Werewolf

by Matthew Pritchard

  It wasn’t an exaggeration. The situation in the British Zone was chaotic: no water, no electricity, no gas, no schools, no doctors. Roads and bridges had been bombed, train tracks destroyed. Millions were homeless, millions starving.

  From what Payne had seen, the arrival of hordes of CCG bureaucrats would do nothing to alleviate the problem. Payne had rubbed shoulders with all sorts of misfits at the ‘training’ session they’d been given before being sent out to Germany: drain inspectors, retired officers, failed businessmen and civil servants from every far flung corner of the Empire. Some Army wags were already saying CCG stood for Charlie Chaplin’s Grenadiers or Complete Chaos Guaranteed.

  As a fluent German speaker, Payne had been seconded from Scotland Yard to come and run a training school for German policemen, but the most productive thing he’d done during his first seventy-two hours in Germany was to sweep the floor of the police station. It was bloody frustrating, given the state of the country. That was why he’d jumped at the chance to look into this murder. The one thing Silas Payne truly feared was inactivity and he would do –

  The door to Housing Branch opened and Payne withdrew to a spot around the corner that was out of view, but only the clerk taking paperwork over to the Rathaus emerged. Payne resumed his vigil.

  He wondered how the German police would have handled a situation like this and decided he knew the answer. He’d seen the windowless cell deep in the basement of Eichenrode’s police station, the cell with the metal chair bolted to the ground and porcelain tiles on floor, walls and ceiling.

  Tiles: they were easier to sponge down afterwards. Look carefully and you could still see the brown-red stains on the grouting.

  That was no way to police a country and that was the whole point of his coming to Eichenrode. Germany’s national police force had been more or less forged by the Nazis and German policemen needed to learn what it meant to police society within a democracy. No more midnight knocks. No more Nacht und Nebel. No more tiled cells. The German police were to be public servants, nothing more. It was important the new Germany got that part right. How a society chose to police itself was a measure of how civilised it was. From what Payne had seen of Germany so far it had a long, long way to go.

  A few minutes later, the clerk returned. Payne withdrew around the corner again and watched as the man headed up the stairs, opened the door . . .

  . . . and Lockwood pushed past him down the stairs and set off along the road, walking with small, rapid strides.

  Payne gave him a twenty-yard head start, then set off after him.

  Wherever he was going, Lockwood was in a hurry. He didn’t want to be recognised, either: the little man wore a civilian coat over his CCG uniform and he walked with the brim of his hat pulled down.

  They crossed town for half-a-mile, heading towards Eichenrode’s eastern edge. The damage here was less severe and many of the British personnel had been stationed in houses there. Payne wondered whether Lockwood was headed back to his billet, but when he saw the man turn left and stop at a sandbag revetment manned by British soldiers, Payne realised Lockwood was making for the supply depot.

  The depot was the centre of life in Eichenrode, the only place you could get anything at the moment: food, clothing, blankets, chocolate, cigarettes, alcohol. During the war, Payne had heard soldiers laugh about the quality of the goods at the army stores, but, in the bleak economy of post-war Germany, with its boarded-up, bombed-out shops, the depot seemed a veritable Aladdin’s cave of wonders.

  The supply depot in Eichenrode occupied three warehouses. The canteen and kitchens were situated in the largest of the buildings, while the two other buildings held the stores. The whole area had been surrounded with barbed wire fences. Guards with rifles and Bren guns patrolled the perimeter.

  Lockwood headed for the larger of the two stores.

  Payne waited before following him inside the building, considering what to do. It was possible Lockwood was only here on some trivial errand. If he followed him inside, Lockwood would be alerted – something Payne wanted to avoid doing until he had some idea of what it was he was on to. However, it was also possible that Lockwood had come here because he wanted to speak to someone.

  He would take a chance and follow Lockwood inside, Payne decided. The little man’s attitude had been so hurried and furtive that Payne was convinced that his visit to the depot had some connection with the questions Payne had been asking about the murder house.

