Maynard sat back in his chair and looked at her. “Have you heard of the ‘cages’, Lillian?”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied, with a feeling of foreboding beginning to sweep over her. “What are they, cages for prisoners?”
“Not quite. They are Interrogation Centres; there are several of these around the country, the nearest one to us here, is at Preston. I can assure you that they are not very nice places,” Maynard added.
“What about the Geneva Convention and the British boast that they always play by the rules?”
“I’m afraid these places don’t play by the rules, Lillian. Theirs is a dirty war, very much like the methods of your Gestapo. And, before you try and deny it, we know all about the brutal acts that the German Secret State Police use. You can’t keep things like that a secret for long before it filters back through the system.”
“So why have I been brought here and not to Preston?” Griselda asked.
“Because I asked for you to be brought here. I think you may have some useful information that could help us catch a very vicious killer, a man who will stop at nothing to get where he is going. You know whom I’m referring to – Das Rabe.”
“I don’t know of anybody by that name,” Griselda answered, knowing full well that her reply didn’t at all sound convincing.
Maynard shook his head. “Come on Lillian! You’re not doing yourself any favours by protecting the identity of this man. Would he do the same for you if the roles were reversed? I think not, he’d sell you down the river to save his own neck.”
Griselda sat quietly for a few moments while she thought things over. What would Guntram do if he was in the same position as she was now? He had no scruples, she knew he would shop his own mother if he was in a tight corner to get away, so why try and protect him? Her whole reason for being where she was now was to get away from him; she was fully convinced that given the chance he would have killed her before leaving Coaley. Besides her own life being at risk, if she decided not to talk, there was scopolamine, the truth serum, which no doubt the British would use, and if she talked, she would most likely reveal not only her own secrets but that of Ronald and Martha Warner’s network – Griselda knew she needed time to think. “May I have a cigarette?” she asked, playing for time.
“Yes, of course,” Maynard answered, beckoning to the duty officer. “I want you to realise that for us, time is of the essence. I don’t want to have to send a woman who is as pretty as you are to the main interrogation centre, but be assured, I will if I have to and it will not be very pleasant. So make things easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know, Lillian.”
She felt tired and drained of energy. The past years of living in constant fear of being caught had taken its toll on her and she no longer knew who she could trust anymore. She was convinced that headquarters had sanctioned for her to be eliminated by Guntram before he left; when that had failed, had the Warners’ been sending her into a trap at Southampton to stop her talking should she be caught? She only smoked part of the cigarette then stubbed it out in the ashtray and looked into Maynard’s eyes. “If I cooperate – what’s in it for me?” she asked.
“Well! That depends on how much information you give us,” Maynard replied, sensing she was beginning to weaken by her question; if he trod carefully, she may well have the information to where the Raven was trying to go.
“Will I still be taken to one of these ‘cages’?”
Maynard could see the frightened look in the woman’s eyes and felt a little saddened knowing what she would have to endure if she was taken to Camp 020 at Latchmere. “Tell me all you know, and I’ll see what I can do for you. I can’t promise you anything, that all rests with London. All I will say, depending on what you tell me, I’ll do my best to try and make things a little easier for you.”
Taking another cigarette from the packet she lit it and closed her eyes for a few moments. “My name isn’t Lillian Gilbert, it’s Griselda Zweig,” she replied wearily.
