Troubled Midnight (28 page)

Above, some five steps away, Curry Shepherd and two of the men from the Branch were still hurtling towards the point where Suzie had been taken. They had seen the whole thing as they gently closed in, purposely staying back to let their quarry take the bait: but they had not counted on the size of the crowd on the steps. They saw people to Suzie’s left and right – a woman and an RAF officer - move away naturally, and the tall officer in khaki, wearing the red beret of the Airborne Forces, hard behind her. They saw her turn and then witnessed the man’s quick reaction, his fist coming back to pound a hard straight right into Suzie’s face. At the same moment, with expert timing a jeep hurtled from among the cars gathered to the right, screeching up to the pavement as Captain ‘Bomber’ Puxley hurled Suzie’s rag doll crumpled body into the jeep and leaped in after her, wedging her between himself and the driver.

Curry shouted towards the redcaps below him. But the jeep was by now burning rubber some fifty yards away.

Chapter Twenty

THERE WAS SILENCE around her, the smell of burned wood, petrol and the throb of an engine. She shook her head and realised that she was being held around her upper arms and something seemed to be wrong with her lower jaw, sharp pain creasing the side of her face and down the jawbone, so severe that when she tried to move her hands up to feel the flesh and bone, her wrists seemed to be manacled together.

“Turn it off,” she heard Puxley say. “Turn the engine off.”

The driver moved and the engine died. “Good job you made alternative arrangements, sir. Bloody good job.”

She knew the driver’s voice, and closed her eyes, trying to put the face to the voice.

“What do we do now, then, Cap’n Puxley?”

She knew it now. The ultimate treachery. Monkey Gibbon, Colonel Weaving’s sergeant. On the night Weaving died he must have left the Colonel at Portway House and gone straight over to collect Puxley. Together they would have decided to interrogate the Colonel and Mrs Emily Bascombe – ‘Bunny’ Bascombe.’

For a moment Suzie wondered if the manacles, handcuffs she presumed, were used on Tim Weaving during his terrible final hours in the cellars of Portway House.

“What do we do now?” Puxley said, as though talking to himself. He gave a short mirthless laugh. “Indeed, what do we do? Well, we have the Humber staff car. This place is close to where the Guildhall used to be. We’re not far from the edge of the City. We can get to Ludgate Hill and back through Fleet Street.”

“Good job you decided to have an alternative plan…”

“I always work on the presumption that if anything
can
go wrong it
will
go wrong. Now, we’ve enough petrol to get us to where we’re going…”

“And where would that be, then? Your place up in Norfolk?”

Suzie remembered what Branwell Puxley had said –
A nice little cottage close to Cromer … A hamlet, few houses, a pub, not even a church. Thorpe Market; south of Cromer. Dot on the map.

“Almost. Not quite. I’ve no way of getting this stuff to France now,” he patted his pocket. “… unless I take it myself. So, you’d better come with me, we’re blown here, Monkey.”

“Yes, Captain Puxley. Blown and buggered.” He laughed. A cruel and sardonic laugh, Suzie thought, realising that she was being melodramatic – and why not, cramped and uncomfortable squeezed between the two men. How in God’s holy name had Curry, Elsie’s people, the watchers from five and the Branch let this chubby, red-faced endlessly smiling idiot spirit her away? It made no sense.

Monkey said, “How, sir? How we going to get over there? France?”

“I never thought I’d have to use it, but I’ve got a motor launch, in a boathouse just south of Cromer. Forty footer, single-engined.”

“Fuel?”

“Enough petrol to get us to Ostend. That’ll do us. They’ll soon pass me on to my old Abwehr chums in France. Germany even.”

“And you can navigate us?”

“Piece of cake, Monkey. I was a pilot, remember?”

“Of course.”

“We’d best get cracking, then.” He moved and Suzie inadvertently groaned. Puxley tightened his grip.

“What about her?” Monkey Gibbon asked. “We going to do it here? Leave her?”

“Oh, no. I want to take her with us. Insurance. I’m sure she’ll come in useful. Fill in the gaps if necessary. We’ll be heroes, Gibbon. They’ll give you a medal. Already given me one.” Pause. Then. “Come on, help me to get her in the Humber.”

He moved and Suzie cried out in spite of herself, the pain hurtling through her head, down the side of her jaw.

