THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

EILEEN DIDN’T KNOW WHICH HAD COME FIRST, THE banging on the front door or her mother shaking her by the shoulder.

Beatrice, still in her nightclothes, was standing over her, her voice hoarse with fear. “Eileen, get up. The redcaps have come for Brian.”

She was awake and jumping out of bed at once. “Where is he?”

“Your dad is getting him into the airing cupboard.”

More banging.

Eileen grabbed her dressing gown from the hook on the door. “Go into the kitchen, Mum. I’ll stall them. Try to act natural.”

Beatrice was shaking but she nodded and hurried away. Eileen stuffed her feet into her slippers and went to the door. It was not yet light but she could make out two husky young men in the uniform of the military police standing on the doorstep. One touched his fingers politely to his forehead but there was no softness in his face. The other soldier looked even tougher.

“I’m Sergeant Carson, madam. Who are we addressing?”

“I’m Eileen Abbott. What is the problem, Sergeant?”

“We’re trying to locate an individual by the name of Brian Walmsley. We understand his grandparents live here. Are you a relative?”

“Brian is my nephew. Why do you want him?” Eileen couldn’t believe how coolly she spoke.

“He is absent without leave from his regiment.”

“Are you certain? We just heard from him. He is getting leave soon.”

While she was talking to the sergeant, she could see the corporal was on the alert for any sign of a running man. She had no illusions that she was fooling them. They had entered into an unspoken game, a dance where each understood the rules and which would soon come to a conclusion.

“We have reason to believe he might be hiding here.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s just myself and my parents.”

“I’m sorry, madam, but we have authority to search the premises.”

“My parents are elderly. This will be most upsetting for them.”

The sergeant moved closer. He was losing patience. “Please step aside, madam.”

Then Eileen heard her father from behind her. “Let them in, Eileen. They’re only doing their duty.”

He touched her shoulders. “Go and wait with your mother. I’ll show these gentlemen around.”

Eileen walked back to the kitchen, aware that her heart was thudding in her chest. Beatrice was sitting at the table clutching a cup of tea in both hands as if it were a lifeline. Eileen sat down opposite her and covered her mother’s hands with her own.

“Don’t worry, Mum.”

She had left the kitchen door open and she could see Joe and the two soldiers. Her father was a tall man, but a little stooped now and skinny. The two young military policemen dwarfed him. There seemed no room in the hall for all three of them.

“I’ll take a look in here, please, sir,” said the sergeant, indicating Eileen’s room. Joe opened the door and the corporal went into the room. Eileen hoped he wasn’t going to overturn anything; common sense should tell him there was no place for a man to hide. She was right; the soldier soon emerged. The two of them came into to the kitchen.

“Morning, ma’am,” said the one who was doing the talking. “We’re looking for a deserter, Private Brian Walmsley. It’s my understanding that he is your grandson.”

Eileen gave her mother’s icy-cold hand a squeeze. Beatrice nodded.

Carson looked over at Joe, who was in the doorway. The corporal stood outside at the ready.

“You do understand that it is a criminal offence, punishable to the full extent of the law, to give shelter to or to aid and abet a deserter?”

“Yes, we understand,” Joe replied.

The sergeant nodded at the other soldier. “Check the back garden, will you, Andrews. There might be a shed. And make sure he’s not in the lavatory.”

“There isn’t a shed and he’s not in the lavatory,” said Eileen, who felt impelled to resist them. They weren’t in fact being particularly bullying or rude, but the sound of their boots, their guns at the ready in their holsters, their peaked hats with the red bands all created a sense of menace.

Her remark went unheeded and the corporal walked past them and out the back door.

Nobody spoke while they waited for him to return. Carson was listening for any sound that would indicate somebody else was in the house. Eileen could see how alert he was. What would happen if Brian was discovered? She was praying that he wouldn’t panic and try to make a run for it. She was still clutching her mother’s hand. She let go, afraid she might draw more suspicion onto them. Why were the redcaps there? Had they already gone to her sister’s house? To Vanessa’s parents? But it was barely light, and she sensed they had come there first. Why?

Andrews re-entered and shook his head. “All clear out there.”

“I’d like to see upstairs, please, Mr. Abbott,” said Carson. Again he did the deferential touch-to-the-forehead gesture but he didn’t apologize. Eileen knew they hadn’t fooled him. God, she hoped Brian’s hiding place was safe, and she thanked their lucky stars that Joe had had the foresight to prepare the warming cupboard.

There was a carpet on the stairs but the house was old and the floorboards creaked. The three men went upstairs, and to Eileen they were thundering.

Lie still, Brian, lie still.

She couldn’t just sit passively, she couldn’t. She smiled reassuringly at her mother and went to the bottom of the stairs.

Joe opened the door to the spare room first. Eileen ran up to the landing and stood watching. This time the men were both more thorough. As Carson flung open the wardrobe, Andrews actually drew his revolver and stepped to one side, ready to fire if need be. The sergeant moved aside the few clothes that were hanging there: Joe’s old clothes and a couple of Beatrice’s frocks. He even sniffed at them.

“Somebody been smoking?”

“That’s me,” said Joe. “I like me pipe. Sometimes I sit in here and smoke it because it bothers the missus.”

Then Carson squatted down and pulled out the chamber pot from underneath the bed. There was urine in it.

“This pot has been used recently,” said the sergeant.

“That was me, too. I spent the night in here. Fact is, my wife snores something fierce … Don’t tell her I told you – she considers it unladylike to snore.”

Carson didn’t answer. He flung back the quilt on the bed and ran his hand over the mattress.

“This is warm.”

“Yes, it would be,” said Joe without a blink. “You blokes got us all out of bed.”

“Can I see the other bedroom?” said Carson.

Joe led the way across the short landing to the main bedroom. The sergeant went through the same procedure, checking the wardrobe and looking underneath the bed. There was a chamber pot there, which was empty. Eileen felt an absurd flash of relief, as if it were a matter of being house-proud. See, they weren’t a dirty family.

The bathroom adjoined this bedroom and in between was the airing cupboard. Eileen’s mouth was dry with fear. She marvelled at how calm and confident her father appeared.

Carson opened the door to the airing cupboard.

There was a pile of towels inside. He lifted them aside cautiously and tapped hard with his knuckles on the wall. To Eileen it seemed obvious that the wall was hollow, but the sergeant didn’t appear to pick up on it. He replaced the towels and closed the door.

“You’ve seen everything except the bathroom,” said Joe. “Toilet’s outside, more’s the pity. One of these days, after the war, I’ve promised my wife we’ll have an indoor loo.”

The young sergeant actually smiled. “My parents keep saying the same thing. My mum would like nothing better than not to go outside in the freezing cold.”

He stepped into the bathroom, but it was obvious at a glance that there was nowhere a man could hide. There was just the bathtub, open shelves where Beatrice had put extra soap and knick-knacks, and a small basket for dirty clothes. Carson took the lid off the basket. Oh God, thought Eileen again, but Beatrice had followed Joe’s instructions rigorously. She hadn’t put any clothes in the hamper that belonged to Brian.

The two soldiers exchanged glances.

“Is that it, then, Sergeant?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir, it would seem so. I must remind you that if Private Walmsley does contact you or show up at your house, you must notify the police immediately.”

“I understand that.”

This time the soldiers went down the stairs first and Eileen and her father trailed behind. Closer to Joe she could tell how hard-won his composure had been. He smelled of sweat.

Eileen let the men out and closed the door.

Joe put his finger to his lips. “Wait,” he whispered. “Make sure they have well and truly gone.”

Eileen looked out through the side window. The men walked smartly in step down the path. At the gate they turned right. She knew what Joe was getting at. The redcaps could easily be trying to trick them – they could return.

Beatrice emerged from the kitchen. “I’ll stay here and keep a lookout. You two go and see how Brian is.”

Joe went back upstairs, Eileen close behind him. He opened the airing cupboard, pulled the towels and linens onto the floor, and with one tug pried away the false wall.

Brian was crouched in a tight ball. He had stuffed a flannel into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

Jack woke up suddenly, fear propelling him into consciousness. Every night he had a nightmare, usually that he was trying to run away from a Nazi who was out to kill him, but his legs were like lead and he couldn’t move fast enough. He managed to force himself awake just as the murderer was grabbing him by the neck. Jack didn’t need a head doctor to interpret the dream. He knew he was running away from Donny and his gang, and even when fully awake, he had the same feeling of helplessness as he had in his nightmare. He didn’t know how he was ever going to get away.

He could hear his mum moving downstairs and for a moment he wanted to throw himself into her arms as if he were a little boy. But what could she do? She’d tell his father, for sure, and he would bring in the police. Even if Donny was sent to jail, eventually he’d get out, and woe betide the one who had betrayed him.

He thought he heard sounds from his parents’ bedroom. His dad might be getting up. He got into his trousers and jersey and went down to the kitchen.

His mother was standing at the counter, cutting some bread for toast. “Morning, Jack. You’re up with the sun. How come?”

She smiled at him, but he’d seen her unguarded expression and was shocked to see how sad and tired she looked.

“No reason. I was awake. Is Dad up?”

“Just about. I thought I’d cook us up some bacon for breakfast. Do you want your egg today or save it?”

“Today, please.” He slid into a chair at the kitchen table.

“Are you going to go to Holy Communion today?” his mother asked.

Jack hesitated. His grammar school was an old-fashioned one, still affiliated with the Church of England. The pupils were expected to attend matins and to take Communion on a regular basis. The truth was, Jack was afraid to go. Even though he was old enough to know better, he was afraid that God would send a sign of His disapproval. Strike him dead in the middle of the service. Old Mr. Perry had been a mean blighter and he’d been struck down one day when he knelt to say his prayers. Crash. Gone, just like that. God had got vengeance.

“I don’t think so, Mum.” Before he could come up with a plausible excuse, there was a loud knocking at the front door. She looked at Jack in alarm.

“Who can that be at this time of the morning?”

Jack felt himself go white. None of their neighbours would knock like that on their front door. Friends used the back entrance.

Phyllis wiped her hands on the pinafore. “Fetch your dad. They’ve come about Brian, I’ll bet.”

There was another heavy pounding.

Phyllis caught him by the sleeve. “No, wait. Run to your granddad’s house and warn them. Go out the back way. Quick.”

“What about Dad?”

“God help us, we’ll have to hope he can keep his mouth shut. Run, Jack. Run.”

Jack opened the back door as his mother went to the front. He heard a deep masculine voice say, “Mrs. Walmsley? I’m Sergeant Carson, Military Police. We’re looking for your son, Brian Walmsley.”

As soon as he reached the back entry, Jack took off. A part of him was flooded with relief that they had come for Brian, not him.

“It’s all right, Brian. It’s all right,” Eileen repeated. “They’ve gone. You’re quite safe.”

“Come on out, son,” said Joe, and together he and Eileen helped Brian crawl out of the tiny space. He was shaking so violently he could hardly stand up. His pupils were so dilated the irises had almost disappeared.

“Dad, get me the stool from the bathroom,” said Eileen. Joe did so at once and she made Brian sit down. “Put your head between your knees and take some deep breaths.” She put her hand on the back of his neck. “That’s it. Good. Another one. Good boy.”

Joe’s face was expressionless but Eileen could feel his tension. Redcaps were one thing – he could deal with them, concrete objects – but this kind of hysteria in a man he was at a loss as to how to handle.

“Let’s go downstairs to my room,” she said.

Joe took Brian’s arm and slipped it across his shoulders. They looked like two comrades coming off the battlefield. Eileen was right behind them.

Beatrice silently opened the door to Eileen’s bed-sitting room and all of them went inside.

“I’ll make us some tea,” Beatrice said and hurried off to the kitchen. Joe sat his grandson in the armchair by the fire.

Eileen took her shawl and covered him, then went to her dresser and took out the bottle of brandy. She poured a big shot into a glass.

“Here, swallow this down. You’ve had a shock.”

Brian didn’t need to be told twice. He gulped back the brandy, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned back in the chair.

“I can’t go in that cupboard again. I’d rather die.”

Suddenly they heard Beattie talking to somebody at the back door. All three of them froze.

“Stay here,” said Eileen. “Brian, if you have to, get under the bed.”

She opened the door and looked into the hall. Jack emerged from the kitchen, Beatrice behind him.

“The redcaps are looking for Brian,” he burst out breathlessly. “They came to the house just now. Me mum said to come and warn you.”

“They were here already,” said Eileen. “We got Brian hidden just in time. We’re all in my room. What did your mum and dad say to the redcaps?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. They were at the front door and Mum told me to run and warn you. I went out the back way.”

“Did anybody see you come here?”

“Nobody, Auntie. Nobody’s about.”

Just as well, she thought. One glimpse of Jack’s face and everybody on the street would be at the door, wondering if the Abbotts had received a telegram.

She turned to Joe. “What do you think’s the best thing to do, Dad?” She kept her voice low so Brian couldn’t hear them.

Her father rubbed at his face. “We can’t hide him again like that. He won’t be able to stand it. Let’s hope Ted kept quiet.”

Eileen tapped Jack on the shoulder. “I want you to get over to the factory. Find Mr. Cudmore and tell him I won’t be in today.”

“What if he asks me why?”

“He won’t. Don’t say any more than that, for God’s sake.”

Jack started for the door and she stopped him. “Wait.” She went back into her room and got a piece of paper from her desk. Brian was sitting with his eyes closed, utterly still. She scribbled out her note. Dear Lev, I won’t be able to meet you tonight. Not feeling well. See you tomorrow.

She stuffed the note into an envelope and went back into the hall.

“Here, Jack. I want you to give this to a man by the name of Lev Kaplan. He’s making a film at the factory. If he’s not there, leave it with the guard at the gate. It’s important that he gets it. Got that?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“Come straight back here when you’ve done that. And don’t run. We’ve got to act as if everything is as usual.”

The boy nodded and Eileen let him out the front door. She was aware that both Joe and Beattie were regarding her curiously.

“The American was supposed to be taking photos of the clinic this afternoon.”

Her dissembling came so glibly she felt a pang of shame. But however much she loved her parents, Eileen did not feel ready to share her new tender, tumultuous feelings. Especially not right now.

