket window demanded. It was a good question.

  Sarah was already on the platform. She pointed out the carriage where Brinkman and Miss Manners had boarded, then suggested they find a nearby compartment. “We’ll need to check at each station to see if they get off.”

  The train was quiet enough that they had a compartment to themselves, two down from Brinkman and Miss Manners. At each stop, Sarah pulled down the window and leaned out to see if they were leaving the train. She closed the window again as the train pulled away, to keep the smuts from the smoke out.

  “So what aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” Guy shifted uncomfortably on the seat.

  “There must be something. I mean, what you’ve said is hardly enough to get you on a train with a strange woman heading God knows where. Following Green? Maybe, at a pinch. But why are you here now? It’s not because of some dying Kraut in a hospital or feeling snubbed by a sergeant.”

  Guy was saved from answering as the train slowed again. Sarah gave him a look that suggested she still expected an answer, then pulled down the window again.

  “Quick—they’re leaving!”

&
nbsp; She pushed past Guy and hurried down the corridor.

  “What station is it?” he asked.

  “God knows.”

  The sign opposite the door as they left the train said “Bletchley.”

  “Never heard of it,” Sarah said, pulling a face. “Where are we—Bedfordshire?”

  But Guy knew the name. “Bucks, I think. And I know where Brinkman’s going.”

  “Clever man. Glad I let you come.”

  He didn’t rise to that. “He’s changing trains. Depending which way he goes, it’s either Oxford or Cambridge—this is the Varsity Line, it links the two university cities.”

  But he was wrong. Brinkman and Miss Manners were heading out of the station altogether. Guy and Sarah followed, turning right along the main road and keeping well back. Two other men and a woman in a WRENS uniform were heading the same way, so it was easy to keep out of sight.

  They’d gone almost no distance, just a few hundred yards, when Brinkman turned into a wide driveway. The other passengers followed. Sarah hurried after them, Guy close behind. He almost walked into her as Sarah stopped abruptly.

  She was behind the woman in uniform, who was waiting behind the two men. There was a barrier lowered across the road, and two soldiers were checking passes.

  Guy tapped Sarah on the shoulder. “Maybe discretion is the better part of valor right now,” he said softly.

  But as he spoke, another man arrived in the line behind him. If they turned and left now it would be obvious they weren’t supposed to be here—wherever “here” was.

  The soldiers nodded through the two men and the WREN. More people from the train were arriving behind Guy now, nudging him forward. The nearest soldier turned to Sarah.

  “Got your pass ready, miss?”

  She didn’t move. The soldier’s eyes narrowed.

  The second soldier reached to unsling his rifle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Guy stepped forward, pulling out his Foreign Office pass. “Sorry,” he said, showing the pass. “We’re with Colonel Brinkman. He just went through with Miss Manners.” He nodded to where Brinkman and Miss Manners were walking up the main driveway.

  Ahead of them, in the distance, Guy could see a large house. To either side were trees and concrete driveways leading to what looked like wooden-boarded temporary huts.

  Sarah seemed to have recovered her composure, and showed her ATA pass. The guard took both passes, inspecting them carefully before turning to his colleague.

  The other soldier shrugged. “Brinkman brings all sorts.”

  “You should have been booked in,” the first soldier told Pentecross.

  “I know, I’m sorry. It was a bit of a rush. Last-minute thing. You know what it’s like.”

  People in the line behind were shuffling impatiently.

  “You need to catch up with the colonel,” the soldier said. He handed their passes back. “You won’t get into any of the secure locations unless you’re with him, not on these passes.” He waved them through and turned his attention to the man waiting behind.

  “That was close,” Guy breathed as they hurried up the driveway.

  “What the hell is this place?” Sarah asked.

  “Somewhere we shouldn’t be, that’s obvious. We stay just long enough that they don’t get suspicious when we leave, then we’re out of here, all right?”

  Sarah nodded. From her expression Guy guessed that like him she was beginning to think they should never have come. Some things were best left well alone. He silently cursed his curiosity.

  Ahead of them, the house was now clearly visible as they approached. It looked, Guy thought, a bit of a mess, as if sections had been added haphazardly over the years. The result was an unsymmetrical structure that didn’t quite look “right.”

  But this was not Brinkman’s destination. He and Miss Manners turned off along a narrower roadway that led between several of the temporary wooden buildings. The place was busy—people walking or on bicycles. Many were in uniform, but a lot of them were in civilian clothes. The number of women suggested to Guy that it was some sort of administrative center.

  Wherever they were, it was apparent that the work done here was sensitive. Sarah nudged Guy as they passed a noticeboard by the side of the drive. In among notices of social events and concerts was a foolscap poster:

  REMEMBER

  Do not talk at meals

  Do not talk in the transport

  Do not talk traveling

  Do not talk in the billet

  Do not talk by your own fireside

  Be careful even in your Hut

  Anywhere else, Dr. Henry Wiles might have cut a rather odd figure in his threadbare tweed jacket, ancient waistcoat and wire-rimmed glasses. But here at Bletchley Park, staffed with the most brilliant and eccentric academics and thinkers, Wiles fitted right in.

