The Director wanted to be briefed before breakfast and the Admiralty’s code and cipher people afterwards, headlines written for the First Sea Lord by mid-morning, the full report to be on his desk by 3 p.m. and then sent to Downing Street. Lindsay floated through the day, barely conscious of the compliments paid, the questions asked and the answers he gave. Objects and people began to soften at the edges, voices to reach him like the echo in a long tunnel. At five o’clock, Fleming took him by the elbow and led him from Room 39 to the doors of the Admiralty.
‘Home. The rest can wait until morning. Can you make it on your own?’
‘Yes, I’m capable of that but I was hoping to see Mary Henderson.’
Fleming frowned and looked away for a moment: ‘Perhaps tomorrow. Or ring her, why don’t you?’
Drunk with exhaustion, he collapsed on his bed fully clothed and slept a long and for once dreamless sleep until the early hours of the following morning. When he woke he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to bring the events of the previous day into focus. After a while the recollection of something small began to worry him. It was the slight frown on Fleming’s face when he spoke of Mary. It was surely of no importance in itself but it unlocked troubling thoughts. ‘A bad case of conscience, Doctor,’ he muttered to himself. The early-morning blues. Swinging his legs from the bed, he padded through to the kitchen in search of bread and something to put on it. A few stale crusts and a pot of his mother’s jam. He ate a little and drank some tea without milk, then took off his uniform and went back to bed. But he did not sleep again, turning restlessly until dawn. When the hour was civilised, he rang the house in Lord North Street but there was no reply.
For once he chose to breakfast in the Admiralty canteen, half in the hope of finding Mary there. But he did not see her and the food was as she described it — greasy and tasteless. Fleming had found a desk for him in a small office close to Room 39. It was little more than a cupboard with room for no more than the desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. No one was interested in his opinion of code security any more. And no one was interested in the opinion of the Code Security Section either. It was in the hands of the Staff and the cryptologists now. But there were some embarrassingly loose ends to tie up. Housekeeping. The Director wanted an account of the ‘shambles’ at Number One Camp and he had just begun to dictate excuses to a Wren when the door opened:
‘You’re not easy to find.’ Samuels stepped into the room. He sounded very unfriendly.
Lindsay asked the Wren to leave them alone for a few minutes. The moment the door closed behind her Samuels said: ‘You know, it was torture.’
‘What?’
‘Dietrich: the way you treated him, it was a kind of torture. The sort of thing the Nazis do.’
‘I wouldn’t have let it get out of hand.’
‘He was badly beaten.’
‘I’m sorry you’re feeling squeamish.’
Samuels shook his head ruefully: ‘I’ve heard about Lange. Was that necessary too?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think you would have thought so a few months ago…’ but Samuels was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a uniformed runner with a note from Fleming.
‘Perhaps we could talk later, Charlie?’
‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary,’ he replied coldly. ‘Oh, I almost forgot — congratulations.’
Then he turned his back on Lindsay and walked out.
The door to Room 39 was slightly ajar and the murmur of voices from inside suggested that Fleming had just left a meeting. He must have noticed Lindsay approaching along the corridor out of the corner of his eye because he turned from the window with a question:
‘The Director wants to know if there is any propaganda value to be had from Mohr. A radio broadcast.’
‘No. He won’t co-operate. I’m sure of it.’
And there was the same frown that had kept Lindsay awake half the night. Clearly Fleming was taken aback by the sharpness of his response: ‘You’re not expecting us to keep your promise?’
‘Yes.’
Yes, he knew he was, yes. When he had made it to Mohr he had not cared one way or the other. It was not that he had spent hours regretting it, he had not given the matter any further thought, but now suddenly it seemed important. If asked, he would be at a loss to explain why. But Fleming just looked at him sceptically, then turned to the door. ‘Wait across the corridor, Lindsay,’ he said, and he stepped inside, closing it behind him.
