The Best of Our Spies (51 page)

They walked up into Clichy for lunch, which did not finish until after four in the afternoon.

Walking back to his hotel Owen came across an RAF crew who were flying back to RAF Northolt that night and said he could hitch a lift if he bought them all one more drink.

By six that evening and three drinks later he had checked out of his hotel on the Avenue de la Grande Armeé and was on his way to Orly Airport. His timing was impeccable. Just half an hour after he left, a harassed and very tall Englishman wearing a long dark coat and a trilby entered the hotel to enquire of an Owen Quinn, only to find out that he had just left.

It was most annoying. He had been checking the hotel registration cards that recorded the names of all guests in the city’s hotels since early morning and had only come across Quinn’s at five o’clock. He was proving to be an unexpectedly elusive quarry.

ooo000ooo

Owen Quinn had returned to London buoyed by a sense of his own resourcefulness and his meeting André Koln. At last, he now felt in control – or at the very least, no longer
not
in control. He felt that if anyone could help find his wife, it would be André. Over lunch in Clichy that Saturday it became clear that André had if anything played down his influence. It transpired that he was well connected in resistance circles and would be able to tap into that enormous body of people who were now effectively in control of much of French society.

‘Don’t keep asking me why I’m helping you, Owen,’ André said. ‘It’s a challenge for me. It’s good to help someone. I need to be doing things all the time. If not, then I have too much time to think.’

And Owen knew what he had to do. So far, he had given André precious little to go on: a couple of photographs and a cameo brooch along with the names Nathalie Mercier, Geraldine Leclerc and Nicole Rougier, though all of these identities would have been discarded long ago. Without something more substantial, it was going to be a hopeless task.

There were all of Nathalie’s possessions that Roger and his team had removed from the flat on D-Day, but he had little hope that there would be any clues there and in any case, they were hardly likely to return them to him. He could imagine Roger and Edgar and the lot of them sifting through everything to try to find some clues themselves.

He reflected on something that Nicole had said to him: putting aside whatever personal feelings he had for Nathalie and whatever one thought of her as a Nazi, her skill as a spy and leading a double and then triple life had to be admired. She had managed to enter England undetected, had remained that way for a year and then conducted herself as an active German spy with poise and bravery for the best part of three years before then going to France. She had then managed to disappear. The idea, thought Owen, that this careful and clever person would have made the mistake of leaving some meaningful clue as to her real identity among her possessions was fanciful. The cameo brooch was if anything, he now thought, probably designed to put him off the trail.

He had flown back to London on the Saturday night and leaving the Admiralty after work on the Monday evening found himself walking down Whitehall with Edgar, whose distinctive figure had materialised alongside him out of the early evening fog.

‘Welcome back, Quinn. Any souvenirs from Paris?’

Quinn ignored him and carried on walking, attempting to quicken his pace.

‘Not very happy, Quinn, have to tell you. I organised that little trip to France for you to answer one or two questions for yourself. I had to pull a number of strings with the SOE to get you over there. The idea was that you would play ball, not to go gallivanting all over France. And did you get any answers?’

‘No. Which is probably why I went gallivanting all over France as you put it.’

‘I see. Part of me is quite impressed, Quinn, actually. You obviously have some skills that you had previously kept well concealed that at a different time we could do well to tap into. Avoiding the train in St Omer, palling up with those Americans, managing to fall off our radar in Paris for the best part of twenty-four hours. Very impressive, I have to say.’

‘How did you know about all that, I mean the Americans, Paris and that?’

‘It’s my job to know, Quinn. And out of interest, what did you get up to in your lost twenty-four hours in Paris?’

‘You know, usual sightseeing, like half of the British and American armies – that kind of thing. I seem to remember having a drink or two. Anyway, why are you asking me – I thought it was your job to know?’

‘Now look, Quinn.’ Edgar was angry. ‘Let me get something clear. We have all acknowledged that this situation with your wife is unfortunate, to say the least. We are sorry. But we really cannot have you going off on some freelance operation to find her. And in the highly unlikely event of you actually finding her, what are you going to do?’

