Grey Wolves (25 page)

‘Face forward,’ a fierce-looking prison officer named Verne shouted from the back of the room. ‘State your name and number for the commandant. Any smart-mouthing and I’ll flog you till you pass out.’

The prison commandant – who much to Marc’s surprise was also a Frenchman – sat behind an antique desk. To Marc’s partial relief, the chubby German soldier who’d given him canned fruit the evening before stood alongside him.

‘Name and number, what are you waiting for?’ Verne repeated, giving Marc a shove towards the desk. ‘And stand straight when you address the commandant.’

‘Marc Hortefeux,’ Marc said, as he stood bolt upright. ‘6060452.’

The commandant looked down through half-rimmed glasses as he picked up a set of papers which Marc had last seen at the Gestapo HQ in Lorient.

‘Verne, what’s the charge against this young man?’ the commandant asked, in a surprisingly soft voice.

‘Murder of inmate 6059738.’

The commandant looked at Marc, raising one eyebrow suspiciously. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

Marc took a deep breath, knowing that the commandant only had to squiggle a signature to sentence him to death.

‘It was self-defence, sir. It was dark. He was very much larger than me.’

The commandant looked up at Verne, ‘Any idea what sort of age and build 6059738 was?’

Verne nodded. ‘Big Spanish fellow, sir. Nasty piece of work, raped and murdered a fifteen-year-old girl.’

‘But the boy came off best in this altercation?’ the commandant said, frowning at the apparent unlikeliness of this. ‘How old are you, Hortefeux?’

‘Thirteen,’ Marc said.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t another man in your cell that killed him?’ the commandant asked. ‘It’s no good covering up for someone in this situation, is it?’

Marc shook his head. ‘I don’t know how it happened, sir. I’ve always been strong for my age. I must have caught him with a lucky punch in the dark and then I think his heart gave out.’

‘I could put him over the bench and flog the truth out of him,’ Verne suggested.

The commandant shook his head as he looked at Marc’s file. ‘Black market trading, one-year sentence,’ he said irritably. ‘How does a boy caught smuggling a few bits of illegal food end up in a place like this?’

The commandant’s obvious frustration hung in the air for a few moments, until he spoke again.

‘I’ll ask you one final time, Hortefeux. Did another man in your cell kill the Spaniard and force you to take the blame?’

Marc thought about lying, but knew that the next question would be about the identity of this alleged killer, and as the commandant seemed sympathetic, honesty seemed the best policy.

‘It was me, sir,’ Marc said.

‘Shall I flog him, sir?’ Verne asked eagerly.

The commandant stood up from his desk. ‘We are
not
going to flog him, Monsieur Verne. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t even be in here.’

Now the young German spoke for the first time. ‘Commandant, the Spaniard has a brother-in-law inside the prison and several good friends. If you put Hortefeux back in the cells after this incident, it’s very likely he’ll end up dead.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ the commandant said with a sigh. ‘So my options are to flog the boy, have him put before a firing squad, or send him back to an overcrowded cell where he’ll most likely wind up dead within a week.’

The young German leaned across the desk and spoke quietly, as if he was taking the commandant into his confidence. ‘Can I suggest we use him to help fill the quota?’

‘He’s too young,’ the commandant said.

The German looked at Marc. ‘Do you have any experience of agricultural work?’

‘A bit,’ Marc said warily.

‘He’s obviously a tough little lad,’ the German said. ‘Change his year of birth from twenty-eight to twenty-six on his papers and he’ll be old enough for agricultural work. It’s no picnic, but even if he doesn’t get murdered in a cell, how long before he picks up TB, or a group of men tries to take advantage of him? We’d at least be giving him a fighting chance.’

The commandant nodded reluctantly before looking up at Marc. ‘How would you feel about agricultural work, Hortefeux?’

Marc hated everything about farms, but compared to the filthy cell and the threat of getting murdered, manure and hard graft seemed attractive.

‘If you think that’s best, sir,’ he said, trying to hide a smile.

The commandant took Marc’s Gestapo paperwork, tore out several sheets and threw them in his waste basket.

‘Monsieur Verne,’ the commandant said, ‘it appears that the paperwork for 6060452 is incomplete. See to it that he gets new documents, with a suitable date of birth. Then enter him against our quota for the agricultural labour programme.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Verne said, sounding as if he’d much rather have given Marc a flogging. ‘I’ll get one of the girls to type it up immediately. I believe that Organisation Todt’s next train leaves for Frankfurt on Tuesday. I’d suggest leaving Hortefeux manacled in the courtyard for his own safety until then.’