The Director stood at the conference table, arms folded, head bent like an inquisitive bird, and thirty of his most senior officers were gathered in a semicircle about him. The head of Code and Cipher, a stout reserve commander in his late fifties, was addressing the room on the changes that were being considered to security. The stony faces about him suggested that difficult questions had not been answered to the satisfaction of those at the table. It would be a month before new code books were printed and distributed, he explained hesitantly, and a month more before wireless operators in the Navy and Merchant Service were able to use them properly. ‘I’m afraid until then we will have to continue with the current code and cipher books.’
This information was met by awkward glances and some embarrassed shuffling of paper and feet.
‘The Prime Minister exploded when he was told.’ Admiral Godfrey glared about the table. ‘It’s a shambles. We’d better learn the lessons. All right. That’s all.’
The meeting was over. The Director spoke briefly to his Assistant then picked up his papers and walked back through the green baize covered door into his office. The heads of section began to drift out of the room and after a few minutes only two men were left at the conference table. Half rising from his chair, Winn leant across the table with his cigarettes: ‘Quite a coup, don’t you think?’
‘No thank you,’ and Checkland held up his hand to refuse.
‘Do you think Lindsay will be returning to you?’
Before Checkland was able to flannel an answer Fleming was ready to show them into the Director’s office.
‘It must be gratifying to know Donitz thinks highly of your work, Winn.’ Admiral Godfrey lifted the report on the desk in front of him and turned to a section he had marked in pencil:
Kapitan Mohr said the staff at U-boat Headquarters were often impressed by the accuracy of the daily intelligence summaries on U-boat dispositions that were produced for the Royal Navy’s ships at sea by its Tracking Room…’
‘Infuriating, sir,’ said Winn who sounded anything but in complete control of his emotions. ‘As you say, sir, a shambles. We’re reading their signals and they’re reading ours.’
‘Not, I hope, for much longer. But God knows what Code Security was doing. And what sort of code is it that can be broken by the enemy after only a few months? It’s cost us very dearly in ships.’
The Director dropped the report back on the desk: ‘Lindsay’s done a fine job. The cryptologists have been to Brixton to see Mohr and they’ve got nothing else from him.’
‘They’ve probably got some scruples, sir,’ said Checkland tartly.
‘Then they should have left them at the prison gates.’ Godfrey turned to glare at him: ‘Yes, he’s been insubordinate and a little unscrupulous but he’s not training for the priesthood here. This intelligence may save thousands of lives.’
He sat back in his chair and looked to Fleming for agreement: ‘Lindsay has a nose for this business. Finally, we’ve got something first-class from a prisoner.’
Fleming nodded vigorously.
‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to have him back?’
It was not a question Checkland was expected to answer.
‘There are going to be changes at Trent Park.’ There was a coldness in Godfrey’s manner that suggested the changes might involve the appointment of a new head of section. At least Checkland must have thought so because he flushed a deep shade of crimson.
There was an uncomfortable silence as the Director stared at each of them in turn like a hawk sizing up a meal. It was Winn who eventually spoke: ‘Lindsay has done well, sir, but he’s dangerous. He’s a rule-breaker who encourages others to do the same.’
Winn balanced his copy of the report on the edge of the desk: ‘I know Fleming has spoken to you about Mary Henderson. I’ve asked her to stand down.’
‘Yes.’
‘She was suited to the work, thoughtful and meticulous. It’s a pity.’
‘Yes.’
The Director pushed his chair away from the desk, then walked round it to the window. The first leaves of autumn were fluttering across Horse Guards.
‘Was it necessary?’
The officers at the desk exchanged glances. The Director turned to look at them: ‘Well?’
‘Lindsay was very tired when he wrote his report, sir, he may not have realised he’d let it slip,’ said Fleming.
‘Let’s not make excuses. It was a filthy thing to do,’ said Winn coolly. ‘But as you say, sir, he doesn’t have to be a decent human being to be of service.’
