by C. J. Sansom
After the burial they walked back to the gate; the reception was for family and close friends only. Sarah said, ‘Thanks for coming, David.’
‘Everybody seems to believe the story about the heart attack,’ he said quietly.
‘Nobody knows otherwise, except us. Those poor people.’
He said gently, ‘Let’s go home.’
In the car she told him about the decorator’s visit. ‘We should have done it ages ago,’ he said, but when they got home he suddenly said, ‘I’m afraid I may have another funeral soon. Uncle Ted’s not doing so well.’
‘I thought he was getting better.’
‘So did I. But he’s back in hospital. You know how it is with old people and hips.’
‘How did you hear?’
‘I gave the hospital my work number. He could go at any time, they said.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘If it happens I’ll have to go up and sort everything out. No need for you to come.’
She frowned. ‘That doesn’t seem fair to you. I’ll come with you. You came today.’
‘I’ll have to take several days off to arrange things. I’m his executor, you see.’
She thought of blank-faced Mr Templeman. ‘Poor Uncle Ted,’ she said quietly. ‘No-one to really mourn him.’
David looked uncomfortable. ‘No-one left suffering, you could say. As we have with Charlie.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better get some wine to take to Steve and Irene’s tonight.’
‘I wish they hadn’t invited us.’ Irene had phoned with the invitation the day before.
‘Well, they did. I’ll go up to the shops. I saw they had some Belgian chocolates in. We can taken them to Irene’s. A box will cost the earth with the import duty, but still—’
‘All right.’
The telephone rang. It didn’t make them jump this time, but they both tensed. Sarah was closer and picked it up. ‘Hello.’
For a moment there was silence at the other end, then a woman’s voice, cultivated and a little breathless, said, ‘I wonder if I could speak to Mr Fitzgerald, please.’
Sarah turned and looked at David. ‘Who is it calling?’ she asked.
‘My name is Bennett, Miss Bennett. I work with Mr Fitzgerald. Is that Mrs Fitzgerald?’
‘Yes, it is. How can we help you, Miss Bennett?’ Sarah asked, quietly and evenly, looking at David as she spoke. His eyes widened but the rest of his face seemed to constrict slightly, go deliberately blank.
The voice at the other end was anxious. ‘It’s about a problem at work, something that’s come up. I really would be grateful if I could speak to him.’
‘Hold on a moment, please.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at David.
‘What does she want?’ he asked.
‘She says there’s a problem at work, and she wants to talk to you about it.’
‘Hell.’ David reached out for the telephone. Sarah stayed standing next to him, so she could hear. She remembered Carol Bennett’s face from office functions: thin, intense, predatory.
‘Hello, Carol,’ David said, in a puzzled tone. ‘What happened, why are you ringing me at home?’
‘Why did you leave that message cancelling tomorrow’s concert? Did Mr Hubbold ask you to?’ Sarah could hear her; the woman’s voice had risen in volume, sounding panicky.
‘No,’ David answered. ‘I said in the message, I had to go to a funeral today and I’ll have to catch up on work tomorrow. We’ve just come back.’
‘Only – have they been asking you questions about a missing file?’
David hesitated, then said, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Only they’ve been asking me, and I’m afraid I’m in trouble. I’m sorry to ring you at home, I looked your number up in the book. Can we meet for lunch tomorrow? I need someone in the office I can talk to.’
‘Is it about a confidential file? Only if it is—’
‘Please meet me tomorrow, for lunch. At the British Corner House. One o’clock. Please.’ And then she must have put the phone down, because David stared at the receiver blankly for a moment before replacing it on its rest.
Sarah’s legs were shaking. She went into the lounge and sat down. David came in after her. Sarah took what felt like the longest breath of her life, then said, ‘Are you having an affair with that woman? A lost file, was that your cover story in case I answered the phone?’
He stared at her blankly. ‘Of course not. What on earth would make you think such a thing?’
‘She said you cancelled a concert. You’ve been going to concerts with her. I know, I found a ticket with her name on it, weeks ago!’ She heard herself beginning to shout.
