It Begins in Betrayal

by Whishaw, Iona;

  “Pomogite! Help!” she shouted. Useless in this bloody empty street! He had a hold of her left arm and slashed at her with the knife. She could feel the blade hit home along the side of her chin. She yanked her arm, causing her cardigan to pull loose, and twisted to pull it off her other arm. He tried to reach for her but found his hand full of only the sweater. She began to run. Gasping, she reached the hotel steps and quickly looked back. He had not followed her. She stopped and leaned over, trying to catch her breath, and then looked again down the street. A dark car pulled away from the alley and sped around the corner.

  The doorman ran down the stairs to where she stood. “Are you all right, miss? You’re bleeding!” He said with a soft German accent.

  Lane shook her head and tried to smile, only that moment feeling the pain on her chin. She put her hand up to it and pulled it away covered in blood. “Someone tried to attack me,” she said.

  “Hooligans! Please. We will get a doctor.” He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and she pressed it onto her chin.

  Later, in an office behind the front desk, she sat while the doctor swabbed her chin with something before he applied the dressing. She was exhausted and beginning to shiver.

  “I have put three stitches in. I will give you some tablets, and then I suggest you go right to bed. It will sting a bit tomorrow no doubt, and I expect there will be a bruise as well.”

  “Thank you, Herr Doctor. It was stupid of me.”

  “You were not to know, madam. I’m afraid we have a fair amount of street crime. The authorities keep promising.” He shrugged. “We had this sort of lawlessness after the last war as well.”

  On her way out she stopped at the front desk. “Can you have a Scotch sent up to my room, please?”

  “Certainly, madam. Right away.” The deskman watched her as she made her way to the elevator, her back straight, her steps strong, and shook his head longingly. Such a beautiful and brave woman. What on earth could she be doing here alone? And then he picked up the phone.

  UPSTAIRS, LANE PULLED back the covers and collapsed onto the bed, waiting to undress until her drink arrived. She was playing the whole attack over and over in her head, wanting it to stop. She felt an utter fool. She had exposed herself to this danger. But then she thought about what he’d said. That she had spared him the trouble of messing up the hotel room. She sat up, clutching a pillow to her chest. He could bloody well come back! The knock on her door nearly made her jump out of her skin. She stood with her face pressed to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It is room service. The drink you ordered.” A woman’s voice.

  Lane pulled the door open an inch, and saw a young woman in a black hotel uniform holding a tray with a glass and a small bowl of ice. There was a cream-coloured envelope on the tray.

  “Here you are, miss, and I was asked to give this to you.” She lifted the envelope to show Lane.

  Lane closed the door and said, “One minute,” and went to her purse for a few coins. “I’ll take the whole tray,” she said, handing the woman the coins.

  Back on the bed, the Scotch providing a soothing burn in her throat, she opened the envelope, trying to fight back the anxiety. All she needed was a gloating note from her attacker, promising to get her next time. But it wasn’t. She recognized the signature from his earlier communication.

  He will not trouble you again. Perhaps I will see you in Sussex one day. Yours most faithfully, Aptekar.

  HIGGINS STOOD IN the judge’s chambers, summoned there together with the prosecutor. The judge was scowling and drinking down some powders for his dyspepsia. “Bloody waste of the court’s time,” he grumbled. “Apparently there is no case to be made against this man Darling. The whole thing is unfathomable. All this moving the man around, the Home Office involvement. They obviously think Great Britain’s judiciary is a plaything to suit their every whim.”

  “But m’lud. There has been a request from the Home Office that we keep him locked up for the time being. There are procedures . . .” The prosecutor looked like a dog watching his bone disappear down the drain. A big trial involving treason could have been the making of his career.

  “I don’t care if His Majesty himself is dressed in feathers and plimsolls and demanding it. There is no case here, and I’ll not have the court being made a mockery of. The law is the law. Now get out of here.”

  Higgins ventured, “Will my client be released immediately?”