  Payne showed his ID papers to the guard on the door and walked inside, to a small room with a wooden counter. Half-a-dozen people in CCG uniforms were queuing before the counter, waiting to hand their requisition chits to the storemen. Long green curtains hung behind the counter and obscured the stores from view.

  Mr Lockwood was nowhere to be seen.

  Payne walked to the head of the queue, ignoring the grumbles behind him, and said to the storeman on duty: ‘A little man with glasses just came in. Did you see where he went?’

  The storeman pointed behind him with his thumb. ‘He’s round the back with the quartermaster sergeant. You can’t come through this way, though,’ he said when Payne went to lift a section of the wooden counter. ‘That’s for authorised personnel. Go outside and walk round the back.’

  Payne went outside and walked to the back of the building, wondering how it was that Mr Lockwood of Housing Branch had come to be considered ‘authorised personnel’ at an army supply depot.

  The ground at the back of the warehouse had been churned into thick mud by the passing of hundreds of vehicles. It was here that the lorries, trucks and utilities of the British Army came to collect their provisions. A dozen storemen in green shirts and braces carried boxes and crates out onto a ramp. Here soldiers loaded the goods into the back of their vehicles.

  Payne asked a storeman where the quartermaster sergeant was and the soldier pointed away to the left, towards a concrete outhouse. Payne walked between two of the lorries queuing to receive supplies, and followed the blind side of the vehicles to get closer to the outhouse.

  The regimental quartermaster sergeant was a stocky man with slicked back hair; he was about Payne’s age. He was listening to Lockwood speak, and, as he did so, a sneer appeared on his face. Lockwood was speaking with rapid, nervous hand movements, but he froze when the quartermaster sergeant stepped closer and grabbed his forearm.

  The man was trouble, Payne realised. He’d crossed swords with far too many cheap thugs and con men in his life not to recognise the expression on the quartermaster sergeant’s face as he wagged a finger at Lockwood. Bullying came easily to him; violence, too, most likely. Payne frowned when he noticed that the backs of the quartermaster sergeant’s trousers were stained with soot-like black marks.

  He watched as the two men continued to talk and Lockwood’s air of perturbation increased. Then the driver of the lorry which shielded Payne gave a long toot on the horn and shouted something at Payne from the cab. Both Lockwood and the quartermaster sergeant looked up, but Payne had already withdrawn. Payne crossed behind the vehicle’s tailgate and saw Lockwood hurrying away.

  Payne headed towards the front of the supply depot, thinking about the expression on Lockwood’s pale face. Payne recognised that, too: whatever it was that Lockwood had gotten into, he was in way over his head.

  9

  WHEN CAPTAIN JAMES Booth looked at his wristwatch for the third time in as many minutes, Chaplain Clifford said, ‘Am I keeping you from something, Captain?’

  Booth smiled and pulled the sleeve of his battle-blouse down. He’d been hoping to slip out and see Ursula this evening, but the chaplain’s visit had scotched that: curfew would begin in an hour and Booth couldn’t keep inventing excuses about why he needed to pass through checkpoints and sentry posts after dark. Besides, he didn’t want the chaplain to think him rude. Ursula’s present would have to wait until tomorrow.

  They chat
ted while the Polish boy, Piotr, prepared them tea. When Piotr leant over to pour, the chaplain tried not to stare at the boy’s face, but it was difficult not to: the upward twist of Piotr’s hare lip nearly reached his nose, revealing snaggled teeth and a moist patch of pinky-coloured gum.

  Piotr set the teapot on the table and extended a grimy hand. Booth handed him a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘He’s a trifle young to smoke, isn’t he?’ the chaplain said, when Piotr had left the room.

  ‘The cigarettes aren’t for him. Tobacco is the currency around here now. He uses them to buy food and firewood.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘I’ve never been able to establish that. About thirteen, I would guess, from the looks of him, though I’m not sure what his mental age would be. Truth be told, I don’t think he’s really all there, but you won’t meet a simpler, more helpful soul.’

