The Interrogator (33 page)

‘The needs of the flesh, Dr Henderson.’

‘Yes I’m sure you’re quite an authority, Joan,’ she replied. ‘If Commander Winn asks, I’ll be back at my desk in twenty minutes.’

The queue at the Admiralty canteen was painfully slow and Mary was obliged to bolt her too thinly buttered toast and abandon her tea, although its hard tannic taste was with her until lunch-time. The frantic dash back to the Citadel and through the traffic in its narrow corridors left her feeling a little nauseous. Winn was standing by her desk, his head bent in concentration, shoulders hunched, arms tightly folded, a brooding presence. She had seen him like that a hundred times and yet she sensed there was something wrong today. He was wrestling with some great emotion, anger or perhaps pain. And there was a strange hush in the room, the plotters whispering at the back wall, the trilling of a single telephone. Wilmot was perched on a desk close by, anxiously biting the quick of a nail. He shook his head a little as Mary approached the desk and cast a warning glance at Winn’s back. But Winn heard the squeak of her shoes on the linoleum floor:

‘You were at breakfast . . .’ He did not turn to face her ‘. . . and Lieutenant Wilmot was keeping it to himself.’

‘But Rodger . . .’

Winn waved a hand to silence him: ‘The Germans have sunk the
Imperial Star
.’ He took two stiff steps towards the plot and pointed to the little pin with
U-115
on its head just off the coast of West Africa: ‘Here.’

The
Imperial Star
. Mary felt a tight lump in her throat. She covered her mouth with her hand and for a moment she was sure she was going to be sick. Those poor people. Oh God: ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . its my fault . . .’

That was all she could stammer, a few words of regret, but she knew if she tried to say more she would be lost. The rest, the questions, the explanations, the excuses caught in her throat, choking inarticulate guilt. She licked a salty drop from her lip then quickly wiped the rest from her face with the back of her hand.

‘Sorry . . .’

But Winn’s hand was at her elbow now: ‘Come with me. Can you arrange some tea, Freddie?’

And she allowed him to guide her gently from the plot and round the desks into his office.

‘What an exhibition. I’m sorry, Rodger,’ she said after a moment.

‘No need to apologise. It hurts. But remember, it was my decision in the end.’ He shook a cigarette from a packet and lit it with an angry snap of his lighter.

‘How can you do this job without the comfort of tobacco?’

‘But you asked me to check her course . . .’

‘And you did and there was nothing to suggest she was going to be in any danger,’ he said firmly. ‘Here,’ and he pushed the flimsy signal paper he had rescued from Wilmot’s board across the table to her. Special decrypt message from Station X, number 206/T85.

TOP SECRET U
CX/MSS/T18/206
TOO 08/2130Z/08/41 ZZZ

SUNK IMPERIAL STAR. TOTAL 18, 500 TONS. GRID SQUARE FF 71. SURVIVORS IN BOATS. COURSE NORTH WEST.

It was an immediate priority – ZZZ – signal from U-boat to headquarters where no doubt it was a source of much rejoicing.

‘And is there . . .’ Mary’s voice cracked a little, ‘. . . is there any news of the survivors?’

Winn shook his head then picked up a piece of paper from the desk in front of him: ‘Two or three families, fifty nurses, some RAF mechanics – specialists – thirty or so, 250 Army and Navy personnel, more than three hundred crew members with the ship’s gunners, and the cargo – aircraft parts and some ammunition. The RAF at Ascension is searching the area . . .’

He hesitated and glanced down at his desk as if to prepare Mary for distressing news and she felt the tight lump rise into her throat again.

‘I’m afraid no one picked up her distress signal and it was some time before they began the search . . . The weather was pretty bad. But they’re still looking . . .’

Mary’s hand was at her mouth, her bottom lip was trembling. She
let her hand drop to her skirt and digging her nails into the brown wool she pinched her thigh until her eyes watered with the pain.

‘Are you all right?’ Winn asked.

‘Yes.’

‘We made the right decision with the intelligence we had on U-boat movements at the time. It’s not the first mistake we’ve made, Mary, and it won’t be the last . . . still . . .’

