Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Northgate let out a gruff laugh. ‘The justice wasn’t at all pleased to be removed from his bed. But yes, I’ve got it.’

  Eaton pulled away and drove to St Andrew’s Street where a police car with two uniformed constables was waiting. He signalled to them and they followed in his wake.

  The morning was bright and fresh, the roads clear as they made their way south.

  At Old Hall, there was no sign of life as the vehicles trundled up the long driveway and ground to a halt on the gravel forecourt. Eaton went to the front door with Northgate.

  One of Milt Hardiman’s men opened the door. After a brief exchange with Eaton, he disappeared indoors and returned in the company of his master. Hardiman snorted with derision. ‘Well, good morning, and what the hell sort of boy scout deputation is this?’

  ‘Mr Hardiman?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name is Eaton, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Northgate. We’re here to search your property.’

  Hardiman was in his tennis whites. ‘I’m eating my breakfast, goddamn it. Then I’ve got a coaching session. I say again, what is this?’

  ‘A child is missing. We’re having to search all properties in the area. Also outbuildings. It has been suggested he might have been seen in this area.’

  ‘Is this really how you do things? You just turn up at my house?’

  ‘We have a warrant. Just carry on with your breakfast, Mr Hardiman. If everything is in order this won’t take long.’ He turned to Northgate. ‘Detective Chief Inspector, why don’t you drive up to the farm buildings with one of the constables. Look through the woods, too. I’ll take the house with the other officer.’

  Hardiman pushed out his chest and glared at Eaton. ‘Look, buddy, I understand you need to search the countryside. But inside my goddamned house – what’s that about?’

  ‘Just being thorough, Mr Hardiman.’

  ‘The only child in this house is my son, who is presently eating breakfast with us.’

  ‘We’ll be fine – you carry on.’

  ‘Am I suspected of something? Should I be calling my lawyer?’ An edge of anger now.

  ‘That’s up to you. But if you’ve nothing to hide, then why waste your money?’

  ‘Well, I’ve nothing to hide.’ He glared at Eaton. ‘Is this the way you usually treat guests to your stinking little country? Just march into their house like Stalin’s secret police?’

  Eaton shrugged off the remark and stepped into the hall with one of the constables, while Northgate clambered into the police car and set off across the parkland.

  *

  Nothing. They found nothing. The barn was empty save for a rusting nineteenth century plough, a modern tractor and some other farm equipment. The other outbuildings contained stores of various fertilisers and weedkillers and more farm gear.

  ‘There was a scrubbed area of concrete floor, which smelt of disinfectant,’ Northgate told Eaton when they met up half an hour later. ‘That suggested to me that there had been some hurried clearing up – but no proof of anything untoward.’

  The house had been just as unfruitful. He entered all the rooms, tried every cupboard and larder, looked in every hearth and coffer. He looked under beds, in all the drawers, all the while wondering: was it possible that the German boy was kept here? Or Birbach, or Hellquist? What exactly was he looking for? What was Hardiman concealing? In his mind, he was in no doubt that Wilde had stumbled onto something during the night – but what?

  Wilde had told Eaton that he might run into the movie star Clarissa Lancing. He found her at the breakfast table with Hardiman and the other occupants of the house, Hardiman’s wife and son. He questioned them all. There was a missing child in the area – had he been here? The physicist’s sister laughed at him, the American boy asked the constable if he could try on his handcuffs, Hardiman’s wife offered Eaton coffee, which he declined.

  ‘My dog ran away last night,’ the boy said. ‘Mom says I can have another. We’re going to the pet shop.’

  ‘I said no such thing, Theo. I said Izzy was sure to turn up soon enough. Are you sure you won’t have that coffee, Mr Eaton?’

  Eaton had looked at these people and had not been put at ease. In his head, he could see the coming war in all its horror; never had he been so sure of anything. What use would boxes of masks be when the gas bombs rained down? He thought of his old mentor, Horace Dill, on his deathbed and thought he might be better off in the void. This was not the way it was supposed to have been. He, Eaton, had been part of that generation told that the war to end all wars had been fought; he was of the generation that believed the ideologies of brotherhood and common wealth could solve all mankind’s problems. He had lived a life of privilege and had felt shame for the ease he had always enjoyed. Now he felt sick at heart and helpless.

