Igor laughed giving Muller an appreciative pat on the shoulder. ‘How is your charming wife and your adorable son?’
Muller nodded. ‘They are good Igor,’ he replied, taking a sip from the mug.
‘We waited for the launch yesterday, but then got news that it was cancelled,’ added the baker.
‘Yes, most unfortunate, but as you know, I cannot say any reasons for it, Igor.’
Igor acknowledged. ‘I understand Dieter.’ The baker then walked back over to his counter and after picking out a few freshly baked loaves, wrapped them and handed them to Muller. ‘Please accept these as a gift for you and your family.’
Muller smiled. ‘Thank you Igor. That is most kind and thank you for the coffee, most refreshing after my long duty.’ He turned and walked out of the shop and a few minutes later walked up the path to his house, opened the door, and was greeted by his wife.
Natalia Muller was wearing a blue flower-patterned apron. Hearing the door open, she had rushed out of the kitchen, placed her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him fully on the lips, almost crushing the loaves that he was holding. ‘What are these?’ Natalia asked staring at the packets.
‘A gift for us from Igor at the bread shop. Muller placed them down on the dining table, and then saw his son playing with some coloured wooden bricks on the floor. He bent down in front of him, placed his field green peaked cap on his head then lifted the child up to him, kissing him on the forehead. He moved him over to rest on his right shoulder, turned and smiled at his wife, looking forward to his few days of leave.
Natalia gripped her husband’s arm. ‘I bake you strudel, following a recipe I got from an East German friend of mine.’
Muller smiled. ‘Ausgezichnet, meine liebschen.’
Natalia suddenly looked at him with a puzzled expression. Muller then realised that his fatigue had made him forget himself for a few moments as his earlier conversation with Fleischer, had just caused him to reply to her in his native German. He needed to rest, and as the N1 was going nowhere for a few months, he realised that at last, that he could do just that.
Later that evening on the River Thames in London, Eddie Stevenson steered his green and white tug, the Sunshine II into a berth in Chelsea Harbour after a long day of coal barge towing, then took the short walk around the quayside to his houseboat home.
When he entered his two boys ran to him. Both were wearing the latest Chelsea Football Club kits that had been given as Christmas presents from their grandparents. He hugged them both, placing his arms around them, and then walking over to his wife in the galley who was preparing the family meal, kissed her on the cheek.
‘Hello love, I’m starving. What’s for tea?’ He placed his dirty black Donkey jacket on the coat hook on the kitchen door.
Lynda Stevenson stood at the sink, peeling some carrots. ‘I’ve got a Shepherd’s Pie in the oven, and I’m just going to put on these carrots and there’s some cabbage on the stove. How was your day?’
Her husband shrugged. ‘Oh, it was okay. I had a little bump with a dredger just by Putney Bridge, but as it was lunchtime, I just took the lads working on it over into The Star and Garter and bought them all a pint. There’s a dent in the tug’s hull, nothing serious though. I’ll take her into Jack Rawlinson on Saturday and see if he can patch her up. What about you? Did you manage to see the doctor about those stomach pains?’
Lynda smiled. ‘Yes I did, and I have some news.’
Stevenson looked at her blankly. ‘Well, what did he say then?’
Lynda giggled. ‘He said that there is nothing to worry about,’ she teased. ‘Well you, might have to,’ she added, emphasising ‘you’.
Stevenson gulped almost at bursting point with curiosity. ‘What is it?’
Lynda pointed to her stomach. ‘We are going to need a bigger boat, or perhaps even a house at long last — I’m pregnant Eddie.’
Delighted by this sudden news, Stevenson picked up his wife and kissed her on the lips. ‘When?’
‘I’m fourteen weeks. So it should be the first week in November.’
Stevenson gave his wife an elated smile. ‘Well, I think we’ll call him Peter,’ he suggested.
Lynda scowled. ‘After Peter Osgood I suppose. And what if it’s a girl this time? You won’t be able to name her after any Chelsea players will you? As a matter of fact, I would like to call her Kirstie after my grandmother.’
Stevenson smiled. ‘I happen to like that name. What about the second name Louise, after my grandmother. Kirstie Louise Stevenson, my baby daughter.’ He hurriedly walked off to have a quick shower.
Later, as the Stevenson family sat eating their meal and talking excitedly about their upcoming new arrival, a black Ford saloon entered the harbour entrance and parked at the end of the road that lead down to the quay. Its single occupant sat listening to the radio for the next twenty five minutes, waiting for the people around the quay to settle down into their houseboats.
Baumann then climbed out, locked the car, and walked down the wooden planked jetty, passing the array of colourful houseboat designs.
Some of the residents sat outside in deck chairs enjoying the twilight and acknowledged him as he passed.
He gave them a cursory quick wave, then in front of a cream coloured boat came to an abrupt halt. ‘Good evening,’ he said smiling. An elderly man wearing a red polo shirt and navy blue shorts stood up and walked towards him. Baumann pretended to be a visitor who appeared to be lost. ‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for Mr Stevenson’s boathouse. He told me to come and see him about taking some goods for me up the river,’ he lied.
The houseboat owner nodded. ‘Sure. Eddie’s houseboat is the light blue one at the far end of this row. It’s called the Stamford Star, named after the football ground behind you.’
Baumann turned his head and looked at the floodlights to Stamford Bridge Stadium. He smiled appreciatively clicking his heels. ‘Thank you so much. Please have a nice evening.’
Baumann walked on. Ahead of him, two boats along, he saw the one that he was looking for. He stopped, reached into his jacket pocket and checked the safety catch to his ex-World War 2 vintage Mauser Schnellfeuer machine pistol.
After reading his sons a quick bedtime story about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Stevenson returned from their bedroom. They had kept him longer than usual, quizzing him about their future baby brother or sister.
Now back in the lounge, he sat down beside his wife, displaying a caring concern. ‘Are you alright Lyn? Do you need any cushions or anything?’
Lynda gasped. ‘Well, if this means that I’m going to get some attention from you for a while, I wouldn’t mind a cuppa.’
Stevenson nodded. ‘No problem my clever girl.’ He leant over and kissed her, then got up from the sofa and walked into the galley.
As he poured the water into the kettle, he looked out the window, noticing the sun’s dying rays reflecting onto the river. Then suddenly he shuddered. In the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow move slowly across the front of the boat. He walked over to the door and looked outside, but seeing nothing, walked back inside again.
He was about to close the door, when he felt a sharp point in the small of his back, causing him to freeze rigid with fright. Then a voice in broken English whispered behind him. ‘Do not move, Mr Stevenson!’
Baumann pushed the gun further into the boatman’s back. ‘Now, please walk inside.’ He followed Stevenson inside to the galley, and closed the door behind him. Stevenson was marched into the living room. His wife turned her head to see the worried expression on her husband’s face, then noticing the tall stranger in the black leather jacket behind him, put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my god, Eddie.’