Troubled Midnight (26 page)

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us.

She remained awake for some time wondering about the reality of her way of life and the manner in which she behaved towards others. By the Church’s rules she supposed that she’d been a touch frivolous, and had certainly indulged herself with regard to the so-called sins of the flesh, but she had salved her conscience by focusing on the fact that – apart from that one night with Wing Commander Fordham O’Dell – her acts of fornication had been with the man she had intended to marry which, she felt, cancelled out much of the guilt. An elderly priest had once told her that the sins of the flesh always seem exceptionally bad to us because they are so personal, and he had gone on to say that he felt they were probably very small sins in the eyes of God, but enlarged initially by the celibate nature of those who deciphered God’s codes, and the laws made in those early days possibly did not have the same impact now, in time of war, when each day brought a new challenge and death hovered everywhere.

She thought much about the choices she had made in life, in particular the dreadful rift that had taken place when her father was killed and the numbing shock of her mother’s second marriage to the sometimes loathsome ‘Galloping Major’. Then of her time with Tommy Livermore, her career advanced much sooner that she could possibly have hoped when she was put on a clear track as one who would be especially needed in the Force once the war was done. But it was her relationships with those she was called to work with that caused her the most confusion now.

Eventually she dropped into sleep, her mind in chaos, the slumber proving to be fitful and restless, her sleep, heckled by vivid dreams in which she was chased across shifting sands by faceless men who eventually caught up with her, reaching for her neck with clammy hands that finally woke her to the Sunday morning. It was a Sunday last time, she reflected, Sunday 29
th
December 1940, the night of the second great fire of London, the night when Tommy Livermore baited a trap with her. And now, three years later, Suzie knew that she would again put her life on the line out of a sense of duty and loyalty to her king and country.

Chapter Eighteen

“YOU KNOW YOU don’t have to do this, Suzie,” Elsie Partridge looking straight into her eyes, smoothing a hand across his bald pate. “Nobody’s going to think badly of you if you pull out now.” But looking around the room, at Curry Shepherd, and the two men she had just met – Big Peter Hammill and Little Trevor Haines – she knew their eyes were saying the opposite. If she pulled out now they’d always have a mark against her name, if not on paper then certainly in their long memories.

Suzie was glad that Big Peter and Little Trevor were on her side. She wouldn’t have wanted them as enemies with the likelihood of running into them alone on a dark night. The only thing humorous about Peter and Trevor was that Big Peter was a short, wiry man while Little Trevor was built like the proverbial brick washhouse, and tall with it. It was clear that they knew their job, which she suspected was to pulverise people, with maximum force. They spoke in grunts and nods, and the pair of them showed a great deal of care for her and were now given to patting her on the arm, followed by a head-rolling wink coupled with the words, “Suzie? Okay, girl?” or just “Suzie,” with the exaggerated wink.

Curry was already there when she arrived just before nine o’clock, having taken a taxi to Baker Street, then walking down to Ivor Place. Ruth was also in the office and the pair of them looked slightly blurred around the edges, dishevelled and not as razor sharp as they might have been. Suzie’s mind turned quickly to thoughts of how they may have spent the night, and she again cursed herself for the silly imaginings that had led her to think any attractive male would automatically find her equally tempting. The plain truth of the matter was she wanted a change and fancied Curry Shepherd rotten. Not an edifying state of affairs.

Elsie came in muttering something about needing coffee and hearing news that Winston was much better. There was a ensuing conversation in which Suzie, earwigging madly, to use Tommy’s expression for listening in to other people’s conversations, gathered that the PM was abroad again on one of his jaunts to meet President Roosevelt and others in Cairo, she thought, where he had been taken seriously ill.

Peter and Trevor came in soon after nine-thirty and they sat around for a couple of hours talking about how things should be arranged later in the day. They discussed the options they could use inside the huge cathedral, or how they could cover the steps and the doorways outside. They also debated how to prevent things from going wrong and Suzie felt moderately cheerful by the time Elsie made his speech about her not having to do what it was obvious they all wanted her to do: set herself up so they could nail Cyclops as they all now called him.

