‘We’ll be watching you, Wilde. One wrong move and your life won’t be worth living.’
Wilde shrugged, climbed into the car, fired up the engine in a cloud of stinking black smoke and set off down the track towards Dunbeath.
*
A mile along the road, he stopped in a small layby and waited until the military vehicle with the two soldiers came up behind him. They slowed down and looked at him suspiciously. He wound down the window and smiled at them. ‘Just soaking up the scenery before I return to the south of England. You can squeeze past, can’t you?’
The officer gave him a murderous look.
Wilde smiled again, then wound up his window and waved to them as they moved on with what seemed to be a great deal of reluctance. When they had disappeared into the distance, he climbed out of the Morris. He had seen something – a flock of twenty sheep on a rise, perhaps half a mile to the south, and coming his way. The shepherd herding them had a shock of red hair. Wilde set off in his direction.
A few minutes later he was standing in front of Gregor McGregor and his collie. The lad wasn’t meeting his eyes.
‘Hello, boy,’ Wilde said, patting the dog. He looked up at McGregor. ‘Kite, that’s his name, isn’t it? Fine fellow.’
McGregor said nothing, merely looked somewhere into the middle distance with his strange green eyes.
‘Gregor, I’ve been to see your mother.’
That got a response. The boy looked startled and his eyes flicked straight to Wilde’s.
‘She talked to me about you.’
‘No, no, mister, no. I’ll be beaten. I’ll get no supper.’
‘You’ll be all right – I gave her some money.’
‘No, no, she’ll beat me.’
‘You’re scared of your mother, aren’t you? She said you steal things.’
‘She makes me. She makes me steal and then I have to give the money to her.’
‘That’s why your mother told you she didn’t want you telling anyone about the body you saw – because you stole money from the body and gave it to her. Isn’t that the truth, Gregor?’
‘I can’t say anything.’
‘Do you want me to go back to your mother?’
‘No, mister, please, no.’
‘Then tell me what you did.’
He was silent again, shaking, his head down.
‘Gregor?’
The boy groaned. A sound from a deep well of despair that must have lain within him all his life. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘The dead lassie had a purse and there was money in it, pound notes and some coins – a few shillings, a half crown and some pennies. I gave them to Mother. She snatched them from me.’
‘Anything else – something more valuable, perhaps?’
McGregor was backing away. The dog had moved from its position controlling the sheep and was at its master’s side, protective, growling at Wilde.
‘What was it? Have you got it with you? Show me – or I’ll tell your mother you’ve held something back from her, and you’ll be beaten.’
Wilde could see that the boy was terrified. He felt rotten to be doing this to him, but he had no option. The boy knew something or had something, and then he saw what it was. Gingerly, the boy dug his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a dark blue rectangle of cardboard, perhaps six inches by four.
No, not just any old piece of blue cardboard: a British passport. The boy held it out between thumb and forefinger as though it were hot and might burn him. Wilde took it.
‘Thank you, Gregor. Your mother doesn’t know about this, does she?’
He shook his head.
‘And you haven’t told anyone else, have you?’
Again he shook his head.
‘You found this on the body of the dead woman?’
‘In her bag. She had a bag. I took it because I liked her picture. It’s pretty.’
‘And can you show me where the body is?’
‘No. It’s gone. Must have been taken away by the soldiers.’
Wilde opened the well-worn passport. He found a name, Harriet Hartwell, and a photograph of a young woman he had seen once before, very recently. The woman who called herself Claire Hart at the Cameron Arms in Helmsdale twenty-four hours earlier.
She had seemed very much alive.
*
Heinrich Müller leant back in his leather armchair, his gaze fixed on the prisoner’s eyes. ‘Are you not getting tired of this, Herr Posse?’
‘Yes, I am tired.’ His fingers trembled in his lap.
‘It says here in your file that you are almost sixty. You are an old man. Would you not like to live out your last years in comfort?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘Of course I would, sir.’
‘I am not going to call you that.’ The words were defiant, but the voice was faint with dread.
The rubber truncheon slammed into the back of his neck. Posse’s head jerked and he let out an agonised scream.
They were in a large, windowless room in the cellars of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, 8, Berlin. Headquarters of the Gestapo and the SS. The air was thick with the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat. Apart from Müller and the prisoner, there were three other officers present, one of whom had wielded the cosh. The other two lounged against the whitewashed wall, smirking and giggling.
Müller yawned ostentatiously. ‘All I require is a few answers, Posse, then I can go home and you can return to your cell. So tell me, do you know a man named Streletz? Heinz Streletz.’
Joachim Posse couldn’t talk. He was gasping for breath. An arm snaked around his neck. ‘Answer the Gruppenführer, pig.’ The grip tightened. Müller watched the prisoner’s face turn purple and his eyes bulge. He made a gesture to his junior officer and Posse was released, his head thrown forward against the hard edge of the desk.
‘Well, let me enlighten you, Herr Posse. Like you, Heinz Streletz is a leader of what remains of the traitorous Red Front. Like you he is a filthy Bolshevik. He is your friend and confederate, so of course you know him. All I require of you is his present whereabouts. Simple, yes?’
