by Seb Spence
With an effort, Grace composed herself and considered whether to follow Barton and Bronx, but in the end decided against it: they were probably safe enough now, and she had a job to do. She knew her task was unfinished as long as Vivian Adair and the rest of the gang were free. Putting the screwdriver back in her pocket, she left the cover of the trees.
#
Vivian Adair quickly removed the files from inside the smouldering music case and flung it away. She then got in behind the wheel of the Hillman, dropped the automatic on her lap and riffled through the papers, checking that they had not been damaged. Satisfied that they were unharmed, she reached across and put them, together with the automatic, in the glove box, concealing both under a map book and a cardigan that she had taken off earlier. Just as she finished doing this, she became aware of someone emerging from the trees. She was about to reach for the automatic, when she recognised the figure as Grace Harrison. Grace, ashen and slightly trembling, got into the passenger seat.
Starting the car, Vivian Adair reprimanded her: “Where have you been? I thought I told you to keep watch.”
“Call of nature; I had to go.” Grace nodded towards the blazing lorry: “What happened there?”
Vivian Adair gazed out at the inferno but said nothing. She watched the black smoke rising into the sky and realised that soon it would be visible from miles away. “Never mind,” she said tersely, “we need to get away from here fast.”
“What about Barton and his friend?”
“Don’t worry about them. They’ve run off into the woods.” She turned the car and after edging past the Riley, set off at speed back along the track, towards the A68. “Your Mr Barton is not quite as useless as he seems,” she remarked.
#
When the lorry exploded, Barton realised there was little chance of overpowering Vivian Adair with their hands tied behind them, so as soon as she turned her back, he told Bronx in an urgent whisper to run for it, and they had both bolted off towards the trees. Moreover, he had observed earlier that Grace had walked into the forest, and although he had lost sight of her, he felt she was out of immediate harm. If they could meet up with her, the three of them might stand a chance against Vivian Adair.
Running at speed through a dense forest with your hands tied behind your back is not easy, so as soon as they thought they were a safe distance away, they stopped and set about untying each other. This took a little time and, as they struggled with the knots, Barton used the opportunity to explain what had happened to the Fordson.
“Ah, I see,” Bronx said, when the mystery of the explosion had been revealed to him. “So your little science lecture on the properties of hydrogen wasn’t just idle rambling as I thought.” With that, he managed finally to free his hands and quickly untied Barton.
“I think we should head off that way,” he continued, pointing at right angles to the direction they had followed from the clearing, “move parallel to the road for a while and then cut down on to it.”
“No, Bronx, we must go back towards the clearing. We have to find Grace and make sure she is safe.”
“There’s not much we can do to rescue her while that Adair harpy has a pistol, but I suppose you’re right. Lead on, then!”
Cautiously, they crept back, dodging from tree to tree in the expectation that Vivian Adair would jump out from cover at any minute and start firing at them, but no one appeared. Soon, they were able to see the flames of the blazing Fordson through the trees, and as they neared the clearing, they smelt the acrid stench of burning rubber.
“Your friend Foster is going to be a bit miffed about his lorry,” Bronx observed. “What were his parting words: ‘Bring it back in one piece’?”
At that point they heard a car start and through the trees they could just make out the Hillman setting off with two occupants in it.
“I’m pretty certain that’s your Miss Harrison in the car with the Adair woman.”
Barton was disappointed to hear this. “Why did she go back to her? If she’d stayed in the forest, she’d have been out of harm’s way.”
They walked on swiftly through the trees and stopped at the edge of the clearing.
“Those three blighters couldn’t have survived that,” Barton said nodding towards the still blazing wreckage at the far side. “So I suppose Vivian Adair is on her own, now.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry to see the last of Elliott. He was a murderous swine. They say smoking is bad for your health – it certainly did for him.”
“Come on, Bronx, we’ve got to get to a phone.”
They emerged into the clearing and set off at a trot along the forest road, heading back the way they had come. Barton noted to himself that for the second time that day they were running through the countryside in search of somewhere with a phone.
