Riptide (aka Bluffing Mr. Churchill) (17 page)

‘Later. He said later. When the Foreign Office are through with him.’

‘Well Max, there you are, another scoop.’

Beaverbrook did not react to the sarcasm.

‘Who have they sent?’ Alex asked.

‘Kirkpatrick.’

For a second all Alex could think of was a young American journalist who’d been in London covering the war for one paper or another – Helen? Hannah? H-something Kirkpatrick. Then he
remembered – Ivone Kirkpatrick, the diplomat at the Berlin embassy who’d come to the attention of the British press when he’d been stuck with the unenviable task of translating
for Chamberlain at Munich.

‘He’s not the man for the job.’

‘Do you know him? He’s considered an expert on Berlin.’

‘No, I’ve never met the man. But it’s not a job for a career diplomat. It’s an expert in interrogation they need, not an expert on Berlin. They should send in the
toughest nut they have. An English Yezhov or aBeria,ifthere is suchabeast.Ernie Bevinonabad day. And if that doesn’t work I would not be at all surprised if Winston didn’t just put the
bugger up against a wall and have him shot.’

Beaverbrook grinned, Beaverbrook chuckled, Beaverbrook guffawed. The monkey face split from side to side – head back, eyes popping. It was
unthinkable – but Churchill might just do it. The wave of laughter subsided in him. He wiped the corner of one eye and indulged in another meaningful pause.

‘If you were interrogating Hess now, what would you want from him? If you could ask him just one question, Alex, what would it be?’

And yet more – Beaverbrook was rubbing his nose in it at the same time as he sought to pick his brains. Alex saw no point in lying to the little sod. There could only be one plausible
answer.

‘I would want to know the intentions of the Third Reich towards Russia. To be precise, I would want the date and the battle formation for Hitler’s invasion of the USSR. I would want
to know when the lunatic proposes to lead his country into mass suicide.’

‘Do you really think it would be that? Most of my Cabinet colleagues seem to think Russia would last three weeks. A month at the most.’

‘Have a little faith, Max. Think of Russia’s power to resist. Almost a passive quality. But what a power! Remember Napoleon. Read
War and Peace
. It will be suicide on the
grand scale. If Russia comes into this war, then Germany is doomed. And Russia will pay the price in suffering that we British seem to have been spared thus far.’

‘We British,’ said Beaverbrook, grinning. ‘A Canadian and a Russian.’

It seemed to Old Troy to be neither statement nor question. He answered in kind.

‘We British. A couple of wogs. A baron and a baronet – rewarded for nothing more significant than our wealth and influence. What a curious country this is.’

Sarcasm was so often wasted on the Beaver.

‘The Yard’, as in ‘Let’s nip over to the Yard’, was a cheering phrase –amovie cliché to rank with ‘Let’s form a
posse’ and ‘Come out with your hands up, we’ve got you surrounded.’

In reality it had meant more sitting on his butt while Walter had the sketch copied by Scotland Yard’s photographic section. Cal had dreamt of a day when you could stick a piece of paper
in one end of a machine and get a copy out the other end in two seconds. It was like something out of H. G. Wells or Aldous Huxley. It went with food synthesisation and the Feelies. He even had a
name for the machine – the Instant Image Replicator, very catchy. If he knew the first thing about science he’d’ve doodled a sketch and dashed to the patent office. Instead he had
sat, getting angrier and angrier, until Walter reappeared with a bundle of photos, stuck one in his hand and said, ‘Pubs’re open.’

In the car, heading north up the Charing Cross Road, he said to Stilton, ‘Does everything take place in pubs?’

‘Pretty well.’

‘How many are there?’

Stilton laughed. ‘God knows. I’ve never counted and I couldn’t begin to guess. Mind, I did once count every pub, church and chapel in the town I grew up in. As I recall,
thirty-five pubs and seventeen assorted churches and chapels.’

‘For how many people?’

‘Not a lot. A few thousand.’

‘Jesus. Is that what the English do, sin all Saturday and repent on Sunday?’

‘Pretty well,’ said Stilton.

When they pulled up in front of the Marquis of Lincoln, Cal asked ‘Why this one?’

‘The one time we lost Smulders, it was a few yards from here. It gets its fair share of refugees. Time to ask who was in that night.’

