The Secret of Spandau (21 page)

‘So you still believe there's some great mystery?'

‘We're both convinced of it.'

‘And you think I can help solve it?'

‘That's why we're here.'

‘I never met Hess.'

There was an interval of silence. Dick appeared stunned by the admission.

Jane stepped in. ‘But you were in the service,' she insisted. ‘Is there anyone in MI5 who might be willing to help us?'

Salter-Smith shook his head. ‘They're all gone. They were senior people, not youngsters, as I was then.' He broke off for a moment, his eyes losing their sharp focus as his mind wandered.

‘There
is
someone?' Jane asked him eagerly.

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. ‘No, I was reminded of something else. An incident in Bedfordshire …' He was distracted again. The gun was starting to dip towards the floor. Then his concentration returned. He eyed Jane and Dick in a calculating way. ‘If I were able to recall the details, would you guarantee to answer a question truthfully?'

‘Yes,' answered Jane at once.

‘Of course!' Dick confirmed.

‘Let's try it, then. From what your editor has told you, what chance does my book have of being published? A straight answer. No fudging.'

Dick took a deep breath and answered, ‘No chance at all.'

Jane confirmed it with a nod.

‘Thank you,' said Salter-Smith gravely. ‘Very difficult to get an honest answer. Made a fool of myself.'

‘No less than we did,' Dick commented.

‘That's permissible in the young. Old men should be wiser, or shut up.' He placed the gun on the writing-desk.

Jane glanced towards Dick and then told Salter-Smith, ‘I feel ashamed. It must be obvious that I haven't been very honest.'

He gave a bleak smile. ‘That was obvious from the beginning, my dear. I bear no malice. Pretty young women don't often deceive me these days. I think I
will
have a drop of sherry. Let's all imbibe, and then I'll keep my side of the bargain, for what it's worth.' When each of them had a glass, he picked up his own and said, ‘First, a toast. To one very old man who has kept his dignity. I think you know who I mean.'

They drank.

He went on, ‘This is the only thing I can recollect. In 1941, when Hess parachuted into Scotland, I was a very junior MI5 officer based in Bedfordshire, supposed to keep a lookout for Fifth Columnists in the civilian population. It was dreary, I can tell you. Until one night in June, five or six weeks after Hess arrived. I got a message telling me to report to Luton Hoo because two Germans in civvies had been detained by the Special Branch. Well, they were Germans all right, and pretty damn scared by the time I questioned them in the police cells. They'd parachuted in during an air-raid. Still had the harness-marks on their shoulders. They were wearing German-made suits with the labels ripped out. And they were carrying maps. They had Cockfosters marked – that was the RAF interrogation centre, you know – and also Dungavel.'

‘The Duke of Hamilton's house?' said Jane in excitement.

‘Yes. It was fairly obvious that they'd been sent to locate Hess, though whether to rescue him or murder him I never discovered. They were SS men, quite young and pathetically inept. They tried telling me they were part of a peace mission, and it didn't impress me much, but one of them did claim to have come to Britain three months previously. His story seemed fantastic to me. He said he'd been part of a German delegation that came in via Dublin to negotiate a peace. He'd actually remained in Dublin while the senior members of the party flew into Britain.'

Dick stared at Salter-Smith. ‘Germans in Britain in 1941?'

‘I know it sounds a tall story,' said Salter-Smith apologetically, ‘and there may be nothing in it, but the fellow swore it was true. He told me how to verify it. Came up with the name of the British pilot who met the group in Dublin and flew them out.'

‘Who was he?'

‘A Warrant-Officer Perry. Out of interest, I checked. There was a pilot of that name based at Kidlington, in Oxfordshire. The next day, after these chaps had been taken over by pukka MI5 interrogators, I tried phoning Perry. He wasn't available, but my call was intercepted, and within the hour I was carpeted and warned off by my boss. Whatever Perry had been engaged in, it was top secret. So I never met him. But I did hear indirectly that he had some bad luck later. Lost both legs in an air-raid. From time to time I've wondered about him, whether it was just a tall story from a frightened German, or not.'

‘What happened to the two SS men?' asked Jane.