  “I have so ordered. Presumably a judge’s orders still count with someone. He’s to be delivered into your hands, so if I were you I’d get along there and spring him, and leave me in peace!”

  SANDRA PULLED OPEN the door and cried, “Oh my God! Frederick! How splendid. Good lord, what have they done to you? You look like a skeleton!”

  Darling submitted wearily to being hugged and bundled into the house. He was given a cup of tea, when he longed for a Scotch, and made to sit at the kitchen table, when what he craved most was a bath and some solitude. But the tea, drunk as it was in freedom, proved uplifting, and he could feel his guard let down slightly. Sandra Donaldson was on the telephone to her husband.

  “Darling! Frederick is here! They’ve let him out. It’s over! That Higgins is a miracle worker. Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.”

  Darling listened to this and thought about Higgins, who had come for him at the prison. Higgins had been sure of his innocence, had been sure that it was Sims’s casting doubt on the whole case that had done the work. Darling had stood on the street, smelling the vaguely unhealthy and glorious smell of a busy city, feeling the sun on his face, scarcely able to believe they would not snatch him back. Knowing, as he walked away to freedom, that they did not because they had Lane.

  Sandra was back. “Oh you poor thing. You’re really done in. You run upstairs and draw a long hot bath, and push all these clothes out onto the landing. We’ll wash the prison right out of them. I think you have clothes in the suitcase, but if not, I’ll give you something of Rudy’s. He is thrilled. He sends his congratulations and says I’m to give you something proper to drink.”

  “I think I’ll have that bath. I have other clothes, so no need to raid Rudy’s. But I’ll be very happy to shed these. I’ve a good mind to throw them in the bin. I’ll have the proper drink, and then I think I just need to lie down.”

  “Oh, of course. You poor dear, help yourself to anything you need. I’ll pop out and find something decent for supper. It’s such a shame Lane has gone off somewhere. She’s not due back for another day or two. She should be here to celebrate with us.”

  So she should, Darling thought, so she should. He climbed wearily up the stairs, the full realization of what she may have had done for his now meaningless freedom finally sinking in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  DUNN PUT THE PHONE RECEIVER gently in the cradle, as if not to disturb the silence of his office. He was smiling though he did not feel the triumph he had imagined. He took a moment, his hand still resting on the telephone, to try to understand why. He had what he wanted, after all, Lane back in service. His man in East Germany confirmed that all arrangements had gone exactly as promised, with only one variance. She had been scheduled to go to Potsdam to meet the Soviet agent, but a senior agent had gone to Berlin for other reasons and agreed to see her there. That meeting had gone as planned.

  So why this moment of doubt? She was a tremendous asset, and she was a practical girl. She would get over her objections soon enough. The work would reconnect her to the idea of doing something meaningful, an idea she had espoused often enough during the war. A jolt of truthful realization made him jerk his hand away from the instrument and aggressively pile the papers on his desk into a stack. The cloud on his perfect triumph, he knew, was that what he wanted was to have her enthralled with him again, as she had been during the war—dependent on his wisdom and guidance. Instead, the full knowledge that she had consented only because she loved someone else irked him. He certainly had no intention
of trying to engage her affections again. He was not a fool. He was suddenly embarrassed by his own juvenile competitiveness. He was being ridiculous. The bloody woman had the capacity to make him ridiculous in his own eyes.

  He had toyed, at the beginning of these ruminations, with the idea of leaving Darling locked up just because he could, but now he thought that he could afford to be the bigger man. He would follow through on his promise. He picked up the phone and asked to be put through to his contact at the Home Office.

  “You can start the process of releasing him,” he said.

  “All done, sir. I expect he’s at the local as we speak, enjoying a pint.”

  “What?” Dunn sat up, his brow furrowing.

  “He’s out, sir. At . . .” there was a pause, “yes, at four thirty this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t authorize this. Who did?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. If it wasn’t you, I’m guessing it came through the court. I just got a notification saying he was out and no case made.”

