The Interrogator (44 page)

She did not have to wait for the next day. At a little before six o’clock her father called to her from the bottom of the stairs.

‘A military-looking car. Mother thinks it might be your man.’

She had not discussed Lindsay with her parents but they seemed to know everything from James. By the time she had slipped into a mac and wellingtons the Humber was pulling up in front of the stable block. Lindsay jumped out of the car with the restless energy of one who has driven a long distance fast and with single-minded purpose. In spite of herself she could feel a warm rush of affection for him. Head bent a little, she began striding towards the car. Lindsay slammed the door and walked round the back of it to meet her. He was already fumbling for his cigarettes.

‘You could have spoken to me on the telephone,’ she said coolly.

‘That wasn’t the impression your brother gave me.’

She had reached the car now, hands in the pockets of her mac, only a few feet from him. He slipped the cigarettes back into his jacket without taking one.

‘Can I kiss you?’

‘No.’

‘Can we talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here?’ And he glanced towards the house.

‘No. We can walk.’

She led him in silence round the stable block and through a brick arch into the walled garden where the roses had been replaced by vegetables and a flock of chickens.

‘It’s quite a house. Seventeenth century?’

She did not answer but walked on, conscious that he was watching her closely. At the far end, she opened a door in the wall and led him across the grass to the edge of a copse. It was already dark beneath the trees, the ground soft, and she could hear him stumbling and slipping and grabbing at branches for support. And she thought of his shiny black shoes and smiled with quiet satisfaction. It was not until they emerged on the other side of the wood that she stopped and turned, arms tightly folded: ‘Well?’

‘Well, I’m very sorry. Very, very sorry. No excuses. Can you ever forgive me?’

‘Can I forgive you?’

‘Yes. I love you. You know I love you very much. I didn’t want to hurt you,’ and he stepped forward to touch her.

‘No, Douglas,’ she said firmly and held up a hand. ‘No, don’t. I can’t forgive you.’

He took half a step back again and looked away, as if uncertain what he should say next. Did he really think ‘sorry’ would be enough? Did he think it would be that easy? And she could feel the anger she had been so determined to control rising inside her.

‘It was unforgivable and I can’t explain it,’ he said. ‘At least I can’t explain it better than you when you called it a dangerous obsession.’

He was gazing across the patchwork of stubble and recently turned fields that dipped gently westwards away from them. The sky was heavy with blue-grey cloud too thick for any sort of sunset.

‘I can’t understand when we both work for the Division why . . .’

‘Aah,’ Mary grabbed her hair with both hands and pulled at it in exasperation. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s you. It’s not the Navy,
it’s not me. It’s you.’ And she swung away from him in exasperation. ‘What have you become?’

‘It’s over now. Believe me,’ he was almost pleading with her. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this but I was trying to do my duty, trying to make some sort of amends. You know that.’

‘It’s not about me. Yes, it was disloyal and unnecessary but I half expected you to let the cat out of the bag. It’s what you put that poor man through when he trusted you. Helmut Lange almost died. I don’t think you’d have cared if he had.’

And now she had said it the anger began to ebb and there was just the deep heart-breaking sadness of it all. And she knew she would have to be careful or she would cry and she did not want that to happen.

‘I didn’t want to hurt him but it was the only way I could think of to trap Mohr.’ He was looking at her now and his voice was hard and defensive as if surer of his ground. ‘The Director wanted me to do all I could to break Mohr. The national interest – it will save lives. You know what was at stake.’

‘It was in your interests and you’ve admitted as much.’

‘They were one and the same.’

‘Lange was your friend, you promised to protect him.’

‘He was never a friend but of course I’m sorry I had to drag him into it. Look, is this getting us anywhere? I’m sorry I messed things up for you, really I am.’

He didn’t sound that sorry now. He sounded irritated and she wondered if he was thinking, Why is this woman so unreasonable?

‘You can dress it up as your duty and in the national interest if you like but I don’t think I can love someone who is so ruthless with his friends, someone who lies and will betray anyone.’

