‘...Are you mad?’ Fritz’s voice; almost a shout and then more muffled as the men moved around the shack. Anya strained her ears to hear more, but at that moment the sound of a vehicle being revved up came from a nearby street. It drowned out all possibility of hearing the men inside.
A few moments later two men came to the door of the hovel, wrapping scarves around their necks and pulling on gloves. Fritz was ahead of the other man and Anya was unable to see him properly. He was taller than Fritz and seemed to have a beard, but that could have been shadows falling on his face or a scarf wrapped around it. He wore one of those Russian shapka ushankas, a big, peaked fur hat with ear flaps, an efficient disguise.
She slipped behind the wall to be invisible. Her heart was pounding; they were up to something. She felt she should follow them and as soon as they had walked a few metres away, she slipped out of her hiding place and crept along behind them.
The blur of the falling snow obscured her view, but she could hear the men moving ahead of her and followed at a safe distance, making as little sound as possible. If they looked back she could hide behind a heap of rubble now increased in height by the snow lying on top. So long as she was quiet they wouldn’t know she was there.
A meandering walk through the streets brought them to a secluded alley that appeared to be a dead end. Anya waited outside. What were they doing? The answer soon came with the sound of a heavy vehicle starting. The engine caught first time and roared in the narrow alleyway, reverberating off the walls. Anya had to duck down as a battered truck backed out at speed, sending a storm of displaced snow into the air which came down on her, blinding her for a moment. But she was still able to see the direction it took – towards the Grunewald.
Anya shook the snow off John’s coat and watched the truck disappear up the street. There’s nothing I can do now, she thought. All the walking in the snow had made her incredibly tired. Weariness was making it difficult for her to think straight. What on earth is going on? Where are those men going? Has it got anything to do with Penny’s kidnap?
Anya turned towards John’s apartment block a few hundred metres away. She knew it would be warm there, with a furnace in the basement warming the whole block, in the modern way. The thought of her own cold room filled her with dread. She willed her feet to carry her as far as the apartments and climbed the stairs. She retrieved the key from above the door and tumbled into the flat, exhausted. She noticed that John had left his cigarette case on the table. She opened the case and put most of the contents in her bag. John wouldn’t mind and they would buy her a good meal tomorrow to make up for the trouble she had gone to tonight.
She undressed and soon fell asleep in John’s bed. I’ll go and see Isabel in the morning; she may have some news. What on earth were Fritz and that other man doing? Something strange was going on and it wasn’t good. That was Anya’s last thought before drifting off.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Time moved with leaden steps and it seemed an age before John and Isabel stumbled through the front door of the Grunewald house. The journey back had been nightmarish; the blizzard swirled in a reinforced frenzy. Huge clods of snow circled and danced around the puny Volkswagen threatening to engulf it as they battled through the arctic weather. John leant forward over the steering wheel, trying to see through the murk.
‘I hope we’re going the right way,’ he said.
‘Don’t say that. It would be awful if we got lost. It’s curfew soon.’
‘I don’t suppose the patrols will be able to see us. Don’t worry; it’s more or less in a straight line.’ John peered through the windscreen and squinted at the small portal intermittently cleared by the struggling wiper blades and promptly filled again by more snow. The headlights cast a feeble beam onto the snow ahead of them. It was warm inside the car as the engine generated enough heat to keep them from freezing. But from time to time icy draughts would strike from nowhere, causing them to shiver.
John tried to suppress his doubts. He was attempting to sound confident but he wasn’t entirely sure where they were. Hopefully they were going in the right direction. It would have helped if he had a compass with him. Landmarks he thought he recognised floated in and out of his vision, distinct one minute and obliterated the next, in the manner of a nightmarish dream where the landscape was constantly changing or a kaleidoscope held by a nervous hand. He couldn’t see a thing, but the stolid car rattled on as if it knew its own way and soon they were able to distinguish familiar buildings.
