Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (38 page)
‘Don’t worry!’ said Reg. ‘When I get hold of him he won’t—’
‘No,’ said Stratton. ‘Shouting at him won’t do any good. You’ll only make things worse. Just make it clear that you’re not happy about what’s happened. And,’ he added, ‘I shouldn’t say anything about the Home Guard just yet - you don’t want to antagonise him.’
‘I think I can decide what to do for myself, thank you,’ said Reg stiffly. ‘I can see he’s got you sticking up for him, as well.’
‘It’s just a suggestion,’ said Stratton. ‘If you don’t want to take it, that’s fine.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I’d best leave you to it.’
Lilian accompanied him to the door. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, when he was on the step. ‘For not bringing up the other thing.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Stratton. ‘Don’t worry, Lilian. I’m sure it was just some silly talk. You know what kids are like.’
Stratton asked himself, as he walked slowly back home, what else he could have said. He hoped, against all his instincts, that Johnny’s mention of killing someone had been mere boasting. Besides, he had no evidence beyond the boy’s reactions, especially to the mention of Wallace, that Johnny had anything to do with the death of Mabel Morgan or anybody else. Perhaps, he thought, I shouldn’t have said anything at all to Reg, but the idea of keeping quiet while the bloody man clowned around the kitchen playing soldiers had been too much . . . Besides, the wretched boy was his son, not Stratton’s.
He had a sudden memory of putting his own son, Pete, then aged five, to bed after Reg, at some family outing or other, had spent the entire day talking - for reasons best known to himself - in an exaggerated French accent, confusing railway porters, waitresses in cafés, and everyone else they came across. Pete, lying down to be tucked in, had looked up at him solemnly, with big green eyes the spit of Jenny’s, and said, ‘Uncle Reg is mad, isn’t he?’ Stratton couldn’t remember how he’d answered, but he knew that whatever he’d said had been pitifully inadequate. What he had never forgotten was the expression on Pete’s face as he’d listened - serious and kindly, as if aware that his father was doing the best he could in the circumstances. Pete, Stratton thought, had probably forgotten the whole thing long ago, but he never would.
Perhaps mad was how Reg had seemed to Johnny, too, when he was young. He’d never really considered it before. It was bad enough having to see Reg at intervals, albeit fairly frequent ones, but what it would be like day after day . . . I should have talked to the boy earlier, Stratton thought. Instead of laughing about his stupid bastard of a father, I should have done something to help.
Later, lying in bed in the hope of a few hours’ sleep in comfort before the raids started, he repeated this to Jenny. He’d given her an edited version of his talk with Johnny earlier - if he hadn’t told Lilian and Reg about his suspicions, he was damned if he was going to upset her with them. She reproached him for not talking to Johnny before, but not too harshly, and then, after a decent pause, said, ‘You can’t take everything on yourself, love,’ and then, ‘Oh dear, I hope Reg isn’t being too awful to Lilian.’
‘He was pretty bad when I was there.’
‘I’m glad I’m not married to someone like that,’ said Jenny. She reached out and took his hand. ‘You always do your best, Ted. That’s one of the nicest things about you.’
Stratton smiled at her. He felt a profound sense of gratitude - although really, he supposed, it was a negative sort of gratitude, that she wasn’t Lilian and he wasn’t Reg and Johnny wasn’t their son and they weren’t arguing. ‘Do you know something?’ he asked.
‘Not until you tell me.’
‘If you weren’t my wife already, I might just ask you to marry me.’
Jenny considered this for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I suppose that’s better than a poke in the eye with a kipper.’
‘Why a kipper?’
‘Why not?’ She thought for a moment, and said, ‘Any kind of fish, really.’ A moment later, she said, ‘That’s not a kipper.’
‘That isn’t your eye,’ replied Stratton.
‘Good heavens,’ said Jenny in mock surprise. ‘So it isn’t.’
FORTY
‘It turned out,’ said Professor Ingersoll, ‘to be much simpler than we first thought. The original was in English, not German.’
Diana stared over F-J’s shoulder at the piece of paper. ‘It’s from President Roosevelt,’ she said in surprise.
‘They’re having an election soon,’ said Professor Upjohn. ‘Judging by this, it sounds as if he wants America to join us.’
‘That’s not what’s been in the papers,’ said Diana. ‘He keeps saying he’ll make sure that they stay out of the war. Besides, that’s what the people want. Mr Roosevelt won’t get re-elected if they think he’s going to get them involved in something that most of them consider to be none of their business.’ She looked at F-J for confirmation of this.
‘It’s true,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘This,’ he waved the paper, ‘is addressed to the ambassador, Mr Kennedy, so I suppose someone at the embassy must have got hold of a surplus copy.’ Diana opened her mouth to say something, but F-J shook his head at her almost imperceptibly before turning back to the assembled boffins. His tone became brisk as he folded the paper, pocketed it, and began shaking hands all round. ‘Well, gentlemen, we’re most grateful for your assistance, and we shan’t take up any more of your valuable time. Come, Diana.’
‘Sir,’ Diana said, the minute the door closed behind them, ‘I know that—’
‘Not now. We’ll find somewhere for lunch and talk there.’
In a private room at the Swan in Newport Pagnell, Diana, at last able to speak, blurted out, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I meant to tell you, but it didn’t seem too . . . To be honest, it slipped my mind, sir. There’s an American who comes to the Right Club gatherings at the tearoom. I’ve only met him once, but I know he’s a friend of Lady Calne’s daughter, Helen. I think he might work at their embassy.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Walter Wymark.’