She smiled at her mother. “Now then, Mum, how about that tea you were going to make?”

Eileen and Joe went out into the hall.

“We’ve got to get him out of here, Eileen. He’s going to crack completely if we don’t. We need those identity papers he was going on about, and we need them soon. Now, it’s my feeling that our Jack and Brian are in on something together. Frankly, at this moment I don’t want to enquire too closely. What’s your feeling?”

She nodded. “I agree totally.”

Joe grimaced. “Eileen, my pet, I never dreamed we’d ever be in a position like this. Redcaps stomping through the house, us all telling lies like we were criminals …”

Eileen came over and put her arms around him. “Me neither, Dad. But you know what? I’m proud of you.”

When Tyler arrived at the factory, an immaculate Cudmore, smooth-haired and close-shaven, was waiting for him.

“You’re a great morale booster, Mr. Cudmore.”

The secretary turned rather pink. “Really, sir? How so?”

“You manage to convey order even in the midst of chaos.”

“Thank you, sir. I do think these things are important, even in wartime. I should say, especially in wartime. Polished shoes can do wonders for the spirits.”

“Right.” Tyler took his place behind the desk. “Speaking of shoes, I wonder what you can tell me about Michael Smith, the dillie man. Do you know if he was ever in the army?”

Cudmore looked puzzled. “I’m not sure, sir. I can look at his application record. He’s only worked here for three months, so I’m sure we still have it on file.”

“Excellent. So what have you got for me?”

“There are a few more workers in today that you haven’t spoken to. I assume you will be wanting to interview them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cudmore. By the way, has Miss Ringwald-Brown clocked in yet? I thought I’d have another try at talking to her.”

“No, sir. I did check before you arrived. I believe the young lady in question has called in to say she is not well and won’t be at work today.”

“Do you have her address? Perhaps if she’s under the weather I should go to see her instead.”

“That would be in my files, sir. I shall bring it for you.”

Tyler noticed that there was a Thermos on the desk. “For me?”

“Yes, sir. I took the liberty of making you some tea. That way you won’t have to bother going to the canteen.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cudmore.”

In fact, Tyler would have been more than happy to join the workers on their break. Professionally, as he’d said to his constable, mingling with the crowd, listening, paying attention could pay dividends.

The secretary stepped back into his usual position by the door and close to the wall. “Mr. Endicott sends his apologies, sir, but he won’t be in today. He has urgent work to attend to on his estate.” He gave a small cough. “He’s quite highly strung, appearances to the contrary. He was dreadfully upset by what happened yesterday.”

“Not half as upset as the poor girl who’s lost her hair,” retorted Tyler.

“Quite so. I did take the liberty of ringing the hospital this morning. Miss Tomlin is out of danger but still in isolation for the time being.” The cough again. “I was going to take it upon myself to collect money for some flowers and a card to send to her.”

“Good idea, Mr. Cudmore. Add this.” Tyler fished in his pocket and found a couple of shillings, then he began to unscrew the Thermos lid. “All right, let’s get going. I’d like to wrap this up today if it’s at all possible.”

Jack was seated at the dining room table between Joe and Eileen. He was fiddling with a spoon, twisting and turning it in his hands. They had talked Brian into going back upstairs.

Joe shifted his bad leg. “Now, son, I’m not going to pry any more than I need to, but you can see what a heap of trouble we’ve got on our hands. We’ve got to get our Brian out of here, and the sooner the better. Now, he was talking to us about getting hold of a passport so he could get to Ireland for the duration. Do you have any idea where he was thinking he might get such an item?”

Jack shook his head. Too quickly and too hard. “No, Granddad.”

“I’d ask him, but he’s in no condition at the moment. So I thought if there was any way you could help out, we’d all appreciate it. Maybe he let slip a name, for instance.” Joe’s voice was quiet, but as usual he conveyed an authority that was unmistakable.

Jack was looking so terrified that Eileen couldn’t help herself. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Jack, you don’t have to be scared of us. We’re your family. But Brian was positive he could get a passport for himself and Vanessa. Is it true what he believes?”

“I think so, Auntie.”

“Who’s getting it for him? We might be able to speed things up.” Joe leaned forward slightly and Eileen saw her nephew flinch.

“He did sort of mention somebody … I don’t know him myself but … he lives in one of the back-to-backs near Water Street.”

Joe scowled. “Why aren’t I surprised about that? Go on, son. Could you get in touch with this person, do you think?”

“I could try, Granddad.”

“Will he want money?”

Jack nodded.

“Any idea how much?”

“No, Granddad.”

Joe turned to Eileen. “What do you think? A false identity these days – what are we talking about? Two quid? Ten? Twenty?”

“I don’t know, Dad. They probably take as much as they can get.”

Joe stood up and went to the sideboard. “Let’s start with that, then, and if we have to we’ll come up with more.” He reached into a drawer and, fishing about at the back, took out a tin that had once held toffees. “We’re going to have to borrow from your gran’s housekeeping for now.” He stirred the pile of coins in the tin. “A bit short of three pounds.”

“I have a couple of pounds in my purse,” said Eileen. “I’ll get them.”

“All right.” Joe took an envelope from the drawer. He tipped the money from the tin into the envelope, then paused and removed a couple of shillings. “I’d better leave her something for shopping.”

Eileen returned with the two pounds and Joe added them to the envelope. He handed it to his grandson.

“That’s five pounds altogether. See if you can find this fellow. We need to get things in motion right away.”

Jack stashed the envelope in his pocket.

“Off you go, then,” said Joe. “Fast as you can. Come back here as soon as you’ve seen him.”

“Yes, Granddad. I’ll just let our Brian know I’m going.”

He scurried off upstairs before either Joe or Eileen could protest.

Brian was lying on the bed with his eyes closed, dragging on a cigarette. The small room was thick with smoke.

“I’m going to take some money to Donny for your papers …” Jack’s voice tailed off as he waited to see how his brother would react.

Brian shot bolt upright. “There’s not supposed to be money exchanged. What did you tell them? Did you mention the timers?”

“Nothing, Brian. Nothing, honest. I don’t even know about timers or anything. Granddad and Auntie Eileen just thought they’d have to pay.”

“So they will,” said Brian, letting out a deep breath. “Knowing Donny Jarvis, he wouldn’t keep his end of the bargain if his life depended on it. Of course he’d want money as well as – forget what I just said about timers, Jack. It’s nothing like that. He just wanted me to fix something for him.”

“Yes, Brian.”

Brian lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. “My end’s done. The bag is in the wardrobe. You can take it to Donny.”

Jack went to the wardrobe and removed the shopping bag that he’d delivered what seemed like eons ago.

“Hide it under your coat,” said Brian sharply. “You don’t want anyone asking difficult questions.”

Jack tucked the bag inside his jacket.

“How much money are you taking him?” asked Brian.

“Five pounds.”

“God, that’s nothing. Donny will laugh his head off.”

“That’s all Granddad and Auntie Eileen could come up with for now.”

Brian scowled. “Tell Donny we’ll get some more. But tell him I’ve got to get out of this house soon or I’ll blow the whole thing. I don’t give a shite.”

Suddenly he jumped up and grabbed his brother’s arm. “Got that, Jack? Donny Jarvis isn’t the only one with power here.” He gave Jack a pinch. “Are you clear? Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“Yes, Brian.”

“Repeat it back to me.”

“We can come up with more money but Donny has to hand over the papers before he gets it.”

Brian burst out laughing. “Well done, little titch. That’s it. Now off you go. Report back to me.”

Bert Teale opened Donny’s door. “Well, if it isn’t the little pansy. What you want, missie?”

“I need to talk to Donny.”

“Did you bring stuff?”

“No, I—”

“Well, he don’t want to talk to you lessen you bring stuff.” He started to close the door but a voice from inside the room called out.

“Let him in, Bertie. Didn’t you hear him? He needs to talk.” Donny giggled, which Jack found very odd indeed, coming from him.

“Come in then, pansy,” said Bert. He yanked Jack into the house by the collar.

Donny was lying on the couch, and curled up on the floor beside him, like a dog, was Thelma. She appeared to be asleep. Jack hoped desperately that she wasn’t dead. The room was filled with smoke, strange and acrid-smelling, but not unpleasant. Donny was puffing on a long tube attached to a round pot on the floor that was making funny bubbling sounds. He actually smiled at Jack. “Welcome, you little sod. What is it you want?”

Jack didn’t know if he should say anything in front of Bert and Thelma, but he was too afraid to consider much beyond the immediate task. “I was wondering if you, er … had them goods you were going to give me for my brother. I’ve got the bag …” His voice tailed off.

“Bert, go take a piss,” Donny said. Thelma didn’t stir.

Bert knew better than to protest, although he looked sullen and flicked Jack hard on the cheek as he went by. Donny settled back on the couch. His eyelids drooped.

“Now then, our Jackie, you have to be careful what you say. Careless talk costs lives. How is Brian doing, by the way?”

“Not so well, Donny. He’d like to leave as soon as possible. He says to tell you he wants you to keep your end of the bargain.”

“He does, does he?” Donny waved the pipe contraption in the air, then sucked on it deeply, holding his breath before blowing out the smoke. “It’s dear to get what he wants. Very dear. Say, fifty pounds. Tell him if he can come up with that, I’ll get him the goods.”

Jack took the envelope out of his coat. “I don’t have that much. But you can have this now and the rest later.” He had no idea if Brian would be able to get the money, but that wasn’t his problem. At least, he hoped it wasn’t.

In spite of his drowsy state, Donny was alert enough to count the money in the envelope. He dropped it on the floor. “That’s a joke, that is, little Jackie. Your Brian won’t get a pot to shit in for that.”

Thelma stirred. Donny moved his foot and rested it on her haunches.

Jack tried to avoid looking at the girl. “Sorry, Donny. I’ll try to get the rest for you. When can he have the stuff?”

More drawing on the pipe. More bubbling. Then Donny waved the mouthpiece in Jack’s direction. “Tell him you’ve got to make the drop at the Cowan house, right after blackout. You have the money, he can have the goods. Simple as that. You can put it in the oven.”

“Thanks, Donny.” Jack placed the bag gingerly on the floor and turned to go.

“What’s your hurry?” said Donny. “Take the weight off your beaters. You’ve been a good kid, all told. Here …” He held out the pipe. “Take a puff. You’ll like it.”

“No, no thanks, Donny. I’d better get back.”

“Suit yourself.”

“What is it?” Jack couldn’t help but ask.

“Just baccy. A rather special kind of baccy, mind you. A friend got it for me in return for a couple of favours. It comes from darkie country. It’s called ganja.”

He took another drag on the pipe. Jack seized his chance and sidled to the door. “I’ll pass on the message, Donny. Tonight after blackout. Put the money in the oven. Fifty pounds.”

Donny didn’t seem to hear. Jack opened the door and stepped out into the courtyard. Bert was leaning against the wall, hunched into his coat. Jack didn’t give him another opportunity to slap or pinch but took off into the street. The funny tobacco smell clung to his clothes.

At Tyler’s request, Cudmore had provided a thick swatch of employee files. They had set up young Eagleton at a desk in the office. He looked a little daunted when Tyler told him he had to go through them.

“Just pull out any that you think we should examine more closely. You don’t have to go back further than three months, but see if there’s anybody who’s been moving around from factory to factory. Also, make sure as best you can that the references are genuine. Let me know if a letter is signed by somebody calling himself Goebbels. Or Churchill, for that matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Eager – you can wear your specs. Makes you look like a boffin.”

“Yes, sir. I presume that’s a good thing.”

Tyler left him to it and began the final interviews. There was a steady flow of workers but he learned nothing new. None of them thought the explosion was anything but an accident.

“Fifth columnists? Sabotage? Never. We’re all Englishmen here,” said one wizened bloke who worked the night shift. “If it was done on purpose, how’d anybody do it?”

Good question.

He asked all of them for suggestions as to improvements in the future, and most had a lot to say.

“Management should come into the canteen sometimes and show us they’re human.”

“We should go on a tour of the airdrome and see the bombers. We don’t even know where our shells go.”

“Me, I work here so I can do my bit for the King and Queen and the little princesses. My own girl is the same age as Princess Elizabeth. I want to make sure that madman in Berlin doesn’t ever get to them.”

“Mr. Endicott should give us more credit for brains, not to mention patriotism,” said a woman with a thick Brummie accent. She looked as if she’d had a tough life but that didn’t stop her from being astute. “I work the lathes. We need a break in the middle of the shift. Everybody gets the sags after tea time. We’ll work better.”

That complaint had been voiced yesterday when the women were contemplating going on strike. Tyler was feeling something of the sags himself by now and he sympathized.

Cudmore wrote everything down. Tyler was glad that at least he’d been able to give the workers a chance to vent their frustrations.

After the last interview, Tyler said. “Mr. Cudmore, take a note, if you please, and make sure Mr. Endicott receives it. ‘By the authority vested in me by His Majesty the King and the chief minister of the realm, Winston Churchill, I hereby declare all of the suggestions herein recorded be implemented as soon as possible, on pain of death.’ ”

Cudmore didn’t bat an eye. “Quite right too, sir.”

Another alarm sounded in the late afternoon, but no raiders, and Tyler followed the lead of the seasoned Brummies and stayed where he was. Move only when you hear the bombs dropping.

The secretary had found Smith’s file and gave it to Tyler. There was no record of his being in the army. He’d come from Manchester to work at Endicott’s. Better pay was the reason given. He had a good letter of reference from the supervisor at the factory where he’d worked previously.

“Did anybody check on this?” Tyler asked.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid not, sir. We were hiring a lot of people all at the same time. I wasn’t able to follow up on any of the references. We did place him on the usual probationary period of two weeks. He has shown himself to be a reliable worker. He’s never late. No absenteeism.”

Tyler hesitated. He knew the secretary was overworked.

“There are a couple of other workers who have been in the army,” added Cudmore. “Mr. Abbot was a corporal with the Royal Lancers of Leicester. He was invalided out in ’17 with a gas-caused ulcer. A good man too. Most reliable. The other man is Phil Riley, who joined the reserve army in ’38. He is a part of the home defence now.” Cudmore regarded Tyler anxiously. “Is this important, sir? I’d vouch for all three of them.”