  As they drove away mid-morning, Eaton sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘If you ask me, Mr Eaton,’ Northgate said, ‘it was all a bit stagey. Too perfect.’

  Yes, it had been. But that was no help. He felt hollow. ‘I think we need to increase security at the Cavendish.’

  *

  The letter was on the table between them. Lydia and Wilde on one side, Eva Haas facing them.

  ‘You had no right to go through my things.’

  ‘You were missing. I was worried.’

  ‘I was late, not missing. Is this prison – or boarding school? Perhaps I am back at Girton.’

  ‘This is avoiding the point,’ Lydia said. ‘Your son has been taken hostage – and demands have been made of you. But you told no one.’

  ‘You have read the letter. Would you risk a child’s life in such circumstances, Lydia?’

  ‘What have you been asked to do?’

  Silence.

  ‘Eva, this is not good enough. We are desperate to help you and find Albert safe and well – but you must help us.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are dealing with.’

  ‘I think we have a pretty good idea.’

  ‘Do you think they won’t kill him?’

  This time it was Wilde and Lydia’s turn to be silent.

  Eva continued. ‘I have lived under the rule of the Nazis for six years now, Lydia. A Jew is a Jew to them, whatever their age. We are vermin, subhumans, to be driven out or destroyed.’

  Lydia dropped her gaze. She had seen the endless line of desperate people on Tiergartenstrasse. She had seen the way the SS and the SA tormented and bullied them. And all the while, the world stood by. But she could not let Eva dodge their questions. ‘Tell me about Baumgarten,’ she said. ‘Describe him to me.’

  Eva shrugged. There was a full cup of coffee in front of her, and half a packet of Woodbines. ‘What is the point?’ she said, reaching for the cigarettes.

  ‘Did you know it was a joke among the SD – that they call themselves “Baumgarten”?’ Lydia asked. ‘A code name. Something foolish like that.’

  Eva lit her cigarette and drew deeply. ‘Are you saying that the man who helped Uncle Arnold escape was from the SD?’

  ‘I’m saying exactly that. His escape was staged.’

  ‘But the man was a Jew! He spoke Yiddish!’

  ‘I’m not sure that proves anything. I speak French – that does not make me French.’

  ‘But why would they help us escape like that? If they wanted us out of Germany, they could just have put us on a train.’

  ‘Don’t be disingenuous, Eva,’ Lydia said. ‘You know very well what I’m saying. I’m saying they offered a way out for you and Dr Lindberg and your son in exchange for something. Something you would do for them in this country. A little espionage, perhaps. But what you weren’t banking on was that they would take Albert hostage, just to be sure you didn’t renege on the deal.’

  Eva turned her head away, then snorted. ‘If you think you know so much, why ask me?’

  ‘Because we need to know what they are planning,’ Wilde said. ‘We need to know exactly what they have deman
ded of you – and who is behind it. Is it Hardiman?’

  Silence.

  ‘We are aware that there may be some connection to the Irish Republican Army, who seem to have sold their souls to the German foreign intelligence service. Have you had anything to do with them?’

  Silence.

  ‘There are only two reasons they would need to use a physicist like you,’ Wilde said. ‘Firstly, to get inside the Cavendish. Secondly, to understand what is happening there.’

  Smoke spiralled from the edge of her lips.

  ‘Lindberg was never important, was he?’ Wilde said. ‘Because of his reputation, he seemed useful to the British – a reason for them to grant refuge to you.’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Professor Wilde?’

  ‘Confirm it.’

  She shrugged again. Another silence. She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray. The room stank of stale smoke and ash.

  ‘Have you met an Irishman named O’Gara? They have killed him. Did you know about that?’

  Wilde watched her. She was a tough one all right: obdurate, secretive and ferociously protective. He had seen her soak up the vicious anti-Semitism of Milt Hardiman at Old Hall. But how much of that was the armour that every mother in the world adopts when her child is in peril? The problem here was that Eva Haas might be doing her son more harm than good.