Fleming frowned: ‘You know, Rodger, I’m sure he’s got no idea what he’s done to Henderson.’
‘I think perhaps he does. He’s too clever. But tell him, to be sure. Didn’t you say he was waiting outside?’
‘Yes, you can tell him, Ian,’ Godfrey said sharply. ‘For God’s sake let’s move on from this.’
Lindsay had tired of the bustle and noise of the messengers’ room and was pacing and cursing under his breath in the corridor outside. It was after eleven o’clock and he had been there for more than an hour. Everyone else seemed to move with purpose but he had spent the time smoking and brooding on his exchange with Samuels. You had to draw a line somewhere so it was worrying that someone whose opinion he respected thought he had drawn it in the wrong place. And Mary would surely think the same. She had helped him in so many ways, with support and understanding and confidence and love and, yes, with information too. And he should have thanked her, should have told her how much he felt for her. He knew he had always taken more than he had given in their relationship and had been cavalier with her trust. He must find her and tell her so. When Fleming had finished with him he would arrange for a note to be delivered to the Tracking Room.
He was about to scribble something on a scrap of paper when he saw Winn lumbering awkwardly towards him, file under one arm, head bent in contemplation like a monk in a cloister garden. He did not seem to notice Lindsay and it looked as if he might pass without a word but, an arm’s length away from him and almost as an after thought, he turned and said: ‘I suppose I should congratulate you.’
But I don’t want you to, Lindsay thought, and the unspoken words seemed to hang in the air between them.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Winn stared at him for a moment, his eyes lost behind the reflection in his glasses, then he turned and walked on without another word. Mary. He knew it was Mary and the little knot of anxiety he had been trying to ignore tightened in his stomach. He was on the point of following Winn but footsteps were echoing along the corridor towards him: ‘Sorry to keep you.’
Fleming gave him a friendly slap on the arm: ‘Let’s stretch our legs, take some air, what do you say?’
The knot in Lindsay’s stomach tightened even more.
‘Is this something to do with Mary?’
Fleming took his arm: ‘Come on, let’s walk.’
It had rained heavily and yellow plane leaves were floating in the pools still forming in the gutters. A fitful sun was breaking through the grey, glinting in the fine spray thrown up by traffic sweeping up the Mall towards the Palace. They crossed Horse Guards and walked in uneasy silence until they reached the white stone memorial to those of the Household Division who had died in the Great War.
‘I never tire of this view,’ said Fleming, nodding towards the parade ground opposite, ‘even the bloody balloons can’t spoil it. Horse Guards, the Admiralty, Downing Street and Whitehall. Can you imagine that lot goose-stepping here? I’d do anything to make sure it never happens.’
He reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes: ‘Would you like to smoke one of these?’
Lindsay shook his head. Why was he taking so long to get to the point? A special torment. He watched as Fleming tried to protect his lighter flame from the stiff breeze. It was some time before he managed to light his cigarette and sensing Lindsay’s impatience he held out a hand as if to steady him: ‘You did well in the end. You took some chances and this time they were worth taking. But if you’d got it wrong the Director would have hung you out to dry. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mary took chances too. She got it wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, please,’ and Fleming gave a short cynical laugh. ‘Please don’t play the innocent. You know perfectly well that Mary told you we were reading the German Enigma ciphers. She also slipped you a piece of special intelligence that suggested at least one of our own codes was compromised. You’re not going to deny it, are you?’
The answer was evident in Lindsay’s face. It was one of the signs he never missed across a table from a prisoner. What was it American card players called it? ‘A tell.’ He felt hot with guilt.
‘You betrayed her in your report, but you know that, don’t you? And Winn has confronted her and she admitted it at once and told him she gave you help with our codes too. That little piece of paper?’
‘For God’s sake, what does it matter whether she helped me or not?’ Lindsay made no attempt to disguise his anger. This was madness. Both of them had taken risks, yes, but they were worth taking, Fleming had just said as much: ‘Mary broke the rules to help me and it was the right decision to take.’
