The Interrogator (16 page)

‘This is not for us,’ said Samuels with a profound shake of the head. ‘If you think our codes have been broken you’d better take it up with Checkland.’

‘He’s an idiot.’

‘I’m sure he speaks well of you too,’ said Samuels quietly. ‘Actually I agree with you but an interrogation room at Trent Park isn’t the place to say so.’

Samuels picked up his bible and walked towards the door: ‘Are you driving into Town?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can give me a lift. We’ll talk in the car.’

He led Lindsay into the corridor and through the house to the main staircase. At the bottom, they turned into the entrance hall and walked towards the security desk. Behind it, the duty sergeant was on the telephone. Lindsay nodded and was halfway through the door when the sergeant put the receiver down with a bang.

‘A message, sir.’ He was addressing Samuels. ‘Colonel Checkland’s office on the telephone. The colonel would like to see you at once.’

Samuels groaned loudly and dropped his chin on to his chest: ‘Perfect timing.’

Lindsay looked at him intently for a moment, then reached forward to touch his arm: ‘A word.’

He led Samuels through the porch and across the forecourt to the perimeter fence. ‘Look, don’t mention codes to the Colonel.’

‘What?’ asked Samuels. He looked as if he could not quite believe what he had heard.

‘Please. We need more time. You said yourself that there were too many unanswered questions.’

Samuels took out his handkerchief and held it to his mouth and nose. It was his little anxious ritual. Lindsay had observed him do the same in interrogations. A few seconds later he slipped the handkerchief
back in his pocket with a weary sigh: ‘I won’t lie to him, Douglas.’

Lindsay clapped him on the arm: ‘Just be economical with the truth, Charlie. We’re on to something.’

21

I

t was after midnight when Mary finally turned into Lord North Street. Lindsay had been waiting on the steps beneath the shell of St John’s Church for more than an hour. Time counted in cigarettes. An air raid warden had approached him and demanded to know what he was doing. He had asked himself the same question more than once. In the end his uniform was explanation enough for the warden.

Mary was almost at her uncle’s door. ‘Hey,’ he whispered as loudly as he dared. She did not hear him. He walked down the church steps towards her: ‘Mary, it’s me.’ His voice shook a little. She had unlocked the door and was on the point of stepping inside.

‘Mary,’ he said again.

‘Douglas? What on earth’s the matter?’

He skipped the last few yards until he was standing beside her. ‘Nothing, nothing, don’t worry.’ Her hand was cold.

‘Then why are you here?’ She sounded very tired.

‘Oh an impulse. Can we go in?’

She hesitated for a moment: ‘My uncle may be here. Look, I’m very tired, Douglas.’

‘I see,’ he said shortly.

‘No you don’t,’ she said and pulled him towards the door.

‘No, really, I don’t want to force myself upon you,’ he said.

‘Don’t you? Then why are you here?’

In the hall, he helped her out of her jacket. She turned towards him, stroked his face with the back of her hand and then raised her chin a little, inviting him to kiss her, a quiet, tender kiss.

‘I so wanted to see you,’ he said. ‘Last time with Lange, well . . .’

‘I haven’t quite forgiven you for that.’ She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen and Lindsay followed.

‘I don’t know where Uncle is.’ She switched on the light and began reaching into cupboards for tea and cups.

Lindsay stood blinking by the door. He felt a little guilty: ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t sure you’d come home but I knew I’d feel better if I tried to see you.’

Mary turned towards him, cup in hand, and gave him a tired, sweet smile. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.

They sat at the kitchen table sipping tea and Lindsay asked her about Winn and the Tracking Room. She seemed distracted and answered only half heartedly. ‘Let’s not talk about work, I want to forget it,’ she said.

‘You’re right. Sorry.’

‘And stop saying sorry.’ She got up and carried her cup to the sink. ‘I want to go to bed.’

Her back was turned and there was nothing in her weary voice to indicate whether this was a dismissal or an invitation. Lindsay watched the graceful sweep of the hand she lifted to the nape of her neck – her coal black hair was tied in an unruly bun – hoping, willing her to turn to him with a smile. But instead she said sharply: ‘Well?’

‘Perhaps I should . . .’

‘What?’ And then she turned to look at him, an impish smile on her face.

