by Seb Spence
“What can I do?”
“Two members of the gang were arrested this morning, and, with luck, the rest will be apprehended within the next twenty-four hours, but we need your help to ensure they are brought to justice quickly. We want you to identify formally the two suspects we have arrested, Joan Wilks and Robert Mitchell, and confirm they are two of the people you saw at the warehouse in Riga Street.”
Lucy did not respond immediately. She sat lost in thought for a while and then at last replied: “He was very nice to me, Mr Mitchell. I can’t believe he’d want to harm me.”
“He played a key role in the plan to dupe you, and was certainly aware of its details. I’m afraid he must have known you were to be killed.”
“I don’t know, Colonel Minton,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t know if I want to be involved in this any more.”
“We really need you, Miss Walker. We need to get one of these two spies to tell us where the rest of the gang are; if we don’t get that information soon, the ringleaders may escape and we may net only the small fry. To get them to talk, I need to apply some pressure, and knowing that you have positively identified them will worry them a great deal. I must emphasise, Miss Walker, time is of the essence.”
She seemed to be wavering. Minton reckoned it was time she realised just how serious the present situation was. “I know you feel angry about the way you’ve been treated, but you must set those feelings aside. This gang have stolen important secrets and many lives on our side may be lost if this information gets back to Germany.”
This seemed to tip the balance. “All right, I’ll do it.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door and the orderly Minton had spoken to earlier came in. “I have your film, sir,” he said, holding out a canister to Minton. “It’s a Government information film on ‘Emergency Cooking Stoves’ – I’m afraid it’s all I could find.”
“No matter; it will serve the purpose I have in mind. Well, Miss Walker, everything is in place. I think the time has come for us to confront our captives.”
#
To minimise the chances of escape via a window, Joan Wilks and Bob Mitchell were being held on the fourth floor of the building, high above street level. Minton was also anxious that they did not communicate with each other and so had arranged for them to be confined in separate rooms at either end of a corridor. An MP was stationed outside each of the rooms.
Minton chose to deal with Wilks first, since confirming her identity was really just a formality, as he did not intend to interrogate her at this stage. Once she had been formally identified, he could focus on Mitchell. As they walked down the corridor towards Wilks’ ‘cell’ at the far end, Minton spoke to Lucy in a low voice: “Don’t be put off by anything these two say or do. They may try to threaten or test you in some way. Just be resolute. They can’t harm you now.”
The MP unlocked the door and went in first, followed by Minton and then Lucy. Wilks was sitting on the camp bed that had been put in the room for her and as they entered, she looked up. When she saw Lucy, her face hardened into an expression of hatred and Minton half expected her to leap up and throw herself at the girl.
“Can you identify this person, Miss Walker?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s her,” Lucy confirmed in a quiet but steady voice. “That’s Joan Wilks. She was Mr Elliott’s assistant at the film studio.” Wilks’ face contorted into a sneer but she said nothing.
“Thank you. That’s all we needed to know.”
They then went back along the corridor to the room at the other end. “Wait outside, please, Miss Walker until I call you in.”
Mitchell, who had been pacing backwards and forwards across the room, stopped abruptly when Minton entered with the MP. He looked apprehensive.
“I believe you said your arrest was a case of mistaken identity,” Minton said to him, a slight smile on his lips. “I think we can now clear up this misunderstanding.”
“Not before time, I have to say,” Mitchell replied, in a tone of injured innocence. “I’m always happy to assist the security services – they do a sterling job, sorting out the fifth columnists and all that – but as I say, I’m not this Bob Mitchell character. I really must insist that you release me soon.”
Minton paused momentarily and then called to Lucy, “Come in Miss Walker.” As he said her name, he watched Mitchell’s face: the features betrayed instant panic.
“Yes, that is Bob Mitchell,” she said in a low but unwavering voice. “He is the one who did the audition scene with me.”