‘You lied to Winn.’

‘Yes, for you, God forgive me,’ she said bitterly.

‘We’re fighting a war.’

‘But what’s the point of winning it if we don’t have something better to fight for? You behaved like a Nazi.’

He flinched and looked away. And she was pleased because now she wanted to hurt him. ‘You’ve been trying to prove something too. What? Your loyalty?’

‘That’s rubbish. I don’t have to do that. Lives will be saved. You know that.’

‘It’s all about you.’

He stepped forward to look at her intently and she was struck as always by the light blue of his eyes.

‘Gosh, how you love the moral high ground,’ he said sharply. ‘It must be very lonely up there.’

That was cruel. She knew she was close to tears and that he knew it too. And it was too much. The frustration and the resentment and the anger burst from her. She slapped him. She slapped him hard on the cheek. It happened so quickly that for a moment she was not quite sure she had done it. But he had flinched and was reaching up to touch his cheek with his fingertips. And it looked hot and very red and her hand felt hot. His blue eyes were moist with tears. She wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek but she turned away instead, her hands at her mouth. For a few seconds, he stood there, his breath shaking, then she heard him push through the branches into the wood. She listened to him stumbling awkwardly on until she could hear him no more and she knew she was alone. A thin mist was rising from the land and, in the dying light, the hedges and trees and the sharp little stubble stalks at her feet were shapes in an almost colourless landscape. It was closing in on her, changing by the minute, by the second, into a cold and unfamiliar place. And it was so desperately sad. She brushed a tear from her cheek, and another, and another, and then she stopped trying. And she leant forward with her head bent and her hands on her knees for support and she sobbed, sobbed so hard her body began to shake uncontrollably and it was impossible to breathe.

How long did she cry for? It was dark when she stopped and she could barely see her hand in front of her face. She was tired and cold and empty. She did not want to go back to the house but knew she would have to or her father would come looking for her. The short walk through the wood was difficult and slow in the dark and she scratched her face and then her hand on a thick bramble. Through the walled garden and into the stables where she slipped out of her boots and into a pair of old shoes. Cook had gone home and the kitchen was empty, the pans and supper dishes washed and tidied away. There
would be something for Mary in the range. She did not feel hungry. She wanted to slip quietly upstairs to bed but she knew she would have to speak to someone first. Her father was standing in the large stone-flagged entrance hall with a copy of
The Times
.

‘Are you all right? You’ve been crying,’ and he folded his newspaper and took half a step towards her as if to put a protective arm around her shoulders.

‘No, honestly, I’m fine. Tired, that’s all. I’m going to have a bath.’

‘Not yet you’re not,’ he said with a dry smile. ‘You’ve got to deal with him first,’ and he waved the paper in the general direction of the door. ‘I’ve had the devil’s own job restraining your brother. Your man’s sitting in his car.’

How foolish of her to have missed the Humber. It was still parked in front of the stable block. She could see Lindsay behind the wheel and the pinprick of light from his cigarette. She was sorry she had slapped him and she would say so but nothing more. Short, businesslike, no mention of Lange or the Division. A brief goodbye. She turned the handle of the passenger door and slipped on to the red leather seat.

‘I’m very sorry I struck you. It was unforgivable,’ she said quickly.

There was his small, slightly supercilious smile, the one she had marked at their first meeting and so often since.

‘So many things seem to be unforgivable. Actually I deserved it. You can do it again if you like,’ and he turned his head to offer the other cheek.

And she could not help but smile: ‘Please. Christ-like isn’t you at all.’

‘No?’

He looked exhausted and the car’s ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.

‘Here,’ and she leant across to brush a little mud from his jacket. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘I can’t go.’

They sat there in silence for a moment. He was trying to catch her eye but she looked away.

‘Do you want me to go?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here,’ and he picked a sheet of blue writing paper from the dash-board
and offered it to her. It was a handwritten note in German from Helmut Lange. Just four short lines.

‘Read it to me,’ and she handed it back to him.

