The Secret Generations (23 page)

‘
The tales come in by the dozen.’ The DI had an easy manner, and was not put off by Dove’s presence. ‘Mainly false leads, but we have a couple of interesting possibilities – Oh, by the way, we were informed about both of you, and your DC Dobbs…’

‘
Dobbs? Who’s Dobbs?’ blustered Dove.

‘
One of my men. Here with us,’ Wood said crisply, immediately turning back to Partridge. ‘You’ve talked to Dobbs?’ – Only Charles caught the fragment of concern in Wood’s voice. The DI would be worried lest Dobbs, a slightly less experienced officer, had been indiscreet about Mrs Churchill, and the true reason for their presence in Cromer.

Wood shook his head,
‘Not personally, but the beat constable chatted with him – saw his warrant card. He didn’t mention you. Claimed he was here on leave, but my fellow reported the incident: a new face on the seafront, you know. My lads can spot holidaymakers. They also sniff people who seem out of place. Your Mr Dobbs was very obviously not on holiday. Also the Queen’s Head reported two new guests yesterday, and another who joined them today. People around here have become very suspicious.’

‘
No bad thing,’ Charles was impressed. ‘You mentioned a couple of possibilities?’

‘
Our old friend the flashing lights, sir. From the area around the golf links just down the coast, near Overstrand: and a waiter at the Hotel de Paris.’ He pronounced it Hotel dee Paris. ‘The man’s been there about a year now; registered last week under the Aliens Restriction Act, as a Dutch citizen, though we know he talked about taking out papers of naturalization when he first came…’

Wood briskly asked the man
’s name.

‘
Sklave. Joost van Sklave.’

‘
Von
Sklave, I’d wager.’ Wood rose. ‘May I use a telephone? Sklave is German for Slave. Better check it with Naturalization, and the Alien Central Register.’

Partridge put up a hand to stop him.
‘Please, just hear me out. Friend Sklave does not know that I’ve had a man watching him. Not full time, of course, but mainly on Sklave’s days off, and sometimes after work. Two things about him. He visits Norwich every other week, where he sees a woman called Hilda Fox. The Norwich people’ve helped me there. She arrived about five years ago. Real name Hilda Fuchs.’

‘
I’ll check her as well.’ Wood moved another two paces towards the door, but was again halted by Partridge.

‘
That’s not all. Sklave is in the habit of taking long walks, late at night, as far as the links near Overstrand.’

‘
You caught him at it?’ Charles leaned forward.

‘
All new to me. Why haven’t I been informed?’ Superintendent Dove obviously felt left out of things.

‘
With respect, sir, you have. All in the daily reports.’ Partridge answered his superior first, before returning to Charles’ question. ‘We’ve caught him at nothing, sir. We do know he is in possession of a powerful torch. Any of this help, sir?’

‘
It might.’ Charles turned to Wood. ‘Brian, you’d best see if the Register really has everything about Sklave, and Fuchs. If not, then I suggest your Guv’nor gets someone onto the Fuchs woman. You have an address, Partridge?’

The DI nodded.

‘Right. Then I think we should mount some kind of operation on Sklave here and now. Brian, when you’ve finished talking to your guv’nor, I’ll have a word with my chief.’ At last he turned back to Dove. ‘Superintendent, I have to remind you that this is highly confidential. I have to ask you to speak to nobody about this conversation – not even your wife.’

‘
Mrs Dove is…’

‘
The soul of discretion, I’ve no doubt.’ Charles stood up and went to the door, following Brian Wood.

*

A warm, airless night followed the heat of the day. Dobbs, after a short break covered by Brian Wood, was back on duty, watching the Churchills’ rented house; and Charles, together with Wood, Partridge, and four local plainclothes officers, began their surveillance on the waiter, Sklave.

The quartet of locals were told it was a routine watching assignment. In reality they were being kept in reserve, posted at strategic points near the Hotel de Paris, along the road to Overstrand
– some two and a half miles up the coast, and at good vantage points on the golf links, nearer to Cromer.