Pulling his small black-framed glasses from his face he placed them carefully on the desk, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. The smoke from his cigarette was curling up lazily from a glass ashtray and over the desk like a burnt offering before a temple Buddha. Mary sat and watched him lost in thought and the noise of telephones and raised voices in the Tracking Room filled the little office.

‘You know, we’ve had this sort of coincidence before and we’ve always dismissed it as cruel luck . . .’ His eyes were still closed, his face crumpled in a frown. ‘And perhaps it is, but I think we need to investigate this a little more . . .’ He reached for the last of his cigarettes.

‘The
Imperial Star
left the convoy on 31 July on her own course and was making good progress, travelling at something like fifteen knots. She maintained total wireless silence. The
U-115
– the only enemy submarine south of the equator as far as we know – sank her six days later. Now the U-boat would not have had the fuel to follow her at that sort of speed for long, it must have come upon her almost at once. Imagine, many thousands of square miles of ocean – what sort of odds would you get on that happening? Unless . . .’

He picked up his glasses and slid them back on his nose with his forefinger.

‘Unless of course the U-boat knew where to find her . . .’

Mary leant forward, her right hand gripping the edge of his desk: ‘Do you believe that?’

‘I don’t believe anything until we’ve checked all we have on the
U-115
’s movements and been through the special intelligence for July and August. And we must speak to the Naval Section at Bletchley.’

Slowly, deliberately, he ground the last of his cigarette in the ashtray. The restless hum of activity from the Tracking Room washed into his office again. It was after eight and Hall from Trade would be
with them soon. At nine there was the telephone conference with the Staff at Western Approaches in Liverpool.

‘We’re looking for anything that might suggest U-boat Headquarters knew the
Imperial Star
was leaving the convoy on an independent course. Then see if you can find a list of ships travelling alone that have been attacked by the enemy. Anything in the last three months that strikes you as strange.’

Mary was a little irritated by Winn’s cool, detached tone, as if it was some sort of academic exercise. So many lives were at stake, like those poor people in the
Imperial Star
’s boats. But she knew she was excited too. It reminded her of how she had once felt in a muddy hole in Wiltshire when, after crawling down a tunnel, her torch had flashed round a stone chamber hidden for thousands of years.

‘Please be discreet.’ Winn must have read the excitement in her face. ‘Perhaps it was an appalling twist of fate, just the worst sort of coincidence, so we don’t want to cause a general panic – not yet anyway.’

Her lips twitched with amusement, a provocative little smile she was sure he would not be able to resist.

‘I know why you’re smiling: you’re thinking of Lieutenant Lindsay.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t. This must stay inside the Citadel. If our codes are compromised then he may be able to help us but it’s too soon to say.’

‘And Mohr?’

‘Well, he isn’t begging to tell his story, is he?’

There was a polite knock at the office door. It was Freddie Wilmot with some tea. A large, ruddy, genial-looking regular was standing behind him – Commander Dick Hall of the Trade Division.

‘One of the clerical assistants can help you, Mary. Hawkins seems bright enough. I’m sorry about the tea. I expect it’s cold by now anyway,’ and he shot Wilmot an unfriendly look.

Mary got to her feet and was on the point of turning to leave when he leant forward a little and said in a confidential voice: ‘And you? Are you all right? You’ve been working very hard . . .’

It was a little late and a little clumsy but well meant and Mary smiled warmly at him: ‘No harder than anyone else. I’m fine now, Rodger, really.’

‘Good.’

Mary left him to the business of the day, U-boats gathering for a pack attack, a convoy sailing into danger, the battle fought hour by hour in the Atlantic, and as she watched him at the plot with Hall she felt something close to gratitude, even affection. She felt embarrassed too, cross with herself for losing control of her feelings. Own up to the loss, yes, acknowledge some responsibility, yes, but fight on, fight on. If she was not able to keep a cool head in the face of adversity she was no use to anyone. This was her life now, her mission.

‘All right, Hawkins. I want every signal sent by U-boat Headquarters since the beginning of May.’

‘Dr Henderson?’

‘And I want them now.’

At a little after midday the Germans broadcast a crowing report on the sinking of ‘a troopship’ called
Imperial Star
. There was no mention of the survivors. Winn sent Geoff Childs to tell her.