‘As you say, Edgar, that is highly unlikely, so...’

‘But you may just be lucky. Very lucky. If that happens, we don’t want anything embarrassing happening. We would rather matters were dealt with in a quiet manner. Diplomatic. We can help you. I am not sure what happened in Paris that Saturday, but mark my words, we will find out. So the minute you get a whiff of where your wife is, I am the first person you call. I can help you. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly.’

And with that, Edgar peeled away into the fog filled night. For the first time, Owen Quinn had a sense of perhaps holding the upper hand over Edgar.

ooo000ooo

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

London–Lincolnshire
December 1944

It was now December and London was just a few days away from what everyone hoped would be the last Christmas of the war. Owen had only a vague memory of what it was like before the war. Plenty of cheer on the streets, of course, and you could sense a jollier atmosphere. Nowadays, it was altogether more restrained, but inside the pub round the corner from work there were some decorations and some attempt at cheer.

Owen had stopped in for a quick drink after work. Another week at work and as short a time as he could get away with down at his parents’ over Christmas. It would be dreadful, of course, and the New Year would be awful. André Koln had written to him at his parents’ address (‘I really don’t know why you didn’t give these people your own address, dear,’ his mother had said, eager to know who the letter was from and what it was about). Although there was no news, Koln suggested a longer visit in January. Thousands of collaborators had now been arrested and Koln had some thoughts about how they might be able to find out something. It was all a long shot, but that was all he had and he needed that to get him through the festive season.

He pushed his way towards the bar.

‘Quinn, isn’t it?’

Owen’s face was clearly a picture of confusion. He could only just about hear the man he was shoulder to shoulder with in the pub.

‘Hardisty? Don’t you remember me? Air Ministry? Met up for dinner at Archibald’s club? Both our wives French.’

‘Yes, yes, of course! I remember. Sorry, not quite with it today. How are you?’

‘Can’t complain and wouldn’t do much good if I did, would it!’

They both laughed. They agreed it wouldn’t.

‘I see you got promotion. Well done. Back at sea?’

‘Not quite. At the Admiralty, round the corner. And you?’

‘Still at the Air Ministry. Was hoping for a posting back to Paris, but there is some talk of sending us out east when that show is over. And how is your wife?’

He still didn’t know how to deal with these questions. They always took him aback. Mumbling tended to help.

‘Oh, you know – the war and that. She’s over in France at the moment. Can’t say a lot, you understand.’

‘Of course, of course. My wife did enjoy meeting her though that evening. Nice for her to be able to have a good old chinwag in French. Good for her. She hates London actually. She was a bit confused though.’

‘About what?’

‘Where exactly your wife is from. She told my wife she is from Paris, but Amée noticed that once your wife had drunk a couple of glasses of that rather decent Côtes du Rhone her accent had a definite ring of Alsace to it rather than Paris. She’s a bit like that, Amée. Prides herself on being to spot where people are from. Difficult in France because they have less regional accents than we do apparently. She can spot an Alsatian accent though, her grandfather was from that part of the world. It’s got a slightly Germanic ring to it and sometimes they’ll use German phrases, but in French, if you get what I mean. It was draughty in that room and Amée noticed that your wife said “
ça tire
”. Apparently her grandfather used to say that too. Means “it pulls” and stands for nothing in French but the German does. Maybe she had an Alsatian boyfriend, eh! Before you, of course, old chap.’

‘Quite possibly.’ He felt his breathing tighten. The first chink of a possible clue.

‘Must push off, Quinn. We’ll have a proper drink in the New Year, shall we? I say, it’s bad news about old Archibald, isn’t it?’

He had not seen or heard from Archibald since the night before D-Day but didn’t want to let Hardisty know that. He furrowed his brow and leaned towards him, adopting a confidential tone.

‘What have you heard, Hardisty?’

