The Man Who Never Was Page 16

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that, sir. I can now see why you want this chart with the entire timeline on it.”

  “Good, and presumably you’ve figured out why it’s for your eyes and mine only. The events forty years ago have to relate in some way to those of today, they may even shape them to some degree.”

  Black hopped out of the car at the drop-off point and left Maggie with one further thought.

  “You can’t take evidence home with you, Maggie. You have to capture it in your mind and put it on the chart at home. Others seeing you looking through the individual statements and the rest of the file isn’t a problem. Others seeing compilation of the chart is. Welcome to detective work D.C. Reichert.”

  Chapter 23

  Chopwell Woods 1945

  Karl looked in the mirror yet again. He was distinctly unhappy with his makeover. Devlin had really gone to town on this, because he wanted to avoid any possible trouble with the villagers. The thick blonde Aryan hair had been reduced to a severe crew cut, and the remaining stubble dyed chocolate brown. A theatrical prop, in the form of a Hollywood moustache, not only adorned his upper lip, but irritated his nasal apertures. The transformation was completed by applying a splint to his left leg, to make him limp without having to think about it. When they arrived, Devlin shook hands vigorously with the constable, and merely referred to Karl as an underling who was to make notes. He then lowered his voice.

  “This is my assistant, he is expected to be seen and not heard, in the same way we instruct children.”

  Turning to Karl he then said, “Barrett, this is Constable…I’m sorry I’ve forgotten your surname, it’s Edward isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, Edward Ferguson. Hello Mr Barrett, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Karl nodded politely and Devlin continued.

  “Now, Constable, can you please take us to the place where this vagrant was found dead. I just want to search for any clues which your people may have missed. You see, the fact that you think he may have stolen this German escapee’s watch intrigues me. I have to state right now however, that my business here during my first trip was simply to oversee the return of those airmen. The notoriety of the one who got away has increased with his second escape on the way to the airport. My job, as specifically stated by the government, is to find this interloper with the minimum of fuss. We all want him out of our country and that won’t be achieved unless we track him down with methodology and not ballyhoo. I’m sure I can trust you to take appropriate care in that respect.”

  The constable touched his nose with the forefinger of his right hand, as if to convey the secret was safe with him. He led them to the spot of Michael’s suicide, stopping a few times to allow the limping Karl to catch up. There was a wobbly moment when they reached the exact point on the bend in the river where Michael and Karl had seen each other for the first time.

  The memory came flooding back – both of them had been extremely cagey, and such caution lingered until the first offer of trust had come from Michael, for Karl to share his freshly caught trout. How could they have known that they would almost become soul-mates in the coming weeks? Karl struggled with his emotions, not least of all because he couldn’t grasp the coincidence of Michael being murdered at this precise spot. He sat on a log and gesticulated that he needed a rest after such a hike. Devlin asked if he was feeling ill.

  “Just tired, sir.” The constable began his tale of how they’d examined the site, finding nothing to contradict the view that he’d probably been murdered by this German brute. After indulging the policeman for over an hour, and re-examining the immediate area, Devlin brought the search to a halt.

  “So you have this German watch in a safe place?”

  “Indeed we do, I am personally looking after it.”

  “Good, I need to see it, and I may need to take it back with me for expert analysis. I will of course return it to you, as it is part of a potential homicide investigation. I wonder if you could retrieve it, while Barrett and I give this scene the fine-tooth comb treatment.”

  “Yes, sir, but don’t wander too far away, it’s very easy to get lost in these woods.”

  As soon as he was out of sight Devlin turned to Karl.

  “He never mentioned anything about a cave.”

  “No, I am not so surprised. Michael said nobody knew about it. But Mr Devlin, something is not right about this whole story of my friend being killed here. This is exactly where I first met him. Look up at the tree, they have cut the rope to get him down but the end is still tied to the tree. It is not a normal… how do you say, combination of events…”

  “You mean coincidence.”

