Pilgrim Soul (13 page)

Sam and I collided at breakfast. I was about to tell her about my decision.

‘Oh Douglas, Izzie was doing our laundry yesterday. Boiling the hankies. She says she found some of yours with blood on them. Nose bleed?’

I started. ‘Yes. Yes, the other day. Sorry. I should have put them in cold water. Did they come out?’

‘They’re fine. Look, must dash. I’m in Edinburgh this morning. I have a review with the top brass in Farquharson Stable.’ She gulped down her tea, kissed me on the cheek and shot up the stairs.

As the door slammed I examined my left hand. The thumb was covered in tiny bruises. Pinpricks. I licked it. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the Seaforth cap badge. I rubbed the stag’s head gently and fingered the motto: ‘
Cuidich ’n Righ
’ – ‘Help the King’. I slid it back in my pocket. As the thunder of Izzie’s hoover roared down the stairwell I made for the door before she started questioning me too.

I went off for a swim and then headed straight into the
Gazette
. At Sunday’s meeting with Shimon and Malachi I’d left it that I would let them know if I was prepared to pursue this case further. My answer was no. I was going to pass on this one. In the same determined vein I planned to see Sam this evening and get her to call Scrymgeour to say I wouldn’t be coming out to Hamburg to testify, far less go on a wild-rat chase.

I spent the morning shaping an article on the black market in counterfeit Co-op coupons. If it weren’t for the constraints of column inches, not to mention deadlines, and subs killing my darlings, this job would suit me. Maybe I should give it a bit more time? Use it as a springboard to a full writing career: short stories, novels . . .

It was nearly noon and I looked up to see what the commotion was at the door. I was just in time to see Eddie pointing directly at me. Alongside him was a much taller figure. In uniform. Police uniform with lots of glinting silver on his shoulder and his cap peak. God, what had I done? And why did it merit arrest by the top man?

Eddie saw me looking and summoned me with his hand as though he was conducting traffic. I got to my feet, slipped on my jacket and walked towards trouble. Eddie was flushed and stretching up and down on his toes.

‘Ah, Brodie. This is Chief Constable McCulloch.’

McCulloch pulled off his leather glove and held out his hand. ‘Mr Brodie, it’s good to meet you in person at last.’

I shook his hand. ‘And you too, sir.’

So I wasn’t being arrested. I’d seen his photo plenty of times in the papers and viewed him in the flesh years ago, before the war, at a parade in the city centre. He would have been a superintendent then. I had been a uniformed sergeant before shifting across to detective duties. He and I had spoken once, by phone, last September. At the bloody end of the Glasgow Marshal vigilante case. He’d offered me a job. I’d declined. Had he come in person to twist my arm?

‘I wonder, Mr Paton, if I could steal Mr Brodie from you for a short while? Is there somewhere we could talk? Privately?’

‘Of course, sir. Right this way, sir. Elaine! Get some tea thegither for the Chief Constable. Follow me, sir.’ Eddie all but bowed as he retreated like a flunky leaving his king. I exchanged a look with McCulloch, and followed them out. Eddie showed us into the conference room and left us to it, McCulloch having declined tea in favour of privacy. We sat. He took off his cap and remaining glove. He was a big well-set man, I’d say in his early fifties. Bald head, amiable face but scrutinising eyes.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘Well, you can start by calling me Malcolm. What do you prefer, Mr Brodie?’

‘Brodie is fine . . . Malcolm.’

‘Good, well, Brodie, I’m not here to try to convince you that you should take up my offer of a job. Though it’s still on the table if you change your mind.’

‘Thank you. I’ve got my hands full here. Taking a back seat.’

‘Really? That’s not what I hear.’

I wondered whom he’d been talking to, and how much he knew. I smiled inscrutably.

‘You have been busy, Brodie. And now’s my chance to thank you in person for – shall we say – your help in dealing with the Glasgow Marshals. Not to mention the Slattery gang before that.’

‘It wasn’t something I went out looking for.’

‘It just came your way, eh? And it seems you have friends in high places.’

‘Really? I’m only aware of those in low places.’

