by Seb Spence
Lucy, however, was unaware of the reasoning behind Minton’s request and was grateful for the chance to put her side of events at last. She launched off enthusiastically, starting with her meeting with Elliott in the park and then going through the various stages of her association with Lyonesse Films: the call to Elliott’s office; the visit to the ‘studio’ at Brown’s Warehouse and her screen test; the dress rehearsal in Grindley Street; the final ‘take’ that morning.
Minton and Goddard listened attentively, Minton occasionally encouraging her with an innocuous-seeming question or asking for precise details.
“ ... and so that’s why I seemed to be behaving suspiciously,” Lucy finished breathlessly. “It’s all been a simple misunderstanding. Just call the company; they’ll confirm everything I’ve said.” She looked from one to the other expectantly.
“I didn’t see any film cameras in the street,” Minton observed.
“They were hidden in one of the buildings. It’s a new technique Mr DaSilva is pioneering.”
“I see,” Minton responded sceptically. “And what was the name of the film you were making?”
“The provisional title was ‘Agent of the Reich’.”
“How appropriate,” Minton commented. He looked at her silently as he planned his next move. It was time to start calling her bluff. “You said this company, Lyonesse Films, were originally located where?”
“Croyden,” she supplied.
“And the place where they had their temporary studio?”
“Brown’s Warehouse in Riga Street, Bermondsey.”
Minton asked the officer sitting in the corner to go out of the room and find the phone numbers for both businesses. They sat in silence until he returned a few minutes later.
“There’s no listing for Lyonesse Films in the directory, sir, so I rang enquiries – they have no number and confirmed there was no ex-directory listing either.”
“Well, Miss Walker, it would seem they don’t exist,” Minton observed dryly.
A worried look clouded Lucy’s face. “What about Brown’s Warehouse – I know they had a phone there; I called them twice.”
“Here’s the number, sir,” the officer said, handing Minton a slip of paper, “Brown’s Warehouse, Riga Street.”
Minton pulled the phone towards him and dialled the number, but there was no reply. “No-one is answering,” he said, replacing the receiver.
“They must have stopped work at the studio. They are probably out looking for me,” Lucy suggested earnestly.
Minton raised his voice and glared at her sternly: “It is time to end this charade, Miss Walker; you were caught red-handed and the sooner you confess and stop wasting our time the better it will be for you. I’m sure you’re aware that the crime of treason carries the death penalty.”
Lucy blanched and stared at Minton wide-eyed for several seconds. She then closed her eyes and began to sway slightly from side to side. Suddenly she collapsed. At first Minton thought this was another act, like the pretence of swallowing a cyanide pill in Grindley Street, but on examination it seemed she had genuinely fainted. They managed to bring her round but it was clear they would not be able to get any sensible responses from her in her present state.
Minton looked at his watch: it was just after 3.30pm. They had been questioning her for over two hours. He called in one of the guards stationed outside the interrogation room. “Take her back to her cell,” he ordered. “We’ll resume questioning later.” He then dismissed the stenographer and the officer who had been sitting in the corner.
The fainting fit disconcerted Minton. He had expected Cobalt to be a cool, hard-nosed, professional agent: passing out under interrogation did not seem quite in keeping with this image. He got the impression Lucy was not really the right material for an agent. It occurred to him that, although she was clearly working for the Germans, she might not be Cobalt but, instead, some low-level operative Cobalt had employed to pick up the message – nothing more than a courier.
“Well Goddard, what do you think?”
“She’s as guilty as hell, sir. Her story’s patently absurd. Once we start pulling it apart she must realise she hasn’t a hope unless she cooperates with us.”
“You have to admit, though, it is quite a clever tale – it hangs together well. Absurd as it is, we need to investigate it, get some details we can trip her up on. You’d better ask our Special Branch colleagues to look into her story, see if any of the people she mentioned actually exist and, if so, to what extent they support her account. She also gave the address of an aunt who can vouch for her, and her employer’s details, a Mr Ralph Pickering – Special Branch need to check them out as well”.
“Of course, but I expect it will be a waste of time – either they won’t exist, or they’ll be dupes who have been set up to lend credence to her story.”
“You’re probably right. Still, I think we’ll have to postpone continuing her interrogation until tomorrow, to allow us time to get all this information.”
#
As Lucy started another lonely stint in her cell, fifty miles away in the skies above Calais the Heinkels and Dorniers of Fliegerkorps I and II were massing for the first of the big raids on London. An armada of 348 bombers escorted by 617 fighters would soon be flying up the Thames, their target the London docklands. It was a day that Londoners would later call “Black Saturday”.
#
At the top of Windermere House was an attic room that had been the servants’ quarters when the villa was privately owned, but now was just used for storage. Its single dormer window looked out over the surrounding trees towards the London heartland. About a quarter to five, Minton had been aware of air-raid sirens sounding in the distance but had paid no attention to them. However, just after 5pm, Captain Goddard came into his office in an agitated state. “I think you should come and see this, sir,” he said. “The city’s taking a pounding.” He led Minton up to the attic room and indicated the view from the window: the clear blue skies above London were filled with formations of aircraft. The sun was glinting from them and each was followed by a wispy contrail. Here and there puffs of shell bursts from the anti-aircraft guns were visible, and plumes of smoke were rising from numerous locations in the city.
