The Deep Secret

by David Robinson

  Julius nodded dumbly.

  “Good. We are agreed. Here is what you must do when you reach England, but before I tell you, do not imagine it will be easy.”

  16

  IFTL HN EIBSENS R TGTNHI

  CEO IGW NAISY LEN NY GNKE

  BRIU NX OMOAO G NEEG NACH

  WL MM LJRP MO ILAQ TIOGNI

  EIAADAN ARN A OSTI ETS NT

  FRVEH USU IU TLHAM NNR IR

  EAM RJATE ELW P TSSA YIKA

  PTNCIN RJ ASL IGT AS MINP

  LWEJ CSE GO RIO APH U NUGS

  SPE AUCA AE ISOBORO IHOT

  RAP ISL DHAO I PPD BRTOHI

  IM LSREESDS UAES N MAICA

  TUL NIEG GHNT RNU AEWITD

  JSYK TOHT R MEMSA OEV WAW

  ITE T NYNTN DSK LBKZN ESE

  DHL QNHU CA OAA ORWH R TSK

  TRO YEEB EN FS IUY UOH RLM

  RDEANN VDUN H BTAD IO IIT

  F CYI DGUE ONLP TORQMISI

  ESF CAE HRSA C MUGNN OA NA

  Adjusting the focus on the projector so that the letters of the code were crystal clear, Croft surveyed his small audience of men and women, some in police uniforms, others, like Millie, Shannon and Thurrock, in plain clothes.

  It reminded him of his years at the University of North West England, when he stood before classes eager to learn the ins and outs of hypnosis, but these people were not here to learn. They were the best code breakers Greater Manchester Police could come up with at such short notice.

  “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The Great Zepelli’s code which allegedly hides The Deep Secret. I’m not a mathematician, I’m not a professional code-breaker. As a crossword compiler, my speciality is anagrams. However, I’ve made several rudimentary attempts to break this code and they’ve all come to nothing.”

  A uniformed sergeant put up his hand. “You’ve analysed double letters and single-letter words.”

  “I have,” Croft agreed, “with special emphasis on the latter. The most common single letter words are, I, as in me, the individual, and a, as in the definite article. If there were any form of pattern to this code, such as letter displacement by a fixed number, then those two words would show up consistently, but they don’t.” He consulted his notes. “There are thirteen single-letter words in this code, and Zepelli used eleven different letters. The only one which repeats itself is the letter R, here, here and here.” He pointed out the three examples of the letters on the screen.

  “If you take those thirteen letters, sir, could you make anything of the anagram?” the sergeant asked.

  Croft smiled. “Given thirteen letters, I can make a lot of anagrams, and I did say that such puzzles are my forte. But I probably can’t make anything that makes sense, unless those thirteen letters are encrypted and we can break the encryption.”

  Another officer, this time in civilian clothes, pointed with his pen. “Is it possible that the cryptographer, whoever he was, has used variable spacing? By that I mean, if we take a common phrase like, say, ‘good afternoon’, it contains only one space, but if you introduce more spaces, it becomes largely unintelligible: goo; daft; erno; on. You see what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do, but that still leaves us with a huge job, and even a glance will indicate that you still can’t make sense of most words.”

  “He could have used a combination of varied spacing and letter displacement,” said the first officer.

  “Looks more random than that,” someone else put in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Croft interrupted, and waited until all eyes were upon him. “We can speculate until forever, but the fact is we’re short of time. You all have a copy of the encoded sequence. Superintendent Shannon has issued each of you with different sections of the manuscript, albeit the transcribed version. Somewhere in the wordage is the key to this code. That is what we need, and time is of the essence. Unless the police get lucky somewhere, this unknown individual will go on killing. Please concentrate your efforts on highlighting and testing possible keys from the transcript.”

  Leaving the projector on, Croft nodded to Shannon, who stood up. “All right, you heard the man, let’s get to it. You report through me. If you have an idea, bring it to me, we’ll let everyone test it. That’s all, people.”