  ‘Have you seen Albert?’ Wilde said. ‘Have you been given further proof that he is alive?’

  Silence. A tear bubbled up in her left eye. She quickly brushed it away.

  They had been here over an hour. The questions were repeated; the answers either didn’t come, or were evasive. Eva’s untouched coffee was cold but her cigarette supply was depleted. Wilde wondered if he should wake Lindberg. Did he know anything? Might he persuade his niece to talk?

  The telephone rang. Wilde left the two women in the kitchen and went into the hall to answer it.

  ‘Wilde?’ It was Eaton. ‘We found nothing. The whole place is as clean as a whistle.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’m in a kiosk over the road from the police station, and I’m on my way to the Cavendish to work on some better security with them. At the moment, they have one uniformed constable stationed outside the gate, and that’s it. How have you got on with Dr Haas?’

  ‘She’s saying nothing, but she’s clearly desperately upset. I’m going to bring Lindberg into the conversation. I’m not sure he’ll help, but it’s worth a try.’

  ‘And if no joy, then what? Keep her holed up, I suppose.’

  Wilde had thought about that. He eyed the door to the kitchen. It was shut, but he lowered his voice anyway. ‘No, we can’t keep her prisoner. Better to let her go – and follow her.’

  Eaton understood instantly. ‘Take her to the Cavendish and leave her there. If she slips out, we’ll be watching for her. Whatever else she is, I doubt she’s an expert in avoidance strategy.’

  ‘And will you be her tail?’

  ‘She knows me. Not sure any of the local coppers would be up to it. Stick out like sore thumbs.’

  An idea struck. ‘My gyp, Bobby. He’s a good man. Very sound.’

  ‘Brilliant. Fix it, Wilde.’

  *

  When Wilde knocked at the bedroom door, he found Lindberg sitting on the side of his bed, holding his head in his hands. He looked up.

  ‘And to think I was having a decent night’s sleep before the Gestapo dragged me out of bed.’

  ‘They are nothing like the Gestapo. The British police do not even carry guns.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I am like a bear disturbed in its hibernation this morning. I think I need coffee.’

  ‘Come downstairs,’ said Wilde. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you a few things about your niece.’

  *

  Philip Eaton checked his watch as he stepped out of the telephone kiosk. He was more worried than he had been in a long time. This was all spinning out of control: he felt outnumbered and outgunned.

  They were being attacked. He knew who was behind it – and he had not a shred of evidence.

  He needed to protect the Cavendish. They couldn’t surround it by armed guards, they needed something more subtle. Someone inside the building, perhaps. Northgate was supposed to be on the case, but did he have the resources?

  Eaton stepped from the kerb to cross St Andrew’s Street. The delivery van hit him at fifty miles per hour – far too fast for a street like this – hurling him up and onto the vehicle’s roof, then dashing him to the ground. It happened in a fraction of a second. The van didn’t stop or slow down. Dozens of shocked people saw the collision, but no one got the make or number plate of the vehicle. Nor did they note the driver with the fixed eyes, the turned down mouth and the gingery-red shock of hair.

  Eaton’s limp body lay discarded like a child’s toy in the centre of the road.

  CHAPTER 33

  Lydia was exhausted. Questioning Eva had taken its toll of all concerned. Dr Lindberg had done nothing to persuade his niece to provide more information.

  ‘Eva,’ he had said. ‘What is going on?’

  She had shaken her head irritably. ‘Oh, uncle – go back to bed!’ she said, as if he were a senile old man. Lindberg had looked hurt and said nothing more.

  Wilde had chased off to college to recruit Bobby, but before he went he took Lydia aside and explained the plan to follow Eva. He told her that Bobby was under instructions to telephone Cornflowers the moment he discovered anything. They discussed whether Geoff Lancing should be informed, but given his association with Hardiman and Old Hall – as well as the presence of his sister – Wilde decided it was politic to leave him in the dark. Just for the moment.

  Lydia had waited until the late morning, before she appeared to relent. ‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘You’re obviously not going to say any more and you’re not a prisoner. Come on, I’ll take you to the Cavendish. I’m going into town anyway – and there can be no harm in you using the lab’s library.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Eva Haas said. ‘I am indebted to you, Lydia.’