“Just tying up loose ends,” said Tyler. “Maybe I’d better talk to Smith again. Just to satisfy myself.”

Cudmore became even more flustered. “He’s not in today, sir. I told him he could have the day off. He was complaining of a touch of lumbago, and seeing as he had talked to you yesterday, I didn’t see the harm.”

“I’m sure that’s quite all right, Mr. Cudmore. It’ll keep.” Tyler got up stiffly from his chair. “I thought I’d drop in at the hospital. Who knows? Perhaps Peter Pavely has regained some of his memory.”

“I’ll get on to typing up these notes right away.”

“Thanks. And don’t forget to give me Miss Ringwald-Brown’s address. I thought I’d pay her a visit. As she won’t come to Mahomet, the mountain will go to her.”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Never mind. Just a turn of phrase.” Definitely an afternoon sag, thought Tyler.

He looked in on his constable, who actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a dozen files set aside.

“Good work, Eager. This could keep us in Brummagen for a month at least. Are you being astute, I wonder, or does your diligence have anything to do with a certain collision-prone roller skater?”

“Good heavens, sir. I wouldn’t dream of being so devious.”

Tyler ruffled his hair. “Glad to hear it, son.”

Phyllis had brought over an extra pork chop and some potatoes. She deposited them on the kitchen counter. Jack had come with her, but not Ted.

“The post must go through,” said Phyllis in answer to her mother’s query. “He’s working overtime.”

“Go and sit in the other room,” said Beattie. “I’m going to cook up something for us shortly.”

Phyllis went into the living room with Jack. Joe was sitting close to the fire, his leg on a hassock. Eileen was reading a book and Brian was at the table fiddling with an old jigsaw puzzle.

“Crikey, you’re a cheery lot, aren’t you,” said Phyllis. “I’ve been to livelier funerals.”

Brian looked up. “Did you get the money?”

“And hello to you, Brian.”

“Sorry, Mum. Hello.”

“Come and have a warm, Phyl,” said Eileen. “Shove over a bit, Dad.”

“Thanks.” Phyllis went to her son and dropped a quick kiss on his head. “And yes, Brian, I did get the money. I took out forty pounds from our savings. That’s all there is.” Her eyes were red and puffy from crying but Brian didn’t seem to notice or care.

Joe moved his chair and Phyllis went to stand beside him. “We’ve already given the bastard five pounds, so all we need is five more,” he said.

Beattie came in from the kitchen. “Here’s another pound. I was keeping it for emergencies.”

“And I’ve got two more,” said Eileen. She winked at her mother. “I’d forgotten I even had it. It was in my emergency tin.”

“Let’s put everything on the table,” said Joe.

Phyllis rummaged through her handbag. “I thought … yes, I knew I did. Here’s a pound in change.”

Joe pulled some coins from his pocket. “Four bob. Five pennies. Two halfpennies.” He added them to the collection.

“I’ve got sixpence, Granddad,” said Jack.

“Might as well throw it in,” said Joe. He poked at the pile of money. “Four pound, five shillings. That’ll have to do. The bastard won’t renege for want of a few shillings, will he?”

Brian had watched the proceedings without a word. Then he muttered, “Thanks everybody. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

Joe beckoned to Jack. “You might as well take this now. It’ll be dark soon.”

“I’ll go with him,” said Eileen.

“No, I’ll go,” said Phyllis. “I’m his mother, after all.”

Joe went to stand up. “I should be the one to go if anybody does. We don’t know what this rat might get up to.”

“No, Dad. You’re not going anywhere. Look at you. Your face is as grey as a flannel shirt. Your leg’s bothering you, isn’t it.”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not,” interjected Beattie. “It’s best that Eileen goes. She’s used to dealing with problem people.”

“Mum –” Phyllis started to object.

“No arguing, either of you. Phyllis, you should spend some time with Brian. Joe, I’m going to put fresh ointment on your ankle. Eileen, you should get going.”

The Abbotts weren’t a particularly demonstrative family but Eileen couldn’t help herself. She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “I never knew you could be such a battle-axe,” she said affectionately.

“I need to be sometimes with this lot,” said Beattie.

Brian swivelled towards Eileen. “Auntie, I need to get a message to Vanessa. We’ll leave as soon as I get that passport. She’s got to be ready.”

“All right, I’ll go to her house after we drop off the money.”

Eileen put her hand on her other nephew’s shoulder. “Come on, Jack. Let’s go.”

He smiled up at her and she could see the relief in his face. He was just a sprat, thin, pale-skinned like his mother. His bony shoulder blades were prominent under the woollen jersey.

“Please be careful how you go, Eileen,” said Beattie. “Make sure you have your torch with you.”

“I will, Mum.” Eileen turned to Jack. “Why don’t you start getting your coat on. I’ll get an envelope for the money.”

They both went out into the hall. Joe began to fold the notes. Brian could have been on another planet for all the interaction he was having with them.

Beattie addressed Phyllis. “Maisie Swann has vanished.”

“What do you mean, vanished?”

“Her daughter came by this afternoon. Maisie hasn’t been home since yesterday by all accounts. They’re afraid she got caught in the blackout and has fallen into some crater. It’s been known to happen.”

“Oh dear, I hope she’s all right.”

“Winifred is going around to all the hospitals to see if they have any patients fitting her description. She said she’d come later and tell me.”

Brian looked up.

“Don’t worry,” Beattie said to him. “We can get you upstairs if we have too.”

Eileen returned with a large envelope in her hand. “This is all I could find.”

Joe slid in the coins and the pound notes and sealed the envelope.

“Phyl, there’s a bottle of pills in the bedside table drawer in my room,” said Eileen. “They’ve got a blue label. Give Dad two with a glass of water. The ointment is in there as well. You don’t need much, and it soothes the pain.”

Joe flapped his hand. “Will you women stop fussing. I should have sired boys – make life much easier.”

This was a long-standing family joke and the two sisters hissed at him.

“I’ve been like a son, haven’t I, Granddad?” Brian burst out. His intensity destroyed the momentary mood of playfulness.

“Brian, for goodness sake,” said Phyllis, her voice sharp with impatience.

“It’s all right, Phyl,” said Joe. He reached over to his grandson. “Yes, you have, Brian. Both you and Jack have been like sons. Now let’s do what we have to do so we can put all this behind us.”

Brian caught his grandfather’s hand and held it tightly against his chest. “What if we can’t, Granddad? Put it behind us, I mean. What if we can’t?”

Eileen had her hand resting lightly on Jack’s shoulder as they walked. She directed her torch at their feet, but with the overcast sky and no lights anywhere, it was hard to see. They kept close to the hedges for guidance.

“Jack,” she said quietly, “how do you know this man who’s supposed to get the passport?”

“I dunno, Auntie. I just met him somewhere.”

“What’s his name?”

“I dunno.”

Eileen stopped so she could look straight into his face. “Jack, I’m not interested in punishing you. As a family we’re in a right pickle. We’ve got to help Brian, but it’s not as simple as that. We’re doing something that’s totally against the law. I’m prepared to do it, though I wish I didn’t have to. I hope to God this war doesn’t last much longer and that Brian and others like him will be all right.”

The boy was avoiding looking at her and she could feel he was shaking.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, Jack? What have you got yourself into? You seem terrified of your own shadow.” She brushed away a tear that had spilled from his eye. “Buck up, lad, you’re a big boy now. You’re my own flesh and blood and I want to help you.”

“You can’t, Auntie. Nobody can.”

That sounded so melodramatic that in spite of herself she smiled. “Try me. Come on, before we get to the house. Tell me what’s going on. Is somebody threatening you?”

Jack nodded but didn’t speak.

“You’ve been looting, haven’t you.”

Even now Jack seemed about to deny everything, but she pressed on. “Was he with you? Is that what’s going on?”

“Yes, Auntie,” Jack whispered. “He … he saw me. He saw me going into one of the houses. He said he’d tell the police. He said I’d go to jail and he knew people in jail who’d get me … They do awful things to boys in jail, Auntie. Awful things.” The words were tumbling out now, and Jack couldn’t stop crying. “I agreed to be part of his gang so he wouldn’t rat on me.”

“When did all this happen?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“What’s this man’s name?”

“Donny Jarvis. He lives in one of the back-to-backs on Water Street.”

Eileen frowned. “I know him. He was sent to the public clinic by the truant officer when I was doing a stint there. He’s just a lad, not a man.”

“He’s sixteen. He hurts me, Auntie. He hurts me if I don’t bring back enough stuff.”

Eileen took a handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it to her nephew. “Here, blow your nose. You’re beginning to sound like Oliver Twist.”

She waited until Jack had subsided, lingering sobs coming out of his throat like hiccups.

“I’m not surprised Donny Jarvis has turned into a bad apple. His home life was as rough as it could be. He’ll remember me, I’m sure. Maybe I should talk to him.”

Jack almost squealed. “Please don’t, Auntie. Nobody is supposed to know. He’ll kill me.”

“All right, all right. One thing at a time. Let’s do our errand and go back to Gran and Granddad’s. Once Brian has gone we’ll talk about what to do with the wretched lad you’ve got yourself tangled up with.”

But Jack was not to be so easily comforted. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve told on him.”

Suddenly Eileen stopped. “Hold on – I’m being slow on the uptake here. This fellow Donny, is he the one who’s supposed to be getting illegal papers for Brian?”

Jack nodded.

“How’s he getting them?”

“I don’t know, Auntie.”

Eileen bit her lip. While Jack was talking it had been at the back of her mind that she would report Donny to the police. But the family needed him right now. She couldn’t turn him in just yet.

They were at the bombed house now. It had been a pretty, well-tended house, and now it was destroyed. Eileen blinked away a tear. The Cowans had been good people, salt of the earth.

She halted. “I’ll keep watch. You deposit the money. Hurry, Jack.”

Tyler was greeted at the entrance to the ward by Nurse Ruebotham. Her manner was only slightly less intimidating this time around. She seemed harried.

“We’re frightfully short-handed so I’m going to have to trust you to be sensitive to Miss Sumner’s state. Don’t overtire her.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Physically, she’s improving – the young are resilient. But she’s quite despondent. She knows what has happened to her.”

She moved aside the screen around the bed. The adjacent bed, where Audrey Sandilands had been, was empty.

“I’ll leave you, Inspector. No more than ten minutes.”

Tyler pulled up the chair close to the bed and sat down. The nurse had said Sylvia was improving, but to his eyes she looked worse than when he’d last seen her. The bruises on her face were darker, her skin even whiter.

“Sylvia. It’s Inspector Tyler.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Is Colin here?”

“I don’t believe so. But I’m sure he’s been sent for.”

There was a small movement from her bandaged right arm, as if she was trying to reach over to him. Tyler saw an expression of fear flood her face.

“They said I’ve lost my arm, but it doesn’t feel that way. I keep thinking I can move it. Isn’t that odd?”

“I understand that does happen sometimes,” murmured Tyler.

She turned her head away from him. “I’m going to release Colin from our engagement. He shouldn’t have to be tied to a cripple for the rest of his life.”

“Sylvia, look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Reluctantly, she did so.

“What if Colin was the one to get injured? Would you break up with him because he’d got knocked about a bit?”

Her eyes were filled with tears. “You know I wouldn’t. I’d love him just the same.”

“And his feelings for you won’t change one bit.” Tyler hoped this was true.

Again she turned away. “You don’t understand, Inspector. I’ve lost all my fingers. I won’t be able to wear his wedding ring.”

“What’s important is that you’re alive. That’s what will matter to Colin.”

She was silent.

“That’s what would matter to you, wouldn’t it?” continued Tyler softly.

She turned back and studied him for a moment. “You have a kind face, Inspector. You have a daughter, don’t you.”

“Aye, lass. She’s a bit younger than you.”

“She’s lucky to have you for a dad.”

“It’s more the other way around, if you ask me.”

The screen was moved aside and Nurse Ruebotham poked her head in. “I’d say that’s if for today, Inspector.”

Tyler got to his feet.

“Did you want to ask me something?” Sylvia whispered. She was becoming drowsy.

“Just one thing. We found a St. Christopher medal amongst the debris in your section. Do you know who it might have belonged to?”

“No, I don’t. Not allowed to bring in stuff like that.”

“Inspector, time’s up,” said Miss Ruebotham.

Sylvia’s eyelids were drooping. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Tyler’s heart ached for the girl.

He was able to see Peter Pavely, who still had no further recollection of the explosion. “No, Inspector. Like I said, the last thing I remember is walking into the shed.”

“And there was nobody there, I gather.”

“The workers weren’t in yet, if that’s what you mean. Phil Riley was checking to see how many fuses were left over from the previous shift.” He hesitated. “At least I think he was there. It’s all a bit fuzzy. He always has to check at shift change. Maybe it was a different day I seen him. I went in on Friday to have a look at what had to be done. Maybe that’s when I seen him.” The effort to remember was clearly upsetting him.

“Don’t worry, mate. I’ll check it out,” said Tyler quickly. “That’s it, then? Maybe Mr. Riley?”

“The cleaner, the foreign chap – we might have passed him in the passageway.” He rubbed at his head. “I’m not positive. That might have been another day too. He has to clean around the floor when shift changes.”

“Nobody else? No dillie man making a delivery?”

“I don’t think so.” A look of terror came across his face. Tyler had seen a similar expression on Sylvia’s. “Is this going to go away?” Pavely said loudly. “I’ve got terrible ringing in my ears and my mind is jumping all over the place. Do you know, when you sat down, for a minute I thought you was my brother, Dan. Could have sworn it was him. But then I remembered he’s dead and gone a long time ago. First war.” His one eye focused on Tyler. “You’re not Dan, are you? You’re not Dan come for me?”

Tyler stood up and patted Pavely’s shoulder. “No, I’m not. It’s the sedation playing tricks. Try not to worry. You’re going to be all right.”

Pavely caught him by the arm. “When is somebody going to tell me what happened? I keep thinking I was to blame and you’re all keeping it from me.”

“That’s not the case, Mr. Pavely. Tell you what, why don’t you lie back in bed and try to get some sleep? I’m going to have the nurse look in on you.”

Obedient as a young child, Pavely slipped down under the covers. Tyler tucked the sheet up close to his chin.