‘The Director and Winn don’t agree,’ he said with a little shake of the head. ‘It was not information you needed to know. And she should have known better…’
‘She wasn’t handing it over to a spy…’
‘Mary knows how precious special intelligence is to us, to this..’ and Fleming gestured theatrically to the scene before them. ‘She was one of just a handful at the heart of our operations with access to the most secret intelligence. If we lose special intelligence we may lose the war at sea. Do you think Winn goes home and talks to his wife about it?’
‘She doesn’t work for Naval Intelligence.’
Fleming stepped forward to drop his cigarette in the gutter, then turned again to look at Lindsay: ‘I’m fond of Mary but her position was impossible. She couldn’t go back to the Tracking Room. She understood that perfectly.’ He spoke sharply and quickly, clearly anxious to bring the conversation to a close. ‘No one wants to take it further, thank God. Ah, you shake your head — people have been sent to prison for less.’ He glanced at his watch: ‘Look, I must be getting back.’
‘So what will happen to Mary, sir?’ Lindsay’s voice cracked a little.
‘She’s left the Division.’ He paused for a moment as if in two minds whether to say more. There was the distinctive little frown again: ‘You know she feels badly let down.’
‘Yes,’ said Lindsay flatly. ‘I expect she does.’
When Fleming left, the old panic gripped him again. Lindsay stood at the foot of the memorial breathing slowly and deeply, trying to clear his mind. What had possessed him to be so reckless with Mary’s trust? Careless, careless, unnecessary words and Fleming was right, he could not play the innocent, he had understood the risk he was running. He had dictated his report to a Wren, short hard sentences, the brutal click of the typewriter keys, blind to any loyalty or feeling beyond duty to the war effort. At least, ‘duty’, ‘the greater good’ was how he chose to present it to others. But he knew it was guilt too. Guilt gnawing at him always, that desperate craving for release from the burden of being a man who was dragged from the Atlantic the night two hundred lives were lost. It distorted, warped his perspective like a fairground mirror. Mary could see that, understood and loved him none the less. He had to find her to try and explain and tell her he was so very sorry.
Nobody answered the bell at Lord North Street. The shutters were open and he wondered for a moment if Mary was in the house but had resolved not to see him. He pulled the bell again but no one came. But she was not the sort of woman who would skulk behind curtains to avoid a painful conversation. Perhaps she had left London for a few days. He would have to chase her by phone, and the nearest and most convenient place to begin was at the interrogators’ office in Sanctuary Buildings. It was a short walk across Dean’s Yard where builders were trying to salvage what they could of the Abbey’s domestic range damaged in the Blitz.
Dick Graham was the only interrogator in the office. He had been sent to the prison but given nothing to do and it rankled.
‘The hero of the hour,’ and he glared at Lindsay over his pince-nez. ‘I expect they’ll give you another medal.’
Lindsay ignored him. First Mary’s uncle. Settling at the desk by the window, he picked up the telephone and began chasing the number for Parliament round the dial. The operator put him through to a stiff assistant who refused to say when she would see Sir David next and only reluctantly promised to say he had called. He was about to try the house in Lord North Street again when Checkland’s secretary presented herself at the edge of the desk: ‘The Colonel said you would want to see this right away,’ and she handed him a plain blue envelope. He took it and slit it open at once. There was a smaller envelope inside and a note in Checkland’s own hand:
Enclosed a note from Leutnant Lange. He is making a good recovery and will be discharged from hospital in the coming week.
He held Lange’s envelope in his right hand and stared at it for what must have been a minute. It was Graham who finally broke into his thoughts: ‘A billet-doux from one of your many admirers in the Division?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘I probably will. And you’ll be there too.’