He pushed back his chair, walked over to the sink and grabbed both her wrists.

‘You witch,’ he said, and kissed her, pushing her body hard against the sink.

She lifted her arms to his neck and she was laughing so much they had to stop. Lindsay began to laugh too.

‘You tease.’

‘I’m not. I want to go to bed.’ She was looking at him intently with her twinkling green eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘And I want you to take me there.’

Lindsay leant forward and whispered: ‘Like this?’ His hands dropped to her hips and he began to lift her woollen skirt and slip. Her lips opened a little and he could hear her short shaky breaths, feel her arms tighten about his neck. And his hands slipped over the top of her stockings on to the soft warm skin of her thighs, and bending a little he lifted her from the ground.

‘Still tired?’ he whispered softly in her ear.

In reply she kissed his neck and whispered: ‘Come on, carry me.’

Later he watched her sleeping beside him, curled into a ball, her hair loose about her shoulders and the pillow. And he wondered at their lovemaking, a little miracle of forgetfulness in which for such a short time there was only comfort, excitement, joy. But it was over and even there in the stillness of Mary’s room, with her warm body pressed against his, restless thoughts forced their way to the front of his mind. Tomorrow he would interrogate Mohr again. He would be taking a risk, like a sapper pushing into dangerous ground.

He rolled from Mary on to his back and she whimpered a little, unconsciously pushing herself towards his warmth. Turning back to her, he swept a loose curl from her face then bent to kiss her cheek. Without opening her eyes she reached up to touch him and he caught her hand and kissed it.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ she asked dreamily.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Why are you always sorry?’

‘Mother’s Calvinism.’

She smiled, her eyes still closed: ‘But you’re of the elect?’

‘No. A helpless reprobate.’

‘I can help you.’

‘You already have.’

She opened her eyes a little. ‘Kiss me,’ and he did, tenderly.

‘Why can’t you sleep? Are you thinking of the ship again?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘It’s tomorrow. Tomorrow I will interrogate the commander of the
U-112
.’

Mary groaned.

‘I know. I know. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s important.’

And he told her about the wireless operators, that it was no coincidence they spoke English, that they had both joined the
112
for its war patrol south, and that Mohr had been ‘one of the six’ senior Staff officers at U-boat Headquarters.

‘I can’t be absolutely sure but I think it’s something to do with our codes . . .’

‘Again,’ said Mary sleepily. ‘Haven’t they ordered you not to get involved?’

He ignored the question: ‘It’s not proof they’re reading our signals but it’s evidence. Mohr was on the Staff. A word from him and I’d have the proof . . .’

‘And if you don’t get some sort of confirmation from Mohr that they’re reading our signals?’

Lindsay pulled a face. They were lying side by side now and Mary was gazing at him intently, suddenly wakeful and serious. After a long silence she pushed herself up and the sheet slipped from her. He reached up to touch her breast: ‘You’re so very beautiful.’

‘Douglas, you must leave this alone. You’re going to get into terrible trouble.’

‘You sound like your brother,’ he said shortly.

‘Perhaps he’s right about this,’ she said crossly.

Lindsay rolled away from her: ‘He’s an idiot.’

‘He’s my brother.’

‘That is his only redeeming feature.’

‘And is Rodger Winn an idiot too?’

Lindsay sighed loudly.

‘He wanted you to interrogate Mohr, didn’t he,’ she said. ‘But not codes, he doesn’t want you to question him about our codes.’

Lindsay turned his head sharply to look at Mary: ‘Did he tell you that?’

‘Not in so many words, I just know and so do you. It’s out of bounds. Leave it, Douglas. Promise me you will.’

‘Of course I won’t. I really can’t understand this. Why is it so impossible?’ he asked. ‘My God. Doesn’t anyone trust Section 11 or is it just me?’

Mary shook her head and said quietly. ‘Please, please just leave it.’

Lindsay looked at her, slender and pretty, her dark hair unruly about her face, and he wanted to feel her close again. Reaching up, he pulled her down so that her head was resting on his chest and they lay there for a while without speaking. It was Mary who broke the silence:

‘We should go away together.’

‘Paris?’

‘Very funny. Oxfordshire.’