  The briefing began to break up; Shannon, Croft and Millie met by the projector.

  “Your plans?” Shannon asked.

  “Warrington.”

  Millie huffed out a frustrated breath. “Felix, that could be dangerous.”

  “I need to see Trish,” he insisted. “Do you think I’m made of steel, for God’s sake?”

  Millie shrugged at her boss, who for once came down on the hypnotist’s side.

  “I think Croft is right. Visiting the mortuary can help in coming to terms with events, and if that leads to clearer thinking on his part, then so much the better. We’ll have a car run you there, Croft, and Millie, you’ll go with him.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” Croft protested.

  “You have one whether you need it or not.”

  Detective Sergeant Thurrock’s voice broke into their debate. “Hey up, the CC’s on telly.”

  The room crowded around the television, where the Chief Constable appeared, looking uncomfortably hot in full uniform, and professionally grave as he delivered the news.

  “Since his escape late on Sunday night, Gerald Burke has murdered at least eleven people, and there are other killings of which he is suspected but which, as yet, we cannot positively attribute to him. He is, clearly, a very dangerous individual. He is known to be armed, and he will not hesitate to use his weapons. We need to apprehend him as soon as possible. I would urge the public to be vigilant and cautious. If you see this man, do not approach him. Ring your local police and report the matter.”

  Unseen by the camera, but instantly recognisable to Croft from her voice, Carol Russell, crime correspondent for both Radio Scarbeck and the Scarbeck Reporter, asked, “Are your officers ordered to shoot him on sight?”

  “We have armed units all over the country ready to go into action if they’re needed,” the Chief Constable explained, “but contrary to the opinion of the popular press, we do not have a shoot on sight policy. Our purpose is to arrest him and return him to prison. Our officers will only open fire if there is concern for human life.”

  “How did he manage to get out of prison?” asked another reporter.

  “I haven’t been given the details yet. He was housed at Hattersley Special Secure Unit, near Nottingham, and I’m still waiting for detailed reports. I do, however, know that a nurse and two prison officers were killed during his escape.”

  “Can you confirm reports that Felix Croft has been brought in from Tenerife to help with your efforts?” Carol Russell asked again.

  “The Scarbeck police and Mr Croft know more about Gerald Burke and his activities than anyone else. They first investigated and arrested him during the so-called Handshaker murders, two years ago. Mr Croft has volunteered his services and he flew in from the Canary Islands yesterday. He’s working closely with Superintendent Shannon and the team from Scarbeck, who are co-ordinating information from all over Great Britain.”

  “Is Felix Croft one of Burke’s targets?” Carol Russell asked.

  “There are certain matters that we will not divulge for operational reasons. All I can tell you is that there has been no direct threat upon Mr Croft’s life.”

  “So he’s just here for the glory, then?” Carol observed.

  The Chief Constable narrowed an irritated stare on her. “I’m aware of your antipathy for Mr Croft, Ms Russell, but this is neither the time nor the place to pillory him. Mr Croft’s knowledge of this man and his motives may be of great assistance to our pursuit. He volunteered from a sense of duty, not personal gain.”

  A murmur of approval ran round the briefing room, summed up by Thurrock.

  “Good on you, boss. Kick the silly bitch where she needs kicking.”

  Croft leaned
into Millie, and whispered, “We need to get on. No time for PR.”

  She nodded and dragged herself reluctantly away from the TV to follow him out of the briefing room.

  “Felix, are you sure you want to go to Warrington?”

  “I have to,” he said, slipping his jacket on and picking up his netbook. He snapped his briefcase shut, and turned on her. “It’s closure, Millie. Only partial closure. This thing won’t be over until X is caught and I can give Trish and her family a decent burial, but right now, I need to bring myself a little peace.” They made for the exit. “How come the Chief Constable is still laying it on Burke?”