The prisoner still either would not or could not answer. His breathing was shallow, his head bleeding and slumped into his chest. Müller sighed. It was going to be a long session, but Joachim Posse was an important prisoner, important enough that the chief of the Gestapo himself was directing his Verschärfte Vernehmung – enhanced interrogation.
Müller’s nose wrinkled and his lip curled involuntarily at the new smell that invaded his nostrils. The prisoner had soiled himself. The Gestapo chief tutted. ‘Dear me, how embarrassing for you, Herr Posse.’
There was a sharp knock at the door. Müller nodded to one of his underlings, who proceeded to open it. His secretary, Gretchen, came in and walked straight to the desk, studiously ignoring the prisoner and the unpleasant miasma of the room. She threw out her arm in a Hitler salute and handed him a sheet of paper. ‘This message has just arrived, Herr Gruppenführer. It is marked urgent.’
‘Thank you, Gretchen. Wait for me in my office, if you would.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Like a well-drilled soldier, she turned on her heel and within moments was gone.
As Müller read the paper, his muscles tightened. He was accustomed to difficult situations, many of them unpleasant, like the present interrogation of Joachim Posse, but such things were all in a day’s work and when he returned home at the end of his long day he slept like a baby.
But he would have no sleep tonight.
He scanned the paper again, scarcely able to believe what he was reading. God in heaven, how had this been allowed to happen? The message Gretchen had brought was from an agent in England, informing him of a possible defection. A member of an important German delegation had gone missing in the neutral territory of Sweden, and the British were involved. The enormity of the incident was instantly obvious.
The problem for Müller was that the missing man had been employed in his own department in
a senior role and was in possession of vital and delicate secrets. It would be bad for Germany if this confidential information was communicated to the Allies, but it would be a great deal worse for Müller himself.
He read the paper a third time, then folded it carefully and slid it into his jacket pocket. As the son of a police officer and with much of his own life devoted to police work, the Gestapo chief knew how to deal with this. But it would be difficult – and his one fear was that he might already be too late. He was making for the door when he remembered the prisoner and turned to his lieutenant. ‘Take him back to his cell, Huber.’
‘He seems to be dead, Herr Gruppenführer. A heart attack, perhaps.’
Müller glanced at the collapsed figure of Joachim Posse. ‘Then send his ashes to the widow, and bill her for cremation expenses.’
Chapter 11
Before leaving the moor between Braemore and Dunbeath, Wilde pressed the shepherd boy for more information. ‘At least you can show me where you found the woman, even if she’s no longer there,’ he said. ‘Will you do that for me, Gregor? I can give you more money for your mother . . .’
‘No, mister, I’ve got to get these sheep in for the dipping.’
‘Yesterday you told me the body was near all the other bodies and the wreckage of the plane? But how close exactly?’
‘I was lying a bit. She was away from them, down by the burn.’
‘The stream?’
‘Aye, Berriedale Water.’
‘How far from the plane?’
He looked bemused, as though he didn’t understand the question.
‘A hundred yards – two? Quarter mile?’
‘Och, I don’t know. By the burn below Eagle’s Rock.’
Wilde opened the passport and showed Gregor the picture of the woman he now knew to be Harriet Hartwell. ‘Was this the dead lassie you saw?’
‘It looks like her, but the one I saw was all dressed up like it was winter.’
‘And you were sure she was dead? Did you take her pulse?’
‘I’ve seen plenty of dead sheep – and she was as dead as any of them. I turned her over on to her front because I didn’t want the ravens taking her eyes like they do to the lambs. She was pretty, you see, the lassie. I didn’t want them to get her eyes . . .’
‘OK, Gregor. Well, if I were you I would say no more about this.’ He handed the boy a few coins. ‘Tell your mother you found this money. Don’t tell her you met me. I truly hope you’re not punished.’
‘What about that?’ He jutted his chin at the passport. ‘That’s mine, that is.’
‘I’m keeping this. I’ve just paid you for it.’
Wilde turned and walked away. He had one more thing to do. The petrol gauge was low, but it wasn’t far to Helmsdale, about fifteen miles, and he reckoned he would make it there and back if he drove steadily.
Hamish Cameron was at his desk in the lobby of his small hotel. ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘So you’re back. Will you be staying the night this time?’
‘I’m afraid not, but I have a simple question for you. When I was last here, there was a woman checking out. She gave her name as Claire Hart. How long had she been here?’
Cameron looked Wilde straight in the eye. ‘I don’t recall giving you the name of any of my guests.’
‘This is important, Mr Cameron. I just want to know when Miss Hart arrived, whether she was alone, and what state she was in.’
‘You seem very insistent, Mr . . .’
‘Wilde. Professor Thomas Wilde.’
‘Do you mind telling me what this is all about?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then we’re in the same boat, aren’t we? You won’t say anything, and nor will I. Now, do you mind leaving my hotel. I have the books to attend to.’
This was going nowhere. He tried looking at the register again, but Cameron’s arms were folded over it. ‘Very well, Mr Cameron. But you may be hearing from others about this matter.’
‘And I shall treat them with the same respect I have shown you.’