‘Frankfurt,’ Marc said, as his jaw dropped. ‘That’s in Germany, isn’t it?’

The commandant nodded. ‘It was the last time I looked. Is that a problem for you?’

Marc had to make a split-second decision. But with no realistic prospect of escape or rescue and the strong possibility of being murdered back in the cell, there was really no decision to make.

*

Henderson was up on a set of steps dusting the rarely used bottles high above the bar when he heard German army boots on the stairs.

‘The bar doesn’t open until twelve,’ Henderson shouted, hoping to save the German the bother of coming all the way up.

‘This isn’t a social call,’ Oberst Bauer said, as he came around the top of the stairs and sat on a bar stool.

‘How’s my son?’ Henderson asked, struggling to contain his anger.

‘He’s doing fine,’ Bauer said. ‘I went by his cell when he was eating breakfast this morning. He seemed rather bored, but that’s to be expected.’

Henderson reached behind the bar and pulled out a paper bag. ‘I thought you might come by today,’ he said. ‘There’s a clean shirt and underwear for Marc. Plus some chocolate, a peach and apple pie from the restaurant and a couple of books to read.’

‘It’s most irregular for Gestapo prisoners to receive these things,’ Bauer said.

Henderson took one of the bottles of American bourbon up from behind the bar. ‘Perhaps …’ he began.

‘I don’t drink,’ Bauer said. ‘I’m not here for idle chat and if I want any of Madame Mercier’s black market goods I’m perfectly entitled to seize them. I’m here because I want to know if you’ve heard anything that might be of interest to me.’

Henderson shook his head. ‘I’m trying but it’s difficult, Herr Oberst. Our French clients are still not allowed in the bar and the German guests speak in German, which I can’t understand.’

‘I’m more interested in Madame Mercier,’ Bauer said. ‘Any information you have on her black market dealings could be valuable in securing the release of your son.’

‘I understand,’ Henderson said. ‘I’d very much like to visit Marc. Other Gestapo prisoners are allowed visitors, I believe.’

Bauer rose up from his stool and thumped on the bar. ‘Mr Hortefeux,’ he shouted. ‘You do not make demands of me. So far your son has been well treated at Gestapo headquarters, but you’ve given me
nothing
of value. Things could become a good deal less pleasant for Marc if I do not start receiving more cooperation from you.’

‘I understand, Herr Oberst,’ Henderson said, raising his hands meekly. ‘I’ll try my best.’

‘For your son’s sake I hope your best is good enough,’ Bauer said. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Hortefeux.’

As Bauer walked down the stairs, Luc – who’d arrived in town a couple of hours earlier – came out of a storage room behind the bar. The plan was for him to replace Marc as Mamba Noir’s cigarette boy and he’d been trying to find a waistcoat that buttoned over his broad chest without hanging halfway down to his knees.

‘Have you got any evidence that Marc is even still alive?’ Luc asked bluntly.

Henderson didn’t like this line of reasoning, especially coming from Luc who he found irritating. But it was a perfectly valid point.

‘I’ve had no evidence that Marc is still alive,’ Henderson replied. ‘On the other hand, they’ve had no particular reason to kill him.’

‘Have you tried getting someone inside Gestapo headquarters?’ Luc asked. ‘Maybe a cleaner or something, who could verify that he’s still alive?’

‘We’ve looked into some options but the Gestapo runs a tight ship,’ Henderson said. ‘As far as we can tell they don’t employ any local staff, but I’m keeping my ear to the ground all the same.’

Dot hadn’t been out of her stable for several days because of an excruciating foot abscess. A vet had drilled a small hole in her infected hoof to enable the pus to drain off, but it was Edith’s job to keep the wound clean.

She stroked the old horse’s side to settle her down before squatting on a three-legged milking stool. Getting Dot to raise her front left hoof was easy, because she wasn’t keeping any of her weight on it.

‘Good girl,’ Edith said, before splashing a piece of rag with vinegar and using it to clean off a mixture of manure and dried pus. She then used an awl to unblock the drainage hole.

Younger horses got cranky or put up a fight when they were sick, but Dot was never a problem and Edith rewarded her with a carrot.

