Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (41 page)
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
Diana stood up. ‘No need. I’ll take the bus. It’s still early. I just . . . I’d like to be by myself.’
Lally looked at her doubtfully. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘I promise.’
‘Very well.’ Lally embraced her. The look in her eyes was so heartfelt, and the gesture so very unexpected, that it made Diana want to cry. ‘I know it’s not easy, darling,’ she murmured, ‘but you must be strong.’
Diana stood on the crowded bus in a daze, scarcely registering where she was going. Was it possible that Claude had killed Julia Vigo? Obviously, if he had, he could never discuss such a thing with her . . . And she couldn’t ask him about it, either. Bringing Lally’s name into it would get her friend into trouble - or worse . . . But if Claude had killed Julia Vigo, it wasn’t because he was wicked, but because it was his job. She’d heard things about people disappearing, but never anyone she knew, and never more than the vaguest rumours. Surely, Lally had misunderstood what she’d heard? Really, it was no better than the dotty old ladies she visited with imaginary Germans under their beds. But what she’d said about right and wrong not being the same any more certainly rang true. And as for F-J’s words at Bletchley Park: ‘The consequences can be disastrous, even fatal . . .’
Diana dug her nails into her palms, remembering the vertiginous feeling she’d had when Claude walked into the 400, how she’d looked across the room and seen only him, as if he was lit by a sort of halo. He is like an addiction, she thought. A drug. She’d had two notes from him since her return from Bletchley Park and ignored them both, but managing not to think about him for more than five consecutive minutes was little short of a miracle. At least he hadn’t had the temerity to telephone her at work, and the line at Tite Street had barely functioned since the bombing started. But I am in love with him, she thought. I can’t help it.
There was no point in going round and round in circles, she told herself: I must never see him again. Ever. Following the beam of her torch along the Chelsea Embankment, her footsteps seemed to sound the words ‘Never, ever, never, ever,’ on the pavement. She turned the corner of Tite Street, desperate to get home, to sleep, to forget, ‘Never, ever,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Never, ever, never, ev—’ Yards away from her house, she was brought up short by the sight of a slim, elegant form leaning against the railings: Claude.
She stopped, her whole body buzzing as if she’d been wired to an electric socket. For a second, she considered running away, but the street was dangerously dark and besides, her limbs seemed to have turned to water. Before she had a chance to collect herself, Claude was coming towards her, and a moment later his arms were round her and he was kissing her on the mouth.
For a moment she was stupefied by the treachery of her body’s reaction to his, then she pushed him hard, so that he staggered backwards. ‘Stop it!’
‘Not here, you mean?’
‘Not anywhere. What do you think you’re doing?’
‘You know damn well what I’m doing. And I’m going to go on doing it.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I think you’ll find, darling,’ Claude grabbed her arm, ‘that I am.’
‘Leave me alone!’ Diana tried to push him away, but this time he was ready for her, and, shoving her against the railings, kissed her again.
‘You disappoint me, Diana,’ he whispered. ‘You shouldn’t let people frighten you so easily.’
‘I’m not frightened!’
‘Then why are you shaking?’
‘I just don’t want . . .’
His hand felt beneath her coat for her breast. ‘You’re lying,’ he said, in a sing-song voice. ‘If you want to have your cake and eat it, I don’t mind. You’re frightened, and you like being frightened, my angel. It excites you. You do want to. I know you do.’
There was too much truth in this for Diana to deny it, and she was appalled that he’d perceived it so clearly. ‘All right,’ she said, furiously. ‘I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to.’
‘Oh, yes it does. Right here in the street, or upstairs.’ His hand moved down between her legs. ‘It’s your choice.’
‘Go away!’ She beat at him with her bag, and he caught her hands and forced them to her sides, holding them there and laughing at her.