Wilde went back to the car. He sat in the driver’s seat, fuming. Then he remembered: someone called Morrison had taken the woman in his taxicab. He climbed out of the car again. A passer-by directed him to Morrison’s house, but no one was in. He knocked at the house next door. An old man with a stick answered.
‘It’s Morrison you want, is it? He’s no’ here today.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Och, he comes and goes. I can give him a message if you want.’
‘Does he have a telephone?’
‘Aye, he does. Is it a taxicab you’re after, because McIver will help you if you can’t find Morrison.’
‘No, it’s Morrison I want.’
‘I can find you the number, if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
It had been a wasted trip. He drove back to Jimmy Orde’s house at a crawl and dropped off the car.
‘The military have been here asking questions,’ Orde said.
‘Such as?’
‘They wanted to know what I had been saying to you and where you were. I told them we talked about herring and that you had gone for a walk, as far as I knew.’
‘But you didn’t mention the plane you saw?’
‘No, Tom. I know when to keep my mouth shut.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you’re involved in this, Jimmy.’
They shook hands warmly and Wilde gave the fisherman his Cambridge contact details in case he should hear any more about the death of the Duke or the flight of the Sunderland.
‘Be careful, Tom,’ Orde said.
Wilde frowned, surprised by the exhortation. ‘Are you worried about me, Jimmy?’
‘Aye, I am. I’d say you were the kind of fellow that rushes in where others might fear to tread.’
‘A little like you then?’
Orde managed a grin, but it was tinged with some unspoken concern.
Wilde’s last chore in Scotland was to visit Walter Quayle in hospital.
‘You’ve been up to no good,’ Quayle said. He was a lot more wide awake than he had been at the last visit, but he still looked in a bad way with all the bandaging, the damaged nose and the black eye, which seemed to have coloured up yellowy-orange since Wilde’s previous visit.
‘Well, I’m out of your hair now, Quayle. I’m catching the next train south. And there really was no need to set the bloody army on me. That young lieutenant could learn some manners.’
‘And you could learn to stick to the agreed terms of your business here. Anyway, what exactly have you been up to? Anything to tell me?’
‘You mean about the dead woman Gregor McGregor found?’
‘God, you’re not on that line again, are you? Is that what you’ve been doing – trying to find some evidence to suggest the Duke had his fancy piece aboard the plane? You’re out of line, Wilde. This is not the way close allies behave.’
‘But what if there was a woman?’
‘Have you found something to suggest there might be?’
‘No,’ he lied, ‘but what if there was? Wouldn’t you want to find out who she was? Or maybe you already know, Quayle – is that it? The British Establishment closing ranks? Perhaps you’re keeping something from your American friends?’
‘This is getting utterly ridiculous, Wilde. I think you’re right – it’s time to get you south. Corporal Boycott will convey you to your train.’
‘There was one more thing. Is there any possibility that the Sunderland was arriving back in Scotland rather than leaving? What if a fishing vessel saw it coming in low from the east? What would that mean?’
Even beneath his injuries, Wilde could see Quayle’s languid features hardening. He fixed his visitor with a gaze of such intensity that Wilde had a sudden feeling that the man actually loathed him.
‘Well?’
‘Who the hell have you been talking to, Wilde? Is this something you heard from our host, Mr Orde? God preserve
us from fishermen’s tales . . .’
‘You seem very touchy.’
‘Oh, sod off, Wilde. I’m sick of the sight of you.’
*
Wilde returned to London by a series of trains. It took him the best part of thirty hours and he did not stop off in Cambridge; his conversations with Gregor McGregor and Jimmy Orde – and the passport he now held firmly concealed in his inside jacket pocket – had instilled a sense of dread and urgency in him. Something strange was happening, and he wasn’t at all sure what it was.
From the station he made his way directly to a newspaper office in Fleet Street. It was late at night, and dark outside. Inside, the lobby was suffused in a dim light. The receptionist put a call through to the newsroom for him and within a couple of minutes he was joined by a shirt-sleeved man with sweat-stained armpits and loosened tie. The epitome of a hard-bitten newspaperman.
They immediately grinned at each other and shook hands warmly.
‘Hello, Ron, good to see you.’
‘And you, too, Tom – though God knows what you’re doing here.’
‘All will become clear. But first, how are you? Any word of Edward?’
The men were old friends with a mutual interest in motorbikes and the singing of Bessie Smith. Ron Christie was night editor of a national newspaper and father to a remarkably fine scholar, Edward, who had come under Wilde’s tutelage in his three years at Cambridge.
‘I think he’s probably in North Africa, but his exact location is classified, of course. And you? How’s the youngster?’
‘Johnny’s well, Lydia too.’
‘Good. Well, come on up and give me a clue why you’re here.’
‘I’m looking for a girl – a young woman,’ Wilde said as they entered the lift.
‘Lydia not enough for you any more?’
‘Have you heard the name Harriet Hartwell, alias Claire Hart?’
‘Should I have?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, is she famous – singer? Movie star? – or is she a criminal?’
‘Again, I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Tom, let’s get you to the library. You can delve around in our cuttings to your heart’s content.’
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