The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  I witnessed Det Sgt Rossett remove some gold colored coins from a green pouch and let them fall into the case, the DS then collected the fallen money and placed it back into the pouch, which he then put in his coat. I do not know the exact amount of coins, which looked like golden sovereigns, but I would estimate that the pouch was five inches long and it appeared to be almost full. I did not see the coins again after the Sergeant took them.

  Rossett read the notes again. On paper it looked as if he had pocketed the pouch. Had he been alone with Baker he would have taken some time to explain that this made him look bad and that maybe another paragraph should be added explaining that he’d asked Baker to make a detailed pocket notebook entry. He dared not mention this while Brewer was there; those coins were quickly becoming a curse, and he was aware that it was now three ­people he’d hidden them from.

  It would have been easier to split them with Baker at the scene, thought Rossett as he fumbled for a pen.

  It appeared being a bent copper was easier than being a straight one.

  “That’s fine, Baker.” Rossett signed the notebook entry; his signature sealed his fate if anyone asked later where the coins had gone. He just had to hope that Baker would keep his nose out and not mention them to anyone. He passed the notebook back to Baker, who hesitated before leaving; he cast a glance at Jacob and then Brewer.

  “I enjoyed working with you, Sarge,” Baker said. “If there is ever anything else I can help you with, just say. It makes a change from walking the beat.”

  “I will, thank you.” Rossett took hold of the door handle and gestured for Baker to leave. The bobby nodded, then turned, and as he passed, Rossett noticed him glance at Jacob and wink.

  Rossett closed the door and turned to face the inspector, who appeared to have calmed slightly.

  “Just get this whole thing sorted out, Rossett; I don’t want any of this coming back to land on my toes. Do you understand?”

  “It won’t, sir. I’ve already spoken to Koehler. He—­”

  “Koehler knows?”

  “He was just in the canteen, sir.”

  “I don’t want to hear anymore. Just get rid of the Jew before anyone else becomes involved.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “We’ll have bloody Hitler here next.” Brewer stepped past him and opened the door; he turned to look at Jacob. “Your lot are more trouble than they’re worth.” Jacob didn’t look up, so Brewer looked at Rossett. “You’ve done a good job keeping me out of these matters in the past, Sergeant. Make sure you keep doing that, understand?”

  “Sir.”

  Brewer left the room, and Rossett sat down on the edge of his desk.

  “I don’t want to go to prison,” said Jacob, causing Rossett to look up. “I could have stayed in the fireplace.”

  “I know,” replied Rossett, shaking his head, “but it’s too late to put you back there now.”

  “Because of your job?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacob played with his fingertips awhile and then looked up at Rossett.

  “I have bad dreams too.”

  “What?” Rossett roused himself again.

  “I have bad dreams, like you.”

  Rossett looked at the door and then back toward Jacob, unsure what he was supposed to say.

  “I can’t find my mother. I’m lost and I don’t know where she is. I can hear voices, but I don’t remember what she sounds like so I don’t know if it is her.”

  “They’re just dreams.”

  “That’s what Grandfather says.”

  “He’s right.”

  “It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “When I wake up, I think for a moment she is still alive; and then I remember she isn’t, and I’ll never see her again.”

  Chapter 8

  “wHAT’S HE DONE?” The custody sergeant leaned over his high counter and peered down at Jacob, who was craning his neck up to return the gaze.

  “Nothing. I’ve told you, he hasn’t done anything.”

  “Well, he’s not going in my cells then.”

  “Bernie, please, I have to lodge him somewhere, and at least here I can keep an eye on him.”

  “If he hasn’t done anything he isn’t going in my cells.”

  “It’s just till Sunday, Bernie. Come on, help out an old pal?”

  Bernard Clark leaned back from the counter and crossed his arms over his fat stomach. Rossett didn’t speak. He’d let the old man have his moment of power and hope the big old sergeant would give in and let Jacob be lodged in one of the two youth cells behind the counter.

  “Why can’t you take him home with you?”

  “You know why.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do.” Rossett didn’t want to point out the obvious, although he couldn’t understand whether that was for Jacob’s benefit or his own.

  “I don’t.”

  Rossett leaned forward onto the counter and beckoned for the sergeant to come forward so he could whisper; his heart sank when Clark merely raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

  Rossett was regretting this idea more and more as time went on.

  “Bernie, look, as a favor to an old mate, just let him sleep here a few days; I’ll sort out his food and exercise. If you want, I’ll take him out of a day and keep him in my office. Just let him stay here of a night; I can’t have him all the time.”

  “Why can’t he go home with you?”

  Finally, Rossett’s patience gave way. “Because he’s a Jew.” He immediately regretted what he’d said and quickly looked around him. A few heads of passing bobbies turned to look at him, and he, in turn, looked down to Jacob, who shamed him by staring back and tilting his head.

  “If he is a Jew, why don’t you ask your mates in the SS to let him stay in their cells over at Charing Cross?”

  “They aren’t my mates, and you know they aren’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Clark eyed the tiny Nazi-party badge on Rossett’s lapel. Rossett subconsciously reached his right hand up to touch it and then smoothed down his suit jacket front.