‘Come on.’ He began towing her towards the house. I must not allow this to happen, she thought, frantically. Never, ever. It’s too dangerous. I
must
stop him - slap him or something, but I must not give in to him. Or to myself. She could hear all these things clearly in her mind, but suddenly it was as if someone else was speaking, far way. She wanted him so much . . . Helplessly she let herself be pulled up the front steps. Claude held her round the waist as she fumbled in her handbag for her latchkey, and she felt him caress her back and buttocks through her clothes as she opened the front door. ‘Stop it,’ she whispered, desperately, ‘Someone will see.’
must
stop him - slap him or something, but I must not give in to him. Or to myself. She could hear all these things clearly in her mind, but suddenly it was as if someone else was speaking, far way. She wanted him so much . . . Helplessly she let herself be pulled up the front steps. Claude held her round the waist as she fumbled in her handbag for her latchkey, and she felt him caress her back and buttocks through her clothes as she opened the front door. ‘Stop it,’ she whispered, desperately, ‘Someone will see.’
‘Then hurry up.’ Claude pushed her inside and, closing the front door behind him, half-dragged and half-carried her, unprotesting now, up the stairs to her flat.
FORTY-FOUR
‘Come!’
Stratton entered DCI Machin’s office with a heavy heart. What had he done now? He’d charged Wallace as instructed, and received a mouthful of abuse. He hadn’t asked Sir Neville any more awkward questions, but then again he was no nearer to identifying the body in the church. Presumably, he thought, it’s just going to be a run-of-the-mill bollocking to keep me in line until Lamb gets back. All the same, he could have done without it.
Machin looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable than the last time Stratton had seen him.‘You’re to report immediately to Colonel Forbes-James at Dolphin Square.’
Stratton thought afterwards that he wouldn’t have been any more astonished if Machin had jumped up and kissed him. As it was, he just managed to splutter, ‘Yes, sir,’ before collecting himself enough to add, ‘May I ask why, sir?’
‘You’ll be informed when you get there. DI Jones has been told to deal with anything that comes up in your absence.’ Jones was going to love that; Stratton made a mental note to apologise to him the first chance he got. ‘There’s a car outside.’
‘A car?’ echoed Stratton.
‘Yes,’ said Machin impatiently. ‘You’d better look sharp. Don’t want to keep them waiting.’
Descending the steps, Stratton was surprised to see a FANY driver with stout calves who looked like a compressed (and consequently far less attractive) version of Policewoman Gaines, holding open the rear door of a dark Bentley. ‘Good morning, sir.’ She saluted smartly. ‘Legge-Brock, sir. I’m to take you to Dolphin Square.’
The big car looked, felt and smelled more luxurious than anything Stratton had ever been in before. He stopped wondering what the hell was going on, in order to enjoy the feeling of riding in such a magnificent vehicle. He’d never been able to afford to run a car, much less one like this, but . . . perhaps I should learn to drive, he thought. Maybe, when the war was over - provided, of course that they weren’t bombed to buggery and annihilated as a nation and all the rest of the stuff that didn’t bear thinking about. But he might rather enjoy driving - certainly Stumpy-Leggy, or whatever her name was, was doing a grand job. Perhaps he and Donald could club together and get a small car. Easing himself back on the expensive leather, he closed his eyes and sniffed appreciatively.
A few minutes later, the car came to a halt outside the entrance to Dolphin Square. Stumpy leapt out of her seat, opened the rear door, and let him out, saluting again. ‘Flat 19, sir,’ she said. ‘Nelson House. Second block on your left, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stratton.
A different glacial blonde beauty (was there a factory somewhere?) answered the door and ushered him into Colonel Forbes-James’s office. Stratton, who had been expecting boarded up fireplaces, khaki-drab and military precision, was relieved to see a room with a distinctly civilian air, which was almost as chaotic as his and Jones’s office. He’d expected to be kept waiting again, but Forbes-James was seated behind his desk, and actually looked at him, as opposed to just waving a hand in his general direction. He had a round, slightly squashed-looking face, with large bright eyes, and no neck to speak of, and his general appearance was neat - no, thought Stratton, not neat, dapper. That was the word.
‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Inspector. Do have a seat - if you can find one, that is. Bloody awful mess in here.’ Forbes-James put a cigarette in his mouth and, bending his head, started peering under various piles of paper. Stratton, who had sat down after removing a stack of documents from the nearest chair, got up again to offer him a light.