‘What does he do?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. Judging from that message, the President has been corresponding with Mr Churchill for some time. Mr Kennedy must have been getting copies of the telegrams afterwards, so it must be someone from their embassy who stole the message - this man Wymark, perhaps. If he’s got other telegrams, and he chooses to make them public, Roosevelt won’t be re-elected, and Wilkie’s an isolationist.’
‘Wilkie, sir?’
‘Wendell Wilkie, the Republican candidate. If he becomes President, the States will never come into the war unless they’re attacked first, and the Germans are far too intelligent to do anything like that. Besides which, Wilkie’s not keen on Churchill - thinks he’s too self-assured. Dear God ...’ He sighed. ‘You should have told me about this man before.’
‘I know, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, tell me as much as you know.’
‘I don’t know much, sir. I know Lady Calne isn’t very keen on him seeing her daughter. Helen’s been quite upset about it. They’re not engaged or anything, but Lady Calne doesn’t think he’s good enough, that sort of thing. I did find out that he was in Moscow for several years before the war, and he seems to have been a member of the Right Club for quite a while, so I suppose he must be an isolationist.’
‘Have you ever heard that discussed?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then we don’t know for certain. If he’s pro-Nazi, I don’t suppose he’s a Communist, but it’s not impossible.’
Diana frowned. ‘I don’t understand, sir. I thought that Germany and the Soviets had a non-aggression pact.’
‘They do, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that because you’re on the side of one you have to support the other. I should have thought a few years in Moscow would be enough to make anyone think twice about the Russians, but one never knows which way these chaps will jump.’
‘What will you do, sir?’
‘The first thing is to look into this man Wymark - his background and so on, and then we’ll need to speak to the Ambassador. They’re not going to be pleased we’ve gone behind their backs, but it can’t be helped. If necessary, we can ask them to waive Wymark’s diplomatic immunity, and there are a few other things that’ll need to be followed up, too . . .’
Diana waited for F-J to continue, but he didn’t, and after a moment, the landlord appeared with their lunch. F-J did not return to the subject while they were eating, but questioned her about Phyllis and her billet at Bletchley, so that the conversation became social rather than official. She tried, several times, to steer the talk back to the coded message, but F-J changed the subject. By the time they’d got to the lukewarm and very weak coffee, she decided to venture a direct question.
‘What will happen to Apse, sir?’
F-J put down his cup and pinched the bridge of his nose. He screwed up his face for a moment, as if trying to force a thought, then said, ‘It’s a good question. Apse’s position means that he has access to diplomatic channels, and the real risk, as I’ve said, is that if it becomes public knowledge that Roosevelt is intending to bring America into the war, he’ll lose the election. Of course, one doesn’t know the extent of his intentions, but he’s certainly shown himself willing to help in the matter of destroyers and so forth - albeit at a pretty high cost and despite a great deal of opposition. He’s got to convince the people that they have a moral and practical stake in defeating dictatorship, and that isn’t going to happen if Apse, or Wymark, or anyone else, has managed to get this sort of damaging stuff into the hands of people who will print or broadcast it.’ F-J sighed. ‘Apse knows too much, Diana, and too many people. It’s complicated - we can’t just remove him. And then there’s the question of blackmail. I shouldn’t be surprised if that was at the root of all this, but I don’t see how . . .’ He stopped, and stared at the sludge in the bottom of his coffee cup.
‘How what, sir?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said F-J. ‘Just thinking aloud.’
F-J didn’t elaborate while they were being driven back to London, either, but closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep for most of the journey. Diana stared out of the window and thought about Walter Wymark. Her impression had been of someone large, bland and sleek, with blond hair and the healthy look of a person who enjoyed exercise and spent a lot of time in the fresh air. Quite different from the pallid, tired faces of the British. She supposed he must be about thirty years old, and, if the rumours she’d heard were to be believed, Helen Pender was just one of several girlfriends. Did she, or Lady Calne, know what he was up to?
F-J, eyes still closed, shifted slightly, and Diana, turning to look at him, wondered if she could possibly have imagined the warning by the duck pond. She had a feeling of unreality, like the one she’d experienced on looking into the mirror at Apse’s flat after finding the message. It would be so nice to find oneself back in a world where the expected and unexpected were exactly that, where one could take refuge inside one’s own mind and not find that one’s thoughts and instincts had somehow been booby-trapped. Suppose a miracle happened, she thought, and we woke up tomorrow to find that there hadn’t been a war at all, and everything was back to the way it was before, wouldn’t that be wonderful . . . Then, shivering at the memory of her sheer, fist-in-mouth horror in the cupboard at Apse’s flat - her nearness to discovery a thousand times more terrifying than the air raid going on outside - she thought, things can never be the same again.
FORTY-ONE
Stratton, arriving at work the following morning, found Constable Ballard in his office talking to DI Jones. ‘Got a pal of yours downstairs, ’ said Jones. ‘Name’s George Wallace.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Came in a couple of hours ago - caught with a van full of cigarettes. Seems he’d been following the driver while he made his deliveries, then took the lot while the thing was unattended. The man reported it, and Ballard here spotted him. Lobbed his truncheon through the windscreen.’ Jones nodded appreciatively at the constable. ‘Nice job.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Anyway,’ Jones turned back to Stratton, ‘Ballard here had an idea that you might want to talk to him about another matter, so if you fancy it, he’s all yours.’
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