Wrightson smiled again. 'So you were doing 'em a favour, eh, Tanner?'
'They still had a couple of miles to go to get back to Manston, sir. That's quite a long way to drive when you're drunk. But I stopped them because they were approaching from a direction that was out of bounds and because they failed to halt at the checkpoint.'
There was a knock at the door.
'Come!' called Barclay, and Lieutenant Peploe entered.
'Ah, Peploe,' said Barclay.
'Sir. I thought you said I would be present when you spoke with Sergeant Tanner.'
Barclay waved a hand. 'An oversight, Peploe. Anyway, you're here now.'
'Your sergeant has been telling us that it was primarily concern for our welfare that made him shoot at us,' said Lyell.
Tanner felt himself redden, his anger mounting. 'With respect, sir, that's not what I said.'
'Sergeant, you've said your piece,' snapped Barclay. 'You may have been within your rights but you clearly acted impulsively and without due consideration, putting the lives of several pilots at risk and severely damaging Squadron Leader Lyell's car in the process.'
'Sir,' interrupted Peploe, 'I gave Sergeant Tanner specific orders not to let anyone else through the checkpoint under any circumstances. If anyone is to blame for this it's me.'
Barclay sighed. 'I appreciate your loyalty to your platoon sergeant, Peploe, but I really think it's for Tanner here to defend himself.'
'An NCO in front of four officers, sir?'
Barclay shifted in his seat. 'We're just trying to get to the facts, Peploe. Any one of the pilots could have been seriously hurt, if not killed. And then there's Squadron Leader Lyell's car.'
'Then why don't we take this matter to the station commander, sir?'
Lyell glared at him.
'No need to do that just yet, Peploe,' said Barclay, glancing anxiously at his brother-in-law.
Tanner smiled to himself. Good on you, Mr Peploe.
'The fact is, sir,' continued Peploe, 'that, with due respect to Squadron Leader Lyell, a far more serious incident took place last night. Two men were killed and it was nothing less than murder.'
At this, Blackstone looked up and Tanner caught his eye. So I was right, thought Tanner. He does know. It was now his turn to smile.
'What do you mean, murder?' demanded Barclay.
'The third man survived,' said Peploe.
'Why didn't you tell me this earlier?'
'I was about to, sir, but you might recall that the telephone rang and you ordered me to leave.'
'Have you spoken to the Snowdrops?'
'No, sir. I took Torwinski straight to hospital and they hadn't arrived by that time. I haven't seen any civilian police and nor have they asked to see me. I assumed I should speak to you or the station commander first.'
Tanner watched Blackstone intently for any reaction to this news. Was there alarm in his expression? He couldn't be sure.
'And this survivor claimed what, precisely?' asked Barclay.
Peploe told him.
'Good God, man!' The captain laughed. 'You believe that?'
'Yes, sir, I do,' said Peploe. 'It was also clear that a fourth had jumped from the cab a short distance before the checkpoint. From the driver's side, I should add. You could see where he'd landed on the verge.'
'It sounds most unlikely to me, Lieutenant,' said Squadron Leader Lyell.
'Why, sir? It doesn't seem so to me at all. It's a lot more probable than some recently arrived Poles trying to peddle black-market fuel in a country that's new to them and where they hardly speak the language.'
'Where is this fellow now?' asked Barclay.
'In Ramsgate Hospital,' Peploe told him.
Tanner had been keeping his eye on Blackstone, and at this revelation the CSM caught his gaze and, this time, held it. The threat was unmistakable.
'It seems to me, sir,' said Wrightson to Barclay, 'that we should at least talk to this man. How badly injured is he, Lieutenant?'
'He should make a full recovery, sir.'
At that moment, the telephone rang. With a look of pained exasperation, Barclay picked up the receiver. 'Yes?' he snapped.
Tanner watched the OC's expression change. The bluster and impatience drained from his face, replaced by stunned shock.
'Right,' he said. 'Right, sir. I understand, sir . . . Yes, sir.' Slowly he put the receiver down. 'It's happened,' he said. 'The Germans have invaded Belgium. And we're on standby to join the rest of the battalion. Twelve hours' notice. It seems we'll soon be going off to war.'
Chapter 4
If he was completely honest with himself, Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had probably had too much to drink the previous night. He prided himself on never losing control, but the news that the division was at long last on standby to move to the front had been worth celebrating. When the boss had suggested they might like to dine out of the mess, he and the other officers in the Aufklarung Abteilung, the division's reconnaissance battalion, had piled into their cars and driven into Stuttgart.
There they had met up with some other officers from the 2nd Regiment Brandenburg and it had turned out to be a particularly enjoyable night: a good dinner, a few toasts, Rudolf Saalbach singing 'Casanova-lied' - the adopted battalion song - which never ceased to make him laugh, and then a few hours with an attractive girl called Maria. He knew that several of his comrades had later headed off to the city's fleshpots, but that was not his way. Timpke had always believed that paying for it was an abomination. After all, the seduction was half the fun. He was, he knew, a handsome young man. He was tall and broad, with fair hair, a narrow nose and a smile he had learned to use to good effect, and he had long ago realized that getting women to do what he wanted came rather easily to him.
His whole life had been rather like that. He was blessed with a good brain and a strong physique, and had made the most of both: school, sports, university - he had shone at them all. And when he had joined Brigadefuhrer Eicke's Totenkopfverbande, he had, naturally, been singled out quickly as officer material and packed off to SS-Junkerschule. It had pleased him to discover that most of his fellow cadets were less clever and educated than he: it ensured that he continued to stand out above the rest. Now, three years later and aged twenty-five, he was commander of the division's reconnaissance unit, the men who would lead the vanguard of any advance and, as such, about to be given the honour of leading the elite of the elite - as Eicke always liked to remind them they were - into battle.
That morning he had woken early. The early-summer sun had streamed through the closed window of his room, making him hot and restless. His mouth had felt dry and his head ached. He had drunk a litre of water, put on his black running shorts and white vest, with the SS runic symbol emblazoned on the front, then headed out of the garrison barracks, down Stuttgarterstrasse and into the baroque palace gardens of Ludwigsburg and the woods beyond. By the time he was running back through the palace gardens, his head had cleared and he felt alert and invigorated. He had drunk wine and schnapps at dinner, but he reflected that it was probably the sekt - I that essential tool of seduction - that had made the difference. Maria had taken longer than some to succumb and had insisted he match her glass for glass. Still, it had been worth it. He had taken her in his open-top Adler Triumph to a hotel he had used several times before and, in bed, had found her most compliant. Eventually, leaving her asleep, he had crept out and driven back to the garrison. By half past two he had been in his room.