by Hylton Smith
“Wait,” protested Black, “I’m coming back in fifteen minutes, just leave them there, left open at the pages which I’m checking.”
Simpson intervened.
“No, sir, they have to be returned, even for fifteen minutes, Watkins will insert bookmarks for you. Our system has strict regulation, you can imagine that several people in this organisation have need to take out volumes for all kind of reasons. It is very easy for disputes to arise if we do not log each and every event. The fact that we are leaving this hall of records means that the volumes you are researching must go back to their rightful place, in case someone else asks for them. It seems a little over-elaborate, but I assure you it is necessary.”
Black conceded, and thought about it on the way to the refectory. As soon as they had purchased their coffee and chosen a table next to a large gothic window, he hit Simpson with a question related to the system he’d described.
“I have noted several time gaps in and between the volumes I’ve checked, why is that?”
“That is perfectly possible, sir, you see we’re also engaged in modernising our archival data. Some of it was already transferred some time ago to microfiches, but now we are well and truly in the age of computing. It will take years, but eventually, all of this information will be compressed into dull, soulless megabytes of binary code.”
The man was clearly upset at such a ‘barbaric’ edict. Black saw the first signs of rebellious potential in Percy Simpson.
“So, how do I get the missing sections or volumes, in order to complete my search?”
“We have to check who has them and when they are supposed to be returned. Some could be in the process of transcription to hard disk, others could be logged out to certain people. This is a perfect example of why we have to return volumes to their rightful place, even for fifteen minutes, as we enjoy our break. Someone could ask for one or more of those volumes as we sit here. We need to know where they are, every minute of every day.”
“Fascinating,” said Black. “Right, I need to phone my boss, I’ll see you back at the main desk in a few minutes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Black could hardly contain his frustration when he was told Moss was unavailable for the next hour or so.
*
Rural Northumberland
Moss did forge a better rapport with Eric Paisley than Black. The former operations director of the coke works met Moss for lunch at a hostelry of his own choice. Moss wanted to avoid the man feeling pressurised in any way. The untreated internal stone walls and twisted beams seemed to gel with Paisley’s tweed jacket and sienna slacks, trimmed by expensive brogues. Moss declined a double malt whisky opener, preferring a real ale.
“I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me, Mr Paisley, and I regret having to pick through the recent events at Winlaton Mill once more. However, directly due to the information you provided for Inspector Black, we have an independent report which confirms your view that there were no piles driven into the earth directly below the concrete slab. We recruited a well-respected, reliable contractor to excavate the original location and they provided this report. It also details the condition of the slab in its current position, and again there is no evidence of piles, either intact or broken off.” He passed the report to Paisley.
“So, there were some shenanigans going on, my predecessor was right.”
“Indeed, and it’s your predecessor I’d like to talk about. You see, we still have to find the identity of this person whose bones we recovered, and one way we may find clues is via any investigation which took place at the time. There is nothing in the official police archive which is even remotely similar to such an event. However, it was during the war, and we can’t rule out influence from the intelligence boys.
“There are two aspects in which you may be able to help us. The first is another possibility which could have occurred before your time as operations director, but might still have been recorded. This notebook which revealed the scam over the concrete, can you check it for any visits by people from the Home Office or Foreign Office? Alternatively, there could be something in the normal coke works files, if you still have access to them.”
“I have the notebook with me, but the files which weren’t destroyed are kept at my home. Silly really, but it chronicles an important period in my life. You see, Superintendent, I never married and I have no one to share my experiences with.”
Moss nodded sympathetically and Paisley checked the notebook.
“There’s no specific mention of such a visit from either Foreign or Home Office personnel in here, but there are a lot of reminders to do things, speak to people etc. Regarding the files I have kept, I’ll check them out and let you know, or you could follow me home and we can check them together.”
“Yes, that makes sense. Now, the second question. Do you recall any of your employees during your tenure with the initials M.V.?”
Paisley sat with his whisky in one hand, mentally checking familiar names by counting them with the fingers of the other hand. His eyes brightened and he triumphantly announced the name Max Vogt.
“He didn’t come to mind immediately because he moved around from plant to plant. But I recall him clearly because I had to pay his entire salary.”
“Can you just check your predecessor’s notebook again Mr Paisley, for that name or the initials?”
It was quite a thick book, littered with scribbles which would only be intelligible to the author. But there were exceptions, the concrete being a prime example. Moss came back from the bar with another malt. Paisley seemed to have had a personality change, he was devouring the pages with a fervour hitherto not seen. He swallowed the second malt in one, and waived the need for another.
“I knew something rang a bell, but I couldn’t pinpoint it to a particular time. Here we are, my predecessor notes an offsite meeting between M.V. and a Mr Devlin, brackets London. I didn’t like Max Vogt, Superintendent, because he was like a cuckoo in my team, doing work which I hadn’t authorised, and contributing almost nothing to solving problems in the plant. He was tolerated, no more. I seem to remember he died shortly after retiring. He was a very secretive person.”