“Hush, now. You’re going to be all right.”

Donny Jarvis was hiding in the shadows of the house next door when Jack and a woman approached. He recognized her right away. When he was in second form, he’d contracted a bad case of scabies and a shocked and repulsed teacher had sent him to the local clinic. The nurse had been kind, soothed his maddening itch with some ointment, shared her lunch with him, and wrote a note to his parents. Bloody laugh that was. His father had clipped his ear for causing trouble and his mother had gone on a rant about them interfering. Nothing came of the letter – no better food, even less cleanliness.

He supposed he was grudgingly grateful to the nurse. She’d tried, and she at least had treated him like a human being. Her name was Abbott, he remembered, and Brian and Jack were related to her. Too bad it was her family he’d got in the squeeze.

Jack made the drop while she waited outside, then Donny watched them walk away.

He collected the money and went to the meeting he’d arranged with Comrade Patrick. As he entered the gate, he felt uneasy. In early November a bomb had landed in a churchyard and bones and bits of ancient corpses were spewed all around. Live blokes Donny felt he could handle; bloody stiffs were something else. Funny he didn’t worry about getting killed himself. In fact, he found the raids exciting. And of course there were rich pickings after. During a raid he often went into the middle of the street to watch the action. He loved the roar and crackle of the blazing fires, the thwump, thwump of the bombs landing, the sharp rattle of the ack-ack guns. He breathed in the smell of cordite and burning wood like somebody else breathed in the fresh smell of pine trees.

He might even consider signing up when he was older. Nothing to do with love of country. As far as he was concerned, the government could stick their flag up their arse as far as it would go. They’d never done anything for him. But he sort of fancied being in a battle. Having a big, deadly gun. You could just mow men down with one of them. And a bayonet. He’d seen a newsreel at the pictures of soldiers training. They stuck the bayonet into a stuffed dummy, all looking very chuffed and calm about it. The dummy didn’t look anything like a real man. No blood gushing out, no terror on the face of the dying. Not like it really was. But it was all legit. All paid for by the government.

He went to the appointed place, the alcove sheltered by an overhang of the church roof. There was a row of ugly shapes along the roof edge, heads with twisted features. Why people would decorate a church with those things Donny couldn’t fathom. He stamped his feet, which were getting cold in spite of his wool socks. He’d nicked them from Lewis’s department store on one of his little excursions.

He wondered if he could risk lighting a fag. He didn’t want some nosy air-raid warden seeing him. They came out after dark like gnats at twilight.

Finally he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Somebody was coming. He slipped his fingers into the knucks in his coat pocket, just in case. A man’s figure emerged out of the gloom. He was whistling softly, a popular tune, “Run Rabbit Run.” It was Patrick. Donny stepped forward a couple of feet so he could be seen. Patrick stopped.

“Evening, lad. You’re nice and punctual. Seen anybody?”

“Not a bleeding soul. There’s just me and the corpses.”

“Good. Let’s tuck in here for a minute, then.”

Patrick moved ahead to the darkest place along the wall, where there was a shallow depression. He wasted no time. “Have you got the stuff?”

Donny handed over the shopping bag. Patrick set it by his feet. “And the money?”

Donny fished inside his coat and took out the envelope. Patrick had a small torch with him and he snapped it on, focusing the beam on the contents of the envelope. He riffled through the notes.

“There’s only thirty-five here. I said forty.”

“That’s all they could come up with, I suppose,” Donny replied quickly.

He thought the other man smiled, thin and cold, but he couldn’t be sure. As usual, most of his face was hidden by a muffler. “Too bad. I was going to give you a fiver for yourself but I won’t be able to do that now.”

“ ’S all right.” Donny could actually feel himself sweating in spite of the cold. He thrust his hand into his pocket again and felt the reassuring smooth weight of the knuckle-duster. “When can he get the papers?”

Patrick chuckled. “Don’t be an idiot. Where would I get forged papers? I’m not the Secret Service.”

“Right, course … so our friend is going to be disappointed?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him whatever you bloody well like.”

“Do you want to get more dosh out of him, then?”

“No, we’re going to get plenty of money soon. But your pal is a liability. When he knows he’s paid for nothing, he’s likely to go into a sulk. You never know what he might take into his head to go and do. We’ve got what we wanted.”

“And the plan is in place?”

“It is. Won’t be long now.”

Donny decided to risk rolling a fag and lighting it. He took the packet of papers from his coat but Patrick caught him by the hand. “Don’t do that yet, Bolton. Wait till I’ve gone. I don’t want anybody coming for a look-see.”

Donny could feel the other man’s breath on his cheek, slightly sour-smelling. “Is there anything more for me to do, then?”

“No, I’ll take it from here. You know the drill; you’ll get notice when I want you.”

“Wait. What shall I do about my friend?”

Patrick was already walking away. “Deal with him any way you bloody well want. Like I said, he’s a liability. Don’t mess up, me boyo. Tomorrow will be our Guy Fawkes’ Day.”

The darkness swallowed him up almost immediately. Donny took out his cigarette makings. That had been a close shave. He’d been stupid to think he’d get away with keeping back a fiver from the money Patrick was expecting. Good thing he’d factored in what he considered to be his commission from the start. He’d picked up almost fifteen quid. Not bad.

He struck his match and lit the fag, drawing the tobacco deep into his lungs. He’d mixed in a little of the remaining ganja with the regular tobacco.

“Deal with him,” Patrick had said.

You dealt with rats. You dealt with the odd yowling tomcat that came into the back entry. You dealt with blokes who thought they could put one over on you. It was one thing to have a dust-up with some sod from another gang, say, or whack your girl, or hurt a kid like Jack. But to actually kill somebody in cold blood, that was a different story.

Shit. Bloody hell. What was he going to do?

Eileen sent Jack back to the house to report that they had delivered the money and she went on alone to Bennett Street, where Vanessa’s parents lived. A gust of wind hit her face; bits of newspaper wrapped around her feet. She could see the headlines: “High-Explosive Bombs Drop on City Centre. Many Lives Lost.” That had happened only a week ago. She knew another attack was probably coming soon. The moon had appeared, trailing clouds. In the past, before the war changed everything, she’d loved to see the moon grow full. Now the sight brought dread. It was a deadly beauty. She wondered if Lev had been disappointed by her note. Maybe he’d gone ahead and invited some other woman to go to the dance. Some younger, prettier woman?

“Get a grip on yourself, Eileen Abbott. Miss Eileen Abbott,” she whispered out loud. She was glad when her torch picked out the numbers on the gate of 62.

She went up the path and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Did she have the right number? She contemplated the arch of a rose trellis over the doorway. Frost-seared, marooned roses. Vanessa’s mother liked gardening, she recalled. What was her name? Joan? June? They’d only met once, at the wedding breakfast. Jane. That was her name. Beattie had referred to her as “Jane, ever so plain.”

She was about to knock again when the door opened. It was Jane herself.

“Good evening, Mrs. Wainwright, Eileen Abbott here. Is Vanessa at home? I’d like to talk to her for a minute.”

Jane Wainwright was wearing a flowered housedress, a shapeless beige cardigan, and down-at-heel slippers, and she had a fag between her stained fingers. She could have been the model for the cartoon character Sally Slattern, who appeared in the Daily Mail. She also smelled strongly of booze.

“Oh yes, Miss Abbott. Didn’t recognize you for a minute. It’s dark on them steps. The landlord won’t fix the bulb no matter how often I ask him. It’s the blackout as will kill us, if you ask me. Nessie’s upstairs. She’s going to a flick with one of her mates from work. I wish she wouldn’t, but you can’t keep young girls shut up all the time, can you. Especially when we might all be dead tomorrow.” Jane Wainwright had a perpetually disgruntled way of speaking, as if early in her life she’d been given the short end of the stick and felt hard done by ever since.

She stared at Eileen as if she expected some kind of answer. Eileen nodded at her. “Indeed not.”

“I’ll tell her you want her. Hold on.”

She yelled over her shoulder. “Vanessa, Miss Abbott is here to see you. Brian’s aunt.” She stepped back. “Would you like to come in for a cuppa?”

The invitation was given with such reluctance that Eileen wouldn’t have accepted if she were dying of thirst. “Thanks, but I won’t. I don’t want to be out too late. I just want to talk to Vanessa for a minute.”

“Nothing wrong, is there? With Brian I, mean. He’s not dead or missing, is he?”

“No, he’s not.”

Mrs. Wainwright waited for Eileen to deliver more information, but Vanessa appeared in the doorway behind her. She eyed Eileen warily. “Auntie Eileen. This is a surprise.”

“I won’t stay. I just wanted to have a word with you.”

“I was on my way out, to tell the truth. I’m going to the flicks with one of the girls.” She was rather dolled up for a mere trip to the cinema with a mate. High-heeled shoes, smart frock.

“I did ask her in, but she wouldn’t,” said her mother. The original invitation had been given ungraciously, but now Jane seemed aggrieved that Eileen had turned it down.

“I was ready to leave anyway, Ma. Don’t wait up.”

“Be careful, my girl.”

Vanessa grabbed her coat off the peg in the hall. “You’d better close the door quick. You’re showing a light.”

Her mother went back inside with a flounce.

“Let’s walk to the end of the road,” Vanessa said to Eileen. “Ma can be a right cow sometimes. She always wants to stick her nose in my business. You lead the way.”

At the corner Eileen turned to face her. Vanessa’s blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight. She smelled of violets.

“We have given money to the man who is to bring the passport. As soon as he’s got it, Brian wants to leave for Ireland right away. You’ll have to be on standby.”

“I see.” Vanessa’s voice was as tiny as a child’s.

“Do you intend to go with him?” Eileen asked bluntly.

Vanessa began to shuffle her feet. “Brr. It’s freezing. I need a fur coat.”

“Do you intend to go with Brian to Ireland?” Eileen asked again.

“Bri thinks it’s going to be easy, but it won’t. I don’t want to be on the run. And Ireland, for Pete’s sake. I’ve heard they don’t even have electricity or proper toilets. I don’t fancy it.”

Eileen had expected this and swallowed her impatience. “I don’t think it’s that bad. But you’ve got to make up your mind right away. He can’t stay here. He’ll break down. He’s on the verge now as it is.”

Vanessa’s voice was sullen. “I don’t know why he can’t just turn himself in. They need soldiers. I asked a bloke and he said as long as he wasn’t on the front line and getting others into danger, he won’t get the full monty. Just a few months in the glasshouse.”

“At the moment even being in jail would be too much. He feels he can’t continue to serve in the army.” Eileen hesitated. “It has a lot to do with you, Vanessa.”

“Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m not to blame if he’s nervy. He always has been. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“He’s very attached to you. It might help if you talk to him. Persuade him to go back to his regiment. Assure him you’ll still be waiting for him.”

Vanessa bent her head so that her hair curtained her face. “That’s easy for you to say. You can’t take anything for granted these days, can you.”

Eileen knew at that moment that if Vanessa had ever been in love with Brian, she was so no longer. “You’re right about that. Not even marriage vows, it seems.” Eileen knew she was being harsh but she couldn’t help it. Her own pent-up feelings made her impatient. She wanted to shake the girl. “So, am I reading this correctly? You don’t intend to go to Ireland with Brian?”

Vanessa shivered and pulled her coat closer around her. “What would my mum say? I wouldn’t be able to write to her or anything, and who knows how long this sodding war will last. She’d be broken-hearted.”

Vanessa hadn’t demonstrated a great deal of tender feeling towards her mother, but Eileen let that ride.

“I can’t go, Auntie Eileen. I just can’t. He’ll have to go back to the army or go to Ireland by himself.” She caught hold of Eileen’s arm. “I’m scared of him is the truth. He’s changed. I’d be afraid to be with him, just him and me.”

Eileen could feel her stomach knotting. Vanessa was right. Brian had changed, and the man he had become was disturbing. Her anger towards the girl evaporated and she touched her hand. “There’s also the matter of the baby. No, there’s no use denying it … What are you going to do about that?”

Vanessa let go of Eileen’s arm and stepped back. “If there was a kid on the way, which I’m not agreeing there is, it’d be better if he wasn’t here.”

“Easier to make up a story, you mean?”

Vanessa glanced over her shoulder as if she was afraid her mother might be close enough to hear her. “He should just go back to his regiment. He’ll be all right.”

Eileen frowned. And then the penny dropped. How could she have been so thick? She raised the torch so the light was shining in Vanessa’s face. Her eyes were glistening with fear.

“You informed the military police where he was, didn’t you. That’s why they came to us first. They knew where to look.”

Vanessa tried to move out of the light but she had her back to the hedge and couldn’t move. “No, no, of course I didn’t. I’d never do anything like that.” Her nose was running and she wiped away the mucus with the back of her hand. The tough, brash young woman vanished and she became a child, lost and overwhelmed. “Honest, Auntie. Honest I didn’t.”

But Eileen knew she was lying. She lowered the torch. “I don’t believe you, Vanessa. But right now Brian is the top priority. I’ll have to pass along what you just said about not going with him—”

“No, wait,” interrupted Vanessa. “I didn’t say that exactly. I’ve got to think about it. Don’t tell him anything yet. Please.”

“Very well. But if we get another visit from the MPS, you are going to be in royal trouble. Do you understand me?”

Vanessa nodded.

Eileen pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. “Here, wipe your nose. You’d better get going. You’ll be late.”

Vanessa blew into the handkerchief as if she were a child. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m so sorry.”

“Not half as much as I am, Vanessa.”

Mary Ringwald-Brown lived in a rooming house a few streets over from the hospital. Tyler walked there, glad of the opportunity to clear his head, not to mention his heart. He’d told Sylvia he was the lucky one to have Janet for a daughter, and he’d meant it. He considered he’d been a bloody failure as a husband, but he thought he’d been a decent father. Most of the time, anyway. Could have done better with Jimmy, he knew that. But it was too late now. He had to push that thought away.

The moonlight was bathing the houses, softening the shabbiness of this stretch of road. Number 220 was a narrow, tall Victorian house squeezed in between two newer houses. He knocked on the door, and after a long time it was opened by Mary Ringwald-Brown herself.