‘It says: “
Dear Lieutenant. The doctors say I am well enough to be transferred to a camp in Scotland. Will you visit me . . .
” ’

His voice choked with emotion and he paused for a few seconds to regain some composure.

‘And he says: “
You know it’s strange but after all that has happened to me I feel at peace with myself and happier. Please come and visit me before I go. Your friend, Helmut
.” ’

He folded it slowly and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

‘And will you visit him?’

‘Yes.’

She gave a slight nod of the head, then looked away. There was nothing more to say. She should leave. And she leant towards the handle of the door.

‘You’ve cut your face.’

‘I must be quite a sight.’

‘Yes. You are,’ and he reached for her hand, opening her fingers, kissing her palm, small tender kisses. And then he pressed her hand against his cheek. Her bottom lip began to tremble. It was impossible. And without thought she pulled her hand away and opened the car door.

‘Mary, please.’

The driver’s door opened too.

‘Mary.’

He was standing on the other side of the car. ‘I’m so sorry, really I am.’

‘No, Douglas,’ and she began to walk away. ‘Please go home. It’s over. It’s over.’

PART THREE

50

Dahlem
Berlin
December 1990

T

he little boy at the gate was blowing into his hands, trying to capture the warm vapour in a tight ball of fingers and thumbs. Even in his best coat and hat and scarf he was beginning to shiver. Grandfather’s friend was late. The street was white with a hard frost and the old man opposite was scraping the ice from the windscreen of his Mercedes. The boy glanced over his shoulder to the house. His grandfather was at the study window, his head turning up and down the street. And a few seconds later, with a broad smile, he began gesturing frantically to the boy’s right. An elderly but tall and upright man in a long black coat was walking carefully along the icy pavement towards him. Tears of frustration and disappointment welled inside the little boy and he ran towards the house. The door was already open and Herr Hans-Günther Gretschel was standing on the steps, leaning heavily on an ebony stick.

‘Come here, Karl. Wait with me.’

But the little boy slipped past his grandfather’s outstretched arm and disappeared inside the house. It was an imposing villa with a yellow and cream façade and sweeping red-tile roof, set back a little from the road in a mature garden. The little boy’s great-great-grandfather had built it when Dahlem was just a village.

‘Herr Lindsay. So very good to see you,’ and Gretschel dropped a step to offer his hand in greeting. ‘And looking so well.’

In the years since the war Gretschel had perfected the English he had begun to learn as a prisoner.

‘My grandson Karl was watching for you. I’m afraid he’s a little upset you surprised him.’

‘Are you well, Herr Gretschel?’

‘Old and tired and fat.’

And it was true he had put on a great deal of weight since Lindsay had last seen him a few years before. His black flannel trousers looked as if they were under enormous strain. Arthritis had left him much less mobile: ‘My wife says I am turning into a large grey ball.’

He led Lindsay through the hall into the drawing room where Frau Gretschel had left a tray of coffee and cakes. Karl was sitting on the couch in his coat, his cheeks stained with tears. It was a light and modern room quite out of keeping with the imperial character of the façade. The house had been reduced to a shell in the battle for Berlin. Lindsay had visited it for the first time just a fortnight after the city had fallen, drunken Soviet troops roaming the streets, and he had found Gretschel’s elderly parents and sister living in the cellar.

‘Have you seen this?’ Gretschel held out a framed photo to Lindsay. ‘It’s me with your Prime Minister. What a wonderful lady. I admire her so much.’

‘And did you tell her you were the first officer of a U-boat that sank twenty British ships?’

‘Of course not,’ said Gretschel impatiently. ‘It was a happy occasion. The Berlin Chamber of Commerce. Poor Lange was there too.’ He put the photograph back on the shelf alongside a large collection of family pictures.

‘Lange’s daughters have made all the arrangements for today.’

They had moved in different social circles but they had always kept in touch. Lange had worked in the city’s information bureau until a newspaper article forced him to retire. A young hack anxious to make his name wrote a story with the headline, ‘Nazi PK Man Briefing the Press’. Gretschel had used his business contacts to find him another job in public relations.