Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Wilde made for the door. There was no more to be said. ‘Then I’m sorry to have barged in on you, Geoff. She’ll probably be home by now.’

  ‘No doubt about it. And I’ll see her in the morning because we’re meeting for breakfast.’ Lancing knocked back his whisky. ‘You know, Tom, studying bloody Walsingham has given you a suspicious mind. Sometimes you just have to give someone the benefit of the doubt. She’s a good one. I’m sure of it.’

  *

  On his way home, he noticed a small black car parked badly outside Lydia’s house. The driver’s door was open and the headlights were on, but there was no one about. Had Lydia arrived? He went to the front door and rang the bell. There were no lights on and no one answered. It was pretty clear the car wasn’t hers. Perhaps it had been stolen and abandoned. He went to his own house next door.

  There was no sign that Eva had returned. Wilde listened outside Lindberg’s door again and was reassured by his thunderous snoring. He checked his watch. 12.15 a.m.

  Removing his shoes, he padded upstairs to her room, which was next to the bathroom. He put his ear to Eva’s door. Utter silence. As quietly as he could, he twisted the door handle. The door opened without creaking and he put his head around. ‘Frau Haas?’ he said softly, little more than a whisper. No response. Peering into the darkness, he said it again, a little louder. Nothing. He switched on the light. The bed hadn’t been slept in.

  Eva’s knapsack was on the floor. The buckles were broken and the straps were loose. Without moving it from its position on the floorboards beneath the window, he flipped the top and looked in. He didn’t want to disturb anything if he could help it, but he slid his hand past a couple of books, a crumpled cardigan, some underwear and some pieces of jewellery. Was that really all she had in the world?

  There was another pocket on the front of the knapsack. There were papers in there – in another name and containing German stamps. An envelope, too, with a letter. He slid it out carefully. The envelope was plain white: no name, no address, no postmark.

  It had already been ripped open. Inside was a sheet of paper. A one-page letter written in German in a child’s careful hand. It was from Albert. Wilde knew enough to understand the gist. It began My Dear Mother and said he was being well looked-after, that he was being fed enough though he didn’t like the food very much, that he was missing her. The sort of things Wilde himself had written to his own mother from boarding school. Boys of eight or nine are stoical creatures. They do not tell their mothers how homesick they are. Would not mention their tears. The letter ended as formally as it had begun, Your devoted son, Albert.

  It was painful to read. Wilde was about to fold it and slip it back into the envelope, when he spotted something written on the reverse side. In a different hand – a plain adult hand, forward sloping – were two sentences that froze his blood.

  Jew, your son will die if you do not do exactly as we say. Go to Cambridge and wait to be contacted.

  CHAPTER 30

  Wilde read the note again. So the boy was, indeed, being held hostage – and his mother knew it. Why had Eva not confided in someone? Why had she not called the police? Had she let Lydia go off to Berlin blind? Perhaps he was being unfair; perhaps she didn’t even know Lydia had gone to Germany. One thing was certain: her precipitous journey to Cambridge must have been the result of the demand in the letter.

  There was something else, though. With no address or name on the envelope, surely that meant it must have been delivered to her by hand. By whom? Where? When? Had contact already been made in Cambridge? Might that explain her disappearances, or even her present whereabouts? The most important question, of course, was what was wanted of her. But you didn’t have to be a scientific genius to work out that it had to be something to do with the Cavendish Laboratory.

  Wilde’s mind was racing, gathering disparate information into a narrative. The death of Dr Paul Birbach; his presence at the home of Milt Hardiman. Hardiman’s link to Henty O’Gara and the IRA. The disappearance of Torsten Hellquist.

  The disappearance of Torsten Hellquist.

  Hellquist had said he was getting out of Cambridge fast; he’d been worried for his own safety. But perhaps he hadn’t been fast enough. Hellquist and Birbach – two men who believed they held the secrets of the superbomb: the theorist who knew how a device could be made relatively simply and the technician who could make it happen. How dearly would Hitler and his generals like to get their hands on such knowledge?

