In the morning, Wilde paid another short visit to Quayle. He was sitting up in bed in a room next door to the surviving tail gunner from the Sunderland. Quayle’s chest was swathed in bandages and a large strip of plaster was taped across the centre of his face, covering his damaged nose. He also had a black eye. The nurse had told Wilde that he would need to stay in hospital for at least one more day, perhaps two.
Wilde shook his head. ‘You’re an idiot, Quayle.’
‘Nice to see you, too, Wilde.’
‘This isn’t the back streets of Soho, you know. That boy could have ruined your career, you realise that? He could have had you charged in a court of law. But you’re lucky – none of it will come out.’
‘Oh, the boy wanted it – he just didn’t know he wanted it.’ Quayle laughed, then clutched his chest. ‘Jesus, that hurts – my bloody rib.’
‘I didn’t even know I’d said anything funny.’
‘Do you think I care a fig what some Scottish fisher boy might say about me? He was quite pretty, though, don’t you think? In a coarse sort of way.’
‘Was he? I don’t really share your interest in boys.’
‘I realised that as soon as I met you. You don’t know what you’re missing. Anyway, you’re a bit stuck now. You won’t be able to go anywhere without me to escort you.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You can’t go off on your own – you know that. This whole area is under military control.’
‘Then I’ll sit in the Orde house and read my book until you’re up and about.’
‘You do that, Wilde.’
*
Wilde had no intention of obeying Quayle. He knew that Corporal Boycott would have orders not to drive him, so he asked Jimmy Orde to organise a car. ‘I’ll pay good money. I only want it for the day. Quarter of a tank of gas should see me right.’
‘That’s very irregular, Tom.’
‘So are you, Jimmy.’
Orde laughed. ‘It’s a shame you live in bloody England. If you lived up here, I could teach you fishing and make a man out of you. In another life, we might have been brothers.’
‘Make a man out of me? I’ll take you on in the ring any day of your choosing.’
‘Yes, I noticed you were a pugilist. Anyway, I’ll get you that car.’
‘Can I use your phone while you’re gone?’
‘Aye, of course.’
Wilde called Lydia. ‘Has anyone been hanging around outside?’ he asked.
‘Not that I’ve noticed. Why?’
‘Nothing. Just developing paranoia, that’s all.’
‘You’ve got me worried now.’
‘Forget I said anything.’
‘Where are you, Tom? When are you coming home?’
‘Scotland – and soon, I hope. Are you both OK?’
‘Actually, there was something . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘The phone . . . there was a click on the line when you called. I noticed it when I spoke to Edie last night.’
*
Orde brought back a small Morris 8, which belched black smoke from the exhaust. Wilde thanked him then drove himself to the scattered hamlet of Ramscraigs, on the coast a little south of Dunbeath. He asked at the first house he came to and was directed to the mean crofter’s cottage that Gregor McGregor and his mother called home. A tiny woman, no more than four and a half feet tall, with the same red hair as her son, opened the door and gazed up at Wilde as though he was some undiscovered species. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re Gregor’s mother, I think.’
‘He’s not in,’ she said, attempting to close the door even as she spoke.
Wilde’s foot shot out and held the door open. ‘It’s you I wish to speak to, Mrs McGregor.’ He towered over the woman. He estimated she must be in her late thirties or early forties, though it was difficult to tell. Her hair was thin, her face was webbed with blue veins and her hands were ravaged and clawlike. Wilde took her for a heavy drinker and smoker.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you, whoever you are. Now get your foot out of my door and away with you.’ Her voice was rasping.
‘I want five minutes of your time, Mrs McGregor, nothing more.’
‘I told you, mister, I’ve nothing to say. My boy’s getting the sheep in for the dipping. And even if he was here, he’d not say a word to you.’
‘Five minutes.’ Wilde pulled out his wallet and held up a banknote. ‘Ten bob for your time.’
She hesitated no more than a second before reaching out and snatching the note. Wilde took the opportunity of her lapsed concentration to push the door open.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, stepping into her tiny front hall without waiting for her permission. The house was very small, no more than two rooms on the ground floor and another two above. The ceiling was low, the walls were damp and stained, and the smell that hit him was of boiling cabbage, burnt fat, and rotting rubbish. He gagged. It seemed to him that there were no colours in the house: little light came through the filthy windows, only shades of grime and mould.
‘Here, mister, I didn’t say you could come in,’ she said, stuffing the ten shillings into her apron pocket.
‘As I said, I won’t keep you more than a few minutes. It’s about what Gregor saw up at Eagle’s Rock. He told you he saw a dead woman.’
‘Well, he tells me a lot of things, but I take no note of the numpty.’
