by Leo McNeir
“Alles in Ordnung, Herr Kapitän,” she said, grinning.
“Danke,” he replied. “Though I think I’d more likely be a Kapitän-Leutnant on a U-boat.” He smiled. “Have you been taking German lessons?”
“Not really. They showed an old film on the telly, The Spy in Black, and I picked up some useful phrases.”
On their way to the mooring she had also picked up some sandwiches and fruit, and they ate an early lunch on XO2 sitting in the comfortable dinette. Anne recognised the same range of smells on the boat that she had noticed in the house, and she suspected that Donovan tried to carry a little piece of Germany with him as a reminder of home. She asked him if he felt more German than British, to which he replied he felt he was a mixture of both and reminded her that he also had Irish connections on his father’s side.
After lunch they methodically shut up the boat and walked back to the car. Anne felt a twinge of nerves as she realised her moment was coming. Donovan reassured her that if the plan went wrong, nothing could happen to her. They would just have to find some other way of tracing Dick. But deep down inside, she had a feeling that time was running out.
*
By the time they reached the campus of London Barbican University in the city centre, the lunch break was ending and staff, students and summer conference delegates alike were returning for their respective afternoon sessions. Donovan took a chance on getting into the underground car park and turned in to find the attendant away from his post.
“Good omen, perhaps?” he muttered to Anne, as he tucked the little car into a corner slot out of view, as far away from the entrance cabin as possible. On the top of the dashboard where it would barely be legible in shadow, he placed a parking permit from Brunel University and beside it a card marked VISITOR with another university’s crest. He had used it once when attending a seminar at the University of Southampton.
“Neither of those is strictly speaking valid,” Anne observed as they climbed the stairs out of the car park.
“No.”
“So what will you do if the cark park attendant sees you … make up an excuse?”
“Returning books to the library,” Donovan said, unabashed. “And by the time he catches up with me, I’ll be leaving anyway.”
“Immer eine Antwort,” Anne said, “Always an answer.”
“You have been taking lessons!”
“I learnt that from Uschi last year. That was her opinion of you, too.”
“Got all your things?” Donovan said, pulling the exit door open.
Anne patted her shoulder bag. “All present and correct.”
“Good luck,” he said quietly as he kissed her.
They emerged into the open air. Donovan immediately took Anne by the arm and inclined his head towards a group of young women walking ahead of them on the pavement.
“Attach yourself to them. They’ll be good cover.”
Anne quickly caught up with the group and asked the nearest girl which way was the library. She offered to show Anne and asked which summer school she was attending. Anne took a folder out of her shoulder bag and held it under her arm. She replied vaguely that she was involved in an archaeological dig and just wanted to organise a visitor’s pass to use the car park. They were chatting amiably together as they reached the security booth, and the guard on duty barely spared them a glance as the girls strolled through.
*
Marnie looked up at the wall clock in the office. Anne and Donovan would probably be on campus by now, she thought. She knew no harm could come to them. At the very worst, they might find themselves unable to get into the university complex, or they might be identified as unauthorised persons and asked to leave. Both of them were highly resourceful, and she knew they were capable of bluffing their way out of most situations. On the other hand, she had an uneasy feeling that they absolutely had to find Dick Blackwood.
Ralph had followed her back to the office for coffee after lunch, knowing that as she was short-handed, Marnie would not want to leave the phone unattended for any longer than necessary.
“No prizes for guessing what’s on your mind,” Ralph said, sitting at Anne’s desk, draining the last of his coffee.
“Aren’t you thinking about them, too?” Marnie said.
“It’s not them that you’re concerned about, is it, Marnie?”
“No. I’m really concerned about Dick. I don’t like not knowing what’s become of him.”
Ralph reached for the phone, checked a number on the pad beside him and pressed buttons. Marnie looked on.
“Philip? Ralph here. Don’t suppose Dick’s turned up today, has he?”
Marnie could tell what the answer was from Ralph’s expression.
*
Anne sussed out the location of the archaeology department from a plan on the wall outside the library. Inside, she asked a librarian if there was a post-box nearby. There was apparently only one in that part of the campus, situated in the entrance to the central admin block. Anne asked if she could leave her folder on a desk while she posted a letter. The librarian, herself a trainee little older than Anne, agreed to keep it for her behind the counter. The name Sandra was printed on her identity badge.
Anne checked the plan outside and located the admin block about a hundred yards away. She had no difficulty in finding the post-box. As she went through the entrance doors, a young woman was feeding a bundle of letters into it. Without hesitation Anne approached her.
“Excuse me. What time is the post collected from here?”
“Three forty-five in the long vac.”
Anne frowned. “Oh … I don’t think I’ll have it ready by then.”
“It is a bit early, isn’t it?” the young woman replied. “Any later and your only bet is to take it to the post office, and that’s quite a step away, off-campus.”
“Is the collection here always prompt?” Anne asked.
“Spot-on every day. You could set your watch by it. The postman sits in his van at the kerb sometimes and waits till the exact time before emptying the box.”
