by Seb Spence
He returned alone to the interrogation room just after 8pm, carrying Lucy’s straw bag and a folder with the documentary evidence they had gathered so far. Lucy was already there, seated in front of the table, staring down at it. She did not look up when he entered the room. She was pale and looked worn out and dejected. He dismissed the guard who had been left in the room with her; so now there were just the two of them.
“Alright Lucy,” he began quietly, “I’d like you to tell me your story again, from the beginning.”
She looked up at him, her eyes puffy and red rimmed from frequent bouts of crying. “No, not again,” she said in a tired voice. “I’ve been through it a dozen times already. I’m not going over it again.”
“Now Lucy, you need to co-operate with us. There is a lot at stake. There are a few points I want to check, and I need you to tell me your story again, from the beginning, so please do as I request.”
She looked down at the table once more and, shaking her head, said softly, “No, not again.”
“Need I remind you that the penalty for treason is death by hanging.” She looked up at him in alarm, her eyes filling with tears. “Assuming you want to escape the gallows, you must do one of two things,” Minton continued severely. “If, as we suspect, you are a German agent, you must start by telling us who your accomplices are. On the other hand, if, as you maintain, you have been framed, then you must co-operate with me and tell me your story again so that we can check the details.” He passed her his handkerchief to dry her eyes. “Well, Lucy, what’s it to be?”
There was a long pause while she tried to compose herself, and then she began in a tremulous, barely audible monotone, staring down at the desk to avoid looking at Minton: “My name is Lucy Walker. I live at 31 Redfield Terrace, Lewisham. I’m a shop assistant in Pickering’s Bookshop ... ”
As she went through the whole story once more, Minton interrupted frequently to ask for more precise details, hoping to lead her into saying something they could prove was a lie, but she always seemed to have the answers pat.
“Tell me about this Mr Elliott,” Minton enquired after she had finished. “What happened at your first meeting?”
“I first met him in the shop. It was on a Monday about two weeks ago.”
“That’s not what you told us before – you said you met him in a park on a Wednesday.”
“I did meet him in the park on Wednesday, but that wasn’t the first time – the first time I met him was on the Monday of that week. He walked into the shop and straight up to the counter. He was looking for a particular edition of a book and asked me if we had it.”
“Which book did he want?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, it was two weeks ago. It was a Dickens novel I think, ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’. No, wait – it was ‘Bleak House’”.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, I remember now.”
“Can you remember what edition he wanted?”
Lucy rubbed the side of her head. After a pause, she said: “It was Castle’s 1918 edition; I remember thinking it was printed in the last year of the war. He wanted it to complete a set”
Minton decided it was time to try a different tack. “This is a civilised country, Miss Walker, enemy agents are not punished out of hand. They are entitled to a fair trial like any other accused. You, too, will be sent for trial before a jury – unless, of course, you agree to co-operate with us, tell us about your network, your controllers, how you were inserted, everything you know about Abwehr operations in Britain. Better still, work for us.” He stopped, hoping for a sign that she was at least considering the offer, but she continued to sit in silence, staring at the desk.
“Very well,” he continued, “perhaps we should review the evidence we hold against you, the evidence that will be going before this jury. First, you were observed by myself, and no fewer than six Special Branch officers, removing a package from behind a loose brick in Grindley Street.” As he said this, he laid out on the desk before her a series of photographs showing her clearly taking the package from the dead-letter box. “We also saw you behaving suspiciously, looking up and down the street to make sure there was no one around.”
“I was told to do that; it was part of the script.”
“You were also seen scanning the windows of the buildings, presumably checking that no-one was observing you.”
“I was looking for Mr DaSilva’s hidden camera.”
“You resisted arrest–”
“I told you,” she interrupted plaintively, “it was in the script – I was supposed to put up a fight.”
“–and in the ensuing struggle tried to kill yourself by swallowing a cyanide capsule.”
“No, I was just pretending. It wasn’t a real cyanide pill.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right – you said it was filled with vinegar,” Minton interjected, trying to trip her up, but she did not fall into the trap.
“No, it was a cod-liver oil capsule – I spat out the vinegar one that Mr Elliott gave me, when I was walking down the alley.”
Minton continued laying out the case against her. “The package you removed was found to contain microfilm of highly classified information: blueprints of a new bombsight the RAF is developing, and also plans for a raid that a commando unit was to make on the French coast in three weeks time. If the technical details of this bombsight had reached the Germans, they would be able to build it and use it against British targets: factories, ships, cities. If the plans for the raid had got to the enemy, our troops would have walked into an ambush. In both cases, there would be a huge loss of life. I’m telling you this so that you realise just how serious your situation is, Miss Walker.”
“I didn’t know what was in the package. They didn’t say what was in it.”
Minton continued, ignoring her response. “How do you explain the concealed blade in the heel of one of your shoes?”