‘But what if he did see a woman? He should tell the police, shouldn’t he? He told me that you told him not to tell anyone.’
‘I don’t want no more trouble than I’ve got, mister, and I certainly don’t want no more police. I have enough to do with him as it is. The sheep have more brains . . .’
He looked at her closely; her pursed mouth had clamped shut like a vice after her tirade and she was standing ramrod stiff, as though terrified of something. ‘He should say what he saw,’ Wilde insisted. ‘If the police don’t believe him, that’s their business – but it’s his civic duty to say what he saw.’
She snorted with derision. ‘Civic duty! Someone pissed in yer whisky, mister?’
‘Mrs McGregor, I think you’re hiding something from me.’
‘Well, I’m not hiding the door, so you know where that is – and you can sling your hook. Go on, away with you, out of my house.’
‘Five minutes of your time and I’ll give you another ten bob.’
She was thinking, her cunning eyes flicking between Wilde and the door. Ten shillings was difficult to pass up. ‘Who are you, mister? You’re not English with that accent, that’s for certain. German spy, are you?’
‘I’m an American citizen and I’m here on behalf of President Roosevelt. He was a good friend of the Duke of Kent.’
‘Then if you’re American you’ll have a lot more than ten shillings in your pocket, now won’t you?’
‘No. Ten shillings it is – or nothing. Your choice, Mrs McGregor.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Of course, if you discover that you have something interesting to tell me, then of course I could pay fifteen shillings, maybe a little more. A pound, perhaps.’
‘Well, I can tell you that Gregor is a lying, thieving numpty.’
‘Thieving?’
She shifted awkwardly. ‘Lying, I said – lying.’
‘You said thieving, Mrs McGregor.’
‘Well then, I spoke out of turn. Anyway, what’s it to you?’
‘I want to know what happened up on that hill two miles from here. He said he found a dead woman. He was quite specific about that. And he said you told him he wasn’t to mention it to anyone. But he did mention it – he told me. Now why would you want it kept secret?’
She was small, but she had strength in her wiry arms, and she pushed him towards the door with determination. He didn’t resist; what would have been the point?
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Get away with you and keep your filthy Yankee money.’ She stood on her step, arms crossed over her apron. ‘And you know what you’ve done? You’ve earned the boy a beating, that’s what.’ She reached out and pulled a heavy cane from just inside the doorway. ‘He’ll have the hiding of his life, thanks to you.’
Wilde reached into his wallet once more and removed a pound note. He dropped it in front of her and watched it flutter to the ground at her feet. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take the money, but don’t beat the boy. If I hear any harm has come to him, I’ll get the police on to you.’ He spoke forcefully, though he had no idea whether the police would act on such a complaint. It was, however, the only threat that came to mind.
She was scrabbling on the ground, picking up the banknote, spitting on it, then dusting it down before pushing it into her pocket alongside the ten shillings. Without another word, she went back into her house and slammed the door closed.
*
Wilde walked back to the car then drove a little way north before turning inland along a narrow road that amounted to little more than a farm track. This was the road he and Quayle had taken the day before, but now he went a bit further, reaching a scattering of houses known as Braemore, part of the Duke of Portland’s 50,000-acre estate. He asked a woman walking a pair of dogs for directions to Braemore Lodge and was pointed towards an area of woodland.
The house was large and made of stone. Quite grand, but not palatial; most notable perhaps for the dozen or so chimney stacks, which suggested warmth was valued over stateliness in these climes. He parked in the shade of some trees and approached the front door. An old gardener was standing next to a flower bed watching him, trowel in hand. Wilde nodded to him but got no acknowledgement, so he carried on to the main door and knocked twice. There was no reply.
‘They’re no here,’ the old gardener called out.
Wilde walked over to him. ‘Do you know where I can find them?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Wilde introduced himself. ‘I was hoping for a word with the Duke of Portland’s son, Lord Titchfield. I believe he has been staying here.’
The gardener neither confirmed nor denied this, merely tilted his grey head to one side.
‘Is there any way I can get a message to him? Is he out fishing or stalking?’
‘Write a note and stick it through the letterbox.’
‘I’d much rather talk to him in person. Do you think he might be down at the house in Berriedale? Langwell House, is it?’
The old gardener shrugged. ‘Go to Berriedale and ask them.’ He got down to his knees to continue his weeding.
‘One more thing,’ Wilde said. ‘Did you go up to the site of the Duke of Kent’s plane crash? Were you part of the search party?’
‘What if I was? What’s it to you? Reporter from the big city newspapers, are you?’
‘No, I’m not a reporter.’
‘Well, I’ve nothing to say either ways.’
