The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (22 page)

The trees were slowly turning to their autumn colours, and the cooler evening sunshine filtered through the leaves to dapple the ground.

‘I hope so too,’ Wiles said.

‘You’ll just keep… listening to it?’ Guy asked.

‘That’s the way to get started. We’ll play it over and over till we can remember every detail. Then we’ll play it again, and we’ll hear something we missed. We’ll play it backwards,
in pieces, write it down in different forms of notation, look at it every which way. You always see – or in this case hear – something new.’

‘Some clue, you mean?’ Sarah said.

‘Eventually, one of us will find a way in. It’s like a maze we have to navigate. But the first stage is finding the entrance. Once we’ve done that at least we have a path to start down. It might be a repeated phrase, it might be the fact that nothing seems to be repeated. Could be anything, really.’ He smiled. ‘But whatever you do, no matter how urgent it is, you can’t rush these things. Once you’ve got your way in, once you can begin to see what you’re dealing with,
then
perhaps you can rush.’

As she turned the car out of Bletchley Park, Sarah said: ‘What’s the most tangible evidence we have? The most comprehensive?’

‘The coffin or sarcophagus or whatever it is that Davenport brought back. And the Ubermensch itself.’

‘Elizabeth Archer’s examining that. I mean, out of what you and I understand. Reports, papers, that sort of thing?’

Pentecross thought through what he’d read. It was all second hand.

‘Put it this way,’ Sarah said, ‘what do we
know
? Out of all this, is there anything we know for sure?’

‘That UDTs exist, not least because you saw one.’

‘True. Go on.’

‘There’s Hess, of course. But the more we learn from him the more obvious it is that he’s hardly a reliable witness.’

‘He doesn’t actually know very much,’ Sarah agreed. ‘And we can’t be sure that what he tells us is the truth even as he perceives it.’

‘We know about the archaeological dig in France, from Davenport and because he brought back… something. That’s real and tangible.’ What else, Guy wondered. ‘We know that the Ubermensch at the British Museum died in the fire at Shingle Bay…’

‘But how does it all fit together?’ Sarah wondered.

‘Wait a minute,’ Guy had thought of something. ‘Shingle Bay. That’s what we know for sure – that either the Germans or the Ubermensch had a reason to come to Shingle Bay.’

‘Or both of them did. But what reason?’

‘Exactly,’ Pentecross agreed. ‘
Why
did they come? Why come at all, and why
there
?’

‘We should do what Wiles said,’ Sarah told him. ‘With the Shingle Bay report. With whatever Green can tell us.’

Guy nodded. Wiles’ words had struck a chord with him too. ‘We go over it all again,’ he agreed. ‘Look at it over and over, every which way. Forwards, backwards, sideways, whatever it takes. It’s not that we’ve missed something,’ he realised. ‘But there’s always more to find.’

Some things had to be learned from people rather than books. Between visiting libraries and bookshops, reading newspapers and watching newsreels and films, he spoke to people. Or rather, he listened to people.

There was a law of diminishing returns. The same sort of people that he found in the same sort of places tended to provide the same sort of information about the world in general and London in particular. Occasionally, he found someone who could add information, colour, depth to what he already knew. Less frequently he learned entirely new information. The hardest to assimilate was social behaviour – which seemed to embody a mass of contradictory data and advice. But slowly, the Ubermensch was learning.

The Ubermensch was learning to derive information from implicit sources, to make assumptions and test them, as well as simply absorb what he was told or read. But he had to protect himself and his existence. Often he could gather information without giving away anything about himself. But sometimes an information provider learned or guessed too much, or asked too many questions of their own. Or had something the Ubermensch needed – like an Identity Card.

The young man had told the Ubermensch his name was Jeff Wood. He was on leave from the army, he said. But the
information he provided about his army life was inconsistent and ambivalent. Conclusion: Jeff was not in the army. Conclusion: Jeff was a liar.

‘But if you want to know about women,’ Jeff said, putting down his pint, ‘I can tell you everything you need to know.’

‘I need to know everything,’ the Ubermensch replied. For the purposes of this meeting, his identity was Robbie Stone. The real Robbie Stone had been an Air Raid Warden who asked too many questions about the Ubermensch’s life and background, where he lived, who he
was
. The real Robbie Stone had told him everything.

