The Secret of Spandau

by Peter Lovesey

  Nobody was emboldened to answer. As he had promised, Red had made a stab, and it was a strong stab, rough, but close enough to the target to impress even Jane. As a journalist, she found the storyline, told in one piece, hard to resist.

  So the silence was not a void. It was filled with thoughts of what needed to be done to test the truth of the story. Soon they would be talking assignments.

  Dick gave Cedric a long look. ‘But you still have something to tell us, haven’t you?’

  Their editor-in-chief declined to answer for a moment, self-indulgently holding back, mindful that his hold on the story had to be relinquished.

  ‘There is something else, yes,’ he admitted. ‘Someone else. A possible contact.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘That’s the first problem. He wouldn’t wish to be identified. Used to work for MI5. Retired some time in the mid-seventies, so he’s pretty old.’

  ‘Is that the second problem?’ asked Dick.

  ‘No. The second problem is that he’s a cantankerous old sod who may not tell you a thing if he doesn’t like your face.’

  ‘So it’s a job for Jane,’ said Red.

  It was the nearest thing to a compliment she had heard from him and it infuriated her to realise that it pleased her. She didn’t react.

  Cedric shook his head. ‘I think not. He has a chapter in his book on why women and homosexuals can’t be trusted, and it gets up my nose.’

  ‘He’s in print, then?’ said Dick.

  Cedric winced in an exaggerated way. ‘God, no! It’ll never be published. It’s the most turgid stuff imaginable. He offered us the first serial rights. Marched into my office one Monday morning with the manuscript. That’s how I got to know him. It sounded promising. Ex-MI5 agent tells all.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Bugger all. Not a single name worth mentioning. Everyone in it is coyly described as a personage, so you have a personage from the north, a personage of foreign origin, even an ecclesiastical personage. I asked him if he meant a personage from a parsonage, and he didn’t see the joke, didn’t see it at all. The shame of it is that he’s prepared to talk pretty openly about personalities.’

  ‘Hess?’

  Cedric nodded at Dick. ‘He claims to know the inside story.’

  ‘Did you try to open him up?’

  ‘It wasn’t the moment,’ answered Cedric. ‘I was mainly concerned to explain why we couldn’t publish his abysmal stuff.’

  ‘Did he throw a fit?’ asked Red.

  ‘He expressed himself forcibly, and slammed the door as he left.’

  ‘How do we follow that?’

  Cedric held up his right hand and rubbed the thumb against the forefinger. ‘He has an expensive lifestyle for a civil service pensioner.’

  ‘So who gets the job?’

  Cedric smiled. ‘I’ll tell you in the morning.’

  15

  Red entertained the house-party until after midnight with tales of the divided city. Not wishing to crack another bottle of brandy, Cedric had produced some six-packs of lager. By tacit consent, no more was said about Hess. Everyone needed a break to let Cedric’s startling theories shake down, so Red talked vividly about the Fluchthelfer, the reckless characters who made a business of smuggling fugitives out of East Germany, sometimes for ideals, sometimes profit. The way he laughed off a suggestion that they were the Cold War heroes had the curious effect of revealing how closely he identified with them. Whilst not admitting to cross-border adventures of his own, he was vague about the way he had researched his highly original feature.

  Jane was the first to leave the party, blaming the brandy for making her tired, and Dick moved off soon after, each of them taking one of the books about Hess which Cedric had thoughtfully distributed as bedtime reading. Eventually, Cedric left, muttering something about the bathroom. Red stretched out on the sofa for a last cigarette, and dozed.

  When he stirred, it was 1.15 a.m. He stood up, picked up the book Cedric had left him, and on second thoughts put it down and picked up a lager instead, and made for the passage leading to the front door.

  Outside, it was mild enough to let him take stock of the scene as he strolled towards the end cottage. He was amused to notice there were no lights at any of the windows; even Ginge was too tanked up to do the homework.

