by John Wilson
– Yes, Mr Falling. There was an inquest. At Romford Town Hall. But I’m afraid Mr Bateman won’t authorise me to spend the money on getting a record of it.
– Doesn’t he understand why I want it?
– No, frankly. He doesn’t. Says it’s a waste of money … intruding on his private grief …
– Well. He must have been there. Wouldn’t he at least tell you what happened? Who gave evidence?
– Says he was in a state of shock. Doesn’t want to talk about it.
– If it helps him win his case he’ll get the costs of it back from McKechnie.
– I told him that. But he won’t budge.
– Romford Town Hall?
– Yes.
– Okay. Well, we’ll have to leave it there. But I’ll want to ask him about why he’s being so difficult.
Adam had hung up. He would get no further with the case for the time being. Pemberton had promised the answers to the Request for Further and Better Particulars by Friday so that they wouldn’t come through until tomorrow. He felt again for the note in his pocket:
– Hamleys. Friday. 1 p.m.
That was all it said. He had gone into Temple Church resigned to there being no note. There hadn’t been one since the previous Friday – the one he had burnt but Pemberton had retrieved. The note was folded up in the same place but it was not of the usual creamy paper but rather a nondescript piece from Woolworth’s. The writing, too, did not look like Julia’s. He wondered whether it might be a trap, but then decided that it couldn’t be. No one could have known about the trips they had made to Hamleys together – or the time of year at which they had made them – or of the note Julia had left just before Christmas 1936:
– Meet me at Hamleys at 11.30. I have some Christmas shopping to do. Perhaps we could steal lunch afterwards?
What better excuse for going somewhere, unaccompanied by family, than buying presents? If they were seen together it could always be coincidence. He had slipped out of Chambers at around eleven and taken the Underground to Oxford Circus. Passing down Regent Street, he had entered the store. It was crowded with shoppers and decked out in seasonal decorations and he thought he would never find her. Starting at the ground floor he worked his way around the displays and up the stairs. It was impossible. Young women and families were everywhere. Music and the scent of oranges. But she was there somewhere. He decided that when he reached the fifth floor he would begin the search again in reverse.
Then, on the third floor, amongst the dolls and the dressing-up, he heard familiar laughter sounding above the laughter of others. He made his way towards her. At first he could see only a bubble of blonde curls behind a large dolls’ house, and then he realised that, somehow, she was holding it in her arms, as though for a dare, so that it almost engulfed her. She had not seen him and he was able to move round so that he could see her in profile, wearing a dark blue woollen dress and a bright red scarf, her head thrown back and her eyes twinkling as she teetered under the weight of the toy, the shop assistants laughing along with her.
– Adam! What a surprise seeing you here! What do you think of my dolls’ house?
Julia was shining like a child. She lowered the dolls’ house back onto its stand.
– I always wanted one. I hinted and hinted but Daddy said they were silly.
– I wanted to get Deborah one but Catherine said they were too expensive and that she’d grow out of it.
– Oh, there were all sorts of other things going on with Mummy and Daddy. It wasn’t the money. I think they sometimes forgot I was there.
– Is that why you don’t see them anymore?
– I never really think about them, even at Christmas. I’m not sure I even have their addresses anymore.
The shop assistants had gone back to their duties. She ran her hand over the roof and pulled open the façade to look inside at the toy furniture.
– Are you going to get it?
– Not this year. Agnes is too young yet. But she’s going to have a dolls’ house and we’ll be able to play with it together.
They moved off and began exploring for presents, she for her three and he for Deborah, looking, to anyone that might have thought about it, like a young married couple getting ready for Christmas. Afterwards Julia hailed a taxi and they went and had lunch at Quaglino’s. It was busy enough to be anonymous and, with a post-prandial stroll through Green Park, it was to become a staple of their time together. As they crossed the park Julia put her hand in his and passed him something that felt cold and multi-faceted. He looked at it with surprise. It was a piece of crystal, shaped like a tiny obelisk but mined with cracks and small faults:
It’s only a little paperweight. I wanted to give you a Christmas present but couldn’t get anything too ostentatious obviously. I found it in Portobello Road. It cost less than a shilling. You can say that you bought it for yourself and keep it on your desk in Chambers to remind you of me.
It’s beautiful.
He turned it over in his hands and watched as weak sunlight prismed off it. No one would take a second glance at it but he meant what he said. He hadn’t thought of Christmas presents and felt embarrassed at his lack of forethought. He wanted to give her something in return but all he had on him was the current paperback he had been carrying, out of habit, for his tube journey. He pulled it from his pocket:
– Merry Christmas. It’s a good book and it’s not marked in any way.
And he handed her his copy of Down and Out in Paris and London. He would have to buy a replacement. It was the first of many books that he would buy her in the following four years.
“Hamleys. Friday 1 p.m.” Adam played with the note in his pocket as he headed to his room in Chambers.