“Right. Er …” Anne pulled a face and lowered her voice. “Is there a loo in this block?”
The young woman grinned at her and pointed. “Just over there.”
“I’m new … temping.” Anne hurried away, calling over shoulder. “Thanks.”
Anne lurked in a toilet cubicle for five minutes, hearing other people come and go, before retracing her steps to the library. The young trainee was nowhere to be seen, and an older woman had taken her place at the main desk. Anne walked confidently to the counter.
“Hallo. Earlier when I was here I left a folder. Sandra put it aside for me. It has a pale blue cover.”
The librarian looked up and down the desk below the counter.
“Is this it?”
“Thanks.”
Before leaving, Anne looked at her watch. She stopped, as if thinking.
“Could I possibly just read through my notes in here? I’m ages early for the next session.”
“Do you have your visitor’s pass, or temporary library ticket?”
Anne patted her back pocket. “Ah … It’s with my other papers in the car. Not to worry, I’ll go back to the car park and get it.”
“The main car park?”
“The underground one,” Anne confirmed, turning to go.
“You don’t want to borrow any books, presumably?” the librarian said.
“No.”
“That’s all right, then. Take a seat. There’s plenty of room.”
Anne thanked her and found a vacant study carrel. Three o’clock. Forty-five minutes to wait. Allowing five minutes for the walk and five minutes in the toilets, she took off her watch and set it down in front of her on the desk, as she did when taking exams. The time dragged slowly by while she tried to read the notes she had made on one of Marnie’s projects. Normally she would be so engrossed in her work that the time flew by on wings, but on that day she could barely take in a single sente
nce. It took all her efforts to give an outward appearance of calm concentration.
Just before three-thirty she gathered the papers together and slotted them into the folder. No-one paid her the least attention as she walked out of the library. She took a deep breath. Time for more subterfuge.
Anne made it to the admin block within the time she had allocated and headed straight for the toilets. Once inside a cubicle, she tugged off her T-shirt and hung it on the hook on the door. She opened her shoulder-bag and took out a blouse with a tiny floral pattern and buttoned it up before folding the T-shirt and placing it in the bag. The transformation was almost complete. She left the cubicle and stuck her head out of the main door. There were four minutes to go, and in the distance she could see the red post van coming down the road.
She ducked back in and rapidly applied a coating of pink gloss to her lips. She inspected herself in the mirror while running a comb through her hair. The finishing touch was to loop the security pass for the Horselydown site over her head. Would she pass muster as a junior secretary? She took three deep breaths this time and hurried to the door, leaving her shoulder bag on the floor just inside.
The postman was pushing the first entrance door open as she exited the toilets. She took a few paces in the opposite direction before turning and scurrying towards the post-box. Her arrival coincided with the moment when the postman put the key in the box and opened the door.
“Oh, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said breathlessly.
The postman barely moved his head, but continued opening the cage that held the letters in place in the box.
“Oh yeah?”
“I think I’ve made a mistake. Can I just check?”
“You what?” He seemed disinclined to pay her any attention, reaching in to scoop the letters out of the box.
“No wait … please. I need to check one of the letters.”
He glanced round at her. “You are joking, love?”
“No, really. I think I’ve put the wrong postcode on a letter I re-addressed.”
“Sorry. No can do. I haven’t got time to let you sort through all this lot. Tight schedule.”
“But it was marked urgent.”
“I don’t care if it was marked for the Queen of Sheba.”
“It was marked for the Queen of Sheba,” Anne pleaded.
“Eh?”
“Look, I’m new here. I don’t want to make a mistake in my first week.”
“Sorry I can’t help you, love. No way I can spare time to go through the whole –”
“I can see it! Look, it’s that one.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. It’s that big blue envelope. I only want to see if I’ve put the right postcode on it. Two seconds, that’s all I need.”
With a sigh, the postman muttered, You office girls, and handed her the letter, turning to scrape the rest of the mail into his bag. As soon as he finished, he held out his hand. It was Anne’s turn to sigh.
“What a relief! False alarm. Thanks ever so much.”
Tut-tutting, the postman took the letter from her outstretched hand. He looked at Anne appraisingly. In smart blouse and linen slacks, she was every inch the well-groomed office worker, trying to make a good impression in her new job. Not bad looking, either, he thought. As his eyes began straying to her security pass, she self-consciously tucked it between the buttons of her blouse.
“Must be off,” she said and turned on her heels. “Thanks again.”
Before the postman could say anything else, she ducked into the toilets. Picking up her bag from the floor inside the door, she muttered, 14 Wilberforce Street, E1 7JJ, over and over, like a mantra. Anne returned to her now familiar cubicle, swiftly wrote the address in a notebook and changed back into her T-shirt. The conversion from office worker to student took barely two minutes, and she was pressing buttons on her mobile as she left the building.
She arrived at the exit to the car park a minute before the distinctive engine note of the VW could be heard as it climbed the concrete ramp up to street level. Donovan pushed the passenger door open and waited at the roadside while she fastened the seat belt. They parked in a side street where Anne searched for the address in the A to Z.