David stood looking down at her, his face suddenly red with anger. ‘You’ve been going through my pockets?’
‘Of course I bloody haven’t! I found it when I was getting your coat ready for the cleaners. And don’t you think anyone would get suspicious, the number of evenings you ring saying you have to work late? The number of weekends you go into the office? Tennis evenings with Geoff that are arranged all of a sudden? You must think me a fool!’
‘I don’t—’
‘I phoned the tennis club the week before last, when you were supposed to be there, and you weren’t!’ The words came tumbling out. She felt frightened but it was a huge relief as well. ‘Why would she phone you at home about some missing bloody papers?’
David stood there, breathing hard. ‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake. I am not having an affair with Carol Bennett. I’ve been to lunchtime concerts with her, but apart from that I’ve never seen her outside the office. Never, not once.’
‘You’ve been to office functions with her—’
‘Only when you were there as well—’
‘I’ve seen the way she looks at you—’
He shouted, ‘I can’t help that! I’ve been to concerts with her to get a break from the bloody Office. It’s only once every few weeks!’
‘What about that time you weren’t at the tennis club?’
She saw he needed a second to think before he answered. ‘There must’ve been some mix-up at reception. I was there. You can ask Geoff.’
‘Oh yes, Geoff. Your best friend, he’d cover for you!’ It was flying out of her now, all the anger.
‘Now you’re being stupid. Geoff wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘I’m not bloody stupid!’
David closed his eyes, sighed deeply. When he opened them again he spoke coldly and evenly. ‘I’m not having an affair with Carol Bennett. Or anyone else. If she’s got herself into some sort of trouble at work, I’ll tell her to speak to – to the authorities.’ Then his face softened, and he said, ‘Don’t be too hard on her.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s just a silly, lonely woman.’
‘You feel sorry for her, don’t you?’ Sarah pressed. ‘That’s what women like her do. Get men like you to feel sorry for them. That’s how it starts.’
‘I’m not having an affair.’ David went on, quietly, ‘I’ve tried to protect you. God knows what I’ve done to try to protect you.’
‘From what? From this affair?’
‘There is no affair!’ He, too, was shouting now. ‘From the world, from everything that’s happening outside this house.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t need protecting. Tell me the truth.’
‘I’m not having an affair with Carol Bennett; I have no interest in her. That’s the truth. If you won’t believe me, I can’t make you.’ And then, as though he couldn’t trust himself to say more, David left the room.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
GUNTHER HAD SENT SYME to Oxford on Tuesday. Late on Thursday, 27 November, they still hadn’t found out who had visited Muncaster the previous Sunday. In his office, Gessler was getting increasingly frantic. The Ministry of Health had dug their feet in, protecting their turf – they wouldn’t let the Gestapo take Muncaster. Gunther, though, was calmer after his
odd panicky moment at Mrs Muncaster’s house. He knew from long experience how difficult it could be to identify people who wanted to stay hidden. It was steady, painstaking work, waiting for the crucial piece of data, the flash of inspiration. Syme was doing his best; he and his superintendent had people steadily working on the students in the photograph, cross-referencing the information the university had reluctantly given to Syme with the vast Special Branch records in London.
Syme had gone back to Birmingham too, and questioned Muncaster’s old workmates again. There was nothing new there, though. Muncaster had been a loner, good enough at his work but with no social contact with anyone. They had told Syme they used to play practical jokes on Muncaster sometimes, which he didn’t like. ‘What was the matter with the twerp?’ Syme said impatiently to Gunther. ‘You’ve got to put up with a bit of joshing in this world, you have to stand up for yourself.’ He had found a similar picture when he spoke to Muncaster’s old lecturers; Muncaster kept very much to himself, nobody could recall him having any particular friends. Quite a few people remembered only his strange monkey-like smile. His old personal tutor was still at the college, but was currently travelling home by ship from an academic conference in Denmark, and would be back late on Wednesday.