  Millie shrugged. “Politics, I suppose. He wouldn’t want to go on TV and admit that we have a nutter running loose and we don’t even know who he is. Simpler to carry on with the fiction that it’s Gerry Burke. Remember, the purpose of the broadcast is not to panic people, but to make them aware of the danger. They’ll be on the lookout for Ted Sinclair’s Range Rover.”

  As they reached the door, Detective Sergeant Fletcher burst in, a report in his hand.

  “Hiya, Rob,” Millie greeted. “Congratulations on passing your inspector’s exam.”

  “Thanks, guv, but let’s save the party for later, eh? This just came in from Avon and Somerset.”

  “The solicitor?” Croft asked.

  Fletcher nodded. “No such person and the address is a pavement café in the middle of Bath.”

  If Millie appeared surprised, Croft took the news quite calmly. As Shannon joined them, he said, “What we need to do now is find the bank where Burke had that manuscript stored. This Harper must have presented himself there at some time, and even if they haven’t saved the CCTV recordings, someone may be able to describe him.”

  “But we need to know when,” Shannon objected.

  Croft chewed his lip. “The bank will have records of that. It’s finding the bank that will be the problem. If Burke spent most of his life in Bristol, then it’s ten to one, the bank will be there. I know it’s a long shot, but the account will have been in his real name.”

  “You get off to Warrington,” Shannon ordered Millie. “I’ll speak to Avon and Somerset.”

  17

  Unkempt, unshaven, Julius trudged into the police station at Berwick-upon-Tweed to find himself confronted with a sergeant who looked as if he would prefer to hose him down rather than listen.

  Three days had passed since he parachuted into the sparse moorland of the Cheviot Hills and began to make his way east. He had no map other than that in his head, very little in the way of food, and only a single canteen of water.

  The latter was not a problem; the whole of the area was littered with small streams and rivers, and his stomach soon became accustomed to the taste of fresh, slow moving water as opposed to the tap water of home. For food, he stole what he could, from orchards, from doorsteps. He moved only at night, and only then slowly, using a tiny lamp to guide him across the rough ground.

  When he finally laid his eyes on the huge bridge spanning the river at Berwick, its multiple arches reminded him of the Karl-Theodor-Brücke back in Heidelberg, and he felt the lump of homesickness coming to his throat. He steeled himself. He had work to do and home would have to wait until after the war.

  Trudging into the town, its shops opening up for the day’s trading, their windows displaying the sparse, rationed foodstuffs, he was reminded of the day he had walked into Heidelberg, the day he had stolen a loaf of bread, the day he had met his master.

  He dare not steal anything here. For all he knew, he would be shot on sight if he were to do so. Instead, after a few inquiries, he found the police station, an old, redbrick building in a side street off the town centre.

  “And what can I do for you?” the sergeant asked.

  “My name is Julius Reiniger. I am a German agent, and I am seeking asylum in your country.”

  The sergeant stared down his nose. “Let me tell you something, laddie. If you don’t get your lazy arse outta my station, I’ll put my boot up it. I don’t have time to piss about with the likes of you. Now scram.”

  “Please. You are not listening to me. I am Oberschütze Julius Reiniger of the 10th Infantry Division, seconded to the Abwehr, German Intelligence Agency, and I demand political and military asylum in Great Britain.”

  “Now look, lad…”

  The sergeant trailed off as Julius drew his 9mm Luger.

  “Now just keep calm, son,” the sergeant suggested.

  Julius removed the ammunition and placed the pistol on the counter. “If you take that to your nearest military establishment, they will verify that it is recently manufactured, and standard, Abwehr issue. Except for some test firing, it has never been used. For the last time, I am Oberschütze Julius Reiniger of the 10th Infantry Division. I have been sent to England to spy for the German army and I wish to defect.”

  ***

  Keys rattled in the cell door and it clanked open. A British army officer marched in, thanking the policeman behind him, who closed and locked the door.