#
At St Boswell’s, Vivian Adair turned off the A68 onto a minor road that wound through the village and then headed east. A red sandstone bridge took them across the River Tweed, and from there they drove for ten minutes through a maze of deserted single-track country roads. During that time, the only person they saw was a man pruning roses in the front garden of his cottage.
Eventually, they turned onto an unmade farm road that passed between two high hedgerows and had at its entrance a roughly-made, weather-beaten sign bearing the legend “Monksford”. The road led them to a two-storey, stone farmhouse situated in a hollow surrounded by trees. Opposite from the house, across a small, muddy yard, stood a terrace of stone farm buildings: a bothy, a tractor house and a long barn.
Vivian Adair pulled the Hillman up facing the tractor house. “Open the doors for me so that I can get the car hidden away,” she ordered. “Lukasz stopped here last night on his way up north to arrange our transport. He phoned yesterday evening to confirm he’d arrived safely and said he would clear a space so that we could hide the vehicles inside.”
Grace got out and swung the doors wide open to reveal an empty interior with room for two cars side by side. Vivian Adair drove the Hillman in, turned off the engine and then leant across and pulled out from the glove box the pile of documents and the automatic. “OK,” she said, stepping out, “lets get our gear inside the house and rest up. I’m exhausted.” She sniffed the sleeve of her jumper. “My clothes are stinking of that fire. I’m going to have a bath and change.”
Grace had seen her pick up the burning music case back in the forest and guessed the papers she was now holding were the ones destined for Germany. “I’ve got a small, flap-over briefcase with me. You can have it for your documents if you like. It’s lockable. I was using it to keep all my important stuff safe – the money that John gave me, my ID and that sort of thing. I can easily stash them somewhere else, though, if you want to use it.”
“Yes, that would be a help,” Vivian replied, opening the boot. “I don’t have anything suitable.”
Grace lifted out the holdall she had brought with her and set it on the ground. After rummaging briefly inside, she located the briefcase and unlocked it. The few items it contained she quickly dispersed among the contents of the holdall.
“Here you are,” she said, as she handed over the briefcase. “It’s a bit battered, but I think it’ll do.”
Vivian Adair carefully placed the documents inside and tucked it under her arm. She then lifted out her own luggage from the boot. “Do you mind taking this in for me?” she asked, passing Grace a suitcase. “I’ll take the briefcase and the case with the transmitter.” After closing the tractor-house doors, they headed over to the farmhouse.
“What is this place?” Grace asked as they walked across the yard, both carrying a case in each hand.
“It’s a safe house. A contact of ours watches over it: they don’t live here but look in on it from time to time to check that everything’s ok. When Lukasz phoned yesterday, he said he’d leave some food for us inside. I hope he has – I haven’t had anything all day apart from that sandwich back at The Black Bull Tavern.” She unlocked the front door and led
the way into the small vestibule that lay behind it. Here there was a door on the left that opened into a parlour, while opposite it, a second door gave access to the kitchen. Straight ahead was a narrow staircase that ascended steeply to the floor above. She went into the kitchen and set her cases down on the large square table that stood in the middle. “It’s almost 4.30,” she said, looking at her watch. “We’ve got about eight hours before the others arrive.”
Grace followed her into the kitchen and put down her bags on the stone floor. “Who are the ‘others’?” she asked, but got no reply.
Instead, Vivian Adair began to go around the room opening cupboards. “Where’s that food Lukasz was to have left?” She eventually found it in a corner cabinet. “Ah! The supplies!” she announced, taking out a loaf and a pot of jam from among the few groceries that had been put inside. “This will do for the time being. There are some tins of stuff we can have later.”
