The Interrogator (30 page)

‘I . . . I left at once,’ she stammered.

Winn stared at her for a moment, cool, unblinking, appraising. And then with his eyes steady upon her face: ‘Does he know?’

‘Does who know what?’

‘Don’t play games with me, Dr Henderson,’ he said coldly.

‘I am not, Commander Winn. I want to hear you ask me properly.’ And her voice was hard and defiant.

‘Does Lieutenant Lindsay know we’re reading the enemy’s signals? Have you told him?’

‘You know he’s working for the Director, Admiral Godfrey. He’s back in the fold.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘No.’ And Mary shook her head crossly. ‘No, of course not.’

Winn studied her face carefully for a few seconds more, then lifted his cigarette to his lips: ‘Good.’

Later, as she leant over the plot table with her notepad, she wondered at her own cool mendacity. It was wrong, the Bible said so, and yet with alacrity she was becoming a hardened and practised liar. Was it Lindsay or was it the secret world they both inhabited, with its half truths and deceits, that was scratching at her old certainties? She was not a natural rule-breaker and she felt uncomfortable lying to Winn but it had been shockingly easy and it was shocking, too, that it pricked her conscience only a little. But she would need to be careful, very careful.

There was nothing on the Atlantic plot to indicate an immediate threat to the
Imperial Star
. Homebound SL 76 was attacked on 29 and 30 June by at least two submarines and ships were lost. The
U-123
sank another off the African coast four days later. But there had been almost no recorded activity or signals traffic for a fortnight. The black U-boat pinheads were concentrated in the
North Atlantic. Mary checked the files for reports of sailings from the French coast and examined the special intelligence for anything that might indicate an imminent threat. The
Imperial Star
did not appear to be in danger. It was impossible to be entirely sure, even with the benefit of the Germans’ own signals, but perhaps this time Winn was being a little too cautious. It was the middle of the afternoon before she was ready to tell him so. He stomped out of his office to stand at the edge of the plot and she slipped out from behind her desk to join him.

‘And you’ve checked everything?’ he asked.

‘I could ring the Naval Section at Bletchley Park – with your permission, of course. They may have something more on the two larger U-boats that sailed a fortnight ago.’

‘No. That’s fine. We’ve done enough already. I’ll tell Admiral Godfrey I have no objections. The Ministry can release the
Imperial Star
from the convoy and route her separately.’

Winn turned away from her to lean over the plot: ‘And I hope to God we’re right.’

She spent the rest of the day bent over the latest batch of signals, weather reports from outbound U-boats, convoy sightings, damage reports, a constant flow of small pieces, some to be discarded, some to be fitted into the picture of the battle. At a little before seven Commander Hall from the Trade Division was back to confer at the plot table, then at eight the Director and his entourage. Was Dönitz moving his U-boats westwards? Was he supplying them at sea? And what size of fleet would attack convoys to Russia? Godfrey wanted answers to all these questions and more.

But by ten the smoke was beginning to settle beneath the drop lamps once more. Mary was clearing her desk mechanically, her eyes stinging and wet with fatigue. The plotters would be busy with signal bearings throughout the night and the secret ladies would ghost in and out with their pieces of teleprinter paper. In the morning a fine layer of smoke would still be hanging there like mist on the sea’s face in winter. A day that never seemed to end would begin again. For now, the bridge was the night duty officer’s. Freddie Wilmot was in Winn’s office with someone from anti-submarine warfare. Mary could hear
their laughter and Wilmot’s excited voice. A moment later he came out clutching a teleprinter signal.

‘We’ve bagged the
U-330
,’ and he shook the paper at Mary. ‘Dönitz has been trying to make contact for days and now Berlin has confirmed it.’

‘Good. When and where?’

‘An aircraft from Coastal Command caught the boat on the surface and managed to depth-charge her as she was crash-diving. The pilot reported oil and debris but this is confirmation. No survivors.’

Wilmot walked over to the U-boat file index by the plot table and took out the
330
’s card.

‘Rodger wants to check its history. Berlin called it “the lion boat”, claims it sank fourteen ships.’