  Hungry and thirsty, Julius had no idea how long he had been in the windowless cell. He had slept only occasionally, in fits and starts, and he yearned for home. His only toilet was a bucket in the corner, and the bed was a slab of concrete attached to the bare walls. The police had brought him a cup of tea, but that was hours ago; they had not fed him and he felt physically ill, on the verge of delirium.

  The officer, a captain according to the three pips on his shoulders, stared down at Julius. “On your feet, Bosch.”

  Julius struggled to stand upright. The officer grabbed his wasted arms and dragged him from the bed. His knees buckled and he received a hefty crack to the side of his head with the officer’s stick.

  “I said on your feet, I meant on your feet. Stand upright, kraut.”

  “I… I cannot,” Julius protested. “I have not eaten properly for days.”

  “Where you’re going, you won’t need food,” the officer growled. “Only a hole six feet deep.”

  “Please… please…” Julius was on the verge of tears. “I cannot take any more. Have pity on me.”

  “Pity?” the captain struck out again. “Did you show us any pity at Dunkirk? Did you spare Coventry any pity? Or London during your Blitzkrieg?”

  “I was not at Dunkirk, sir,” Julius wailed, “and I was a member of the Wehrmacht, not the Luftwaffe.”

  “Stand up straight, man.”

  Julius struggled to obey, and the officer looked him in the eye.

  “Name?”

  “Julius Reiniger.”

  “Rank?”

  “Oberschütze. What you would call a private, first class, or a lance-corporal.”

  “Serial number?”

  Julius rattled off his number. “I was attached to the 10th Infantry Division, later seconded to the Abwehr.”

  “Right, so what are you doing here, Heinie?”

  “I was sent over as a spy and saboteur, sir, but as I tried to tell your police sergeant, I wish to defect. As a sign of faith, I have information which may be of use to you.”

  The officer held up the crumpled piece of notepaper Julius had carried with him and which the police had taken from him. “You mean this? A list of names and addresses? Your contacts?”

  “No, sir, they are not my contacts. I am a specialist agent, and under the orders of the Abwehr, I am not permitted to contact anyone. Those, sir, are the names of German agents already working here in your country.”

  The officer backed off a pace, his eyes haunted with suspicion. He glanced at the note again, then at Julius. Backing off further, he rattled his stick on the cell door. The keys clanked once more, and the door opened.

  “Feed this man,” the officer ordered, “and for Christ’s sake get him cleaned up. Then hold him here until I come back. Understood?”

  The policeman saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  Julius had three simple meals before they saw him again.

  He s
till had no idea what time it was, what day it was. With no window in the cell, he did not know whether it was day or night. They had allowed him to shower in cold water, they changed his slop bucket, and permitted him use of the toilet proper, but at all times, he was either alone or under armed guard. He saw no other prisoners, no other human beings but for the police.

  And then the officer returned, but this time he was not alone. He had an NCO and two armed private soldiers with him.

  Marching into the cell, the officer barked, “On your feet, Heinie.”

  Stronger, better able to respond, Julius stood upright.

  “I am Captain Stokes,” the officer told him, “and I am responsible for you from now until you get where you’re going. You’ve a long journey ahead of you. Do you need to take a leak?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I do not understand. A leak?”

  Stokes sighed. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

  “No, sir. I am fine, thank you.”

  “Right. Hands together, out in front of you.”

  Julius obeyed and he was handcuffed.

  “Corporal,” Stokes snapped.

  The NCO came forward and knelt in front of Julius. “Feet apart, Heinie,” he ordered.

  Again Julius obeyed and his ankles were manacled with a short length of chain between the clamps.

  “Right, Reiniger,” said Stokes when the Corporal backed off, “here are the rules. We have a lot of travelling ahead of us. If you behave, you get to the other end in one piece. If you misbehave, my people have orders to shoot you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will obey any and all the orders my people give you as if they come from me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In that case, we should have no problem. Move it.”

  Julius was hustled out of the cell with an armed soldier in front and behind him, the corporal and Captain Stokes bringing up the rear.