Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘The Admiralty’s very interested in this one, shopping lists from the Tracking Room and the Anti-Submarine Warfare people,’ said Checkland. ‘Commander Henderson is going to take us through what we know already.’

Henderson gazed about the room for a moment as if waiting for an orchestra to strike up behind him. ‘It will be obvious to all of you by now that the crew has been very well schooled,’ he said at last. ‘Kapitän Mohr was held in a room for a time with one of the stool pigeons, the Jewish refugee Mantel, but he rumbled that he was one of our stooges straight away. Frankly we’ve got bugger all so far. Graham, you’ve been working on the officers.’

Lieutenant Dick Graham coughed nervously, ‘Yes, sir. The First Watch Officer — Gretschel — twenty-two, a Berliner, friendly.’ He was clearly at a loss to think of anything more to say: ‘Not married. Stubborn.’

‘I think that proves my point,’ said Henderson shortly. ‘The little we know of them is on page four of the preliminary report, if you’d like to look.’

Lindsay turned to the page and glanced down it: Mohr, Gretschel and four more. The navigator, Obersteuermann Bruns, born in Zanzibar, aggressive, a fervent Nazi, silent on every subject but the inevitability of a German victory. The second officer, Koch, a prickly character too — a Handelsschiffsoffizier — an old merchant seaman. Then there were the younger officers — the engineer, Leutnant August Heine, and a midshipman called Bischoff who was on his maiden voyage and clearly knew nothing.

‘The seamen are a little more talkative — the bosun’s mate in particular. He’s Brown’s prisoner’—Henderson waved his report at a slight, owlish-looking man in his late twenties who was almost lost in a leather armchair. ‘The 112 was operating with three more U-boats. They refuelled at Las Palmas in the Canaries and were to refuel again from a German tanker. Fourteen torpedoes in the body of the boat, six in sealed tubes on the upper deck. Details on page seven of the report. Samuels, you’ve been questioning the wireless operators.’

Reluctantly, Lieutenant Charlie Samuels got to his feet and began to stumble through his notes. Lindsay’s thoughts began to drift about the foggy yellow room, settling for a moment on a clumsy mural of mermaids above the chimneypiece. But Samuels dragged them back: ‘…there is one thing that puzzles me. The wireless operators seem to speak a little English, although it’s impossible to be sure how much because they are refusing to speak it to me.’

‘Thank you, Samuels,’ said Checkland without conviction. Lindsay raised a hand to catch his eye.

‘You want to say something?’

‘Yes, sir. Does Lieutenant Samuels have any thoughts about why the wireless operators speak a little English?’

‘Well, is there a “why”, Samuels?’ asked Checkland.

‘Not sure yet, sir. It may be nothing. A coincidence.’

‘It would be useful to know how much they speak, sir.’

‘Of course,’ said Checkland shortly, ‘and Samuels will do his best.’

The Colonel began to work his way through the Division’s shopping list, matching interrogators with prisoners. The 112 ’s engineers and torpedo men to Hadfield the section’s technical expert, Charlie Samuels, to press on with the wireless operators Lieutenants Brown and Graham to finish the face-to-face interrogations with the rest of the crew. There was nothing for Lindsay.

‘Right, thank you,’ said Checkland. ‘Let’s hope we sink the Bismarck .’

Lindsay got to his feet and was about to say something when the Colonel raised a hand: ‘Just a minute.’

Then he turned to speak to Henderson. Lindsay stood close by, head bent over the interrogation report. What did Checkland want with him? Things had been particularly frosty between them since his visit to Winn at the Citadel.

When the room was empty at last, the Colonel turned to him with a wry smile: ‘All right Lindsay. Mohr.’

‘Sir?’

‘Jürgen Mohr. I want you to conduct the face-to-face interrogations.’

Lindsay groaned inwardly. He was being handed the poisoned chalice. ‘Just Mohr, sir?’

‘That’s right. The Tracking Room wants something on the shift to the African coast. Any questions?’

Lindsay wanted to ask: ‘Why me?’ But he knew the answer. Checkland was going to take him down a peg or two. There was plenty Mohr could say, especially if he had spent time on the staff at U-boat Headquarters, but he was too careful and clever to say it. Better to work on the junior officers and other ranks. It was just a pity he would have to spend fruitless hours proving it.

‘No. No questions, sir.’

Beyond the security fence, a warm evening breeze rippled the daffodil stalks on the lawn at the front of the house. Lindsay stopped to light a cigarette. The camp bus was parked on the forecourt close by and a group of confused-looking Luftwaffe prisoners was being shepherded down its steps into the house. He acknowledged the half-hearted salute from the guard at the gate and walked on round the east wing to the garden terrace. For once the stately sweep of lawn between house and lake was deserted. On the hillside above, the last of the sun was creeping up the obelisk Sassoon had erected to mark a visit by members of the royal family. As he watched its steady progress, someone stepped up to the balustrade beside him.

‘The Colonel wants you to start on Mohr tomorrow.’

Henderson had followed him out on to the terrace. Lindsay turned to face him.

‘Fine, tomorrow will be fine,’ he said a little sharply.

Henderson raised his eyebrows and leant forward, an expression of concern on his face: ‘Is something wrong, old boy?’ The gentleman farmer had become the country parson but only for a moment: ‘Is it Mohr? Don’t you think you can handle him? We could ask your friend from MI5, Cunningham, Major Cunningham.’

Why did Henderson dislike him so much? Lindsay wondered, was it to do with his family? They were cast from different moulds but the suspicion he had sensed at their very first meeting had sharpened in recent weeks to something close to hostility. Perhaps it was because of Mary.

‘Be my guest,’ he said coolly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask the Security Service to interrogate Mohr.’

Henderson sighed impatiently, ‘Well, I would, Lindsay, but you see it’s the Tracking Room. Winn wants you to do it.’

‘Winn?’

‘Yes, Winn.’

‘The Colonel didn’t say.’

‘Of course he didn’t. You weren’t his choice but who can say no to the Tracking Room? Winn is hoping you can break him.’ Henderson paused and smiled: ‘But I can see that’s cheered you up.’

Yes, it made a difference, Lindsay would not deny it. He must have made some sort of impression on Winn. Perhaps the Citadel was beginning to take Section 11 a little more seriously.

‘Let me tell you something else,’ said Henderson, ‘although if you’d read the interrogation reports carefully I wouldn’t have to.’

There was an unpleasantly smug note in his voice. ‘It’s in the notes. Mohr attacked a homebound convoy last September — HX.70.’

HX.70. Lindsay turned stiffly away to gaze across the lawn to the hillside. The entire obelisk was in shadow now. He felt cold, frozen, as if he had plunged into the Atlantic once more.

‘Bit of bad luck,’ said Henderson with a sly smile, ‘That was the convoy the Culloden was escorting, wasn’t it?’

Seven, eight, nine minutes passed and the sky deepened to a still blue. Lindsay did not acknowledge Henderson’s complacent ‘goodbye’. At sea, he had hated this hour, the convoy’s ships black against the last of the light like targets at a fairground shy. Perhaps Mohr had enjoyed just that view of HX.70 through the UZO firing binoculars on the bridge of his boat. He noticed that the fingers holding his cigarette were shaking a little and he threw it down in disgust, grinding it into the brick with his foot.