The Shadow of Treason (16 page)

Something in the newspaper had caught Mrs Hart’s eye, and her attention was straying. ‘It’s all right, George,’ she said vaguely. ‘Don’t say anything you might regret.’

George’s resolve stiffened. ‘No, I’m not going to let those thugs scare me. Mind, you’d have to promise not to repeat anything.’

But the lady’s mind was now elsewhere, and she failed to reply.

‘Right,’ said George, undaunted. ‘I’ll tell you.’ He launched into a long and lurid account of Paynter’s exploits, and let his coffee get cold again.

‘Rotten sod!’ said Jane. ‘And in a letter! He hadn’t the nerve to tell you to your face!’

‘Alfie’s never liked scenes,’ said Maggie. ‘He’s got less guts than a kipper.’ The two girls were eating sandwiches in the Windmill canteen, while the Accordion Aces held the stage. ‘Anyway, there it is, I’ve got the elbow. I’ve got to be out by Sunday night. And he says if ever I talk to a newspaper again, he’s got some friends who’ll give me a hard time.’

‘The bastard!’ said Jane. And then a thought struck her. ‘Again? Does that mean you did talk to the paper?’

‘Not exactly. At least, I never meant to.’

‘But you did?’

‘Well, it was this boy I met in the pub, you see. He thought I was very good in the show. Said he’d like to introduce me to a friend of his, who’s a big agent.’

‘You didn’t fall for that one? It’s so old, it’s got whiskers.’

‘Not really, I suppose. The thing was, he looks a bit like Errol Flynn. And Alfie was away. So I said he could come back to the flat for a drink. How was I to know he was a reporter?’

‘Weren’t you suspicious when he started asking questions?’

‘He never did. He was all action. But it seems he spotted Alfie’s name on some papers. Alfie’s quite well known, you know.’

‘Yes. I’ve heard him on the radio saying how we should all pull together.’

‘Then it turns out this bloke was back the next day when I was out. He talked to the neighbours. Then he wrote a spicy story for the
Sunday Pictorial
. They’re going to print the stuff, and somehow Alfie got to hear about it.’

‘Oh well, it’ll get you talked about. Can’t be bad for your career.’

‘That’s what I thought. I told Sandy, “Make sure you spell my name right.”’

‘Sandy?’

‘That’s the reporter. “Randy Sandy” I called him. He didn’t seem to mind. I said, “Put me down as nineteen, and say I’m fond of animals.”’

‘Hang on. So you did give this man an interview?’

‘Only after he’d already got the story. Couldn’t do any harm then, could it? I wish they’d put more marge in these
sandwiches
.’

Jane sighed. ‘Oh dear. So you’re out in the cold. And Adam and I are at Vic’s place. Otherwise you could have gone there. Anyway, I’m sure we could squeeze you in.’

‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t go back to Vic’s. He’s a lovely feller but I can’t take all those jokes before lunch.’

‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘I think I’ve just got time for a doughnut.’

‘A doughnut? D’you think VD would approve?’

‘If he doesn’t, he shouldn’t have them on sale here, should he? It’s all right, I’ll work it off in the can-can.’

‘Maggie, I meant, where are you going to live?’

‘For starters, I’m going back to Mum and Dad’s for a bit. Catch up on some sleep. Get made a fuss of. They’re great.’

Maggie fetched a doughnut from the counter, picking up a packet of biscuits at the same time. Jane listened to the relay from the stage. When Maggie returned, she observed, ‘They’re into “The Isle Of Capri”. We’ve got eight minutes.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Maggie. ‘We’ll eat the biscuits later during the Nuns’ Chorus.’

‘Are you going to be dating this Sandy?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. Turns out he’s got a steady girlfriend.’

‘Hard luck. Are you still going out with Phil?’

‘Yes. Just for laughs. You know he’s as queer as a nine-bob note?’

‘Well, that’s the way he comes across.’

‘It’s genuine. Beneath that camp exterior there’s a great big fairy queen. But he’s sweet and he’s funny and I like him.’

‘But you want something more than that, don’t you?’

‘All in good time. Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Very
soon there’s going to be thousands of big brawny blokes coming back from the Forces. I’m keeping myself available.’ Maggie bit a large chunk from her doughnut. ‘Talking of brawny blokes, how’s your man? Coping all right?’