  “Colonel Brinkman is due in a few minutes, sir.”

  Wiles couldn’t recall if he’d ever been told the girl’s name, but she reminded him vaguely of his niece Deborah. He should probably find out what she was called, since it was always the same girl who brought the messages to this Hut. At least, he thought it was.

  “Thank you. What was your name again?”

  “It’s James, sir.”

  “James?” Wiles pushed his glasses further up his nose.

  “Eleanor James.” She was smiling. “I’ve asked the Gate to send the colonel straight up when he arrives.”

  Wiles nodded. “He sent another of those weird transmissions last week, this one originating over south east England. Damned if I know why he’s coming here himself, though.” He cleared his throat, realizing he had said that out loud. “Um, sorry, Debbie.”

  “Eleanor,” she corrected him.

  Wiles nodded without really hearing. He needed space to work, he needed to talk to Fredericks and arrange time to examine this latest data from Brinkman. The colonel would want answers—he always wanted answers. Wiles bundled together the papers he had been working on, shuffled them into a neat pile, and dumped them on the floor. He still had to provide the data needed for a run on the code machines used to try to derive the day’s Enigma rotor settings. But there would be time for that later. For the moment, the German Enigma codes could wait—this was far more worrying.

  Immediately, he was absorbed in the problem. He didn’t hear the knock on the door of the small hut. Didn’t look up when the door opened and Colonel Brinkman came in. Didn’t react when the colonel cleared his throat. Not until the girl who wasn’t Debbie tapped his shoulder and said quietly:

  “Colonel Brinkman’s here.”

  “Thank you,” Brinkman said to her. “You can leave us now.”

  “Sir.” Eleanor James nodded to Brinkman and the woman with him, and let herself out of the hut.

  Wiles straightened up. “I’m giving it all the time I can spare. You really don’t need to check up on me, you know.” He nodded deferentially to the woman. She had been before, but Wiles didn’t immediately remember her name either.

  “I’m not checking up on you,” Brinkman assured him. “Though I have brought you more data.”

  “Another trace?” Wiles peered over his glasses excitedly. “Excellent—data is what we need. The more the better. We can compare and contrast, look for patterns, clues, fragments…”

  Brinkman opened his briefcase and removed a folder. Wiles all but snatched it from him. He opened the folder and tipped out the papers inside, spreading them across the desk. He pushed his glasses up his nose again as he inspected them.

  “This is tracking information?”

  “From the Observer Corps,” the woman said. He remembered her name now—Manners. “The other sheet gives RADAR traces.”

  “What do you think?” Brinkman asked.

  Wiles answered without looking up. “I think you’re a very impatient man. I shall have to study these for a long time before I know whether there is anything to be learned from them. Gleaning that knowledge will take even longe
r. And with the amount of other work that Fredericks and his lackeys are foisting on me I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for a swift response.”

  “Don’t worry about Fredericks,” Brinkman told him.

  Wiles snorted. “Easy for you to say. It’s not your neck he’s breathing down. Proverbial dragon, that one.”

  “You no longer work for Fredericks,” Brinkman said.

  Wiles looked up sharply. “Does he know that?”

  Miss Manners checked her watch. “He should have been informed just a few minutes ago.”

  “From now on, the UDT transmissions are your number one priority,” Brinkman said. “In fact, they are your only priority.”

  “But what about my other work?” Wiles protested. He kicked at the papers he’d earlier dumped on the floor. “Enigma? And the other stuff? I’ve got a [code] run scheduled in about half an hour, you know.”

  “Not any more,” Brinkman said. “From this moment, you work exclusively for Station Z, you understand?”

  Wiles sniffed and frowned. “Well … I can’t deny it’s a challenge.” He smiled suddenly. “Yes, a real poser, this one. But to be honest, even working full time it will take awhile to crack the transmissions. Even if we can crack them. I say!” He looked suddenly startled as a thought occurred to him. “Do I have to move out of here?”

  They all looked round the hut—papers piled precariously on every surface. A blackboard was covered with tiny chalk calculations, some underlined and others crossed out. Books lay where they had toppled across and from shelves.

  “You don’t have to move out,” Brinkman said, to Wiles’ evident relief. “And you can choose your own team.”

  “Team?”

  “Within reason,” Miss Manners said quickly. “Three assistants and a runner. Maximum.” She glanced at Brinkman, and he nodded.

  “And Fredericks has agreed this?” Wiles shook his head in disbelief.

  “I’m not sure ‘agreed’ is exactly the word,” Brinkman said. He turned as the door to the hut slammed open so hard it hit the wall behind. “Ah, looks like you can ask him yourself.”

  * * *

  Sarah and Guy watched as Brinkman and Miss Manners disappeared inside the hut.