In contrast to Lucy’s firm demeanour, Mitchell now seemed close to tears. His face went crimson. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life,” he insisted in a shrill tone. “It’s a mistake, it’s all a ghastly mistake. You have to believe me, Colonel!”
“I think we need to talk, Mr Mitchell,” Minton responded, and then addressed the MP: “Take him along to the interrogation room.”
#
As always, Colonel Minton strived to create a courtroom atmosphere for the questioning and accordingly had arranged for the interrogation room to be set out in a specific way. He and the other interrogation officer were seated behind a large desk at the end of the room facing the door. The ‘accused’ sat opposite them – set back a little, so that they could observe his body language – and behind him, in a corner, was the stenographer. Minton had also arranged for a clock to be fixed to the wall behind them so that it would be clearly visible to Mitchell, for it was important that he, too, felt the pressure of time.
Minton started the interrogation by offering an inducement: “I am authorised to grant you immunity from prosecution if you cooperate fully and provide us with information leading to the arrest of Vivian Adair and the other members of her cell.”
“You can offer what you like. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mitchell responded, rubbing his temple.
“It’s two o’clock now,” Minton said, turning round and looking up at the clock behind him. “I’ll give you until five – if you have not answered our questions satisfactorily by that time, we will start our interrogation of Miss Wilks and the same offer will be made to her. One, and only one, of you will be given immunity from prosecution. Whoever accepts first, gets the deal.”
“I really don’t know what all this is about. I keep telling you, my name’s not Mitchell.”
“I would advise you not to prevaricate, Mr. Mitchell. We believe members of your cell are to be picked up by submarine tomorrow somewhere off the Scottish coast – if they are successful in escaping, you and Miss Wilks will no longer be of value to us. If that happens, we will withdraw our offer of immunity and you will have to take your chances in the courts. I don’t need to remind you what the maximum penalty for espionage is.”
Mitchell had already broken out into a sweat. “I tell you, you’ve got the wrong man. My name’s Robertson, Mitch Robertson, as stated on my identity card.”
“Let’s forget about you for the time being and focus on your colleagues: where are Vivian Adair and John Elliott?”
Mitchell lowered his head and shook it.
“Come, Mr Mitchell: where are they now, where are they headed, and where will the submarine pick them up?”
Chapter 9
1.
Tuesday, 20th May, 1941, 15.00-16.30hrs: The A86, Kielder Forest
At Corebridge, Hugo DaSilva had taken over the driving, and Elliott was now in the front passenger seat navigating. Traffic was light and they had made steady progress since Scotch Corner: looking at the map on his knee, Elliott estimated they were presently only fifteen miles from the Scottish border.
The A68 north of Corebridge was a reasonably fast road, for although there were sections which undulated steeply like a roller-coaster track, the road was straight, following the line of the old Roman route Dere Street. They could have taken advantage of this and been much further on by now, but Elliott had decided not to get too far ahead of Vivian Adair, following in the Hil
lman – he felt there was strength in numbers, and it might be useful to have her covering his back if he were stopped by the police. As always, he liked to weigh the options, and he had concluded that, despite her shortcomings, she was a useful member of the team and might be able to get him out of a fix if they had a run-in with the police. Accordingly, he had asked DaSilva to keep her in sight in his rear-view mirror, and on the two occasions when she had stopped to pump up the soft tyre, they had also stopped.
Though nearing journey’s end, Elliott was not feeling entirely comfortable with their situation, for it seemed to him that there were a suspicious number of police patrol cars on the road. One had been parked near the beginning of the A68 back at Scotch Corner, and they had passed a second stationed near the junction for Newcastle. Two others had passed them by at different points on the road, travelling in the opposite direction. He guessed that the squad cars might be looking for them.
“Don’t be surprised if we’re stopped by the police,” he warned the others. “I get the impression they’re patrolling this road. They’ve maybe been tipped off somehow that we’re heading for Scotland. Make sure you have your stories ready.”