  LANE WATCHED AS the plane circled toward the Croydon airstrip. The neatly unsymmetrical fields of England lay below her, the lanes and roads winding through them. It was beautiful from up here, she thought. I’d be very happy if I were Aptekar, thinking of the prospect of retiring to this green and pleasant land. Not for her though. She pined for her house in King’s Cove. She imagined the view now, looking out from her porch over the lake. The blue mountains that edged the blue-green water on the far shore, the sun sparkling like a spray of diamonds. The glorious fresh silence, and the prospect of Eleanor Armstrong’s kitchen, Kenny’s feet on the grate, lemon oatmeal cookies on a plate. Perhaps now there would be a dog. They had spoken about finally replacing their last one. She sighed. There was much to do before then.

  No car was waiting in Croydon because she had not told them she was coming back, and she had asked Olga not to tell them. She bought a ticket for the London-bound bus and settled into a seat near the back of the nearly empty one that pulled up. She wished she knew whether Darling was out. She would call Higgins from a call box at Victoria and then go in search of Dunn. Perhaps the best thing was to go to the War Office. They’d know how to find him. He wasn’t expecting her back for several days. She felt a grim satisfaction at thinking about his expression when he saw her.

  IT WAS NEARLY seven o’clock when she was in a call box at the station. The whole trip had taken much longer than she expected. Of course she would not reach Higgins, but she had to try. She looked through the window of the call box, watching ordinary people with ordinary lives walking by. Old couples in companionable silence. Young couples holding hands, enjoying the evening. People carrying suitcases and arguing. How lovely it would be to be ordinary again! The phone kept up its fruitless double ring. She wouldn’t get anyone. Sick at heart that she did not know Darling’s fate, she stood on the street and then realized there was nothing to be done that evening. She set off for Mrs. Macdonald’s. Her chin was beginning to ache. She would stop at the chemist and get something.

  SANDRA HAD MANAGED to procure a chicken, and while Darling slept an exhausted and anxious sleep upstairs, she baked it with some potatoes and set the dining room table with her special tablecloth, a family heirloom. Rudy had come home with a Victoria sponge from the bakery down the road and a bottle of wine and was now gathering plates from the cupboard.

  “I do wish Lane could be here,” Sandra said wistfully to her husband. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow, without her, after all she’s done. I do wish she hadn’t gone off without telling us like that.”

  “I can’t believe she just flitted off on holiday. I’m certain it must have something to do with all this. I’ve never seen a more determined woman.” He looked fondly at his wife, who had put on her prettiest blue frock. “I’m glad she didn’t drag you off on whatever expedition she’s on now. I don’t think you’re cut out for the life of adventure.”

  “Steady on! I might be, for all you know. Here, put the salt bowl on the table. You know, I wonder if she’s somehow had something to do with his getting out. I mean, there seems to be a connection. She goes away somewhere and he gets out shortly after.”

  “Ah! Here’s the guest of honour,” Rudy said, as Darling was coming downstairs. “It’s very, very good to see you, old man!”

  Darling submitted his hand to an energetic shaking and felt a wave of almost humble gratitude. “This is lovely,” he said, surveying the dinner arrangements.

  “We’re hoping you can tell us how it all transpired. Sandra has the mad idea that Lane has somehow engineered all this. Here. Sit. It’s all ready. I can’t imagine what you were getting to eat in prison.”

  Darling smiled. “Not this, that’s for sure.”

  “There’s a nice Victoria sponge for our pudding, as well,” Sandra said.

  “So, how did you come to be released?” Rudy asked after a short spell.

  “According to Higgins, it was largely due to Inspector Sims, who felt there was no case to be made after he interviewed Anthony, in particular.” Darling could not talk about his appalling interview with Angus Dunn and was, he realized, more than puzzled himself. Why had Dunn said Lane had ransomed herself for him, when Higgins had been quite insistent that circumstances had come up in the investigation that exonerated him completely? Was it Dunn playing games? But if that was true, where was Lane? Or was Dunn in deadly earnest? Had Lane decided willingly to go off and do whatever the hell it was she was so good at? He felt his heart sinking again and knew he had to pull himself together in the face of the overwhelming kindness of his friends.