  He let himself in, stripped and stepped into the shower, this time remembering to slide the door across. He was not too tired to enjoy the sensation of the cool jets striking his skin. He gave a thought to Jane, and the business earlier with the key of the connecting door. She amused him with her riding-school accent and Young Conservative opinions. For all that, a bit of a feminist, he guessed. Not the sort who would muck out the stables for the riding-master.

  Out of curiosity, when he was dry and ready for bed, he tried the handle of the connecting door. It was locked from the other side. Grinning, Red got into bed and was soon asleep.

  Some hours later, he woke and it was light, that pale suggestion of dawn that he only ever expected to see when nature called him to the bathroom after a heavy night’s drinking. Out in the woods, the rooks sounded like a peace demo. At least it wasn’t in his head. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of bed.

  While he was drinking to take the dryness off his throat, he was pretty sure he heard a click, followed by the creak of boards next door.

  His thoughts were not at their most agile, but on the way back he decided to try the door again.

  It opened. Jane was in bed on the other side of the room staring at him, apparently not in panic.

  She said in her best county accent, ‘Naked again, Mr Goodbody?’

  Red answered truthfully, ‘I sleep like this.’

  Jane said, ‘Snap,’ and pulled aside the duvet.

  16

  Each time a statesman visits West Berlin and climbs the steps of the observation post at Potsdamer Platz to stare across the Wall and fifty metres of sand on the Eastern side, an image of the divided city is reinforced. Yet there is another strip of sand in Berlin that is rarely pictured, except in home movies and family albums. It has no barbed wire, mines, dog patrols, tank-traps, searchlights or watchtowers. It is the shoreline of the River Havel, some seven miles west of the city centre, running from north to south through broad areas of forest. In summer, Berliners flock there to bask and bathe along the east bank and beside the lakes.

  Here, Heidrun Kassner had an appointment.

  She took the 66 bus through the Grunewald Forest to Strandbad Wannsee, the largest and most developed of the Berlin beaches. As she stepped onto the promenade with its ice-cream vans and newspaper kiosks, a sense of guilt mingled with the curiosity she already felt. She was in forbidden territory. Days at the beach were prohibited to a serious sportswoman. All her time off work was scheduled for training and match practice. And she was not sure why it was necessary to come here.

  She took off her trainers and jumped down to the beach among the sunbathers. The fine, dry sand was warm to the soles of her feet. In her blue teeshirt and white jeans, she was going to feel the heat if this went on for long. She made her way down to the water and rolled the jeans up to her calves. Then she took her bearings.

  Wannsee is equipped with numerous wicker beach-chairs, each with a number painted on the side of the canopy. With a proper sense of order, they are ranged in rows along the beach. They are the most commodious public beach-chairs in Europe, two-seaters practically as big as beach-huts, with cushions, extending foot-rests and vast hoods with exotically-decorated linings.

  Heidrun located the chair she had been told to find. It was occupied by a man in his fifties, silver-haired and in peacock blue shorts and white canvas sandals. He was leafing through a girlie magazine. He had two more on his lap. When Heidrun stopped by the chair, the man took off his sunglasses. She had met him before. His name was Kurt Valentin, and he was an East Berliner.

  He remarked, ‘You look hot, dressed up like that.’

  ‘I can stand it.’

  ‘Why don
’t you take off your shirt?’

  ‘I don’t wish to.’

  ‘Look around you. Plenty of other women let the sun get to their breasts.’

  She scuffed the sand with her foot. ‘Is that why you chose to meet me here?’

  He had grey eyes that took not a vestige of colour from the vivid sky. ‘I heard about the unfortunate accident to your table-tennis partner.’

  ‘Erich is a moron,’ said Heidrun. ‘You know how he broke his ankle? He got blind drunk the other night after training and fell down a hole in the road.’

  ‘How long is he going to be out for?’

  ‘At least six weeks.’

  ‘And what do you propose to do about it?’