On Thursday Gunther reviewed the information which Special Branch had sent to Senate House about Muncaster’s former fellow-students at Oxford. He was interested to see what had happened to these people in the last eighteen years. Some had become academics, others had gone into business or the Civil Service. Several had served in the 1939–40 war, and one had died. Some had emigrated to the Empire. A few had gone down in the world; one was in prison for fraud. None of them had any links with the Resistance although that didn’t prove there weren’t supporters among them. One was a Jew but his file confirmed that he had been picked up on Sunday. Gunther had considered whether the people who visited Muncaster might have had some separate connection with him. But Muncaster had no other connections who might have visited him, and according to Muncaster’s neighbour, the old man, the people who came were the right class and age. Gunther’s instinct was that they were there in the photograph.
With the legwork in the hands of Syme and the Special Branch, Gunther was left with hours of free time. He wrote to his son in Krimea, told him he had come back to England on a case, that the country was cold and damp as always. After a page he found he had run out of things to say. He couldn’t divulge more about his work, he didn’t want to write about England and there was nothing else in his life now. He got up and flexed his stiff shoulders, telling himself he’d become prone to gloom and fantasy since going to that miserable empty house.
Earlier that day Gunther had gone to visit the officer in charge of the interrogation centre in the basement of Senate House, in his little ground-floor office. The man, Hauser, welcomed him as another Gestapo man. He was a little older than Gunther; solid and strong, he hadn’t gone to fat as Gunther had. He said he had worked in Poland and Russia for years, but had begun to suffer from arthritis in his feet, brought on he was sure by too many winters in the East. He was fit again in England, despite the damp. ‘I was in Britain before, in the mid-forties,’ Gunther said. ‘We set your basement outfit up while I was here.’
‘I was out in Russia then. Hard days. Not that they’re easier now. Their General Rossokovsky’s in charge of this winter offensive they say has started. He’s good. Him and Zhukov, they must have German blood.’ He looked at Gunther meaningfully. ‘But we have to go on till the job’s done.’
‘We do. I lost a brother out there. It’s amazing how they just keep coming at us, keep living. We know Stalin killed millions before we invaded, and we’ve killed about thirty million. But they keep on coming, out of the East.’
‘So many good Germans lost.’ Hauser clenched his big fists. ‘But we’ll go on, we’ll finish them and then it’ll be as the Führer planned; everything west of Archangel to Astrakhan for German settlement. We’ll let the Russians starve, keep some of them to work as slaves. None of them allowed within a mile of a gun. When the war’s over we’ll settle the whole country with our veterans.’
Gunther nodded. ‘And other Aryans, Dutch and Scandinavians and East Europeans who meet the racial criteria. We have to. It’s Germany’s destiny.’
‘German farms to the Caspian, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed quietly. ‘And the giant memorials to our German fallen, like my brother. I’ve heard them speak of them, in Berlin; great war memorials, hundreds of feet high, topped with eternal flames that will light the countryside at night.’
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Hauser asked, ‘What are you working on here?’
‘Confidential, I’m afraid.’ Gunther smiled. ‘But if it goes well, we may have a new customer for you.’
‘We can always make room for another. We’ve got quite a few German Jews in from the roundups this week, ones that came here as refugees in the thirties and hid out with the British Jews when the German refugees were sent back in ’40.’
Gunther shook his head. ‘The Jews always look out for each other.’
‘That’s why we’ve got to see things through in Russia, get the ones behind the Russian lines.’
‘Any news from Berlin?’
‘I don’t think the Führer’s getting any better.’ Hauser looked at him meaningfully again. ‘We have to make sure the right people take over if he goes.’
‘We do.’
‘I saw Rommel striding across the lobby the other day in his uniform, stiff and frowning and full of piss as usual.’ Hauser laughed. ‘Did you hear he got paint thrown at him at the Remembrance Day ceremony?’
‘Yes, everyone has been talking about it.’
‘Some little freelance British group. We dealt with them down here. If it had been the Resistance they’d have shot his head off. Done us a favour, perhaps,’ he added quietly.
‘Yes. If the Führer dies and the army tries to take over, Rommel will be with them.’
