Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Wilde did not reply.

  Another crackling silence, then. ‘Are you listening to me, Wilde?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well – find out what’s going on at that lab! What about the other guy I mentioned: Hellquist? Where’s he in all this?’

  It was a good question. Had he already left Cambridge? Perhaps he was already en route home to Sweden. His college might know.

  Flood was still snapping out questions like a machine-gunner loosing bullets. ‘Who else is working there? How close are they to a bomb? I want a list from you of everyone who works there. Get it to me, soonest.’

  ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Goddamn it, that’s an executive order from your government.’ More crackling, then the ghostly voice came back yet again. ‘And keep me in the loop on the dead guy. This is for America, Wilde. You remember, America, don’t you?’

  Wilde put down the telephone and let out a long breath. Eva Haas and Arnold Lindberg were in the sitting room with the door closed. He left them there and went to the kitchen.

  ‘Coffee, Doris. For the love of God, a cup of very strong black coffee.’

  ‘Five minutes, Professor Wilde. Is everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Nothing’s all right, Doris. It might help if Lydia was here but I haven’t heard a word. I don’t suppose she’s contacted you.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You know she’s in Germany?’

  ‘No, sir, she didn’t tell me.’

  Wilde snorted. ‘No, she didn’t tell me either.’

  A quarter of an hour later, with coffee burning him from the inside, he was sitting in the front of a taxi, with Lindberg and Haas in the back. The best of the good weather had passed over, leaving a solid bank of white cloud. There would be no rain, though, so tennis would be on.

  At the Cavendish, he took his guests straight through to the library and sat them down at a table to wait for Geoff Lancing, who was being hunted down by one of the porters. Given their earlier conversation, he was worried about the warmth of Lancing’s reception, but in the event he approached with a bright smile and an extended hand.

  Wilde made the formal introductions, first Eva, then her uncle. Wilde noted how Lancing’s gaze lingered on Eva. He glanced up at the wall clock.

  ‘Geoff, I’ve got things to do . . .’

  ‘Leave Dr Lindberg and Dr Haas with me,’ said Lancing.

  *

  The porter at St John’s shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, Dr Hellquist is not in his rooms.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Wilde said. ‘I’m told he hasn’t been at the Cavendish today.’

  ‘I’ll double-check for you if you wish, sir.’

  ‘Please do that, porter.’ Wilde slipped a shilling coin from his pocket.

  The porter touched his bowler and his military moustache bristled. ‘Very grateful, sir.’

  Five minutes later he returned, shaking his head once more. ‘No sign of him, Professor, but I did happen upon his bedder in Second Court and she said his bed wasn’t slept in last night.’

  ‘Do you know where else he might be? Does he have outside lodgings?’

  The beetroot-faced porter appeared to weigh up his next words carefully. He moved closer to Wilde and whispered into his ear. ‘Not really my place, sir, but I believe he does have a lady, a married woman, if I’m correct. Perhaps her old man’s away.’

  ‘Where would I find her?’

  ‘That I couldn’t say, Professor Wilde. Tends to keep his private life private, does Dr Hellquist. The married woman is only rumour, I’m afraid.’ He gave his nose a knowing tap. ‘But in my experience there’s rarely smoke without fire.’

  ‘Would you let me know if he returns?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I know where to find you. Oh, and the bedder did say something else. Said there was a smell of burning in the room – and some soggy ashes in the basin.’

  *

  Wilde stood on St John’s Street looking up at the ornate towers. He was angry with Hellquist for not being there, and he was angry with Lydia for not being here in Cambridge. What on earth was he doing with his inept investigations into a murder that did not concern him and his amateurish plan to infiltrate the world of an American Nazi?