All had specific orders to do nothing unless summoned by three quick whistle blasts from DI Wood, or
‘Mr Rathbone’.

Charles took up his post near the hotel, strolling along the seafront, conscious of the heavy Webley revolver tucked under his coat. His mind was on the protection of Mrs Churchill and the family, though occasionally it strayed to his son William Arthur whose fourth birthday it was next week. The boy was a sturdy little fellow now, and Charles wondered if this job could be completed in time for him to be at the excitedly-planned birthday party.

Both Wood and Partridge were close at hand; Wood with instructions to stay well in front, but in sight, of Charles; while Partridge was to keep to the rear. Sklave, Partridge said, was not devious. ‘Not yet anyway. He has no reason to think we’re on to him, and he behaves like a creature of habit. If he is going to take one of his walks tonight, he should leave by the staff entrance a mite before eleven.’

As it turned out, that was exactly what he did.

Partridge – the only one of the three able to make positive identification – stayed back, on the inland side of the road. As various members of the hotel staff emerged from the rear of the hotel, Charles would glance across, in the dimmed street – waiting for Partridge to light a cigarette: the signal that it was their man.

Just before eleven, a slight figure walked quickly across the road from the hotel, and Charles saw the match flare. From then on, he concentrated on the man he now knew was Sklave. They had certain details about him from the Central Register. He had declared his age as thirty-two, born in Am
sterdam, unmarried son of a café proprietor. In London they were already cross-checking the facts; just as they were also looking into the background of the Fox woman.

Sklave, Charles considered, was ideal espionage material. The reports said that he was well liked in the hotel: quiet, helpful, unassuming, thorough
– a perfect waiter, and very useful; as he spoke his ‘native’ Dutch, together with French, German and Spanish.

True to Partridge
’s word, Sklave set off, at a steady pace, towards the golf links near Overstrand.

Charles wore heavy, rubber-soled boots and moved silently behind the man.

Sklave stepped out, looking neither to left nor right, nor, indeed, over his shoulder. What was more, he wore studded boots which clicked on the pavement, allowing Charles to fall back slightly. This noise factor also meant that Wood could place himself even further forward, so their quarry could never catch sight of him. As a suspect, Sklave was almost too good to be true.

It took three-quarters of an hour before they reached the links. The moon was up; and all who watched could see the small figure walk upright across the broad open land, taking up a position towards the sea, near the fourth hole. Charles was not the only one to immediately realize that Sklave had chosen the ideal part of the course, roomy, flat and uncluttered.

It was there, on the fourth green, that Joost van Sklave sat down and waited.

Earlier in the evening, the moon had been a great silver ball, tinged with red, low in the sky. Now the light dwindled, soon there was total darkness, and a silence broken only by sea noise and the occasional sound of a predatory bird or animal. Once, Charles heard a screech owl and wondered if this was natural, so close to the sea. He was used to hearing them at Redhill Manor, but townspeople, he had discovered, were superstitious, and held the sound of an owl in a heavily populated area to be a sign of death.

Slowly, the watchers’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, and they became as cats; seeing, hearing and moving with a stealth which comes only through training and experience. Charles sensed someone nearby, and slipped the Webley from its webbing holster set under his jacket, high against his ribs. It was Brian Wood, crawling through the grass to whisper, asking the MO5 officer what he thought about the situation.

‘
He’s either wise to us, and out to give us a lesson; or he’s waiting for something; or he just likes it here.’

He saw Wood nod. They continued to wait
– until almost four in the morning.

Then it came without
warning. Straining his eyes constantly, Charles hardly stopped watching the small dark mound he knew was Sklave. Quite suddenly, the mound moved, and the waiter’s body became silhouetted against the sky – now the colour of sun-dried, tilled soil. Both Wood and Charles half rose, Charles realizing he was still clutching the Webley.