‘
Schrecklichkeit
.’

‘What do you mean, Geoff?’

‘A terror sinking, don’t you think? Beastly Huns – it was the same in the First War – only the uniforms have changed.’

By then Mary had worked her way through two days of decrypted signals and found nothing. But Joan Hawkins was busy collecting more and Trade was pulling together a list of the independently routed ships sunk that summer. Then at six o’clock in the evening Winn came to see her with news that a lifeboat had been found more than two hundred miles from the last known position of the ship.

‘Thirty-eight people, four women and two children.’

‘And do they think there’s a chance of finding more?’

Winn shook his head. They stood in silence for a few seconds, unable to look each other in the eye, then he gave a wry smile:

‘Oh and I forgot to tell you, the Ministry of Shipping have complained to the Director. The minister wants to know why such an important ship was permitted to sail alone, unescorted, beyond the protection of a convoy.’

There was nothing to report at seven o’clock and nothing at eight and by nine Mary was convinced she must have missed something
and would have to begin again. Joan Hawkins’s slight shoulders were bent over a desk, her head resting in her hands, her hair an unruly curtain in front of her face.

‘Go home, Joan.’

She looked up at Mary and the loose brown curls fell away to reveal a pretty elfin face and dark eyes, rheumy with fatigue and the smoke that hung in a pall over the room.

‘We’ll begin again tomorrow. Leave that with me.’ Mary nodded to the file of signal flimsies between her elbows. ‘And thank you, Joan.’

By ten o’clock she was reading the broken sentences on the signal paper as if through the bottom of a bottle, the convoy numbers distant and opaque. After staring blankly at a signal for five minutes she resolved to finish the file in front of her and go to bed. The rest – there were four more on Hawkins’s desk – would have to wait until the morning. She smoothed the folds from her skirt, then, getting to her feet, raised herself on tiptoe and stretched her arms above her head, enjoying the sense of feeling flowing slowly back into her body.

‘You need some help.’ Rodger Winn was closing the door of his office. ‘I’ll ask Scholey and Childs to join you tomorrow.’

He walked over to the coat rack and lifted his mac from a hook: ‘Bletchley are looking into this for us. It will be a day or so before we hear anything.’

Winn left and she settled to her last batch of signals for the day. But she had read only a couple when, with a small pointed cough, he announced that he was back and standing at her shoulder.

‘You made me jump.’

‘I’m sorry but I thought you’d like to know Lieutenant Lindsay is looking for you. I found him in the corridor.’ There was a studied coolness in his voice that left her in no doubt of his disapproval. ‘It would be better if you went to him. You’ll find him at the entrance to the Admiralty.’

‘I see.’

‘Good night then,’ and after nodding to the night duty officer he shuffled out of the room.

Lindsay was waiting for her in the Mall, his shoulder against the peeling grey-green trunk of a plane tree, an evil-smelling cigarette
between his fingers. It was a pleasant evening, the sky a deep indigo and in the gentlest of breezes the late summer scent of cedar and pine. And for just a moment – the taxis racing under Admiralty Arch, a theatre party laughing on the steps beneath the Duke of York – it was possible to forget the
Imperial Star
and the concrete walls of the Citadel where it always felt like winter.

‘Kiss me.’

‘You found me.’ He flicked his cigarette into the gutter then wrapped his arms around her.

‘Winn told me you were here,’ she said a short time later, her head resting against his shoulder.

‘Yes. He caught me in the corridor outside the Tracking Room. It was after ten so I’d assumed he’d left. He wasn’t pleased to see me.’

‘I’m sorry about your cousin. I know you were very close.’

She felt his body tense.

‘Yes.’

‘How is your mother?’

‘Of course, she’s upset too.’

To pre-empt more questions he bent his head to kiss her.

‘I haven’t seen you for ten days,’ he said when they broke apart at last.

‘I’ve been counting too. Did you get anything from Mohr?’

He shook his head: ‘But I have something to work on.’ And he told her of the bruises on Heine’s face and the Court of Honour, of the fear he could sense in the camp at Stapley and of how carefully those he had spoken to had been schooled.

Then he took both Mary’s hands and rested his forehead against hers: ‘Will you come to my flat tonight?’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I do want to.’