  “You know it wouldn’t be right sending him to Charing Cross, Bernie; it’s no place for a child.”

  “You’ve sent enough ­people there, Rossett. One more won’t make a difference. Besides, wherever he is being sent on Sunday will be worse, I’ll wager.” The custody sergeant picked up his mug again and this time risked a sip.

  Rossett stared up at Clark and swallowed hard.

  “I could make life very difficult for you, Bernie,” he said, aware now that quite a few ­people had gathered to witness his humiliation. His cheeks burned, not with embarrassment but with anger. “You are making this hard for the child, not for me. I hope you are proud of yourself.”

  Clark stood up, collected a clipboard off his desk, and theatrically pulled a pen out of his tunic pocket before stepping down from behind the high counter. He walked around to stand side on to Rossett, who hadn’t moved. Clark leaned in close to Rossett’s ear and, for the first time during their exchange, lowered his voice so that only Rossett could hear him.

  “I’m not making it hard for the child, mate.” Then a little closer. “You are, you bastard.”

  Rossett turned his head to look at Clark; he’d known the man the best part of ten years. All that was forgotten right at that moment. None of it mattered.

  He tried to think of a reply, looking into the face of Clark, who waited, expectantly, rocking on his toes.

  Nothing came.

  Clark shook his head and walked off to the cells to carry out his rounds, leaving Rossett and Jacob standing before an empty desk.

  Rossett looked down at Jacob, who was also watching Clark walk away, his tiny suitcase resting at his feet. After a moment, Jacob turned to look up at Rossett. />
  “What did he mean, it’ll be worse for me on Sunday?” said Jacob, with that furrowed brow again.

  “Pick up your case and come with me,” Rossett replied, already turning and leaving the jail.

  Chapter 9

  WHEN THE SS had arrived in London back at the start of the occupation, they had immediately chosen several stations that suited their purposes and evicted the local Met Police within hours. Over time they had fortified these stations, and some had become small self-­contained garrisons and jails rolled into one.

  Charing Cross was one such place. Situated on Agar Street, the station was ideal because of the narrowness of the road outside the front entrance, which allowed them to set up barriers and sentry points at either end. The small triangular courtyard at the rear of the station also ensured privacy for the loading and unloading of prisoners.

  It was a perfect location for the SS and Gestapo HQ in London.

  Most useful of all was the small cell complex situated in the basement of the building, far enough from prying eyes or ears to provide discretion, but close enough to central London for convenience.

  The buildings that backed onto the courtyard had all been requisitioned as admin offices, and most of the back windows that overlooked the yard had been either blacked out or boarded up to ensure privacy.

  Rumors of occasional volleys of gunfire coming from the yard on Sunday mornings were mostly dismissed as resistance propaganda by those whose wage packet carried the imprint of the Nazi eagle.

  The times required the judicious use of the blind eye and the shut mouth.

  Koehler had offices on the third floor of Charing Cross, and Rossett had had cause to visit on many occasions to attend briefings and meetings. “A little piece of Germany,” Koehler had said as they walked out into Agar Street one morning, and Rossett had had to agree. As he had looked up at the red swastika banners that hung from the building’s eaves to the ground-­floor windows, with black-­clad sentries springing to attention, rifle butts cracking on the pavement, and German staff cars blocking the narrow road, it felt closer to Berlin than Brixton.

  Today, as he pulled up at the sentry point in the Austin, it felt more like Germany than ever. A military brass band had formed up outside the station entrance and the barrier guards were in full dress uniform, a contrast from their normal caps and battle dress. Rossett wound down his window and cursed as it reached halfway, then fell at an angle into the door panel, dislodged from its runner again.

  The young SS man leaned down, smirked at the crooked window’s position, then frowned at Rossett as he looked into the car. Rossett showed his warrant card and the sentry flicked a cursory eye at it, and then looked across at Jacob, who was craning to look at the band.

  “What do you want?” He was asking Rossett but looking at Jacob.

  “I need to see Major Koehler; it’s about the boy.”

  “Today is a bad day. It’s the anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch, that’s why the band’s here. You’ll have to park somewhere else and walk back if you want to go in.” The German turned away in that time-­honored fashion favored by guards who only dealt in black and white and brooked no questions.

  Rossett swore, jabbed the little car into reverse, and backed out onto Chandos Place, looking for a space among the Mercedes staff cars that were parked all around. The Austin found a home, and after wrestling with his window, Rossett finally alighted. Taking Jacob by the hand, he walked back to the sentry post.

  He waved his warrant card at the sentry, who merely stared at him as he ducked under the barrier and walked toward the front entrance to the HQ.

  As they walked, the band struck up a tune he didn’t recognize, and a group of uniformed and nonuniformed dignitaries walked out of the building and took up their places on the steps, blocking the entrance.

  To avoid pushing through, Rossett decided to wait. He led the boy some distance from the door and found a place among the assembled office workers and SS men who had come out to listen to the band and the long speeches that Rossett guessed were bound to follow.

