Red Joan (32 page)

He looks at her and his eyes are unblinking, so utterly unknowable and yet so vulnerable all at once. She knows he will never look at her as Max did on the boat, and as he still does when he thinks she is not looking. She knows they will never wake up in each other's arms and burst out laughing for no reason at all. But things with Max can never now be put back, and he is not free to love her in any case, so when Leo bends down to kiss her softly on the neck, for a moment she wonders if she could be happy enough with him. She has loved him before. She could love him again, and perhaps things might even be different between them this time after all that has happened.

Leo walks over to the window, and then comes back to where Joan is standing and slips his arms around her waist. His chin rests on her shoulder. ‘It's for your own good,' he says. ‘Sonya thinks life is a game. She always has.'

‘She's not stupid, Leo,' Joan says, teasing, smiling, feeling the warmth of his body against her own. She lifts her face to look at him but he is distracted, his eyes fixed on something outside the window.

‘No,' he says eventually, ‘she most certainly is not stupid, but she still doesn't seem to realise that there is a difference.'

‘What do you mean?'

He lets his arms drop from where they have been encircling her and he takes a step away, backwards, not quite looking at her again. ‘Games have rules.'

At about 1.20 p.m. on 5 January 1947, Detective Peter Wood of the local constabulary and I went to The Warren, Firdene, Norfolk.

As we entered the house—a squareish stone farmhouse abutting directly onto the road with double gates at the side, giving on to a large farmyard with barn outhouses—we noticed Mr. Jamie WILCOX sitting in the lounge reading a newspaper. The door was answered by Mrs. Sonya WILCOX who is a somewhat impressive type with curled dark hair, probably dyed, and of rather neat appearance. She acknowledged her identity and we were shown into the lounge, her husband attempting to bow his way out but being prevented from doing so by Detective Wood.

We introduced ourselves, and she immediately asked if our interests lay more with her husband, pushing him forwards. Mr. WILCOX looks uncomfortably young even for his thirty-three years, but he was completely overshadowed by his wife who quite dominates the household.

I told them that we possessed information which made it necessary for us to interrogate Mrs. WILCOX in connection with her past activities and family connections, and she immediately asked to see our warrant cards so as to be satisfied as to our bona fides. Once this was established, I went straight into the attack and told Mrs. WILCOX that we had a vast amount of information in our possession and we required her cooperation to help us clear up ambiguities and to resolve the position surrounding her at the present time.

She made it quite clear from the start of our interview that she did not ‘think she could cooperate.' It is fair to say right away that by the stand she took up she tacitly admitted that she had, at one time, worked for Soviet Intelligence. The manner in which she did so was credit to the training she must have received, for every possible piece of cajolery, artifice and guile that could be employed was employed, albeit without any success. She made no denial whatsoever, sheltering always behind the rock of ‘non-cooperation.'

It was concluded that Mr. WILCOX might turn out to be the weaker vessel, and after a period of interviewing them both together, we released Mrs. WILCOX. We broke into Mr. WILCOX's taciturnity, but in spite of every possible inducement we did no more than elicit from him that he met Mrs. WILCOX in Switzerland in 1940 quite by chance, having previously been introduced through a mutual friend in England, ‘bumping into her as one bumps quite readily into people in Marks and Spencer at home.' He had gone to Switzerland as he did not like the state of affairs in England at that time. The more intricate details of their courtship and of their marriage he did not feel at liberty to discuss. When asked if they had any children, he answered, ‘No, not really.' When pressed to clarify this response, he said, ‘Mrs. Wilcox and I have not had any children together.'

After a longish interval Mrs. WILCOX returned, still in a non-cooperative frame of mind. It was urged upon her that her refusal to talk might well be a positive disadvantage to some of her connections. They might be, it was said, under some suspicion which could be removed if she were frank. By inference, it was implied that these suspicions might be directed against those near and dear to her—specifically Leo GALICH, her cousin and a pro-Soviet economist who has recently taken up a fellowship post at King's College London—but she preserved a Slav-like indifference to this line of argument.