  And now here was another strand: Frau Dr Eva Haas under duress. A mother trying to protect her child.

  Wilde placed the letter back in the envelope, slipped it back into the front pocket of the knapsack and buckled it up as he had found it. He took a last look around the room, switched off the light and closed the door.

  Downstairs, he dialled Eaton’s number again. Once again, Terence Carstairs answered.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s most unlike him, but he has not called me. And until he does so, I have no way of making contact.’

  ‘When he does, you must stress the urgency. Tell him I have a grave situation here in Cambridge.’

  Wilde put the phone down. The whisky bottle had lost its allure. He needed a clear head. He was just about to return to the sitting room, when he heard a noise, a scratching and a soft cry. It seemed to be coming from the back garden. Eva Haas?

  Wilde, still in stockinged feet, strode through the house. Opening the back door, he stepped out and almost stumbled over the body of a man, collapsed on the pathway.

  Bending down, Wilde recognised Henty O’Gara. He could smell blood and felt its slippery stickiness on his hands. A lot of blood, on his body and hands and face.

  ‘Henty – in God’s name what’s happened to you?’

  The man was gasping for breath, trying to say something. Wilde couldn’t make it out.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’

  Wilde was getting to his feet, but O’Gara’s fingers curled around his wrist. His grip was desperate, but weak.

  ‘I’ve been shot, Tom.’

  The words were faint but Wilde heard them. He leaned closer.

  ‘Who shot you?’

  ‘Scavenger,’ O’Gara whispered.

  ‘Henty, give me a name . . .’

  O’Gara’s breathing was coming slower and shallower, now. His grip on Wilde’s wrist loosened and his hand fell away.

  ‘Henty, I’ve got to get help. Hold on. I’ll be back in less than a minute, I promise you.’

  He ran indoors and got through to the police straight away and told them to send an ambulance. Throwing the phone down, he grabbed a torch and clean tea towels and ran back outside. O’Gara was still breathing but he was now unconscious.

  ‘Hold on, Henty,’ Wilde urged. ‘Hold on!’

  O’Gara had been shot at least twice, once in his chest and once in his upper left arm, but there was so much blood, Wilde couldn’t tell where else he might have been injured. He tried to staunch the blood flow from the chest wound, reasoning that would be the most life-threatening.

  The ambulance arrived within four minutes of the call. Wilde heard it pulling up, and ran down the side of the house.

  ‘Over here!’ he shouted.

  Two ambulance men hurried round the corner, stretcher at the ready.

  They were too late. Wilde had lost O’Gara’s pulse two minutes ago.

  *

  Lydia was wide awake. Eaton had given her two pills, which he said were amphetamines. They were in a comfortable sitting room in Chelsea. Just Eaton, Lydia and a man named Davis.

  It was 2 a.m. They had been here four and a half hours.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ Eaton said before the questioning started. ‘But it’s important that we get every last detail out of you while it’s still fresh in your mind. From what you have told us, there could be real danger to our country. Mr Davis is an expert at discovering anything that might help us – even things you think unimportant or that you might have forg
otten.’

  Lydia sank into an ancient sofa of fine but very scratched morocco. Davis, a balding, grey-bearded man of about fifty, sat opposite her on a Victorian dining chair, leaning forward so that he was peering down at her with his warm but intense grey eyes. His gaze was comforting rather than disconcerting. She noticed that the phone was off the hook.

  He wanted a full rundown on her time in Germany, hour by hour, minute by minute. All the events, all the people – Manfred Bloch on the plane, Miss Forster. Frank Foley, JT McGinn, the murdered man who would only give his name as Fritz, the priest at St Hedwig’s, the Gestapo officer Rudolf Kirsch, and then Bloch again.

  For much of the time Davis listened, scratching notes constantly, but every now and then he would put in a question. ‘Describe the man in the church again, if you would, Miss Morris.’