It was not the time or the place. Lindsay dropped the little envelope into his pocket. There was still no reply from the house. Perhaps he should ring Mary’s brother? It was surely a measure of his desperation that he was even prepared to consider it. What about her parents in Suffolk?
‘Do we have a copy of Debrett?’
Graham was dictating interrogation notes to one of the clerical assistants. He looked up at Lindsay with a dry smile and stretched a hand over the typewriter to indicate that she should stop hammering the keys.
‘I don’t think they’ll offer you a peerage, old boy.’
‘Do we have a copy of Debrett?’
‘Would you like some help choosing the title?’
Lindsay half turned to address the clerical assistant: ‘Well?’
‘I’ll fetch it, sir.’
Charnes Hall, and yes, there was a number. An office shared with Graham was not the place to try it and he jotted it down on a piece of paper.
There was a telephone in the small registry down the corridor where the Section kept its records. It had a short flex and he had to stand beside the filing cabinet to use it. He had to dial the number of the exchange twice because on the first attempt, like a tongue-tied teenager, he hung up before the operator had a chance to put him through.
‘Mrs Henderson? Douglas Lindsay here.’
A long uncertain silence.
‘Yes?’
‘May I speak to Mary please?’
‘I don’t know if she’s in the house. Just a minute.’
Her voice was cut finer than her daughter’s, very county. The telephone was probably in a stone-flagged hall because he could hear the long echo of her footsteps as she walked away.
Someone rattled the handle of the registry door. ‘Go away, I’m on the telephone.’
His stomach was churning and the receiver felt damp and heavy in his right hand: ‘Come on, come on.’
Twenty seconds from the condemned cell to the bottom of the scaffold. Every second an hour. But they would have buried him by now. At last he heard footsteps approaching the telephone again and the rattle as Mary picked up the receiver.
‘Lindsay?’
His heart sank many fathoms. It was Mary’s brother.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here, James.’
‘I’m here, sir.’
‘I’m here, sir.’
‘I’ll say this once and once only,’ his voice was trembling with barely repressed fury. ‘She has nothing to say to you. You shit. You used her. You betrayed her. Now leave her alone.’
Bang went the phone. The buzz of an empty line.
Lindsay replaced the receiver carefully, his mind very clear. How strange that the anger of another was calming. He knew what he must do.
It was some hours later that Mary heard he had called and spoken to her brother. If only her mother had dealt with it or her father. She was cross because she could not help feeling sorry for Lindsay and she did not want to.
‘You should have told him to ring back,’ she told her mother. ‘He’s going to think I haven’t the guts to talk to him in person.’
‘I doubt that, darling,’ her mother replied.
But she knew he would not leave it there. He would come to see her, perhaps tomorrow, and she would say what she needed to say. She had rehearsed it all so very carefully — to distraction.
She did not have to wait for the next day. At a little before six o’clock her father called to her from the bottom of the stairs.
‘A military-looking car. Mother thinks it might be your man.’
She had not discussed Lindsay with her parents but they seemed to know everything from James. By the time she had slipped into a mac and wellingtons the Humber was pulling up in front of the stable block. Lindsay jumped out of the car with the restless energy of one who has driven a long distance fast and with single-minded purpose. In spite of herself she could feel a warm rush of affection for him. Head bent a little, she began striding towards the car. Lindsay slammed the door and walked round the back of it to meet her. He was already fumbling for his cigarettes.
‘You could have spoken to me on the telephone,’ she said coolly.
‘That wasn’t the impression your brother gave me.’
She had reached the car now, hands in the pockets of her mac, only a few feet from him. He slipped the cigarettes back into his jacket without taking one.
‘Can I kiss you?’
‘No.’
‘Can we talk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here?’ And he glanced towards the house.
‘No. We can walk.’
She led him in silence round the stable block and through a brick arch into the walled garden where the roses had been replaced by vegetables and a flock of chickens.
‘It’s quite a house. Seventeenth century?’