Elsie Partridge had a good deal to say about the disposition of his people outside the building and the crowding there would be during the arrival and departure of some of the congregation. “A number of important people’re going to be there,” he told them. “Military, Royal Air Force and Naval staff officers will arrive and leave by car, as will whoever’s going to represent the PM – I gather that’ll be Mrs Churchill, with Anthony Eden
4
in tow. So there’ll be the usual jumble outside, crowding and delays: though there’ll be a couple of brace of military police sergeants marshalling the traffic, which will help.” He told Suzie to keep an eye out for them, “If something goes wrong, head for them, otherwise keep away. We don’t want anybody really close because we’ve got to give Cyclops air, a clear run.”

He said he didn’t think they’d have to worry about leaving, at the end when the service was over. “Chummy’ll almost certainly make his move quickly, at the start of things. After all he asked for his contact to be in the cathedral early.”

There was a lot of, “Don’t worry, we’ll be on you like leeches” talk, and around midday Ruth and Curry happily volunteered to go out for food from the mess over in Baker Street. They returned with unappetising sausages (‘Ah sweet mystery of life at last I’ve found you,’ Big Peter sang in a cracked, gravel voice), a large pile of chips, almost cold, and some bread which looked as though it had been sliced by the giant at the top of the beanstalk.

Ruth made some surprisingly reasonable coffee and as they sipped it three strong-arm boys came over from the Branch, two DCs and a DI Suzie knew by sight but not by name. They eyed her up as though they were calculating her weight at a country fête, and the DI introduced himself as Bob Lambourne. “We’re just taking a look-see,” he told her. “So we’ll know you in the cathedral.” He paused, licked his lips and said, “Actually, I’d know you anywhere.” Which Suzie thought was meant to be a compliment, though she didn’t dare say that she found it offensive.

Three other tough guy types came in later and did not introduce themselves so she presumed they were from ‘Five’ as Elsie referred to the Security Service. They were all on nodding terms with Elsie and Curry and they also seemed to be carrying out a minute and detailed examination of her form and figure.

Just after they left, Tommy Livermore came in with his new WDS Cathy Wimereux. Nobody had warned Suzie that he was coming so she suddenly found herself looking straight into his face and giving him a weak smile. He nodded in return then spoke quietly to Elsie who appeared to have been expecting him and said loudly, “That’s a pity,” then addressed everybody. “DCS Livermore has done as I asked him and felt the Richardson girl’s collar. But so far I’m afraid he’s drawn a blank.” He turned directly to Suzie, “We had hoped it might save putting you out in St Paul’s Suzie, but that’s gone for a burton.”

Tommy took up the story, saying that he’d arrested Julia Richardson at the Shepherd Street house at seven that morning. “Before we went in we gave the place a good looking over from outside,” he continued. “Nobody appeared to be watching it, or keeping a look-out.” Turning to Elsie he said they had been most discreet. “I’ve left a couple of people there with their heads well down just in case you miss chummy and he goes back there for want of anywhere else to run.”

“Unlikely,” Curry sneered.

“You never know,” Tommy squashed him, then said he’d got the Richardson girl at the Yard. “We’ve had a long talk,” he went on, “and she seems genuinely shocked about the Swede, Henderson, and she says she’s no idea who our man is; says their business has always been done over the phone. I don’t believe it for a minute, but she’s playing at being a Dumb Dora, as our Allies would say. In other words she’s staying schtum. Personally I think she knows alright, but it’ll take time once you’ve pulled him in.”

As Tommy was leaving, heading back to Scotland Yard, he smiled at Suzie and wished her good luck. She looked away and felt herself blush. After that she found that she couldn’t look any of the other men in the eye. Later she thought that Cathy Wimereux had seemed somewhat cowed and didn’t have much to say.

When Tommy’s people had gone, Curry said something about her being really well cared for tonight.

“Think we’d better let you go home,” Elsie said. “Have a bit of a rest before you get all dressed up for church. I’ll get Roy to come and take you to the car.” And Curry made some tasteless remark about her having to wear a red hat, “… know what that means, Suzie? Red hat?”

“Yes, Curry,” she said as though showing great patience to a four-year-old. “I know all about red hats meaning no drawers, and that’s about as accurate as the one Tommy told me was rife at his prep school, that girls wearing ankle chains indicated they had the curse.”

