Rossett knew it was a lie. Sometimes he thought he could feel the words scratching at his skin, reminding him of what he wasn’t, when he was drunk and lying on the floor of his room, staring at the fallen bottle, with the spilled tears on the carpet next to it.
When he was sober, he told himself that the girl was alive and that was all that mattered.
But he didn’t believe it.
Neumann interrupted his thoughts.
“So you don’t know how Koehler is doing, then?”
“No,” replied Rossett.
“Probably for the best.”
“I’d imagine so,” Rossett concurred.
“Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you go and work for him again?” Neumann suddenly seemed embarrassed by his own question. “You know . . . if he came back, would you go back to rounding up the Jews?”
“No.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
Neumann shifted on the chair again, then nodded.
“Yes, I suppose, if you feel that strongly, you would have a choice.”
“I’m a policeman now, back to doing what I do best.”
Neumann lifted an eyebrow.
“My understanding was that you are office based?”
“I am.”
“I wouldn’t imagine that suits someone like you.”
“I get by.”
Rossett’s eyes flicked around the desktop for his cigarettes. He spied them peeking out, half crushed under another fresh pile of files that had been dumped that morning.
“I’m told you’re nothing but a paper pusher.” Neumann went to cross one leg over the other, but decided against it when the chair creaked under him.
Rossett reached for the cigarettes.
“I’m a policeman,” he finally said after he lit up and took his first drag.
“You’re a celebrity. I read the kids’ newspaper they wrote after you saved Koehler’s daughter.”
“None of that is to do with me, it’s all down to the propaganda ministry.”
“I heard they are making a film?”
Rossett shrugged.
“Will you be in it?”
Rossett didn’t dignify the question with an answer.
“Which actor do you want to play you? I heard they were trying to get John Mills back from Hollywood, but I think somebody like Roger Livesey or maybe Jack Hawkins? Assuming they would come over here to—”
“What do you want? I’m busy,” Rossett lied.
“No, you’re not. I checked.” Neumann finally risked leaning back and crossing his legs.
“I’ve work to do.”
“You don’t. You’ve paperwork to do.”
“It says Detective Inspector on the door, so that means I have detecting to do.”
“It doesn’t say anything on the door.”
“It will when they paint it on.” Rossett cursed himself for glancing up at the plain glass pane in the door, then back at Neumann.
“How long have you been down here?”
“Two months.”
“Two months and they haven’t painted your name on the door?”
Rossett went to reply, but decided it wasn’t worth trying to be smart. He took a drag on the cigarette instead.
Neumann tried another angle. “When was the last time you solved a crime?”
“This morning.”
“You call cutting a man’s throat solving a crime? I’m told that the . . .” Neumann paused, looking for the right word. “. . . the incident this morning was off the books. That you were acting alone, and that there is to be an investigation into what took place.”
“You get told a lot about me.”
“There’s a lot to be told. Such as, senior management are concerned that they can’t control you, but they are scared to get rid of you, and that is why they buried you in here.”
Rossett moved some files, then slid the ashtray a little closer. Neumann waited to see if he would bite, and when he realized he wasn’t going to, tried again.
“What you don’t realize is that there are people in Scotland Yard who might want to use what you did this morning as an excuse to get rid of you.”
“Rid of me?”
“You embarrass them.”
Rossett took another pull on the cigarette and stared at Neumann. The smoke stung his eyes a little. He blinked as he thought about the work he had done for the Germans. The rounding up of the Jews, the clank of the cattle trucks taking them away. The smell of the oil and grease on the rusty locomotive at the head of the train. He could even feel the rough stones of the goods yard digging through the soles of his shoes.
It didn’t take much for the memory to come back, the work that shamed him, the killing of the innocents. He knew that whatever embarrassment the Metropolitan Police felt, his was far greater.
He tapped the cigarette against the side of the ashtray and used his thumb to wipe his eye.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Rossett lied.
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong today.”
“Hmm.” Neumann didn’t sound convinced.
Neumann looked up at the picture of the king again. He couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed himself out of the chair, crossed to the photograph, dipped his head an inch, and straightened the frame. He took a half step back and stared at the portrait, his face barely reflected off the grimy glass.
“I want you to come and work with me.” It looked like Neumann was talking to the king.
Rossett leaned back in his seat. “You want what?”
Neumann looked at him. “One job. Just try it out, see if you like it.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I said I wouldn’t work for the Germans again.”
“I’m a policeman, just like you. The only difference is that I solve crimes committed against Germans or by Germans on British soil.”
“You’re a Nazi.”
“So are you.”
Rossett bridled. “I’m not a Nazi.”
“You’re in the party.”
“I had to join.”
“So did I.”
“You’re a German.”