  A group of secretaries parted to let them stand near the railings, away from the front of the crowd. Jacob leaned forward to look at the band, twisting on the end of Rossett’s arm. The boy’s head bobbed as he tried to see through the adults gathered around him. Eventually, one of the secretaries glanced down and then, smiling at Rossett, took the boy’s hand and led him to the curbside so he could better see what was going on.

  Rossett thought about protesting but instead took out another cigarette and cadged a light from a blonde who smiled and allowed her gaze to linger a little longer than was polite before looking downward with a flicker of eyelash. He drew on the cigarette and studied the blonde out of the corner of his eye. She looked familiar, and he remembered seeing her in Koehler’s office. He wondered for a moment if he still was attractive to women. He was only thirty-­five, still lean, a little over six foot, and his face, aside from an old scar under his left eye, uncreased.

  It seldom occurred to him that he missed a woman’s company; he had Mrs. Ward for his household needs, such as they were. There were times when he thought about another relationship, some nights, long nights, lonely nights of drinking, when he wished he had someone who loved him to tell him to stop.

  But he didn’t.

  He just drank alone with his pain, his memories, and his loss.

  He shivered and dragged on the cigarette, then took it out of his mouth and studied it. He noticed the yellowing of his fingers from the nicotine and wondered when that had started to happen.

  The band was in full swing, or as close to swing as a brass band could get. He sighed and looked at his watch: almost midday. This was taking too long. He had work to do, a report to write regarding the morning’s raid, then a meeting in the East End with a rabbi about some resettlement plans.

  He didn’t have time for this. He looked toward the band impatiently.

  “We still have the speeches to come. You’ve picked a bad day.” Rossett turned to find the blonde had made her way to stand closer to him, her voice husky after too many cigarettes, with the barest hint of a northern accent hovering around the edges. She smiled, having to shout over the noise of the band bouncing off the buildings opposite. “Unless you like brass bands and boring speeches, that is.”

  “I didn’t know there was a parade on today. I would have waited,” Rossett replied, ignoring her joke.

  “Are you here to see Sturmbannführer Koehler?”

  “I am.” Rossett was unused to hearing Koehler given his full title. The German favored a less formal approach in conversation and was also fond of using the army rank of major instead of the slightly more ostentatious SS rank.

  He’d once told Rossett his title “scared the English into silence,” and Rossett had nodded, silently agreeing.

  “I’ve seen you come and go a few times. I manage his outer office. You’re Detective Sergeant Rossett, aren’t you?” She smiled and Rossett found himself awkwardly smiling back, surprised that the girl was flirting with him and not really sure how to deal with it.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Kate; we’ve spoken on the phone.” Kate had grown tired of shouting and was leaning closer to Rossett, her hand touching his arm. Rossett looked down at her hand and then back into her eyes. She added, “I’m Major Koehler’s personal secretary. You remember me?”

  Rossett noticed one of the other secretaries turn and wink at Kate, who smiled back. He had a sudden feeling he was being ambushed. A man in a suit shushed Kate with a finger to his lips. Rossett felt a curious bubble of irritation at the man rise and then subside. Kate frowned, placed her hand on Rossett’s shoulder, and stood on tiptoe as she spoke, lips close to his ear, pulling him toward her.

  “I was wondering, maybe you could show me around London sometime? I don’t get to see much of it, so much work and being
a single girl working for Jerry and all.” She dropped back and smiled, waiting for Rossett’s reply.

  Rossett had felt a butterfly flit across his stomach as her lips brushed his ear, and he looked down at the girl. It was the second time that day someone had been that close, and he knew which occasion he had preferred.

  “I, er . . .” was all he could manage initially, and Kate tilted her head as she waited for him to find his voice. “I suppose I could. I’m not really the best at . . .”

  Kate smiled, deal done. She fished in her handbag and produced a card like a magician.

  “My number.” Rossett looked down at the card, unsure if he should take it. He looked up to see Kate frowning.

  “If you don’t want to?” This time she looked small and sad, and Rossett marveled at the woman’s charms. “If there’s someone else . . .”

  “No, it’ll be a pleasure,” he replied, doubting any such meeting would ever take place but too much of a coward to say it out loud.

  “Excellent!” She reached up inside Rossett’s raincoat and placed the card in the outside breast pocket of his suit jacket, patting the pocket as she closed his raincoat. She smiled at him, her hand still resting intimately on his chest, then suddenly broke away and pointed to the curbside where Jacob was standing; the other secretary was crouching behind him, one hand on his shoulder, pointing to the band while she whispered in his ear. The little boy was smiling and Rossett noticed that the suitcase was swinging in time with the music.

  “Your little boy is enjoying himself. Have you brought him to have a look around the HQ?”

  Rossett didn’t know what to say. He looked first at Kate and then back to Jacob. His eyes were then drawn to two men watching him, on the far side of the road.

  Gestapo. He vaguely remembered them from a briefing a few months back. One of them had traveled with Koehler to a clearance job out in Romford. They’d never spoken, but he suddenly had the feeling they were about to.

  “He’s not my little boy.” Rossett turned to Kate. “I shouldn’t have brought him. I’d better go. Can you tell Major Koehler I’ll call him later today?”