‘Christ, what a mess,’ Lewis said as we sat down at a table in a corner of the NAAFI. We had just finished our 8 a.m.–1 p.m. watch, and we each had a plate of cottage pie in front of us, a grim-looking concoction made from greyish mince and lumpy-looking mashed potato with a spoonful of overcooked carrots on the side. It smelled about as appetising as it looked. As Lewis unfolded his newspaper to read while he was eating, I thought longingly of Elizabeth Sinclair’s rabbit stew.
‘The investigation?’ I said, picking up my fork and steeling myself.
Len slid into the seat opposite me, his own plate in hand. ‘Eileen was talking about it last night,’ he said. ‘Not that I’ve said anything to her about what’s been happening, of course – the CO would have my guts for garters – but the whole island’s in uproar about it, according to her.’ Eileen was his girlfriend, a local girl he’d started seeing after the ENSA concert.
‘What else are they supposed to do, though, eh?’ I said. ‘Whoever’s behind this, they need to catch the bastard. I suppose they must know something, if they’re searching people’s houses.’
‘Is it true people suspect Hedda?’ Len continued, spearing a piece of carrot, pulling a face at it and taking a swig of tea instead. ‘Eileen said people have been talking about her – they’re saying she might be a double agent sent over by the Nazis.’
‘I haven’t seen her since the ship was bombed,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even; Lewis looked up from his paper to shoot me a curious glance.
I looked away from them both and started ploughing my way through the cottage pie. What I’d just said wasn’t actually quite true. The day after the attack, Flight Lieutenant Jackson had summoned me over to his office at the Manor, and as I’d stood in front of his desk, wondering why I was there, he’d cleared his throat, then said, ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Sergeant Gauthier. You and that Norwegian woman—’
‘Hedda,’ I’d said.
‘Hedda, yes. You’re good friends with her, aren’t you?’
‘We’re friends, yes,’ I’d said, wondering where this was leading. ‘I believe I mentioned that to you before, Sir.’
‘Has she said or done anything lately that struck you as unusual?’
‘Unusual? No, of course not.’
‘Has she ever talked to you about why she had to leave Norway?’
At that moment, I’d realised that she hadn’t, not really. We’d only discussed it once, when she’d told me that she’d got into trouble, something to do with passing on messages to prisoners who were being held at a camp in her hometown. She’d said she and Eirik tried to flee to Sweden, but hadn’t been able to get there, so they’d ended up coming to Shetland instead. I could tell from her tone and body language that even saying that much was painful for her, so I hadn’t pushed her for details; after all, I still hadn’t told her the full story of what had happened to me and Robert, only that I’d come to Svarta Ness after being involved in an accident while I was off duty. Even though I was no longer in the dark, desperate place I’d been in when I’d first arrived in Fiskersay, it was still too painful for me to think about what had happened, never mind talk about it – even to Hedda, who I suspected had similar feelings about whatever made her flee Norway with Eirik.
‘I thought you interviewed her when she first came her, Sir,’ I’d said. ‘Didn’t she tell you then?’
‘She told us her story, yes. But I was wondering what she’d said to you.’
I’d repeated what I knew. Flight Lieutenant Jackson nodded, jotting something down.
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ He’d cleared his throat again. ‘I’m afraid that while our investigations into what happened are ongoing, I must ask you to cease any association with Mrs Dahlström and her son. Just as a precaution, you understand.’
‘Sir, is that really—?’
‘That’s all, Sergeant. Good day.’ Flight Lieutenant Jackson had reached for his blotter, and I realised I was being dismissed. There was nothing I could do; I either obeyed orders, or I got myself into all kinds of hot water, and after what had happened after the accident I’d had quite enough of that. I’d saluted, then left the Manor, a scowl appearing on my face as soon as the front door closed behind me.
They can’t think Hedda’s the spy, I thought now, chewing a mouthful of gristle. That’s crazy. Just because she’s from an occupied country…
Lewis made a choking sound, tearing me away from my thoughts. ‘Christ, this is bloody awful,’ he spluttered, pushing his plate away. I went to thump him on the back but he waved me away.
