by C. J. Sansom
SA men march with firm courageous tread . . .’
As he listened, Gunther thought, Now I can be proud to be German again.
He woke with a grunt. Sitting there, thinking back, he had fallen asleep. He looked at the clock; the Englishman would be here in half an hour. He was hungry. He walked into the kitchen and, sitting at the little table, ate some bread and sausage. Then he went back to the bedroom and took some fresh clothes from his case. He looked at himself in the mirror, the sagging features and protruding belly. He was letting himself go, had been ever since his marriage broke up. His wife came from a police family, too, but even so she had never been able to adjust to Gunther’s irregular hours. She had loathed England during his posting there. Back in Germany she hadn’t liked his new work either, finding the remaining Jews and the networks that harboured them. ‘I know they must be resettled,’ she had said, ‘but I don’t like the idea of you hunting people out, hounding them.’
‘If you accept they should all be resettled in the East, what would you have us do?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want you talking about it in front of our son.’
It was then that he had realized she disapproved of him. As though she could understand the things he had to do. Even in his early days in the police, hunting down ordinary thieves and murderers, you had to be hard – especially in those last disordered days of Weimar. And it was the same with the Jews, you couldn’t eliminate the threat with softness. He had visited the ghettos in the East on training courses, seen what the Jews were like when they were forced to live together – filthy and stinking, fawning around the Germans in charge. Vermin that had to go. It was hard and unpleasant but necessary, as Hans had said.
He remembered when an informer had put him onto someone he said was Jewish. He had picked up the suspect, and later heard he had died under interrogation. Then he learned it was all a mistake, the dead man hadn’t been Jewish at all, the informer was carrying out a personal vendetta. It had saddened and angered him, but in war sometimes the innocent died too.
He didn’t miss his wife any more, but he missed his son every day. Michael was eleven now. He hadn’t seen him for a year. He turned away from the mirror. He felt, as so often, that somewhere deep inside he didn’t measure up. Least of all to his dead brother. He remembered Hans’ enthusiasm, his energy, his purity.
Syme was ten minutes late, which annoyed Gunther. When he answered the doorbell he saw a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, wearing a heavy overcoat and a fedora. He had a lean, clever face full of cheerful, eager malice, and keen brown eyes.
‘Herr Hoth?’ The man extended a long, thin hand, with a friendly, confident smile. ‘William Syme, London Special Branch.’ Gunther shook his hand and ushered him in. He took his coat. Underneath Syme wore a sharp, expensive suit, a white shirt and a silk tie. It was secured with a gold tiepin, in the middle a black circle with a single pointed white flash, the emblem of the British Fascists. ‘I hear you flew over from Berlin today,’ Syme said, in a cheerful friendly voice.
‘Yes. Please, sit down. May I offer you tea or coffee?’
‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll have a beer if you’ve got one.’ Gunther noticed an undertone of a Cockney twang and guessed that Syme, like many ambitious Englishmen on the way up, was trying to develop a ‘received’ English accent.
Gunther brought out two beers and offered Syme a cigarette. Syme looked round the room. ‘Nice flat,’ he said appreciatively.
‘A little modernist for my taste.’
Syme smiled. He said, ‘I’ve been to Berlin a couple of times. Jollies with the Party. Great buildings there. We went to the Nuremberg rally two years ago, we were sorry the Führer couldn’t attend. I’d have liked to have seen him. I hear he’s been ill.’ Syme’s eyes flashed with curiosity.
‘The Führer has many responsibilities,’ Gunther said coolly.
Syme inclined his head. ‘Beaverbrook’s there now. Wonder what they’ve agreed?’
Gunther wondered too, remembering what Gessler had said about the English police soon having their hands full. Whatever it was, Syme didn’t know. He realized he disliked this man. Then he thought, that won’t do, we’re going to have to work closely together. He smiled disarmingly. ‘So, Mr Syme, have you been in the police long? You’re young to reach an inspector’s rank.’
‘Joined when I was eighteen. Promoted two years ago, when I went to Special Branch.’
