Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  “No, but if she had them in her handbag they’re missing, because we haven’t found one. I assume these are important keys?”

  “Yes, and I expect they would be in her handbag. She always used the same one for work, quite a large black leather one. Mary was a keyholder for the premises, so they were very important keys, giving access to most of the building. I should explain that we also do some classified research work which I can’t discuss, so we’ll have to get the locks changed, but if those keys get into the wrong hands in the meantime, it would create a serious risk for us.”

  Miss Hornby looked over her shoulder at the sound of heavy footsteps rapidly descending the stairs behind them. She rose from her chair abruptly and smoothed her dress.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen: this is Mr Everson, founder and managing director of the company.”

  A large-framed man in a black suit strode over to them. He looked about forty-five, well-fed, and confident.

  “Mr Everson,” said Miss Hornby, “this is Detective Inspector Jago and Detective Constable Cradock. They’ve come about Mary – Mary Watkins. They’ve asked me to go and identify a body they found in the air raid last night. They think it could be her.”

  “I see,” said Everson. He fell silent, as if taking in what she had said. When he continued, his voice was quieter. “That’s serious news indeed. I’m very sorry to hear it. I’m sure Miss Hornby will have given you all the help you require, gentlemen, but if there’s anything you need from me I’ll be only too pleased to assist.”

  “No, thank you,” said Jago. “Not at this stage. Miss Hornby has been most helpful.”

  “Nothing less than I would expect,” said Everson. “I bid you good day, then.”

  He took a few steps towards a pair of large doors at the back of the entrance hall, but then turned back to them.

  “Actually, Inspector, since you’re here, there’s something I’d like to have a word with you about.”

  He placed a hand gently on Jago’s elbow and steered him to one side.

  “It’s a small private matter,” he murmured. “For your ears only, if that’s all right with you.”

  Jago nodded and pulled a key ring from his pocket, then gave it to Cradock.

  “Take the car, Peter,” he said. “Drive Miss Hornby to the mortuary at Queen Mary’s and see if she can identify the body, then bring her back here as soon as you can. I want to get this business wrapped up. I’m not in the mood for complications.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Mavis Price was in the kitchen, dusting. The only sound she could hear was the ticking of the Bakelite mantel clock. Slowly ticking her life away. The hands showed ten past eleven, and she wondered whether Gordon was still awake. It wasn’t like him to stay up after a night shift. Straight to bed it was, normally, when he got home, but today he’d taken the Daily Mail into the parlour and said he was going to read. Since then she’d neither heard nor seen him.

  She wiped her fingertip through the dust on top of the mantelpiece and tutted. There was definitely more of it in the air these days – probably to do with the bombs. No matter how often you wiped things down, it was always back the next day. That was the worst thing about cleaning. Of course, some women had people to do it for them, and all the washing and ironing too. Fat chance of that on what Gordon earned, though.

  It wasn’t what she’d imagined when she was a girl – rich husband, big house, and a maid to run around for her while she read magazines and painted her nails. She could almost laugh at the memory of it. Getting married had soon cured her of fancy notions like that. And what a year to choose for your wedding – 1929! Hardly back from their cold and windy weekend’s honeymoon in Great Yarmouth when all that financial jiggery-pokery in America put Gordon out of work overnight. She was just a kid of nineteen then and couldn’t have explained what the Wall Street Crash was all about to save her life, but she was smarter now, and well aware of who was to blame. Financiers and speculators, they were called, but she knew a shorter word for them.

  She turned her attention to the wireless. It was a Mullard, a good, solid-looking set that stood two feet tall on a small table next to the fireplace, confident and elegant in two-tone wood veneer. They’d bought it five years ago after months of scraping the money together, and now she was glad they had. The evenings were lonely when Gordon was out on duty, and it was her only companion. Tonight she was going to stay up late to listen to Ambrose and his orchestra on the Home Service at eleven o’clock. She must have a word with Gordon, though – there was something wrong with the tuner, and she’d be wanting to change stations before that. There weren’t many things he was good at, but fiddling with machines seemed to be one of them.

  She wiped the little window on the front that showed the stations it could be tuned to, and thought of faraway places. She wasn’t happy. She wanted to know what was up with Gordon, and she wanted news from the kids. That was another thing she couldn’t have imagined when she was nineteen – how it felt to be without your children, even if it was for the best.

  Can’t start thinking about that too, she told herself. The scullery floor won’t scrub itself. She reined in her roaming thoughts, put the duster back in the cupboard and closed the door.

  She was about to go through to the scullery to fill a bucket with hot water from the copper when Gordon appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Mavis turned to see her husband of eleven years. He looked tired. He was thirteen years older than her – when she first met him that had just made him seem more mature, but now it made him look old. He was clearly preoccupied too. She was the first to admit he was never exactly the life and soul of the party, but now his voice sounded as though he were carrying all the woes of the world on his shoulders. He always seemed to be weighed down by some great burden, but sometimes she felt she was the one who had to carry it.

