by Robert Ryan
‘You keep a decent set of notes,’ said Amies eventually, tapping the file Bullimore had presented him with.
‘Thank you.’
‘I didn’t say the content was any good,’ Amies added. ‘Look, I know it’s expected that a man work twenty-four hours a day in our line of work, but you need some sleep.’ Amies himself was the epitome of freshness. Newly shaved from Austin Reed, dressed in a sharp checked lounge suit with a flower in the buttonhole, with a face handsome enough for stage or screen, he looked more like a trench-dodging fop than a spy. But the policeman supposed that was the idea.
‘I know.’ Bullimore also knew that sleep wouldn’t come. The wriggling worms in his stomach wouldn’t let him. He had passed a nanny with a baby in a perambulator on the way to the meeting and the sight had almost made him weep. He desperately wanted to see and speak to Marion, but she had made it clear that if he did get in touch, he would earn her lifelong hatred.
‘I need you at your best.’
Bullimore sat up at this. ‘I thought I was off the case. I thought your lot were taking over.’
‘We need someone to do the donkey work.’
‘Well, that’s a compliment.’
‘Just a turn of phrase.’ Amies took out a gold cigarette case inscribed with regimental arms. So he was an army man. He offered one to Bullimore and he accepted. ‘I don’t look like a policeman. Anything I ascertain by questioning is not admissible in court. I am not an officer of the law, as such.’ He offered a Wonderlite and Bullimore leaned in to touch the tip of his cigarette to the flame.
‘What about Special Branch?’
‘Oh, we have some of them on it. But remember when it was Irish Special Branch? Well, it is again now, for the time being. I shouldn’t be telling you this . . .’ he puffed on his cigarette for a moment, ‘. . . but those treacherous bastards are at it again. This time the rebels have threatened to execute anyone attempting to introduce conscription in Ireland. And to bomb Whitehall. They’ve already killed a recruiting sergeant in Galway, just as an overture, and planted a bomb at the Liverpool Irish barracks.’
Bullimore was aware of just how many thousands of Irishmen had volunteered to fight Germany, even those who hated the British establishment. ‘Are the Government planning conscription in Ireland?’
‘I can’t say.’ But his eyes said they were.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Question Sir Gilbert closely about the men who took him. He must be up to it by now.’
‘And if he isn’t?’
‘He’ll be up to it.’ Amies gave a hard smile. Make him up to it, is what he meant.
‘And what will you do?’
Amies opened Bullimore’s own file and pushed several newspaper clippings across to him. ‘Have you been following the classifieds?’
Bullimore shook his head. ‘When I can.’
‘Well, we have a room full of people who comb the papers every day. It is a common method of communication for enemies of the State. Our readers are women, mostly. But good, all the same,’ he added, as if surprised.
‘I have seen some of these.’ The inspector looked down at the clippings. ‘Do you know who the GODS are?’
‘I gave that to the cypher department. They checked against telegraphic codes, but nothing. They suggested it is an acronym. G for “Guild”, O for “of”, the D for . . . “Disadvantaged”, perhaps, the S for “Soldiers”.’
‘Or “Servicemen”,’ said Bullimore. ‘There might be sailors or airmen in there.’
‘True. The Guild of Disadvantaged Servicemen. It has a ring to it. There was also this.’ Amies pushed another piece of paper over to the policeman. ‘Published some weeks ago. A similar sentiment, but different name.’
‘LOUG.’
‘League or Legion of something. Nothing else that makes much sense.’
‘The League of Unfortunate Gentlemen, I believe.’
Amies looked impressed for a second. ‘You know this how?’
Bullimore explained about Trenchard and the men at Victoria Railway Station. ‘Do you think they are one and the same?’ he asked the spy.
‘Possibly. GODS is a more striking name than LOUG; perhaps they changed it.’ He suddenly looked serious. ‘Either way, it is clear that there are people who want the Government to improve and broaden their compensation proposals or they will show the members of the board just what it is like to suffer the loss of limbs or sensation. What they are calling themselves doesn’t matter. What matters is stopping them.’
‘I agree. And what will the Government do about their demands?’
‘Nothing.’
The callousness of this remark shocked Bullimore. ‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing publicly, I mean. We cannot be seen to give in to blackmail by terrorists. And that is what these men are, no matter how they dress it up. We give in to such demands and next thing we know the suffragettes will be back, poisoning prime ministers and blowing up houses, and the Irish will double their efforts to cower us with gelignite. No, no negotiations.’
‘And the remaining members of the board still held by these GODS?’
‘We have to hope we get to them sooner rather than later. Which is why I need you to talk to Sir Gilbert. At least he is compos mentis. I hear Powell remains . . . incapacitated. You see to Sir Gilbert, I’ll look at the other aspects of the case.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as who placed these classifieds.’
‘It is very simple to use a third party and a classified agent,’ said Bullimore. ‘And so make the booking almost untraceable.’
Amies smiled. ‘True. But you’d be surprised how often people slip up.’ He gathered the files together. ‘We shall reconvene here at . . .’ he checked his pocket watch, ‘. . . six o’clock. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘And then I insist you get a good night’s sleep.’