‘Just about,’ said Jane. ‘It isn’t easy. He’s gone down to Essex today, still trying to find out what’s been going on. Tell you the truth, I’m worried sick.’

‘He’ll be all right,’ said Maggie. ‘He can look after himself, I reckon.’ She took another bite from her doughnut.

Even in wartime, commuter trains between London and Shoeburyness, via Southend-on-Sea, were crowded at both ends of the day. It seemed that half the male population of south-east Essex, if too old for the forces and too young to retire, chose to brave the bombs and continue to earn their living in the capital, while enjoying fresh air at home.

So mornings found the railway carriages packed with men in city suits on their way to London, reading their morning papers or playing cards. And the late afternoon saw the reverse process: this time they read evening papers or snoozed after a day at the office.

But in the middle of the day the service, now reduced to one train an hour, was little used. The attractions of a day trip to the seaside were much reduced in those years, with Southend Pier closed and the beaches lined with barbed wire and gun emplacements, inaccessible to the public.

At 1 p.m. Adam found little activity at Fenchurch Street Station, that most functional and least romantic of London’s railway termini. He had a scarf casually covering much of his face, as he leaned into the booking-office window to buy his day-return ticket. He was sure the police must ask booking clerks to look out for wanted men.

However, the bespectacled little man in the booking office, who was wearing a patterned sleeveless pullover and listening to
Workers’ Playtime
on the radio, showed no interest in Adam. And the same was true of the few porters pushing occasional
trolleys on the platform. The 1.10 for Southend was already waiting, the engine letting off sporadic bursts of steam into the chilly air. Adam easily found an empty compartment, and made himself comfortable in a corner seat by the window.

Two minutes later a disembodied voice announced that the train was leaving, then a whistle was blown, the guard waved a green flag, and the train moved off.

Adam intended to use the fifty-minute journey to make plans, both immediate and long term. His priority was to decide what he should do at this rendezvous with the whisky merchant. His purpose was to try and penetrate the Essex underworld and find out who killed Maurice Cooper. But how should he proceed? Should he chum up with the fellow, order more Scotch, arrange further meetings, and hope that
somewhere
along the line some clue might turn up, something that would lead him to the truth? Or should he put the man in an arm lock and twist until he told all he knew?

The latter course would be morally justified, for black
marketeers
were criminals, but it depended on the man being unaccompanied, and less powerful than Adam. On the whole, Adam favoured the first option. But that could end in him simply going back to London with bottles of expensive whisky, and none the wiser. The thought produced a wry smile: at least Vic Dudley wouldn’t feel his journey had been wasted.

Then there was the bigger question. He knew now that Jane Hart was the girl with whom he wanted to share his life. But how could it be possible? He felt he could prove himself not guilty of murder. But he couldn’t deny charges of stealing Adam Webber’s identity, false pretences at the Marine Research Unit, resisting arrest, and God knows what else.

He faced prison, or life on the run. Jane had said she couldn’t tolerate the latter, though he still nursed a faint hope of enticing her to a new life in Canada. But would that be fair on either of them, with the time-bomb of possible exposure forever ticking away?

Should he heed Jane’s plea and give himself up? That would
mean at least two or three years in jail. Jane had said she’d wait for him, but a lot could change in two years. And, anyway, could he face being locked up?

A third option had been growing in his mind, the darkest of all. He found he cared a great deal about Jane’s welfare. Would it be better for her if he got out of her life? Perhaps he should never go back to Vic’s flat. Maybe he should revert to his first plan: after all, a fugitive can travel faster on his own. Now that he had a few pounds in his pocket (which he’d somehow repay later), surely he could get to a port and smuggle himself onto a ship. Jane would be better off without him. She’d pine for a while, but she’d get over it. Eventually, she’d forget him. But would he ever forget her?

As he pondered these things, Adam peered listlessly through the carriage window at the changing scenery moving gently past for his inspection.

The bleak grey streets of London’s East End had given way to rows of neat suburban houses, their gardens backing onto the railway line. Normal people were getting on with their normal lives, hanging out washing, feeding the birds, playing with small children, and tending flowerbeds or vegetable patches (the British public were still being urged to Dig for Victory, by growing things you could eat). Adam envied all these folk.