  Eaton stood near the unlit hearth saying little, watching and listening. Occasionally, he brought tea and biscuits from the kitchen.

  The longer the questioning continued, the more detailed it became. Gradually Davis honed it down to five specifics: the suggestion that Albert Haas had come to England after all; the allegation that Eva Haas was not all she seemed to be: ‘What do you think was meant by that, Miss Morris?’ he asked, head tilted to one side; the IRA’s involvement with the Abwehr; the possible threat of a big attack in Britain; and the veiled warning about IG Farben and the work of men named Schrader and Ambros.

  Much of his line of questioning went over Lydia’s head. She had no idea who Schrader or Ambros might be or even if she had remembered their names correctly. Davis did not seem inclined to tell her.

  Eventually, Eaton brought the session to a halt. ‘I think we’ve had enough for one night, Davis,’ he said, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Miss Morris needs her sleep.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t need sleep at all. Something stronger than tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Not sure how alcohol mixes with amphetamines, but if you’re willing to risk it I’m pretty sure there’s some whisky about the place.’

  ‘Is this your house, Mr Eaton?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous. You live in some style.’

  ‘Thank you. I inherited the place from my father. Chelsea might not be the smartest part of town, but I have always loved it. My father was an artist, you see. His daily routine involved home, the studio at the back and the Arts Club in the next street.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She bolted with an army officer when I was twelve. I didn’t see a great deal of her after that, what with Eton, then Cambridge. My holidays were all spent here or in the south of France where my father painted every summer.’ He smiled and turned to Davis who was waiting by the door, briefcase in hand. ‘Got what you need, Davis?’

  ‘I’ll have a full report sent over to Carstairs first thing, Mr Eaton.’

  After he had gone, Eaton put the telephone back on the hook, then poured drinks.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a cigarette?’

  He flipped open his silver cigarette case and she took one. He struck a match and she drew in the smoke. Just this one, she thought.

  Eaton downed his whisky in one. ‘Look, I know it’s damnably late, but I’m worried about Cambridge. Baumgarten mentioned a big attack in Britain – and I know there are thousands of potential targets – but I can’t help thinking of the Cavendish. I want to drive up there tonight. The choice is yours. You can stay here and have the run of the place or come with me.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Good girl. Just one more thing. Are you absolutely certain that the man who first identified himself as Manfred Bloch, and subsequently as Baumgarten, was the same man you saw in the street outside Bloomsbury House with Eva Haas?’

  ‘I thought so – but I’m so tired and confused, I’m no longer sure of anything, Mr Eaton.’

  Eaton smiled. ‘I understand. But you can be sure of one thing. You are alive and free only because they believed you were a Quaker. Without that they would not have hesitated to detain you or worse, simply for prying.’

  *

  Detective Inspector Tomlinson removed his spectacles, blinked in the harsh light and rubbed his tired eyes. There was no lampshade in his office, merely a bare hundred-watt bulb dangling from a wire in the centre of the ceiling.

  Wilde had him down as a precise, unimaginative man. A man of honour, no doubt, who worked hard, but not someone who could cope with anything that did not fit the rule book. Special Branch officer Ted Northgate, the third person in this room, was another matter.

  ‘So how exactly did you know the dead man?’ Tomlinson asked Wilde for the third time.

  ‘I’ve told you, Inspector Tomlinson.’ Wilde was trying hard not to lose his patience. ‘Henty O’Gara’s father was my uncle. We’re first cousins. As boys, we spent a holiday together in Galway, western Ireland. This week, we ran into each other again by chance and he told me he was here for Newmarket. As I said before, we hadn’t seen each other for over a quarter of a century.’

  The conversation was pointless. Wilde badly wanted to speak to Eaton.

  ‘Did you know that we were looking for an Irish bomber, Professor Wilde?’

  Wilde could not prevent his eyes drifting heavenwards. ‘Yes, of course. The Thompson’s Lane explosion.’