‘That he’s taken a turn for the worse. Thought you’d know more than me. Apparently he has been poorly on and off for a year or two, but since the autumn there’s not been much they can do.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Lung cancer, I believe. Lost his son on D-Day. Must have been a blow, can’t have helped. Bad show all round really. He’s at home in Lincolnshire apparently. Anyway, you’re more likely to see him than me, so when you do, please do give him my very best.’

‘Of course, I will, Hardisty.’

ooo000ooo

He had to wait until the gap between Christmas and the New Year before he had an opportunity to head up to Lincolnshire in search of Archibald.

He had already booked a couple of days leave and did not want to arouse any more suspicion than necessary. He decided that it was inconceivable now that Edgar did not have someone at the Admiralty keeping an eye on him. A few days’ leave at his parents after Christmas would seem innocent enough.

He would also be able to use his uncle’s car. He had hinted to his parents that there might be a lady in Lincolnshire whom he wanted to visit. He did not tell them as much, but when he was reluctant to disclose his reason for wanting to drive up there (other than an unconvincing
‘I fancy seeing the countryside’
) his mother optimistically jumped to a conclusion that he did nothing to discourage (‘We’re so pleased for you, Owen. A chance to put everything behind you’).

On Christmas Day itself, he pored over maps of Lincolnshire. His only clue was his first meeting with Archibald, at Calcotte Grange. Archibald was telling him about how he had tried to retire to Lincolnshire. ‘Between Boston and the sea,’ he had said. He studied the map. It was a start, but not much more than that. There was quite a lot between Boston and the sea, but much of it was fields. Due east of Boston, there were around a dozen villages. He could certainly work with that, but then there was the possibility that ‘between Boston and the sea’ could also be north of Boston and south of it.

On his many solitary walks that Christmas, he racked his brain to try to remember what else Archibald had said in describing his idyllic life in Lincolnshire. They didn’t live in a village, but near it. He remembered that much. There was something about a telephone box next to a war memorial on a village green. That would narrow it down. A bit.

He drove up to Lincolnshire the day after Boxing Day in a Ford Anglia borrowed from his somewhat reluctant uncle. Uncle Jimmy had bought the little black car when it first came out just before the war started in 1939 and it was his pride and joy. But given that he managed to run it on the proceeds of his black market activities, he was not in a strong position to resist his nephew’s increasingly firm requests over Christmas.

Boxing Day was a Tuesday and he was not due back at work until the following Monday, which was New Year’s Day. He would need to head back to Surrey on the Saturday at the latest, so that he could return to London on the Sunday.

He set off at six in the morning, his parents both having decided to get up and wave him farewell from the front porch, his father already wearing his tie and his mother wrapped anxiously in her dressing gown.

By eight o’clock he was on the Great North Road, driving through grey sleet and slush, struggling to coax every bit of the 900 cc horsepower out of the Anglia. By eleven o’clock he was in Peterborough. He stopped to fill up the car with petrol and then had a cup of tea in a café, eating his mother’s sandwiches and feeling thoroughly miserable. He headed towards Spalding and into Lincolnshire, wondering whether he was on a pointless journey. The chances of Archibald having any idea as to his wife’s real identity were remote, but given that he had been involved in the case from the outset, he had to at least ask him.

The countryside had turned grey and the weather was showing no sign of improvement and even before he reached Spalding it was beginning to get dark. It was noticeable that all around him the land was flat, completely unbroken by hills or any interesting geographical features. As he got nearer to Boston he could sense that the Wash was just to his east. In reality, he knew that it was some miles away, but with little to keep his attention other than the long road and empty space all around him, it felt as if he was driving on the edge of the world.

It’s possible, thought Owen, that Archibald may be too ill to help, even if he did know anything and even if he did want to help.

He arrived in Boston at four o’clock and decided he would go no further. It all felt so bleak, that it almost seemed as if there was nowhere to go. The town appeared to be deserted. It may be the largest town in the area, he thought, but that was about as much as you could say for it. He could see why the Pilgrim Fathers were so keen to leave.