After a hastily devoured snack of bread and jam, washed down with tea, they took all their cases upstairs, and then Vivian Adair went for her bath. Figuring that her companion would be out of the way for at least fifteen minutes, Grace used the opportunity to hunt through the house for a phone, but she could find none. It was beginning to look as if she would not be getting any help from MI18 and so would have to improvise as events unfolded. With this in mind, she searched through the cutlery draw in the kitchen for an effective weapon and swapped the flat-bladed screwdriver she had taken from the tool roll earlier, for a paring knife with a four-inch blade. Slipping it into her dress pocket, she wondered if Lukasz would be returning.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of bath water draining into pipework overhead and realised Vivian Adair would soon be coming down. Her thoughts turned to the ‘others’: as she tried to think who they might be, a feeling of isolation began to creep over her.
#
Barton and Bronx had been running along the track for nearly twenty minutes and had almost reached the main road, when they met a car heading towards them. It was a local farmer, coming to investigate the smoke. Barton persuaded him to turn back and take them to the nearest house with a phone. A quarter of an hour later, they were standing in the study of the local vicarage, waiting for their call to be put through to Minton’s office. Barton noticed the clock on the mantelpiece said 4.30pm.
2.
Tuesday, 20th May, 1941, 16.30hrs: MI5 headquarters, 57-58 St James’s Street, London
The interrogation was not progressing as fast as Minton had hoped, for Mitchell was now a desperate man – he knew he was cornered and that he was fighting for his life. Piece by piece, Minton had presented him with the evidence gathered by Cheyne’s MI18 officers: reports from the surveillance teams; photographs of Mitchell with known Nazi sympathisers; transcripts of taped conversations with Elliott and other members of the gang. But Mitchell was ready with his answers, and concocted stories on the spot to explain his suspicious activities. When Minton pointed out inconsistencies in these stories, or suggested they were implausible, Mitchell blustered and reiterated his claim that it was all a case of mistaken identity. The evidence, he insisted, was circumstantial; he was a victim of coincidence. He seemed to think that if he kept repeating that it was a case of mistaken identity, Minton would eventually believe him.
Time was wearing on. Minton felt the moment had come to try finessing a trick. “So, to summarise your defence, Mr. Mitchell, it rests solely on mistaken identity? You were never at Brown’s Warehouse in Riga Street, for example?”
“Yes, I keep telling you – that girl’s mistaken,” he replied wearily. “Look, what evidence – other than her testimony – do you have linking me with that place? Have you found my fingerprints inside or anything concrete to indicate I was actually there?”
“As you know, the warehouse was gutted by fire on the first night of the Blitz.”
“I know no such thing. I don’t know anything about the place.” Slumping forward in his chair, Mitchell rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor, shaking his head.
Minton watched him silently for a few moments, and then sprang his trap. “In Miss Walker’s account of what happened at the Riga Street warehouse, she mentions that she was filmed along with this Bob Mitchell.”
Mitchell looked up suddenly, meeting Minton’s gaze.
“What do you say to that?” Minton continued after a pause.
Mitchell shrugged. “I’ve no idea what went on in the warehouse. I wasn’t there.” A sly smile came to his lips. “Anyway, you’ve just said the place burnt down on the first night of the Blitz. If that’s true, I assume any film of Miss Walker and this man would have been destroyed along with it.”
“The warehouse was, indeed, razed to the ground, but fortunately – for us – the film was not in the warehouse. We found it in the dustbin at John Elliott’s house in Tottenham. We had the house under surveillance for months, and an important part of this task involved examining all the refuse he put out. When he took the Kingsmead Players off on tour to Bedfordshire, he cleaned out the house. This was one of the items that he dumped in the bin.”
Mitchell’s eyes narrowed as he tried to read Minton’s face. “You’re bluffing,” he said, almost in a whisper. “You don’t have any film.”
It was Minton’s turn to smile now. He opened a draw in the desk and pulled out the film canister the orderly had given him earlier. “What is it they say, Mr Mitchell: ‘the camera never lies’? You see, we don’t just have to rely on Miss Walker’s testimony. We can show the jury this footage and allow them to decide if you are Robert Mitchell. I don’t think it will take them long to come to a decision.”