  “Hello, love,” she replied, putting on a cheerful voice. “Finished the paper, then?”

  “I couldn’t concentrate. I should be sleeping, but I don’t feel like it.”

  Mavis moved closer, scanning his face to gauge his mood.

  “Something up?”

  “Just a bad night, that’s all.”

  “Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, that’d be nice.”

  “Sit yourself down, then, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  He sat in the old armchair that filled one corner of the kitchen. Mavis came and perched on the arm while she waited for the kettle to boil.

  “The air raid, was it? What happened?”

  Gordon cleared his throat and paused for a moment before speaking.

  “There was this body. A woman.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Was she badly… you know?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. There was hardly a mark on her. It was just, I don’t know, just that she was dead. I came over all queasy and didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s only natural.”

  “Not if you’re a policeman. You’re supposed to cope with all that, even if you’re only a War Reserve for the duration. Now I feel like a fraud and I’m worried what Ray Stannard thinks. He’s younger than me, but he’s a real copper.”

  “You reckon he thinks you’re a fraud?”

  “I don’t know. I told him I’d been in the Army in the Great War and he said he was surprised, thought I’d be used to bodies. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “That’s all right. He’ll probably think no more about it.”

  “I hope so, but I’m still worried.”

  The kettle boiled, and Mavis went to make a pot of tea. She returned and put it on a mat on the kitchen table.

  “I keep thinking about the children too,” he continued. “I couldn’t get them out of my mind in the night, when I was out hearing those bombs going off. I’m still not sure we’ve done the right thing.”

  “Of course we did,” said Mavis. “It’s getting far too dangerous here, and we had to get them out of i
t. They’ll be having a whale of a time. Best for them to be somewhere safe until the war’s over. It can’t be long.”

  “Who’s to say it can’t? And who’s to say they’ll be any safer where they’re going?”

  “Look, we both know what’s happening. This war’s all Churchill’s fault, but he can’t keep it going much longer. Germany’s so strong, and we’re so weak. We’re the only ones left fighting them now. The papers make Hitler out to be a fool, but he’s the one sitting in Paris, isn’t he, and we’re the ones who got driven into the sea at Dunkirk.”

  “We’re not beaten yet, though.”

  Mavis poured two cups of tea and took one to her husband, placing it firmly on the shelf beside him and looking him straight in the eye.

  “There’s only one way it can go now, Gordon. Hitler’s bombing us to pieces and he’s going to invade at any moment. It’s as clear as day.” She returned to the table and sat down. “If only people had listened to Mosley. He was right: we should’ve had a referendum with a straight question, do you want war or do you want peace, and let the people decide. But the government wouldn’t risk that, would they? They never had a mandate for war and they knew we’d all vote for peace. And now they’re going to have to sue for peace anyway – if we keep resisting it’ll only make things worse for us. It might only be another week or two before it’s all over.”

  “I know, but that’s why I keep thinking we should have kept the kids here where we could look after them until it finishes,” said Price.

  “No. I don’t like it any more than you that we’ve had to send them away, but we’ve got to face it: this is no place for children at a time like this. They can come back when it’s all over. People aren’t going to put up with that dictator Churchill for much longer. We could have come to some arrangement with Hitler long ago if it hadn’t been for him. Now we’re not going to get rid of him until Hitler does it for us. But at least then we’ll have peace, and a chance of a better life. Look at you: in and out of work for ten years, and all because of an economic system that doesn’t work, that can never work. But no one’s unemployed in Germany. Look what Hitler’s achieved – six million people with no job when he came to power, and now everybody’s got one. Once we get an armistice and a decent government, there’ll always be a job for you, and we can give the children the future we want for them.”

  Price seemed uncomforted by her air of confidence.

  “I keep thinking we should have just sent them out into the country, somewhere away from the bombing, away from London,” he said.

  “But who’s to say where the bombing will be next?” said Mavis. “At the moment it’s round here because of the docks, but this time next week it could be anywhere in the country. We did the right thing. The Luftwaffe is never going to bomb Canada: it’s too far away. The kids’ll have a wonderful time there, with all the food and fresh air they need, and they’ll grow up without fear. Then when it’s all over they can come back here and take their place in a new Britain. It’s hard for us to let them go, but their safety has to come before anything else. You don’t want them to be in danger, do you?”

  “Of course not, but I don’t feel happy about them being on that ship. I’d rather have them here where I can look after them and know what they’re doing, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s too late anyway, whatever we think – they must be nearly there by now.”

  “Yes. I suppose it’s all for the best. I just wish I could stop worrying.”

  “Trust me,” said Mavis. “We’ve done the right thing. I’m sure we’ve done the right thing.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “We’d better go to my office,” said Everson. “The government keeps telling us careless talk costs lives. I’d prefer to speak to you in private.”

  He led Jago up a flight of stairs from the entrance hall to the first floor and into an unadorned corridor with offices on both sides. The third door on the right was open, and they entered to be greeted by a woman whom Everson introduced as his secretary before showing Jago into the adjoining room, his office. He closed the connecting door behind them and sat behind a large mahogany desk, motioning Jago to take the seat opposite.