“What is the date of his meeting with Mr Devlin?”
“There is no date alongside the remark, but other stuff on the same page is all dated in 1945. My predecessor, Timothy Westlake, gave me this notebook when he retired and said it may come in handy one day. You know, I have never thought about it like that until now. Will you keep me posted on how things turn out, Superintendent? I have suddenly become disturbingly nostalgic.”
“I’ll try to do that Mr Paisley, and I would still like you to check the files at home for any further references to Vogt and Devlin.”
“You can rely on that. I’ll call you, either way.”
*
Newcastle C.I.D.
Moss called Black and asked him to ring back from a public phone box. Out of breath and with a thumping heartbeat he only managed two words.
“Black here…”
“What I have to tell you is something we must keep between us until I say otherwise, Inspector, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our friend Paisley has been very helpful. The initials on the ring not only belong to a Max Vogt, as I told you when Marion admitted as much, but also that he actually worked under Paisley, who disliked him intensely because he was extremely secretive, and although he was paid out of Derwenthaugh, he was controlled by NCB head office.”
“Another mysterious German connection to the bones.”
“Yes, yes, but there’s something else which is just as important as his connection to the coke works. He was visited there by a chap from London, named Devlin. Now listen carefully, Vogt worked out of Winlaton Mill, but according to Paisley, it was mostly for the benefit of other departments of the National Coal Board. I assumed this Devlin must have been working for the NCB or some other organisation. Paisley checked it
out for me, from files he kept at home, and Devlin wasn’t an employee of the coal board. We need to know if he was investigating something in the northeast. I’ve already checked the police records here – he doesn’t show up. You should check if there’s any record of either Max Vogt or a man named Devlin during the period they met, which was in 1945.
“I ferreted a clue out of Marion before she left for Cologne yesterday. She has a report which she wouldn’t let me read in its entirety, but said it referred to a man with the initials M.V. and the report was authored by an officer of the crown. It’s a mighty coincidence Black, and you may be looking in the wrong place. Check declassified documents from that time. I think your remaining time at the war records should be targeted only to P.O.W. camps in our region.”
“I tend to agree with you about being in the wrong place. This museum may have information of use to us, but it will take me weeks to even scratch the surface of what is available. I’ll call it a day when I’ve checked out the P.O.W. camps, that shouldn’t take too long.”
Black decided to try a short cut. He met with Sophie Redwood, and they strolled along the embankment in the moonlight. The odd foghorn sounded as boats made their way to the night’s mooring. The lapping of the water from their wash was regular and seemed to synchronise with his cerebral pulse.
“Can you get me any solid information on all of the P.O.W. camps in the country during the war?”
“Yes, are you looking for any in particular?”
“Well, since you claim we’re only looking at the tip of the iceberg in Newcastle, give me the ones in the northeast.”
“I’ll have to get this kind of information from my system, but you’re looking for the one closest to the coke works aren’t you?”
“And that would be?”
“High Spen, have you heard of it?”
“No, I remember telling you I’m a Manchester boy, I’ve only been in Newcastle for a short while. It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Ok. It’s a small village only about five miles from the coke works, but apparently one can commute between the two by regular bus routes, and this was the case back in 1945.”
“Great, I can start there when I get back.”
“What about the war records?”
“Nothing in terms of names yet, I’m afraid, and this guy Percy Simpson hovers around me all the time. I’m thinking about how I can get help on declassified stuff, you know, old government secrets and the like.”
“Do you have anything in mind?”
“Yes, visits to the coke works during the war.”
“Aha, you are beginning to believe me then.”
“Well, let’s say I’ve got a more open mind now.”
“What kind of person are you looking for?”
“An officer of the crown, obviously.”
“And the date?”
“Just after the cease-fire, perhaps 1945.”
“You’re looking for Theo Devlin then.”
“Who?”
“Come on, Inspector, remember we are trying to build trust. I’ll give you the report tomorrow. When you’re satisfied, you tell me what you know and we discuss the next moves. Goodnight.”
Chapter 27
Cambridge 1945
Devlin had been persuasive in getting his boss to refer Karl to a psychiatric examination before despatching him to Germany. His rationale was that he would be subjected to comprehensive interrogation when he returned home, and it was in the interests of the crown to know exactly what was in Karl’s head.
“We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that this man was a conduit, albeit we believe a dumb one. However, I was subjected to a clever deception by his campmates. It didn’t actually work because they eventually broke ranks and wanted to get home very badly. This Gunther, the man I thought was being used by the others, was in fact orchestrating the whole charade. He almost managed to get back to Germany with Karl’s disc, and although we scuppered that plan, we never truly found out why that was so important to Gunther. The fact that we fortuitously foiled the plan isn’t the end of the story, and we should responsibly put Karl through a thorough screening to see exactly what he knows and does not know.”
Bernard Compton gazed out of the window, then at a fly which had settled on his blotting pad. He crushed it with a heavy ledger, wiped the remains off with a tissue, and calmly put it in the waste basket.
