Blackest of Lies (31 page)

“Get the gun out of his hand,” urged Hubert.

She moved the gun back towards Hubert and froze once more as a harsh voice from the living room said “Leave it!  Move away from the gun!”  A man stood behind the living room door, revealing only the rim of a bowler hat and a gun in his left hand.

“Christ in His Heaven! Who are
you
, now?” croaked Hubert.

“A’hm a police officer.  Vance.”

“Let me see your bloody warrant card!” screamed Anne.

“You jist settle down, Miss, till Ah find out what’s what here.”

“I’m Special Branch,” she replied, more calmly in response to the sudden pressure of Hubert’s hand on her shoulder.  You’ll find
my
warrant in the pocket of the overcoat that’s hanging on the back of the door you’re holding on to.”

Vance retrieved it and, satisfied, threw his own across to Anne and walked into the room to check Gallagher.  “Pity.  He’s still breathin’ but Ah think he’s done for.”

“Mac!” screamed Anne, suddenly, and sprinted into the kitchen.  Vance brushed past her to check the pulse of the man lying huddled up in the corner.  It was clear he was dead, double-tapped in the head by Gallagher.  The remains of a freshly-made breakfast lay scattered around the floor, mixed with fragments of the crockery that once held it.  Vance stood up from checking MacDonald and looked at Anne.  She was verging on the catatonic.  Gently and kindly, he guided her back into the living room, past the body of Gallagher and sat her down at Hubert’s feet.  While Hubert spoke to her calmly, Vance went back into the hallway, dialled someone and murmured for a few moments.  Hubert heard the sound of the earpiece being placed on the cradle and Vance re-appeared, closing the door behind him.  He sat down in an armchair and looked over at Hubert.

“Maybe you and me should talk a wee bit.  Take your time.”

“But Gallagher …”

“He’ll keep.”

“Well, since you clearly know Gallagher, I suppose I can come clean on one or two things but I warn you – I can’t tell you everything.”

Vance grunted sardonically.  “A’hm used tae that.”

Slowly and hesitatingly, he began.  “My name is Hubert and I was seconded to MI5 after I was made unfit for military service after Ypres.”

“But you’re American.”

“Canadian!”

“Oh, right.  Carry on.”  Clearly, to Vance, there was little difference.

“I was placed on board the
Hampshire
to prevent an act of espionage and to rescue the officer you see here.”

“And who is he?”

Hubert grimaced.  “That’s the bit I can’t tell you.”

“Ah huh.  Well, let’s put that on wan side for now and move on.”

Chris nodded towards Anne.  “Perhaps you might get a whisky for her – she looks in a bad way.”

“I take it she knew the deceased?” said Vance, pouring the drink.

“She did and he saved my life.  The other officer and I would have drowned for sure if Mac and ‘Special’ here hadn’t risked
their
lives to help us.”

“He was ill-paid for it, then.  Poor lad.”

Hubert just shook his head and sat quietly for a moment.  “Well, that’s all I can say about my part – how did you end up appearing in the nick of time?”

“Because of two friends of yours – Mr Boissier and Mr Pickup.”

“What?” Hubert snarled.

“So … not friends, after all.”

“Far from it but – you’re right – they’re from my own particular sty.  What were they up to?”

“Not sure.  They told me that they were doing pretty much what you’ve told me
you
were doing and got me to arrange a car for them.  My Superintendent back in Glasgow gave me orders that came from Moses himself.  I was to give the two of them every bit of help I could.  Well, I’ve been involved with Special Branch in the Port of Glasgow for more years than I’ll tell ye, so the job came as nae great surprise to me.  At any rate, I got them the car and one or two other bits and pieces and aff they went.”

“But what about Gallagher?”

“Well, that’s the thing.  They sent me off to watch out for him.”

Hubert chuckled painfully at the thought of Boissier and Pickup being too smart for their own good.  Henry would have been dead but for them.  “Go on.”

Vance nodded across at the recumbent form, “At first, I thought this ‘Gallagher’ might have been a deserter from the Navy in Scapa but, I couldnae find any record of him at the Admiralty in Stromness.  But any bad Irishman loose in these parts is a serious security risk so I kept a lookout for him.  I found oot that a fisherman from Westray was supposed to be meeting Gallagher at a particular café doon by the dockside to sort out a trip back to Ireland for him, so I followed the fisherman.”  Vance sighed. “I must have drunk the best part of a gallon of tea waiting for that Irish bastard.  And do you know what the best part of it was?” he asked, indignantly.  “The waitress – a wee chit of a thing – was nearly in tears because he didnae show!  He was supposed to be bringing her flowers.  Talk aboot blarney.”