She looked the way she had when Tyler had first encountered her at the hospital, a woman under duress. She was dishevelled, her print frock unironed. However, when she saw who it was, her expression immediately became guarded and hard. “Inspector Tyler. What can I do for you?”

“I’m just following up on a few matters to do with the explosion at the factory. Do you mind if I come in?”

She hesitated. “I’m, er, I’m expecting guests.”

“Nice. I won’t keep you.”

She glanced over his shoulder, then stepped back so he could enter.

“I’m on the third floor. I hope you don’t mind stairs.”

“Good exercise.”

She led the way up the dingy staircase. At the second landing, a door opened a crack and Tyler glimpsed a beady eye looking out.

“It’s all right, Mr. Merrick. Just the meter man,” said Mary.

The door closed at once. “He’s so nosy I wonder he doesn’t get stuck in the crack,” said Mary, not bothering to lower her voice.

Her room proved to be as Tyler might have expected. Ugly furniture, probably belonging to the landlady, no softening pillows or personal touches. The walls were plastered with posters, all of them communist propaganda. Hefty workers with fists raised as they slogged towards their salvation. The air was permeated with the smell of cooking fat. Mary didn’t offer him a chair, nor did she sit down herself. Tyler sat down on the sagging couch anyway.

“Miss Ringwald-Brown, I won’t beat around the bush. There is no doubt in my mind that you were the one who locked the doors to the women’s change room. I can’t charge you with mischief as I don’t have enough proof, but it might help my investigation if you would tell me the truth. One less thing for me to pursue.”

An ugly flush spread across her face. “I’ve already told you I had nothing to do with that incident. How many times must I repeat myself?” Her voice had got higher and even more shrill.

“I don’t think the delay caused by the locked doors directly contributed to the explosion,” said Tyler, choosing his words carefully. “It may have put the workers under pressure, but as far as I’m concerned it was an accident that could have happened at any time.”

Mary sat down on the wooden chair across from him. “Inspector, I have never hidden my involvement with the British Communist Party. I know that many people think it strange that I, who have been more privileged than most, should feel so keenly for the working classes, but I do.”

“I share your sentiments, Miss Brown. Everyone deserves a break in life.”

She viewed him with suspicion but he revealed nothing. “Sometimes good has to be wrested from evil, even if the cost is high.”

“Sounds like our reason for going to war, if you ask me.”

“I don’t mean that exactly. If you were afflicted with a cancer, for instance, you would endeavour to cut out that cancer before it spread and destroyed your life. The surgery might be painful but it would be worth it, don’t you think?”

“I’m glad to say I’ve never been in that dilemma, Miss Brown. But is that how you justify your actions on Sunday? You were intending to promote the greater health of the factory?”

That struck a nerve, and she got to her feet abruptly and went to the door. “As I said, Inspector, I will not be held responsible for what happened on Sunday. It was an accident. Now if you don’t mind, I am expecting a guest and I should tidy up a little.”

Short of handcuffing her and taking her to the police station, there was nothing he could do. He stood up. “If you do happen to change your mind about helping me to resolve this tragedy, Miss Ringwald-Brown, I would greatly appreciate it. I am at the Steelhouse Lane station.”

She glared at him. “That will not happen, Inspector. I have said all I am willing to say.”

As soon as he was outside on the landing, she slammed the door behind him. He made his way downstairs. The door on the second floor opened a crack and the eye of the unseen occupant followed him on his way out.

Brian was staring at the ceiling. It needed plastering – there was a fine maze of cracks that had been there for a long time. He was playing at make-believe the way he had when he was a boy and had slept in this same room. In those days he was riding on a horse, a tireless black stallion. He’d have to travel along the London Road, gallop on the narrow, twisting path to the castle – top right-hand corner of the ceiling. There he would kill the wicked sheriff, save the princess, and be the hero of the land. He was forcing himself to play that old game, but it wasn’t working. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt calm. Felt normal. He’d forgotten what it was like to sleep.

Robin Hood didn’t kill old ladies who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Robin Hood wasn’t a deserter.

There was a tap on the door. “Brian, there’s a letter for you.”

He sat up at once. “Come in, Gran.”

Beattie entered. She handed him an envelope. “Somebody dropped this through the letter slot. I don’t know what time. I only just noticed it.”

One look at the handwriting and Brian knew it was from Donny. The large scrawl was like the boy himself: barely literate, rough, aggressive, taking up most of the front of the envelope. He tore open the flap and took out a note, a single sheet of torn-off paper.

Put another fiver in the Kowan house. or the deal is off. I’ll tell you when.

“Who’s it from?” asked Beatrice.

“The bloke who’s bringing the ID papers. He wants another five pounds.”

Beattie’s face crumpled. “Oh no. I don’t know if we can come up with that much more money. Not right away.”

He looked at her. He’d already made up his mind what he was going to do. “Don’t worry, Gran. I’ll take care of it.”

“How? How will you?” Her normally soft voice was shrill.

“I’ll talk to him. You can’t get blood out of a stone. He’s being well paid as it is.”

“What if he won’t go for it? What if he won’t wait? Oh, Brian, what are we going to do?” She sat down on the edge of the bed as if her legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer.

Brian folded the note and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “Don’t worry, Gran,” he repeated. “I’ll get the necessary and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can, I promise.”

Her eyes were filled with tears. “I just want you to be safe.”

He put his finger on his lips. “Shush, no more crying. I will be all right.” He flexed his arm so that his biceps swelled. “See? Me strong man.”

He came around to where she was sitting. He dropped a kiss on her head. “Why don’t you go downstairs and make us some tea. I’ll come down in a minute.”

Beattie got stiffly to her feet. As she left, she was wiping at her eyes.

How dare that little son of a bitch think he could wring more money out of them?

He went over to the wardrobe. His granddad had bought the wardrobe some years ago, then found that one of the boards was loose. He’d reinforced it, not worrying about how it looked, as it was in the back of the wardrobe. When he was living with them, Brian had discovered there was a small space between the old board and the new. He hid things there. Nothing much – a packet of fags when he was supposed to be too young to smoke; a couple of dirty pictures a boy at school had sold to him. Then, before he left to go back home, he’d hidden a switchblade that he’d picked up in the market. He knew his gran would never find it – the hiding place was too good. As soon as he’d taken over the room this time, he’d checked the spot, and there the knife was, waiting like an old friend.

He took it out and flicked the spring. The blade shot out, sharp and deadly. Frigging Donny Jarvis was taking on more than he bargained for. It wasn’t an extra five pounds that Brian was going to give him.

Tyler decided to head back to the police station, where he could look over his notes and start writing his report. There wasn’t any more to do at the factory for now, but as he passed he stood for a moment at the gate. It was already blackout time and he could see a few dimmed torches bobbing as people made their way home. A tram rattled by, headlamps low, no lights showing inside. He felt he was in a city of ghosts.

“Inspector. Inspector Tyler.”

It was Lev Kaplan. “I’m going your way. I’ll walk with you partway,” he said.

At that moment the by now familiar wail of the siren started. Searchlights immediately sprang into action, fingering the sky. The barrage balloons gleamed as silver as fish when the beams caught them.

“Damn,” said Kaplan. “I was afraid they might take advantage of the moon, and they have.”

Tyler could hear the bang of high explosives. They must have landed only a few streets away. Immediately the sky was aglow as fire leaped into the air. The ack-ack guns spat, the searchlights criss-crossed, trying to pin the bombers in their sights. A warden, his tin hat askew, was frantically blowing his whistle.

“We’d better get to the shelter,” said Kaplan. “There’s one down the road. Come on, follow the arrows.”

He set off at a trot. Tyler followed close behind him.

They heard the clanging of the fire engines. More thwumps. Even closer this time.

The warden stopped blowing his whistle long enough to wave them into the shelter. “Hurry, get inside. It’s going to be a bad one.”

They went into the shelter. The walls, floor, and ceiling were concrete, the benches that lined the walls had wooden slats. The space was permeated with a stale, unpleasant smell: too many people engulfed in fear and sweat had been forced to sit in here. The only light came from two oil lamps hung from hooks in the ceiling. A dozen or so people were already seated on the benches and they eyed them curiously as they entered. Six men, similarly dressed in cloth caps, mufflers, and tweed coats, were sitting together on the opposite bench. One of them slid over and patted the place next to him.

“Here you go, then,” he said. He had a Welsh lilt to his voice. Kaplan sat down and Tyler took the remaining space opposite, next to a woman with two young children. The girl, who looked about three, was clinging to her mother like a little monkey and crying frantically. The other child, a boy, was struggling to be a big boy, but he too pressed close. The girl was wearing a red pixie hat and a matching coat. Her brother and mother also looked as if they were in their good clothes. God knows where the woman had been going when the raid started. Seated next to her were two young women, sisters by the look of them, who flashed friendly smiles in Tyler’s direction. The door opened again and a man and a woman scrambled in. He was well dressed – dark formal overcoat, trilby, a white silk scarf around his neck. She was wearing a lush fur coat and matching hat. The man smiled politely at the gathering. “Good evening. Looks like we’re in for a bit of a bashing.” His voice was cultured, educated.

“Evening,” murmured the rest of the little group, and the mother with the children moved to make room. The newcomers sat down, and the woman, who was perhaps in her forties, stared into space as if by ignoring everybody she could make the whole unpleasant situation disappear. The steel door opened again and the warden poked his head in.

“That’s it for now; we’re full. Stay here until you hear the all-clear. If it’s urgent that you have to do your business, there’s a bucket behind that curtain, but nevertheless, we prefer it if you can hold on until the all-clear.”

He disappeared. Lev said cheerfully, “I appreciate how considerate the English are about bladder relief.”

That drew slightly embarrassed smiles from the rest. Then there was a horrendous crash, so close they could hear the patter of debris on the roof. Tyler stood up and squatted on his heels so he could be on a level with the little girl.

“Those bangs are very scary, aren’t they. But you know what? We’re safe in here, and they aren’t nearly as scary if we make some noise of our own. Why don’t we all sing together? I bet you know some good songs.” The kiddie stared at Tyler as if he were utterly barmy, and he thought for a moment he might have made things worse. But at least the surprise of a strange man talking to her had temporarily stopped her howls.

“Answer the nice gentleman, Muriel,” said the mother. “You know some songs, don’t you.”

“I do,” interrupted the boy, not to be outdone, even in extremis.

“What songs do you know?” Tyler asked.

His bluff called, the lad hesitated. “ ‘God Save the King.’ ”

Tyler glanced around the shelter. All eyes were upon him, none of them looking particularly partial to singing the national anthem at this moment. Then one of the Welshmen spoke up. “Look you now, little fellow, what’s your name?”

“Fred.”

“I tell you what, young Fred. ‘God Save the King’ might be a good song for later on. In the meantime, why don’t my mates and me give out a bit of a singsong. You can join in if you know the tunes. All right, lads?”

There was a rapid consultation in Welsh among the six of them. The first man gave them the note and they plunged into a vigorous rendition of “Men of Harlech.” Even when another bomb landed nearby, the men were so lively they managed to distract everybody, including the two children. When they finished, the man in evening dress grinned broadly. “Oh, I say, jolly good.” Even the woman beside him dragged up a smile. Lev led the applause. The Welshmen immediately started another song.

And so it went on for the next several hours. Whenever there was a bit of a lull, the Welshmen would sing. The unrelenting noise of explosions and guns continued.

The people in the shelter, initially complete strangers, eventually got to know each other. The Welshmen worked together in Nichol’s, a local factory that was making uniforms. They were part of a church choir and had been singing together for years. They had come to Birmingham because the wages were better there than back in Aberdovey, where they were from. Tyler asked them if they knew his mate Jones, who played on the police soccer team. They didn’t know that particular Jones, look you, but there were lots of others.

The woman with the two children was Mrs. Doreen Latimer, on her way home from visiting her mother when she’d got caught in the raid. The two sisters, Josie and Irene Meadows, had been at the pictures and thought they could get home in time but had been caught by the raid.

The well-to-do couple completely melted and became quite human. He was Aubrey Wilson, who worked for Lloyd’s. She was Blanche, his wife. They had been on their way to attend a concert put on by the Birmingham Jewish Association. “Quite marvellous what those people can do in the area of music,” said Blanche. She actually allowed the child, Muriel, to stroke her fur coat, which the girl loved.

As for Lev Kaplan, to Tyler’s mind he was the hit of the night, in spite of stiff competition from some champion Welsh singers and a fur coat. First of all, he was a Yank, something never encountered before by any of the others. Even the upper-crust couple confessed that, whereas they had met two or three Canadians, they were not previously acquainted with an American. Not only that, Lev turned out to be an expert with sleight-of-hand tricks. He made pennies appear and disappear into ears and hair. The children weren’t the only ones who loved it – Tyler laughed with everybody else. Who’d ever have thought sitting on an uncomfortable hard bench for hours while bombs dropped all around could be enjoyable, but it was.

The noise of the attack went on relentlessly. The children had to use the bucket behind the curtain, and then, in spite of the noise, they fell asleep. Muriel slumped against Tyler’s shoulder and he stroked her hair gently. Janet had often slept like that when she was a child. Everybody finally fell silent and tried to get some sleep. The Welshmen did, but the others were constantly being startled awake by another series of explosions. Tyler dozed off and on. This was what the cities had been dealing with ever since August.

At the first sound of the siren, Beatrice and Joe automatically gathered together what they called their shelter kit, an old cloth bag of Beatrice’s that she kept packed for a long stay in the shelter. A flask of brandy; a large Thermos of water; a bag of sweeties, jealously guarded to be eaten only under these circumstances; her leather purse with the special papers they might need in the event they were bombed out of their house. Everything else – blankets, extra clothes, books, and games – was already in the shelter.

Beatrice went to the bottom of the stairs and called to Brian. He appeared on the landing.

“Get down to the pantry, Bri. We’ve got to go out to the shelter.”

“Will do, Gran. Don’t worry about me.”

The ack-ack guns had opened up, and they could hear the thud of exploding bombs. It sounded as if a heavy raid was already beginning. They hadn’t got very much notice.

Joe appeared beside her. He too looked up at Brian. “All right, son?”

“I’m fine, Granddad. Get out of here.”

Still Beatrice hesitated. Joe nudged her. “Come on, old gal. We’ve discussed all this.”