Chapter Twenty
BAYER WATCHED the steady build-up of people and traffic in the street below from his bedroom window. He had slept well, too well; having slept late into the afternoon the previous day it had curtailed any thoughts he had of making for the remoteness of the Highlands, and so due to the lateness of the hour he decided to spend a second night where he was. The morning rush hour was at its peak as he left the hotel, mingling with the early morning crowds he boarded a tram in Argyle Street for Clydebank and from there he caught a second tram which terminated at Duntocher on the outskirts of the city. Pleased with his progress, he had from the confines of a roadside café been watching the driver of a large vehicle change a wheel while at the same time contemplating what his next move should be. With the flat tyre securely fastened in its cradle on the lorry, the driver headed in the direction of the eating establishment and a well-earned breakfast. Bayer smiled to himself at the golden opportunity as the driver came in and made a beeline for the counter to order his meal. Steadily drinking his tea, he waited until the lorry man was tucking into his breakfast before getting up and leaving and making his way to the rear of the vehicle which was partially obscured by the end of the café. Unfastening the tailboard he lowered it down on its chains until it was level with the lorry floor, and with very little effort climbed in, pulling the tailgate up behind him and securing it with the two pins. Sitting on a substantially made box, his eyes slowly became accustomed to his surroundings and also what he was sitting on when he read the black stencilled lettering on the sides – Royal Naval Torpedo Testing Station and Range; he was riding in the back of a vehicle carrying a load of torpedoes. He didn’t have time to deliberate over his predicament as he heard footsteps approaching followed by the vehicle’s cab door being opened and the diesel engine being started. Bayer knew he was in a precarious position and one he had to get out off as soon as possible before it reached the military installation where no doubt the load contents would be checked before being allowed into the establishment for unloading. The lorry’s speed wasn’t excessive due to the weight it was carrying and road conditions, but even so Bayer knew to try and jump from a vehicle of this height while on the move would be highly dangerous so his only hope was if the vehicle had to make a stop for some reason. The problem was, would it stop before reaching its destination? Peering through the rear join in the lorry’s canvas tilt, Bayer could see a wide expanse of water to his left with several small islands in its centre. Taking out his map from his travel bag he ran a finger along the route of the A82 and came to the conclusion that this must be the famous Loch Lomond that he was passing, which was confirmed when he caught sight of a sign with the name, Luss, on it. The sound of gears being changed down brought him back to reality, followed by the brakes being gradually applied, eventually bringing the heavy vehicle to a halt. Bayer could not believe his good fortune as he looked through the canvas and saw an empty road to the rear of the lorry. Taking full advantage of the opportunity he lowered the tailboard and jumped out, quickly replacing it before slipping into the undergrowth to survey the situation after the lorry had moved off. The sound of roadworks being carried out in the distance and the sight of a workman holding a stop and go sign made him move stealthily into the dense wooded area which he kept to until the noise of the road workings receded. Walking became easier as the woodland began to thin out, eventually giving way to open flat ground which had a single track road running across it. Beyond that lay rolling hills and what looked like a man-made plantation of trees. Unsure of which direction he should take, he walked to the opposite side of the road and cast a wary eye over the surrounding area, but the sound of an approaching vehicle made him run for cover until the danger had passed. With what looked like the roof of a building in the distance to his right he decided to follow the road in the opposite direction.
It was the sound of running water that drew him to the river; its course concealed from the road by woodland and with a well-worn track to follow, it soon b
rought him to a fork in the river and beyond that the familiar sound of a railway. Cautiously emerging from the concealment of the trees Bayer could make out the distinct shape of a railway station of the island type, where trains could come to a halt on either side of the platform; in front of this a manned signal box, a siding with two empty coal trucks in it and beyond that buildings that had the look of being of military use. Moving to a position for a better view of the surrounding area it didn’t take him long to realise that the area was being used by the British military, possibly to store munitions and by the shape and position of the structure in the distance, the testing of torpedoes. Taking the map from his travel bag he carefully marked the building’s positions which would be of great interest to the Luftwaffe when he got back to Germany. With all this military activity in the area, Bayer knew to try and move about by day would increase the risk of him being seen so he decided to wait until nightfall. Memorising in detail the route he needed to take to reach the narrowest part of the Loch he set about finding somewhere he could rest undercover out of the light rain that had begun to fall. He eventually found shelter in a small storage shed housing tools used by the railway men when repairing the tracks, but with no room to stretch out he spent an uncomfortable few hours sitting on the floor with his back against the door. The rain got persistently heavier as he ventured out into the evening darkness and worked his way across