  He was a history professor, for God’s sake. Stick to the supervisions and lectures and writing, Wilde. If you want a bit of adventure, delve into an archive and get your hands dusty. Live vicariously through the lives of Drake and Raleigh and the heroes of antiquity. And then it struck him. There might be a way to find Fanny Winch, the lady friend of Paul Birbach. If she was, indeed, a cleaning woman, then there was every possibility that she and Birbach had met either at college or at the Cavendish. It was worth a go. Someone might know her.

  Wilde strode southwards down King’s Street, past Trinity, Caius, the Senate House, then onto King’s Parade with the towering beauty of King’s College chapel to his right. On his left was Bene’t Street, leading onto Free School Lane and the Cavendish, but he carried on.

  The town was in midsummer mood. With the long vacation looming, most undergraduates had given up on their studies and were in whites wandering towards the tennis courts on Midsummer Common, or Fenner’s, the university cricket ground, past Parker’s Piece in the south-east of the town. Others carried towels and hampers as they headed down towards the river for games and picnics and punting. Innocent fun. Wilde wanted none of it, not this year. Let the young enjoy this time; they had most to lose in the coming months and years. Anyone who thought otherwise was deluding themselves. Since Hitler marched into Prague back in March surely even Neville Chamberlain must be resigned to war.

  At college, he cornered Scobie in the porter’s lodge and got straight to the point. ‘Dr Birbach had a lady friend, a Mrs Fanny Winch. Have you heard of her, Scobie?’

  ‘No, sir. Should I have?’

  ‘It’s possible she worked here, as a cleaner perhaps, or in the sculleries.’

  Scobie took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘No, sir, I think I’d remember a name like that. And I’m certain I know everyone who works here, by name and by sight.’

  Of course he did. It was his job to have control of who came in and who left the college grounds. Wilde thanked him and retraced his steps along Trumpington Street, then turned right past the Eagle to the Cavendish.

  In the past few days the lab’s porter had come to know Wilde by name. ‘Fanny Winch? Yes, I know her. Been cleaning here two or three weeks now.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  ‘No, no. Early morning shift before most of the gentlemen arrive.’ The porter paused. ‘Is this about Dr Birbach?’

  ‘They were seeing each other.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it, Professor. Would you like me to leave a message for her when she comes in? I imagine she’s pretty upset. Must have thought she’d caught a handsome earner in our Dr Birbach.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any details? I’d like to talk to her.’

  The porter pulled a black book down from a shelf. ‘I like to keep track of everyone, telephone numbers and such like in my book. If not, the head of housekeeping will likely have it.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘No, sorry, no telephone number. Ah, but there is an address.’ He stabbed his finger at the page. ‘Swaffham Lane. I believe it’s off the Newmarket Road, towards the edge of town before you get to the new builds. No. 16, Swaffham Lane. Any help?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Wilde fished for a coin, realised he didn’t have one. The porter put up his hand. ‘No, no, sir, don’t think of it. I hope you find her.’

  *

  Wilde collected the Rudge, then rode out eastwards. Swaffham Lane was a narrow, mean street of slum houses. Children were playing in the road; a couple of small girls were barefoot. There were few cars here, a beaten-up Ford Ten, an Austin that had seen better days. There were no trees or front gardens. The front doors, paint peeling, stood directly on to the narrow pavement.

  He parked on the ker
b in front of number 16. A group of boys, aged about ten, came to examine the Rudge Special. ‘How fast does she go, mister?’

  ‘Hundred,’ he said.

  ‘Hundred miles an hour?’

  ‘Hundred miles an hour.’

  ‘Cor! Can I have a go, mister?’

  ‘No. But you can sit on the saddle if you want. Take it in turns, but be careful to keep it on its stand. Look after her for me, will you?’

  As the boys scrambled over the bike, Wilde knocked on the door. It was a tiny terraced house, no more than fourteen feet wide, perhaps two rooms on the ground floor and another two upstairs. All built to the most basic standards; there would certainly be no indoor lavatory.

  The door opened. A boy of twelve or thirteen stood there, glaring at him. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I want to speak to your mother.’

  ‘Mum!’