  *

  Bobby was not the sort of man you’d notice on the street. Short and wiry as only jockeys and ex-jockeys can be, he held his cigarette cupped in his hand and avoided eye contact with passers-by, lounging with his back to the wall of the Cavendish Lab. He didn’t even turn his head when Lydia Morris passed by with the German man and woman, but from the corner of his eye he glanced at the German woman. She would be easy to remember.

  Miss Morris made sure Eva and her uncle were inside the Cavendish, then turned to leave. This time she nodded to him and he nodded back.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting.

  A pair of policemen now stood by the main gate. Eyeing Bobby suspiciously, one of them came over and told him to move on. ‘You’re not picking any pockets here, sunshine, not on my watch.’

  ‘It’s a free country,’ Bobby said truculently. “I’ll stand where I bloody well like!’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘What is this? Nazi bloody Germany or something? I’m waiting for a mate. We’re going to catch a bus to Newmarket for the second day of the meeting.’

  The officer grumbled and moved back to his post.

  *

  Lydia wanted to see Horace Dill, but not just yet. Eaton had told her how ill Horace was, and he was a good friend of hers; they shared a fondness for left-wing politics, although Horace had always sneered good-humouredly at her wet Fabianism. But after a night without sleep, she felt too exhausted to cope with a desperately sick man: she needed sleep. Badly.

  Instead, she went straight home where she found Wilde in her bed. He, too, had been awake all night. Undressing, she slipped between the covers beside her lover’s sleeping form. His body was warm; she had almost forgotten the warmth of the human body these past months. She curled against him and breathed deeply; she had not forgotten his particular earthy, manly scent.

  Lydia nestled deeper against Wilde’s back. She wrapped her arms around hi
m and cupped his prick and balls in her hands. He moaned softly in his sleep. She closed her eyes and pressed even closer to him, badly wanting him inside her. But exhaustion took over from anticipation and she drifted off. Still holding him. She wanted him to wake like that.

  *

  The German woman reappeared at the Cavendish door an hour after entering the building. She stopped and looked around. She didn’t appear to notice Bobby. She lit a cigarette, hands shaking, then walked at a brisk pace up Free School Lane and left into Bene’t Street.

  Bobby hobbled after her. His joints weren’t what they were, but he could move quickly enough when necessary. He didn’t want Professor Wilde or anyone else at the college thinking he wasn’t fit enough to do his work. This was no time to be signing on at the Labour Exchange, not with good jobs so hard to come by. And the college position was a good one – warm, plenty of food and gifts at Christmas courtesy of the dons and the undergraduates, some of whom had wealth enough to share around.

  And so here he was, with a fiver from the professor burning a hole in his pocket just for tailing this woman. He rather liked the look of her. She was small like him, smooth-skinned and she had a good figure. Professor Wilde had told him not to follow her on to any private property but just to make a note of the address and report back from the nearest telephone kiosk. If she got in a car, he was to make a note of the number and try to get descriptions of any other occupants. Whatever happened, he was not to put himself in danger.

  He wasn’t worried. No one noticed Bobby or his ilk. Most of the clever men and boys who infested this town looked straight through the college servants. Professor Wilde was a bit unusual like that in the way he would pass the time of day with you. As for the German gentleman, Birbach, well, he had been a decidedly odd one. Never said more than the occasional word to Bobby. ‘My bulb light is kaput,’ perhaps. Or ‘Fetch I a box of chalks.’ No pleases, no thank yous, no ‘Nice weather today.’

  ‘This isn’t linked to poor Dr Birbach, is it, sir?’ he had asked Wilde.

  ‘No questions, Bobby. Just keep it simple.’

  Ahead of him, the German woman turned left on to Trumpington Street, then right on to Silver Street, past Queen’s College and down towards the river by the weir. Halfway across the bridge, she stopped and looked north, gazing at the intricate puzzle of the Mathematical Bridge, a footbridge made of wooden struts. She threw the stub of her cigarette into the slow green waters of the Cam and lit another one.