‘We’re nearly there. Look, there’s that ruined house at the comer of Kirchen Allee.’ Isabel pointed out the looming shape of the bombed property, its ravaged walls outlined against the snow.
‘Thank God for that,’ breathed John, whose concentration was beginning to falter as tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. He drove the last few hundred yards in a stupor; his eyes heavy and his hands numb with cold.
As they parked in front of Isabel’s building John patted the vehicle in an absurd gesture of gratitude. ‘Wonderful.’ he said. ‘Anything else would be frozen by now.’
They hurried up the steps and into the house and, both having the same thought, rushed across the cavernous hall to the kachelofen. The tiles still gave out waves of stored heat and they leant against it, soaking up warmth into their bones. There was no exuberant greeting from Prince. He’s not back yet. No sign of Penny either, no discarded hat and coat, no wet boots in puddles of melting snow on the floor. No letters, no messages, nothing.
Irma appeared from the rear of the apartment.
‘Oh. You’re back already!’ exclaimed Isabel. ‘I wasn’t expecting you yet. How was the dance?’
‘I couldn’t enjoy it, Frau Barton, we left early. I was too worried about Penny. I asked Hank to drive me home. He was so good, there’s so much snow and the jeep was so cold! Is there any news?’
John answered for Isabel, who was suddenly reminded of the hopelessness that threatened to engulf her. ‘The police are coming in the morning. They will start a search and question everyone. They’ll do what they can.’
‘I do hope they will find her soon. I am so unhappy with her not here.’ Irma’s English foundered and she muttered some words in German. Isabel roused herself sufficiently to speak.
‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, but could you make up a bed in the spare room for Captain Marriott? He’s staying the night so he can talk to the police in the morning.’
‘Of course, Frau Barton, I will do that immediately.’ The girl hurried away, glad to be busy. ‘But first, shall I make you some cocoa?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘That would be heaven, Irma. We’re still freezing inside.’ She turned to John, ‘Let’s go into the drawing room.’
John and Isabel sat in separate chairs near the cold fireplace, staring at the spent coal and wood in the hearth. Isabel curled her feet up into the beaver coat. They contemplated the ashes in silence, neither wanting to express their fears or hopes.
‘Prince hasn’t come back either.’ Isabel finally broke the silence. ‘He would be a comfort.’ The dog always seemed to understand her moods. He would be sitting here now with his head on her lap gazing into her face with tragic eyes. Isabel felt tears threatening to fall again. And Bill, she thought, he’s not here and I can’t even speak to him. Why is he never here when I need him?
An irrational wave of irritation flooded through her. I can’t even tell him his daughter’s missing; perhaps he wouldn’t care. He hadn’t taken much interest in them lately. Isabel shook her head and admonished herself inwardly. Of course he’d care. He’d become very attached to Penny in the last few months. He’d be as distraught as she was; maybe he’d have some idea of what to do.
John’s thoughts were running along similar lines. As Bill’s away I’ve got to look after Isabel. It’s what he would expect and he’d do the same for me in similar circumstances. In any case, John wanted to help in any way he could, he hated to see Isabel so distraught.
; John ran through the possibilities in his head. The child was unlikely to have run off on her own. She was a shy little thing; not adventurous and most of her friends had been there, on the truck, so she wasn’t running off to see any kid she knew.
Perhaps she’d seen an adult that she liked and gone off with them. But, apart from Zelda and himself, he couldn’t think of anyone else Penny was fond of in the adult world. Also, Zelda would have been in touch by now if Penny were with her. She would have spoken to Isabel first; wouldn’t have just walked off with the child.
Frau Hilfe perhaps. No - she had left much earlier, after the class ended, hurrying to get home before the snow began to come down heavily; Penny was still here then. She had met Anya of course, but they seemed to view each other with mutual suspicion. Anya didn’t like children; never wanted to have any of her own and Penny seemed to sense her antipathy. She kept her distance, disappearing to her room or the kitchen whenever Anya was there.