Jeff talked his way through another two pints. ‘Robbie Stone’ barely touched his own bitter. But he paid for Jeff’s drinks with money that used to belong to a barmaid, which (he now understood) was ironic.

‘Pilot, was you?’ Jeff asked at last. They all asked eventually. They all had different ideas about why he looked the way he did.

‘You think I was burned?’

‘Well, you do look a bit… done over.’ Jeff smiled apologetically and slurped more beer. ‘Had to bail out, did you? I admire you RAF boys, I really do. Though it ain’t easy in the army.’

The Ubermensch was aware that he still attracted attention. The hat worn low and the turned-up coat collar helped deflect attention. But it was impossible to get this close to someone, close enough to ask questions, without them seeing the sunken eyes, the withered skin. Water helped, rehydrating his body. But it would take months before he could truly pass as normal.

‘You were never in the army,’ the Ubermensch said. A simple statement of fact. He stood up.

‘What you saying?’ Jeff demanded.

‘You are a liar. You have avoided service, ignored the call-up. You buy and sell on the black market.’

Jeff started to stand up, but ‘Robbie’ put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down onto the bar stool. The
wrinkled, skeletal hand should have been weak and ineffectual, but Jeff slumped down under its unexpected strength.

‘All right, so I buy and sell. No harm in it. What are you after? Coupons? You want coupons? I can get you coupons. Petrol, meat, anything.’

‘Tell me how it works. How you get what you want. How you sell it on.’

Jeff’s eyes narrowed. If he had drunk less he might have decided enough was enough. But instead, he judged that there was no harm now in telling Robbie a little – just a little of what he really did. He spoke, uninterrupted save for the occasional specific question, for an hour.

‘Have you told me everything?’

‘Course I have.’

Robbie nodded. ‘Good.’ He stood up.

To anyone watching, it would have looked like a gesture, a flick of the hand in farewell, nothing more. After the man in the hat and the coat with the high collar left, it would have seemed that the young man who’d drunk too much had simply slumped against the wall, resting his head against the panelling.

THE OFFICE WAS
deserted apart from Miss Manners. She peered over the top of her spectacles and her typewriter as Davenport hung his coat on the rack by the door.

‘Everyone on leave?’ he asked.

‘Only you, apparently.’

‘I don’t think I get leave, do I?’ He smiled. ‘I’ll gladly take it if I do.’

Miss Manners returned her attention to the papers on her desk. ‘Colonel Brinkman is at the War Rooms. Miss Diamond has taken herself off somewhere, and the others are down there.’ She nodded at the door leading to the kitchenette and back offices. ‘So where have you been these last few weeks?’

‘Some of us have a crust to earn. And a reputation to keep up. Though I doubt I’ve been doing that.’

‘Oh?’

‘Propaganda film. Not that they call it that of course. But it will show our exaggeratedly brave soldiers defeating a woefully inept Wehrmacht.’

Miss Manners sniffed. ‘How uplifting.’

‘I play the dashing captain of a troop ship off to… I’m not sure actually. Somewhere in Scandinavia, I think.’

‘Is anyone famous in it?’

Davenport laughed. ‘Careful, Miss Manners. I think I detected the hint of a smile just then.’

There was more than a hint as she looked up again. ‘Unlikely.’

The smaller of the two spare offices was where Davenport found Guy Pentecross and Sergeant Green. The two desks had been pushed up against the walls, which were themselves covered with typed reports, handwritten notes, maps and photographs held in place with drawing pins.

‘We can go over it as many times as you like, sir,’ Green was saying as Davenport came in. ‘But that won’t change what happened.’

‘I’m not trying to change what happened, just interpret it,’ Guy said. He nodded at Davenport. ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Film,’ Davenport told them. ‘Don’t ask. So, what’s going on here? You having fun?’ He singled out one of the photographs, a view over a curving bay with pebbled beaches. Dark grey clouds hung heavily in the air. ‘Shingle Bay?’ he guessed.

‘Trying to work out what was going on there,’ Guy told him. ‘I mean, why there in particular?’

‘Good thought. And you reckon going over what we know, time and again, looking at it in different ways… You think that might throw some light on the German intentions?’