to the footpath that he had seen earlier that followed the rail line northward to Arrochar. There was also a large house set among several outbuildings that stood adjacent to the water’s edge, the dark shapes easily visible against the water and the wooded area that lay on the far side of the Loch. Carefully crossing the two sets of lines he then picked his way through the undergrowth to the main road and, with the highway deserted in both directions, quickly made his way to the hedgerow on the opposite side that surrounded the property. Using the hedge and trees for cover he easily covered the short distance to the Loch side, the surface of the water rippling from the effects of the breeze that accompanied the rain. The shingle crunched beneath his shoes as he took up a position to see if there was any movement within the vicinity of the house and buildings beyond, but all seemed quiet, and Bayer wondered if the place was unoccupied. Braking cover, but keeping low, he steadily made his way along the shoreline in the hope that a house of this size and so close to the water may well have the luxury of a boat he could use to reach the opposite bank. Cold, wet and cursing he reached the far corner of the estate that jutted out into the Loch, and while taking shelter beneath a tree from the driving rain, he could make out the lines of what looked like a concrete slipway, but to his disappointment on closer inspection it revealed no sign of a boat tied alongside. Unperturbed, he was nearly back to the road when he felt the shingle suddenly give way to a second slipway, its surface overgrown with green mould from years of neglect and its constant fight with the Loch’s water. It was what lay to the rear of the slipway that interested Bayer; the shape having all the hallmarks of a boathouse, and where there was a boathouse the possibilities of a boat for the taking. The lock proved difficult, but with the help of a discarded steel rod he found by the side of the building he managed to lever the lock off the door and gain access. Not wanting to risk using the interior lights in case they were seen, he used the torch from his travel bag to make a slow sweep of the boathouse, the beam picking out the shape of a sailing dinghy sat on a launching trailer and two canoes which Bayer was familiar with from his days when he was a youth. Opening the door and wedging it secure, he then selected the darker of the two crafts; half lifting and pulling it until it was centralized in the middle of the two-wheeled transporting cradle, he then set about pushing it down to the water’s edge where he secured it with the bow line to a rusty mooring ring. Retracing his steps back to the boathouse he put on a waterproof jacket he took from a hook on the wall, then closing the door and wedging it tightly he made his way back to his waiting transport that bobbed restlessly against its tethering rope. He made the short crossing relatively easily given the stiff breeze that was blowing and he was even able to negotiate the canoe up a narrow inlet which allowed him to beach it and step ashore without getting his feet wet. Pulling the craft as far as he could into the undergrowth he set about concealing it from prying eyes. Satisfied with the outcome, he followed the narrow stream that drained into the Loch through the inlet which eventually brought him to a long sweeping bend on a main road. Staying hidden within the bushes Bayer studied the map with his torch, quickly coming to the conclusion that this must be the A83, the main road to Inveraray.
“About sixty miles to Oban,” he whispered softly to himself, putting the map and torch back in his bag. He set off walking, thankful for the waterproof jacket he had stolen that kept the upper half of his body dry while the hood offered him warmth and protection from the cold rain that drove into his face. With the white line down the middle of the road giving him guidance in the darkness he was able to make good progress but, he soon began to realise by his laboured breathing that the road was becoming much steeper as it followed the Glen into the mountains. With the rain now beginning to turn to snow Bayer knew it was time to find some sort of shelter for the remainder of the night. He had passed several houses since breaking cover, but all were of a residential type and not suitable for the purpose he had in mind, but as the road began to cover with snow and become more taxing under the conditions, he decided whatever building materialised next from out of the darkness would have to do. With his head down and the hood of his jacket pulled forward as far as possible over his face, giving him some protection from the elements, Bayer nearly didn’t see the unobtrusive structure set back off the road amongst trees and it was only as he followed the gravel track towards it that he realised it was a house, but of unusual design, its timber construction giving it the look of an Alpine chalet. Climbing the gate he moved across the level ground that lay adjacent to the driveway, which no doubt by the softness under his feet was laid to lawn, and into the tree line. Wet, cold and hungry, he rested for a few moments while he focused his attention on the house and several dark shapes that lay to the rear of the property. Moving carefully through the trees he worked his way around to get a better look at the largest of the buildings which turned out to be a garage, and after rubbing the side window with the sleeve of his jacket he shone the beam of his torch into the dark interior, the light immediately picking out the roof of a vehicle. Grinning to himself he set off to check the contents of the other three buildings, the first being a storage shed, part-filled with logs, the second being a workshop housing a workbench, a few old tools and what looked like the rusting parts of a car engine and the last contained a quantity of old furniture and two bicycles both in need of repair.