“The raid started about twenty minutes ago,” Goddard informed him. “It looks as if they’re going for the docks.”
Through the open window, they could hear the distant crump of impacting bombs and the sporadic return fire of the anti-aircraft guns. Minton watched silently as one after another, a V formation of bombers flew in, stretched out into a line and then circled above the target area, dropping its bombs. Having released its load, the flight would head off, to be replaced by a new one. It was a chilling spectacle.
After observing for ten minutes, Minton returned to his office. The mass raid on London was a depressing development, though not unexpected. He threw himself into his work in an effort to block out the horrors that must be occurring less than ten miles away. He was aware of the all-clear signal sounding in the distance about 6.15pm, but an hour and a half later the air-raid warning sirens were blasting out again.
Around eight o’clock, he went back up to the window in the attic room. It was dark now, and he could see that massive fires were blazing in the distance – the whole horizon to the south east glowed orange. Searchlight beams criss-crossed the night sky. After a couple of minutes, he felt he had seen enough and went down again.
He decided to sleep in his office rather than return to his lodgings in the centre of town. It was not that he was worried about being bombed, it was just that transport and communications were likely to be disrupted after a raid on this scale, and he did not want to be out-of-touch with IC3 for any length of time. In addition, working late would give him a chance to catch up with the mass of paperwork outstanding: requisition forms for equipment, official letters, reports on interrogations, legal depositions for cases going to court. He was still working through the mound in his
in-tray at 10pm, when he had a call from Brigadier Vaughan, phoning from the MI5 Registry at Blenheim Palace.
“I was hoping you’d still be at IC3, Minton. It’s a wonder I’ve been able to get through to you, though: lines to most of London are down. It’s utter chaos. It looks as if the raid that’s on at the moment may be the start of something big. The Director of Military Intelligence, no less, has told the Chiefs of Staff that a German invasion is imminent. The government have issued codeword ‘Cromwell’, the invasion alert. The prediction is that it will be sometime in the next three days – moon and tides are optimum for landings then – but there’s a rumour going round that it has already started. In some places they’re even ringing the bloody church bells to warn everyone Jerry’s here now. You’d better be prepared to move out if the invasion really is on.
“Anyway, I’ve got two pieces of news for you. First, the ballistics analysis on the Mauser pistol has come in. It seems to indicate our friend Miss Walker may be a rather nasty piece of work. A test bullet fired from the gun matched one that had been removed from a police officer shot dead by an unknown assailant one night four weeks ago. The officer was shot at point blank range in the course of investigating a report of a person acting suspiciously near an oil storage depot.
“Secondly, and more importantly,” he continued, “the microfilm she picked up at Grindley Street has been developed. The material on it is highly sensitive: blueprints for a new type of bombsight the RAF is developing, and also plans for a commando raid on a target in France. If these plans had reached the Germans, our troops would have walked into an ambush – it would have been a massacre. Some very senior people are highly alarmed that this information has leaked out. What progress have you made with her?”
“We’ve really only just started the process of interrogation. It could take days before we get her to cooperate – if she’s determined, it could take weeks.”
“Well, do your best Minton, but I warn you, you may not have that much time. Oh, and by the way,” he added as an afterthought, “it looks as if your wish has been granted.”
“What wish was that?”
“Remember you sent me a memo recommending that IC3 be shut down and resources transferred to one of the larger centres? Well, I passed it up the chain, and those on high have decided to take your advice. As soon as you’ve finished processing Cobalt and the other detainees there, all the interrogators are to be transferred to the Refugee Reception Centre at Norwood. Still, if the Germans really are invading now, this decision may be somewhat academic – IC3 and all the other centres may soon have to be evacuated. Anyway, Minton, keep me informed of any progress you make with Cobalt.”
5.
Sunday, 8th September, 1940: Windermere House, Hampstead
Following a troubled, sleepless night, Minton was up early and at his desk by eight o’clock. Half-heartedly he began to process the remaining contents of his in-tray. It was difficult to work up any enthusiasm for the task. The possibility that a German invasion was imminent – or might even have started – preyed on his mind. He also felt somewhat disappointed by the news that IC3 would be shutting down; although he himself had suggested it should be closed – and it was the right decision – he could not help feeling a certain sadness. He had been instrumental in setting up Windermere House and would miss the place.
He was distracted from his morose train of thought by the arrival of an orderly. “There’s a Special Branch officer to see you, sir – says it’s urgent.”
“Show him in straightaway.”
The orderly ushered in a haggard-looking man covered in dust and grime. It was several seconds before Minton recognised him as one of the surveillance team from the Grindley Street stakeout.
“I’m Martins, sir; I was given the job of checking out Lucy Walker’s story. Forgive the appearance – I was on the way to Brown’s Warehouse with the owner yesterday afternoon when the raid started and we got caught up in it.”