“Unfortunately I agree with your reasoning, Theo. However, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t mention this ‘Gunther sting’ earlier. I’ll authorise a psychiatrist appointment immediately, and therefore Karl must be detained until further notice. You must cancel his deportation arrangements immediately.”
“I only found out yesterday about the extent of Gunther’s deception, which I admit I almost fell for, sir. It came to light precisely because I asked Karl more and more questions. That’s why I came to you as soon as I could. I would like to accompany him to the psychiatric session. This is our last chance to extract everything he knows.”
“Very well, see to it, and I want to see the report before we have to brief anyone else. Understood?”
“Certainly. That is a valid precaution.”
*
High Spen
Bella’s husband Cappy had returned from Harrogate and was virtually bedridden. They decided to make up his bed downstairs, in front of the warm fire. He slept while Bella was at work, and Harry was at school, Both Hilda and Jack called in after they finished work. With the family reunited, Harry was happy again. His teacher remarked on his dramatic progress in almost all subjects. The experience persuaded Hilda and Jack to save for a deposit on a house of their own, hopefully near to Bella and her husband. Then Harry would be able to live with them again and run to his grandma’s whenever he liked.
The plan was almost thrown off course by another accident. Harry had been warned on countless occasions that climbing on the corrugated roof of the air raid shelter was dangerous. He was playing with Alan Crossling, sword-fencing with sticks. Harry was Robin Hood and Alan was always burdened with being the Sheriff of Nottingham. As Harry lurched for the kill, Alan sidestepped the sword and the momentum took Robin Hood forward, where his foot tripped over a protruding bolt. He was hurled over the edge and landed in the garden of the next door neighbour. Tizzie Goyne’s husband had set out his vegetable patch with marker posts. Harry’s full weight struck one of these two inch square posts at the back of his elbow joint. His scream was horrendously penetrating, and as Bella rushed to the neighbour’s fence she felt her stomach recoil. His lower arm was lying at right angles to its upper equivalent. She could see the jagged end of a bone. There was no placating Harry. The ambulance arrived and he was driven to the Fleming Infirmary with all possible haste.
Jack was working away in Hartlepool, and Hilda went to the ward on her own. She stayed with him until he eventually succumbed to sedative.
Two weeks later Harry was re-examined and told the bones were knitting nicely and soon he could begin rehab exercises. It didn’t go to plan. Even after weeks of religiously performing the painful routines, his arm remained grotesquely bent. Hilda ignored medical advice and took him to a bonesetter in desperation, the hospital having basically given up on him. Bonesetters were a last resort, and considered to be quacks by the medical authorities.
In a tiny, rickety office in North Shields, Hilda smoked several cigarettes in the waiting room during the half-hour in which the bonesetter arrived at his prognosis. He said nothing other than she should take a walk in the street for about twenty minutes. She protested but was accompanied by the receptionist and they walked back and forth past the entrance.
She heard an ear-piercing howl from the upper floor and wanted to rush back to her son. The receptionist grabbed her arm and said they must remain outside for another few minutes. Her heart thumped as the lady explained what had taken place.
“The bonesetter realised that the greenstick fracture had been incorrectly set. The only way of p
reventing Harry’s arm from becoming calloused and unusable, was for it to be broken again and reset properly.”
What she didn’t tell Hilda was how it was done. Bonesetters weren’t licensed to use general anaesthetics, and he had to literally snap Harry’s arm without any kind of pain relievers. She sat in the waiting room, tears rolling down her cheeks, until the bonesetter came to see her.
“I’ve given him some sedatives and he’s sleeping. His arm is now set properly and it will heal just fine. You need to get him home as quickly as you can, he will have pain when he is awake. It will last for a few days. I can call you a taxi, he won’t charge you a fortune, and I wouldn’t recommend risking the bus.”
It was another two hours before Harry woke up and complained about the pain. He was given more sedative and it was explained to him that he must keep as still as possible for a few days. He drifted off to sleep once more.
*
Cambridgeshire
Devlin left Karl in the capable hands of Compton’s chosen shrink and drove back to HQ. He’d only been back there for one day when the call came through to Compton.
“Mr Compton, it is Gerald Matthews.”
“That was quick Gerry, have you finished with our man already?”
“No, I’m sorry to tell you that he has disappeared, well been kidnapped would be more accurate. I’ve informed the police and they said that they are treating the incident with some urgency.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that Gerry. Give me the name of the police officer to whom you reported this and I’ll speak to them personally. Don’t concern yourself any further.”
He looked over the desk at Devlin.
“What a cretin Matthews is, the Kraut has been snatched and our psychiatrist has roped in the bloody plods. I’m going to speak with the regional chief constable, so in the meantime you’d better be prepared to get out there and bring Fritz back into custody. My instinct was to get shot of this man. Someone must have followed you there, Devlin. Someone who knew what we were hoping to get out of the German. Did you tell anyone else?”
“Absolutely not, I didn’t even tell Karl where he was going. Maybe someone thought I was taking him to the airport.”