  She gave Valentin a sharp glance. She could not understand the reason for his interest. He had never talked table-tennis to her before. ‘I suppose I shall have to team up with the guy from the second pair. His partner won’t like it, but what else can I do?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Frank Hennige.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘He slashes at anything that bounces high and his service is pitiful. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘So losing Ritter is a serious blow?’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ said Heidrun irritably. She flopped down and made pits in the sand with her fists.

  Valentin replaced his sunglasses and held out a bottle of Ambre Solaire. ‘If you’re worried about exposure, a light application of this will protect them.’

  ‘I am not taking off my teeshirt.’

  He moved smoothly back to the main topic. ‘This sports club of yours. It apparently means a lot to you.’

  ‘Of course,’ answered Heidrun. ‘I’ve put a lot into it.’ A suspicion leapt into her mind. ‘If you think you can tempt me across with better sports facilities, forget it. I may not be in sympathy with the system here, but it’s my home, and I’m staying.’

  Valentin raised an eyebrow. ‘Have I ever suggested such a thing? You know that I have not.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s take a walk along the promenade. There’s something I’d like you to see.’

  He reached for her arm as he stood up, and continued to hold onto her. It was like being claimed by a sugar-daddy, and she resented it, but she didn’t struggle. She knew he would say it was only to create an impression. If they had stayed much longer on the beach, he would have used the same ploy to get her to show her breasts to him. She would have done it, too, because actually she was afraid of him.

  They climbed the steps and walked sedately along the promenade for a couple of minutes. She wondered if he was going to buy her a drink, but she doubted it. Their previous meetings had not been characterised by generosity. Probably he spent his expenses on the girlie magazines. The only bare breasts in East Berlin were in the Pergamon Museum.

  ‘Do you hear anything familiar?’ he asked her.

  She listened through the shouts of the bathers and the children playing. ‘It sounds like table-tennis.’

  ‘Or ping-pong?’ said Valentin, with a smile.

  They presently saw three tables where play was in progress in the open air, just off the promenade. It was ping-pong stuff, for sure; small boys and giggling schoolgirls. A couple of guys were sitting on the edge of the promenade nearby, dangling their legs over the edge. They were speaking in English, with American accents. One of them had a good bat beside him.

  ‘We’re a little early,’ said Valentin. ‘We’ll walk on for ten minutes and come back.’

  ‘Why? I don’t want a game here,’ said Heidrun. ‘I get plenty of practice.’

  He tightened his grip on her arm and walked her past the tables.

  A small crowd had collected around one of the tables when they returned, and the two Americans were playing. Heidrun was prepared for the fast, flashy stuff you expect from guys who fancy themselves as players, and one was dishing it up. He was the typical beach-bum who wanted everyone to know how brilliant he could be at any sport he cared to try – from surfing to throwing a frisbee – without, of course, really trying at all. He was barefoot, with tattered sawn-off jeans, copper medallion on a leather thong, long, sun-bleached hair fixed with a rubber band, and a cigarette in his free hand.

  He was not the player he imagined himself to be. Certainly he was striking the ball hard and keeping it on the table, but only because the other player was setting it up for the smash.

  ‘What do you think of him?’ Valentin murmured in her ear.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘I can’t see him. Let’s move to the other end.’

  She instantly preferred what she saw. He was less flamboyant, meeting the ball with a variety of defensive shots, deliberately giving nothing back in aggression, though it was clear from the speed of his reactions that he could have switched to attack if he had wished. He was not even testing the beach-bum with artfully placed returns. He was using the play to practise dropping the ball across the net on a preselected spot. Naturally it flattered his opponent, but there was no question who was the player of class.

  ‘He’s better,’ said Heidrun.

  ‘How would he compare with Ritter?’

  ‘I’d have to see him extended. The other one is rubbish.’

  ‘Why don’t you offer him a game?’

  She turned to look at Valentin. ‘Why should I? I don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘I can tell you a few things. His name is Cal Moody, and he doesn’t belong to any table-tennis club.’