“No injuries I hope?”
“Fortunately not – we managed to avoid the worst of it. Anyway, as telephone lines from central London are down at present, I thought I had better come in person to report what I’ve found out.”
“That’s very good of you, Martins. Please, take a seat. I’m grateful you’ve come: time is of the essence in this case.”
The man launched into his account of his investigations. Rambling in places, it was interspersed with his experiences of the night, which clearly had affected him profoundly. At times he seemed a little dazed.
“After getting Captain Goddard’s call yesterday afternoon,” he began, “the first thing I did was to try phoning the aunt – Miss Irene Walker, 31 Redfield Terrace. However, there was no directory listing for her, so I rang Pickering’s Bookshop instead. Not surprisingly, there was no answer – it was Saturday afternoon, so I guessed it was probably closed. However, I managed to get through to the proprietor’s wife at his home address. She said he’d been called away at lunchtime to have a look at a collection of books from a house clearance. He’d gone into town and wasn’t expected back until early evening.
“So next I rang the owner of Brown’s Warehouse – a Mr Herning. He said he’d never heard of Lyonesse Films or anyone called Elliott or DaSilva, but he did confirm that there was a significant amount of cinematography equipment in the warehouse. It belonged to a film company from Twickenham that went bust last year; the equipment was being stored until a buyer could be found. When I mentioned that no one was answering the phone at the warehouse, he was keen to go there and check it was alright, as there was supposed to be a watchman on duty. I took a car over and picked him up from his home in Marleybone, and we headed off for the warehouse.
“We were about a mile from the Bermondsey docks when the sirens went off. I remember looking at my watch – it was 4.43pm. I wasn’t going to bother stopping – you know what these air-raid warnings are like, false alarms most of the time. But then I looked up through the windscreen and saw the planes – hundreds of them. We’d passed a public shelter a couple of minutes earlier, so I turned the car and went back to it. We stayed there until the all-clear sounded around 6.15pm. When we came out of the shelter, it was as if we’d been transported to a different world – rubble and broken glass all over the road; burning buildings; smoke and fumes filling the air.
“There was so much debris on the road it was impossible to take the car, so we tried to walk on to the warehouse. A couple of blocks away from Riga Street, we came across a group of auxiliary firemen just standing in the roadway watching a building engulfed in flames – they could do nothing to save it as there was no water from the hydrants: the mains had been fractured by a bomb. They advised us not to go on; they said the whole of Riga Street and the neighbouring streets were ablaze. A paint store and a whisky bond had received direct hits and the whole area was an inferno.
“I left Herning with them and decided to make my way on foot to Lewisham, hoping to get a lift once away from the docklands, which seemed to be the main target area. It was half-past seven by this time. I’d only been walking for half an hour when the sirens went off again. I ended up in another shelter where I stayed the rest of the night.
“When I got to Redfield Terrace early this morning, I discovered that number 31 was one of five houses in the street that had been destroyed by incendiary bombs during the night: number 31 and both the adjoining houses, and two more further down the street on the opposite side. There was a body in number 31 – it was charred beyond recognition, but the local police believe it was Miss Irene Walker, the aunt.
“I then went to Pickering’s home address, which was only a few streets away. His wife said he hadn’t returned yet and guessed he’d spent the night in a shelter. At that point I decided to interrupt my investigations and report here.”
“You’ve done a good job under difficult circumstances,” Minton responded. “You’d better get away home and have a rest - you’ve had a traumatic night.” As an afterthought he
added, “One other thing before you go: do you know if they’ve picked up Ortega yet – he’s the suspect at the Spanish Embassy?”
“I don’t think so, unless there have been any developments overnight. When I left the Yard yesterday afternoon, we were still trying to track him down. As far as I know, he hasn’t been to his flat or to the Embassy since early Friday evening.”
That was a pity, Minton thought, as the man departed: if they had had Ortega as well as Cobalt, they could have played one off against the other.
Despite the efforts of the Special Branch man, Minton felt they were not much further on, but given the fact they might be getting the order to move out at any time, he was aware of the need to press ahead. He ordered Lucy to be brought up for interrogation.
They employed the same arrangement as on the previous day, except this time they gave her a chair to sit on, not wanting a repeat of the fainting fit. They also took it in turns to interrogate her: sometimes it was Minton, sometimes Goddard. Occasionally, both would be present. The interrogation continued off and on for the rest of the day.
#
The bombers returned on Sunday evening, but Minton paid no attention to them this time: he was focussed on his own mission, which was to break Lucy as quickly as possible. He was by now very familiar with her story. As well as getting her to go through it several times in front of him, he had read the transcripts of all the previous interrogations. So far, she had stuck to her account perfectly – there were none of the tell-tale discrepancies that usually give the game away. Either she was a very good liar, or she was telling the truth, which seemed unlikely. The time had come to crank up the pressure. He would get her to go through the story once more, but this time he would point out to her the flaws in it.