‘Thank you. Have one yourself - there’s a box on the mantelpiece. Tea?’
‘If it’s no trouble, sir.’
‘Of course not.’ Forbes-James went to the door and gave instructions to the telephonist outside. A few minutes later, after a bit of general stuff about Great Marlborough Street - he seemed to know all about the bombing of West End Central - the woman called Diana, looking every bit as lovely, haughty and unassailable as Stratton remembered, came in with a tray. She was introduced as Mrs Calthrop (married then, but not, he thought, to the man she’d left Sir Neville’s flat to have lunch with, which was interesting). As she leant over to hand him his tea, Stratton caught a whiff of scent, an expensive smell like the car. He expected her to leave the room after that but, to his surprise, she cleared some files from one end of the sofa and sat down.
‘Well,’ said Forbes-James, ‘now we’re all here, I’d better fill you in. This is, of course, of a highly confidential nature, and covered by the Official Secrets Act, so it is not to be repeated. Your boss at Great Marlborough Street has been told that he is handing you over for such time as we need you, and you are not, until further notice, to discuss your work with him or anyone else. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. The situation is this . . .’
Stratton listened with mounting astonishment as he was given a rundown of Diana Calthrop’s infiltration of the Right Club, the decoding of the message she’d found in Sir Neville’s flat, and the involvement of Walter Wymark in purloining encrypted telegrams from the American Embassy. ‘Wymark’s a cipher clerk,’ said Forbes-James. ‘That’s more important than it sounds - he’s one of those responsible for coding and de-coding sensitive material as it enters and leaves the Embassy. We’ve got some background on him somewhere.’ He rooted around on his desk for a few seconds before gesturing to Diana to come and sift through the muddle for the relevant information. ‘We think he’s motivated by isolationist sympathies. It’s possible that he might have been working for the Soviets, but we shan’t know until we’ve had a chance to question him. According to what we’ve learnt, he hates Communists - which may or may not be true - and he hates Jews. To be honest, we’re not entirely sure how he received security clearance. There might have been some influence from elsewhere, but . . .’ Forbes-James shrugged. ‘These things happen sometimes. The American Embassy has agreed to waive his diplomatic immunity, and we’re planning to arrest him at his flat this evening. You will be present. Any documents we may find will, of course, be confiscated and examined. Now . . .’ he proffered the folder that Diana had handed to him. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stratton, taking the notes. On top of the pile was a photograph of a well-built, fair man, with the sort of heroic, athletic stance (head up, shoulders back, keen-eyed stare and so forth) that Stratton associated with pictures of sportsmen on cigarette cards.
‘That’s him,’ said Forbes-James. ‘Any questions?’
‘Why me, sir? Why not Special Branch?’
‘I suspect you already have some idea of the answer to that.’
‘I assume that it’s to do with Sir Neville Apse, sir.’
‘Precisely. Diana,’ said Forbes-James, turning to Mrs Calthrop, who had resumed her place on the sofa, ‘perhaps you should leave us.’
‘Yes, sir.’ As she stood up, smoothing her skirt, and left, Stratton took a surreptitious look at her legs and decided that she could definitely give Betty Grable a run for her money. ‘I thought,’ said Forbes-James, as the door closed, ‘that it would be easier if Mrs Calthrop were not present.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘I’ve had some information about your activities from Scotland Yard - who, as you probably know, are none too happy - but I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’
Stratton swallowed. He had the distinct sensation of waters closing over his head. We’re on the same side, he told himself. His Majesty’s government, the common good . . . But the power of men like Forbes-James was more far-reaching than that of his superiors, especially now that, like an idiot, he’d blundered into something far beyond his ken. He tried to combat visions of arranged accidents (shot in mistake for German spy, run over by car in blackout) with the fact that he’d done nothing wrong - or rather, nothing really wrong, not in the grand scheme of things. But that, of course, might not be good enough - knowledge might be power, but it was also bloody dangerous. Was what he’d discovered about to blow up in his face?
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