‘Well, let’s just check a few things. You
are
Mr Douglas Brodie, formerly Major Brodie of the Seaforths? You
did
carry out special duties in Germany after the war including interrogation of some senior Nazis? And you were directly involved in the Belsen war crimes trials.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ How the hell did he know about Belsen? It wasn’t something I ever talked about, even to myself.

‘You’ve also been . . . how shall I put this? . . . helping us with some enquiries into some thefts among the Jewish community? And related murders?’

‘Just from a reporter’s perspective.’ Duncan been blabbing? Sangster?

‘Indeed? In that case, I have the right man. I received a call this morning from the head of MI5.’

TWENTY

I was in real trouble.

‘You know who that is?’

‘Your predecessor. Sir Percy Sillitoe.’

‘Exactly. He told me about the possibility that this fair city of ours is harbouring escaped Nazis.’

‘How did
he
hear?’

‘Sir Percy took a personal phone call last evening from the British legal representative at the Hamburg trials.’

I felt the tidal wave of fate lapping at my knees.

McCulloch was continuing: ‘Do you know what he asked Sir Percy to do? And therefore why I’m here?’

I sighed. ‘I’m beginning to guess.’

‘They would be very grateful if you would make your way to Hamburg. You can travel with your colleague Advocate Samantha Campbell.’

Colleague? What sort of euphemism was that? Was he trying to make this sound like a wee holiday? A jaunt with my girlfriend down the Elbe? It might be more tempting in springtime, but it would be bloody freezing just now. And I didn’t imagine it would involve a lot of jolly beer-swilling and lederhosen-slapping.

‘Malcolm, I’m honoured and, frankly, astonished that you’ve come in person to deliver this message. I have to ask why. You’re a busy man. A phone call would do. In fact Sillitoe could have called me himself and saved you the bother.’

‘He wanted me in the loop. Correctly. This is my city. As for this personal invitation, would it have worked if I’d called you? The last time I phoned you to do something you turned me down. You have a certain reputation for stubbornness, Brodie. Percy made it clear that he won’t take no for an answer. Besides . . .’

‘Besides?’

McCulloch’s face suddenly lost its openness and charm. He bared the steel. ‘We’ve had four deaths, Brodie. Four! If there’s a viper’s nest in Glasgow, I want it ripped out and the creatures crushed underfoot!’

‘Right.’ The force of his anger seemed to reverberate round the room. ‘I can understand your interest. But why is Sillitoe engaged?’

‘Why do you think? He’s MI5. His department is responsible for rooting out and returning these escapees for trial by the British authorities. If there is an international network operating in Britain with links to the Red Cross and the Vatican – good God, the mind reels just talking about it – he wants to know about it. Wants to stop it. This is a threat to the safety of the kingdom.’

‘Why doesn’t he just ask for the information from the Hamburg legal team?’

‘Ah, the very point I made to Percy myself.’ He smiled. ‘It seems the team out there have very little knowledge of these rat lines. Just a few snippets. More whispers than hard facts. They’re also up to their legal eyeballs preparing for the next round of trials and don’t have the time to spare on digging into this matter. They’re short-staffed and need a hand. You have the German, Brodie, and can have a second go at chatting up the accused. Find some facts. Some
names
.’

‘Why are any of these detainees going to talk to me?’

‘I assume they will have little say in the matter. It’ll be up to you to get them to spout, of course. Brodie, we’re desperate for leads. You’re our best hope of stopping more killings.’

‘Then you’re in bother.’

He ignored me. ‘There’s another reason for your going out there. The legal team and indeed our government are being pressured by the Polish authorities. The Poles want to take over the trial.’

‘Why?’

‘Overtly? It’s all about statehood, showing they’re a competent democratic government again. They’re not. The communist parties – backed by the USSR – staged a vote last year. Poland is a satellite of Russia in all but name. In a week’s time there will be parliamentary elections. They will be rigged. The communists, manipulated by Stalin’s agents, have flung all opposition in prison.’

‘What impact would this have on any trials?’

‘The Poles would kill the process or, at best, delay it for years.’

‘Why would they kill it?’

‘There’s a lot of uncomfortable history out there. A lot of Poles and Russians were willing accomplices in getting rid of their Jews.’

‘But what good would
I
do?’