  “Yes, it seems more than a coincidence that he died exactly here.”

  “I tend to agree Karl, but let’s find the cave and the ring before the constable comes back.”

  Karl led Devlin to the disguised entrance and performed the habitual check that no one was to be seen in any direction, which Michael had emphasised over and again. The façade was removed and they entered.

  “My God,” said Devlin, “this is unbelievable.”

  Karl knew exactly where the ring was buried and began to scrape away the soil. He stopped in his tracks when he saw a piece of wood upon which his name had been burned into the grain – K A R L. He jumped back.

  “This was not buried with the ring by me. Michael must have done it before he died. Mr Devlin, I think he killed himself, and it was because I didn’t stay with him. I knew he was upset but I was sure he was to understand I had family. Now I feel so bad.”

  “You might be right, Karl, but where is the damned ring?”

  They couldn’t find it even though they both frantically widened and deepened the dig. Devlin looked at his own watch and was visibly concerned that the constable would be on his way back. In a moment of uncharacteristic anger, Karl kicked the wooden plaque with his name branded on it, yelling something in German which was obviously not in Devlin’s Teutonic armoury. There was the ring, embedded in the reverse side of the tribute from Michael. Devlin’s relief was palpable, and Karl’s containment of sorrow was finally breached. He sat with his head in his hands and said nothing.

  “Come on, Karl, we have to go, or PC Plod will be back. Look, put that plaque in my bag, and when we remove the ring later, you should keep the poor fellow’s last message to you, even though he may have thought you’d never find it.”

  They thanked the constable for the watch, and said they’d be leaving, having been satisfied about the prognosis of murder, at least until they caught up with and questioned the German fugitive.

  “We’ll be on our way now. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have him, Constable, and once I have had the watch taken apart you’ll be the first to know if there’s anything of significance about it.”

  *

  High Spen

  Bella had received bad news. Her husband’s condition had deteriorated, and it was no longer thought that the spa baths would prolong his life, even though he did get temporary relief from the process. She was advised that he should stay there.

  It meant more financial and emotional pressure for the family. He needed the treatment, she needed to work, and she couldn’t be with him. It had a ricochet effect on the relationship between Hilda and Jack, which in turn spilled down to Harry. Jack had been earning good money, with lots of overtime, and he agreed that some of it should go towards helping Bella to cope, including the odd weekend trip to Harrogate.

  Before the war, it was quite rare for a married woman to work, even if she had no children. Victorian legacy was still strong in the rural north. A man was supposed to be able to ‘demonstrate that he could take care of his family’. It was almost as symbolic as having an indoor toilet. The rub came about in a complicated way. Hilda was in what was seen as a ‘profession’, while Jack was just a labourer who was learning the ropes of laying bricks.

  It was a perception from outside the family, yet it was tangible. They’d also been on the cou
ncil housing list and were getting near the top. Another custom was for working men like Jack, to compensate for a hard week’s work by a sanitised, ritualistic gathering at the local social club on a Sunday lunchtime. However, most of Hilda and Jack’s friends were ‘normal’ insofar as the wives didn’t work. So, Hilda’s hard week was rewarded with having to stew in a hot, open range kitchen to make the lunch, or dinner as it was in the local vernacular. Jack was always expected back at 2 pm precisely, and punctuality was to be rigidly enforced. On every Sunday, Harry was told that he should sit at the table just before the deadline, and as usual, the next thing he could expect was that the dinner would appear from the kitchen at precisely the same time as his dad would walk in the back door. But not this Sunday.

  Bella, Hilda, and Harry waited ten minutes and decided that the dinner would be spoiled by trying to keep it hot. They tucked into it, and cleaned their plates before Jack came through the door. He seemed a little worse for wear and the smell of alcohol was more noticeable than usual. He smiled and plonked a bottle of whiskey on the table.

  “Won the raffle,” he exclaimed.

  “You know the dinner is always ready at two, yours is in the oven and is ruined. It’s long after 2.30.”