Brian had put on his coat and was coming down the stairs. He gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Is there anything in the pantry I shouldn’t touch?”

She managed to smile. “Have whatever you want. I wish there was more.”

Joe picked up the shelter bag and they went to the back door. Fires were already blazing, not too far from their street by the look of things.

“Let’s make a run for it,” he said, and they scurried off.

Brian stood at the window, watching them through the crack in the curtain, until they were safely inside. He couldn’t bear the thought of hiding in the tiny, dark pantry. Joe had fed electric light in there, but what if there was a direct hit and he got buried, or the light went out, as it often did if the lines were hit? Even thinking about it made Brian break out in a sweat. He peeked out the window again. The sky was lit up from the fires and the searchlights fingering the sky. He could see the outline of the Jerry bombers as the lights caught their underbellies. He felt no hatred for the men inside. There were men in those planes as afraid as any one of ours. They might be married as well.

An explosion hit so close he felt the floor tremble, and he went to the pantry. His grandmother had put a chair in there, tucked under the sloping ceiling. Just enough room for one person. He felt a rush of bile into his mouth as he looked at the dark space. He’d rather take his chances in the living room. He went over to the table where he knew he should take cover, but he couldn’t stand it. He got up again and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. He rummaged in the back of the wardrobe, where he had been storing all his clothes since the redcaps had come. He took out his army overcoat and cap and put them on. The coat was heavy – not practical really, not warm enough, not flexible enough to permit much action – but he felt comforted by the weight of it, by its legitimacy. He hurried back downstairs through the kitchen and slipped out the back door. He was taking a risk of being seen but he didn’t care. He had to get out. He had to do something.

Keeping close to the wall, he trotted around to the front of the house. The street was completely deserted. The siren had stopped howling but the noise of the explosions and the flak was horrendous. He actually saw the stick of black bombs tumbling out of one of the Jerry bombers, falling through the beams of the searchlights. Then the ground shuddered as the bombs landed.

He started to run. At the corner of the street an air-raid warden popped out of an archway.

“Get under cover, you bloody idiot,” he yelled.

Brian ignored him and just ran faster, until he could run no farther. His chest was hurting from the exertion and he was forced to slow down. Suddenly there was a huge blast of fire as one of the barrage balloons floating near the Bull Ring burst into flames. He couldn’t see if an aeroplane had collided with it or if the ack-ack guns had caught it by mistake. It was falling to the ground like a giant burning ember.

One more street and he was at the canal. The flames of a burning building were reflected in the water so that it looked as if it too were on fire. A couple of firefighters were focused on trying to bring the blaze under control. The heavy hose looked barely manageable. One of them saw him and called out something over his shoulder. Brian didn’t hear what he said but the meaning was clear. They desperately needed help.

“Soldier, we could use a hand here,” shouted the man. His face was red in the glare and he was not young.

“What do you want me to do?” Brian asked.

“Help us raise the hose. We trying to train it on the upper windows.”

Brian grabbed hold and the three of them were able to lift the hose sufficiently to train the water on the burning house.

“Let’s hope we don’t run out of water tonight, like we did before,” said the man. “It’s already bad – the main line got hit. Good thing we’ve got the canal.”

Brian couldn’t believe how hot it was this close to the flames. He felt as if the skin on his face was being seared. But as he leaned back like a man in a tug-of-war, the fire was awakening something within him, a strange sensation, as if he were no longer human, as if he had superhuman strength. If the other two men let go of the hose, he would be able to hold it up on his own. Earlier he had seen the underside of a bomber and felt only pity for the anonymous crew. Now he felt as if he hated all the Jerries, all those men who had willingly dropped their explosives on this street; he hated all those who had created such destruction.

“Did everybody get out in time?” he yelled at the fireman in front of him.

“Let’s hope so, ’cos if they didn’t, they’re goners by now.”

Brian was almost sorry. If necessary he would have run into the heart of the fire to rescue anyone who might be trapped there.

He had completely forgotten about the woman he had himself killed not so very long ago. He was not Brian the murderer, the deserter, he was Brian the saviour, the protector of the innocent.

It must have been an hour before the firemen could eventually let Brian go. He waved his farewell and he half ran, half walked in the direction of Water Street. He knew Donny Jarvis lived in one of the back-to-backs, the end house, and he went straight to it. He didn’t knock – nobody would hear him anyway – he simply tried the doorknob. It opened at once. People didn’t lock their doors in this area of town. All comings and goings would be noticed. Except, he hoped, in the midst of a raid.

Donny was by himself, lying on a couch in front of the low fire, smoking one of his ever-present fags. He sat up when Brian burst in, wary, testing the air like an animal.

“What the fuck – Brian. Didn’t recognize you for a minute with the gear on. Come in, why don’t you. Come for a cuppa and a biccy?”

“No, I fucking well haven’t. I want those sodding papers I’ve paid for.”

Donny drew a steady, deep inhale of smoke, never taking his eyes off Brian. “There wasn’t enough money. It’ll cost you another fiver.”

“Fuck you. You got plenty of bloody money.”

A violent shudder shook the house and they both had to wait. A shower of dust drifted down from the ceiling.

“Good thing Ma and everybody’s gone to the shelter,” said Donny. “Me, I figure it’s either got your name on it or it hasn’t. What do you think, Bri?”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He reached into this pocket and took out the knife. “I tell you what, though. This has got your bleeding name on it unless you cough up those papers.” He flicked the button and the blade jumped out.

Donny went very still. Some animals do that when they’re threatened. It doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous.

It was after five in the morning when they finally heard the all-clear siren. Tyler had been dozing but he woke up and looked at his watch. The raid had lasted nine hours. After a few minutes, the door opened and their warden looked in.

“All clear. You can go now. I suggest you get home as fast as you can. This might not be over yet … Be careful where you step. There’ll be a lot of debris.”

Stiffly, like people alighting from a long train ride, they got to their feet and began to shuffle to the exit. Little Fred had been asleep for the past hour, and Lev picked him up to carry him outside.

One by one they emerged from the shelter. Tyler felt as if they had stepped into Hell’s inferno.

Houses in the street behind them were burning, and smudge flares, intended as camouflage, were lit along the side of the road, making the air thick with choking smoke. The guns were temporarily quiet, the raiders had passed, but the streets were filled with noise – the crackling of flames; the horrendous crashing sound of buildings collapsing; the constant scream of the ambulances. For a moment they all stood on the steps, held motionless by the horror of it.

Gently Lev put the boy down. “Where do you live, Mrs. Latimer?” he asked the mother. “My friend and I will see you home.”

“I actually live in Church Stretton. I was heading for the station when the siren sounded,” she said.

One of the Welshmen heard her. “So was we, look you. We’ll accompany you, if that’s all right, missus. Come on, laddie. Upsadaisy.” He hauled Fred onto his back. His weight was nothing for a man accustomed to carrying sacks of coal.

“Do you want a lift too?” one of the other men asked Muriel. She nodded shyly and he hoisted her up the same way.

The warden had been waiting. “Hurry up, folks.”

“Bin nice knowing you,” said the leader, and the little pack of short, bandy-legged men trotted off at a good clip, the young mother in the middle of them.

“I hope there’s a train running,” said Lev.

The two sisters said their goodbyes and dashed away. They’d withstood the raid very well, Tyler thought.

The Wilsons lingered for a few moments. “Goodbye. You were quite splendid,” Mr. Wilson said to Lev. “And you too, sir,” he added. “Kept us calm, I must say.” They all shook hands.

“Cheerio,” replied Lev.

Mrs. Wilson had resumed her cool demeanour. The unexpected intimacy of the night was already gone. It would become good fodder for dinner anecdotes, thought Tyler. But he’d liked them. Liked all of them, these unchosen companions of the night. He gave himself a little shake. God, he was getting to be quite sentimental. If he went on like this for the duration, he’d end up like mush.

“Where to now, mate?” Kaplan asked him.

“I thought I’d go to one of the first-aid posts. They might need help.”

“I’ll come with you. I’ve done a St. John Ambulance first-aid course.”

“Good Lord, Kaplan, you are full of surprises. Your list of accomplishments is endless.”

Lev shrugged. “Just good old Yankee know-how.”

There was a lot of debris littering the street, dreadfully recent. They went past a house on fire, the firefighters holding the hoses as steady as they could. The heat was almost unbearable. Only the shell remained of somebody’s home. All their precious, irreplaceable things gone.

Neither Kaplan nor Tyler spoke. There was nothing to be said.

They helped out a nearby first-aid post for a couple of hours. The more serious cases were sent to the hospital, so their task was mostly to bathe scrapes and bruises and offer cups of strong, sweet tea to the fearful and shocked.

The nurse at the post was a cheery old bird, called out of retirement by the current crisis. Her name, she said, was Sweeney, like the notorious barber.

“Good to see you chaps helping out,” she said. “Can’t just leave all the mopping up for us women.”

“But you do it so much better,” said Lev, who seemed to consider it his mission in life to charm women. Tyler had to admit he was very successful at it.

Mrs. Sweeney was not one to mollycoddle the less seriously injured. “There’s others worse off than you,” she said more than once to anybody who was inclined to moan and groan.

Dawn was creeping across the sky when the flow of people to the post finally stopped.

“I can manage now, gentlemen,” said the nurse, “but I can tell you where you’d be really needed if you’re up to it.”

“Where?”

“The mortuary.”

Tyler and Kaplan set off up the hill. The sun was barely breaking through the dark clouds and it was damp and chill. Some fires were still not under control but the fire wardens had mostly subdued them into black smoke. The air was thick with the smell of burning. Rubble was everywhere. They passed a bus that had been hit by an explosive. It was on its side, partly buried, in the middle of the road. Tyler hoped that the passengers had got out in time.

People were still emerging from the shelters. A grocer was sweeping away the shattered glass from the front of his shop. The windows and door had been blown off. His assistant was scrawling a message on a piece of wood. COME IN, WE’RE OPEN.

As they reached the gates of the mortuary, a voice hailed them. “Inspector! Mr. Kaplan!” It was Eileen Abbott. Tyler didn’t miss the expression of delight on Kaplan’s face.

“I called in at Number Four first-aid station,” said Eileen. “Mrs. Sweeney said you were on your way here.”

“We’ll be glad to help out if you need us,” said Tyler.

She looked doubtful. “It won’t be pretty.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” answered Tyler.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Kaplan. “I’m tougher than you might think.”

She gave him a brief smile. “Come on, then.”

They went inside. As she had warned them, it wasn’t pretty.

All the bodies recovered so far had been placed on cots packed closely together. Only a few were covered. It seemed as if the ambulance men had run out of coverings after a while. Despite regular mopping of the floor with carbolic detergent, the air was starting to get bad. Brick dust, burned bodies and clothing, dead flesh.

An exhausted looking WVS woman was walking between the rows of dead with a clipboard, making a record of the tags that had been tied to the cots.

Eileen went to her and gently removed the clipboard from her grasp. “Miss Mady, I’ll take over now. You get yourself home right away. It must have been a terrible night.”

The other woman was no longer young. “I’ve only done four rows. They started bringing them in as soon as the all-clear sounded. We’re running out of room.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll make do,” said Eileen. “And these gentlemen are going to assist me.”

Miss Mady reluctantly surrendered her task. “One of the police reservists, Constable Baker, has been helping. He just went upstairs to the reception hall with a list.”

She left, walking slowly, as if she might awake the dead that surrounded her.

“Give me the clipboard,” said Tyler. “I’ll do the recording.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Mr. Kaplan, would you go upstairs and start questioning the relatives. They’ll be coming in by now, anxious for news. Ask for the address of the person they’ve come about and, most important, get as exact a description as you can of the missing person.”

“Will do.” He paused for a moment. “Feeling better?”

Eileen looked at him blankly. “I, er, yes, thank you.”

Lev took the register she handed him and followed Miss Mady up to the reception hall.

“We have to match up the bodies to that list,” Eileen said to Tyler. “The really hard part is when we bring family down for a formal identification.”

“I can imagine that is difficult,” said Tyler. It was something he’d experienced.

“Generally people are good and don’t make a fuss.”

The swinging doors opened and two stretcher-bearers entered. They were covered with dust and dirt and had obviously been working for hours. They deposited the stretcher on one of the few remaining gurneys. Tyler felt his heart sink. The mound underneath the blanket was ominously small.

“Do you have an identity for the casualty?” Eileen asked the first man.

“Yes, Sister. She’ll likely be Daisy Marsden from 65 Granite Street. She were in the cellar. House took a direct hit.”

Tyler made a note.

“Approximate age of victim?” Eileen continued.

The man took a notebook from his pocket and opened it up. “According to the warden’s list, she’s five.”

“Colour of hair?”

“Brown, I’d say.”

“Eyes?”

The man glanced at his partner, who had sagged against the wall and was staring at the floor.

“Brown,” said the other man.

Tyler wrote down the details.

“Is the whereabouts of next of kin known?”

The first man consulted his notebook. “Parents are Henry and Ethel Marsden. One child, Daisy. Missus was pulled out but she’s hurt bad, as I understand. He’s overseas. Poor sod. What a thing to come home to.”

He looked on the verge of tears and he pinched the bridge of his nose to keep them back. He was short and skinny, looked to be call-up age, but was probably in a reserved occupation and doing night duty as an ambulance driver. His eyes were red-rimmed, the pupils dilated. He was shaking. Tyler had seen that look before. The poor sod was in a state of shock.

Eileen was keeping her voice crisp and professional. “Is the body intact?”

“Not a mark on her. I don’t understand it.”

She lifted the canvas sheet. Tyler recoiled. He couldn’t help himself – the body was so tiny and doll-like. It was completely covered with red brick dust but there were no visible signs of injury except for a thin line of blood from the corner of the child’s mouth.

“She died from concussive impact,” said Eileen to the stretcher-bearer. “Typically the lungs burst, but sometimes the heart is crushed inside the ribcage.”

She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped away the blood and some of the dust from the cheek. Tyler could see that when the alarm sounded, the child’s mother had prepared her to go into the shelter, her warm clothes probably at the ready. Daisy was wearing a green wool coat over her nightgown, white socks, and neat black shoes with a V strap. She had been a pretty child. Tyler was glad to bury his head in taking down the facts. He felt a lump in his throat. What a tragedy for the father to come back to. If he came back, that is.