Gunther smiled. ‘I was working in Britain when the Auxiliary Branches were formed. I remember your then commissioner’s words to the first intake – “You should not be too squeamish in departing from the niceties of established procedures which are appropriate for normal times.” I thought, a very English way of putting things.’
Syme said, ‘Yes. Nowadays our essential job’s fighting the Resistance. Any way we can.’
Gunther nodded at the tiepin. ‘I see you are a member of the Fascist party?’
Syme nodded proudly. ‘I certainly am.’
‘Good.’ Gunther waved a hand to the chair. ‘Please sit down. We are grateful to your people for assisting us in this case.’
‘We’re all good pro-Germans in my section of Special Branch.’
Gunther nodded. He said neutrally, ‘I believe there has been some unease among British Fascists about joining the coalition with the old parties, Conservative and Labour.’
Syme shrugged. ‘It’s a way in. It’s how Herr Hitler began, isn’t it? And having Mosley in charge of the police is a big step to power.’
Gunther nodded seriously. ‘Yes. You are right.’
‘Though the commissioner is a bit puzzled over why you want this loony Muncaster so badly.’ Syme’s eyes narrowed. ‘According to our records he hasn’t any political past or Resistance links.’
Gunther leaned forward. This man was cocky, but clever too. He said, ‘No police or intelligence service is infallible.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Not even ours. But we do think this Muncaster may have political associations in Germany. Concerns have been raised. At a high level.’
‘I thought the anti-Nazis had all been dealt with.’
Gunther raised a hand. ‘Mr Syme, I may not say. It is an internal matter. I would have thought you would have been told this,’ he added.
Syme smiled. ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’
Gunther frowned. The young man was going too far. ‘The terms of reference for co-operation were, as I said, set at a very senior level.’
Syme looked discomfited. His mobile face was expressive, too expressive perhaps for a detective. He said, a slight edge in his voice, ‘Well, the commissioner says I’m at your disposal.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What is it you want done?’
Gunther drew on his cigarette. ‘We wish to find out all we can about Frank Muncaster. What his mental state is, whether he is lucid and if so, what he says. Our problem is that we, the Gestapo, cannot just go into this hospital demanding to see him.’
‘No.’ Syme frowned. ‘The British police force can do more or less what it wants these days, especially Special Branch. But lunatic asylums remain under the authority of the Health Department.’
Gunther nodded agreement. ‘Quite so. And we do not want our interest in Muncaster known.’
‘I understand. I think.’
‘Has anyone outside the hospital shown any interest in him?’
‘Who? The Resistance?’
‘We’ve no evidence they know anything about him. But we need to be careful.’
Syme pulled out a packet of cigarettes, unfiltered Woodbines, and Gunther took one, though he preferred milder brands. Syme said, ‘No-one’s shown a peep of interest in Muncaster. I’ve seen the local police reports. Frank Muncaster has no record, but in October he suddenly went potty, pushed his brother out of a first-floor window in some family quarrel then started screaming about the end of the world. He was put in the bin and that’s all we know. He’s a geologist, an academic. All t
hese types are loopy.’
Gunther smiled again. ‘I am sorry we can’t confide in you fully. But we will work together, find out what is at the bottom of this. If there is something, we will both get considerable credit.’
That struck a chord. Syme nodded slowly. He said, ‘And if you decide you want him, would you take him back to Germany? Extradite him?’
‘Perhaps. For now, what I would like is for both of us to go up there this weekend, take a look at his flat, and interview him. If that is convenient,’ he added politely.
‘It’s already arranged. We sent a letter to the hospital saying we want to talk to Muncaster about the police case over the assault. Sunday’s their visiting day. The doctor in charge, Wilson, phoned us wanting to know what it was all about, angling to be at the interview. Protective of his charges,’ Syme added contemptuously. ‘Said Muncaster was a Doctor of Science, a man of some status was how he put it. I know what I’d do with the loonies, the same as you Germans have. I spoke to Wilson, quoting the Defence of the Realm Act. That shut him up.’
‘Good.’