“Idiot”
Nearly every one of the books on his shelves there had its mirror in those on the shelves in her dressing room. He remembered Jeremy’s exaggerated interest in his library.
– Down and Out in Paris and London. Now I’d never come across this Orwell chap.
– He’s a personal favourite of mine. More for his journalism.
– Interesting. Interesting.
– How could he possibly know?
– He’s my husband, Adam. He’s not a fool.
– But there’s nothing.
– There’s always something, Adam. We could never hide everything. I can’t see you anymore.
He lit a cigarette and shivered. He took down a book at random – Antic Hay by Aldous Huxley – his hand shook as he held it. He had given her a copy for her birthday in 1938. Vile Bodies – an Easter present in 1937. The list went on. He had thought he was being discreet, when in fact he had been giving her a body of evidence against them to keep right under her husband’s nose. “Idiot!” Why had he kept his books in Chambers? The mistake, once seen, was so obvious.
He tried to pull himself together. What had Jeremy actually got against them? A burnt fragment with a watermark and the coincidence of their literary interests. It couldn’t be enough. But there was plainly more. Last Friday Julia had said that she could not see him anymore. But by the following Thursday she was arranging a meeting. Perhaps she wanted some form of reconciliation with him? Maybe she wanted to work together with him to thwart her husband’s plans? Surely they were still on the same side? Surely he could trust her?
He did not know what to think. He put back the book and lit another cigarette. Pemberton’s words from Monday came back to him:
– It would be uncommonly foolish to carry on an affair right under her husband’s nose. One small slip and McKechnie would be able to study the man at his leisure. Uncommonly foolish …
“Jackson!” It had to be Jackson. How much had he found out? What else did Pemberton know? There must be more. They were never going to be able to hide everything. If Julia wanted to see him it must be because there was more. He remembered the thoughts that had plagued him the previous Friday night as he lay awake. How long had Jackson been following him? What had he seen or
heard or learnt?
That morning he had received formal instructions from Jones in the case of Tomas Novak. A conference had been arranged for 10 a.m. the following morning in Wandsworth prison. Oh God! Friday! The papers were not thick but he could not concentrate, reading the opening paragraph again and again. He no longer felt comfortable in Chambers. Whether the word was out or not he felt the smoke of rumour seeping under his door, swirling around the staircases and rising from colleagues that he met on the stairs; as though his reputation was on fire in the basement and the flames were rising. He had to get out. He needed to leave a note in the church saying that he might be late.
It was very cold and Adam was without his overcoat. He came out of Stirrup Court and walked across to the church. Lamb Building squatted between it and the Hall leaving only a little room on either side to pass it by. His exit from Chambers had taken Jackson by surprise and he caught the big man lumbering out of view, trying all the while to look invisible.
“Bugger!”
Bateman had clearly made it all too obvious. His cover blown, Jackson had returned to concentrating on Adam. It was too dangerous to leave a message for Julia. He scrunched it up in his pocket and made for the library. There was nothing for it: he would have to collect his papers and go home, and then directly to the prison in the morning. Anything rather than try and work in Chambers.
Chapter Fourteen
(Friday 20th December 1940)
The evidence was pretty damning. The police raid at three in the morning had clearly been based upon specific intelligence. They knew who he was and where he was living. There could have been no other reason for ten officers to swoop in on a small bedsit in Leytonstone. Specific intelligence was required to know which floorboard to lift. A cylinder of cardboard contained maps and plans of London’s reservoirs and basic bomb-making instructions.
He hadn’t helped himself either. Undisclosed intelligence sources indicated that Novak had entered the country only a matter of days earlier. He had confirmed that this was so. However, according to Hoffer, he had been in London since February. The lie, if it was a lie, was an obvious one. If he had indeed been in the country that long he should have presented himself to the authorities, as Hoffer had done. There was no record that he had; nor was there any form of corroborative evidence. Hoffer was unwilling to come forward formally – he should have reported Novak’s presence if he had known of it – and his landlord was faced with a similar dilemma. When Novak changed his story and said he had been in London far longer, this only served to confirm police suspicions. His landlord, having said that the man had only just arrived and pleading ignorance generally, was hardly going to help. It was obvious who the police – and the security services – were going to believe. After all, they had been led directly to him and to the stash of maps.
– You have my statement, Mr Falling. I don’t need to repeat myself.
His English was good. He had been a physicist in Prague.
– I have read your statement. I have also read the statements of the witnesses for the prosecution. They do not tally.
– We know why that is.
– I know why you say it is.
– Hoffer knows how long I have been here.
– Hoffer won’t give evidence. You can’t blame him for staying away from the police. You should be glad he is giving you the help he is giving you.
– Hoffer is not so intelligent.
It was unhelpful, but Adam instinctively disliked the man. At the Bar intellectual arrogance was all around him. But he did not like to see it in his clients – particularly in the present circumstances. Novak was tall and slim and held himself with exaggerated straightness. He was almost able to make the prison serge look fashionable. His piercing eyes were a slightly paler blue and prematurely silvery hair made him look like a portrait. He was too relaxed:
– Without Hoffer you would probably have no proper representation.