This was going a bit far; Elsie looked shocked, and Curry shut up, looking uncomfortable. Nobody laughed.

Then Roy arrived and she was surprised to see that his face was familiar.

That morning when she’d left her flat and taken a taxi to Baker Street, she had kept her eyes open as Curry had advised and quickly noticed a grey Vauxhall behind them, then overtaking when the cab pulled over to drop her. As she walked on to Ivor Place she saw the car again, first coming towards her, then, a few minutes later driving past in the other direction. There was a tall, greying, somewhat nondescript man at the wheel. So she took the registration number and reported it to Curry as soon as she arrived at the Ivor Place house. He had simply nodded and told her she’d done well to keep her eyes open.

Now, Roy was ushered in, the same grey man who had been trailing her car this morning – another member of the WOIL team, their best driver who would be taking her down to St Paul’s tonight. A taciturn man with a nice smile that lit up his face and eyes when he used it. I’ll be safe with him, she thought, because he was the kind of quiet man who exuded confidence.

Roy told her he would pick her up in Upper St Martin’s Lane spot on five-thirty. “I’d like to get the car into a good parking place near St Paul’s so that I can scoop you up once the fireworks are over,” he said, and Suzie remarked that she wasn’t expecting any fireworks.

“That’s the thing in this game,” he said. “It’s when you’re not expecting them that they do the most damage,” a remark said so seriously that it made her twitchy.

*   *   *

IT WAS STILL light when she left her building, at the top of Upper St Martin’s Lane at just gone five-twenty and started to walk towards the Strand and Charing Cross, wearing her burgundy coat with the collar high around her neck, the matching hat with the brim cocked over her right eye, and a wine red scarf, knotted neatly in the way Americans called an Ascot. She carried her best square leather handbag with a copy of the
News of the World
protruding from the top.

It would be light for some time yet, with British Summertime in effect all year round now – Double British Summertime in the late spring until late autumn, to help the farmers. There was a heavy gun-metal sky; complete cloud cover and occasional gusts of a bitter wind coming up from the river.

The grey Vauxhall pulled up just as she reached the intersection with the Strand, Roy pushing the passenger side door open and Suzie making a fuss as she got in, thanking him and nodding, just in case, though she knew it was unlikely anyone – apart from the people attached to WOIL – would be watching. They already knew Cyclops was more concerned with the obvious affairs close to him than anything at a distance. He certainly didn’t have the necessary manpower, and anyway probably wouldn’t trust anyone but himself to do the job thoroughly.

All the official cars were fitted with a mirror on the passenger side as well as the one for the driver, and Suzie adjusted it now, keeping her eyes moving from road to mirror, guardedly watching for surveillance.

She wondered briefly if it had been wise to arrest Julia Richardson at this early stage as she could well be the one person in his small network whom he may just try and contact before the carol service

They hardly spoke during the journey towards the square mile of the City of London where St Paul’s, with its great familiar dome, stood out from the rubble and devastation which had visited the area in December 1940. During that night of holocaust over 30,000 incendiary bombs were dropped into the City, gutting almost all the buildings, including the Guildhall and eight churches, it was amazing to think that Christopher Wren’s great masterpiece had been left almost unscathed.

As she looked around her during the journey, down Fleet Street and onto Ludgate Hill, Suzie thought how drab the buildings appeared, sooty and sombre, as tired as the British people were with the war, drained and depleted by the constant strain, the ever-present worry, news of deaths and concern for the future. There also appeared to be a thin, tangible mist hanging in the old streets at this time of the year, as though some grim life fluid was seeping from the roads and stone of the structures and ruins that now punctuated these environs.

Suzie moved in the front seat, craning upwards to see the Dome of St Paul’s rising to over 300 feet above the pavement and she realised that she felt more than anxiety. Her tummy turned over in a flutter and she could sense the fear deep within her as Roy brought the car to a halt at the bottom of the long steps leading up to the west façade. He slipped from the driving seat and trotted round to the pavement, reaching for Suzie’s door as she opened it. A military police sergeant seemed to appear out of the pavement and Roy nodded to him, slipping an official-looking card to him. The redcap nodded, said something and pointed to his far right.