Sitting in one of the discarded chairs he thought over his options. The rear seat of the car would make a comfortable bed for the night and, although it would be cold, at least he would be in the dry and out of the weather; but what he really needed was food and the only chance of getting that was from inside the house. Getting up from the chair he ran a careful eye over the silent property for several minutes from the part-open door and wondered what opposition he would encounter if he forced entry. Taking the Walther from his pocket and spurred on by hunger he decided it was a chance worth taking and headed in the direction of the rear entrance. Finding this securely locked he turned his attentions to the kitchen window which also wouldn’t allow him access.
Reluctant to go down the road of breaking a window which would immediately arouse the household he decided to try down the side of the building which, to his relief, had a patio door, its central lock yielding easily to his knife blade. Closing the doors quietly behind him the first thing Bayer noticed was how cold the place was. Switching on his torch he made a slow sweep of the room, the beam picking out the ghostly white shapes of furniture covered over with dust sheets. Making his way across the room he cautiously opened the door that led out into a hallway. The room opposite he found was be
ing used as a library and the one neighbouring it, a dining room, both of which also had their furniture covered. By what he had seen so far he was fairly sure the place was unoccupied but to be doubly sure, he checked the upstairs bedrooms, and with no sign of life, returned to the kitchen to see if there was any food to be had. The only meagre rations he was able to find were stored in a pantry and consisted of three tins of various types of fruit and two more of Baxter’s soup all of which he carried through to the kitchen. Pulling out each drawer in turn until he found the one with cutlery in it, he set about routing through the utensils, eventually finding what he was looking for, a tin opener. Folding back the lid he tasted the contents of the tin; satisfied it was fit to eat, he poured the chunky liquid into a pan then set off in the direction of the woodshed. Returning with some old newspapers, kindling and several logs, it wasn’t long before the kitchen had a warm cheerful feel about it and with some reasonably hot soup inside him, followed by fruit segments, it wasn’t long before he was overcome by sleep.
It was a drop in the room’s temperature that woke him. Checking the time that showed a little after five he decided to see if the vehicle’s engine in the garage had life enough in it to give him transport to Oban. What confronted him when he opened the door was totally unexpected; after a heavy snow shower, a cold dense fog now shrouded the entire surrounding area. Edging his way slowly in the general direction of the garage he suddenly found himself falling, landing heavily against an ornamental flower pot. ‘Schweinhund,’ he shouted loudly, pushing over the offending object with his foot. Having dropped both sets of keys during his fall, it took him several minutes to locate them amongst the disturbed snow; pocketing both sets of keys he was eventually able to reach the garage without further mishap. Unlocking the doors, he opened them just wide enough to gain entry, whereupon he was confronted by a rather drab-looking Singer motor car which Bayer estimated was from the early-1930s by its shape. Pulling the door closed behind him he soon located the light switch, which to his surprise was in working order but which he quickly extinguished until he had blacked out the side window using two lengths of wood and some old discarded sacking he found. Sliding in behind the wheel, he inserted the key into the ignition; pulling out the choke he then turned the key, but was annoyed to see no ignition light come on. He tried the starter anyway but got no response from the engine and after further inspection found the battery had been removed. Slamming the bonnet down hard in disgust, he had just been about to give it up as a bad job when he saw what looked like the square shape of a battery covered over under the workbench. With the battery in place and a little coaxing with the choke and throttle the motor roared into life filling the garage with grey acrid smoke. Pushing one of the doors ajar to let out the fumes, he let the engine warm up for several minutes before switching it off. With the cold beginning to seep through his wet clothing from his earlier fall he decided the warmth of the kitchen was the best option and also to give the fog a chance to lift. Coaxing the fire back to life with a couple more logs, he then opened the two remaining cans of fruit, the cold substance doing little to dampen the pangs of hunger he was feeling. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, thoughts of home when he was a boy, the aroma of his mother’s baking, the long hot summers playing in the woods and fields near his home. Having not heard the sound of the approaching vehicle, the only realisation that someone was about was when there came a knock on the kitchen door. Disconcerted by his abrupt awakening his first reaction was to reach for the Walther, but as his mind cleared and he began to think more clearly, he returned it to his coat pocket but with his hand firmly holding the grip ready for use should he deem it necessary. A second knock, louder than the first, prompted him to open the door and confront the early morning caller, but the presence of a rather attractive female looking at him took him a little by surprise.
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