“We’ve already established that.” Neumann stepped away from the photograph, checked that it was straight, and crossed Rossett’s small office to take up a position by the window. “I can protect you,” he finally said.
“I don’t need your protection.”
Neumann turned to Rossett. “You do. You think you don’t, but you do. Those people”—Neumann pointed a finger to the ceiling, as if the top brass of the Met Police were up there looking down—“they stuck you in this office pushing paper for a reason. Do you know what it is?”
Rossett shrugged.
“It is because they hate you. You embarrass them. Sure, you got your medals for being a hero before the war. Sure, you got your name in the papers for being a good party member and working with us after the war. But facts are facts: they hate you because they can’t control you. You’re violent, you don’t play by their rules, you don’t bend in the wind, and you’re damaged. But they can’t stop you because they think they’ll upset the Germans, which they will. So they solve the problem by locking you away in here, buried under a pile of paperwork that will never get smaller and matters to nobody.”
“That’s not true.”
“Why were you alone this morning?”
“I work alone.”
“Why didn’t you take some more men with you? You must have known there would be more than one of them.”
“I told you, I like to work alone.”
“You’re a liar.”
Rossett turned in his seat and looked at Neumann, who was still standing by the window. He wanted to object to what Neumann had said, but instead he paused, then relaxed
his shoulders a little under the weight of the fact.
It was true.
The reason he was alone was that he didn’t trust anyone to back him up. He didn’t trust them because they hated him.
He wasn’t corrupt.
He’d worked for the Nazis.
He wouldn’t bend the rules.
Whatever the reason, they hated him, so he couldn’t trust them.
Which meant that Hall was dead. Rossett knew the truth of it. If there had been more police in the shop waiting for Hall and Finnegan, there wouldn’t have been a struggle, and Hall wouldn’t be dead.
Just another soul scratched on his ledger.
He turned back to his desk and picked up the cigarette pack again. He played with it in his fingers, then noticed the tobacco stains on his hand. He studied his fingers and realized he needed to ease off smoking a little. He put the pack back down and wiped his hand down his face.
“I just want to be a policeman.” It sounded pathetic, and Rossett hated himself for saying it.
“Be one with me.” Neumann leaned forward and rested his hands on the corner of the desk.
“Why are you bothering with me?” Rossett looked up.
“Because you’re the best I can get.” Neumann crouched down next to the desk so he was eye level with Rossett and used his first name for the first time. “You’ll be a policeman, John. You can fight crime with me, out on the streets again. I can give you that back, and I can protect you from the people who want to get rid of you.”
“No.”
Neumann pushed back from the desk and wandered back to the rickety chair. He sat down carefully, then leaned forward and rested his elbow on the desk so that he was sitting directly across from Rossett. He took a breath and then he began.
“I got a phone call this morning. From a senior member of the command at Scotland Yard. It may surprise you, but I have friends here. I treat people fairly, I respect you British, and that gets me respect back.”
“So?”
“The person who called told me what happened this morning. They told me that you have upset senior members of the London underworld and that you are a marked man. They told me that they can’t protect you any longer.”
“Protect me?”
“Protect you.” Neumann paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re hated. Your colleagues hate you, criminals hate you, the resistance hates you. Jesus, everybody hates you . . . except us, the Germans.”
“They hate me for doing my job?”
“For doing what you’ve done, and being the man you are. You’ve fought the resistance, you’ve hunted Jews, and on top of that, you’re not a bent copper. You haven’t changed, you still think it is the old world, and it isn’t. The wind blows harder now; people have to bend further . . . but you don’t bend at all.”
“I don’t understand.”
Neumann sighed. “This criminal you killed this morning?”
“Hall.”
“Hall. Who did he work for?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“He worked for an organization that, besides being involved in crime, is probably involved in the resistance.” Neumann sounded like he was reading his reply off a card.
“So?”
“So.” Neumann offered his hand up, like he was passing Rossett an idea. “You have killed one of their men. What do you think will happen?”
“They won’t be happy.”
“Of course. So you now have some gangsters who want you dead.”
“So I’ll get them first.”
“But these aren’t just gangsters, they are resistance. Some of them probably work in this building.”
“I don’t care.”
“Really?” Neumann tilted his head.
“I have the law behind me.”
“The only thing you have behind you is a dirty window and a pipe on a wall that carries shit from the upstairs toilets.”
Rossett thought about frowning, changed his mind, and just stared back across the table. Neumann continued.
“They are probably getting ready to release Finnegan even as we speak.”
“He’ll be charged.”
“If, and it is a big if, he is charged, it’ll probably be with a half-arsed assault on you and he’ll get a slap on the wrist.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“You think the coppers downstairs give a damn about what he tried to do to you? As far as they are concerned, you’re no better than me.”
“You’re wrong.”