‘It’s the approach Dr Wiles takes to his code breaking. I thought it might work here.’

‘And does it?’

‘No,’ Green said shortly. ‘If you ask me, we’re wasting our time.’

‘Only if we have better things to do,’ Davenport said. ‘And I for one don’t, it being a bit early for lunch.’

As he spoke, he walked slowly round the small room, inspecting the papers, maps and pictures. ‘The conclusion at the time,’ he said at last, ‘was that… Ah yes, here we are.’ He had found the short report he was looking for – pinned between a photograph of the church on top of the cliffs above the bay and a requisition order for two fuel tanker trucks.

‘We thought they were after the RADAR station at Bawsey Manor,’ Green said. ‘A raid, possibly to recover equipment.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘Except that it doesn’t make sense,’ Guy said.

All three of them were standing by the Ordnance Survey map for the area. Davenport located Bawsey with his index finger. He put another finger on Shingle Bay. ‘They
are
fairly close, so it seems a reasonable assumption. There’s nothing else nearby of any note.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Guy agreed. ‘But then it occurred to me that we’re looking at this backwards.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He means,’ Green said, ‘that we’re looking at where the raid came ashore and trying to guess where they were going.’

‘But if we put ourselves in the enemy’s shoes,’ Pentecross said, ‘and try to think how we’d plan the raid in the first place…’

‘Yes,’ Davenport said, nodding quickly. ‘That’s good. That’s very good. Worthy of Stanislavski.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re assuming that was a compliment,’ Davenport told him. ‘But let’s follow this through. Green – how would you plan a raid on Bawsey Manor?’

‘Well, Major Pentecross is right. From Shingle Bay, the only sensible target is the RADAR station. But if I was planning to get a raiding party
to
the RADAR station, I wouldn’t choose Shingle Bay as my landing zone.’

‘Hoping for the element of surprise, perhaps?’

‘I’d have to hope for that anyway. And it didn’t exactly work. But I’d put ashore here, or even here,’ Green pointed at two other small coves on the map, ‘before I considered Shingle Bay. We’ve been over it several times, and the tides are better, the water is shallower, this cove is further from any military units though they might not know that…’

‘There’s another thing,’ Guy said. ‘Why head for Bawsey Manor at all?

‘A reconnaissance mission, to find out about the RADAR, possibly take back components and equipment. That was the assumption,’ Davenport said.

Guy smiled. ‘All right, but take things back another step. If that was the objective, then you wouldn’t choose Bawsey as your target. There are other RADAR stations, which we can assume the Germans know about, that are more isolated and vulnerable to a raid. If that was what they were up to they’d never have come to Bawsey, which is right in the middle of an army training area, at all. Never mind Shingle Bay, they’d have targeted a different installation entirely.’

They talked round the problem again, checking the maps and documents.

‘Well, I can’t fault your conclusions,’ Davenport said at last. ‘But it doesn’t help if we still don’t know what their objective really was.’

‘And we won’t find that out by talking about it,’ Green complained. ‘We know less now than we thought we did when we started.’

‘We need more information,’ Guy admitted. ‘But I have no idea where we’ll get it.’

New information arrived that afternoon with the return of Sarah Diamond. There wasn’t room in the small office, so they moved into the conference room next door. Brinkman was still out at meetings, but Miss Manners left her telephone and typewriter to join them.

Sarah had a large envelope which she laid on the table. ‘I have no idea if these will help, but it occurred to me that there must be a lot going on in that area that isn’t shown on the map.’

‘Such as?’ Green asked.

‘Well, we only know that Bawsey Manor is a RADAR station because we have a list of all the RADAR stations. There’s nothing on the map to say that it’s of importance. The map doesn’t show temporary structures, or anything much to do with the war effort.’

‘That’s true,’ Guy said. ‘But whatever they were after, the Germans would have to know about it somehow.’

‘Exactly, so I asked myself how they might find out.’

‘Spies,’ Green said.

‘They don’t have any spies,’ Davenport said. ‘Oh they think they do, but…’ He smiled. ‘Forget I said that. Just take it from me that the Germans aren’t getting any useful or significant information from agents in this country.’