  Northgate who had listened in silence for ten minutes stepped forward. ‘Inspector Tomlinson,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll take this over, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you could make contact with your beat officers, see if any of them might have information on Mr O’Gara’s movements. It is entirely possible his car was seen in the hours before his death.’

  Tomlinson stiffened, painfully aware that he was being dismissed from his own domain. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  When Tomlinson had gone, Northgate ran a hand across his smooth, completely bald pate and smiled at Wilde. ‘I’m sorry, Professor, it’s late. Everyone’s tired and Inspector Tomlinson has a lot on his plate.’ His voice was soft and deep. Some might call it a growl.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Not often Cambridge has one murder, let alone two.’

  Wilde was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair in front of Tomlinson’s desk. Northgate now took the chair facing him. ‘Indeed not. But I’m afraid there’s not a lot more I can tell you about Henty O’Gara. Our two sides of the family had drifted apart in recent years.’

  ‘I understand. But you must see our interest in the connection between you and the deceased gentleman. He died in your garden, Professor Wilde, and you share Irish heritage.’ The Special Branch man sighed, sucking air through his brown front teeth. ‘And this at a time when certain Irishmen have been causing mayhem in mainland Britain.’

  Wilde almost laughed. ‘Well, I’m not a member of the IRA, Detective Chief Inspector. I’m afraid I can’t vouch for my cousin.’

  ‘As he was dying, you told my colleague he said something. The word Scavenger. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did the word mean anything to you?’

  Wilde hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t seem sure, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Then let me enlighten you. We know that the Scavenger is the nom de guerre of the IRA’s chief man in England, the one directing their bombing campaign. We would very much like to find him and put him away. It would be fair to say he is the most wanted man in Britain.’

  Wilde said nothing. Waited.

  ‘We are greatly stretched, Professor. Bombs are going off in every corner of the country, almost every day. Cinemas, bridges, hotels, airports, railways. I have not seen my children in three weeks. I would very much like to put the Scavenger away. For good.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So any help you can give me . . .’

  What could Wilde say? Not the whole truth, certainly. ‘Henty knew where I lived. Perhaps I was the first person he though
t of when he needed help. An act of desperation by a mortally wounded man.’

  Northgate eyed him as though he knew he was holding something back. ‘Your cousin’s mention of the word Scavenger suggests one of two things to me. Either he was referring to himself – confessing that he was the Scavenger. Or – and I rather think this is more likely – he was shot by the Scavenger or one of his lieutenants. A falling-out among villains perhaps. The doctors tell me he was hit by four bullets. Chest, upper left arm, left hand and thigh. As yet, I have no calibre for the bullet nor a likely make of weapon, but we’ll know soon enough. I am also extremely keen to discover where the shooting took place.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No thoughts?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And then there’s the other thing, isn’t there? The death of your colleague Dr Paul Birbach. You seem to be having rather bad luck with your friends and relations, Professor . . .’

  Wilde went silent again. This really was stuff he needed to discuss with Philip Eaton. The whole question of Birbach, the Cavendish, the missing Torsten Hellquist, Eva Haas and her son, the White House mission and the people at Old Hall. These were not things to be spoken of here and now. Not without the say-so of Eaton at the very least.

  ‘Professor?’

  ‘I hear you, Detective Chief Inspector – and I am as bewildered as you are. No, that’s not the half of it. I am devastated by the violent deaths of the two men I knew. Harsh things have been said about my cousin, but I believe he was a fine man.’

  Northgate had thick shoulders and a head that disappeared into his neck, like a blunt artillery shell. He looked like a rugby forward, a man accustomed to intimidating less physical men. ‘In the case of Dr Birbach, you have taken it upon yourself to do a little amateur investigating, I believe.’

  Wilde was not intimidated. ‘If you mean that I wasn’t paid, yes, it was amateur. But something needed to be done. Very little effort seemed to be emanating from this place.’ He looked around the musty, smoky office.

  The Special Branch officer allowed a smile to cross his lips. ‘Well, I’m here now.’

  ‘Which is all to the good,’ said Wilde.