Mary nodded politely. The loss of an enemy vessel in the Atlantic was always good news but not the sort she wanted to celebrate. Some of the boys took a different view, especially when the boat had a history. Wilmot took his card back to Winn and Mary picked up her bag and walked over to the coat rail by the door. She was struggling into her mac when Winn’s office door opened again.

‘Rodger would like to see you before you go,’ said Wilmot breezily.

Winn was perched on the edge of his desk, the U-boat file card on his knee, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

‘Wilmot told you about the
330
?’

‘Yes. Good news.’

‘Yes.’

Winn flicked ash off his cigarette then squeezed it into an ashtray. ‘It was a successful boat, an experienced commander.’

He slipped to his feet and walked round the desk to his chair but remained standing.

‘Do you know the name of the
330
’s commander?’ he asked.

‘No, but I can check.’

‘No need. I have it here,’ and he lifted the file card. ‘Schultze.’

The name rang a distant uneasy bell but Mary was not able to say why. ‘You can tell Lieutenant Lindsay,’ said Winn coolly.

A cold shudder passed through her body. The penny had dropped and how foolish not to remember. Schultze was Lindsay’s cousin
‘Martin’. She looked down for a moment, confused and a lump formed in her throat. She felt strangely guilty.

‘Thank you, Rodger.’

‘Tell him I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

She turned slowly to leave but at the door stopped and looked back at him: ‘Is this news we’re supposed to celebrate?’

He lifted his eyes from his desk and stared at her, his gaze intense and unblinking as ever.

‘Yes, we should celebrate.’

37

HMS Imperial Star
16°42N/25°29W
North Atlantic

I

t was a breathless heat, insufferably close even at six o’clock. The captain had given permission for passengers to sleep on the promenade deck and some had already staked a claim to a few feet of polished boards with bags and blankets and the life vests they would use for a pillow. At dusk the blackout would be enforced, deadlights dropped over ports, gangways to the deck sealed, and those who retired to their stifling cabins would be condemned to hours of restless torment. Tempers were fraying. The captain had barked at a lady passenger who insisted on complaining to him in person about the children playing hide-and-seek on deck. A couple of soldiers had come to blows very publicly and were sweltering under guard in the brig.

On the bridge, Third Officer Hall wiped his brow with a damp handkerchief, then reached for the glass of cold water the steward was offering him on a tray. There were grey hulls as far as the eye could see: the
Imperial Star
was ship number four in column number three, limping south at the speed of the slowest tramp in the convoy. Hall was an old blue-water sailor with twenty years’ experience and keeping station between ships was a kind of special purgatory which the tropical heat was making even more unbearable. He envied the escorts their freedom – a destroyer was cutting an impressive bow wave half a mile to port – at least they had the run of the convoy. It was the single topic of serious conversation in the officers’ dining saloon. Was the ship safer in this protected box of sea? For his part, Hall was firmly of the view that she should be given her head; her twin screws were capable of sixteen knots and speed, surely, was her best
protection. The captain had not expressed a view but the crew – even the engine-room stokers – were able to sense his frustration. They had all seen ships sunk in convoy and the recollection of it was sharp and cold even now on the sunlit bridge.

‘They’re still playing Vera Lynn in the lounge. I’ve begged the steward to let me throw the record over the side.’ It was Murray, the Chief Officer, a Glaswegian, short, thick-set, a White Star officer for more than thirty years. He had conducted a general round of the ship, starting with the ancient naval gun on the foredeck. Everything was as it should be; the ladies dressing for dinner, white-coated stewards serving in the bar, the Army playing bridge, in one of the saloons, in another the RAF flirting with some of the nurses who were with the ship all the way to the Middle East. The watch was in place and at a little before dusk the men would be ordered to stand to the guns. But for now at least there was a hushed, somnolent quality to the
Imperial Star
, the hum of the engines, the gentle whooshing of a calm sea along her sides.

The duty wireless operator was hovering at Murray’s side with a small square of signal paper in his hand: ‘From the Commodore of the convoy, sir.’