“Well done,” Donovan said. “Brilliant.”
Anne breathed out audibly, studying the street atlas. “Mission accomplished, skipper … Herr Kapitän-Leutnant,” she said, without looking up.
“Were you nervous?” Donovan asked.
Anne chuckled. “Well … I don’t want to be indiscreet, but I think I qualify for residential status in the loo in the admin block.”
Donovan laughed, reached forward, turned her face towards him and kissed her.
“Is that my reward?” she said.
“Yes. Iron Cross, second class.”
“Huh! After what I’ve been through, I expect a gold medal with crossed swords and oak leaves.”
“You got it. What about Dick’s address?”
Anne pointed at the map. “It’s about a mile from here, I reckon.”
Donovan started the engine. “Which way?”
“Turn left at the end of the street.”
Anne dug out her mobile as Donovan pulled away from the kerb.
*
Marnie was putting stamps on the day’s letters in preparation for the afternoon mail run when the phone rang. She scribbled Dick’s address on her notepad while Anne gave an account of their activities. Anne kept it brief to preserve her phone battery.
“You did well, Anne. So what’s next?”
“We’re on our way there now. I’ll phone later.”
Marnie immediately rang Ralph on Thyrsis and gave him the news before locking up the office and making for the field track. On the way up to the village her mind was filled with thoughts of what they should do if Anne and Donovan got to Dick’s place only to find that the cupboard was bare.
*
Wilberforce Street was narrow and treeless, a Victorian development that was probably once occupied by poor working class families in miserable conditions. Now, it was by no means in the des res category, but the proliferation of satellite dishes, fresh paintwork, occasional window boxes and Venetian blinds told a story of modest gentrification.
Anne peered out to read the numbers on the front doors. The first to be clearly visible was an enamel plaque with a white 46 on a blue background, the classic French design that told of upward mobility aspirations on the part of the owner. The next legible number they passed was a 40 in black iron digits fitted on a cream front door.
“It’s on this side,” Anne said, “down towards the far end.”
They found a parking slot on the opposite side to the house a few doors along. There was no movement in the street.
“I won’t be a minute.” Donovan climbed out.
Anne watched him approach the house and bend forward to read the names against doorbells. He pressed one and stood back to wait. There was no response. After two minutes on the doorstep Donovan tried again. The result was the same. He walked slowly across the road to the car, glancing back as he reached the pavement.
He slid into the driver’s seat. “You know how you sometimes get a feeling that a house is empty …”
“But you saw his name.”
“Bottom bell,” Donovan said. “I guess that means the ground floor.”
“Do we wait?” Anne asked.
“Now that we’re here …”
“Presumably he’s got to come back sooner or later.”
Donovan yawned. “Not necessarily. He could be anywhere, but I don’t see what other options we have.”
After half an hour Anne suggested they might listen to the radio. Donovan pressed a button and they found themselves halfway through a programme on Radio Four giving a detailed analysis of inflation in Zimbabwe. Donovan looked at Anne for a reaction.
“Too light-hearted?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
He tried the other channels. Radio Three was playing w
hat seemed to be Stockhausen. Within less than a minute it was jangling their nerves. Classic FM offered a selection of Wagner’s greatest hits, with a thunderous orchestral crescendo giving way to Brunhilda in full lamentation mode.
“At least it’s German,” Anne said, generously.
Donovan was already hitting the next button. “Some other time, perhaps.”
Radio Two featured a phone-in of favourite cookery recipes. The theme for the day was creative dishes based on root vegetables. Listeners were being invited to give suggestions on what they could do with carrots. Donovan was on the brink of giving his own personal suggestion when Anne quickly prodded another button at random. They were almost blown out of their seats by a blast from Radio One.
“What the hell?” Donovan was reaching for the volume control.
“Hey!” Anne caught his arm.
“You like the Sex Pistols?” he said, incredulously.
“No. Look …” Anne pointed across the street.
Donovan pressed the off switch on the radio as they stared out to see a bicycle parked at the kerbside. They both sat up in their seats. Someone was at Dick’s front door. Wearing a close-fitting outfit of blue lycra, a girl was pressing one of the bells. She was small and compact, with leg muscles that told of regular exercise.
“This could be interesting,” Donovan said quietly.
The newcomer pushed the bell a second time.
“Can you see which bell she’s pressing?” Donovan said.
“I think it’s the bottom one.”
Like Donovan before her, the girl got no reply. They watched as she stood back with hands on hips, clearly pondering what to do. She turned towards the front window and pressed her face to the glass, hands cupped either side of her eyes, peering in.
“Dick’s place?” Anne said.
“Could be.”
The girl tapped several times on the window.
“She’s not giving up easily,” Anne observed.
“Nor would you if you’d cycled through London traffic to get here.”
It was the voice of experience from Donovan, the cyclist.
As they looked on, the girl crossed the narrow pavement and fiddled in a small, pouch-like container attached to the back of the bicycle seat. When she returned to the door, she fitted a key in the lock and went in.