Puxley bent over her. “Keep quiet or I’ll use this now,” he said, and she felt what was unmistakably a pistol barrel against her temple. “Be a good girl, Detective Inspector Mountford, and you may even live.”

Deep inside herself, Suzie knew it was unlikely she would survive. Her face and jaw gave her unimaginable pain, her head ached and already her arms and wrists felt cold and cramped. If they were driving all the way up to Cromer she couldn’t envisage the condition she’d be in when they got there.

Gibbon helped Puxley lift her from the jeep, carrying her and getting her into the back of another vehicle, the Humber she presumed. A staff car, probably an RAF one filched from Brize Norton; it was too dark to make out any detail. She could feel though and knew they were binding her ankles with what felt like a harsh rope, tying them tightly. Oh, good, she thought, that’ll work a treat on my circulation.

Finally they laid her on the floor in the back of the car, and Puxley said he would stay there with her. “The papers are in the map pocket at the front,” he told Gibbon. “There’s a torch in there as well. Only the date needs filling in on the papers. I’ve got corresponding ones. All I’ll have to do is promote myself to full Colonel.” He was fiddling with his greatcoat. Playing around with the gold-coloured metal badges of rank on the shoulders, she thought.

“Better leave off the red beret,” he muttered. “And you, my lady, should keep quiet. We’ll make you as comfortable as possible. I’ll not gag you.” He scrabbled around in the back and finally dropped an old blanket over her, and the Humber’s engine sparked into life as they backed out into the road, Puxley talking quietly all the time, soothing and waiting for them to get clear and head up through Ludgate Circus, then on through Fleet Street.

Suzie tried to calculate how long it would take to drive to Cromer. In the dark it would probably take around five or six hours. Not easy. Maybe longer.

Puxley, she thought. Of course. From the beginning it had to be Branwell Puxley. Even his Christian name, Branwell, was stacked against him. Branwell, named after the black sheep brother of the Brontës (even though some scholars seemed to have come to his defence). Branwell Brontë, wine-bibber and ne’rdowell. Branwell Puxley, traitor. She must have known from the beginning, as she suspected Tommy, and possibly Curry, had known as well.

Puxley was the obvious, the man asked to leave the RAF because of his admiration of the Nazi air force, the Luftwaffe. No, thrown out of the RAF. Nobody had really gone into the details of that, only listened to Puxley’s version. He had even been to Germany and watched training: admitted to it. She wondered if that was when he signed up to serve the Führer. But he’d won the MC for gallantry in France during the Nazi invasion and the retreat through France. Well, that could be easily arranged. It simply bedded him down more perfectly, and he’d probably really be fêted in Germany now because he must have a large chunk of
Overlord
in his pocket.

What in heaven could she do? Trussed like a chicken, in fear for her life and likely to be taken with them to Belgium and France. Maybe even Germany. Nothing. She was helpless. So she did the only thing left to her, tried to wriggle into a comfortable position, closed her eyes under the unpleasant military blanket and tried to sleep as the car slowly moved through London then out into the countryside, heading north east towards the Norfolk coastline.

She woke twice on the journey: stiff, cramped, cold and in pain on both occasions. The second time she felt really unwell, unable to ease the cramps and sick with fear she now realised.

On the third occasion she awoke they were moving very slowly and Puxley was speaking again. “Over here, to your right,” he said. “That’s it. Switch off the engine and the lights. I’ll go forward and make sure all’s well.”

“What d’you make the time?” Gibbon asked.

“About a quarter-past-six. Be getting near dawn soon, about seven.”

She felt colder air on her, and smelled the sea, as one of the doors opened and the car moved: Puxley climbing out. She tried to move her head and shackled hands, shaking off the blanket, but it took time and Monkey Gibbon told her to stop moving about. “I got a pistol here, an’ all.” He snapped,” An’ I’m more likely to blow your head off than the Captain. I’d a’ done it back in London, so think yourself lucky.”

She could hear Puxley coming back, his boots hard on sand and gravel with the noise of the sea breaking not far away. She had started to shake with cold and the stiffness of her bound and manacled joints, felt as though she might pass out, was conscious of her head spinning. She heard the sea again and remembered how her father had this large seashell in his study: she used to hold it to her ear and listen to the sea which Daddy had told her was actually her heart pumping the blood around her body.