Considering the public house appeared to be the
pivot of English social life, Cal was surprised they were not more friendly. More friendly, more clean, more warm – more everything. By and large this one did little to alter his first
impression of the night before – they were grim places. Worse still, a bit of mugging to the wireless notwithstanding, they were joyless places. The wall of faces that now faced him across
the ranks of half-empty pint glasses on every table looked to him like gargoyles. The barman was no exception – a nose like Punchinello, bright enough to light his way home and constitute a
breach of the blackout regulations.

Stilton called him ‘Ernie’ and beckoned to him.

‘Mr Stilton. What brings you in, might I ask?’

‘Business, Ernie, business. Were you on, Monday night?’

‘I’m on every night.’

Stilton laid the sketch of Stahl on the bar.

‘Was this bloke in?’

‘Dunno,’ said the barman.

Stilton put a photograph of Smulders next to it.

‘Nor ’im. Look Mr Stilton, why don’t you ask some of the regulars? They got nothing better to do than look who’s new and who ain’t. Me, I’m pullin’
pints all night.’

Stilton turned to Cal, said, ‘Have a seat for five minutes. I’ll just have a word with this lot.’

Cal watched him move from table to table, watched his face run a gamut of hammy theatrical expressions, each one donned and doffed like a
Commedia del Arte
mask. One man needed to be
cajoled, another bullied and another wheedled. It took him ten minutes or more, but one way or another every look of suspicion with which they greeted him was overcome or outflanked. Stilton moved
among these shabby little men – and it was men, not a woman in the place – like a colossus among the threadbare remnants of a tatty, defeated army. The weight of the word sank into
Cal’s imagination. There was misery here. For the first time the English looked defeated – as he had thought when he first walked in, joyless. He’d often heard the phrase
‘crying into your beer’ – maybe that’s what beer was for?

His attention came to rest on a couple in the corner. A blind man and his minder. A stout old man in a ragged blue overcoat. A few wisps of white hair seemed to stand up on his skull as though
blown by the draught. His eyes were lost behind glasses that were not simply dark, but utterly opaque. Stilton was making his way across the room to them now. Cal followed, picking his way between
the whispering, surly faces at the tables.

‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Potts,’ said Stilton.

The blind man spoke to his minder, a surprisingly cultured voice, ‘I know that step better than I know that voice. The heavy tread of Old Bill. I take it the constabulary are in tonight,
Leckie?’

‘It’s me, Walter Stilton. I just wanted a quick word.’

‘Always at your service sir,’ Potts answered. ‘Anything for the Met, Chief Inspector.’

Walter set the two pictures on the table, ‘I’m looking for two men. One or both of ’em might have been in on Monday.’

Cal whispered. ‘Walter, this guy is blind!’

‘Trust me,’ Stilton whispered back.

The man sitting next to Potts was his logical oppostite. A tiny man, his shoulders only slightly higher than the table, his eyes wide and bright, a mass of red hair spiralling off in all
directions. Now, he whispered to Potts.

‘No, Mr Stilton. Leckie says we have not seen them.’

‘Monday. It’s Monday I was asking about.’

Leckie whispered again.

‘We were here Monday but we don’t remember. But Leckie says we know a man who might.’

Another whisper.

‘Hudge,’ said Potts. ‘Hudge was in Monday. We are certain of that. Leckie has reminded us. We distinctly heard his lopsided shuffle. And then we heard his cough. No two men
cough alike. Did you know that, Mr Stilton?’

‘A useful tip, I’m sure. About what time?’

‘Nine. It was nine, wasn’t it Leckie? And it was busy.’

‘Did Leckie see who Hudge was with?’ Another whisper.

‘We think he was alone and . . .’

One more whisper.

‘. . . and we think it’s your round. A pint for Leckie and a large malt for yours truly, Chief Inspector.’

Stilton grumbled, bought them each a drink, scribbled in his little black notebook and left, looking to Cal quite pleased with himself.

‘Hudge?’ Cal said, when they hit the street.

‘My Czech nark. I do like it when two bits meet in the middle.’

‘What’s a nark?’

‘A grass – a stool-pigeon. Needless to say, nobody else is sure of anything. Some thought they recognised ’em, nobody was certain. And nobody would say they saw ’em
together. That lot might be dozy, they might even be lying to us, but Hudge, he’s in it for a living. If there was something going on in there on Monday he’ll have seen it. He’s a
pro – one of me regulars, you might say.’

‘Then surely you know where he lives?’

‘I did. I went round there today before you were up. Nowt but rubble. Must have caught a packet last Saturday. Only one thing I know for sure, he was still alive on Monday.’