“Oh Christ!” Mitchell put his head in his hands.
“You have half an hour, Mr. Mitchell. Then we offer our deal to Miss Wilks.”
Mitchell’s resistance crumbled. “All right! All right! You promise I won’t face prosecution?”
“Provided you cooperate fully and don’t prevaricate.”
“Very well, I accept your terms.”
“You can start by telling us where the other members of the cell are?”
There was a long pause, at the end of which Mitchell exhaled. “Elliott and two of the others are heading for some place in the Scottish Borders. They’re staying there overnight.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t tell us. They’re staying in a farmhouse. Vivian Adair has gone up separately. She’s travelling with a girl that Elliott recruited, Grace Harrison.”
“Where are they heading after that?”
“He said they were going north via Stirling and Callander. That’s all I know.”
At that moment there was a knock on the door and the orderly came in. “You’ve had an urgent communication, sir,” he said to Minton, passing him a piece of paper. Minton was displeased by the interruption at such a crucial point in his interrogation and was about to issue a reprimand, but when he read the note he realised the man had done the right thing:
From Pilot Officer Barton: Have tracked Cobalt and some of gang to Kielder Forest on A68, 10 miles south of Scottish border. Elliott and two others dead. Vivian Adair has escaped but accompanied by Miss Harrison. They are now in a black Hillman Minx ...
It went on to give the car’s registration and a number where Barton could be contacted.
Minton was reluctant to break off the cross-examination at this stage but felt he needed to deal with this development. He stood up and addressed his interrogation officer: “We’ll take a brief recess. I’ll be back shortly to continue the questioning.”
Minton’s first action was to report the latest information to General Cunningham, who immediately arranged for the police patrols to be concentrated on the section of the A68 straddling the border, and also asked for them to be extended to the side-roads leading off the A68 in that region. Minton then used Cunningham’s phone to call the number given in the orderly’s message.
The receiver at the ot
her end was picked up straightaway, and Minton launched off directly: “Is that you Barton? What the devil is going on?”
3.
Tuesday, 20th May, 1941, 17.00hrs: Holy Trinity rectory, off the A68
Barton put down the phone and looked over at Bronx, who had been present in the rectory study throughout the call from Minton. “Got a bit of an earful: he’s rather unhappy we didn’t tell him we were heading north after Cobalt – says he doesn’t like being kept in the dark. Overall, though, I think he’s pleased with what we’ve accomplished. Special Branch has caught two of Elliott’s cronies, and Minton has got one of them to talk: apparently Vivian Adair is planning to hole up somewhere in the Borders tonight and is then driving up north via Stirling tomorrow.”
“So what do we do now? Continue the chase?”
“Minton has ordered us to stay put. He doesn’t want us working autonomously – thinks we might mess things up if we get involved again on our own. He’s sending a car to collect us. I have to say, though, it’s a bit hard knowing that Grace and that she-devil might be only 10 or 15 miles from here and we’re having to sit around when we could be helping the police search for them. It’s Grace I’m worried about – if her cover gets blown, the Adair woman may well kill her.”
“I’m sure it will turn out all right, Barton. I get the impression Grace is a smart girl; I expect she can look after herself. Now that the police have a description of the car and know roughly where Cobalt is hiding, I think they’ve got a good chance of nabbing her.”
Barton was not convinced. The episode at the ford earlier that day had taught him that Vivian Adair was a cunning vixen. “I hope you’re right, Bronx, I hope you’re right.”
4.
Tuesday, 20th May, 1941, 21.00hrs: MI5 headquarters, 57-58 St James’s Street, London
Minton had stopped his interrogation of Bob Mitchell just before 9pm and sent him, drained and dispirited, back to the room where he was being detained. After dismissing his interrogation officer and the stenographer, Minton leaned back in his chair and began to go over in his mind the information he had obtained from his questioning. It had been a long session but very productive. He was satisfied that he had squeezed out of Mitchell most of what he knew about Cobalt and her gang.