– I am not sure how good my representation is going to be.
Arrogant and offensive.
– You are fortunate that he has been able to raise sufficient money for you to have any representation … even from someone like me.
He felt more worthless than he had been feeling before arriving at Wandsworth.
– He has done everything wrong for me.
– What are you talking about?
– I am not a spy. I am a Jew. Why would I be helping the Nazis?
– Why would you be having plans to blow up our reservoirs?
– I’m sorry, Mr Falling. But I do not trust you. I do not trust Mr Hoffer. Why should I trust you?
– Mr Hoffer is a Jew as well.
– Huh!
This was not what he had expected. It was as though he carried an odour of failure about him. He was struggling. The interview had begun late and it was now 11 a.m. Meeting Julia was more important than this man’s story … his defence … his life. He stopped himself. He could not concentrate. It had taken until 7 a.m. that morning to begin reading the papers. And he had a hangover. An undrinkable bottle of sloe gin was all that was available to shield him from the wrath of his wife. Catherine had been understandably difficult and a dreadful silence had permeated the house. Sleep was impossible. He kept thinking of Julia.
– You have problems because you did not report to the authorities on your arrival. Why didn’t you report yourself? How did you get here?
– You are asking two questions of me. Which one would you wish me to be answering first?
– How did you get here?
– With Hoffer of course. Surely he has told you this?
– No.
– We boarded the same boat from Gibraltar. I liked his wife very much.
– He made no mention of this.
– It was his wife who helped me. Not so much Hoffer.
– Why didn’t you report with them?
– She was called Katya.
– You should have reported.
– It was Hoffer who said that I should not do so.
– Don’t be ridiculous.
– Doctors would be treated differently from physicists, he said. I made a mistake. I should not have trusted him. How can I trust you if Hoffer has sent you?
– He wanted you to report yourself but you would not be persuaded.
– Hoffer has told you this? He is not to be trusted. Why should I not report myself?
– Perhaps because you were intending to bomb our reservoirs?
– Hoffer told me not to report myself. Hoffer arranged my accommodation. If I had only just entered the country, how would I have come by the maps?
The story was all wrong. Hoffer had made it clear in their recent meeting that he had not met with Novak until after his tribunal hearing. Novak had browsed, without buying, in the bookshop where Hoffer was working. Hoffer, so he said, had attempted without success to persuade Novak to report himself. Someone was not telling the truth.
– I’m afraid your story is completely at odds with what we have been told by Mr Hoffer. I can see no reason for him to lie to us.
– Katya spoke to me about you after the Tribunal. She said that you were a gullible man. I see that she was right.
– Mr Novak. You are facing charges under the Treachery Act. The Crown says that you were attempting to do something that was likely to endanger life in this country. If they prove that, you will be executed, probably just around the corner from this interview room. Is that what you want?
– I don’t believe that you have met with Katya. You must talk with her. I do not trust Hoffer. And so I cannot trust you. So you must talk with Katya. Katya. Katya, I trust.
It was hopeless. Adam had tried to make Novak speak around his statement so as to tease out any inconsistencies or – if he was speaking the truth – to give his story some colour. His blank refusal was plainly based on genuine mistrust of his counsel’s motives. He was being paid practically nothing to be there (although to someone living on the fringes it may hav
e seemed like a lot). His defence was simple and incredible: he had come over with the Hoffers via Gibraltar. He had been persuaded by Hoffer not to report himself. Hoffer had arranged his accommodation and he knew nothing about the plans beneath the floorboards. He was not going to be believed. Novak continued:
– There is no point in this interview continuing. I do not see the point in further elaboration. You have my explanation. Until such time as you have spoken to Katya I cannot see us progressing …
Novak had taken control of the situation. Adam wondered at his ability to do so with the noose so close to him. This insistence. This faith in a woman whom Adam had never met triggered doubts in him.
– And, anyway. I see you have a more pressing … more urgent engagement that you must attend to rather than to be troubled by my … my little … problem. You must be on your way. Speak to Katya. I hope that perhaps we can meet again very soon. Preferably when you are not so preoccupied.
– I take your predicament very seriously. Jones and I will be doing all we can to ensure that you are properly represented.
– You are very concerned by your watch. I can assure you that it has not stopped. There is a clock behind your head. They are both moving. Speak to Katya. It may be then that we can have a meaningful meeting. I think that our meeting is over for now.
And he flicked his hands in dismissal.
Adam looked at Jones as they made their way out through security.
– He’s headed for the gallows.
– You want to wash your hands of him, I can tell.
– Have you taken a statement from Katya?
– Didn’t know she existed. Hoffer made no mention of a wife when he was interviewed for his statement. Novak hadn’t mentioned a woman either. But he seemed a bit obsessed by her. Odd, if she doesn’t exist.