‘If you accept they should all be resettled in the East, what would you have us do?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want you talking about it in front of our son.’
It was then that he had realized she disapproved of him. As though she could understand the things he had to do. Even in his early days in the police, hunting down ordinary thieves and murderers, you had to be hard – especially in those last disordered days of Weimar. And it was the same with the Jews, you couldn’t eliminate the threat with softness. He had visited the ghettos in the East on training courses, seen what the Jews were like when they were forced to live together – filthy and stinking, fawning around the Germans in charge. Vermin that had to go. It was hard and unpleasant but necessary, as Hans had said.
He remembered when an informer had put him onto someone he said was Jewish. He had picked up the suspect, and later heard he had died under interrogation. Then he learned it was all a mistake, the dead man hadn’t been Jewish at all, the informer was carrying out a personal vendetta. It had saddened and angered him, but in war sometimes the innocent died too.
He didn’t miss his wife any more, but he missed his son every day. Michael was eleven now. He hadn’t seen him for a year. He turned away from the mirror. He felt, as so often, that somewhere deep inside he didn’t measure up. Least of all to his dead brother. He remembered Hans’ enthusiasm, his energy, his purity.
Syme was ten minutes late, which annoyed Gunther. When he answered the doorbell he saw a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, wearing a heavy overcoat and a fedora. He had a lean, clever face full of cheerful, eager malice, and keen brown eyes.
‘Herr Hoth?’ The man extended a long, thin hand, with a friendly, confident smile. ‘William Syme, London Special Branch.’ Gunther shook his hand and ushered him in. He took his coat. Underneath Syme wore a sharp, expensive suit, a white shirt and a silk tie. It was secured with a gold tiepin, in the middle a black circle with a single pointed white flash, the emblem of the British Fascists. ‘I hear you flew over from Berlin today,’ Syme said, in a cheerful friendly voice.
‘Yes. Please, sit down. May I offer you tea or coffee?’
‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll have a beer if you’ve got one.’ Gunther noticed an undertone of a Cockney twang and guessed that Syme, like many ambitious Englishmen on the way up, was trying to develop a ‘received’ English accent.
Gunther brought out two beers and offered Syme a cigarette. Syme looked round the room. ‘Nice flat,’ he said appreciatively.
‘A little modernist for my taste.’
Syme smiled. He said, ‘I’ve been to Berlin a couple of times. Jollies with the Party. Great buildings there. We went to the Nuremberg rally two years ago, we were sorry the Führer couldn’t attend. I’d have liked to have seen him. I hear he’s been ill.’ Syme’s eyes flashed with curiosity.
‘The Führer has many responsibilities,’ Gunther said coolly.
Syme inclined his head. ‘Beaverbrook’s there now. Wonder what they’ve agreed?’
Gunther wondered too, remembering what Gessler had said about the English police soon having their hands full. Whatever it was, Syme didn’t know. He realized he disliked this man. Then he thought, that won’t do, we’re going to have to work closely together. He smiled disarmingly. ‘So, Mr Syme, have you been in the police long? You’re young to reach an inspector’s rank.’
‘Joined when I was eighteen. Promoted two years ago, when I went to Special Branch.’
Gunther smiled. ‘I was working in Britain when the Auxiliary Branches were formed. I remember your then commissioner’s words to the first intake – “You should not be too squeamish in departing from the niceties of established procedures which are appropriate for normal times.” I thought, a very English way of putting things.’
Syme said, ‘Yes. Nowadays our essential job’s fighting the Resistance. Any way we can.’
Gunther nodded at the tiepin. ‘I see you are a member of the Fascist party?’
Syme nodded proudly. ‘I certainly am.’
‘Good.’ Gunther waved a hand to the chair. ‘Please sit down. We are grateful to your people for assisting us in this case.’
‘We’re all good pro-Germans in my section of Special Branch.’
Gunther nodded. He said neutrally, ‘I believe there has been some unease among British Fascists about joining the coalition with the old parties, Conservative and Labour.’
Syme shrugged. ‘It’s a way in. It’s how Herr Hitler began, isn’t it? And having Mosley in charge of the police is a big step to power.’
Gunther nodded seriously. ‘Yes. You are right.’
‘Though the commissioner is a bit puzzled over why you want this loony Muncaster so badly.’ Syme’s eyes narrowed. ‘According to our records he hasn’t any political past or Resistance links.’
Gunther leaned forward. This man was cocky, but clever too. He said, ‘No police or intelligence service is infallible.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Not even ours. But we do think this Muncaster may have political associations in Germany. Concerns have been raised. At a high level.’
‘I thought the anti-Nazis had all been dealt with.’
Gunther raised a hand. ‘Mr Syme, I may not say. It is an internal matter. I would have thought you would have been told this,’ he added.
Syme smiled. ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’
Gunther frowned. The young man was going too far. ‘The terms of reference for co-operation were, as I said, set at a very senior level.’
Syme looked discomfited. His mobile face was expressive, too expressive perhaps for a detective. He said, a slight edge in his voice, ‘Well, the commissioner says I’m at your disposal.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What is it you want done?’
Gunther drew on his cigarette. ‘We wish to find out all we can about Frank Muncaster. What his mental state is, whether he is lucid and if so, what he says. Our problem is that we, the Gestapo, cannot just go into this hospital demanding to see him.’
‘No.’ Syme frowned. ‘The British police force can do more or less what it wants these days, especially Special Branch. But lunatic asylums remain under the authority of the Health Department.’
Gunther nodded agreement. ‘Quite so. And we do not want our interest in Muncaster known.’
‘I understand. I think.’
‘Has anyone outside the hospital shown any interest in him?’
‘Who? The Resistance?’
‘We’ve no evidence they know anything about him. But we need to be careful.’
Syme pulled out a packet of cigarettes, unfiltered Woodbines, and Gunther took one, though he preferred milder brands. Syme said, ‘No-one’s shown a peep of interest in Muncaster. I’ve seen the local police reports. Frank Muncaster has no record, but in October he suddenly went potty, pushed his brother out of a first-floor window in some family quarrel then started screaming about the end of the world. He was put in the bin and that’s all we know. He’s a geologist, an academic. All these types are loopy.’
Gunther smiled again. ‘I am sorry we can’t confide in you fully. But we will work together, find out what is at the bottom of this. If there is something, we will both get considerable credit.’
That struck a chord. Syme nodded slowly. He said, ‘And if you decide you want him, would you take him back to Germany? Extradite him?’
‘Perhaps. For now, what I would like is for both of us to go up there this weekend, take a look at his flat, and interview him. If that is convenient,’ he added politely.
‘It’s already arranged. We sent a letter to the hospital saying we want to talk to Muncaster about the police case over the assault. Sunday’s their visiting day. The doctor in charge, Wilson, phoned us wanting to know what it was all about, angling to be at the interview. Protective of his charges,’ Syme added contemptuously. ‘Said Muncaster was a Doctor of Science, a man of some status was how he put it. I know what I’d do with the loonies, the same as you Germans have. I spoke to Wilson, quoting the Defence of the Realm Act. That shut him up.’