Neumann flapped his hands in exasperation.
“How many people work for the Met?” He pointed at the ceiling again, and this time Rossett looked up.
“I don’t know.”
“A few thousand at least. How many of them are happy that the Germans are here?” Neumann pointed at the floor.
“Not many.”
“So . . . You worked with us, the Germans. You’re their enemy, or at least they think you are. This morning you killed a member of the resistance. A resistance that is probably paying half the coppers in London’s take-home pay in bribes.”
“He was a gangster.”
“What is the difference?” Neumann made to get off the chair again, but then thought better and remained seated. “Most of the resistance are gangsters. Fighting war costs money, and now the Brits aren’t getting any from the Americans, they’ve turned to crime.”
Rossett moved his mouth as if he was going to speak, but in the end no words actually came out. He stared at Neumann, judging him, weighing him up the way he would weigh up a suspect before an interview.
Neumann’s gray mustache made him look older than Rossett guessed he was. It was the color of the ash on the end of a cigarette, and it aged him to about his mid-fifties. He had the build of a light heavyweight who was finding it tougher to make the weight than he used to. The German was wearing a brown woolen suit, almost a tweed, and it looked decent quality, expensive, same as his shoes.
Rossett took a pull on his cigarette, then looked at his suit cuff. It was worn, almost frayed, the black faded down to the color of an old chalkboard. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb, then looked up at Neumann, who stared back, waiting out the inquisition.
“I don’t know,” Rossett finally said quietly, then rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb.
“They want you killed, and these aren’t the sort of people who take no for an answer.”
Whatever they wanted, Rossett wanted a beer.
He sighed. He suddenly felt tired of talking, tired of fighting.
When he spoke his voice was flat. It sounded like it was coming from the middle of his chest, and Neumann had to lean forward a fraction to pick up all the words.
“I just want it to be simple. I want to see black and white, good and bad, be a copper again. I’m sick of it, I just want to be normal.”
“Like before the war?” Neumann’s voice was softer, too.
Rossett felt a pressure behind his eyes. He took a breath to ease it, then spoke again.
“Yes.”
“The world has changed, John. There’s no going back.”
“I know that.” Rossett felt the tremor in his hands starting up, so he clenched his fists and dropped them into his lap.
“The best you’re going to get, all you’re going to get, is what I’m offering.”
Rossett didn’t speak, so Neumann filled the void.
“I can give you back your pride. With me you’ll be arresting bad people who have broken the law, pure and simple.”
“Germans.”
“Germans who commit crime. It’s better than what you’re doing now. We can be partners; you can be my liaison with the British people who don’t want to talk to me. You can cross those bridges, while I protect you from your English bosses and the people who want to stab you in the back.” Neumann paused, considering his next words carefully before he finally took a chance on saying them. “I can’t offer you your past, John, but I can
give you a future that’s better than your present.”
Rossett looked at the packet of cigarettes and the piles of files that were starting to look like prison walls. He sighed, wiped his hand down his face, then looked up at Neumann.
“It wouldn’t be difficult to offer me something better than my present.”
“So what do you say?”
Rossett picked up his pen and opened one of the files unconvincingly. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Neumann shook his head. “You need to think about it?”
“I’m one of life’s thinkers.” Rossett pretended to start reading a crime report.
“That, John, I find hard to believe.”
Chapter 3
Rossett didn’t stay in the little office with its yellow walls, damp drainpipe, and piles of files for long after Neumann left. He was being pushed along by life again, instead of pushing himself, and it made him feel restless and lost, like he was locked in a cell.
He stayed in the pub for longer than he stayed in the office.
A lot longer.
He drank alone, same as usual, nothing but beer and bad Scotch to keep him and his memories company.
He didn’t get the tube back to his lodging house. By the time he left the pub it was dark and he was drunk.
Again.
His step was as aimless as the half-tide Thames he walked alongside. He stopped for a while to watch the river as it sat waiting for the tide to turn, hiding under the fog, hoping not to be noticed.
A barge bell was ringing on the swell, lonely, lost in the gray, calling out like it was hoping something else would call back.
Nothing did, so Rossett started moving again to break the spell. He walked, hands in his coat pockets, hat down low, listening to the foghorns down by the docks. They moaned in the night and sounded a million miles away. He stopped. Another match warmed his face as he struck up again, the cigarette smoke lost in the fog as he flicked the match into the murk of the dark water below.
He didn’t want to go home.
He ended up sitting at the counter of a half-empty all-night café. Feeling the ache of the alcohol fading, breathing fumes over the waitress, who did her best to stay at arm’s length when she leaned in to top up the countless cups of tea he was working his way through. He sat, almost finished a cheese sandwich, and read the faces of the lost and lonely sitting all around him.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 3