Towards the end of this second stage of the interrogation, Mrs. WILCOX seemed to be psychologically at her lowest ebb. It was pointed out at this stage that there was the clearest possible evidence that the loyalty she felt towards the government of her native country would not be reciprocated should she ever require their help, but in response she merely indicated that her loyalties were to ideals rather than to people.

In conclusion, we got little positive information. She is quite clearly fanatically anti-Fascist and agreed to some extent that she was disappointed with Russian policy in 1939/40, commenting that many people lose their faith in governments but retain their political beliefs, but she would not be drawn on giving anything further away. As a result of this interrogation, we regard ourselves as confirmed in our beliefs even if we are still lacking an explicit confession.

 

‘So they were on to Sonya already,' Nick says.

‘Leo too,' Mr. Adams adds. ‘MI5's file on Leo is quite extensive.'

Joan's eyes flick up, suddenly alert. It has been an exhausting day. She turns to Mr. Adams. ‘Can I see it?'

He shakes his head. ‘It's classified. You will undoubtedly be entitled to see some of it when this goes to trial, but I can't let you have the file.'

Joan is tempted to ask why not, but she also realises it is pointless to argue with him. He doesn't give the impression of a man open to entreaties. And in any case, she does not need to see the file. None of this is news to her. She was aware of Sonya's interrogation at the time, although it is strange to see it described in such a detached manner.

It was Leo who told her about it. She remembers that he was living in London by then, having secured a teaching fellowship at King's College which enabled him to continue his research on Soviet Planning Policy while also supervising PhD students with similar inclinations to his own. Talent-spotting, he called it. In addition to his university digs, Joan had given him a key to her flat so that he could come and go as he pleased, and he had fallen into the habit of turning up without warning whenever he could get away from his academic duties to spend time with her.

He had come to Cambridge on the evening of MI5's visit to Sonya, having been wired the news by Jamie, and Joan had felt the prickle of sweat on his palms as he gripped her hands in his and told her once again that she was not, under any circumstances, to mention his name to anyone; not to Sonya, not to her mother, not to anyone at all. Their relationship with each other must be untraceable, for Joan's sake.

‘I know. We've been through this dozens of times. I haven't mentioned you to a single person.' She had had to resist the temptation to blurt out how hard it was for her to keep him a secret on top of everything else, but she had known it wouldn't help. Besides, things seemed bad enough just then without her adding to them. ‘Anyway, you said you were going to tell Sonya about us.'

Leo flinched. ‘I tried.'

‘And?'

‘She said we shouldn't see each other. She said it would compromise you too much as a source.' He paused. ‘And perhaps she's right.'

‘No, Leo.' Joan shook her head, her lip suddenly trembling at the thought of not seeing him. At least when she was with him she could relax without worrying about giving herself away. ‘Please. I couldn't bear it. I'm so tired. I didn't know it was possible to be this tired. I couldn't carry on without you.'

‘Yes, you could, Jo-jo. If you had to.'

‘No,' she whispered. ‘Please don't go.'

He had stepped forward then and gathered her in his arms. She remembers that his grasp was tight, a little too tight. ‘Don't worry. We'll carry on like this. We don't need to tell her for now as long as we're careful. You just have to be aware that people are watching.'

‘Watching who?'

She felt Leo's pulse quicken. ‘Me.'

‘You? They're watching you too? But you said—'

‘I know, I know. I didn't think they would.' He shifted his position slightly, loosening his grip on her. ‘But they asked Sonya about me. They can't have found anything on me yet though otherwise . . . well, otherwise they'd have arrested me. We just have to wait for this Kierl business to blow over. We have to be patient.'

‘But what if they followed you here?'

‘They didn't.'

‘How can you be sure?'

‘I checked.'

‘But—'

‘Jo-jo, listen to me. You can trust me. We're in this together.'

Joan pressed her face into his chest so that her voice was muffled when she spoke. ‘And will you still see Sonya?'