Bullimore rose to leave but then Amies said, ‘This Watson business . . .’
Bullimore sat down again. ‘I don’t believe Watson is part of this gang.’
Amies shook his head. ‘No, neither do I. In fact, looking at the facts, I rather think he has been taken by them. Perhaps he was getting too close? After all, he is something of a detective.’
‘I think you’ll find that was Holmes.’
‘Well, whoever it was, Watson and Holmes have been of some assistance to my organization in the last few years. But I noticed that on the last occasion, two very good Agents of the Crown, Coyle and Gibson, ended up dead.’
‘What are you saying?’
Amies tapped his ash on the carpet. ‘That you should be careful if you come across him again. If I believed in such things, I’d say that this Watson is bad luck for the likes of you and me.’
Oberleutnant Schrader slept for ten hours after his return from the raid over London. He awoke in the mid-afternoon, the sun already past its peak, still feeling the slight fuzziness of exhaustion. It was as if the body burned through ten days’ supply of energy in the hours spent on a bombing mission. No matter how much he slept, he never quite managed to recharge the batteries, and so he was that much more depleted each time.
But it wouldn’t last for long. Winter was coming, the months when they would be reassigned to short-range bombing missions over the Western Front. So how many more sorties to set London ablaze would they have? Six, ten, fifteen at most. He just hoped they had sorted out the incendiary bomb racks. He splashed cold water on his face and dressed, before cycling to the airfield. He would have coffee in the mess.
The leaves were turning, the low sun catching the yellows and reds rapidly colonizing the branches and the ground was already flecked with gold. He thought of the hearty meals they would normally be having at home – his father liked to hunt, so there was usually wild boar and venison. How would they be faring this year? It was unlikely his father would be allowed his usual three weeks of shooting. And if he was, it would be considered bad form for a factory owner
to feast while the rest of the country starved, unless you were one of the military élite, to whom the normal rules did not apply. Men like von Kahr’s father, and possibly the admiral.
The Gothas and the Giants had been covered in their netting camouflage. Every plane had a team of mechanics swarming over it, busy as worker ants, as engines were stripped, fuel lines cleared, rigging wires retensioned, undercarriages inspected.
Schrader waved away several attempts to engage him in conversation as he wheeled the bicycle past them. Not yet. Not until he had coffee and bread inside him would he feel human enough. Deitling tried to wave him over but he gave the Swabian the two-minute sign.
He had the mess – a plain wooden hut, decorated by someone with posters of Asta Nielsen and her movies – to himself, apart from the white-jacketed attendant with the hedgehog-like haircut, who served him a pot of strong black coffee – a few marks slipped onto the bar got him the good stuff, smuggled in from Holland – and some slices of dark bread and ham.
As he was eating, Trotzman came into the hut, with a snarling Deitling at his heels. Schrader reluctantly asked for two extra cups.
‘Have you seen those fuckin’ bomb racks?’ Deitling asked.
‘I think I was here first,’ said Trotzman waspishly.
‘My dick gets harder than those,’ Deitling continued. ‘They are like putty. I don’t think they used metal at all, I think they’re made from compressed snot.’
‘I’ll take a look once I’m finished.’
‘Well, don’t be too long, skipper, because I’m not going up with those carrying the bombs.’ He left without bothering to drink any coffee.
Schrader sipped from his cup. ‘Is he right?’
‘The quality of the metal does leave something to be desired, yes,’ said the weatherman.
‘I’ll have a look at it. What did you want?’
‘Just to ask you for a debrief on last night’s weather and an exact note of the route you took. Tonight is meant to be exactly the same conditions.’
‘Then we won’t have any trouble.’
‘Maybe. Jackermann’s Gotha never returned.’
Schrader’s stomach flipped. There but for the grace of an unpredictable God.
‘Well, we were pretty scattered by the end of the raid. Some had trouble forming the diamond for the home run. Do we know what happened to him?’
Trotzman shook his head. ‘Could be enemy guns, fighters, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Oberleutnant Drezler swears he saw him over the sea, a little north of him, well clear of the English defences.’
‘Engine trouble?’
‘Jackermann has the best maintained plane in the fleet, you know that.’
This was because Jackermann was an engineer by training. He was all over the mechanics, all the time, making sure everything was done by the book. He had never had to send up a flare and return to base.
‘If he was well to the north of you, he may have run into weather,’ said Trotzman, ‘You said last night that you flew into nothing untoward.’
‘No. Slight headwind, nothing to worry about.’
‘So we’ll run yours as preferred course.’
‘Very well, I’ll write it up for you before the briefing.’
Satisfied, Trotzman left, also not bothering to drink any coffee.
Schrader helped himself to a second cup and allowed a warm glow to spread through him. The same conditions meant London would be laid out like a panorama. Never mind about the blackout, it was as clear as a dancer under a spotlight at the Apollo. The British guns couldn’t reach them if they flew high enough and there had been no sign of any night fighters. Like shooting birds in a cage. Sometimes, at moments like this, Schrader thought he might even survive this war.