  She continued to study Moody, trying to fathom why Valentin had been so eager for her to see him. From his short haircut, she guessed he was one of the US servicemen stationed in Berlin. It was light brown hair, with a slight wave. On his chest the hair formed small, tight curls. He had pale blue eyes without the dreamy look that often went with them.

  Valentin said, ‘He’s probably better than the other Charlottenburg man.’

  ‘Frank Hennige? Yes, very likely,’ Heidrun responded. ‘But he might not be any use at doubles.’

  ‘Is Hennige?’

  There was a fifteen-minute limit on each session. The Americans went through theirs without scoring a game. Heidrun joined in the applause when they left the table. Her throat was dry with nervousness or excitement. A pulse was beating in her neck. Suddenly she was aware that Valentin had released her arm. She looked around and could not see him in the crowd. The sense of liberation surged inside her. She stepped forward and asked Cal Moody, ‘Have you had enough, or would you give me a game?’

  He looked at his companion, who already had his arm around a girl. ‘I guess if no one else wants to use the table …’

  They didn’t score. They simply knocked up, testing each other’s play. His return of service was certainly better than Frank’s, probably better than Erich’s.

  At the end, he said, ‘You’ve got to be a Berlin league player, at the very least.’

  She smiled, and told him about Sportclub Charlottenburg. She found they were walking towards the beach café where they sold ice-cream soda in tall glasses. He just sat down with her at one of the tables outside and ordered a couple.

  She liked Cal. He was relaxed and he made her feel relaxed. After a bit, she asked casually, ‘Have you ever played doubles?’

  ‘Men’s doubles, yeah, back in the States. I played in a club in Philadelphia, mainly singles, but there were times … you know?’

  ‘Yes. I used to play singles, too.’

  ‘And now doubles, huh?’

  ‘Until my partner was injured.’

  ‘Really? Too bad! What happened?’

  ‘He broke his ankle. Cal, I suppose you wouldn’t consider … just for a short time, six weeks or so … filling in for my partner in league matches?’

  He looked uncertain. ‘Nice of you to ask me, Heidrun, but it’s difficult. You see, my work times are a little irregular. I work shifts. It would depend when the games came up. We’d need some practice, too.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m at the sports hall every evening.’

  ‘At Charlottenburg? I guess that isn’t so far from me.’ He rubbed his chin speculatively. ‘About six weeks, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe I could move my shifts around if they clashed. I could speak to the other guys.’ He gave a wide grin. ‘Yeah, why not? Let’s give it a go.’

  She put her hand over his as if to seal the agreement. ‘Thank you, Cal.’

  ‘Better leave the thanks until we win a game.’

  ‘All right,’ said Heidrun. ‘When will you know about the shifts? Can I call you at work?’

  He grinned again. ‘No, that would be difficult. You see, I’m a prison officer in Spandau Jail.’

  17

  If anyone had breakfast that morning, it was not mentioned. Jane lingered in bed long after Red had gone, reflecting on what had happened. This was the first time she had treated a man as a stud, without a shred of emotional involvement. The few words that had passed between them had been to encourage each other. Rather to her surprise, she felt no adverse reaction after it was over. He had been good and she was satisfied, and no less independent for the experience.

  Cedric appeared towards noon, enquired about hangovers and then suggested an al fresco salad lunch. ‘I’d offer you a pub meal,’ he informed his guests, ‘but I want to outline the plan of action, and we can’t run the risk of being overheard.’

  So Dick and Red put up a trestle table on the sunny side of the clearing, and soon it was stacked with food from the fridge, a selection of meats, bread and salad, with two bottles of vin rosé and the last of the lager.

  They were grouped around the table in an assortment of canvas chairs, with the exception of Cedric, who had wisely opted to entrust his weight to wicker. He leaned forward cautiously to say, ‘I take it that you all still want to work on the story?’

  Jane told Cedric, ‘I think we’re all with you.’