‘Might have to watch him, though, his cousin’s a senior civil servant, close to the junior Minister of Health. That could give him some clout if we piss him off.’
‘Yes.’ Gunther smiled. ‘I know. Kid gloves. Now, when we talk to Dr Muncaster, please say I am your sergeant. I will say nothing. I lived in England for five years but my German accent might be picked up.’
‘Yours is hardly noticeable.’
‘Thank you. I was at university here and for a few years after the Treaty I worked as an adviser with Special Branch. I knew the present commissioner.’ He paused. ‘He approved this operation.’
Syme nodded slowly, impressed; his hands twitched slightly in his lap. He lit another cigarette.
‘What do you want me to ask him?’
‘I have a list of questions we could go over now. Can you arrange a car, by the way?’
‘We can go in mine. Afterwards we can go to where Muncaster lives. It’s a flat. His keys will be held by the hospital. The local boys will provide a locksmith, I’ve already been onto them.’
Gunther nodded appreciatively. ‘Thank you. You have been very efficient.’
‘Yeah, well, we English aren’t completely useless, you know.’
They spent the rest of the evening going over the plans, the questions Gunther wanted asked of Muncaster. He stressed several times how the Gestapo appreciated Syme’s co-operation. They finished at about ten.
‘Time I got home.’ Syme stood up and stretched his long arms.
‘You have a wife waiting?’
Syme shook his head. ‘No, I live in my parents’ old house. Inherited it when my mother died last year.’
‘Where is that?’
Syme hesitated, then said, ‘Wapping. My dad owned it himself, though,’ he added proudly.
Gunther nodded. ‘What did he do?’
Syme paused. ‘He was a docker. Got squashed flat when a crate slipped off a crane and fell on him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It happens in the docks. I’m well out of that.’ As he spoke, the underlying Cockney twang was gone again. He looked Gunther challengingly in the eye.
‘My father was a policeman,’ Gunther said. ‘Dead too now, sadly.’
As they moved towards the door Syme said, ‘We thought we had a lead on Churchill last week, living as a guest of some distant Marlborough relative at a big house in Yorkshire. But if he was there, he was gone by the time we arrived. He moves around all over the place.’
‘He must be nearly eighty now.’
‘Yeah, the old bastard can’t last much longer. And we caught and shot his sidekick Ernie Bevin last year.’ At the door Syme turned to Gunther and said, ‘Lot of Jews down our way. At least they’re kept in their place now. Used to be a cocky lot.’
‘Yes. They are an alien element.’
A look of ferrety curiosity appeared on Syme’s face. ‘People here often ask, what have you done with them? There were millions in parts of Europe, weren’t there, milling around like beetles? I know you say they’ve all been resettled in the East, but we hear things sometimes, in the Branch. Big gassing plants.’
Gunther smiled and shook his head. ‘So far as I know, Inspector, they are all in camps in Poland and Russia. Safely secured, taken care of, made to work hard.’
Syme smiled and winked.
When he had gone Gunther sighed deeply. He hadn’t liked Syme. But he had been very efficient, prepared everything well. He remembered what he had said about the Jews. Like everyone in his section of the Gestapo, Gunther knew exactly what had happened to those Jews deported to the East; they were all dead, gassed and cremated in the huge extermination camps of Russia and Poland. Some of the smaller camps had closed now, though others remained open for any Jews and social misfits who had not yet been swept up, and for Russian prisoners of war. Some of the senior camp personnel had come back to staff jobs at Gestapo HQ; they tended to be reliable, efficient men, though a lot were prone to drink. But what else could Germany have done, with the war in Russia raging? They couldn’t be burdened by millions of hostile, dangerous Jews in the ghettos of the East. By express order of Himmler himself, though, the subject was never mentioned outside Gestapo offices.
He thought again about his hostile reaction to Syme. He knew himself well enough to wonder whether his dislike might be linked to his unease at what Gessler had told him at the end of their interview earlier: ‘If the English policeman finds out anything about the secrets Muncaster may hold, he is to be disposed of. There and then. We will deal with the Home Office afterwards.’ What Gessler said had been in the back of Gunther’s mind all night. He had been shocked. Policemen didn’t kill their own.