‘They were interrogated by B Division of MI5 at Latchmere House in Surrey and executed.'

‘Without trial?'

‘Those were the rules of war, my dear.'

6.00 a.m. on Sunday morning. The temperature already rising. It had been a warm night in Berlin. Heidrun lay sleeping on her stomach, naked under the sheet, her face, puffy with heat and sex, cradled in one of her plump arms. She was breathing lightly and evenly, and Red was lying with his back to her, eyeing the china ashtray on the floor on his side of the bed. It contained three used stubs.

Another Sunday. He thought of London and the paper. The late edition on the vans. The satisfaction of studying the rival papers and picking holes in their stories. He could almost get nostalgic for subbing.

Our Berlin correspondent, Red Goodbody
. In his Fleet Street days, fresh from cutting his journalistic teeth on
The Cornishman
, listening wide-eyed to the old hands telling stories in ‘The Grapes', would he have seen himself, even in his wildest dreams, spending Sunday night on assignment in an energetic fraulein's bed? In the event, he was wondering how much longer it had to last. He was not averse to lustful women. His equipment still functioned as it should, even under heavy pressure. But that was how it was with Heidrun. Mechanical.
Now you can do it to me again, Red
.

Since he had got back from England, his thoughts kept returning to Jane, and that one short time in the early morning in Cedric's house. Jane's love-making was no less positive than Heidrun's, yet it managed to be cerebral as well as physical. She whispered and talked and coaxed as they made love, and it came over as a complex mix of associations: schoolgirlish curiosity, puritan guilt, assertive feminism and quaint social snobbery. The effect on Red was intensely stimulating. It had galvanized the act of intercourse. Each pass of his hand across her breast, each movement he made within her, had elicited intimate phrases, confidences, expressions of ecstasy. No one could really know Jane without making love to her.

He stretched and looked at his watch. Soon he would make an excuse to leave. He had only himself to blame for the present situation. He had let it develop. It had seemed the obvious thing to do when Heidrun had got suspicious. He had needed to get close to Cal, and Heidrun was Cal's minder. He hadn't reckoned on her appetite for sex, though. And he hadn't mastered the logistics of getting time alone with Cal, either. Heidrun was so domineering, and Cal so evasive. There was always a fresh shift coming up at Spandau. The previous evening, they had played a home match against Siemensstadt and won decisively, humbling the opposition in straight games. Red had watched it, counting on a euphoric celebration – if only over skimmed-milk and
apfelstrudel
. But Cal had packed his things into his sportsbag and left before the tables had been taken down. The victory rites had devolved on Red.

‘What time is it?'

Christ, she was awake. ‘Early.'

‘Before seven?'

‘Long before seven. Get some more sleep.'

‘I'm awake now, and so are you.'

‘Mm.' He tried to sound ready for sleep again.

A few seconds passed.

Then she said, ‘I would like you to do it to me.'

‘Mm.'

‘Red?'

‘Mm?'

‘Do it to me, please.'

‘Again?'

‘It's another day now.'

Ten minutes later, another cigarette-butt joined the three in the ashtray.

When he woke next, it was 9.15. He got up and showered. He could hear Heidrun in the kitchen. Appetizing fumes of grilled bacon wafted upstairs. Red put on his things and went down the spiral staircase.

‘Smells good.'

Heidrun was wearing shorts and an apron that barely covered her breasts. She said, ‘Don't expect too much. I'm not used to cooking.'

‘I'll have to go after this,' he told her while they were eating.

‘Why? You can stay if you like.'

‘I have to earn a living.'

‘On Sunday?'

‘It's a Sunday paper.'

‘Idiot!'

‘I'd still like to finish that interview with you and Cal. I scarcely know the guy.'

‘He's difficult to know.'

‘Do you think we could fix a session this afternoon?'

‘With Cal? I can try. He should be off duty, unless the shift has changed again. Where would you like to see us?'

‘How about the garden at Charlottenburg?'

The doorbell chimed suddenly.

‘The Palace garden? Yes, it should be quiet there,' said Heidrun. ‘Excuse me. I'd better see who that is.'

She tightened the neckstring on her apron and went out.