  ‘Where on earth did you find him?’

  ‘I took him under my wing in Holland and he’s been with me ever since. The Nazis had him working in a factory there.’

  ‘He sounds fortunate to be alive.’

  ‘Yes. But the luck didn’t extend to his family. From what I’ve been able to ascertain, they’re all dead. But Piotr’s my good luck charm. I made a sort of covenant when I found him. I promised God I’d look after Piotr, no matter what, as long as nothing bad happened to me. Rather selfish, I know, but Piotr delivered admirably on his end of the bargain.’

  ‘Your concern for his welfare is admirable, captain,very admirable indeed.’ The chaplain blew on his tea and rested the cup in the saucer. ‘Actually, Piotr’s welfare is the reason I stopped by.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘One of my congregation mentioned you were looking after a Polish orphan. It just so happens, a friend of mine back in Hampshire has established a home for Polish children in a little Hampshire town called Fleet. I could speak to her if you liked, see if she had room for Piotr.’

  Booth shifted in his seat. ‘I don’t know if I’d want to send him off with strangers, padre.’

  ‘I understand that completely, but you have my personal assurance of the quality of this woman’s credentials. She is half-Polish herself, on her father’s side.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Also, there is the question of the suitability of the boy’s current environment: no schools, no family, the somewhat lax moral atmosphere that unfortunately prevails in Germany at the moment. It would be easy to imagine the boy falling in with a bad crowd, given the amount of time you are forced to dedicate to your duties.’

  Yes, there is that, Booth thought as he offered the chaplain a cigarette. ‘Can you tell me a bit more about this woman?’

  Ten minutes later, Chaplain Clifford finished his tea and rose. ‘I see I have piqued your interest, captain. Please feel free to consider the matter for a few days and let me know your decision.’

  Booth showed the chaplain to the front door and smoked a cigarette on the steps, looking out across the ruins of Eichenrode. Across the street, Piotr was playing some form of tag with a group of German children.

  Booth was only half joking about the covenant he’d made. When Booth had found Piotr, the boy had been little more than a tangle of pale skin and protuberant bones, sleeping beneath the machine he tended in a filthy Dutch factory – and yet, when Booth had wept at the boy’s pitiable condition, Piotr had smiled and hugged him and tried to wipe the tears from Booth’s face. That was the thing about Piotr, Booth had realised: despite all the horrors that had befallen him, he had never lost hope. That was why Booth had taken it upon himself to care for him. There was something pure and essential about the boy. If anything happened to Piotr, the world would be a worse place for it.

  His cigarette finished, Booth jumped into his jeep and drove west through the town. If he couldn’t see Ursula tonight, he might as well get on with some work and he had a new batch of information films to sort. They were making lots of these back in England now, short films and documentaries designed to be played to the occupation troops. The general idea was to outline what the purpose of the British occupation of north-west Germany was going to be, but no-one back home seemed to be controlling the output and the films often contradicted each other. When you watched the films back-to-back, as Booth did, it gave a depressingly composite view of the lack of direction behind the occupation: rather like a man groping his way through a darkened room trying not to bump into things.

  A church in the centre of Eichenrode had been rigged as a makeshift cinema, although the structure was less than perfect: the exterior walls were cracked and pitted and there were numerous holes in the roof. The evening air in this part of town was still heavy with the smells of war, gasoline, brick-dust, cooking fires and damp tarpaulin. Booth parked outside the cinema and headed towards the back door, but paused as a sudden peal of laughter drifted from within the building, the sort of laughter men make when they tell each other dirty jokes.

  The door to the cinema was locked. Booth rattled the handle then rapped loudly on it. The sound of hurried, furtive movements came from the other side. Then the bolt was drawn and Sergeant Hoyle’s face appeared in the crack.

