by Ken Follett
him over to the police.
He felt no obligation to be honest with a professional liar.
The last suspect also cracked under Godliman's treatment. His secret
was that he was not a bachelor at all, not by a long way. He had a
wife in Brighton. And in Solihull, Birmingham. And in Colchester,
Newbury and Exeter. All five were able to produce marriage
certificates later that day. The bigamist went to gaol to await
trial.
Godliman slept in his office while the hunt went on.
Bristol, Temple Meads, railway station:
"Good morning, Miss. Would you look at this, please?"
"Hey, girls the bobby's going to show us his snaps!"
"Now, don't muck about, just tell me if you've seen him."
"Ooh, ain't he handsome! I wish I had!"
"You wouldn't if you knew what he'd done. Would you all take a look,
please?"
"Never seen him."
"Me neither."
"Not me."
"No."
"When you catch him, ask him if he wants to meet a nice young Bristol
girl."
"You girls I don't know ... Just because they give you a pair of
trousers and a porter's job, you think you're supposed to act like
men..."
The Woolwich Ferry: "Filthy day, Constable."
"Morning, Captain. I expect it's worse on the high seas."
"Can I help you? Or are you just crossing the river?"
"I want you to look at a face, Captain."
"Let me put my specs on. Oh, don't worry, I can see to guide the ship.
It's close things I need the glasses for. Now then..."
Ring any bells?"
"Sorry, Constable. Means nothing to me."
"Well, let me know if you see him."
"Certainly."
"Bon voyage."
Number thirty-five Leak Street, London E1:
"Sergeant Riley what a nice surprise!"
"Never mind the lip, Mabel. Who've you got here?"
"All respectable guests, Sergeant; you know me."
"I know you, all right. That's why I'm here. Would any of your nice
respectable guests happen to be on the trot?"
"Since when have you been recruiting for the Army?"
"I'm not, Mabel, I'm looking for a villain, and if he's here, he's
probably told you he's on the trot."
"Look, Jack if I tell you there's nobody here I don't know, will you go
away and stop pestering me?"
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because of 1936."
"You were better looking then, Mabel."
"So were you, Jack."
"You win ... Take a butcher's at this. If chummy comes in here, send
word, okay?"
"Promise."
"Don't waste any time about it, either."
"All right!"
"Mabel ... he knifed a woman your age. I'm just marking your cards."
"I know. Thanks."
"Ta-ta."
"Take care, Jacko."
Bill's Cafe, on the A3O near Bagshot:
"Tea, please, Bill. Two sugars."
"Good morningj Constable Pearson. Filthy day."
^What's on that plate. Bill pebbles from Portsmouth?"
"Buttered buns, as well you know."
"Oh! I'll have two, then. Thanks ... Now then, lads! Anyone who
wants his lorry checked from top to bottom can leave right away ...
That's better. Take a look at this picture, please."
"What are you after him for, Constable cycling without lights?"
"Never mind the jokes, Harry pass the picture round. Anybody given a
lift to that bloke?"
"Not me."
"No."
"Sorry, Constable."
"Never clapped eyes on him."
"Thank you, lads. If you see him, report it. Cheerio."
"Constable?"
"Yes, Bill?"
"You haven't paid for the buns."
"I'm confiscating them as evidence. Cheerio."
Smethwick's Garage, Carlisle:
"Morning, Missus. When you've got a minute ..."
"Be right with you, officer. Just let me attend to this gentleman ...
Twelve and sixpence, please, sir. Thank you. Goodbye ..."
"How's business?"
"Terrible, as usual. What can I do for you?"
"Can we go in the office for a minute? ' "Aye, come on... Now,
then."
"Take a look at this picture and tell me whether you've served that man
with petrol recently."
"Well, it shouldn't be too difficult. It's not as if we get hordes of
customers passing through ... ooh! D'you know, I think I have served
him!"
"When?"
"Day before yesterday, in the morning."
"How sure are you?"
"Well ... he was older than the picture, but I'm pretty sure."
"What was he driving?"
"A grey car. I'm no good on makes, this is my husband's business
really, but he's in the Navy now."
"Well, what did it look like? Sports car? Limousine?"