“Doesn’t worry me,” Len declared, smiling. “What can two bobbies in a car do to stop us?” He patted the front of his jacket over the shoulder holster where he had his Walther. “Know what I mean?” he chuckled.
“And besides,” DaSilva added, “we’ll be at the farmhouse within 45 minutes. With a little luck, we won’t see any more of them.”
The road at that point meandered through thick woodland and as they came round a curve, they saw ahead the rear of a lorry disappearing around the next bend. Within a minute, they had caught up with it.
Elliott guessed it was some kind of RAF vehicle, judging by its blue-grey colour. He could not see past it because of the trees on either side of the road. “Don’t tell me this is the end of another blasted convoy.”
“No, I think it’s just a single truck,” DaSilva replied. “We should be able to get by it at the next straight bit of road.”
But no straight sections materialised, and they travelled behind the lorry for several miles as the road wound through the forest. Elliott began to get impatient: “Sound your horn, Hugo. Let him know we’re here. If he’s got any decency, he’ll pull over and let us past.”
DaSilva honked the horn several times, but it had no effect. “I think he’s in a hurry too. He’s going at a fair lick for a truck.”
“Confound him!”
DaSilva noted in his mirror that Vivian and Grace in the Hillman were now right behind them. “The ladies have caught up with us,” he announced.
Elliott studied the map. “I think there’s a straight stretch coming up shortly. We should both be able to get by him then.”
Sure enough, soon they reached a straight section of road and DaSilva immediately pulled out and overtook the lorry. As they were moving past it, Elliott glared up at the occupants of the cab to register his disapproval, but his expression changed rapidly from annoyance to surprise, for glaring back at him through the windscreen of the lorry was a face he recognised.
“Damn me! If it isn’t that oaf Barton in the cab. How the devil did he get here?” Elliott looked back through the rear window and watched as the Hillman behind them overtook the lorry. He turned and gazed thoughtfully ahead, biting his lower lip. “This is a problem – he’s recognised us now, and probably Vivian and Grace as well.” Elliott studied the map once more. “In a couple of miles there’s a road coming up on the left, leading into the forest. When we get there, turn off into it, Hugo.”
“Is that wise, John? Are we not throwing away our advantage? As long as we keep to the main road we can outrun them. We’ll be at the border soon, and then it’s not long to the farmhouse.”
“No, that won’t do. If we just leave him behind, Barton’s likely to pull in somewhere with a phone and call the police, or he might even flag down a passing patrol car. We can’t risk that. We need to deal with him now, and this time I intend to fix Pilot Officer Barton for good.” Elliott twisted round again and looked through the rear window. “Don’t get too far ahead of the lorry. I want to make sure he sees us turn off. He’s bound to come after us, so we can draw him into the woods and deal with him there. When we’re near the junction, I’ll signal to Vivian to follow us.” A few minutes later, he spotted up ahead a narrow road diverging into the forest. He opened up the passenger window, put his arm out and pointed to the left with a stabbing motion.
As instructed, DaSilva swung the Riley off the highway and headed down what turned out to be a single-track, unmetalled road, constructed from compacted stones and gravel. A dense mass of spruce and pine trees extended into darkness to left and right of the road, the verges of which sloped steeply down into ditches on either side. Hidden from view and deserted, the place was ideal for what Elliott had in mind.
After following the track for several minutes, they rounded a bend and saw just ahead of them was a small clearing along the left hand side. It, too, was surfaced with gravel and seemed to be connected with the forestry work: twenty or so tree trunks, stripped of their branches, had been laid in a stack near its far edge, and parked nearby them was an empty logging trailer.
“That spot’s perfect,” Elliott declared, pointing ahead. “Pull over at the entrance to the clearing and let Vivian by, then back the car across the road to block it. The lorry won’t be able to get round the car because of the ditches at the side, and there’s no room for them to turn – they’ll be trapped.”