‘We want quick justice in the British occupied zone. Calm things down and move on. They think it will considerably strengthen our case if you take the witness stand to support your own reports. Confirm identities and statements. Cometh the hour, cometh the man, Brodie, eh?’

The waters were now up to my neck. I tried one last lunge for the lifeboat.

‘I don’t
have
to do this, Malcolm, do I? I have the choice?’

He looked at me, startled, head on one side. ‘I suppose so. But it’s your duty, man.’

‘Malcolm, don’t, just don’t, talk to me about duty. I’ve more than done my bit.’

‘We all have, Brodie. These are demanding times.’

I bit my tongue. Demanding times? Was he comparing his sacrifice of sitting behind ever-bigger desks with endless cups of tea with my six years of running around the Continent being shot at?

‘I’m trying to lead a quiet life.’

‘Can I say you’re not making a very good job of it?’

We looked at each other and laughed. I tried again.

‘I’m not explaining it right. Sure, it would be nice to lead a tranquil existence. My feet up. My nose in books. But it’s more than that. If I get bored with it I want to
choose
.
I
want to decide what
I
do . . . not take any more bloody orders from on high.’

My rising volume and choice of words shocked me. It was like my inner Brodie talking. Where the hell did that come from? But it was also liberating.

‘Rubbish, man! Do you think God handed out talents but didn’t expect you to use them? Besides . . .’

I was beginning to dread his
besides
. He had the look of a man holding a hidden ace in a high-stake poker game. What now?

‘Yes?’

‘Sir Percy wanted me to remind you that as a demobbed officer you’re on the reserve list. You can be called up at a moment’s notice. He’s been in touch with the Army Department. Your papers are on the way.’

I collapsed back in my chair. ‘I’m being – called – up?
Again?
’

‘But to sweeten the deal, you’re being promoted, Brodie. For the duration of this special mission, you will be given the acting rank of lieutenant colonel. Congratulations. Apparently a uniform is already on its way, together with travel documents. ’Fraid it might not be the Seaforths. They’re at full strength. Pity. They say you could have been one of them if you’d stayed on . . .’

My brain was short-circuiting. A half-colonel? But not my old regiment? Back in uniform? McCulloch was still explaining.

‘. . . but it’s only for a short stint. It’s the rank that counts when you’re dealing with these international legal matters. Lots of red tape about. Gives you easier clearance. Smooths the way. Full pay, of course, at the new rank, and some deal being done about your army pension contribution.’

He must have read defeat in my eyes. As well as shock. The waters rose over my head.

‘Splendid. I knew we could rely on you.’ He got up. I got up. He shook my hand and left me standing alone in the conference room, incredulous at what had just taken place. Back in uniform? They can’t do this.

TWENTY-ONE

‘Colonel Douglas Brodie has a ring to it.’

‘Shut up, Sam. I’ve been conscripted.’

‘I love a man in uniform. I wonder which you’ll get? I hope it has a kilt.’

‘This is your fault for stirring things up with your pal Scrymgeour.’

‘It’ll be interesting. And we’ll be together. We’ve talked about going away for a wee jaunt.’

‘North Germany in the middle of winter? I was thinking more of Rothesay in the summer.’

I got up and poured another big splash into both our glasses. I began pacing the lounge. I put my tumbler on the mantelpiece and poked at the smouldering briquettes. It provoked a pitiful flame and only a brief burst of heat. Coal rations had been cut again and this was a big house to keep warm. Mum’s Christmas contribution had long since been consumed. As had her dumpling.

I gave it one last try. ‘I have a job to do here. Wee Eddie’s short-staffed.’

‘Get away with you. Eddie would love to have his star reporter out in Hamburg. “Read all about it! News from the trial of the century! Our man in the witness stand!” The
Record
is always headlining this stuff. So can the
Gazette
.’

I stopped pacing. ‘How would this work, Sam? I mean, let’s think about the practicalities. Say there’s a dozen or so of these defendants, each locked up in his wee cell. They’re on trial for their lives. They’ve already seen the big bosses strung up. Why would they talk to me about escape routes when – quite obviously – they don’t have access to one themselves?’

‘You’ve answered your own question, Brodie.
Play ball with us and you might save your neck
.’

‘We can’t make that sort of promise, Sam.’