  The interior was dark, but Wilde could see three other children clustered around a table in the corner. He guessed their ages ranged from about two to ten. The far door opened and Fanny Winch emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. He recognised her from Old Hall.

  She squinted, then nodded. ‘I saw you at that fancy do,’ she said.

  ‘My name is Wilde. Thomas Wilde.’

  ‘Well, hello, Mr Wilde. I won’t shake your hand because I’ve been doing the washing. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He stepped inside. The room smelt of tobacco smoke and burnt cooking fat. The elder boy had rejoined the other children at the table. They were all watching him, in silence.

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘Best I could get for ten shillings a week.’

  She was right. It was horrible. The walls were damp, the windows ran with condensation, the paint was flaking. And, above all, that stale stench of grease. No amount of detergent and scrubbing would rid this house of that.

  ‘It’s about Dr Birbach,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘Terrible shame. Topped himself, so I heard. Chucked himself in the river.’

  ‘You must have been one of the last people to see him alive.’

  Her initial warmth was suddenly gone. ‘What is this? You sound like the coppers.’

  ‘Have the police spoken to you?’

  ‘No. Why should they? It’s nothing to do with me.’

  Her arms tightened across her chest.

  ‘Is this difficult for you?’ he indicated the children. ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened, that’s all. Dr Birbach and I were college neighbours.’

  ‘Well, I know nothing, Mr Wilde. We had a good time, the German fellow and me, then he brought me home. That’s it. Nothing serious between us.’

  ‘I’d really like to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘Well, I’ve nothing to say.’

  He took a ten shilling note from his wallet. A week’s rent.

  She didn’t take the money, but she did remove her apron. ‘You’re right. I don’t want to talk here. Not in front of them. There’s the Queen’s Head along the way. The landlord’ll let me in.’

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘No. You keep your money. I don’t need charity.’ She turned to the twelve-year-old. ‘I’ll do your tea in a short while, Michael. Keep them out of mischief.’

  ‘Yes, mum.’

  In the daylight, outside, Wilde found himself walking beside a presentable woman in her mid-thirties. She was fair-looking in a worn-out sort of way. Worn out by manual work and by four children, he supposed. Probably no man in her life, either; no steady man anyway. Her nails were rough-edged from her work, but she was otherwise neat and tidy.

  When they arrived at the Queen’s Head, the landlord let them slide in. They settled into a corner seat by the window, and he fetched a couple of small whiskies.

  ‘Tell me about Paul Birbach,’ he said, handing her a Scotch. ‘How much did he pay you?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m a tart?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that a good-looking woman like you wouldn’t have had anything to do with a man like Birbach unless it was a business arrangement.’

  ‘He was nice to me. And you’re bloody rude, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘I saw you in the boathouse. That was more than you just being nice.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, you’re the dirty bastard for watching. Anyway, we all have our little peculiarities. That was his.’ She laughed. ‘Happy to oblige a fine gentleman like Dr Birbach.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, Mrs Winch. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not your judge. We’ve all got to earn a living somehow – and it must be tough with four kids in the house.’ Who the hell wouldn’t go on the game if they were landed with four hungry mouths and the meagre wages of a cleaner?

  ‘Think what you like.’

  ‘Talk to me straight. If you know something then tell me and I’ll make it worth your while. How does a fiver sound?’

  ‘I already turned down your ten shillings, didn’t I?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d like to buy the kids something nice. New shoes perhaps. Cap guns, bows and arrows?’

  She drank her whisky. ‘You can get me another one of these for starters.’

  Wilde went to the bar and bought her a double but nothing for himself. He took the whisky back to the table and set it down in front of her, then slid a fine white five-pound note beneath the glass. She did not push it away.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘It was a strange night all right,’ she said. ‘We got a taxi home from that party and then he came in for a cup of tea. Nothing more, mind. You never know when the small ones will wake up and try to crawl into bed with you. He was just saying goodbye because he was supposed to be off to America in the morning. We kissed goodbye and I went to the front door with him, to see him off. I thought he’d be walking home but there was a big black car outside. We don’t get fancy motor cars in Swaffham Lane, as you might have noticed.’

