Blood spattered the wall next to the German soldier’s head. He disappeared back through the window and his StG 44 fell toward Rossett, who caught the gun and then looked toward the warehouses on the other side of the Overhead Railway. Searching for his sniper friend.
He couldn’t see him.
Rossett started to run. There was another shot from over by the warehouses.
Rossett kept on running.
Fifty yards.
Another shot over his head.
Thirty yards away and blowing hard.
Then the guns opened up behind him.
Bullets skittered off the cobblestones, then came back off the twisted steel girders of the Overhead Railway toward him. Rossett flinched, lifting one arm to cover his face as he ran.
He got lucky. Nothing hit him. He grabbed a girder and spun so that he could take cover behind the narrow steel shield. This time there was no sniper to protect him. This time he closed his eyes and ducked his head as sparks arced off the metal all around him.
This time he lived again.
He guessed there were several people shooting at him from the building now. The rate of fire was erratic, but heavy enough to make sure he was pinned down.
He flinched again as another round flicked sparks and cut the air. He leaned in tighter to the girder and forced open his eyes to try to work out a route to the warehouses behind him.
Rossett could see the horses by the warehouse doors, skittish and pulling against the wooden chocks placed under their cart wheels. One of them was already down on the ground, rolling, trapped by the yoke around its neck, blood on its flank as it brayed and frothed with pain and panic.
Rossett crouched, checked that the StG 44 was cocked, and fired blindly around the girder back toward the building.
The gun danced in his hands.
He had to run.
Not moving was suicide.
They’d be coming for him soon. Not just the soldiers in the building, but the ones with vehicles in the compound. A burst of gunfire sounded and rounds rang like tossed gravel off the steel girders holding up the railway. Rossett looked over at the warehouses, took a deep breath, and made ready to run.
The gunfire stopped.
Rossett rested his back against the girder. He waited, unsure, and then risked a look at where he’d just escaped from.
There was a hole, low in the wall, near the window he had climbed out of, but closer to the plaza. He could see some of the British prisoners from earlier stumbling out as they made their escape. The soldiers in the building were shouting and pointing at them. It didn’t take them too long to get organized and react.
They started shooting at the fleeing prisoners.
Rossett wanted to draw their fire. He lifted his StG 44 and pulled the trigger.
Empty.
He tossed the gun and ran.
An occasional shot followed him, but he moved quickly, with short breaths and high knees.
He made it to a warehouse and through an open wooden door. It was dark inside, but he could just about see a few men with dirty faces huddled behind some cubic cotton bales. Rossett ran through to the back of the building without stopping.
It took him two or three attempts to find the rear exit, but finally, he burst out of a door and onto a street full of abandoned horses, carts, trucks, and cars. It was like time was standing still except for his heaving chest. More empty buildings stood on the far side of the wide street. Towering office buildings, more modern than the warehouse he had just run through.
Rossett listened to the sound of the distant gunfire behind him as he caught his breath. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. The river was at his rear. He was at the boundary of Liverpool city center, and hopefully some form of safety.
He set off at a jog. Moving quickly, dodging low between the carts and trucks. As he stopped and took another look around, a big cart horse shivered and snorted when he rested a hand on its warm flank. It started to rain again, heavy fat drops that slapped on the cobbles and hissed and spat at him.
He needed to get to cover.
The shooting had stopped. He could hear sirens now. It sounded like police cars, but he doubted they were.
He felt hunted.
He ripped off the dirty dressing on his forehead and started moving again, the heavy rain falling faster. Soaking him, dragging him down, and causing his head to steam from the heat of his exertion. He found a cap and a heavy peacoat in the cab of a truck, ditched his ripped overcoat, and put them on. He considered taking the truck but decided moving on foot would allow him to evade roadblocks more easily. He hit the city center building line at a run, and then slipped into a narrow alleyway to keep off the main road.
As he moved along the alley he took off his tie and undid two buttons on his shirt. The peacoat was tight over his suit jacket, but the dust and dirt on his face helped him look like a docker and made him feel a little safer as his feet splashed through the puddles that formed on the uneven paving stones.
He hit the end of the alleyway at a fast walk and was relieved to see that there were crowds of pedestrians. The kind of crowds into which he could disappear from view. People seemed oblivious to the recent sound of gunfire. They had a curious calm, the kind of calm people adopted when they didn’t want to look as scared as they really were. There was a mix of office workers, shop workers, some beggars; and the odd car or two was parked at curbside or drifting down the street.
It was almost normal.
Rossett dug his hands into his pockets and started to cross the road, head down, moving fast but not too fast. Going nowhere, but heading somewhere, anywhere far away from where he was.
He needed time.
Maybe he could call London? Get some help? He found a telephone box, entered, lifted the receiver, and tapped the cradle.
Dead.
He looked out the window as an army truck thundered past through the rain, its canvas covering whipping in the wind.
Rossett slammed down the phone and left the box.