"It was the old sort, with a canvas roof that comes up. A two-seater.
Sporty. It had a spare petrol tank bolted to the running-board, and I
filled that, too."
"Do you remember what he was wearing?"
"Not really. Working clothes, I think."
"A tall man?"
"Yes, taller than you."
"By the heck, I think it's him! Have you got a telephone ... ?"
William Duncan was twenty-five years old, five-feet-ten, weighed a trim
150 pounds, and was in first-class health. His open-air life and total
lack of interest in tobacco, drink, late nights and loose living kept
him that way. Yet he was not in the Armed Services.
He had seemed to be a normal child, if a little backward, until the age
of eight, when his mind simply stopped developing. There had been no
trauma that anyone knew about, no physical damage to account for sudden
breakdown. Indeed, it was some years before anyone noticed that there
was anything wrong, for at the age of ten he was no more than a little
backward, and at twelve he was just dim-witted; but by fifteen he was
obviously simple, and by eighteen he was known asDaftWillie.
His parents both belonged to an obscure Fundamentalist religious group
whose members were not allowed to marry outside the Church (which may
or may not have had something to do with Willie's daftness). They
prayed for him, of course; but they also took him to a specialist in
Stirling. The doctor, an elderly man, did several tests and then told
them over the tops of his gold-rimmed half-glasses, that the boy had a
mental age of eight and his mind would grow no older, ever. They
continued to pray for him, but they suspected that the Lord had sent
this to try them, so they made sure that Willie was Saved and looked
forward to the day when they would meet him again in the Glory and he
would be healed. Meanwhile, he needed a job.
An eight-year-old can herd cows, but herding cows is nevertheless a
job, so Daft Willie became a cow herd And it was while herding cows
that he saw the car for the first time.
He assumed there were lovers in it.
Willie knew about lovers. That is to say, he knew that lovers existed,
and that they did unmentionable things to one another in dark places
like copses and cinemas and cars; and that one did not speak of them.
So he hurried the cows quickly
past the bush beside which was parked
the 1924 Morris Cowley Bullnose two-seater (he knew about cars, too,
like any eight-year-old) and tried very hard not to look inside it in
case he should behold sin.
He took his little herd into the cow shed for milking, went by a
roundabout route to his home, ate supper, read a chapter from Leviticus
to his father aloud, painstakingly then went to bed to dream about
lovers.
The car was still there on the evening of the next day.
For all his innocence, Willie knew that lovers did not do whatever it
was that they did to one another for twenty-four hours at a stretch.
This time he went right up to the car and looked inside. It was empty.
The ground beneath the engine was black and stf cky with oil. Willie
devised a new explanation: the car had broken down and had been
abandoned by its driver. It did not occur to him to wonder why it had
been semi-concealed in a bush.
When he arrived at the cow shed he told the farmer what he had seen.
"There's a broken-down car on the path up by the main road."
The farmer was a big man with heavy sand-coloured eyebrows which drew
together when he was thinking.
"Was there nobody about?"
"No and it was there yesterday."
Why did you not tell me yesterday, then? ' Willie blushed.
"I thought it was maybe ... lovers."
"Och!" The farmer realized that Willie was not being coy, but was
genuinely embarrassed. He patted the boy's shoulder. Well, away home
and leave it to me to deal with."
After the milking the farmer went to look for himself. It did occur to
him to wonder why the car was semi-concealed. He had heard about the
London stiletto murderer; and while he did not jump to the conclusion
that the car had been abandoned by the killer, all the same he thought
there might be a connection between the car and some crime or other. So
after supper he sent his eldest son into the village on horseback to
telephone the police in Stirling.
The police arrived before his son got back from the phone. There were
at least a dozen of them, every one apparently a non-stop tea drinker.
The farmer and his wife were up half the night looking after them.
Daft Willie was summoned to tell his story again, repeating that he had
first seen the car the previous evening, blushing again when he
explained that he had assumed it contained lovers.
All in all, it was the most exciting night of the war.
That evening Percival Godliman, facing his fourth consecutive night in
the office, went home to bathe, change, and pack a suitcase.