The Chief Officer took the signal, glanced at it and handed it to Hall: ‘Deal with it, would you?’

The code and cipher books were held under lock and key in the purser’s cabin. It took Hall just fifteen minutes to decode the signal and when he returned to the bridge it was in triumph: ‘Is the captain in his cabin? Admiralty orders. We are to finish the journey alone at the best speed we can make.’

His fingers were drumming excitedly on the polished brass telegraph as if he were itching to push it forward from slow through half to full speed ahead.

‘We are to alter course at sunset. Should cut at least a week off the voyage.’

‘If we get there,’ said Murray coolly.

Later, something of the same thought could be read in the faces of the passengers crowding the rail as the sun dipped behind the convoy. At eight bells the
Imperial Star
turned out of the column and her decks began to tremble as she gathered speed to the south and
the dark horizon, churning a white fan of water in her wake. Third Officer Hall could almost feel the ship stretching as if waking from sleep. The watch changed as always, the ladies still dressed for dinner, the sheets were turned down in the first-class cabins and drinks served in the bar. But there was a new urgency and a new purpose to every action. And the atmosphere in the passenger saloons crackled like an old wireless, the conversation hushed and anxious. For once the top of the old gramophone was closed, the scratched seventy-eight of Vera Lynn’s ‘Yours’ lying on its torn green sleeve beside it.

38

T

he Military Police hut was cold and damp and smelt of diesel. Its rough walls were little more than a shelter from the Lakeland weather. But it was well placed at the edge of the woodland in front of Stapley Hall, secure between the belts of wire, quiet and hidden from the watchful eyes of the Ältestenrat. Lindsay began with the officers of the
U-112
, the Nazi roughnecks, Bruns and Koch, as sullen and aggressively silent as they had been at Trent Park. The first officer, Gretschel, decent but clever and disciplined, was not to be tempted into unguarded confidences. He was restless, uncomfortable, playing with his cigarettes, and there was a slight contraction of his pupils when he was asked about the bruises on Heine’s face, but he refused to do more than repeat the statement he had given the Military Police. And the young midshipman, Bischoff, was grim and fixed-jawed, afraid lest he forget his well-rehearsed lines:

‘I only spoke to Leutnant Heine a couple of times in the days before he died. He was very upset, he hated being a prisoner. Footsteps, lights, a banging door, almost anything seemed to set him off.’

Lindsay asked Bischoff about the bruises but he refused to say any more or look him in the eye. Bischoff could be broken in time and in a different place. His relief when the guard came to take him away was almost tangible. Lindsay stepped outside the hut with a cigarette to watch the soldiers shepherd him along the fence. He had given the sergeant instructions to observe Bischoff closely when he joined the other prisoners. It was Bruns who found him first, placing a reassuring arm about his shoulders – at least that was how the gesture appeared to the sergeant from the other side of the wire.

The other naval officers presented the same story. Heine’s death was a surprise. How could it have happened? The commander of the
500
, Fischer, said he should have done more to help the dead man come to terms with being a prisoner. Richter, his engineer, felt keenly
responsible. He knew Heine’s mindset and how it was tormented by the loss of the
112
.

‘He was ill. A sort of combat sickness and haunted by the thought that he had failed.’

‘Failed?’ Lindsay had asked.

‘He thought he could have done more to save the boat.’

All the prisoners were lying. He had expected them to. After two tobacco-fuelled days gently probing, Lindsay was left with the overwhelming impression of evasion and fear. Lieutenant Duncan sat in on the first day’s interrogations. His German was not strong enough to follow the interviews closely but he was a canny judge and he could sense the prisoners’ fear too. At the end of the second day, he visited Lindsay again: ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You haven’t seen Mohr yet?’

‘No.’

Lindsay pulled the door of the hut to and stepped out from beneath the shade of the surrounding trees into the evening sunshine. He stood there soaking it in through every pore, a light breeze ruffling his hair.

‘I’ll see Lange and Schmidt and Mohr tomorrow. I want to talk to them in the washroom where he died.’

Duncan raised his eyebrows: ‘Why?’