  Hoyle was regular army and had a particular way of snapping out a parade-perfect salute when he had something to hide. Booth did not bother to return the salute. He pushed straight past Hoyle and said, ‘What the devil are you up to in here, sergeant?’

  A group of men was gathered inside. All stood to attention when they saw Booth’s insignia. Although the men were older than Booth, there was a curiously schoolboy air to them as they exchanged glances and hung their heads. They looked guilty as hell.

  Booth saw that the projector was set up with a roll of film and the huge white blanket that served as a screen was unrolled.

  ‘What are you watching? Don’t bother denying it; you’ve obviously just turned the projector off.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but it won’t be of any interest to –’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, sergeant. Now show me the damned film.’

  Hoyle looked sheepishly at the other men, then put the film on.

  The projector whirred and the film flickered into life, showing a black and white image of a bedroom. It took Booth’s eyes a moment to separate the grainy black and white images into two naked bodies copulating, the woman’s pale buttocks raised high as she knelt forward on the satin sheets, the man crouched behind her. Booth’s jaw dropped as he took in further details – the candles beside the bed, the huge mirror on the wall – then he said, ‘What the devil is this filth? Turn it off, sergeant. Turn it off, now.’

  Hoyle hurried to remove the film from the projector. Booth told the other men to leave.

  ‘Well, sergeant, you’ve some explaining to do,’ he said when they were alone.

  Hoyle was standing rigidly to attention again. He said nothing.

  ‘Where did you get this from?’

  ‘A patrol brought some canisters of film in when we were first billeted here.’

  ‘How many canisters of film are there?’

  ‘Four, sir.’

  ‘You’d better let me see them.’

  Hoyle took a box from under the table. Inside, there were four circular metal film canisters. In the centre of each lid was a piece of paper. TO BE USED WITH was printed on it in German, followed by a vertical list of German surnames. Nearly all of the surnames had been crossed through, although Booth noticed some of the surnames were repeated on different canisters.

  Booth opened one of the tins. The circular label stuck to the inside had a strange oval shaped design on it – a vertical sword circled by a loop of ribbon, the whole surrounded by runic designs – and the words Wehrwissenschaftliche Zweckforschung printed below it. Booth frowned when he saw that: it meant Military Scientific Research.

  ‘How long have these private viewings been going on, sergeant?’

 
‘Not long, sir.’

  Booth gestured towards the film canisters.

  ‘Is the content of all four films sexual in nature?’

  ‘That one is. The other two are something different.’ Hoyle’s face clouded. ‘It’s not very pleasant stuff, sir.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Each film ran for about two minutes. The films were all silent, the images blurred and grainy.

  The first film showed groups of five men in civilian clothes being made to run from a point behind the camera down into a gully. Away to the right and left of the image, German soldiers stood with rifles, chatting amongst themselves and smoking. At a signal, they lifted their rifles and fired down into the pit. Another five men were then run forward and the process was repeated. A German soldier chewing a hunk of bread walked in front of the camera and smiled. The image faded.

  In the second film, naked women stood in single file, arms wrapped around sagging breasts in an attempt at modesty. Some stared at the ground, others had their mouths open, as if wailing. One among them stared openly towards the camera, shouting at the cameraman.

  ‘Oh Lord, don’t you dare!’ Booth said when a German soldier appeared from the left of the image, threw the woman to the ground and shot her twice in the head with a pistol. The camera lingered on the blood pooling beneath her hair; then the image flickered and faded to be replaced by a vast tangle of limbs.

  Hundreds of dead bodies were piled on top of each other in a concrete chamber. Men wearing leather aprons and equipped with metal tie tongs dragged the bodies on to carts. The floor was covered in a dark pool of effluent.

  The film finished. The loose end of the reel whickered within the projector as Booth and Hoyle stared towards the now empty screen. Booth could say nothing. His mouth hung open.

  ‘I said it wasn’t very pleasant viewing, sir.’

  ‘You know what this is, don’t you, sergeant? This is evidence of war crimes. When the hell were you planning on showing this to me?’