9

All of the Republic of Great Britain is looking forward to today’s celebrations for Liberation Day. Dignitaries from the Soviet Union, France, Jugoslavia and our friends in Africa are among those attending to show their support and celebrate the day when the Red Army drove the Nazis from our shores. What a day it promises to be!

News broadcast, RGB Station 1,
Tuesday, 18 November 1952

I slept for two, perhaps three hours that night before I was woken, disoriented, by the Archangel’s bright searchlight beams sweeping the clouds and rooftops, shining in through people’s windows to make the rooms brighter than day. I lay there thinking of those lost moments in Lorelei’s house, of what I had seen but couldn’t recall. And I tried to recover the memories but the effects of the concussion still kept them from me. I wondered if Hazel, in the next room, had had any more rest than I had had, or if she too had stayed awake hoping still to hear the sound of Nick’s key in the lock.

It was about seven, I think, when I heard the newspaper rattle through the letterbox. I hurried down to intercept it because I wanted to see what they knew of Lorelei’s death – maybe it would lend some hint as to who or what lay behind it – and I also didn’t want Hazel presented with the lurid details. I flicked through the pages before going back to the beginning, confused. There was no word of her. Well, perhaps it had been too late for the edition.

I sat on the stairs, thinking. Nick’s continued absence had me frightened, but, after what I had done the previous day – taking the book from Lorelei’s house and surviving the encounter with Grest – I felt more able to cope. Was there something I could do to help Nick? One idea occurred, even though it was itself daunting.

I called Number Enquiries. I had to repeat my request because it was hard to hear down the crackling line, but they connected me and the call was answered immediately.

‘National Security Police,’ said a gruff voice when it connected. There was a pause while I told myself that I really was doing this. ‘National Security Police,’ it repeated with annoyance.

I shook myself into action. I had to concentrate if I were going to find out anything about Nick. ‘Hello. You have my husband in custody,’ I said. Despite my resolve, it was painful for me even to pronounce the words, and, at the back of my mind, there was the worry that calling might somehow make matters worse. ‘My … his name is Nicholas Cawson.’

‘And?’

‘Can you tell me if you will be releasing him soon? His daughter is here. Her mother died yesterday.’

‘We can’t discuss any case. But what did you say your name was?’

My heart skipped – it felt dangerous even to give these people your name – but there was no point in withholding the information, because they would have it all on file anyway. ‘Jane Cawson. Can you tell me anything at all?’

‘No. But I’ll make a note that you called.’

‘Please, just something.’

‘I will make a note that you called.’

I didn’t doubt that. It was clear too that I was going to get nothing more from him. ‘Thank you. Goodbye,’ I said. The words seemed strange and self-mocking under the circumstances.

I thought it over. I had no influential friends in London – hardly any friends at all, in truth. But I remembered one man who had seemed kind, who might be able to help. Once again, I requested a line from Number Enquiries.

‘Borough Police Station.’ There was no love lost between the regular police and NatSec, and I was banking on that.

‘Hello. I hope you can help. I wanted to speak to an officer I met yesterday.’

‘His name?’ The accent was Cornish, I wondered how he had ended up in South London.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’ll be hard to find him, then, won’t it?’

I remained as polite as I could. ‘He’s about sixty, thin, white hair. A sergeant, I think. Detective. And he attended a death yesterday in Eastcheap.’

‘Eastcheap?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Won’t be us, then. You want Tower Hamlets Central.’

‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’

I hung up and went through it all again. Repeating my request to a man at Tower Hamlets Central Station. I heard him mumbling to someone else in the background. Then he came back to the telephone. ‘Well, we don’t know who it was. But most of CID’s not in till eight. We can try them when they get here. What’s your name?’

Half an hour later I made breakfast for Hazel. She looked even more wan than yesterday. ‘You have to eat something. Your dad would want you to,’ I said, persuading her to take some bread and butter and a glass of milk. ‘It’s going to be all right now. Today’s the day he comes back.’ I squeezed her hand in mine. She didn’t squeeze back but neither did she immediately pull her hand away, which was something. Six years of war had taught us how resilient kids could be: they had seen their families buried in rubble or graves and still those children managed to survive. I just hoped she could find it within herself to keep going until her father was free.

When the telephone rang, I jumped and hurried to it. ‘Hello?’ I said, lifting the receiver.

‘Mrs Cawson?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘This is Detective Sergeant Tibbot at Tower Hamlets Central. We met yesterday.’

The relief washed through me. It was a step towards getting Nick back. ‘Oh, thank you so much for calling,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ he replied. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

‘My husband. You know who took him.’

There was a pause. ‘Yes, I know.’

I tried to weigh up his tone of voice. Given his age, Tibbot had probably joined up forty years earlier. He had been there long before the Soviets arrived, long before they had helped Blunt’s comrades set up NatSec. A lot of the older police felt the same way about them as the rest of us, and I had seen Tibbot’s anger when Grest had pushed him aside at Lorelei’s house. But I didn’t want to tell him that Grest had come for me: it would put him on guard, wondering if anything he said would get back to them. ‘Can you help me find out about him?’

He hesitated. ‘That’s not really for me to do.’

‘Please, I just want to know if he’s all right and if he’s coming back or …’ I left it hanging because my own words brought home to me the fact that he might not. I waited.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ said Tibbot.

‘He has a daughter.’ I was growing desperate.

There was another pause, and he answered in a voice harder than before. ‘I can’t help you.’

He hung up and the line hummed with a mechanical buzz. By now Nick had been in their custody for eighteen hours. At least they hadn’t found what was in Lorelei’s house, I told myself. But suddenly, thinking of that, a thought struck me.

According to Hazel, Lorelei had been storing those secret items in the house even when she and Nick were together – meaning there was a good chance he had been involved. In that case, if NatSec were to search our own house, there was no telling what they would find. If there were something incriminating, I had to get to it first.

The place to start looking would be Nick’s study, where he did his paperwork. That door was always locked and he said that was because it contained confidential medical records, but now I wasn’t so sure. And I knew the key was in his chest of drawers in our bedroom.

I looked through the doorway to where Hazel was waiting to see if the call had brought news about her father. ‘I’m sorry, it was nothing. Do you have a friend you would like to go to today?’ I asked, even though I presumed they would all be at the Liberation Day events. ‘As soon as your dad is back, we’ll come and collect you.’

She shook her head, dejected that it wasn’t news that Nick was coming home. ‘I want to stay here with you,’ she said. I was surprised by the closeness of those words. Our shared fears for Nick seemed to have brought us together. ‘Can I?’

‘Yes, of course. I just have to do some things upstairs. You could listen to the radio or to some records. Take your mind off things.’

‘OK.’

She went to her room and I looked up towards Nick’s study. Perhaps it would provide the key to what I had found hidden in Lorelei’s house.