Walter Stilton was making his report to Thesiger. Thesiger had come up to town and phoned him in person from his hotel.
‘Our Dutchman’s in digs in Hoxton Lane. He’s signed on at the local Labour Exchange. Gave his trade as printer and got a short lecture about the paper shortage and nobody needing printers any more. He’s registered with the local nick, and he seems to know absolutely nobody in London. He spent yesterday afternoon in a café reading the small ads in the local newspaper.’
‘Did you get a copy? Coded messages?’
‘No sir – he was putting rings round items in the sits vac column.’
‘He’ll break cover. Sooner or later.’
‘I’m quite sure he will sir, but in the meantime there is something useful I could be doing.’
‘Which is?’
‘My God, word travels fast. Is there anyone in England who doesn’t know?’
‘The Branch, sir – not England. We do get to hear things in the Branch. There’ll be a team of our blokes going up to Scotland to interrogate Hess. I’d like to be one of them, sir.’
Stilton could hear Thesiger sigh. He had known even as he said it that it was an absurd request.
‘If I could do this for you I would. If it were a matter of recommendations, you’d get mine. But I don’t have the authority to assign you to that, really I don’t. I don’t even have the authority to forward your request. All I can say is if they wanted you . . . well. . . they’d have sent for you, wouldn’t they?’