‘I heard they had to make it with minced-up seagull,’ Len quipped. ‘Apparently they can’t get proper ingredients until there’s a new supply ship.’
‘Great.’ I put my fork down and pushed my plate away too, my appetite completely gone. I picked up my mug of tea instead. ‘You finished with that?’ I asked Lewis, nodding at his newspaper.
‘It’s about three weeks out of date,’ he said, handing it over.
‘Only three weeks? That’s practically straight off the press for this place.’ I gave him a wry smile as I opened it and flicked through, looking for something to catch my interest that wasn’t war, war, war.
A large picture at the top of the society pages made my breath catch in my throat. It showed a slim woman in a light-coloured dress – a dress that could quite easily have been silver – with a balding man in a dark suit. They were pressed close to one another, as close as lovers, the man’s arm around the woman’s waist with his hand on her hip and the woman’s head resting on his shoulder.
ENSA SWEETHEART LEGGE SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY MAN, the headline said, and in smaller print underneath, The show must go on as society’s finest attend the annual King George Ball at Perivale House despite threat from air raids.
I stared at the picture of Rose and Clive, trying to take it in. It was a mistake, surely. I skimmed the article, and quickly found what I was looking for, tucked away in the last paragraph.
…But who was the man spotted in the company of ENSA star Rose Legge? Legge, who last year announced her engagement to a Canadian airman, arrived at the ball with the man, who some sources say is her manager. They were seen dancing cheek-to-cheek for most of the evening, and she only had eyes for him.
My memory suddenly presented me with a picture of Rose and Clive standing at the top of the hotel stairs, mid-argument.
But when?
Soon.
I remembered the way they’d jumped apart when they realised I was there.
No. NO.
‘Everything all right?’ Lewis said, and I realised I had clenched my hand into a fist on top of the page, smudging the ink.
‘Oh. Sure. Fine.’ I folded the paper up and gave it back to him. ‘I’m gonna get some fresh air,’ I said, making a show of patting my stomach. ‘That seagull pie’s given me indigestion.’
I walked out of the NAAFI and down to the gate, where there was a private I hadn’t seen before huddled in the little wooden sentry hut. He must have just arrived. He was young, his cheeks sprinkled with acne, his uniform hanging off his skinny frame.
‘Afternoon, Sir,’ he said in a strong Cockney accent as I walked down there. ‘Got your papers, please? I’ve been asked to check ‘em for everyone on the way out as well as on the way in.’ Sounding almost apologetic, he cleared his throat and added, ‘Because of this business with the spy. The CO wants a record of all movement to and from the camp.’
‘Sure.’ Still preoccupied with thoughts of Rose, I dug my papers out of my pocket and handed them to him.
‘Sergeant Bill Gauthier,’ he said, pronouncing it Gow-thye-ur. He turned to make a note on a pad of paper on the shelf in front of him. ‘Right-oh.’
‘It’s Go-tee-ay,’ I told him, ‘French-Canadian.’
‘Oh, right, sorry, Sir,’ he said, giving me my papers back. ‘Gauthier, you say?’
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘Oh, no, no problem, Sir. It’s just there was a woman here yesterday evening, asking for you. Said she had a message.’
‘A woman? What did she look like?’
‘Tall. Blonde hair. Had a funny accent. I think she was called Helen or something.’
‘Hedda?’
The boy snapped his fingers. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘She a German or something, Sir?’
‘Norwegian,’ I said, trying, not very successfully, to disguise my impatience. ‘What was the message?’
‘I dunno. I telephoned for the C.O. to come down ’coz I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to take the message or not, and he sent her away.’
‘What?’ I passed a hand over my eyes. ‘Christ.’
‘Something wrong, Sir?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Will you open the gate, please?’
‘Of course, Sir.’ The boy ducked out of the hut, saluting me as I went past him.
As I walked away from the camp, I wondered briefly what Hedda had wanted to tell me. Perhaps I should walk down to the Sinclairs’ croft and see if she was there? No – Flight Lieutenant Jackson had ordered me to stay away. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.
Instead, I turned and trudged towards Odda’s Bay, my mind once again filled with thoughts of Rose as I tried to work out what I was going to do about her and Clive.