Chapter Two

Mr Havelock was sitting alone in the large dining room of his very grandiose home in Glen Path, a wide, tree-lined avenue in one of the most affluent parts of the town. His mood had plummeted after he’d perused the headlines over breakfast. There was no denying the success of the Normandy landings and the opening up of the Second Front. You didn’t need to have a crystal ball to see that an Allied victory was on the horizon – it was just a matter of when. The photographs and illustrations in the Sunday Pictorial said it all. WE’RE SQUEEZING IN – NOTHING CAN SAVE HITLER NOW! screamed the banner at the top of the page in bold, black ink.

Reading the piece, Mr Havelock’s appetite left him, and he pushed his plate of bacon and egg away. Lighting up a Woodbine, he alternately smoked and drank his tea, flicking ash onto his untouched food before stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette in the middle of the perfectly fried egg. He knew it would hurt his housekeeper, Agatha, to see food spoiled and wasted during these times of rationing. It gave him a smidgen of sadistic joy.

Scraping back his chair, he made his way across the large oak-panelled room, banging his walking stick on the polished parquet flooring as he headed out of the door, making a beeline for his study. Stepping into the room, its size condensed by the walls lined with shelves stacked with books, Mr Havelock slammed the door shut and went straight to the safe situated behind his mahogany desk. Unlocking it and letting the small, heavy door swing back, he started foraging around. Finally, under the thick parchment of his Last Will and Testament and other important wax-sealed documents, he found what he was looking for – his membership of Oswald Mosley’s now defunct political party, the British Union of Fascists. He had kept it in the hope that Hitler would win the war. It would have been proof of his political leanings and alliances. Had the Nazis successfully invaded the British Isles, Mosley would have been installed as head, albeit a puppet head, of a pro-German government.

Mr Havelock muttered blasphemies under his breath as he took the souvenir of a future that would never be over to the fireplace. Pulling out a silver lighter from his trouser pocket, he clicked it open and held the flame under the thick card, on which the letters B.U.F. had been heavily embossed in black. It slowly caught light. Leaning one hand on the mantelpiece, he watched the card burn, letting go of it only at the last minute.

He had to accept that there really was no chance of Hitler making any kind of a comeback. Why the British were so against the man, he did not know. His policies made good sense. His own people had certainly thought so, otherwise why would they have voted him in?

Mr Havelock turned and sat down at his desk. His mind wandered, as it often tended to of late, to his wife, Henrietta. A wife who, on paper, had died of a terrible tropical disease in India, but who, in reality, was very much alive and well. If only she really had died, he would not be in his current predicament.

For Henrietta was the only one who could legitimately bear witness to his past misdeeds – the only one who could speak with any credibility about his past life. Without her, Pearl and her daughter – his daughter – Bel Elliot had nothing on him. Nothing that would stand up in a court of law, anyway. If it wasn’t for Henrietta, he would be able to do exactly what he wanted – starting with showing Pearl, Bel and that mishmash of women welders that Charles Havelock was not someone to be crossed.

But he couldn’t, could he? Because of Henrietta. Without knowing it, she had control of him. And no one had ever controlled him in his entire life.

Mr Havelock sat forward, his elbows pressing into the embossed leather top of his desk, his hands clasped as though in prayer. He thought again about Mosley. And Hitler. And the hoped-for future that now had no chance of becoming a reality.

He thought of Hitler’s policies. He thought about Henrietta. Insane. Or at least she was deemed to be on paper. He thought of the controversial T4 euthanasia programme adopted by the Führer at the start of the war, sanctioning the killing of the incurably ill, the elderly, the physically disabled – and the mentally ill.

The mentally ill.

Those housed in lunatic asylums.

Like the one in Ryhope.

Mr Havelock turned and looked out of the large sash window of his study, still covered in anti-blast tape even though there hadn’t been a single air raid in well over a year. He sat quite still and thought. And thought some more. And slowly the skeleton of an idea started to take shape in his head. It took a while as he put flesh on its bones, but once he had, he knew what he had to do.

It was as clear as the day outside.

And with that knowledge came a sudden wave of impatience.

Sitting up in his chair, he snatched up the receiver of his black Bakelite phone and dialled a familiar number.

‘Good morning, the Campbell residence.’ His eldest daughter’s soft voice sounded down the line.

‘Margaret!’ Mr Havelock shouted.

‘Well, hello there, Father.’ The tone was no longer soft. ‘You do realise that most people start their telephone conversations with “Hello, how are you?” rather than simply bawling their name down the line?’

Mr Havelock ignored the reprimand. ‘When’s Miriam coming back?’

‘She’s not,’ Margaret said simply.

There was silence down the phone.

‘Again, I have to inform you, Father, that it is customary in civilised society to ask how someone is if they have been unwell. Especially if that person is your daughter.’

‘In my book, being a drunk does not constitute being unwell … Lacking in willpower, more like!’ Mr Havelock sniped.

He waited for a reply, but instead heard his daughter sigh with irritation down the phone.

‘For God’s sake, Margaret.’ Mr Havelock forced the words out. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘She’s doing just fine, Father.’ Margaret tried hard to remain civil.

‘Well, if she’s doing just fine, then why hasn’t she been discharged from that sanatorium she’s been holed up in for God knows how long? She should be here – back home, where she belongs. She’s got a divorce to sort out if nothing else!’

‘Miriam’s on the mend, but she’s not well enough to return home just yet,’ Margaret said. She would have liked to ask why it was her father wanted his daughter home, but knew it was unlikely she’d get either a straight or an honest answer. Her father, she had learnt over the years, was a pathological liar.

‘Bloody hell, how long does it take to squeeze someone dry?’ Mr Havelock yelled down the phone in exasperation. He needed her home. And sooner rather than later.

There was a click as his daughter hung up. Then dead air. He banged down the receiver, fighting the urge to pick it up again and smash it back onto the cradle. Repeatedly. Even as a child, Margaret had always defied him. She was only eighteen months older than Miriam, but the pair were like chalk and cheese. Miriam had always been desperate to be a ‘Daddy’s girl’. Not Margaret, though. She was as stubborn as a mule. Always answering back. Never doing what he wanted. It had been a relief when he’d got shot of her and she’d moved over the border to marry that husband of hers.

‘Eddy!’ Mr Havelock bellowed. It felt good to shout. Flicking open his box of cigars, he took one out, clipped the end and lit it impatiently, puffing on it so hard he was soon surrounded by a fog of smoke.

‘Yes, Mr Havelock!’ Eddy’s voice could be heard before he appeared through the half-opened doorway.

‘I need a drink – and quick!’

Eddy gave a curt nod, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived, and returned a few minutes later with a silver tray on which there was a bottle of his master’s favourite brandy and a large balloon glass.

Seeing the bottle, Mr Havelock started to calm down. Shooing Eddy away, he took the Rémy and poured himself a good measure. He’d just have to be patient, remind himself of one of his long-held beliefs.

Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.

He’d have to hold his horses until Miriam got back.

Then he could put into play his plan of action.