  “Now, then,” he began. “Mr, er…”

  “Jago. Detective Inspector Jago.”

  “Quite, quite. I know Winifred – that’s Miss Hornby – told me your name but I’m afraid I have rather a lot on my mind these days. I won’t detain you for long: I’m a busy man and I’m sure you are too.”

  “Not too busy for a word, sir. Is it about Miss Watkins?”

  “In one sense it is, yes. Miss Hornby told me she was going to contact you – the police, that is – when Miss Watkins failed to arrive for work this morning. It was so unlike her, you see: in many ways she was a model employee. And you think this body you’ve found may be hers?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr Everson.”

  “Where was she found?”

  “In the wreckage of some houses that had been bombed in Tinto Road.”

  “Not far from home, then.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “Well, I know she lives in that area. It’s quite close to here too. And may I ask when she was found?”

  “Certainly. It was early this morning. We think she was killed overnight.”

  “In the air raid?”

  “Possibly.”

  Everson nodded slowly, as if not sure what to say next.

  “It was a bad one, wasn’t it?” he continued. “I was at a meeting of the Horticultural Society yesterday evening and we had to abandon it when the bombing started.”

  “Keen gardener, are you, sir?”

  “Not really – my wife was the gardener. She loved her plants.”

  “I’m sorry. Is she –”

  “No, it’s not what you’re thinking. I don’t mean she’s no longer with us. My wife is an invalid – she contracted tetanus some years ago and almost died. She’s been confined to a nursing home ever since. I originally became involved in the society through her, and I continue to help as its secretary. Of course nowadays plants hardly feature in our discussions – the Dig for Victory campaign has rather pushed our traditional activities to one side, and our members concentrate almost entirely on cultivating vegetables. Do you have a garden?”

  “I have a small patch at the back of the house, but it’s hardly worthy of being called a garden. I’ve neither the time nor the knowledge for flowers.”

  “Then you should think about growing a few carrots, perhaps.”

  Jago found himself hoping Cradock would soon be back with the car.

  “I don’t suppose you asked me in here to talk about carrots, did you, sir?”

  “Ah, yes. I mean no, indeed. It’s, er, it’s just that there’s something I was intending to contact the police about, but it’s rather a delicate matter. You see, we’ve noticed some materials going missing from the factory, and I’m concerned. It could be pilfering plain and simple, but because of the work we do here it could be something more sinister.”

  “I understand from what Miss Hornby said that some of your work here is classified, but of course she didn’t give me any details.”

  “Ah, yes. Winifred is the soul of discretion. I’d trust her with my life.”

  “Can you give me any idea of what it is, without breaking confidentiality? If it’s any reassurance, I have signed the Official Secrets Act.”

  “No, I can’t tell you anything. All I can say is that we’re engaged in certain aspects of research and manufacturing for the War Office.”

  “Can you tell me what’s going missing? It would help me to know what I’m looking for.”

  “Yes. It’s mainly electrical components: valves, batteries, switches, all quite small things. And chemicals too.”

  “Is that valves as in wireless, or as in plumbing?”

  “As in wireless. What the Americans call tubes. The bits that get hot.”

  “And what kind of chemicals?”
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br />   “Sulphuric acid and hydrogen peroxide.”

  Jago listed the missing items in his notebook.

  “Do you suspect anyone in particular?”

  “No, but whoever took these things knew what they were looking for and where to find it. The valves, for example, weren’t on open display – they were behind some big wooden crates, so he’d have had to move those out of the way first.”

  “You say ‘he’: you’ve ruled out your female employees?”

  “No. I say ‘he’ just because the crates were heavy, not easy to move. It could have been a woman, but it would be difficult, I should think. It could be more than one person of either sex, of course: there’s no way of knowing. It may be just that we have someone light-fingered on the staff who wants to make a bit of cash on the side, but it could be something much more worrying, and we can’t take that risk.”

  “How well do you know your staff?”

  “That’s just the problem. I mean, identifying something is missing is one thing; establishing who took it is quite another. The thing is, since the war started we’ve been working flat out and we’ve had to take on a lot of extra employees. I trust our old staff – many of them, like Miss Hornby, have been with me for fifteen years or so and are utterly loyal and trustworthy – but I can’t be so sure about all the ones who’ve joined us recently. And of course if someone had some kind of malicious intent, this is the time when they would try to join a company like this.”

  “When you say ‘malicious intent’, you mean someone who might be a bit too interested in this classified work you’re doing?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “So are these missing items connected with that work?”

  “I can’t answer that question.”

  “I see. What sort of scale are we talking about?”

  “Not huge amounts. But what’s worrying me is that if someone on the staff is prepared to steal from us, they might also reveal information about our work. We don’t know how many spies Hitler may have in this country, but we certainly know there are people here who are sympathetic to him.”