‘Of course. Our relationship is already known so there's no point in hiding it.'

And what could she say to that? It was true. Their relationship was established and familial. Invincible, Joan thought, and then chastised herself for her own lack of generosity.

She remembers the weight of Leo's arms around her, the pleading sound of her own whispered entreaty. ‘Hold me.' How blind she had been then. How blind both of them had been. Scared of the wrong thing entirely.

 

Joan realises that Mr. Adams is addressing her. He is looking at her with an expectant expression. They are all looking at her. Her head feels hot. ‘Are we finished for the day?' she asks.

‘We're just taking a break.' Mr. Adams reaches out and switches off the video recorder. ‘We'll resume in thirty minutes.'

‘But it's late,' Joan protests. Her throat is dry. ‘I'm tired.'

Ms. Hart leans forward and puts a sympathetic hand onto the arm of her chair. ‘I'm afraid we can't stop yet.' She glances at Mr. Adams. ‘We have a lot to get through before Friday.'

Mr. Adams stands up. ‘Exactly. I'm going out for a kebab. Can I get anyone anything?'

Nick shakes his head, ready to decline the offer, but then shrugs. ‘All right, yes please.' He pauses, too distracted to think properly. ‘I'll have whatever you're having.'

‘Anyone else?'

Ms. Hart shakes her head. She brought a homemade salad with her that morning, and she goes to eat it in the kitchen, leaving Joan in her armchair and Nick at the window, staring out at the cold, dusky street. The living-room door is open, and although Joan knows that Ms. Hart could listen to their conversation if she wanted to, it seems that she is not paying much attention. And why should she? They've got her confession now, and she can't go anywhere with her electronic tag on. All Joan wants is to talk to Nick, to get him to understand. This might be her only chance, but she knows from the shape of his back that he is not feeling sad. He is cross.

Joan looks down at her feet. ‘I'm so sorry, Nick.'

A silence. ‘For what? For what you did? Or for getting found out?'

Joan's expression is pained. ‘For this,' she says. She makes an expansive gesture with her hand, meaning that she is sorry for the amount of his precious time that she has already taken up, for implicating him in the glare of MI5's contempt, for not having told him any of this before, for the trial which is now bound to proceed, for being a bad mother. ‘For everything.'

Nick shakes his head. ‘Sorry doesn't really cut the mustard here, I'm afraid.'

Joan opens her mouth and then closes it again. She knows this voice. It is his work voice; his my-learned-friend-is-sorely-mistaken voice. It has not been directed at her for years, but now it reminds her of a period during his teenage years when he started calling her by her first name, refusing to call her ‘mum' because he wasn't a phoney and Joan wasn't his real mother. He conceded that they could pretend he was her nephew, if Joan preferred, but he wasn't going to live a lie. That was the first time Joan had heard that particular quality in her son's voice. If it hadn't been so painful, Joan might have found this teenage pretension amusing in its dramatic sincerity, but there was nothing funny about it back then. The phase had lasted nearly six months, and she still remembers the stab of those words, the terrible, metallic sting of them, and the way she had tried not to show how much they hurt, not wanting him to feel any sense of responsibility for her feelings. Her husband had wanted to reprimand Nick for being petulant, as he called it, but she had told him he mustn't. Nick would soon grow tired of being angry, and in any case, she knew this was what it meant to be a mother. It is my privilege to care this much, she had told herself back then, sitting on her own in their house in the suburbs of Sydney, the porch door still swinging after Nick's departure. It is my privilege to love him this much.

There is a pause. ‘Nick.' Joan hesitates. ‘There's something I want to ask you.'

‘What?'

‘Could you . . . I mean, would you speak for me? When this goes to court.'

Silence.

‘I'll plead guilty. I'm not asking you to lie for me.'

Nick snorts. ‘Of course I can't lie for you. I'd get struck off and we'd both be in jail.' He pauses. ‘I suppose your only chance would be to show that there were mitigating circumstances but—'

‘Exactly,' Joan interrupts. ‘I need someone who understands.'