A knock on the door caused Vance to get up with a grunt and go out into the hall to let the visitors come into the living room.  “Ambulance,” he explained laconically.  The uniformed men loaded Gallagher gently on to a stretcher and returned to collect MacDonald’s body, now covered respectfully by a sheet.  Hubert hid Anne’s eyes from the sight of her friend leaving his home for the last time.

When they had gone, Vance returned and knelt down by Anne, stroking her shoulder paternally.  “Ah’ll clean things up here for ye in a wee while.  Jist you finish that whisky before it goes off.”  Carefully, he helped her sip a little more of the drink and then resumed his chair arthritically.  “Anyway, we had our fisherman in custody but he was telling us all sorts of stories – ‘maybe’ the no-show was an Irishmen and, do you know, he wasn’t so sure now that he was and, since he was a nice lad all round, there must have been a good reason for his not turning up so what was all the fuss about?  I was that mad when we had to release him in the end – nothing to hold him on.  But we learned a bit more from the lass – the waitress.  Yes, he was definitely an Irishman – ‘who could mistake that lovely brogue?’ – and although he
had
said he was a seaman, he was such a gentleman, he might have been anything.  He gave her flowers and a lucky horseshoe and told her to call him ‘Sean’.  I swear she must have been ordering her wedding clothes,” Vance snorted.  “The gullibility of some people.  Only see what they
want
to see – but that’s another story.  I went over to ask around Kirkwall, too, and heard that he’d been there and was a very open, friendly sort so no-one was in the least suspicious about him.  I spoke to quite a few people and heard a couple of his aliases used here and there.  Then I got wind that he was planning to take a boat back to Thurso this morning and I managed to get on his tracks – we had to find oot if he was working alone or in collusion with somebody else – and that’s how I got to know whit he looked like.  From Thurso to Wick by train was easy enough but I lost him for about half an hour until I tracked down the driver of a pony and trap that had been hired by an Irishman to take him to this address.  As ye say, it was in the nick of time.”

True to his word, Vance cleaned up the stains on the living room and kitchen floors while Anne slowly recovered from the shock.  In the late afternoon, he left to do the inevitable paperwork at the local police station and, eventually, to head off back to Glasgow.  An hour or so later, Henry slowly regained consciousness and was able to talk a little and take some water.  He was astonished to find himself still alive.  Round about then, Hubert tried his first few steps and was dismayed at his own weakness but, with Anne’s support, he managed to walk around the room, eventually settling beside Henry for a more extended chat before the telephone rang.  Anne answered it while Hubert, unable to hear the words, caught tone of dismay.  She came slowly back into the room.

“That was Detective Inspector Vance.  Gallagher was operated on shortly after he reached the hospital and had the two bullets removed from his chest.”

“I suppose the bastard is going to live a full and happy life?” grunted Hubert, sarcastically.

“I’ve no idea – all I know is that half an hour after he regained consciousness, he escaped.  Vance doesn’t think he’ll get far in his state – and he’s no longer armed, which is a mercy – but he’s off now on his tracks again.”

“Do you think he’ll make another attempt on Henry?”

“What?  What’s this?” squeaked Farmer.

“Never mind, old man, you slept through it all.  I’ll tell you about it later if you behave.”

“I doubt if he’ll try again,” replied Anne, shaking her head emphatically. “He’ll be far too weak and, like I say, he’s no longer armed.  My bet is he’ll try get back to Dublin and tell the rest of those animals that he planted a bomb in Kitchener’s cabin on the
Hampshire
that killed him.  Can’t get more public than that.”

“So it’s over then?” whispered Henry, hoarsely.

“For you, yes,” soothed Hubert.  “Just don’t expect any medals.”

Over the course of the next hour, they brought one another up to date on the parts they variously played to end up safe in that room.  The ringing brought an end to it.  “That bloody telephone!” groaned Hubert.

Anne stood slowly up.  “It’ll be Vance – I hope he’s laid hands on Gallagher or he’s found him dead in a ditch.  However injured he might be, I’d be much happier hearing he’s dangling decently at the end of some hemp.”  Within seconds she was back, worry etched on her face.  “Chris, it’s for you – it’s Kell!”