She did not answer but walked on, conscious that he was watching her closely. At the far end, she opened a door in the wall and led him across the grass to the edge of a copse. It was already dark beneath the trees, the ground soft, and she could hear him stumbling and slipping and grabbing at branches for support. And she thought of his shiny black shoes and smiled with quiet satisfaction. It was not until they emerged on the other side of the wood that she stopped and turned, arms tightly folded: ‘Well?’
‘Well, I’m very sorry. Very, very sorry. No excuses. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘Can I forgive you?’
‘Yes. I love you. You know I love you very much. I didn’t want to hurt you,’ and he stepped forward to touch her.
‘No, Douglas,’ she said firmly and held up a hand. ‘No, don’t. I can’t forgive you.’
He took half a step back again and looked away, as if uncertain what he should say next. Did he really think ‘sorry’ would be enough? Did he think it would be that easy? And she could feel the anger she had been so determined to control rising inside her.
‘It was unforgivable and I can’t explain it,’ he said. ‘At least I can’t explain it better than you when you called it a dangerous obsession.’
He was gazing across the patchwork of stubble and recently turned fields that dipped gently westwards away from them. The sky was heavy with blue-grey cloud too thick for any sort of sunset.
‘I can’t understand when we both work for the Division why…’
‘Aah,’ Mary grabbed her hair with both hands and pulled at it in exasperation. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s you. It’s not the Navy, it’s not me. It’s you.’ And she swung away from him in exasperation. ‘What have you become?’
‘It’s over now. Believe me,’ he was almost pleading with her. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this but I was trying to do my duty, trying to make some sort of amends. You know that.’
‘It’s not about me. Yes, it was disloyal and unnecessary but I half expected you to let the cat out of the bag. It’s what you put that poor man through when he trusted you. Helmut Lange almost died. I don’t think you’d have cared if he had.’
And now she had said it the anger began to ebb and there was just the deep heart-breaking sadness of it all. And she knew she would have to be careful or she would cry and she did not want that to happen.
‘I didn’t want to hurt him but it was the only way I could think of to trap Mohr.’ He was looking at her now and his voice was hard and defensive as if surer of his ground. ‘The Director wanted me to do all I could to break Mohr. The national interest — it will save lives. You know what was at stake.’
‘It was in your interests and you’ve admitted as much.’
‘They were one and the same.’
‘Lange was your friend, you promised to protect him.’
‘He was never a friend but of course I’m sorry I had to drag him into it. Look, is this getting us anywhere? I’m sorry I messed things up for you, really I am.’
He didn’t sound that sorry now. He sounded irritated and she wondered if he was thinking, Why is this woman so unreasonable?
‘You can dress it up as your duty and in the national interest if you like but I don’t think I can love someone who is so ruthless with his friends, someone who lies and will betray anyone.’
‘You lied to Winn.’
‘Yes, for you, God forgive me,’ she said bitterly.
‘We’re fighting a war.’
‘But what’s the point of winning it if we don’t have something better to fight for? You behaved like a Nazi.’
He flinched and looked away. And she was pleased because now she wanted to hurt him. ‘You’ve been trying to prove something too. What? Your loyalty?’
‘That’s rubbish. I don’t have to do that. Lives will be saved. You know that.’
‘It’s all about you.’
He stepped forward to look at her intently and she was struck as always by the light blue of his eyes.
‘Gosh, how you love the moral high ground,’ he said sharply. ‘It must be very lonely up there.’