  “And then where’s Lane gone off to? Did she tell you?” Rudy asked.

  “I have not been allowed to see her since they moved me. I have no idea where she is.” The truth of this statement threatened to overwhelm him again.

  Seeing Darling descending into an unhappy silence, Sandra said with exaggerated brightness, “So, what is the first thing you’ll do with your newfound freedom?”

  What indeed? Darling held his wine glass and looked at the contents. Glass half empty, he thought ruefully.

  “I suppose I’d better contact my constable and find out how he’s getting on. I left him in charge of a murder investigation. He thinks I’ve been on holiday. Of course, he’ll want to know when I’m coming back. Blast.” He looked at his watch. “I imagine it is too late to get a wire off. Do you think I can phone through?”

  “It will take some time I expect, but we’ll set a chair up here and bring you a Scotch. Have some pudding first.”

  The Victoria sponge dispatched, Rudy and Sandra busied themselves in the kitchen with the washing up, and Darling leaned against the wall of the hallway with the phone at his ear. Within ten minutes and many crackling international exchanges he finally heard, “Please hold. I have your party on the line.”

  “Nelson Police.”

  “O’Brien. Hello. Can you put me through to Ames?”

  “Is that you, boss? You sound like you’re in the bottom of a barrel. How’s the holiday?”

  “Very good, thanks. Ames?”

  “Right. I’ve been helping him out, you know. Visits to the crime scene, interview of the suspect. That sort of thing.”

  “Fantastic. I’m glad to hear he’s been doing some work. Now can I talk to him? These trunk calls aren’t cheap.”

  “Yes. Right away, sir.”

  Ames was at his desk writing up his notes. He was still expecting to hear from Fripps, but it was really all over bar the shouting. He had his woman. The phone rang. “Ames.”

  “Good to know you’re at your desk at least pretending to work.”

  “Inspector! I was expecting Fripps. Good of you to call.”

  “No need to be sarcastic, Ames. Who’s Fripps?”

  “Sorry, sir. He’s a policeman over there, in a place called Whitcombe, where our body came from.”

  “You seem to have shown an unexpected burst of initiative, calling England. Did you find out who killed her? O�
�Brien said you’d been interviewing a suspect.”

  “She’s not actually dead!”

  “She looked pretty dead to me. And Gilly seemed to think so as well.”

  “No, I mean, the dead woman is dead, sir, but she’s not Agatha Browning. She’s the sister, Mary Browning. I’ve got Miss Agatha Browning in lock-up. She’s confessed. I’m just doing up the paperwork.”

  “Well, bully for you. Nice work.” He meant it.

  “Thank you, sir. When might you be coming home? There are still things to sort out here. I wouldn’t mind your help,” Ames said.

  “Ah. I expect it’s soon. Let me call you in a couple of days. Is there anything you need me to do at this end?”

  “No, sir, thank you. I have Fripps for that. Just enjoy the rest of your holiday, and say hello to Miss Winslow if you see her. I imagine she’s in Scotland now with her grandparents. She was pretty helpful, by the way, all the work she did with the birth certificates and so on. But I expect she told you that.”

  She hadn’t, he thought sadly, hanging up the phone. How unsurprising that she’d been helpful. Bloody helpful woman, she was. If only she were in Scotland! The momentary normality he’d felt talking to Ames was washed away in a second. He’d have to accept that she’d left his sphere, gone off back to a world he knew nothing of that had been trying to pull her back since he’d first met her. He’d have to get a ticket and go back home. There had still been a wash of light when he’d begun his call, and now that night settled over the city, Darling was standing in darkness in the hall. He felt paralyzed. He knew he would have to leave, and yet some mad rebellious part of him knew that Lane would never walk meekly back to something she professed to hate.