Wilde felt the anger welling up. What was the matter with these people? Yes, there was a war on – but this defensiveness was becoming ridiculous. He sighed and turned away to walk the short distance to his car. He heard the growl of another vehicle approaching. An open-topped military car came into view and slowed to a halt beside his own little Morris. Two armed soldiers emerged, one an officer with a holstered service revolver, the other a private with a rifle.
‘Thomas Wilde?’ the officer said.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Lieutenant Hague. We’ve had complaints about you.’
‘Oh really?’
‘You have been observed wandering around these parts asking questions. You have been taken for a spy.’
‘Would you like to see my papers? I have full accreditation from the government.’ He removed his documents from his jacket pocket and handed them over to the officer, who examined them closely then returned them.
‘Thank you, Professor Wilde. That all seems in order. But it doesn’t explain your present movements. Nor the fact that you are operating without your designated escort.’
‘What movements? Is there a law against calling on people?’
‘That very much depends.’
‘Look, I want to find out exactly what happened up at Eagle’s Rock so that I can report back to the President of the United States. You do realise, perhaps, that we are allies . . .’
The officer was a stern young man with a cut-glass accent and sharp, athletic cheekbones. He reminded Wilde of a particularly cruel monitor from his early days at Harrow. ‘Your point is well made, professor. But you will desist from asking further questions. The local people have been warned to look out for enemy agents – and I’m afraid that is how you are seen.’
‘I don’t suppose Walter Quayle has anything to do with this?’
Lieutenant Hague stiffened. ‘Mr Quayle did indeed suggest we look for you up here. It appears he was correct.’
‘Well, you can go back to Mr Quayle and tell him that I will see him within the hour and if he is worried about my movements, he can tell me so himself. Good day to you, lieutenant.’ Without another word, Wilde opened the door of the Morris.
He felt the hard stab of a gun muzzle in his lower back and arched his body. Turning, he pushed the private’s rifle barrel aside, then fixed his gaze on the officer. ‘Do you think this is wise, lieutenant? Threatening a representative of the President of the United States of America?’
‘We’ll be watching you, Wilde. One wrong move and your life won’t be worth living.’
Wilde shrugged, climbed into the car, fired up the engine in a cloud of stinking black smoke and set off down the track towards Dunbeath.
*
A mile along the road, he stopped in a small layby and waited until the military vehicle with the two soldiers came up behind him. They slowed down and looked at him suspiciously. He wound down the window and smiled at them. ‘Just soaking up the scenery before I return to the south of England. You can squeeze past, can’t you?’
The officer gave him a murderous look.
Wilde smiled again, then wound up his window and waved to them as they moved on with what seemed to be a great deal of reluctance. When they had disappeared into the distance, he climbed out of the Morris. He had seen something – a flock of twenty sheep on a rise, perhaps half a mile to the south, and coming his way. The shepherd herding them had a shock of red hair. Wilde set off in his direction.
A few minutes later he was standing in front of Gregor McGregor and his collie. The lad wasn’t meeting his eyes.
‘Hello, boy,’ Wilde said, patting the dog. He looked up at McGregor. ‘Kite, that’s his name, isn’t it? Fine fellow.’
McGregor said nothing, merely looked somewhere into the middle distance with his strange green eyes.
‘Gregor, I’ve been to see your mother.’
That got a response. The boy looked startled and his eyes flicked straight to Wilde’s.
‘She talked to me about you.’
‘No, no, mister, no. I’ll be beaten. I’ll get no supper.’
‘You’ll be all right – I gave her some money.’
‘No, no, she’ll beat me.’
‘You’re scared of your mother, aren’t you? She said you steal things.’
‘She makes me. She makes me steal and then I have to give the money to her.’
‘That’s why your mother told you she didn’t want you telling anyone about the body you saw – because you stole money from the body and gave it to her. Isn’t that the truth, Gregor?’
‘I can’t say anything.’
‘Do you want me to go back to your mother?’
‘No, mister, please, no.’
‘Then tell me what you did.’
He was silent again, shaking, his head down.
‘Gregor?’
The boy groaned. A sound from a deep well of despair that must have lain within him all his life. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘The dead lassie had a purse and there was money in it, pound notes and some coins – a few shillings, a half crown and some pennies. I gave them to Mother. She snatched them from me.’
‘Anything else – something more valuable, perhaps?’
McGregor was backing away. The dog had moved from its position controlling the sheep and was at its master’s side, protective, growling at Wilde.
‘What was it? Have you got it with you? Show me – or I’ll tell your mother you’ve held something back from her, and you’ll be beaten.’
Wilde could see that the boy was terrified. He felt rotten to be doing this to him, but he had no option. The boy knew something or had something, and then he saw what it was. Gingerly, the boy dug his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a dark blue rectangle of cardboard, perhaps six inches by four.