“Thank you,” Eileen said to the two men. “You can put the stretcher in the number thirty-seven spot.” She noted down their numbers, which were on their arm bands. She smiled at them both. “There’s a tea urn upstairs. Go and help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the first man. They nodded their thanks, lifted their all too light burden, and trudged off.

Eileen and Tyler exchanged glances, not speaking.

The doors swung open again and a man came in. He was stooped and was wearing a shabby overcoat, but his badges of authority were his yellow arm band and the tin helmet of an ARP warden. He was carrying something at arm’s length that was wrapped in a blood-soaked flowered frock. Eileen intercepted him.

“I’ll take care of this,” she said to Tyler, who had been about to join her. Obedient to her tone of voice, he stopped in his tracks and waited.

“What have you got, John?” Eileen asked the warden quietly.

“Leg, ma’am. Left. Male. Found on the pavement on Fleet Street. There was a dress shop blown out just across the road and I snatched up the first thing I could find to wrap it in. Didn’t seem right to just leave it lying there.”

Eileen unwrapped the fabric so she could take a look. The severed leg had little resemblance now to anything living. Only the dusty raw flesh and bone at the hip end indicated that it had once been part of a human being. The remnants of the trousers were grey flannel. The foot was intact, still in its black leather shoe and, rather incongruously, bright yellow socks. Not a lot to go on when they tried to identify the corpse.

She rewrapped the leg. “Thank you, John. I’ll deal with it now.”

“I almost forgot … you will need this.” The warden handed her a piece of creased paper. “It’s a list of all the occupants registered on that part of Fleet Street. Numbers 82 and 84 are the worst hit. They’re on fire. Funny thing was, the bomb didn’t drop on them. Maybe it was a delayed-action kind.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Bombs do funny things. I’ll go back and see what’s what as soon as I can hand this over.”

Eileen carried the gruesome object to the back of the room, where all the severed body parts were screened off.

“An undertaker will try to match the parts to the bodies,” she said to Tyler. “I’ll see if there’s anyone else in the hall.”

She opened the entrance doors and beckoned to two stretcher-bearers. She waited while they put the stretcher on top of the gurney.

“Do you have a positive identification?”

“Yes, Sister, we do.” The ambulance driver was succinct. He’d gone through the procedure too many times already. “The body was retrieved from a house in Water Street. Direct hit with an HE.”

“Give me the details,” said Tyler, his pencil poised. One of the men checked his slip.

“Body of a male. Formerly one of the residents at 70 Water Street. According to the registration list, his name’s Donald Jarvis.”

Eileen frowned. “What the—” She lifted the canvas cover sufficiently to reveal the face. “My God!” Her face went white and she stared down at the body in horror.

“Sister, what is it?” Tyler asked.

“There’s some mistake. His name isn’t Jarvis. This is my nephew, Brian Walmsley.”

Eileen Abbott was not the fainting kind, but she sat down abruptly on a nearby chair. “Where did you find this body?” she said to the stretcher-bearers.

“Like I said, Sister, he was caught by a direct hit on his house. Water Street. Number 70.”

“Why is he identified as Donald Jarvis?” Tyler asked.

“That’s the name I was given. The rest of the family was in the nearby public shelter and were not injured. His ma said her son had stayed behind in the house. We took him out of the front room.”

“Did the parents make a visual identification?”

“No, they was too busy looking after themselves. We said we were bringing him here and they could come later.”

Eileen was sitting motionless, her eyes unseeing. Tyler went over to her. He touched her on the shoulder. “I suppose there’s no doubt this is your nephew?”

“None at all.”

Tyler nodded at one of the men to replace the cover over the corpse’s face.

“Where did your nephew live?” he asked Eileen.

“I, er … he’s a soldier. He was stationed in Aldershot. We heard he was coming home on leave.” She looked at Tyler. “We were expecting him at our house. It, er, it … we have more room than his parents.”

“Could he have been visiting the Jarvises on Water Street?”

“No. At least, I don’t believe so …” Her voice trailed off.

Tyler wondered why she was lying to him. He turned to the stretcher-bearers. “Thanks, chaps.”

“We’ll get back to the hospital, then.”

“Grab a cuppa from upstairs. You’ll find a Yank up there helping out. Tell him to come down here, will you?”

They walked away wearily.

Tyler addressed Eileen. “I can continue on here, Miss Abbott, if you want to leave.”

She got to her feet, her self-control shaky but in place.

“Thank you. I must tell my family.” She paused. “Brian was twenty years old, Inspector. He may not have died in the line of fire, but he is a casualty of war just the same.”

The door to the upper level opened and Lev Kaplan came hurrying down. He went straight to Eileen and took her in his arms. She did not resist.

“The ambulance men told me that they had just brought in your nephew. I’m so sorry, Eileen.”

She allowed herself to be comforted for a few moments, then moved back. “I must get home.”

“I’ll take you,” said Lev.

“No! I’ll be all right, thank you. Inspector Tyler is taking over for me. I will come back as soon as I can and conclude the formalities.”

She gathered her coat and hat. As she went past the gurney, she touched it lightly, shaking her head. “Brian, what were you thinking?”

Lev walked her as far as the door. Tyler waited until he returned.

“What rotten bad luck,” said Lev. “They told me there was some sort of mix-up in the identity. What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Tyler answered. “The nephew must have been visiting the Jarvis chappie who lives in the house that got it. I didn’t want to upset Miss Abbott, but there’s something I want to take a look at.”

He pulled back the sheet. Brian was wearing an army greatcoat, which was unbuttoned. Underneath he was dressed in a woollen Fair Isle jersey, the front of which was soaked with blood. His trousers were not army issue either and looked far too big for him. The shocking thing, however, was a long, deep gash across his throat. Tyler leaned in to take a better look.

Kaplan peered over his shoulder. “That isn’t a shrapnel wound,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. His throat’s been slashed.”

Tyler nodded. “Certainly looks like it.”

“Any ideas as to who did it?”

“Not yet. It appears he was in the front room of the Jarvis house. The parents thought this was their son Donny.”

“Good God. Jarvis. Donny Jarvis.” He stared at the corpse. “That’s definitely not him.”

“How d’you know?”

In answer, Lev reached into an inner pocket in his jacket and took out a card. “There’s something I should tell you, Inspector. Read it. It’s legit.”

Before Tyler could do more than assimilate the actual profession of the supposed photographer, the upper door opened again and the constable came hurrying down the stairs. “Is there an ambulance man here?” he asked Tyler. “Apparently the gas main has broken at the house on Water Street where they took out that body. They found out there’s a bloke trapped in there. They need to get him out quick.”

Lev looked at Tyler. “Do you think that’s Donny?”

“Could be. Let’s go find out.” He tapped Lev’s arm. “Come on. It’ll be faster if we go on foot.”

He was right. They arrived at Water Street in a few minutes, bypassing the clogged streets.

The destroyed houses were still sending up trails of smoke and a group of people was gathered not far away, being watched over by a florid-faced constable.

Tyler went over to him. “I’m DCI Tyler, working out of Steelhouse Lane. I’m looking for a bloke named Donny Jarvis.”

“Sorry, sir. He’s a dead un. He was packed off to the mortuary not so long ago.”

“That wasn’t Jarvis. Case of mistaken identity. We’re looking for the real Jarvis. We heard there’s a bloke still trapped in the rubble. That might be him.”

“If it is, he’s an unlucky sod. The upper floor collapsed into the living room. That’s where we got the other bloke. The entire house was more or less pushed into the cellar. They should have been in the shelter, but there you go, too late now. Go and have a word with PC Markle, sir. He’s been talking to somebody over there.”

“The lad who’s buried – is he still alive?” Kaplan asked.

“Apparently. One of the wardens just now made contact. He’s gone to fetch the poor bloke’s mam. See if she wants to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“There’s gas leaking into the space he’s in. Nothing we can do at the moment. He’s a goner. Matter of time. You can hear he’s getting groggy.”

“Come on, Kaplan,” said Tyler.

He showed his police badge to the constable at the barricade, who lifted the rope so they could duck underneath. They crossed the littered backyard and went to where the original door had been. Tyler shoved aside some bricks, knelt down, and put his face as close as he could to what had once been the living room floor.

“Hello! Hello, Donny? Donny Jarvis? Can you hear me?”

He pressed his ear against the boards and heard Donny’s voice, thin and faint.

“When the fuck are you getting me out of here?”

“Let me talk to him,” said Kaplan, and he bent over the small space.

“Donny, it’s Comrade Hitchcock talking to you. The police are working on getting you out but it’s going to be difficult.”

“Tell them to fucking hurry up. I can smell gas. It’s making me feel sick.”

“Donny, what happened? The police pulled out a man called Brian Walmsley. His throat had been cut. Did you kill him?”

Tyler could hear a chuckle floating up. “It was him or me, stupid sod. Comes at me with a knife. I’ll plead self-defence. Then the bleeding bomb landed, so I probably needn’t have bothered. We was buried.” He coughed. “God almighty, this is getting worse. How’s the digging coming along?”

“Slowly. Listen to me, Donny, truth is there’s not much chance of getting you out before the gas gets to you. You’re probably starting to feel nauseated and sort of sleepy. Am I right?”

“What the fuck are you telling me? Can’t you make an air hole or something?”

“Can you move over this way? I can try to get a pipe down to you.”

More coughing. “No, you dumb sod, I’m trapped. The entire fucking upstairs fell on me. I can’t move a bleeding inch. Shit, shit, my legs have gone.” He choked again. “You know what, Yank? You’re dead jammy, you are.”

“Why is that, Donny?”

“You’re getting a nice package from America. Made it myself, with a little help. But it doesn’t look like you’ll be the one to open it. Which is just as well, if you get my meaning.”

“Who else was getting a present?”

“The ponce. Couldn’t be trusted either. He’d have shot his mouth off if the police had come to call.”

“What about Chopin and Cardiff?”

“No packages. Don’t need them.”

Lev put his mouth to the boards again. “Donny. Were any of the comrades responsible for the explosion at Endicott’s?”

“One of them was.”

“How?”

“The Big Bad Wolf dropped a trinket in Little Red Riding Hood’s basket. Made the pots all shaky.” Another chuckle. “They blew themselves up. What a bloody joke, getting Endie’s own workers to do the job for us. Bet nobody’ll catch it.”

“Damn,” muttered Kaplan. More loudly he said, “Do you believe in God, Donny? Because if you do, now’s the time to clear your conscience. At the meeting we talked about a new act of sabotage. Spectacular, you called it. Is there something planned, Donny? Is there?”

“Course there is. A big one.”

“When?” Lev asked.

“Today.” The word came drifting up to them.

Tyler began to make wild signs to Kaplan that he wanted to speak, but the other man forestalled him.

“If you tell me the plan you can save a lot of lives. They’re innocent girls, Donny. They don’t deserve this. Please, I beg of you, tell me what’s supposed to happen.”

There was a silence, and Tyler seized his chance to shove Kaplan out of the way. He leaned over the narrow crack in the floorboards.

“Donny Jarvis? This is Inspector Tyler talking to you. Can you hear me?”

He was afraid for a minute that Donny had already slipped into unconsciousness. Then, in a much fainter voice than before, the boy spoke. “I might have known the fucking frogs would gather.”

“For once you got something right, Donny. And let me tell you this. Mr. Kaplan here is a good bloke and he’s being nice to you. I’m not. But out of the goodness of my heart, and seeing as how you’re not feeling too comfy, I’ll make a deal with you. If we do get you out alive, you won’t go to the clink as long as you co-operate. If you don’t and you die anyway, I’ll make sure your entire family is put in jail as accessories to major crimes and I’ll throw away the keys. Do you understand me, Donny?”

Kaplan was shaking his head and mouthing, It won’t work.

But Tyler knew his subject. “It’s a promise either way, Donny.”

The voice was almost inaudible by now. “Is me mum here?”

Tyler looked over his shoulder. A woman, thin and scrawny in a shabby navy coat, was standing at the front of the crowd, watching. Behind her was a man, equally poorly dressed, with the red, puffy face of a habitual drunk. He seemed sober at the moment but wasn’t moving.

“Yes, she’s here. If you answer my question I’ll let you talk to her.”

“Fuck that. Mum won’t have anything to say anyway. No trade-off, copper.”

Tyler heard retching from the trapped boy.

“Shite. I’ve been sick all down myself.”

“Donny, who, then? Do you want to talk to your father?”

“What for? The old bastard won’t do me any good, never has. Is me mum crying?”

Without even looking, Tyler knew the answer. This family didn’t cry. “Of course she is.”

“Crap. You can go fuck yourself. I want to talk to the Yank.”

Kaplan had heard this and there was no choice. Tyler changed places, shuffling back in the rubble so he could still hear.

“Donny, it’s Hitchcock here.”

“Good. Listen. I don’t trust that copper, but there’s something I want you to do for me.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a girl name of Thelma. She’s just a kid but I think I knocked her up. If you promise you’ll look in on her I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“I promise.”

“Is that a Yank promise?”

“No, it’s a Jewish promise. They’re solid.”

Another silence, then the faint voice. “What time is it?”

Lev checked his watch. “It’s almost a quarter past seven.”

“You’re going to have to get a move on … bombs in the factory … going to go off at half-past …”

“Where are they?”

“Mm … men’s change room … We were planning to lift the payroll … Good scheme … Mine.”

“Are there others?”

“Boiler room … My idea again.”

Lev yelled, not caring if the onlookers could hear him. “Donny, who’s the head man? Who’s Comrade Patrick?”

The whisper floated up to him. “Go fuck yourself, Yank … I don’t know … wouldn’t tell if I did.”

There was a choking rattle of breath, then silence.

Tyler jumped to his feet. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get over there.”

They scrambled back under the barrier. Tyler grabbed the constable. “Get the alarm out right away. There’ve been bombs planted in the Endicott factory. We’ve got to get the workers evacuated immediately. We’ve only got minutes.”

The constable pulled out his whistle and blew several long blasts.

Mrs. Jarvis shouted out to them. “How’s Donny? Why aren’t you getting him out?”