He kept walking.
Deeper into the city. He felt like a rock in a river as he elbowed and edged his way through the lunchtime crowd. Rossett guessed he was maybe half a mile from the Pier Head, moving farther away as the downpour eased. He realized he stood out in his dirty clothes and thought about ditching his docker’s peacoat, then realized he’d thrown away his tie and would look strange without one.
He stepped into a doorway to take stock of his situation. A tram rattled past, sparks bouncing off its roof, then dropping down onto the wet street. Pure bright white, too bright to look at. Honest, white, clean, out of place in a city gone to the devil and the darkness.
He had no ID, no money, no weapon, and he was a long way from home.
He needed help.
There was a café on the other side of the street. It looked busy, full of lunchtime rush and cigarette smoke. There was a phone number painted on the sign over the door, which meant there was a telephone he could use inside.
He set off, dodging traffic and splashes as he crossed the street. There was a bell over the door, but he hardly heard it over the clatter and bang of conversation and the crashing of dishes. He squeezed through the few tables and pushed his way to the head of a grumbling queue at the counter.
“I need to use your phone.” He interrupted the man serving at the counter.
“Pardon?”
“Do you have a phone?” Someone behind was tutting loudly, and he had to resist the urge to turn around to see who it was.
“Business use only, there’s a call box over the street.”
“Police emergency.”
The man looked at Rossett’s dirty face, and then down at the old peacoat.
“What emergency?”
“There’s going to be a murder if you don’t let me use your fucking phone.”
The man took a step back.
“Please?” Rossett held up a hand of apology and tried again. “I need the phone quick
ly.”
The man paused, then lifted the flap on the counter.
“Through that door.” He nodded his head toward an open doorway at the back of the shop. “And don’t touch anything else, you’re filthy.”
Rossett nodded thanks, edged past the flap, and headed for the door. It led into a steaming kitchen where a woman was sweating into the pan of soup she was stirring, while another washed dishes in a sink.
They both looked up him as he entered. He pointed to the squat black telephone on a shelf to his right. The woman stirring the soup frowned, while the one washing dishes turned back around and carried on with her cacophony.
The humidity in the kitchen was intense. Steam billowed like marsh gas from some pans on an unattended cooker in the corner, while the stirrer stood guard over three pots of broth on another range.
Rossett was sweating. His clothes felt soaked from both sides as he picked up the telephone and tapped the cradle.
“Operator?”
“Operator.” She sounded faint, like the line was barely connecting.
“Police emergency.”
“Putting you through, sir.”
Rossett listened to a click and crackle, then noticed that kitchen had gone quiet behind him. He looked around and saw that the man from the counter had joined the women and that all three were staring at him intently.
Rossett held an imaginary cup to his lips.
“Tea?”
“Free phone, free tea? He must be a copper.” The man gestured that the soup stirrer should take a break by making Rossett a drink.
“Liverpool City Police, what’s your emergency?” the voice came back on a noisy line. Rossett had to shove a finger in his free ear to hear it.
“My name is Detective Inspector John Rossett, and I need . . .”
“Putting you through, sir.”
“What?”
“Putting you through.”
The line clicked again.
Rossett mopped his brow with his sleeve.
“Where the hell are you?” The line crackled in his ear.
“Hello?” Rossett jabbed his finger back in his ear and turned closer to the wall.
“Where are you?”
“Who is this?”
“Chief Superintendent Evans.”
Rossett breathed out. “I’m in a café . . .”
“This isn’t the time to be having a meal.”
A teacup and saucer rattled onto the shelf next to the phone, and Rossett nodded thanks to the soup stirrer.
“I need someone to come and get me.”
“Someone will be coming to get you, all right. Where are you?”
Rossett looked at the soup stirrer.
“Where am I?”
“In the kitchen,” she replied flatly.
“Where?”
“Capaldi’s Café.”
“Capaldi’s?”
“I know it,” Evans crackled. “I’ll send a radio car.”
“Dannecker tried to kill me.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What?”
“You’re wanted for murder.”
“What?” Rossett knocked the teacup with his elbow, and a little spilled into the saucer. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the staff were still watching him, so he waved them away with a flick of the hand before leaning in closer to the wall. “Who said I am wanted for murder?”
“I’ve only just put the phone down on Dannecker. He says you’ve escaped from their custody and he’s issued a warrant for your arrest.” Evans’s voice dropped so low, Rossett could hardly hear it over the interference on the line. “I warned you, I told you to be—”
“Who am I supposed to have killed?”
“Neumann. Plus you tried to stop a civilian punishment execution by attacking his guards.”
“Neumann is dead?”
“According to Dannecker he is.”
“I haven’t killed anybody.” Rossett paused, then tried again. “Well, I have, lots of people, but nobody today, and definitely not Neumann.”
“Just come in, we can sort this out.”
“Have you spoken to London?”
“Not yet, and I’m not expecting to, either. Most of the lines out of the city are down again.”