Chapter Fourteen
NEXT MORNING, SUNDAY, David left the house shortly before nine. He was to take the tube to Watford, meet Geoff and Natalia there and drive to Birmingham. Sarah was still asleep when he got up; he dressed in a sober suit. Downstairs, he ate some cereal and toast, several slices. It would be a long day. He remembered Sarah was going into town again, for another meeting. He hoped she would be all right.
He had a little time before his train, so he went into the garden and stood smoking a cigarette. It was cold, a light rime of frost on the grass, the sky milky-white. His eyes felt sore and gritty. He had lain awake most of the night. David admitted to himself that he was frightened. He knew he was not a physical coward, his service in Norway had shown him that, and it had needed courage to spy at the Office. Yet in a curious way, although what he did there was treasonable, he had still somehow felt enfolded, even protected, by the Civil Service. What he was about to do now was utterly different and he felt exposed. He looked at his watch. Time to go.
Natalia and Geoff were already in the car park when David arrived at Watford, waiting in the front of a big black Austin. Church bells sounded somewhere nearby as he went up to the car. Natalia wore a white trenchcoat with a scarf, a jumper underneath. For the first time since David had met her, her face was carefully made up; she looked like an ordinary middle-class woman driving her boyfriend and his friend on a weekend mission of mercy.
‘Is everything all right?’ Her manner was even more practical and direct than usual.
David answered a brusque yes. ‘Sarah believed the story about my great-uncle. I left her asleep.’
‘Remember both your identity cards?’ Geoff asked, with heavy-handed humour. He, too, was dressed quietly and formally.
‘Yes, the false one for the hospital and the real one for anything else. Though no-one’s likely to stop us, are they?’
‘You never know,’ Natalia said. David saw now that she, too, was tense, perhaps even afraid.
‘There’s going to be fog in the Midlands later,’ Geoff said. ‘According to the forecast.’
Natalia said, ‘After we visit your friend remember that we are going on to Birmingham to look at his flat, see if there is anything of int
erest to us there, any papers. Our man at the hospital is getting the key.’
David didn’t answer. He felt uncomfortable at the thought of breaking into Frank’s flat.
They pulled out onto the new M1 motorway to the North, modelled on the German autobahns. Natalia drove smoothly, maintaining a steady pace. There was little traffic, a few family cars and some lorries. Outside Welwyn Garden City an army truck passed them. The tarpaulin flaps at the rear were open, a row of khaki-clad soldiers looking back. Seeing a woman driving the Austin they made obscene gestures, then the truck, moving fast, sped away.
‘I wonder where they are going,’ Natalia said.
‘Up to one of the army camps in the North, I expect,’ David answered. ‘They say there’s another miners’ strike coming.’
She looked at him in the mirror. ‘You were in the army yourself in 1939–40, I think?’
‘Yes. In Norway.’
‘What was it like?’ She smiled but her eyes were sharp.
‘For the first few months nothing happened, and I spent the winter in a camp in Kent.’ He turned to Geoff and said jokingly, ‘You were all right, nice and warm out in Africa.’
‘They wouldn’t let District Officers like me join up. I wanted to.’
David continued, ‘Then the Germans invaded Denmark and Norway out of the blue. My regiment got sent to Namsos, up in the north.’
‘I heard it was a chaotic campaign,’ Natalia said.
‘All the 1940 campaigns were.’ David remembered after they finally set sail, the troopship ploughing through massive, heaving seas, all the soldiers seasick, then blizzards that turned the decks white. Their first sight of Norway, giant white peaks rising from the water. ‘When we arrived we disembarked and marched out immediately to meet the Germans. We had on thick army greatcoats, you’d get covered with sweat inside and then during the night it would freeze. Our boots just sank into the snow as soon as you stepped off the roads. But I heard at other landing points the soldiers didn’t even have winter clothing.’
‘The Germans must have had the same disadvantages, yet they just smashed their way through,’ Geoff said.