That was cruel. She knew she was close to tears and that he knew it too. And it was too much. The frustration and the resentment and the anger burst from her. She slapped him. She slapped him hard on the cheek. It happened so quickly that for a moment she was not quite sure she had done it. But he had flinched and was reaching up to touch his cheek with his fingertips. And it looked hot and very red and her hand felt hot. His blue eyes were moist with tears. She wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek but she turned away instead, her hands at her mouth. For a few seconds, he stood there, his breath shaking, then she heard him push through the branches into the wood. She listened to him stumbling awkwardly on until she could hear him no more and she knew she was alone. A thin mist was rising from the land and, in the dying light, the hedges and trees and the sharp little stubble stalks at her feet were shapes in an almost colourless landscape. It was closing in on her, changing by the minute, by the second, into a cold and unfamiliar place. And it was so desperately sad. She brushed a tear from her cheek, and another, and another, and then she stopped trying. And she leant forward with her head bent and her hands on her knees for support and she sobbed, sobbed so hard her body began to shake uncontrollably and it was impossible to breathe.
How long did she cry for? It was dark when she stopped and she could barely see her hand in front of her face. She was tired and cold and empty. She did not want to go back to the house but knew she would have to or her father would come looking for her. The short walk through the wood was difficult and slow in the dark and she scratched her face and then her hand on a thick bramble. Through the walled garden and into the stables where she slipped out of her boots and into a pair of old shoes. Cook had gone home and the kitchen was empty, the pans and supper dishes washed and tidied away. There would be something for Mary in the range. She did not feel hungry. She wanted to slip quietly upstairs to bed but she knew she would have to speak to someone first. Her father was standing in the large stone-flagged entrance hall with a copy of The Times.
‘Are you all right? You’ve been crying,’ and he folded his newspaper and took half a step towards her as if to put a protective arm around her shoulders.
‘No, honestly, I’m fine. Tired, that’s all. I’m going to have a bath.’
‘Not yet you’re not,’ he said with a dry smile. ‘You’ve got to deal with him first,’ and he waved the paper in the general direction of the door. ‘I’ve had the devil’s own job restraining your brother. Your man’s sitting in his car.’
How foolish of her to have missed the Humber. It was still parked in front of the stable block. She could see Lindsay behind the wheel and the pinprick of light from his cigarette. She was sorry she had slapped him and she would say so but nothing more. Short, businesslike, no mention of Lange or the Division. A brief goodbye. She turned the handle of the passenger door and slipped on to the red leather seat.
‘I’m very sorry I struck you. It was unforgivable,’ she said quickly.
There was his small, slightly supercilious smile, the one she had marked at their first meeting and so often since.
‘So many things seem to be unforgivable. Actually I deserved it. You can do it again if you like,’ and he turned his head to offer the other cheek.
And she could not help but smile: ‘Please. Christ-like isn’t you at all.’
‘No?’
He looked exhausted and the car’s ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
‘Here,’ and she leant across to brush a little mud from his jacket. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘I can’t go.’
They sat there in silence for a moment. He was trying to catch her eye but she looked away.
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here,’ and he picked a sheet of blue writing paper from the dash-board and offered it to her. It was a handwritten note in German from Helmut Lange. Just four short lines.
‘Read it to me,’ and she handed it back to him.
‘It says: “ Dear Lieutenant. The doctors say I am well enough to be transferred to a camp in Scotland. Will you visit me… ” ’
His voice choked with emotion and he paused for a few seconds to regain some composure.
‘And he says: “ You know it’s strange but after all that has happened to me I feel at peace with myself and happier. Please come and visit me before I go. Your friend, Helmut.” ’
He folded it slowly and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘And will you visit him?’
‘Yes.’
She gave a slight nod of the head, then looked away. There was nothing more to say. She should leave. And she leant towards the handle of the door.
‘You’ve cut your face.’
‘I must be quite a sight.’
‘Yes. You are,’ and he reached for her hand, opening her fingers, kissing her palm, small tender kisses. And then he pressed her hand against his cheek. Her bottom lip began to tremble. It was impossible. And without thought she pulled her hand away and opened the car door.
‘Mary, please.’
The driver’s door opened too.
‘Mary.’
He was standing on the other side of the car. ‘I’m so sorry, really I am.’
‘No, Douglas,’ and she began to walk away. ‘Please go home. It’s over. It’s over.’