Gold sovereigns. The noise they made caused Baker to step forward from the door and look. He whistled lightly as he watched the shiny coins drop from Rossett’s palm onto the folded clothes in the case.
“Cor blimey, must be a few bob there, Sarge.” Rossett glanced back at Baker, who nodded and tilted his head toward the bounty. “We could have us a fine time with them lot.”
Rossett picked up the coins and placed them back into the pouch. He fastened it tight and then stood, slipping the pouch into his pocket. He took the boy by the arm while picking up the small case with his other hand.
Suddenly back on duty.
“We could have a fine old time, Constable, but we aren’t going to, because they aren’t ours. Write up exactly what has happened here and then bring your notebook to me later so I can sign it and you can sign mine. I’m going to book this stuff into the found property system back at the nick.”
“I was only joking, Sarge.” Baker looked even younger than he was, exposed by the stickler everyone at the nick said Rossett was. “And what about the kid?”
“What about him?”
“Is he found property, too?”
Rossett looked at the young boy, who stared back, still angry over the letters.
“I suppose he is,” said Rossett in a voice that sounded colder than he’d expected.
He pushed past Baker and led the boy down the stairs. At the front door he found the inventory team waiting for him. The other bobby he’d assigned to guard the front was blocking their entry. He glanced back at Rossett and then down to the boy.
“Who’s this, then? Have you caught a tiddler?” The bobby ruffled Jacob’s hair, but the child didn’t respond.
“Let them in now, you’re cleared to leave. Make sure you tell the lads around the back,” replied Rossett. Looking outside to see who was leading the inventory team, his heart sank when he saw Gruber, the German civil servant who was often the lead man in these clearances.
Gruber was known for being a jobsworth. The story went he’d been banished from Berlin for a minor clerical error and that he was determined to never slip up again, in case his next posting took him closer to a front line and further from any chance of getting back to the Fatherland.
“Sergeant, we are running late, it is gone eight thirty o’clock!” the little German stuttered in broken English, as he folded the heavy ledger he was carrying and rushed toward the front door while pulling out a pocket watch and holding it up for Rossett to see. “My team have much of work to do today, this really won’t do!” By now, Gruber was no longer looking at Rossett, but staring at the child.
Rossett noticed everyone was.
“I’m sorry, Herr Gruber, I had to make sure the house was completely clear, for your safety.”
“What is this?” Gruber pointed at the child.
“He was hiding; it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Hiding? How many others are hiding?” Gruber stared past Rossett at the house and then back at the child.
“Nobody else is hiding, the house is clear now.”
“The suitcase, is that the child’s?” Gruber pointed again.
“It’s just some spare clothes.”
“It should be on the inventory. If it was in the house it should be on the inventory.” Gruber held up the ledger as proof of his statement.
“It’s just some clothes; it has no value.”
“You found it in the house, it goes in the inventory. No exceptions,” replied Gruber, holding out his hand for the case.
“It is my grandfather’s case. He brought it with him when he came to this country.” The boy spoke loudly, and both men turned to look at the waif with no small degree of surprise. “It is not yours, it is mine.”
Gruber stared for a moment, dumbfounded, then held out his hand again.
“Sergeant, give me the case now.”
Rossett sighed and held out the case to the German, who reached for it with a smile on his face. The boy suddenly pulled against Rossett and made a grab for the case.
“No! It is mine! No!”
Gruber leapt back as if a dog had suddenly snapped at him. He blushed, then stepped forward and struck the boy across the face in one fluid movement.
“Juden shichzer!” He reached for the case from an openmouthed Rossett, who still held the boy by the arm, and once again made to strike the boy with his open hand. Rossett turned slightly and pulled the boy behind him, shielding him from Gruber.
Rossett held up the case toward the German and glanced past him at the twelve-man inventory team, some of whom had taken a few paces forward, disturbed either by their boss’s assaulting a child or maybe by Rossett’s stopping him.
“Take the case, Herr Gruber. Of course, you are correct; it should go on the inventory.” Rossett spoke quickly, trying to defuse the situation.
Gruber paused and looked at Rossett, slowly realizing that his behavior was drawing attention. He smoothed his jacket front and took the case.
“Thank you, Sergeant, we must do these things in the correct manner. It is important, always very important.” The German took a step back, glancing at his team, most of whom turned away or looked at the floor. “My men should really get to work, if you are finished here?”
Rossett nodded and stepped aside, being careful to hold the boy away from the German in case the child saw fit to kick out.
Gruber entered the property and his men slowly followed him inside, some nodding to the boy, who once again looked downward. Rossett watched them file into the house, then led the boy to the Austin and sat him on the backseat before taking his place behind the wheel. He felt in his pocket for his notebook and realized he still had the sovereigns; he took the pouch out and thought about handing them to Gruber.