“
Kell!
How in God’s name did he track us here?”  Hubert, with Anne’s support, made it into the hallway and picked up the telephone set.  The voice came through crackling and disturbingly remote as though the caller was not quite human.  “Hubert, is that you?”

For a moment, Hubert seriously toyed with the idea of hanging up but realised the futility of it.  Kell would always be able to find him.  “Yes,” he snapped.

“There’s no need to take that tone of voice with me, Hubert.  You knew the pressures we were under.  If it hadn’t been your friend, I suspect you’d have seen the logic of what I had to do.  Appalling, yes, but it
was
necessary.  But enough of this – we have to keep our conversation brief and careful.  People can listen into these things as you very well know.  Your doctor is quite safe now.  The results are what we needed – provided he remains anonymous.  Let him return to his previous profession with our thanks and wishes for his future health and happiness.  I really mean that.  But we now have to decide on
your
future.”

“If you think I’m ever setting foot in …”

“You have no choice.  It will be desertion otherwise.  And I know you’re thinking about your erstwhile colleagues who looked after you so well recently.  I have decided that their talents would best be employed permanently at Florrie’s.”

It took all of Hubert’s self-control not to give a burst of laughter at the decadent Boissier being required to live and work on Orkney for the rest of the war.

“At least, you will have no trouble from them.  They played their part, as instructed, and I have rewarded them by not putting them back in uniform,” Kell said.  “But I need you back here in the office as soon as possible.  I will give you a week’s recuperation but that’s it.  If you do not return and report for duty on, let us say, the twelfth instant, I will have you arrested and brought back in chains.  That clear enough?  Now put Miss Banfield on the line.  Sir Basil wishes to have a quick word.”

Wordlessly, Hubert handed the set over to Anne.  “Hello,” she said, tentatively.  For a moment or two she listened, trying several times to interject, but ended up handing the telephone back to Hubert.  She had gone a little paler.

Kell was back.  “Right, then, Hubert.  Listen carefully.  Clearly, we have to be guarded in our conversation but I want you to think about this during your convalescence – Miss Banfield’s ‘Mr Darlington’ was not idle during his enforced vacation in the United States.  It seems Von Papen, in the Embassy over there, has some very bad people on his payroll who are intent on mischief and the American Government has asked us for some informal assistance in the matter.  So get yourselves back in my office on the twelfth – you
and
Miss Banfield.”

“Miss Banfield?”

“Yes.  Miss Banfield.  It seems Sir Basil has no further use for her services.  She has been seconded to MI5.”  Kell paused so long, Chris thought he had hung up, when Kell’s disembodied voice echoed through.

“I have plans for you two.”

Tuesday, 6 June 1916 1701 hours, North Sea

Beitzen crumpled the signal Grassl had handed to him earlier in the evening and, alone, leaned back against the periscope high up on the conning tower of the Bruder Walther.  So that was it – Kitchener was dead and his was the hand that killed him.  God knows what would happen now. Would this hideous war never end?  Would Magda and Trudi survive it?  Would he?

He screwed his eyes shut against the sheer waste of it all and let the cold spray of the North Sea caress his skin, the wind rock him soothingly.  Just over to port, the dark fjords of Norway slowly filed past his boat with whispers of trolls and fair Scandinavian heroes but the reality of the present butted their way into his consciousness, scattering all but the cold knowledge that he had probably killed the last honourable man in the British Army.  Bleakness was all he could see ahead.  Bleakness for his country and the crushing blight of poverty for its people.

Pushing himself off the superstructure, he moodily walked around to lean on the rail and watch the mist-shrouded mountains rise and fall in the sea’s fading memory of the storm.  They would all get leave, of course.  The signal was almost ecstatic in its laconic text, hinting at honours and rewards for a job well done.  The bile rose in his throat at the very thought.

Up there in the tower he was alone, not just physically, but separated from his men by the solitude that command imposed.  He removed his cap and stretched back his neck to catch the rain, still pattering down from yesterday’s downpours, while the words of Hesse’s ‘Lonesome Night’ – one of Magda’s favourites – filled his mind.

You brothers, who are mine,
Poor people, near and far,
Longing for every star,
Dream of relief from pain,
You, stumbling dumb
At night, as pale stars break,
Lift your thin hands for some
Hope, and suffer, and wake,
Poor muddling commonplace,
You sailors who must live
Unstarred by hopelessness,
We share a single face.
Give me my welcome back.