“Looks safe enough to me,” Puxley said. “You’ll have to help me drag the launch out. It’s only a few feet down to the sea. We’ll make it easy. Put the busy in first, eh?”

“As you like. I need a pee, and something to drink.”

“I’ve taken care of myself, go and do the same. You’ll get a drink when we’re on board. I’ve some water bottles, and some hard tack biscuits stowed away. How is she?”

He heaved the blanket right off her and looked down, shining a torch at her face. “You’re shivering,” he felt her forehead. “No fever, but I’ve got a drop of brandy I’ll give you when we get under way. Got to be quiet now. There’s a Home Guard post about a mile up the coast and I wouldn’t want to rouse them. They’ve no bloody idea. Shoot first, ask questions after. Come on.”

They crunched away leaving Suzie lying cold, in pain, stiff and aching on the hard gravel.

Slowly her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She lay by a low wooden shed-like hut, solid and long enough to hide the 40 foot launch they were now heaving down and over the stones, its sleek shape sliding through the two large doors that opened straight onto the beach. She was a rakish vessel, painted grey and without any distinguishing markings, no name or number as far as she could see.

Suzie cringed and whimpered as the wind bit up from the direction of the sea. The launch lay slightly on her port side, and the two men, hoisted her over the low hull and onto the gunwale planking just abaft the small cockpit with its wheel and engine controls.

She lay against a short metal safety rail, ill and terrified of what was to happen next. She could see for’ard that there were ropes running from each side of the prow and the two men heaved on them, pulling the craft down the short stretch of beach, to the sea. It took around ten minutes for them to get into the surf, Puxley yelling at Gibbon who seemed unable to hold on to his end of rope and manoeuvre the craft; he was constantly complaining and yelping like a child because he was forced to stand in water up to his knees, and stay upright against the waves which were considerable.

The launch was floating now and Suzie prayed to herself, completely at the mercy not just of the men but also of the sea. She had never been good on water and the craft banged around just over the surf line as Gibbon scrambled on board and Puxley ordered him to drag Suzie down into the cockpit so that she would at least get some protection from the weather.

Gibbon had pulled her down roughly, and she lay there, trembling and shaking with cold, soaking wet from the spray, sick, terrified and miserable with fear.

Puxley pressed the starter and after a couple of misfires the engine caught and he throttled back yelling at Gibbon to take the wheel, telling him to just keep the nose pointing out to sea. He then got down on his knees, turned Suzie over and pressed the neck of a hip flask to her lips. She swallowed, gasped, then swallowed again, felt sick, dry swallowed and felt the brandy spread fire down her throat into her stomach.

Branwell Puxley was still smiling, infuriatingly, as he staggered to his feet again, took over the wheel from Gibbon and gave the engine more power, leaning on the wheel to bring the bows on course, then opening the throttle so that the launch gave a roar, lifted her bows, the stern settling back into the water and the craft rattling across the waves, hitting the larger waves, raising to around fifteen feet in height, the vessel rolling and slapping against the seas.

An hour later they were keeping up the same fast rate as they swung across the sea, the bows still lifting, the hull rolling as the seas ran up to twenty feet high. Each time the bows came down the launch hit the water with a heavy crash and judder, then it would bounce back on the stern, and it rolled to and fro, banging and bumping as it went. Suzie was black and blue – “like riding in what my mum called a bone-shaker,” she said out loud, wondering where the little whelpish cries were coming from, then realising they came from her.

She twisted her head, looking out through the windshield, from the cockpit, only the sea was visible, the sea and the hard grey cloud mingling with the horizon: nothing else. Suzie thought,
the lonely sea and the sky.
She didn’t want a tall ship, nor a star to steer her by.

They slewed and leaped over the waves, steadily for another half-hour, then suddenly there was activity from the two men in the cockpit, a looking back and shouting, a sudden unexpected surge of power, a little extra bit of speed, an increased banging and rolling, and a look of fear in Gibbon’s eyes, as he shouted at Puxley, who kept making quick excited glances behind him.

Out of the shriek of the winds, the roar of the engine and the clamour of the boat on the waves, came another noise, a great hooting, like a train signalling, a wild low and persistent whistle, calling for attention. Then a garbled voice shouting faintly in English, distorted across the water.