Red heard a man's voice in the hall. In the bedroom, there was a photo of a guy who had signed it
All my love, darling, Erich
. Was this the amorous Erich? Could be embarrassing. It wasn't a good morning for a punch-up.

Heidrun brought her visitor in and he definitely wasn't Erich. He was middle-aged and silver-haired, with tinted glasses and an expression suggesting he didn't care for the smell of bacon. Or something.

‘Kurt Valentin: Red Goodbody,' Heidrun announced in a subdued voice. ‘Kurt advises me about tax and things,' she explained to Red.

‘I was about to leave,' said Red. ‘I'll call you later about that meeting, love.'

She came to the door with him. ‘He's a boring old man, I wish I could get rid of him.'

‘I was leaving anyway,' repeated Red.

They kissed perfunctorily, and Heidrun closed the door and went back to Valentin.

He was still standing in her kitchen, grotesquely out of place in his pale linen suit, red cravat and matching pocket handkerchief. The fine line of his mouth was turned down at the ends in disapproval. The glasses flashed.

‘Who was that?' he demanded.

‘I told you. Red Goodbody.'

‘I heard his name,' Valentin rasped. ‘He was eating breakfast. You slept with him last night.'

She started to busy herself tidying the table. His manner scared her.

‘Answer me!' said Valentin.

‘What is the question?'

He reached out and knocked the plates from her hands, smashing them at her feet. ‘Slut! Who is he?'

She backed away a step. ‘Some fellow from England. A sports reporter. He's writing a piece about Cal and me.'

‘So you let him screw you, eh? Where did you meet him?'

‘In the sports-hall.'

‘What paper does he work for?'

‘A Sunday paper.' She hesitated, thinking back to the first meeting with Red. ‘Well, he may be freelance,' she added, her voice betraying the sickening realisation that Red might have lied to her. ‘His work is syndicated all over the world.'

‘And he comes to Berlin to write about you playing table-tennis?' Valentin's voice was raised too high to project sarcasm. It was not far short of a scream.

‘Yes.' Heidrun brought her hand protectively across her chest.

‘And you believe him?'

She blurted out impulsively, ‘My private life is my own. When some guy fancies me, I don't need to have him vetted by the KGB.'

He stepped towards her menacingly, and she backed away until she came up against a shelf unit. He came so close that she could feel his breath on her face. His hand darted towards her and she gasped and swayed. Instead of striking her as she expected, he grabbed a glass water-jug from the shelf.

He held it to her face, pressing the hard surface against her cheek. ‘Who pays for this place?' he said between his teeth. ‘Is this the kind of apartment where a common waitress lives? Who paid for this?' He swung the jug down against the edge of the working-surface, smashing it. The handle remained in his hand, with a jagged piece of glass attached to it. He brought it slowly towards Heidrun's face. ‘Answer me, Fraulein Kassner. Who pays?'

She answered breathlessly, ‘You do. Please don't hurt me.'

‘Untie the apron.'

A shudder passed through her. She sobbed, ‘No.' It was more in appeal than defiance.

He actually touched the edge of the glass to her cheek. ‘Do it. Expose your breasts.'

She whispered, ‘Please, Kurt. Please don't cut me.'

He said, ‘I'm waiting.' He drew the glass far enough back from her face for her to obey the instruction, but still held it ready.

She reached for the loop of the apron-string behind her neck and drew it forward over her head. The top of the apron still covered her breasts. It was held in place by cold sweat.

As Valentin's free hand snaked towards the dangling string, Heidrun took the only chance she had. She jerked her knee upwards, into his genitals. Then she shoved him away with all her strength and dashed for the door. She raced for the spiral stairs and she started up them.

The structure of a spiral staircase is not designed for rapid ascent. Before Heidrun had got half-way up, Valentin had recovered enough to pursue her. She was wearing flipflops on her feet, and one of them hit the stairs at a difficult angle, causing her to slip one step. It broke the rhythm of her movement, and gave Valentin a chance. He reached through the iron-work, grabbed her by the shin and held on.

Heidrun turned as well as she could to face him. He was standing on the living room floor with both hands clamped round her ankle, but the curve of the stairs prevented him from reaching her without letting go.