Lucy looked at him blankly. “What blade? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Alright, let’s consider other items of your outfit. The blue dress you wore that day – the one with the floral pattern – was from the summer collection of a Parisian fashion house, DeLisle. (A) it is extremely expensive, far more than a shop assistant in a second-hand book store could afford; and (B) as Paris has been occupied by the Germans since May this year, it is difficult to see how you could have obtained it, unless, perhaps, you brought it with you from France at some point in the last few months.”
“I’ve never been out of Britain.”
“The undergarments you were wearing with the dress – also expensive. Carelessly, the labels have been left in them. They were made in Stuttgart, Germany, and are unobtainable here in Britain.
“Let’s move on to the contents of your straw bag,” he said, putting it on the table and taking out the wad of banknotes. “In a false bottom we found one hundred and twenty pounds in used notes. That’s a lot of money for a shop assistant: it’s more than you earn in a year.”
“The money’s not real – it’s just pretend money.”
“No, Miss Walker, the notes are quite genuine. We’ve had them examined by bank officials. I expect the jury will be curious to know how you came by such a large amount. Was it your payment for the pick-up and other jobs you’ve done for your German paymasters?”
“No, it was just one of the props for the scene.”
“It’s a strange film company that would use real money for props. Anyway, moving on to the next item,” he said, taking out the passport and placing it on the table before her. “In the hidden compartment, we also found a false passport with your picture in it. It was in the name of Eleanor Mortimer, profession: actress.”
Lucy shook her head. “It was just a joke. Mr Elliott had it made up like that for a laugh.”
“We have compared it with several fake passports found on other German agents we’ve captured, and it has clearly been forged by the same person or team – it has the same paper,
same ink, same stamp marks. They’ve made the same mistakes in all of them.
“Next we have the handgun: a Mauser 6.35mm. A pocket-pistol of German origin, and also one favoured by Abwehr agents and commonly issued to them. We’ve collected several specimens from captured agents.”
“It’s not a real gun; it doesn’t work.”
“On the contrary, Miss Walker, it works perfectly. It was fired at a police test range yesterday and is in perfect working order. The reason they fired it is that they wanted to compare the bullet with another in their possession. They found the bullet to be identical with one that fatally wounded a police officer four weeks ago. At the time of his murder, this officer was investigating a possible saboteur at an oil depot. Your fingerprints are on every one of these items, Miss Walker. What do you think a jury would make of all this?” He paused, waiting for a reply, but she said nothing; she just stared back at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Minton supplied the answer for her. “I can tell you what they’d think – no jury in the land would fail to convict you on that evidence, and I don’t need to remind you that the maximum penalty for espionage is death by hanging.”
Lucy started to tremble and responded in a plaintiff, faltering voice: “But you must have checked my story – Mr Elliott will confirm it all. So will my aunt, and Mr Pickering at the bookshop.”
“Yes Lucy, we have looked into your story. Unfortunately, Brown’s Warehouse no longer exists. It and a large part of Bermondsey were destroyed by the Luftwaffe last night. We’ve managed to trace the owner, however – he says there was some film equipment stored there, but he’s never heard of Lyonesse Films. The equipment belonged to a film company from Twickenham that went into liquidation last year.
“As far as this man Elliott is concerned, the Special Branch officers posted at the south end of Grindley Street say you arrived by yourself – there was no one with you, no Mr Elliott.”
“Mr Elliott was in his car at the end of the alley – they wouldn’t be able see him from Grindley Street.”
“Mr Ralph Pickering,” Minton continued, “proprietor of Pickering’s Bookshop, we have not been able to contact yet.”
“What about my aunt – you’ve surely spoken to her, she rarely leaves the house.”
Minton paused before informing her of what Martins had reported. “The house where you claim your aunt lived was one of several properties in Lewisham destroyed by incendiary bombs last night. The body of a woman, presumed to be Miss Irene Walker, was found inside.”
“No! No!” Lucy whimpered, burying her face in her hands and starting to sob uncontrollably.
If this was an act, Minton thought, it was a very convincing performance; but then, after all, she was an actress – whichever version of the facts you believed. However, whether she was faking the tears or not, it was clear to Minton that he could make no progress with her in this state
“Alright Lucy, that’s all for now.” He called in the guard and ordered him to take her back to the cells.
Minton returned to his office and slumped into the chair behind his desk. He had a feeling this was not going to be an easy case to crack. As he began to plan his next move, his glance fell on a new pile of paperwork that had appeared in his in-tray. He reached out for a bundle of mail and sorted through it, looking for anything important and returning the usual routine dross to the in-tray. One item caught his eye: a large envelope marked ‘Urgent’ and addressed to Colonel Minton, IC3. He slit it open and found inside a smaller envelope, to which was attached a note on Air Ministry headed paper. It read simply: “Received 7/9/40 for onward transmission.” Beneath this line was an indecipherable signature with “Army-Air Liaison Officer” underneath it. Minton opened up this second envelope and read the typed letter inside:
Dear Colonel Minton,
I have important information relating to ‘Cobalt’ and your recent investigation at the Air-Intelligence section at Fighter Command, in which you interviewed Pilot Officer George Kemp. I would be grateful if you could contact me urgently about this matter as I believe Kemp may be in some danger.