‘Children have such sticky fingers, don’t you think?’ Anya had complained to Isabel one day when John had brought her to the flat.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Isabel had replied, surprised. ‘Actually, Penny’s quite fussy about her fingers, she hates being grubby.’
John chuckled inwardly as he recollected Penny’s tidy habits and the way she brushed her own hair and didn’t have to be told to pull her socks up. Quite impressive for a five year old.
His thoughts came back to the present. This must be what Sherlock Holmes would have called a ‘two pipe problem’. This thought prompted him to consider a smoke himself. He groped in his pockets for a cigarette but found that they weren’t there. Damn, he must have left the case by the bed. Anya would probably smoke them or take them to pay for something; always out for the main chance. Oh well, good luck to her. But he could do with a smoke and there wouldn’t be any cigarettes here. Damn!
The only other explanation he could think of for Penny’s disappearance, with regret, was abduction. He knew that people did steal children for unspeakable reasons. Someone may have thought that if they kidnapped an English child there would be a ransom forthcoming for her safe return. The ransom was unlikely to be money as cash was pretty useless at present, barter being the currency of the day. But it might be for some other reward. Who knows what reasons the warped mind of someone who would steal a child could conjure up?
Kidnapping for a ransom seemed to John to be the mostly likely scenario. So there would be a ransom demand in due course; they should wait for that. He hoped that Isabel could hold out and not be completely overcome by her fear.
‘Cocoa, Kapitän?’ Irma murmured, interrupting his thoughts, as she placed a steaming mug on the small table beside his chair.
John dragged his thoughts back. ‘Bless you, Irma. That’s wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Irma, how delicious this is,’ said Isabel, sipping from her own mug. ‘Why don’t you go to bed now? There’s nothing any of us can do until the morning.’
‘I have put hot water bottles in your bed, and in the spare bed, for Kapitän Marriott.’
‘You’re an angel, Irma. Good night.’
Shortly after finishing their drinks in silence, each deep in their own thoughts, John and Isabel got up to go to bed. John followed Isabel into the hallway.
‘I hope you’ll be warm enough, John.’ Isabel said. ‘That room’s a bit chilly – it’s not near the stove.’
‘I’ll be fine darling. I’m dog tired. You must try to sleep, won’t you?’
‘I will, but I don’t hold out much hope. How I wish Bill was here.’
‘I know, darling. I’ll see if I can get hold of him tomorrow.’
‘I would be grateful. Goodnight for now.’ Isabel kissed him gently on the cheek; a warm hand touched his sleeve. ‘You’ve been a great help already. I would have gone completely to pieces without you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘It’s nothing, Isabel.’
She smiled at him sweetly, knowing it wasn’t ‘nothing’ at all. The air was chilly in her room; the benefit of the stove had barely raised the temperature a couple of degrees. She quickly slipped into bed blessing Irma for thinking of the hot water bottle. She pulled the heavy beaver coat over the top of the blankets for extra warmth and the comfort of its weight.
Feeling under her pillow for her handkerchief she encountered the hard outline of the Mauser. She drew her hand away in a spasm of revulsion. Horrible thing!
Sleep was elusive at first as she went over and over in her mind the events of the past day. What could she have done differently? She should have been watching Penny more carefully, But she was such a sensible child; she rarely needed to be told off. I hope Prince is all right too and comes home soon. Penny, I pray you’re warm enough, my darling. Mummy is thinking of you.
Eventually she drifted off into a troubled sleep beset by mad dreams of running and searching futilely for some nebulous and unidentifiable object - finding nothing and not able to remember what it was that she had lost. She woke fitfully at dawn with tears coursing down her cheeks, unable to recall what was wrong. Remembering, she lay in quiet despair for hours until it was time to get up and prepare for the police.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tentative light peeped through the bedroom curtains. Isabel had been sleeping restlessly for about an hour. I can’t stay here any longer, she thought. She forced herself out of the warm bed and slipped on her dressing gown and slippers. She picked up her watch, six o’clock; no-one else would be up yet.