  “Oh well, I‘d bought a ticket, so I waited for the draw. Don’t worry, I’ll still eat it.”

  “Very gracious of you, I’m sure.” Hilda plonked the dinner in front of him and gravy spattered his shirt, some of it burned his arm.

  “What the hell’s got into you, for Christ’s sake?” He stood up to go for a cold cloth, and when he came back from the kitchen he saw Hilda hurl the plate of food into the coal fire. As he began to formulate a response, she picked up the bottle of whiskey, and it followed the plate into the fire. As the bottle broke, the ignition process reached the rug in front of the fireplace. Whiskey was an expensive commodity, and instead of attending to the blaze, Jack grabbed Hilda by the throat and began to swear at her. Harry was so scared he took refuge under the table. Bella came from the kitchen and emptied a bucket of water over the coals and the rug. It thankfully doused the spat as well as the flames. Sanity descended slowly, together with absolute silence, and yet some kind of rational discussion was still difficult for all concerned.

  Hilda’s feelings were hurt, and she eventually complained that it wasn’t difficult for her husband to walk a few yards to say he might be late.

  “I’m aware that it can be difficult for you to accept that I put more money on the table than you do at the moment. However, I’m sick of being treated as the quiet little mouse whose hero is back from the war. I don’t mind making the dinner every week as long as it’s appreciated. That obviously isn’t the case.”

  “Hilda, I am sorry but you have to try and understand, appreciating my dinner and being here on the dot at the same time every week just isn’t easy for me. I’ve spent the last five years making decisions which might cost my life. How the hell do you expect me to equate that to being a bit late for dinner? It’s the first time. I’d be happy to help you with the cooking and be a bit less rigid about working to a gong. I want to forget about being in the army, obeying orders or being punished for not obeying them. I can’t live like that.”

  The heat of the disagreement had finally dulled, and Bella had put everything back in its place. But there was one legacy they hadn’t bargained for. Harry announced that if his parents got a council house, he was staying with his grandma. All strategies to talk him out of this declaration failed. They realised that his little world had changed so much too. From no parents to squabbling parents. From grandma and granddad to just grandma, and something they hadn’t thought important. During these years he’d grown up amongst friends of his own age. His parents underestimated the threat of him living in a new council house right at the other end of the village, and losing contact with his playmates. Being outdoors and having total freedom was so important, as were his pals.

  Hilda and Jack deferred to this for the present, certain that it would pass. But Bella knew him so well, she knew it wouldn’t. She said nothing.

  Chapter 24

  Newcastle C.I.D.

  As Moss entered Marion Wentworth’s ground floor sanctuary she was placing files into two separate stacks.

  “Am I intruding?”

  “Not intruding, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. What do you want?”

  “I can’t seem to get Max Vogt out of my head. And, as I was turning restlessly in bed last night, I remembered your exact words, when I asked for the name of the officer of the crown whose report you quoted regarding the ring and Herr Vogt. You said, ‘If I believed I could tell you that I would have already done so. Things may change’. Well, have they?”

  “Do I sense you have another little worm to dangle in front of me?”

  “No, but I was thinking of asking Inspector Black to check this out.”

  “He’s looking at war records, I don’t think he’ll come across the author of the report amongst them.”

  “Perhaps, but maybe he will now find Vogt. If he doesn’t, I’ll know he may not have been given the help he asked for. You should have mentioned it to him.”

  “Am I to understand you haven’t shared what I told you about Vogt with him?”

  “I didn’t say that. And you don’t need to know. So, this chap who wrote the report was indeed a spook then, one of your breed. And if that’s the case he may have actually come to the northeast to see Herr Vogt. If he did, and it was an official visit, I could look into the old police files, or more likely those of Mr Eric Paisley.”

  “Look, Superintendent, I have to leave in a moment, could we talk about this another time?”