“Is the young man still alive, sir?” the constable asked.

“No, he’s not.” Unexpectedly, Tyler felt a pang of pity for the miserable end that Donny Jarvis had faced.

Kaplan clearly didn’t share that emotion. “He’s probably being welcomed into Hell at this moment.”

Tyler caught hold of Kaplan’s arm. “Come on, we’ll take the ambulance.”

Chopin looked at the big clock on the wall. Twenty minutes past seven. Four more hours to go. Placing the bomb had been easy. It was in a wicker lunch box, identical to the one he usually carried. There was a label on the top that read THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF DMITRI WOLF. Carrying the duplicate box, he had gone down to the boiler room. Nobody went down there, and if they did, they would assume he was coming back for his sandwiches, a habit he had already established. The bomb had fit comfortably into the lunch box. Once in the boiler room he had simply removed the wrapped package carefully, placed it in the bottom of the bucket, and added the tightly sealed false bottom. Comrade Patrick had already visited him and assured him everything was ready to go. He mustn’t tamper with it.

The ticking of the timer was audible but muffled by the seal.

The plan was to place both mop and bucket against the boiler and leave them there. Patrick had been insistent about that. “We don’t want anybody to suspect you. You’re too valuable to us.”

According to Patrick, the timer was set to go off at a half past eleven, when the workers on the first shift were having their tea break. The factory was not at full strength yet, so there weren’t likely to be casualties. The aim, Patrick said, was always to disrupt production, not to destroy their workers. Wolf didn’t really care. He’d lost his own will to live more than a year ago, in the concentration camp. He cared about revenge, and that was it. Casualties were to be expected in a war. The glorious end was freedom from all capitalist oppression, and this justified the means.

Taffy too had followed his instructions to the letter. He had placed his lunch box in his locker.

Tyler’s experience of driving on rutted country roads stood him in good stead. He had switched on the ambulance alarm, but even if they wanted to, the few cars on the road could hardly move out of the way. For what seemed like endless minutes they were stopped behind a fire truck, the firefighters all trying to subdue a blazing shop front. Lev was about to get out and run to the factory, but Tyler inched around the truck, bouncing over the hoses, and sped along the centre of the street. Endicott’s wasn’t far, and although it seemed a terribly long time, they were soon there.

On the frantic ride, Lev had filled in Tyler. Two saboteurs that he knew of, Wolfsiewicz and Taffy Evans.

“The caretaker and the man who works in the canteen?”

“That’s them. Good cover, I must say.”

“But you don’t know who’s the brains behind all of this?”

“No. Wish I did.”

“You said his nom de guerre is Patrick. Is he IRA?”

“Possibly. Or that could be just a red herring. I’m not even positive he works at the factory, although that is likely.”

“And you’re with the Security Service?” Tyler asked.

“That’s right. I’ve been what we call infiltrating.”

“Haven’t been very effective, have you,” said Tyler, speaking out of fear. He regretted his words when he saw Kaplan’s expression. The American didn’t need his reproach. He was excoriating himself.

Lev gasped with relief when they pulled up in front of the gates. They could see a stream of workers hurrying from the building. The message had got through in time. They were being evacuated.

Suddenly Lev opened his door and yelled out, “Stop that man. He’s a saboteur. Get him!”

Tyler saw that he was pointing at Taffy Evans, who was exiting with a group of women. Sizing up the situation immediately, the Welshman turned and started to run back through the crowd into the building.

Constable Eagleton was escorting the workers out of the factory. Tyler shouted to him, “Eager, go after him!”

Eagleton understood and set off in pursuit. Both men disappeared through the entrance doors. Kaplan jumped down from the ambulance and did his best to shove through the crowd after them. He was hindered by the panic infecting the women, who began to scatter, discipline forgotten, but he got through, and he too vanished into the factory.

Tyler started to shout, “Clear the area. Clear the area as fast as you can.”

Nobody seemed to be listening, but at that moment two other officers arrived on bicycles. “Move everybody as far away from this building as you can,” commanded Tyler. “Now! We’ve got an unexploded bomb in there.”

One of the men blew his whistle and the other started to move towards the women, his arms outstretched as if he were herding sheep.

Tyler saw some familiar faces. June Lipton and Pat O’Callaghan were in the crowd. Lily Johnson and Phil Riley were behind them, both being guided out by Mick Smith, the dillie man.

Tyler ran over. “Have any of you seen the caretaker?”

“Wolf? He was heading downstairs to the boiler room last I saw him,” answered Pat.

“What’s going on?” asked Smith. “Do you need some help?”

Tyler waved him off and turned and ran to the entrance, now empty of people. Once inside the hall, he paused long enough to take stock. Eagleton, Kaplan, and Taffy were nowhere to be seen or heard.

He looked up at the clock with its large black hands. He had three minutes.

It was one of the few times in his career that he wished he was armed. He headed straight for the boiler room. He half slid, half tumbled down the stairs.

The room was deserted except for one man. Dmitri Wolfsiewicz, alias Comrade Chopin. For a split second Tyler thought the man had lost his senses – he seemed to be mopping the floor. Then, even as Tyler burst in, he saw the cleaner lift a package out of his bucket and place it on the ground close to the massive boiler, which squatted in the centre of the room.

He yelled out, “Wolf. Wolf, stop.”

Wolfsiewicz turned around in surprise. The rubberized linoleum had obscured the sound of Tyler’s footsteps.

Tyler forced himself to slow down, to breathe. He didn’t want to frighten the man into some kind of precipitous action. He stopped a few feet away from him.

“Comrade, plans have changed.”

Chopin frowned. “How do you know?”

“Comrade Bolton has been killed in an air raid. I was there. Before he died he told me everything. I know you’re going to plant a bomb. You can’t go ahead. It’s not right to involve innocent people.”

“Tell that to Hitler and Churchill,” answered Wolf with a grimace. “Tell that to landlords who have exploited us for centuries.”

Tyler took a step forward. “It’s you, mate, who are being exploited. You might not know it, but the bombs are due to go off in exactly two minutes.”

The other man shrugged. “So what? Important thing is factory will shut down completely.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Do you think Comrade Patrick gives a shit about the revolution? He was planning your death and the Welshman’s. Bolton’s dead, but he confessed they were intending to steal the payroll. That is the whole point of the explosion. They have no loyalty to anything except money.”

“All revolutions need money. I knew that was plan.”

“Don’t you care that your comrades were intending to kill you?”

“It does not matter now.”

Without warning, Wolf grabbed the handle of the bucket with both hands and swung it violently, aiming for Tyler’s head. Tyler got his arm up in time to deflect the blow, but the rim split his wrist to the bone. Immediately Wolf swung again and connected with Tyler’s jaw. He spun away but was able to catch hold of the bottom of the bucket with both hands. Using it like a battering ram, Tyler knocked the other man to the ground. Wolf staggered backwards, frantically trying to regain his footing.

Tyler was upon him. Just as Wolf had swung at him, so now he whipped the bucket down on the other man’s head as hard as he could. Wolfsiewicz collapsed and was still.

Tyler picked up the package and carried it to one of the buckets of water that lined the room. His wrist dripped blood behind him.

The bomb in the change room exploded.

Tyler was awakened by a man’s voice shouting in his ear.

“Inspector? Tom? Are you awake?”

He opened his eyes. He seemed to be in bed. A hospital bed by the feel of it. Lev Kaplan was leaning over him.

“Thank God you’re still in the land of the living, Tom, old chap. I wasn’t sure for a minute. You look like Marley’s ghost with that bandage.”

Tyler opened his mouth to answer but an excruciating stab of pain shot through his jaw. He got out some guttural noises.

Lev understood. “Don’t try to talk. The doctor put some contraption in your mouth to keep your jaw immobile, but we need to debrief. Perhaps you could wag your finger, once for yes, twice for no. Okay?”

Tyler lifted his heavily bandaged arm, which also hurt. He wagged his finger once.

“Great. In case you’re wondering, when we got you out of the factory you were unconscious and you had a wicked gash on your arm and a broken jaw. Chopin was also senseless, but I guess he was the one who did that before you clobbered him. Am I right?”

Tyler indicated yes.

“Cardiff’s bomb did go off.”

Tyler pointed. The American’s arm was in a sling.

Lev shook his head. “I wasn’t hurt by that. My shoulder’s dislocated. I tripped just before we could nab him, so I wasn’t in the direct line of the blast. Cardiff was killed. He went for the bomb he’d planted in the men’s change room. It exploded in his hands. God knows what he was planning to do. Save or destroy?”

Tyler managed to mutter, “Eager? Is he all right?”

“He is. The Welshman absorbed the full force. Your poor constable got splattered with guts and gore but other than that he was unhurt. He’s been hanging out in the corridor waiting for you to come to.” Kaplan hesitated. “Your wife hasn’t yet been told you were injured. I thought you’d be the one to decide what to tell her when you were more able.”

Tyler made noises of agreement.

“Thanks to you, Tom, the whole factory didn’t go up and everybody got out in time. The bomb in the boiler room would have done immense damage. I understand you dropped the damn thing in a bucket of water.”

“Mm-hm.”

“By the way, I had a bit of a natter with our mutual friend Mr. Grey, and he’d like us to keep everything low-key. No sense in frightening people with stories of what a close call it was. The official word will be that there were fifth columnists working in the factory but they’ve been apprehended.” He smiled. “You’re going to get all the glory. I shall remain in the background, just a lowly photographer who came to help. Not that I won’t accept hugs and kisses if offered. Not from you, don’t worry. I was thinking of somebody with a softer cheek.”

Tyler twirled his finger indicating Lev should continue. The American’s expression grew serious.

“The cell I was attempting to infiltrate is no longer. The head man had obviously decided it was safer to silence erstwhile allies. The body of Comrade Arnold was found in his house, minus a leg, I might add. It wasn’t Jerry that dropped the bomb on him. That was delivered by hand. Seriously injured his parents, who lived upstairs. They claim they didn’t know what he was up to. Thought he was working for the government and they were proud of him.” Lev fished in his pocket and took out a package of cigarettes. “Want one? They’re American.”

Tyler gave a one-fingered wag.

Lev lit up and put the cigarette between Tyler’s lips. Drawing on the fag hurt like hell but Tyler didn’t care. Lev waited for a moment for him to exhale.

“There was a parcel waiting for me at my hotel,” he continued. “God help us, it was a dud, but I would have opened it, expecting it to be a food parcel from home.” He glanced at Tyler. “Okay so far? Want another puff?”

Tyler wagged his finger. Lev helped him with the cigarette.

“As I was saying, the commie cell is no longer. Bolton’s dead of course, Cardiff and Arnold all mincemeat. Comrade Chopin is also a goner.”

Tyler struggled to sit up in the bed, but Lev pushed him back gently.

“Calm down, Tom, you’ll hurt yourself. No, you didn’t kill him. He was carted off to the station unconscious but alive. We discovered later he had a cyanide pill in a hollow tooth. When he came to, he bit on it. Pouf. Gone in seconds.”

Tyler made noises.

“I know what you mean, Tom. Poor benighted soul that he was.” Kaplan offered the cigarette again but Tyler declined. Lev smoked it himself. “One of the women from the factory, Mary Ringwald-Brown, committed suicide.”

Tyler groaned.

“She hung herself from the light fixture in her room. Her landlady found her early this morning.”

“Leave a note?” Tyler managed to croak out.

“Not just a note, a veritable tome, apparently. Inspector Mason filled me in. She actually addressed the letter to you but we thought you wouldn’t mind if we read it.”

Tyler tried to nod but thought better of it. “What say?”

“Nothing much really, if you strip away all the cant. She was sorry for what she did. She didn’t mean to hurt anybody. What was she referring to? According to our guttersnipe, Bolton, Comrade Chopin was the one who sabotaged the pots.”

“Locked doors to change room. Set tragedy in motion.”

“Did she do it of her own accord or do you think she was following instructions from our very own Comrade Patrick?”

“Not sure. Certain suicide?”

“Looks like it, but we can make doubly sure if you want us to?”

Tyler wagged his finger.

Lev stubbed out his cigarette. “The real trouble is we haven’t caught Comrade Patrick and that, frankly, scares the bejesus out of me. We’ve got to find him otherwise we’ve only scotched the snake not killed it, as the Bard put it. I understand you’ve got your lad, Eager, going through employee files. I’ve asked Inspector Mason to assign some constables to help. That’s one way we might be able to trace him. I’m betting he worked at the factory. I might be good with invisible ink and codes and all that stuff but I think good old-fashioned police know-how is called for here.”

Another wag from Tyler. Lev grinned. “I see you agree.” He stood up. “I’m going to let you get some rest, Tom. I’ll be back later.”

Tyler mimed writing.

“You want some paper? Hold on.” Kaplan reached in his pocket. “Oh, shoot, Tom, I almost forgot. There was a letter for you at the station.” He handed it to Tyler, who scrutinized it briefly, turned it over, and indicated to Kaplan he needed a pencil. Hastily, the American fished one out of his pocket and Tyler managed to scribble a few lines on the back of the envelope.

Kaplan read what he’d written. “Mary’s house. See Merrick. You think we should go and have a look there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go over right now – I assume Merrick’s another lodger. I’ll take your constable with me, he needs something to do.”

Tyler wagged an agreement.

Lev put the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. “I’ve got it on the best authority that King George will be visiting the hospital tomorrow. You can offer him a good American cigarette. I hear he smokes like a chimney.”

Tyler made two wags.

“It’s true. It’s just not public knowledge.” He looked down at Tyler. “Hope your letter is good news, Tom. I see it’s postmarked Switzerland. Cheerio, as you Limeys say.” He left.

Tyler tore open the envelope. And it was good news.

Dear Tom. A very brief note to let you know I am finishing up a few loose ends here before I return to London. I shall be in touch as soon as I can. Yours, Clare.

Tyler closed his eyes. Maybe it was the dulling effect of the morphine, but all he could really think of was his investigation. He knew he was useless at the moment, but he had no intention of lying around beyond tomorrow. He had work to do. As Kaplan had put it, good old-fashioned police work was called for if they were going to catch Comrade Patrick. Loose ends, indeed.

He pressed the note to his lips briefly, then he fell asleep.