It would make his life easier to just get rid of them now. No chance of their going missing from the police safe if the German entered them into his inventory. A sharp tap on the window caused him to start, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, his hand thrust the sovereigns out of sight into his coat. He looked across to the passenger window, where one of the inventory team was gesturing to him urgently to open the window.
Rossett leaned across and opened the door. As soon as there was space, the man thrust the case through the gap and onto the front seat.
“For the lad. Gruber won’t notice. He tossed it onto a pile of stuff in the kitchen. Here, take it.”
Before Rossett could speak, the door closed and the man was jogging back to the house. The boy leaned forward and took the case, pulling it over the seats and held it close to his chest.
Rossett turned to look at him, and the boy said,
“It was my father’s. He gave it to me.”
“If he gave it to you, it’s yours now,” Rossett replied, turning back to look out the windshield.
“Where are you taking me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I want to go with my grandfather.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he is gone. Maybe you can catch up with him.”
“Where has he gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do I know where I can catch up with him?”
“You don’t.”
“Who took him away?”
“I did.”
“Where did you take him?”
“To catch a train.”
“Where was the train going?”
“I don’t know.”
The boy sat silent for a while, confused by the conundrum of his missing grandfather.
Rossett started the car and crunched it into gear,
“Where are we going?” asked the boy, silent tears drowning his eyes.
“To the station.”
“Where Grandfather got the train?” A lit
tle hope almost lost in his voice.
“Not that kind of station. A police station.”
Rossett waited for the next question, but it didn’t come, so he eased out the clutch and pulled away. The only sound from the back was the sniffle of tears, which embarrassed them both.
Chapter 6
ROSSETT PARKED THE Austin at the front of Wapping Police Station and looked up with some trepidation at the old building that faced onto the Thames. Since moving to Charing Cross he had been an infrequent visitor to his old nick. He retained a barely used office, and Brewer, his liaison inspector, was based there, but Rossett never felt welcome when he called.
He felt like an outsider, unwanted, an embarrassment. And, although he’d never say it out loud, that hurt him. He was banking on the Brits welcoming the child and treating him more fairly than the Germans in Charing Cross, with their sentries and swastikas.
Even he wouldn’t subject the boy to that.
He stepped out onto the curb, then opened the rear door and dragged the child by the hand out of the backseat. He led him up the steps and into the busy inquiry office, where the sergeant on duty was arguing with an Irishman. Rossett stood waiting at the locked door that would grant him access into the police-staff-only area.
The sergeant on duty glanced across and then carried on with his argument, deliberately causing Rossett to wait, something Rossett noticed had started to happen more and more since he’d been working with the Germans. He sighed, allowed the sergeant his little victory for a moment or two, then impatiently rapped on the door with his free hand.
“Any chance someone can open this door, please?” shouted Rossett, interrupting the dispute, which had turned out to be about a stolen bicycle. The desk sergeant ambled across and disappeared momentarily, Rossett heard a click, and the door swung open.
“Apologies, Detective Sergeant, I never saw you hiding there.” Rossett ignored the sergeant and pushed past. “New recruit to your department?” The inquiry sergeant scrubbed the boy’s hair, but Jacob ignored him as he trailed behind Rossett.
The sergeant chuckled as he watched them pass and said to their retreating backs, “He’ll fit right in with you, Rossett. He doesn’t say much either.”
On entering his office, Rossett took off his raincoat and inspected it for soot. It was showing the signs of age, and the marks he’d picked up in the fireplace merely blended in with already present scuffs and stains. He hung it on the back of his door, then reached into the pocket, removed the pouch of sovereigns, tossed the pouch into his desk drawer, and locked it.
He put his keys into his inside suit pocket, the one without the hole in it, and turned to face the boy, who was standing in the center of the office still looking down at the floor, suitcase clutched tight to his chest.
“Have you eaten?”
Jacob shook his head.
“Are you hungry?”
Jacob shook his head.
“When did you last eat?”
“Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” Rossett looked at his watch, even though it didn’t have a date function, and then back at the boy. “You last ate two days ago?”
Jacob nodded.
“You must be starving.”
Jacob just stared at the floor.
Rossett sat down behind his desk and studied the child. The old duffel coat he was wearing was slightly too big, but it was of good quality and probably bought for him to grow into. It was buttoned to the neck, and Rossett could see a bright green hand-knitted scarf peeking out from the collar. It was the kind of coat any boy in London would have worn to go to school, except for the fact that it had a crudely stitched star of David on its breast, almost hidden behind the clutched suitcase.
Jacob was wearing gray shorts that stopped short of the Wellingtons by four inches or so. Rossett guessed him to be under four feet tall and could see that he was well underweight for his height and age.