  “Ok, I’ll get Paisley in, he has only spoken with Black so far. He’ll be more relaxed with a man closer to his own age. Am I allowed to know where you’re going?”

  “I can tell you why I’m going, but I don’t know where I’ll end up. Our patient surveillance of Milan Hajek has paid off. He boarded a flight to Cologne this morning. I need to get there before he disappears, or more likely, falls into the wrong hands. I have a contact in Koblenz who will shadow him until I get there. I have a car waiting to get me to a small chartered aircraft from Newcastle to Cologne. So I may be able to answer your questions after all, but after I return.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever be back here, but I’ll contact you. Now, can you help me to carry these files to my transport please?”

  “It’s the least I can do Marion, well, good luck!”

  *

  London

  Black met up with Sophie Redwood at the café she’d suggested. He was about to ask what she would like to drink but was stopped in his tracks.

  “I’ve been contacted by a German journalist who must have read some headline related to my article in a rival publication. He then accessed the full story that I published and he had something interesting to say. He apparently covers political stuff about the cold war, and particularly the partition of Berlin.

  “He advised me or anyone wanting to investigate this case further, not to contact the German authorities direct. He says they will already be monitoring the situation, but didn’t know how. He’s tried on many occasions to access information leading up to the circumstances which led to the ridiculous situation of a city being treated as an island, hundreds of miles from the sea. Policed by the tightest security operation on the planet, this as we all know, has become a dangerous stalemate between former allies. He wants to come over here to discuss this in detail, not being certain that his house was free of bugs. He’s absolutely sure that his newspaper staff includes undercover employees of the authorities. That’s why he was calling from a public phone. I’m going to meet him to see what he has to say, and I thought I’d better let you know in case you want to change your mind about working with me.”

  “My head won’t accept any more layering of this case. Focus is what I have to do. I’ll be working with you until one of
us decides that it’s run its course. The German journalist? That’s your call.

  “Sophie, I want to talk about poring through these war records. I think we need to check out any references to German servicemen known to have been in the northeast around the time leading up to the end of the war. I know your source implied that there is an ongoing cover-up, but even if that’s true, I can’t believe all P.O.W.s would be involved. That’s a ridiculous suggestion. I can accept that our skeletal friend could be in the mix, especially if he needed to be disposed of. So, as I said, I want to stay focussed on him.

  “The period from 1942 to the end of the war, and our man ending up in the concrete in 1945 seems about right. I’ve already done some background research, and there doesn’t seem to have been any Luftwaffe raids on the northeast early in the conflict. Your stuff, related to spies infiltrating the country, the government, and even the command structure is different. But there may be another avenue, because there is clear evidence of reconnaissance activity even before the declaration of war. So, I’m leaving that side of it to you.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to my obstinate way of working, Sophie, unfortunately it’s the only way I can function effectively. Before I get shepherded through the tomes of information, I thought about who our man may have offended, and it occurred to me that the body being dumped where it was, in the coke works, might have more significance than we’ve given to it so far.

  “If we were talking about a one on one personal homicide, I’d expect the disposal to be one of convenience as well as an already existing safe haven for the corpse. However, if it was part of an orchestrated killing of necessity, to shield some secret agenda, the means and location would have been meticulously planned ahead of the actual termination. Getting the timing right becomes critically important in this case. When does the concrete arrive? Who oversees the operation? How do they make sure that nobody in a plant which worked shifts suspects anything strange?

  “This has bugged me since we found the bones. I found out recently that there was a delay to the original schedule, reportedly because of under-specification of the volume, and the need for piles to reinforce the basic function of the concrete. But then I’m told that these piles may never have been installed. I’m still waiting on confirmation of that. You see, Sophie, it’s often insignificant things like that which lead to the truth. On the face of it, there’s no logic in taking such risks to dispose of a body, so there has to be a more complex reason. You led me to this train of thought when you talked about covert operations. The key is the Derwenthaugh site, and the examination of these war records has to guide us back there, at least as a new starting point.”