Isabel shuffled down the freezing corridor to the kitchen, pulling the gown closer around her, and found she was mistaken; Irma had already made a pot of tea.
‘I thought you would wake soon, Frau Barton,’ she said. ‘Such a terrible night, I hardly slept. I’ll go and light the stove.’ She picked up the bucket of fuel waiting for this purpose.
‘Bless you, Irma. You’re a marvel.’
Isabel sat at the table, her hands moulded around her cup, drawing energy from the warmth. She started to think about breakfast. John will want something more substantial than a piece of toast, she thought, it’s a pity there’s no bacon and eggs. She dug out the box of porridge oats from the larder and started to prepare it.
John was fully dressed and, though tousled and unshaven, he appeared to be remarkably wide awake when he emerged from the spare room and sat at the table. She tried not to notice how gorgeous he looked like this; a strong man but vulnerable, with the ghost of sleep hanging over him.
‘I won’t ask you if you slept well, Isabel, I’m sure you didn’t,’ he said, running a hand over his bristly face. ‘Can I borrow a razor of Bill’s? I forgot to pack one in the rush.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sure there’s a spare in the bathroom. First left at the top of the stairs.’
‘Yes, I know. It must be very inconvenient for you, having to go up there all the time.’
‘We’ve got used to it.’ Isabel replied and was instantly reminded of something.
‘Actually John, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. All this terrible business with Penny put it right out of my head. I was up in the bathroom one day, washing my hair. It’s about Dennis’ place. I’m afraid I was a bit nosy and had a look in his flat as it was unlocked.’
Isabel described all the wonderful things she had seen in Denis’s flat. John listened intently but didn’t seem to be surprised.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it outside a museum or one of those country houses you can visit,’ she concluded.
John looked at her thoughtfully, interest lighting his eyes. ‘Dennis Masters? Well, he is a dark horse. He may be a miserable bastard, but he’s obviously getting together an art and antique collection to take home with him. A lucrative little nest egg. I bet he didn’t get it all by honest means either.’
‘Yes, it’s extraordinary.’ Isabel set a bowl of hot porridge in front of him with a jug of diluted tinned milk.
‘Perhaps we can go and have a look later, w
hen I’ve spoken to the police about Penny?’ said John, spooning the porridge into his mouth.
‘Oh, no. I expect Dennis is in there now, this early. He’s not at the conference in Hanover with Bill. He’ll be going to work later; I think Bill put him in charge whilst he’s away.’
‘You’d have thought he’d have come and talked to us last night, when he heard us come home. He’d be curious. Surely he must have heard all the hoo-ha.’
‘No. Dennis isn’t like that. He keeps to himself and hardly ever speaks to us unless he has to.’
‘Yes, I always thought he was a bit of a weird one.’
Isabel sat opposite him at the table. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t want to get involved with all my wailing and crying. He’s not interested in what we do and even more reclusive since Emma went home.’
‘Really? Do you think he misses her? They didn’t exactly look like a devoted couple.’
‘I don’t think it’s that. I think he hates it here and is just keeping his head down until he can go home.’
‘And cash in on his loot,’ said John.
‘It looks like it,’ said Isabel.
They ate their porridge in quiet companionship until Irma erupted into the kitchen.
‘Oh, komm, Frau Barton. Prince! He was on the doorstep whining to come in. He is home; in the hall now.’
Isabel leapt to her feet. ‘Prince! Oh good, he’s home. Is he hurt badly?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but rushed to the hallway.
The forlorn dog lay on the parquet, panting vigorously. Caked blood coloured the fur on his scalp where a deep graze still seeped, the fur pushed back grotesquely. He held a paw pathetically in the air and gave a gentle whine while at the same time wagging his tail, though with little of his usual enthusiasm.
‘Poor Prince! How are you?’ Isabel examined him, soothing with gentle hands. ‘It doesn’t look too bad, but I can see you’re feeling very sorry for yourself.’
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