  ‘Did you notice the make?’

  ‘Do I look like the sort of person who’d know one make of car from another? It was big and black like I said, and it had two men in it, that’s all I can tell you. I thought he must have arranged for his mates to pick him up, but he hadn’t told me.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The driver wound down his window and said something to Dr Birbach.’

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’

  ‘No. I think it was foreign.’

  ‘German?’

  ‘Probably. I know he was German and didn’t speak English well. But who knows? A foreigner’s a bloody foreigner. I couldn’t tell a Fritz from a Frog. But he seemed to understand, so you might be right.’

  ‘What’s your own accent, Mrs Winch? I’d say you’re from Liverpool.’

  She seemed taken aback. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing – just interested. You’re new to Cambridge, then?’

  ‘You’re right. Born and bred a Scouser, but there’s no work for a cleaner up there. Thought I’d try here where all the fancy folks send their young gentlemen. Men with a shilling or two in their pocket, men with fine motor cars.’

  ‘Back to the black car and the two men. You must have heard more. Did they use his name?’

  ‘Yes, I think they did. They called him over. One of them got out then. That’s when I went back in the house and shut the front door. I didn’t like the look of them. There was something about them.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Twelve thirty at a guess.’

  ‘You must have looked out the window?’

  ‘Yeah, I looked out the window. By then he was in the car with them and they drove off. I thought they must be his friends. That was the last I saw of the car and the men; last I saw of Dr Birbach. Anyway, what’s any of it to do with you?’

  ‘Because he was my neighbour and he was murdered. And by the sound of it, you saw the murderers. And so I need a description of them – and I need the car’s number plate. And then you’ll
have to tell all this to the police.’

  Fanny Winch threw back the double Scotch and gasped from the shock of the neat spirit. ‘You’re scaring me, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

  But if she could identify the men who had tortured Paul Birbach and then dumped his body in the river, she had every right to be afraid.

  *

  ‘I am going to get you out of Germany,’ Bloch said without turning around.

  Had she heard right?

  ‘Herr Bloch?’

  ‘Keep calm. Keep looking ahead as though you are my prisoner. If we are stopped, say nothing.’

  ‘Are we not going to Ravensbrück?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought . . .’

  ‘I think I know what you thought, Miss Morris. But there is much you don’t know. You thought I killed that man in the Orpenplatz, but you were wrong.’

  ‘But I saw you with a gun!’

  ‘Of course I had a gun. There was a killer.’ He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘But for now there is little time. You must leave Germany with great haste. If Kirsch discovers that you are not on your way to Ravensbrück he will circulate a description of this car and its number. All ports, stations and aerodromes will be put on alert.’

  ‘Don’t you think you owe me an explanation, Herr Bloch? I saw you in Bloomsbury, then on the plane, then Orpenplatz and again Tempelhof. Now you have been ordered to drive me to Ravensbrück but you say you are going to get me out of the country. What is happening? Who are you?’

  ‘Bloomsbury? No.’ He shook his head. ‘Look, all you need to know is that I am on your side.’ His hands gripped the wheel in frustration. ‘God in heaven, this traffic!’

  ‘Please take me to Frank Foley’s apartment in Wilmersdorf. I beg you, Herr Bloch!’

  They were now stationary at the back of a line of cars and trucks. Bloch turned around again. ‘That is impossible,’ he said. ‘It would delay you. Anyway, his house is watched. I am going to take you to Tempelhof. You have a reservation for this evening’s Zurich flight. It is your only hope.’

  ‘The passport man will remember me.’

  ‘No, his shift will have ended.’

  ‘Mr Bloch, I trust Captain Foley. Give me one reason why I should trust you.’