‘And we’ll be with Reichsführer Himmler. He’ll have a million Waffen SS forces ready to move, don’t you worry.’
‘I hope so.’
Hauser was belligerently confident, but Gunther felt that trickle of fear again, fear at the unimaginable prospect of German forces turning on each other.
Syme was due to come to see Gunther at four. It was half past two now. Gunther had a copy of Muncaster’s university photograph on his desk, propped up by books. He looked at it again; if you studied all those grainy little faces for too long, your eyes stopped focusing. He stood up. There was an exhibition on at the headquarters of the Anglo-German Fellowship nearby, Ashes to Glory, Twenty Years of National Socialist Germany, and he decided to go for a quick look, to clear his head. The exhibition was well organized; moving through successive rooms he followed the story of how Germany had gone from defeat and ruin in 1918, through the horrors of inflation, the Depression, the triumph of the Jews. Then the coming of the Führer, the rebuilding of the state, the conquests in Central Europe and the defeat of the West, the great epic in Russia. Gunther felt uplifted again. He thought, I’ve lived through all this, been part of the greatest adventure in history.
He returned to Senate House. As he went through the main door he saw Syme sitting on the same bench he had occupied a few days before, watching as a delegation of German businessmen were welcomed by embassy staff. There was a thoughtful smile on his thin face, one foot jigging up and down as usual. Gunther went over to him. Syme looked up and said, in a quiet voice, ‘I think we’ve identified one of Muncaster’s friends.’
Muncaster’s old tutor, just back from Denmark, had provided the crucial information. ‘He remembered this David Fitzgerald better than he did Muncaster. He taught him.’ Syme imitated, very well, an effete upper-class English drawl: ‘Fitzgerald was a very personable young fellow; could have been quite charismatic if he’d bothered. But he was one of those serious grammar-school boys, he mixed wit
h a rather dull crowd. Muncaster shared rooms with him and Fitzgerald took him under his wing. Personally, Muncaster gave me the shivers.’ Syme resumed his normal voice. ‘Got the impression the old poof might have fancied Fitzgerald.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Fitzgerald’s crowd was anti-appeasement, he remembers.’
‘What about the other man? The fair-haired one? Identified as Geoffrey Drax.’
‘He doesn’t remember him.’
‘And we still don’t know about the woman. Still . . .’ Gunther looked at the notes he had made on the students, turned to David Fitzgerald’s. ‘A civil servant,’ he mused. ‘Dominions Office.’
‘Yes,’ Syme repeated. ‘A civil servant.’ He gave Gunther an odd, calculating look. He seemed even more tense and jittery today. ‘I got this,’ Syme added, laying a photograph on the desk. It was one of the boys in the picture taken from the flat, the image blown up to full size, grainy. A handsome face, serious-looking as the tutor had said. Dark, curly hair. Irish-looking. Syme said, ‘I got a courier to drive that photograph up to the old man at Muncaster’s flat this morning. The message is that he is definite Fitzgerald was one of the visitors.’
‘Thank you,’ Gunther said sincerely.
‘We Brits can be efficient too.’
‘I know.’
‘Of course there’s still the possibility Muncaster did just telephone Fitzgerald, as an old friend, to ask him to help him out of the hole he’s in. Fitzgerald has no Resistance links we know of. Nor Drax, if he was the other one at the flat.’
‘Then why search his flat? That’s what I keep coming back to.’ Gunther looked at his notes again. ‘I see his wife comes from a pacifist family.’
‘But the pacifists don’t like the Resistance. Too much violence. Did you hear an armoured car was blown up in Liverpool yesterday, by the way? The bastards,’ Syme added. ‘And Fitzgerald’s been in the Civil Service since 1938, apart from war service.’
‘Yes. In Norway.’
Syme took a deep breath. He said, ‘If Fitzgerald is Resistance, and he’s working in the Civil Service, then he’s a security risk for Britain. We don’t know what information he could have access to in his job, which he might be passing on to them. My superintendent says we have to question him about that. Us, Special Branch. We can’t just let you have him.’ Syme gave a quick smile, half-nervous, half-challenging.
