He crossed to the bookcase. He pulled out an atlas and looked at the map of England. Birmingham, where they had started from, was right in the centre of the country. They would have to get Muncaster to the coast, but probably have to hole up somewhere for a while first. If a submarine were picking them up it would have to be from a southern or western port. The Welsh coast? Devon or Cornwall? Certainly nowhere too near the Isle of Wight, under German control. Sussex or Kent? He thought, if it were me I’d set it up so they could go due south, the shortest way via London. He ran his finger down the long straight line of the motorway from Birmingham to London. They could hide up in the city. They would have to wait for the right weather, a calm sea and a moonlit night – then travel from there to the Sussex or Kent coast.
He thought, if it was a submarine it would communicate with the coast by radio. But how to find the wavelength, the code? He took a slug of coffee. He thought of Muncaster, that piteous little man, led down a beach somewhere. A picture of his own son, playing on the sand in Krimea, came unexpectedly into his mind. He thought it all through again, looking for holes in his theory. Then he went to the telephone. He would call the embassy, tell Gessler the German authorities on the Isle of Wight should be told to watch for a submarine, listen for radio signals. First, though, he telephoned Syme, at home. He took a little while to answer, and he sounded sleepy. It was past one o’clock; Gunther had lost track of time.
‘I have been thinking, William. I believe Muncaster and his people may be in London. How many agents inside the Resistance do you have in the city?’
‘A good few.’
‘I think you should concentrate here. Try to sweep up as much of the London Resistance as you can. Do you think that would be possible?’
Syme said, ‘Usually we only do that if we’ve hopes of netting some big fish.’
‘Muncaster is a very big fish. And his people have killed one of yours in the city.’
‘This weather won’t make it easier.’
‘It won’t help them either. It’ll make it harder for them to move around. Can we meet early tomorrow? First thing? I’m at home now, but I’m going to the embassy straight away.’
‘In this fog? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Justice never sleeps,’ Gunther said.
Chapter Forty-Three
DAVID WOKE NEXT MORNING to the sound of voices downstairs and the smell of frying bacon. He heard the quick murmur of Eileen’s voice, Sean’s slow one. Only a dim grey half-light penetrated the thin curtains of the room. Geoff was still asleep. He didn’t look well; several times in the night David had woken to hear him coughing.
He got up and dressed in the change of clothes he had been given the day before. Geoff sat up, coughed again and took a drink. David pulled aside the curtains. In daylight the smog was a dense greyish-yellow, pressing against the windows, which were dotted with greasy smuts of soot. He could make out, dimly, a brick wall surrounding a little yard. ‘It’s as bad as ever out there,’ he said to Geoff. ‘How are you?’
There was a sheen of sweat on Geoff’s forehead. ‘Not brilliant. My throat’s still sore. I’ve a headache. God, how that filthy stuff seeps in, I can smell it. Sorry if I woke you last night.’
‘You couldn’t help it.’
‘Funny, I had a dream I was back in Africa. I was going to see Elaine. Her husband was away and I was walking up the steps to her bungalow but it was my parents who opened the door, Mum and Dad. They looked young, like they were when I was a child.’ He lay staring pensively up at the ceiling. David had never before heard him talk with such lack of reserve.
‘They’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘It’s just the thought I’ll probably never see them again.’
‘Unless we kick out the Germans, eh?’
Geoff smiled weakly. Sarah must feel the same, David thought, about her family. It was all right for him, he just had his father now and he was safe in New Zealand. He might even go and join him.
Downstairs they found Ben and Natalia already eating breakfast, Eileen bustling round with plates. A radio in the kitchen played Housewives’ Choice. Sean was pulling on a pair of hobnailed boots. ‘Bacon and eggs?’ Eileen asked David. She looked at Geoff. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘A bit groggy.’
‘I’ll get some headache pills. I’m afraid this pea-souper looks set to go on all day, according to the radio, maybe longer. They’re worried about the Smithfield cattle show; some of the animals are getting ill. Filthy stuff. Here now, sit down.’
As they sat David met Natalia’s eye. She smiled sadly, half conspiratorially. She had washed her hair; it was brown and lustrous. David saw that Geoff had caught the look between him and Natalia, and quickly glanced away. ‘Where’s Frank?’ he asked Ben.
‘He’s no’ feeling too good either. I’m going to take his breakfast up in a minute.’
Sean stood. ‘I’m off to work. Back about six.’ He nodded at his guests, then kissed Eileen tenderly on the brow. ‘You be careful, you hear? Keep everyone safe.’
‘Get off now.’ She touched his cheek briefly, then hurried back out to the kitchen. The front door shut behind Sean. ‘Frank thinks Sean’s got it in for him,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That’s why he wanted to stay upstairs.’
‘People are afraid of mental illness.’ Natalia shook her head. ‘Frank could see it in Mr O’Shea.’
David said, ‘I’ll take him up his breakfast. Has he had his pill?’
‘I gave it him when he got up.’
‘He is addicted to those pills, isn’t he?’ Natalia said.
‘No,’ Ben answered. ‘He isnae. They’re no’ addictive, but people get used tae feelin’ calmer with them, so ye have to take them off them gradually. We’ll wean him off them when we’re safe.’ Ben looked at her seriously. ‘But for now he needs to be kept quiet, not just for his safety but ours, too.’
David took a tray upstairs. Frank was sitting on the bed, wearing one of Colonel Brock’s old cardigans, staring out at the fog. A single-bar electric fire took the edge off the cold. He gave David a sad little smile, quite different from that horrible rictus grin.
‘I brought you up some breakfast. Hungry?’
‘Yes. I could do with something.’
‘Ben said you didn’t want to come downstairs.’
‘No. That Mr O’Shea . . .’ He shrugged wearily.
‘Sean’s all right. It’s just a worry for him, having us here.’ David put the tray on the bed.
Frank gave a long, despairing sigh. ‘He sees.’
‘Sees what, Frank?’
‘I’ve always felt I was under some sort of curse.’ Frank spoke so low David had to bend to hear. ‘There’s something in me – I don’t even know what –’ he waved his bad hand in a helpless gesture – ‘that makes people want to hurt me. It’s always been like that.’ He looked at David and gave one of his harsh little laughs. ‘You think it’s my madness talking, I can see.’
‘Frank, some people are just, well, afraid of people who’ve been – where you have. And you’re not mad,’ he added firmly.
‘No, it’s always been the same.’ Frank shook his head decisively. ‘Since I was a little boy, before I went away to school. Mother had her life controlled by this fake spiritualist, Mrs Baker. She got me sent to that school. I dreamed about her last night, she was sitting in a garden. There were angels in the sky, I suppose it was heaven. She was drinking whisky from a bottle and laughing at me.’
David touched him on the arm. ‘Eat your breakfast, eh? It’s getting cold.’