‘You’re on the mend, old girl,’ Edith said. ‘We’ll have you galloping in no time.’

This was a joke, because Dot was a carthorse and hadn’t galloped anywhere in years. Truth told, if it wasn’t for the shortage of horses caused by the Germans commandeering all the trucks, Madame Mercier probably would have sent Dot to the butcher rather than pay a vet’s bill when she got sick.

As Edith stepped out of the stable a hand clamped her mouth shut. She sank her teeth into a young man’s little finger as he picked her off the ground and threw her against the wall.

‘Bitch,’ the youth shouted, as he pulled his bleeding finger out of Edith’s mouth.

She turned around and got a look at her attacker. He had a scarf tied over his mouth and a wide-brimmed hat putting his face in shadow. His arms were well muscled, but his voice and skin seemed young. No more than sixteen, she guessed.

‘We’ve got nothing here worth stealing,’ Edith said urgently. ‘There’s some fruit we give to the horses, but it’s mostly rotten.’

‘I’m not a thief, I need information,’ the young man said nervously.

‘What would I know about anything?’ Edith asked.

‘The powder you delivered to the laundry,’ the man said. ‘Who did you get it from?’

‘Powder? What powder? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The man took Edith’s slender hand and gently squeezed her knuckles. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘But whoever gave you that powder has links to something important. If you give me a name I’ll let you go.’

‘You’re off your rocker,’ Edith said. ‘I have no idea what this powder you’re talking about is.’

The man swung Edith around and bent her over the side of a cart.

‘I don’t want to hurt a little girl,’ he said. ‘But I know there’s a guerrilla movement in town. The powder you brought to the laundry and the train yard getting blown up. You can see I’m no German. I just need to get in touch with these people.’

‘Get stuffed,’ Edith said, as she stamped on the youth’s foot and broke free. But he was much bigger than Edith and she was cornered. The youth grabbed Edith’s blouse, thumped her back against the wall and throttled her.

‘Please don’t make me hurt you,’ he said.

Edith gasped and coughed as the pressure came off her throat. ‘You’ll have to kill me,’ she spat. ‘But I’m waiting for two carts to come back soon and the drivers will make mincemeat out of you. So I wouldn’t stick around.’

The youth looked round, unsure what to do. A girl walked down the sloping path from the main stable gate. She was fifteen or so. She’d covered her head with a knitted shawl, but her gait and the shape of her body were enough for Edith to recognise her from the laundry.

‘You’re
completely
useless,’ the laundress told the youth, as she bent down and picked up the pointed metal awl that Edith had used on Dot’s hoof.

Dot was extremely trusting and her head swung around over the stable doors, expecting a treat from the stranger.

‘Edith, listen to me,’ the girl said ferociously, as she stroked Dot’s cheek. ‘If you don’t tell me who you got the powder from, I’ll jam this point in the horse’s eye.’

Edith had known Dot all her life and if the girl blinded her, she’d be put down for sure.

‘It’s Madame Mercier’s horse,’ Edith said fiercely. ‘She’ll hunt you down.’

‘Do you think I’m scared of that old bag?’ the girl said. ‘I’ll give you three seconds to save the horse’s eye. Three, two …’

‘OK,’ Edith said desperately, as the girl held the point of the awl centimetres from Dot’s cloudy brown eye. ‘I can’t tell you the man’s name, but I can probably help you find him.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ the girl said.

‘It’s true,’ Edith said. ‘That’s how they work. It means nobody can give too much away if they’re caught.’

‘So where can we find this man?’ the girl asked.

‘I don’t know where he works,’ Edith lied. ‘But I’m pretty sure where he lives. If I meet you back here at about eight o’clock I’ll take you.’

‘OK,’ the youth said.

But the girl wasn’t having it. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ she hissed. ‘How will we know you’re not setting us up? You’ll stay with us until the meeting, and if turns out you’re trying to trick us it won’t be a horse that loses an eye.’

*

With Marc gone, Henderson now passed the radio messages to Paul. On most days, Henderson dropped a coded message into a mailbox behind a tobacconist’s shop and Paul would collect it a couple of hours later. But once a week he’d meet Boo at a café near the edge of town.

‘We’ve moved again now that PT’s gone,’ Boo said, as she sat in the afternoon sun sipping her coffee. ‘The other place seemed perfect, but that old girl kept sticking her nose in and she was half off her rocker. You never knew what she’d say to whom.’