The boy’s thick brown hair was shorn crudely at the back and sides, and his gray little face, all cheekbones and almond eyes, could almost have been that of an old man.
He made a sorry picture, and Rossett was aware that the boy smelled of damp.
“Look at me.”
The boy looked up.
“How old are you?”
“I’m seven, nearly eight.”
Rossett raised an eyebrow; he’d guessed the boy to be much younger.
“My grandfather says I will shoot up to be big and tall like my father soon.”
“Where is your father?” Rossett asked, guessing he already knew the answer to the question.
“Men came one morning, men like you, and took him.” The boy looked at the floor again.
“Look at me, boy.”
Up came the little head again.
“Your mother, where is she?”
“She died.”
“When?”
“Some time ago, I don’t know, I was little.” The boy bit his lip.
“You lived with your grandfather?”
“Yes.”
The mix-up in tenses caused Rossett to take his turn at looking down. He guessed the boy’s father had been a professional, maybe doctor or solicitor. They’d been the first to be cleared, especially if they had been young and fit. It occurred to him that it might not have been men “like” Rossett; it might well have been Rossett himself who’d come calling that morning.
It puzzled him that the boy hadn’t been on the inventory; the old man had hidden him well.
“Do you want something to eat?” Rossett broke the silence between them.
Jacob nodded. Rossett stood, took him by the arm, and led him through the station to the canteen.
As usual, space was cleared for him as he made his way through the nick. The only difference was that heads popped out of doorways once he had passed. People were curious to see the little boy with the star of David on his lapel clomping through the shiny-floored corridors in his oversized Wellingtons, holding the “Jew catcher’s” hand.
They entered the canteen to find it half full of breakfasting coppers and civilians. It was noisy with chatter and the crash of cups and plates, and Rossett felt the boy shrink slightly in his grasp.
There were rows of long tables with a few smaller, square, wooden four-seater tables for sergeants and inspectors who didn’t want to sit among the ranks.
Rossett normally sat alone at one of the square tables, facing the room so as to be able to see the comings and goings of the canteen. That would also give him some protection from the whispering that would take place behind his back. He sat the boy down at a small table and leaned down in front of him so as to speak face-to-face.
“I am going to the counter over there. Do not move from this seat. Do not think about running away. If you do, all of those policemen over there will catch you. And when they do, I will throw you in a dark cell with bad men until I can think of something really evil to do with you. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded and chewed his bottom lip.
“Say it; say ‘I understand.’ ”
“I understand. I won’t run away.”
Rossett stared at the boy for a moment, ramming home the point, then nodded. He turned and walked to the nearby counter and ordered two teas and two breakfasts. While he waited he glanced across to the child, who, true to his word, was sitting still and staring intently at the tabletop, suitcase held like a shield across his chest. Rossett pondered what to do with him and silently cursed old Galkoff for putting him in this situation.
“Two teas.” The lady behind the counter crashed the teas onto the worktop, managing to spill half of them in the process. Rossett nodded and made to pick them up. “If you want my advice, you give ’im some milk as well. Good for the little bones, see,” she said, looking across to Jacob.
“I’ll take some milk a
s well then.”
The woman poured a glass and passed it across the counter.
“Some of ’em don’t get enough now, what with it being rationed, bless ’em.” Rossett offered some coins and she waved him away, saying, “I’ll fetch the breakfast over when it’s done, Sergeant.” Rossett placed the money on the counter, ignoring her dismissal, then placed the drinks on a small tray and walked across to the boy.
He set the drinks down and slid the milk across first.
“Drink that, it’s good for you.”
The boy took the glass in both hands and drank the milk down quickly in almost one gulp. Rossett almost smiled when he saw the white mustache on the boy’s top lip, but instead he slid a napkin across for him to wipe it away. The boy ignored the napkin. He licked his finger, wiped it across his top lip, then licked it clean.
“Do you want some more?”
The boy didn’t reply, he merely looked down at the tabletop again, ashamed by his greed.
Rossett turned to glance around the canteen and saw the usual sudden swiveling of heads from people afraid to meet his gaze.
“Thank you.”
Rossett turned to look at the boy.
“What?”
“Thank you for the milk.”
“Uh, yes, well, it wasn’t me; it was the lady behind the counter. She suggested it.”
The boy nodded, face down to the table, the top of his head bobbing. Rossett turned back to the canteen again.
“Thank you for helping me.” Rossett turned to look at the boy and this time found Jacob staring at him. Rossett nearly fell into his almond eyes.
“I . . . I’m . . . just doing my job.”
The boy carried on staring until Rossett turned away. This time it was he who was avoiding someone’s gaze in the canteen, a strange feeling and one that he didn’t like.
The server arrived at the table with the breakfasts and another glass of milk.
The Darkest Hour: A Novel Page 5