‘Ah. When the war’s over I’ll take you to Berlin.’

‘If they win, someone might beat you to it.’

Lindsay laughed and reached beneath the sheet to gently caress her behind.

‘Do you think Germans would be interested in this?’

‘You are,’ she said.

Mary slept there on his chest, a short restless sleep, until at a little before six, he slipped away. He stepped into Lord North Street with her sweet scent on his skin, her words troubling his thoughts.

22

N

one of the other interrogators were in the Trent Park office but the section’s Wrens were busy at their typewriters under their diligent, vigilant chief. Lindsay’s desk was beneath a window on the far side of the room so it was easy for Annie Sherlock to intercept him:

‘A busy night, sir, working late?’

It was clear from her tone that she suspected him of something sinful. Sometimes Lindsay quite liked Annie. She was a formidable figure, a muscular five foot nine with calves shaped on the tennis court – her uniform always looked a size too small for her – dark hair and eyes, strong brown features. She could be funny, flirtatious, although Lindsay found her display a little intimidating, and she cared not a fig for rank.

‘You were in great demand this morning, sir, everyone was asking for you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Commander Henderson seemed to have some idea where you might be;’ this with a knowing smile.

‘Did he?’

‘He was anxious to talk to you. He said, “Ask Lieutenant Lindsay to find me before he does anything else”.’

There was something in Chief Wren Sherlock’s imperious manner that suggested Lindsay was in some sort of trouble.

‘And Lieutenant Samuels wanted you too. He’s left a note on your desk.’

‘Thank you, Annie. Anything else?’

‘Oh just more business. The survivors from the
Bismarck
are expected in the next couple of days.’

‘Ah. Good,’ he said distractedly. His mind was swirling with unpleasant thoughts. Checkland wanted to speak to him about Mohr, he was sure of it. Had Samuels said something? A note in
Samuels’ big round hand was propped on his typewriter, marked rather too conspicuously, URGENT. Lindsay stood and read it by the window:

Checkland on warpath. Collared me and asked for reports on the wireless operators. Asked about you. Advise softly, softly with Mohr
.

Mohr was lying on his camp bed staring at the low white ceiling when Lindsay stepped into the room. He made no effort to get up. Bright sunshine was pouring through the barred window, casting a long prison shadow on the bare floorboards. Some clothes and a couple of army blankets were neatly folded on a table, Mohr’s boots were beneath it and there was a chair and a toilet bucket.

‘Good morning, Kapitän Mohr,’ Lindsay said briskly in German as if urging him to rise.

‘What do you want, Lieutenant?’

‘I would like to take you for a walk.’

‘A walk?’ Mohr raised himself on to an elbow and glanced at the window. ‘I would tell you almost anything for the privilege,’ he said and he looked as if he meant it.

Lindsay looked down pointedly at his boots. ‘Well, let’s go.’

He led Mohr past the guardroom and down the back stairs, pausing at the bottom to consider a discreet route. The hall was always busy and the security desk kept a register of the prisoners taken from the house.

‘Are you lost? The entrance is this way.’

Lindsay turned to look at Mohr. He was pointing towards the long gallery, a dry smile on his face.

‘No, there’s another way out.’

The servants’ corridor was to the right of the old dining room and at the end of it a door opened on to a covered walk that led round the west wing of the house.

Beyond the orangery and the icehouse, into the whispering beech-wood, and Lindsay began to breathe a little easier. Mohr caught up with him and the two men walked side by side along a rutted track – still thick with decaying autumn leaves – that climbed gently from the house. Mohr gazed up at the flickering canopy, smiling with pleasure.
Broken shafts of sunlight danced across his face, forcing him to close his eyes.

‘Did you enjoy your job?’ Lindsay asked him in German.

‘Enjoy?’

‘Submarine commander.’

‘At first.’

‘What did you enjoy?’

‘The chase. Danger. Success.’

‘And by the end?’

‘It was my duty.’

They walked a little further in silence, then Lindsay said:

‘You attacked a convoy last September, the fifteenth and sixteenth, do you remember?’

‘I sank two ships on the first night – a small freighter and a tanker.’

‘The tanker was the
Bordeaux
. Only a dozen men were rescued and most of them were badly burned.’