No, not just any old piece of blue cardboard: a British passport. The boy held it out between thumb and forefinger as though it were hot and might burn him. Wilde took it.
‘Thank you, Gregor. Your mother doesn’t know about this, does she?’
He shook his head.
‘And you haven’t told anyone else, have you?’
Again he shook his head.
‘You found this on the body of the dead woman?’
‘In her bag. She had a bag. I took it because I liked her picture. It’s pretty.’
‘And can you show me where the body is?’
‘No. It’s gone. Must have been taken away by the soldiers.’
Wilde opened the well-worn passport. He found a name, Harriet Hartwell, and a photograph of a young woman he had seen once before, very recently. The woman who called herself Claire Hart at the Cameron Arms in Helmsdale twenty-four hours earlier.
She had seemed very much alive.
*
Heinrich Müller leant back in his leather armchair, his gaze fixed on the prisoner’s eyes. ‘Are you not getting tired of this, Herr Posse?’
‘Yes, I am tired.’ His fingers trembled in his lap.
‘It says here in your file that you are almost sixty. You are an old man. Would you not like to live out your last years in comfort?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘Of course I would, sir.’
‘I am not going to call you that.’ The words were defiant, but the voice was faint with dread.
The rubber truncheon slammed into the back of his neck. Posse’s head jerked and he let out an agonised scream.
They were in a large, windowless room in the cellars of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, 8, Berlin. Headquarters of the Gestapo and the SS. The air was thick with the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat. Apart from Müller and the prisoner, there were three other officers present, one of whom had wielded the cosh. The other two lounged against the whitewashed wall, smirking and giggling.
Müller yawned ostentatiously. ‘All I require is a few answers, Posse, then I can go home and you can return to your cell. So tell me, do you know a man named Streletz? Heinz Streletz.’
Joachim Posse couldn’t talk. He was gasping for breath. An arm snaked around his neck. ‘Answer the Gruppenführer, pig.’ The grip tightened. Müller watched the prisoner’s face turn purple and his eyes bulge. He made a gesture to his junior officer and Posse was released, his head thrown forward against the hard edge of the desk.
‘Well, let me enlighten you, Herr Posse. Like you, Heinz Streletz is a leader of what remains of the traitorous Red Front. Like you he is a filthy Bolshevik. He is your friend and confederate, so of course you know him. All I require of you is his present whereabouts. Simple, yes?’
The prisoner still either would not or could not answer. His breathing was shallow, his head bleeding and slumped into his chest. Müller sighed. It was going to be a long session, but Joachim Posse was an important prisoner, important enough that the chief of the Gestapo himself was directing his Verschärfte Vernehmung – enhanced interrogation.
Müller’s nose wrinkled and his lip curled involuntarily at the new smell that invaded his nostrils. The prisoner had soiled himself. The Gestapo chief tutted. ‘Dear me, how embarrassing for you, Herr Posse.’
There was a sharp knock at the door. Müller nodded to one of his underlings, who proceeded to open it. His secretary, Gretchen, came in and walked straight to the desk, studiously ignoring the prisoner and the unpleasant miasma of the room. She threw out her arm in a Hitler salute and handed him a sheet of paper. ‘This message has just arrived, Herr Gruppenführer. It is marked urgent.’
‘Thank you, Gretchen. Wait for me in my office, if you would.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Like a well-drilled soldier, she turned on her heel and within moments was gone.
As Müller read the paper, his muscles tightened. He was accustomed to difficult situations, many of them unpleasant, like the present interrogation of Joachim Posse, but such things were all in a day’s work and when he returned home at the end of his long day he slept like a baby.
But he would have no sleep tonight.
He scanned the paper again, scarcely able to believe what he was reading. God in heaven, how had this been allowed to happen? The message Gretchen had brought was from an agent in England, informing him of a possible defection. A member of an important German delegation had gone missing in the neutral territory of Sweden, and the British were involved. The enormity of the incident was instantly obvious.
The problem for Müller was that the missing man had been employed in his own department in a senior role and was in possession of vital and delicate secrets. It would be bad for Germany if this confidential information was communicated to the Allies, but it would be a great deal worse for Müller himself.
He read the paper a third time, then folded it carefully and slid it into his jacket pocket. As the son of a police officer and with much of his own life devoted to police work, the Gestapo chief knew how to deal with this. But it would be difficult – and his one fear was that he might already be too late. He was making for the door when he remembered the prisoner and turned to his lieutenant. ‘Take him back to his cell, Huber.’
‘He seems to be dead, Herr Gruppenführer. A heart attack, perhaps.’
Müller glanced at the collapsed figure of Joachim Posse. ‘Then send his ashes to the widow, and bill her for cremation expenses.’