As if on cue the line crackled and popped in Rossett’s ear as the lighting in the kitchen flickered for a moment. Everyone looked up at the bulb and waited to see if it would hold out.
It did.
The woman at the sink started to crash pots and pans again, as a trickle of sweat ran down the side of Rossett’s face. He swiped it away as the man shouted a food order through the doorway behind him.
“Evans?” Rossett turned back to the wall.
“Yes?”
“They’ll kill me.”
“My men are on their way; we can sort this out when they get you back here. Just sit tight, we can sort it out.”
“If Dannecker gets hold of me I’ll be dead before the night is out.”
“Two scouse!” The soup stirrer called out a completed food order behind Rossett.
The phone line popped again. “We can sort it out, Inspector. Sit tight—”
The line died.
Rossett tapped the cradle a couple of times. “Hello?”
Nothing.
He tried again. “Operator?”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Rossett put the phone down and rested his head against the wall above the shelf. Even the white tiles were hot. He lifted his forehead and looked at the man who had come to collect the soups.
“The phone’s dead.”
“It does that.”
“Is there another one?”
“Where d’you think you are? The Savoy?”
“Will it come back on?”
“Probably, but God knows when.” The man picked up the two bowls, and Rossett saw one of his thumbs dip down into the scouse.
He was right, Rossett wasn’t in the Savoy. The man waited a second or two to see if Rossett was going to ask another question, and when he didn’t, took the soups out into the café.
Rossett turned back to the phone and tapped the cradle again.
Still dead.
“Drink your tea, love.”
He looked up at the soup stirrer. She smiled at him. “Sometimes it goes off for days. You might as well just drink your tea and relax.”
Rossett looked at the receiver in his hand, then set it down in its cradle.
“Are they coming for you?” She was still smiling when Rossett looked over, but instead of stirring she was now adding what looked like pepper into the mix.
“Who?”
“Your friends?”
“Who?”
“The police.” She put down the pepper, used the spoon to taste with, and then set to stirring again.
“I think so.”
“Are you a local policeman?”
Rossett saw the pot washer glance over, waiting for his reply.
“No.” He put her out of her misery, and she went back to scrubbing. “I’m from London.”
“Ooh, lovely.” The stirrer looked at her colleague, but she was too busy washing to reply. “I always wanted to go to London.”
Rossett picked up his teacup and sat on the low stool next to the telephone shelf. “You should go, you’d like it.”
The stirrer chuckled and picked up the pepper again. “Don’t be daft, how am I going to get a pass to go to London?”
Rossett nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“The local police won’t give out travel warrants without you paying them off, and I haven’t got the money for that sort of thing.”
“A bribe?”
“Yes.” She shook the pepper again. “Right thieving sods they are around here.”
The pot washer glanced at her, but the stirrer waved her away. “This one doesn’t mind me saying it, he’s from London. I bet the police are different down there . . . aren’t
they, love?”
Rossett sipped his tea and didn’t reply.
“Do you want a bowl of this?”
“No, thank you.” Rossett forced a smile and held up a hand.
“No charge, we won’t tell him out there.” She nodded toward the door.
“No, honestly, thanks.”
Her turn to smile, and then continue to speak over the sound of a fresh load of crockery in the sink. “This police force up here are a terrible lot. My poor Ronnie, my youngest lad, was dragged off the street by the local police about six months ago and given a terrible beating. Honestly, it were shocking, he could hardly walk when the Germans released him.”
“Who beat him?”
“The police. They beat lads black and blue and then hand them over to the Germans. It is a disgrace.”
“They hand prisoners over?”
“All the time! When there is punishment, after there’s been some graffiti and vandalism, the Germans nearly always get the police to do their dirty work. It’s a disgrace.”
“They’re not all bad,” the pot washer chimed in for the first time, with a nod of her head toward Rossett.
“No.” The stirrer tilted her head. “No, there are a few decent ones, that’s true.”
Rossett took another sip of tea. “Your boy, what had he done?”
“Bugger all.” For the first time since Rossett had arrived, she stepped away from the stove and walked over to him. She leaned in so close, he could smell the soup on her face and feel the heat off her overalls. “You want my advice, you don’t trust these locals. They’ve done some terrible things. Terrible, terrible things.” She nodded, almost as if she was agreeing with herself, and then went back to her stirring.
Rossett looked at the phone. It took him half a minute to make the decision, then stand up.
“Thank you.”
The stirrer smiled at him, and gave him a wink. “Sure you don’t want some scouse? It’ll put hairs on yer chest.”
Rossett smiled, then turned and left the kitchen.
The crowd of diners had thinned a little as the lunchtime rush subsided. Rossett moved from behind the counter and headed for the exit. A woman was putting on her coat, blocking the gap between the tables as she finished a conversation with her still-sitting friend.
Rossett was stuck. He scanned the room for a quicker way to the door, then saw two uniformed police constables entering the café.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 16