F. Barton
Pilot Officer
The letterhead was that of RAF Balloon Command, Stanmore, and included a phone number. Minton sensed that this might be an interesting development. It was certainly timely – perhaps suspiciously timely, he thought. After debating with himself whether to phone this man Barton or talk to him in person, he decided it would be better to obtain the information face-to-face rather than over the phone: you can discover much more about the person you’re speaking to when they’re standing in front of you than you can from a phone conversation. You can tell whether they’re nervous, tense, fidgety, avoiding eye contact ... all the little clues that might indicate whether they’re lying. Yes, he would get one of his staff to phone the man and arrange a meeting.
Minton preferred not to have visitors at IC3 – the fewer people who knew about what went on at Windermere House the better. So it looked as if he would have to make a trip to Stanmore, which fortunately was only half an hour away by car.
Chapter 4.
1.
Monday, 9th September, 1940: Stanmore Village
Barton stopped in the doorway of the living room and surveyed its interior: it was looking rather squalid. Bronx Moncur, seated in an armchair, was absorbed in a newspaper and seemed unaware of Barton’s arrival; he had a slice of toast in one hand while the other held open the paper on his lap.
“Help me square up a bit, Bronx,” Barton appealed, entering the room and starting to clear up some of the clutter lying around. “The man from MI5 will be here any minute. I want to make a good impression. He can’t see the place in this mess.”
Bronx looked up from his paper but showed no inclination to get out of the armchair. “Why’s he coming so early? It’s not eight o’clock yet. Honest folk are still eating their breakfast.” He took a bite out of his toast.
“When his aide phoned last night, he said we should meet as soon as possible,” Barton responded, while he used his foot to shove a crate of empties behind the sofa. “It has to be now as I’d prefer to see him before I go on duty this morning. I don’t want him turning up at Balloon Command – they’ll only start asking me questions.”
Barton went about the room collecting up the newspapers and magazines that were lying around and then stuffed them on a shelf in the bookcase. “I had a devil of a job contacting this fellow. After that man Morrison from the Birmingham exchange rang, I spent the whole afternoon phoning round various intelligence organizations, but no one seemed to have heard of a Colonel Minton.”
“I can imagine; these secret service chaps tend not to advertise themselves.”
“In the end, I went into town to see someone I know at the Air Ministry: a chap who I thought might have come across him. I wasted most of a 24 hour pass doing it.” While saying this, Barton picked up from the dining table an opened tin of spam – the remains of the previous evening’s supper – and put it in a drawer of the sideboard.
“Well,” Bronx quipped, “you know what they say about working with Military Intelligence – it’s like having sex with an elephant: it’s not much fun, very risky and you have to wait years before you see the result.”
Barton was about to empty the ashtrays, when he noticed through the bay window that an olive green Humber Snipe staff car with army markings had just pulled up outside the house. The driver got out and went round the car to open the rear door for the passenger in the back. A tall, thin man wearing an army uniform with red collar tabs emerged and paused on the pavement briefly to take in the surroundings.
“I think our visitor has arrived,” Barton announced, snatching the remains of the toast from Bronx’s hand and tossing it in the bin.
#
After the introductions had been made, Minton took off his cap, pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat down. He noticed there was a smell of pipe tobacco and stale beer in the room.
“I believe you have some information you wish to pass on,” he said, looking enquiringly at Barton and taking out a small notebook and pencil from a top pocket of his tunic.
“Yes, well, I suppose I should start at the beginning. A couple of weeks ago – ”
“Please be precise,” Minton interrupted politely. “Exact dates if possible.”
Barton paused while he tried to recall the facts, and then began again. “On the morning of Monday, 26th August, Pilot Officer Kemp, who shares this billet with us, left to go up to Birmingham ... ” Minton listened to the account with an air of courteous interest, but behind his pleasant smile and avuncular air, he was analysing every detail of the story, and also of Barton’s behaviour, looking for any sign that he might be lying.
Barton recounted to the Colonel everything he knew relating to GK’s disappearance, including his conversations with GK’s CO and the call from Supervisor Morrison; he left nothing out, not even the conversation after the mess party in which GK had drunkenly blurted out information he should not have. He realised GK might get into trouble for this, but he felt it was important that Minton was told the whole truth – if the Colonel thought that information was being withheld from him, he might not agree to help.
“So it looks to me,” Barton said in conclusion, “as if GK is maybe being held by this woman Cobalt or her associates. We need to track them down and extricate GK before he comes to any harm.”
“You were the last to see him, I believe,” Minton said, addressing Bronx. “Did he give any clues about where he might be going?”
Bronx shook his head. “Afraid not – all he said was that he was going up north.”
“What about this town where he made the call from?”