‘And there’s been no raid since?’

Stilton nodded.

‘So where do we go from here?’

‘The shelters. We do the shelters tonight.’

He looked at his watch. ‘It’s half past six. Meet me at the Yard at ten, and we’ll do the rounds.’

‘The rounds?’

‘Aye. Back East. We’ll do the Stepney shelters. Bound to be in one of ’em.’

Cal flopped onto the bed, eased the top button of his pants. He wished he could sleep. Stilton had given him the best part of two and a half hours. Maybe he could sleep. He
closed his eyes. It wasn’t going to work. He thought about calling room service. A shot of spirits. That could do the trick. Then the phone rang.

‘Calvin? It’s me. Kitty.’

‘Hello Kitty.’

‘Wossup? You sound flat as my Aunt Flo’s Yorkshire pudding.’

‘I’m lying down. Your old man kind of ran me ragged today.’

This was a lie. It was not the day or the man that had worn him out, but the night and the daughter.

‘I could soon fix that. I get off at nine. I could be over there in a flash.’

‘Kitty, I don’t know how to say this, so maybe I should just say it as it comes. I know there’s a war on, and I figure the war does strange things to the way people behave. Men
and women. But before we leap into bed again, don’t you think we should talk?’

‘Woss to talk about?’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the point. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. We met yesterday and we went straight to bed!’

‘No we didn’t. We had dinner with me mum and dad first!’

‘That’s hardly getting to know one another. Kitty, I just think we should try to get to know one another. I think we should talk.’

‘Don’t you like it with me, then?’

‘It’s not a matter of like or not like. It’s a matter of what I’m used to. You’re rewriting the rules. That takes some grasping. Let’s meet and let’s
talk, as soon as we both have the time.’

‘Like I said, I get off at nine.’

‘And I have to meet with your father at ten.’

‘Great. That’s bags o’ time. I’ll see you in the Salisbury at quarter past nine. We can have a drink and a natter.’

This wasn’t what he meant. He wished he could tell her so.

‘The Salisbury?’

‘A pub.’

‘Another one? I thought your father had already dragged me through every pub in London. Good God, how many are there?’

‘Thousands, but this particular one’s in St Martin’s Lane, on the right as you go down. See you there. Quarter past nine. OK?’

‘Kitty, I’m kind of pubbed out.’

‘Yeah – but just for me, eh?’

He felt he couldn’t win this one. His idea was to talk, to discuss, for want of a better word, the protocol of their relationship. Her idea was to prop up a bar and chat to him for half an
hour.

‘I’ll be there.’

He listened to the dial tone as she rang off. Lay back on the pillow. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Kitty. He wanted Kitty and everything she had on offer. Why the guilt? What bendable but
unbreakable moral imperative had his childhood seared into his character?

Just over two hours later, Troy pushed open the door to the Saloon bar of the Salisbury. It was the nearest public house to his house, a minute’s walk away from the tiny
Georgian terrace he had in Goodwin’s Court, on the opposite side of St Martin’s Lane. He was looking for Charlie – his oldest friend, they’d met on their first day at an
English public school they had both loathed – and they’d stuck together ever since. About the time Troy had joined the Metropolitan Police Force, Charlie had come down from Cambridge
with a third in Arabic and had joined the Irish Guards. For the first few years Charlie had shown up in uniform more often than not. Now he was a secret agent, of what precise variety he had never
said and Troy had never asked, he wore civvies. Being a spook suited him. He looked like a ladykiller in or out of uniform – well over six foot, a mop of blond curls, dazzling blue eyes
– and whilst it was a truism of war that a uniform attracted women like moths to a candle, Troy had never once seen Charlie disadvantaged by the lack of it. He could pull a woman as she
handed him the white feather.

Charlie was sitting in a booth on the Cecil Court side, flicking through the
News Chronicle
, a whisky and soda at his side. He looked up as Troy sat down, eyes bright, a broad smile
across his lips. He lit up, a hundred tiny physical responses – all the visible muscles expressing. Charlie was the most affectionate person – man or woman – Troy had ever known.
He was clearly, genuinely delighted to see Troy. Troy might well have reciprocated – few people meant as much to him as Charlie – but he did not have the vocabulary of such affection,
physical or verbal. He had not the facility with honesty. As his brother Rod put it, he was ‘a colossal fibber’ – it was second nature to him to guard the truth, the truth of his
own emotions not excepted – and, if nothing else, it made for a dedicated copper.