#
Immediately after passing the lorry, Vivian Adair had glimpsed its occupants in her mirror and had recognised them instantly. “Well, well! I do believe it’s your friend Barton and his colleague again. They don’t give up easily, do they?”
Grace had spotted Bronx at the wheel of the Fordson as they drew alongside it and guessed that Barton would be with him. Anxious not to draw attention to them, she had quickly looked away. Now, seeing that they had been recognised by Vivian, she peered back through the rear window, and did her best to feign surprise. “I can’t quite see from here. Surely it can’t be them?”
“Oh yes, it’s them alright,” Vivian Adair confirmed. Then after a pause, she added pensively, “This poses two questions: first, how did they manage to get in front of us; and second, how the hell did they know we were going to be on the A68?”
“I don’t know how they beat us here, but as far as the A68 is concerned, my guess is that they found out from Roy that he and I had a booking in Edinburgh this week and they’re heading there.”
“Hmm, perhaps,” she responded broodingly and fell silent. A few minutes later she noticed the Riley was slowing down and saw Elliott signalling to them out of his window. “I think he wants us to turn off after him,” she said and began to slow the Hillman. They turned onto the forest track and followed on behind.
#
Bronx had been aware for several miles that there were a couple of cars stuck behind him, but he had no intention of slowing down to let them by: he felt his mission was urgent and he could not afford to waste time by stopping whenever some car caught up with him. Anyway, he thought, there was bound to be a straight section coming up, and they could both get past him then. When one of the drivers behind sounded their horn, it just irritated him and hardened his determination to keep on going as fast as he could.
Sure enough, at the first straight section they came to, the car immediately behind – a black Riley Kestrel – had pulled out to overtake. He and Barton had both glared down at the irate face looking back up at them from the front passenger seat.
“I say, Barton, isn’t that that fellow from the play we saw in Northampton?”
Barton, speechless with surprise at the sight of Elliott, did not respond. The Hillman then shot by and Bronx spoke out again: “And isn’t that your girlfriend in the other car? How on earth did we manage to get ahead of them?”
If Barton had been taken a
back to see Elliott pass by, he was completely stunned when moments later he saw Grace’s profile in the passenger window of the Hillman. It took him a few seconds to process this development.
“They must have been held up en route. It also looks as if the Adair woman rendezvoused with Elliott and his friends at some point and decided to swap cars. They probably guessed I’d given a description of her and the Riley to the police.”
They watched the two cars speed ahead.
“Well, I’m afraid we’re going to lose them, Barton – there’s no way I can keep up with them in this beast.”
“Do the best you can Bronx. We’ll stop at the next sign of civilisation and see if we can phone Minton. He can arrange for a roadblock to be set up. Then, if they keep to the A68, they’re bound to get caught.”
Although the two cars had gained a fair distance they were still in sight, and hardly had Barton finished speaking when they turned off the main road and disappeared into the forest.
“What do we do now?” Bronx asked.
“Follow them.”
“Are you sure that’s sensible, Barton? They’re probably all armed and Aunty Vivian has that machine pistol. Shouldn’t we get to a phone and call for help.”
“We’ve got to keep on their tail. If we go off looking for a phone now, they might double back and we could lose them. I’m worried about Grace.”
In less than a minute, the Fordson Sussex was lumbering along the single track road, enveloped in the cloud of dust it was stirring up from the gravelly surface. The road wound through the forest, and, because of the bends and the trees, they could not see the two cars ahead, but Barton knew they had to be somewhere in front as there was nowhere else for them to go – he had noticed the two deep ditches on either side of the track and realised they were impassable to vehicles.
“They can’t turn off this track, Bronx, that’s for sure. We’re ok unless we come to a junction.” Foster had not provided them with a map, so Barton had no way of knowing if there were other roads going off. He was troubled by the thought that they might lose Elliott in a maze of forest tracks.
