‘He may not be political, but he could be protecting people who are.’
‘What about the brother? He wasn’t telling the whole story there, was he?’
Gunther didn’t answer directly. ‘His flat in Birmingham. Has anyone been round there since the police were called?’
‘Not according to the file. The freeholder was going to make the window secure.’
Gunther rested his chin on his hands. ‘I think I would like to take a look at the flat now. Can we get that locksmith you mentioned?’
Syme said, ‘The Birmingham Special Branch has a list of locksmiths ready to get doors open with no questions asked.’ He tapped the file. ‘We’ll go and see the superintendent at local HQ who’s been liaising with me. He’s a good Fascist. Though he’ll have a lot on today, with the Jews.’
Gunther nodded. ‘Thank you. Let’s do that. Cast our net upon the waters.’
‘Our what?’
‘It’s from the Bible. I was brought up a Lutheran.’
‘My dad never had any time for religion.’
Gunther shrugged. ‘The Bible is good literature, at least.’
Syme gave him a keen look. ‘What next? After you’ve been to the flat?’
‘I think we need to force Muncaster to tell us the things he is keeping back. And that will be easier done away from here. I will recommend we get him moved to Senate House.’
‘You’re going to give him the full Gestapo works?’
Gunther inclined his head. ‘I think just being taken there would be enough.’
‘That Dr Wilson won’t like you treading on his turf. And he’s got the law on his side.’
Gunther gave him a serious look. ‘Dr Wilson will not know of any German involvement. If my people agree with me the embassy will talk to the Home Office again, and they can put pressure on him.’
Syme looked at him hard. ‘Just what’s going on here?’
Gunther smiled. ‘I can only tell you again that we are very grateful for your help. You are showing yourself to be a true friend.’ He looked at Syme meaningfully. ‘Our gratitude might smooth your path to this transfer you want.’ He became brisk. ‘Now, Dr Wilson will be back soon. Please ask him to tell his patient we were quite happy with what he said.’ He looked out of the window. The snow had stopped but a grey fog had descended, obscuring the grounds. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘We must get on to Birmingham.’
Syme laughed. ‘You should see the fogs we get in London. This is nothing.’
Chapter Seventeen
SARAH LEFT THE HOUSE AN HOUR after David. There was a special meeting of the Christmas Toys Committee at twelve. It was a nuisance having to go into town on a Sunday, but an important committee member, who was on the board of a major toy manufacturer, was unable to attend during the week. She walked briskly up to Kenton tube station. She thought of David, driving north. She couldn’t prevent the niggling thought that perhaps it hadn’t been Uncle Ted phoning, but that woman from his office. She told herself she was being stupid, she had heard the tail end of his conversation and he had looked worried and anxious for the rest of the day.
On the way into the station she saw a poster by the newspaper kiosk: Mosley to Address Nation on TV Tonight. She bought a copy of the Sunday Times, another Beaverbrook paper now. It told her the Prime Minister, back from Germany, and the Home Secretary were to broadcast at seven; there was no further detail. A colour supplement inside the newspaper advertised the latest Paris fashion for men, tight-fitting dark suits with short lapels, like military uniforms. ‘SS kitsch’, she had heard people call it.
There were fewer trains on Sundays but Sarah had to wait an unusually long time, over half an hour in the open. She was cold, she was glad she had put on a thick jumper and her new grey winter coat, though the fashionably wide sleeves left her wrists bare. The few other people on the platform looked at their watches and tutted. Sometimes on these journeys to committee meetings Mrs Templeman got on at Wembley. At least, Sarah thought, if there were problems with the trains she might be less likely to run into her and have to listen to her talking nineteen to the dozen all the way to Euston. When the train arrived at last she got into the nearest carriage, even though it was a smoker. An old man in cap and muffler sat across from her, a labourer in heavy hobnailed boots. He was smoking a pipe, surrounded by a cloud of aromatic blue smoke. Sarah’s father had always enjoyed his pipe, and she didn’t mind the smell.
Her luck was out; when the train came into Wembley she saw Mrs Templeman’s tall, stout figure on the platform, swathed in her heavy coat, a round fur hat over her permed curls and the fox-fur stole round her neck. She saw Sarah, waved a plump hand, and headed for her carriage. She sat down heavily opposite her. ‘Hello, dear. Goodness, I had to wait ages.’
‘So did I. It was jolly cold on the platform.’
‘They say it’s the coldest November for years. Let’s hope we don’t get another winter like ’47. All our pipes froze.’ As ever Mrs Templeman spoke loudly, in a rush. She adjusted her stole, the fox’s eyes staring glassily at Sarah. ‘All shipshape for the committee, dear?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the costings here.’ Sarah tapped her bag. ‘If everything gets approved today I can start placing the orders tomorrow.’
‘I do wish we hadn’t had to come in on Sunday. It’s all such a rush, after church.’
‘It’s a nuisance, but I suppose we have to keep Mr Hamilton sweet.’
‘He is generous. Goodness, it’s a bit of a fug in here, isn’t it?’ Mrs Templeman looked disapprovingly at the man with the pipe. He gave a little smile and turned to face the window, blowing out a fresh cloud of smoke.
‘It’s a smoking carriage,’ Sarah said mildly.
‘Yes, of course. I do like a cigarette myself in the evening, but my husband—’ She broke off as the train juddered to a halt, jerking them violently in their seats. ‘Oh, dear, what now? We shall be late—’
‘There must be a problem on the line.’ Sarah looked out of the window, thinking that no trains had passed them on the ‘up’ line. They hadn’t entered the tunnels yet, they were on a stone bridge looking down on rows of back-to-back houses of soot-stained yellow London brick. Grey smoke rose from chimneys, washing was hung out to dry in the backyards. A big poster had been put on a walclass="underline" Buy National Bonds. Save For All Our Futures. Being Sunday the streets were almost empty. A rag-and-bone man led a thin brown horse along the cobbles, discarded furniture and a pile of rags in his cart. Sarah remembered the man who had visited their street when she was little; her mother would give her a penny to take to him in return for letting her stroke his horse. Nowadays it was salesmen in suits who called at the house in Kenton, selling vacuum cleaners and refrigerators on the new hire-purchase schemes, raising their hats with cheerful, sometimes slightly desperate smiles. She remembered the jingling bells on the horse’s harness of her childhood, and thought, Charlie would have loved that.
‘In a brown study, dear?’ Mrs Templeman smiled at her enquiringly.
‘Sorry. I was just thinking about my little boy.’
‘Left him at home with hubby, have you?’
‘No. He died in an accident at home, two years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry, dear.’ Mrs Templeman looked shocked, genuinely concerned. She spoke softly: ‘That must have been terrible for you.’
‘He fell down the stairs.’
‘I still think of my Fred,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘He died in the war, at Dunkirk. He would have been forty this year.’ She paused, then added, ‘I find my faith a great help. I don’t know how I’d cope without it.’ Sarah didn’t answer. ‘I believe He leads us all, though often we can’t see the path clearly. But we know He wants us to help those in need. That’s why I’m on the committee.’