He had a service flat in a block in Chelsea. It was small, though
plenty big enough for a single man, and it was clean and tidy except
for the study, which the cleaner was not allowed to enter and in
consequence was littered with books and papers. The furniture was all
pre-war, of course, but it was rather well-chosen, and the flat had a
comfortable air. There were leather club chairs and a gramophone in
the living-room, and the kitchen was full of hardly used labour-saving
devices.
While his bath was filling he smoked a cigarette he had taken to them
lately, a pipe was so much fuss and looked at his most valuable
possession, a grimly fantastic medieval scene which was probably by
Hieronymous Bosch. It was a family heirloom and Godliman had never
sold it, even when he needed the money, because he liked it.
In the bath he thought about Barbara Dickens and her son, Peter. He
had not told anyone about her, not even Bloggs, although he had been
about to mention her during their conversation about remarrying, but
Colonel Terry had interrupted. She was a widow: her husband had been
killed in action at the very beginning of the war. Godliman did not
know how old she was, but she looked about forty, which was young for
the mother of a twenty-two-year old boy. She worked on translations of
intercepted enemy signals, and she was bright, amusing, and very
attractive. She was also rich. Godliman had taken her to dinner,
three times, before the present crisis blew up. He thought she was in
love with him.
She had contrived a meeting between Godliman and her son Peter, who was
a captain. Godliman liked the boy. But he knew something which
neither Barbara nor her son was aware of: Peter was going to
Normandy.
Which was all the more reason to catch Die Nadel.
He got out of the bath and took a long, careful shave, thinking: Am I
in love with her? He was not sure what love ought to feel like in
middle age. Not, surely, the burning passion of youth. Affection,
admiration, tenderness, and a trace of uncertain lust? If they
amounted to love, he loved her.
And he needed to share his life, now. For years he had wanted only
solitude and his research. Now the camaraderie of Military
Intelligence was sucking him in: the parties, the all-night sessions
when something big broke, the spirit of dedicated amateurism, the
frantic pleasure-seeking of people to whom death is always close and
never predictable all these had infected him. It would vanish after
the war, he knew; but other things would remain: the need to talk to
someone close about his disappointment and his triumphs, the need to
touch someone else at night, the need to say: "There! Look at that!
Isn't it fine?"
War was gruelling and oppressive and frustrating and un195
comfortable, but one had friends. If peace brought back loneliness,
Godliman thought he would be unhappy.
Right now the feel of clean underwear and a crisply ironed shirt was
the height of luxury. He put more fresh clothes in a case, then sat
down to enjoy a glass of whisky before returning to the office. The
military chauffeur in the commandeered Daimler outside could wait a
little longer.
He was filling a pipe when the phone rang. He put down the pipe and
lit a cigarette instead.
His phone was connected to the War Office switchboard. The telephonist
told him that a Chief Superintendent Dalkeith was calling from
Stirling.
He waited for the click of the connection, and said: "Godliman
speaking."
"We've found your Morris Cowley," Dalkeith said without preamble.
"Where?"
"On the A8o just south of Stirling."
"Empty?"
"Aye, broken down. It's been there at least twenty-four hours. It was
driven a few yards off the main road and hidden in a bush. A
half-witted farm boy found it."
"Is there a bus stop or railway station within walking distance of the
spot?"
"No."
Godliman grunted.
"So it's likely our man had to walk or hitch-hike after leaving the
car."
"Aye."
"In that case, will you ask around ' "We're already trying to find out
whether anyone local saw him or give him a lift."
"Good. Let me know ... Meanwhile, I'll pass the news to the Yard.
Thank you, Dalkeith."
We'll keep in touch. Goodbye, sir."
Godliman put the phone on
the hook and went into his study. He sat
down with an atlas open to the road map of northern Britain. London,
Liverpool, Carlisle, Stirling ... Faber was heading for north-east
Scotland.
Godliman wondered whether he should reconsider the theory that Faber
was trying to get out. The best way out was west, via neutral Eire.
Scotland's east coast, however, was the scene of military activity of
various kinds. Was it possible that Faber had the nerve to continue
his reconnaissance, knowing that MI5 was on his tail? It was possible,
Godliman decided he knew Faber had a lot of guts but nevertheless