The warmth inside cooled a degree of two when Rudy von Kahr entered, boots, belt and buttons polished to a rare brilliance.
‘Ah, there you are. Can you try to shut Deitling up? He’s making everyone nervous.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Schrader reminded him.
‘I don’t think anyone has told that Swabian prick,’ von Kahr said, sitting down. ‘If he weren’t a decent flyer . . .’
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Von Kahr poured himself a generous cup and drank, smacking his lips after he had drained half of it. ‘Good. That’s not the usual swill. You celebrating something?’
‘Being alive.’
‘Here’s to that.’ Von Kahr refilled his cup.
‘Does Deitling have a point? About the bomb racks?’
Von Kahr nodded. ‘I’ve ordered them strengthened.’
‘Then what’s he complaining about?’
‘We’re increasing the bomb load for tonight. By order of the Air Ministry. So we’ll have trouble gaining height.’
Schrader said nothing. It was a foolish decision. Operating at a lower ceiling made them more vulnerable. But he could tell from the von Kahr’s expression of regret that it wasn’t his choice. Eventually Schrader said: ‘In my opinion, it is better to drop fewer bombs and get home to fly another day.’
‘I agree.’ Von Kahr looked over at the orderly, but he was intent on his glass polishing. ‘Which is why I am telling every commander, off the record, to ditch some of the load over the North Sea.’
‘Jesus. You could be shot for that.’
‘As leader of this squadron, my duty is to my men. Not the Air Ministry.’
Schrader put his coffee down and looked at von Kahr with fresh eyes. Von Kahr squirmed a little. ‘What is it?’
‘You know, some of us thought you were mainly interested in getting a Blue Max to pin at your throat.’
‘Including me. I suppose it’s like fatherhood. You don’t appreciate the responsibility until you have it. I don’t want the England Squadron to be known as a suicide league. I shall have to trust every man to keep quiet about this.’
‘They will.’
‘They’d better. Or they’ll all get an invite to my execution.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Now, certain people were very pleased with your efforts the other day. The flight to England.’
‘Nobody said.’
‘They are not the sort of men to send flowers.’
‘No, I imagine not. Cigarette?’
‘No, thanks.’
Schrader lit up. ‘Well, I will consider myself patted on the head.’
He knew what was coming next. ‘They’d like you to do it again. Sometime soon.’
Schrader had always suspected this might happen. Once he had established it could be done, then they were bound to ask for a repeat performance. And perhaps another, and another until . . . the British slammed that particular door in his face.
‘Another drop-off?’ he asked.
‘No. Pick-up.’
That was trickier. More to go wrong. ‘All right.’
‘There’s just one problem.’
‘Well, I’d be surprised if it was just one. What is it?’
‘This particular passenger might not want to come.’
TWENTY-NINE
Under Miss Pillbody’s watchful eye and her Browning pistol, two men, including the one who had given him the tap with the cosh, had frogmarched a shivering, blinking Watson out of the cold storage to a small, windowless room lit by a flickering electric bulb. Miss Pillbody had said nothing to him, simply gave a thin smile when he had hissed her name, with as much disgust as he could manage. They led him along a corridor to the room that was to be his next prison. In it was a cot bed, a gas ring and kettle, and a stack of magazines, none of them newer than 1915. Some kind of nightwatchman’s hidey-hole, he assumed.
His two gaolers were also silent. They simply threw an Ulster blanket onto the stained mattress and locked the metal door from the outside. Watson tried the handle anyway. The door didn’t budge. He banged a fist against it and it gave a dull ring. There was no way his shoulder could come out anything but second best against that. At least this room was warm and he w
asn’t likely to freeze to death.
But Miss Pillbody? Of all the evil creatures in the world, he didn’t expect that one. Was she behind the abductions and mutilations? But why? She might be a monster, but there was always some sort of method in her savagery. Some benefit to Germany. He simply couldn’t compute this one.
A wave of tiredness broke over him, and he sat on the bed, aware of how much his body ached. He doubted he could fall asleep, but he wrapped the blanket around himself and closed his eyes to rest them and the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake. The two men were there, one with a revolver pointed at him. Where on earth did they thing he was going to run to?
‘What time is it?’ he asked. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
No response.
The mute pair led him past the meat locker where he had been imprisoned to a large, warehouse-like space. There, they chained him to a metal chair. He looked around. It was a white-tiled room filled with wooden benches, each bearing the scars of a million cleaver blows and coloured by the wine-dark stains of old blood. Along one wall a bench held a variety of mincers as well as some machines he didn’t recognize. In front of him, beyond two rows of benches, was a long black gas range, upon which an enormous vat of soup or stock was bubbling away, filling the air with the scent of spices.
It was here that Miss Pillbody stood, sharpening a selection of knives with a few deft strokes on a steel. She was wearing a white high-necked blouse and a black skirt, which ended, as was the fashion, some inches above her ankles. Her dark hair was up, held in place by clips and two gold-headed pins that could double as rapiers. Watson had been trying to pierce her skin with his glare for several minutes, but she seemed immune to the daggers he was flinging across the room.