Then the train was out into open country. Here and there, the creeks and dykes of the Essex marshes were reflecting the light from a pale sun. A lot of mud banks were on view, for the tide was out in the Thames Estuary. There was little sign of human life. Sea-birds were stalking about in the low water and on the scrubland, or standing in statuesque stillness, apparently gazing into the far distance, as if awaiting some great event.

From time to time small boats were to be seen, some
upside-down
among the reeds and bulrushes, perhaps abandoned.

None of this did anything for Adam’s problems. Eventually he began to doze, half recalling his first night with Jane, and half-dreaming they were together on a beach.

The changing rhythm of the wheels on the tracks eased Adam out of his slumber. The train was slowing down. Soon the engine stopped and let off steam, and the rural voice of a porter was heard shouting ‘Chalksea! Chalksea! This is Chalksea!’ in tones that carried a hint of pride.

This was fair enough, for it was quite a pretty little station. There were flowerbeds at each end of the platform, and hanging baskets dangled from a few vantage points. The overhead wooden canopy seemed freshly painted and the edge of the platform was newly whitewashed. Facing the train, on the outside wall of the waiting-room, neat posters reminded
travellers
that Careless Talk Costs Lives, and urged them to Know Your Fire Drill.

As Adam alighted from the train, he noticed two men getting out further along. They had long canvas sheaths slung over their shoulders, like golf bags, but these weren’t full of golf clubs. The men seemed to be carrying fishing rods, and Adam recalled that the river was not far away.

The pair exchanged greetings with the porter, who by now was standing at the little wooden gate that led to the outside world. He waved them through: obviously they had season tickets.

It seemed these two and Adam were the only arrivals. The guard had got out and enjoyed a brief chat with an old man who was tending one of the flowerbeds. No one had got on the train. Now the guard looked at his watch, checked that the
platform
was clear, gave a superfluous shout of ‘Stand clear of the doors!’, blew his whistle and waved his flag. The train ground slowly into motion again.

As it began to move, a door at the rear of the train opened and a middle-aged man in a dark suit stepped lightly out, closing the door behind him. Ignoring an angry shout from the guard, he paused a moment to survey the scene, and then began to stroll along the platform, his rolled umbrella slanted over his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle.

Adam didn’t see him. He was already at the barrier, fumbling
in a pocket for his ticket. When he produced it, the porter said ‘I thank you’ in an affable manner. It was obviously his
catch-phrase
, borrowed from the radio. But there was a hint of suspicion on his face. He was wondering what this young man, obviously of military age but not in uniform, was doing in Chalksea in the middle of the day without a fishing rod.

His unease deepened when the passenger asked the way to the Home Guard firing range. Adam had the directions Sniffer Dean had given over the phone but Sniffer wasn’t that articulate and Adam thought it wise to get confirmation.

‘Up the road and turn left,’ said the porter. ‘Then right at the crossroads. But that’s a government place, you can’t go in there.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Adam. ‘It’s official business.’

He passed through the gate, and began to walk up the country lane.

It should have been a pleasant walk. The trees and bushes were still in leaf, and wild flowers lingered in the hedgerows. Birds were singing and from the meadow beyond the hedge came the occasional sound of cows mooing.

But, in fact, it was irksome. For one thing, it was uphill all the way. It had been a ten-minute trudge to the crossroads, and a further five since. For another thing, Adam was apprehensive and in no mood to enjoy the scenery. He was wondering what awaited him. And he still had no plan of action. He would have to improvize, and he mustn’t waste this opportunity.

For the last hundred yards the roadside hedge had been replaced by a fence, and at last Adam came to a gate, beside which a notice proclaimed ‘Ministry of Defence Property: Keep Out’. Over the gate Adam could see a footpath leading across a field to a timber shack, like a cricket pavilion. There were no sentries. Indeed, there was no sign of life at all. The gate was unlocked. Adam opened it and went through, reflecting that if Hitler still planned to invade, this was the place to choose. As he walked up the path, the only sound was the trill of a robin. By the shack was a sign saying ‘Danger! Live Ammunition in
Use!’ Next to it, a red flag hung from a white flagpole. The firing range must start behind the building but currently no ammunition of any sort was in use.