Sklave stood like a scented animal, head cocked to one side. Then he lifted his right arm, holding it stretched in front of him. Charles saw plainly that it was pointing towards the sea, raised at a rough forty-five degree angle. Then, the torch came
on, like a blast of contained fire flying upwards from a magician’s fingers: on-off, on-off, on-off. Then darkness.

Not complete darkness, for Charles caught a tiny gleam, in the sky directly ahead of them
– there and gone in a second. Then another; and, as he looked, Sklave lit the torch again, the beam pointed in the general direction of where he had seen the pinpoint glitters of light.

When the noise came, he found it difficult to identify
– a flapping sound, like the wind slapping against sail. The noise grew louder, and then he saw it, almost at the moment when he recognized the sound – a flying machine, coming in low, without power. The pilot must have flown in high over the North Sea; then, navigating by the stars, cut his engine, to glide in towards the coast, finally lining up with Sklave’s signal light. It was no mean feat, and Charles wondered how many times the pilot had done it before – all these thoughts telescoped into a fraction of time.

The wind made a great humming noise in the rigging wires between the wings; while the slapping sound was air, banging against the fabric as the aeroplane fought to stay aloft in the final moments of its controlled glide. Then, with an audible bump and rumble, the thing was down
– on the golf course – speed slowing as the tail slewed from side to side, and, finally, right round so that the craft faced back in the direction of its approach.

The machine itself seemed close enough to touch, now the sky was turning from dark grey to pearl, as the first signs of dawn streaked the horizon. A
big black two-winged bird, square and ugly as a box, with great slabs sprouting to left and right, and a large snout-like beak ending in a propeller. An Aviatik BII, Austrian built, with a crew of two, speed of almost a shattering seventy miles an hour, and four hours’ endurance – just enough to make it over the dangerous waters of the North Sea and back. Charles understood, now, why Kell insisted on his officers studying and learning everything to do with Britain’s potential enemies – including how to immediately recognize German and Austrian aeroplanes, ships, uniforms, insignia and badges.

Now Sklave stood by the fuselage, helping someone from the rear cockpit
– first some kind of suitcase, then a figure climbing down.

Sklave, and his new companion from the clouds, moved with the kind of precision you expect to see on a parade ground. Wood whispered urgently and a shade too loud.
‘Now sir? We get them now?’

Charles reached out a restraining hand, speaking low,
‘I’m not interested in getting the pilot. Give them some rope. Let them go. See where they lead us.’

One of the figures, it was impossible to tell which, had moved to the front of the aeroplane. You could clearly hear the breath come out of his lungs as he heaved twice on the propeller. Then, the engine fired with a roar which, Charles thought, must surely wake even the dead in Cromer cemetery.

Under cover of the noise, he drew closer to Wood. ‘Can you find Partridge?’

Wood nodded, his face clear in the half light.

‘Get to him, then. I want the visitor followed. Both of them followed. I need to know what they’re up to. Reports every half-hour or so. Tell Partridge to be prepared to follow them, on whatever transport they use.’

Wood nodded,
‘And you?’

‘
I’ll be back at the station – police station. Arrest only if things get difficult.’

Wood nodded, moving away just as the aeroplane
’s engine rose in a roar. The machine quivered, started to trundle forward, then bumped and rattled over the grass, until its tail lifted and the slim spoked wheels left the ground as it took to its natural element.

The noise died away as the machine grew smaller, tilting then climbing, setting course for home.

Charles was so fascinated by the thing that it took the sound of voices to bring him back to reality. Joost van Sklave and his companion trudged through the grass, coming almost directly towards him. He flattened against the ground, face so close to the earth that the scent of damp, dew-drenched grass filled his nostrils, reminding him of early mornings with Mildred, when they had first visited Redhill Manor as a newly wedded couple. Twice, during that wonderful time, they had crept from the house, out into the meadows on fine summer mornings, to make love at dawn in the long damp grass – naked, unrestrained, and as near to nature as they could imagine.