Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘This is not for us,’ said Samuels with a profound shake of the head. ‘If you think our codes have been broken you’d better take it up with Checkland.’

‘He’s an idiot.’

‘I’m sure he speaks well of you too,’ said Samuels quietly. ‘Actually I agree with you but an interrogation room at Trent Park isn’t the place to say so.’

Samuels picked up his bible and walked towards the door: ‘Are you driving into Town?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can give me a lift. We’ll talk in the car.’

He led Lindsay into the corridor and through the house to the main staircase. At the bottom, they turned into the entrance hall and walked towards the security desk. Behind it, the duty sergeant was on the telephone. Lindsay nodded and was halfway through the door when the sergeant put the receiver down with a bang.

‘A message, sir.’ He was addressing Samuels. ‘Colonel Checkland’s office on the telephone. The colonel would like to see you at once.’

Samuels groaned loudly and dropped his chin on to his chest: ‘Perfect timing.’

Lindsay looked at him intently for a moment, then reached forward to touch his arm: ‘A word.’

He led Samuels through the porch and across the forecourt to the perimeter fence. ‘Look, don’t mention codes to the Colonel.’

‘What?’ asked Samuels. He looked as if he could not quite believe what he had heard.

‘Please. We need more time. You said yourself that there were too many unanswered questions.’

Samuels took out his handkerchief and held it to his mouth and nose. It was his little anxious ritual. Lindsay had observed him do the same in interrogations. A few seconds later he slipped the handkerchief back in his pocket with a weary sigh: ‘I won’t lie to him, Douglas.’

Lindsay clapped him on the arm: ‘Just be economical with the truth, Charlie. We’re on to something.’

It was after midnight when Mary finally turned into Lord North Street. Lindsay had been waiting on the steps beneath the shell of St John’s Church for more than an hour. Time counted in cigarettes. An air raid warden had approached him and demanded to know what he was doing. He had asked himself the same question more than once. In the end his uniform was explanation enough for the warden.

Mary was almost at her uncle’s door. ‘Hey,’ he whispered as loudly as he dared. She did not hear him. He walked down the church steps towards her: ‘Mary, it’s me.’ His voice shook a little. She had unlocked the door and was on the point of stepping inside.

‘Mary,’ he said again.

‘Douglas? What on earth’s the matter?’

He skipped the last few yards until he was standing beside her. ‘Nothing, nothing, don’t worry.’ Her hand was cold.

‘Then why are you here?’ She sounded very tired.

‘Oh an impulse. Can we go in?’

She hesitated for a moment: ‘My uncle may be here. Look, I’m very tired, Douglas.’

‘I see,’ he said shortly.

‘No you don’t,’ she said and pulled him towards the door.

‘No, really, I don’t want to force myself upon you,’ he said.

‘Don’t you? Then why are you here?’

In the hall, he helped her out of her jacket. She turned towards him, stroked his face with the back of her hand and then raised her chin a little, inviting him to kiss her, a quiet, tender kiss.

‘I so wanted to see you,’ he said. ‘Last time with Lange, well…’

‘I haven’t quite forgiven you for that.’ She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen and Lindsay followed.

‘I don’t know where Uncle is.’ She switched on the light and began reaching into cupboards for tea and cups.

Lindsay stood blinking by the door. He felt a little guilty: ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t sure you’d come home but I knew I’d feel better if I tried to see you.’

Mary turned towards him, cup in hand, and gave him a tired, sweet smile. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.

They sat at the kitchen table sipping tea and Lindsay asked her about Winn and the Tracking Room. She seemed distracted and answered only half heartedly. ‘Let’s not talk about work, I want to forget it,’ she said.

‘You’re right. Sorry.’

‘And stop saying sorry.’ She got up and carried her cup to the sink. ‘I want to go to bed.’

Her back was turned and there was nothing in her weary voice to indicate whether this was a dismissal or an invitation. Lindsay watched the graceful sweep of the hand she lifted to the nape of her neck — her coal black hair was tied in an unruly bun — hoping, willing her to turn to him with a smile. But instead she said sharply: ‘Well?’

‘Perhaps I should…’

‘What?’ And then she turned to look at him, an impish smile on her face.

He pushed back his chair, walked over to the sink and grabbed both her wrists.

‘You witch,’ he said, and kissed her, pushing her body hard against the sink.

She lifted her arms to his neck and she was laughing so much they had to stop. Lindsay began to laugh too.

‘You tease.’

‘I’m not. I want to go to bed.’ She was looking at him intently with her twinkling green eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘And I want you to take me there.’

Lindsay leant forward and whispered: ‘Like this?’ His hands dropped to her hips and he began to lift her woollen skirt and slip. Her lips opened a little and he could hear her short shaky breaths, feel her arms tighten about his neck. And his hands slipped over the top of her stockings on to the soft warm skin of her thighs, and bending a little he lifted her from the ground.

‘Still tired?’ he whispered softly in her ear.

In reply she kissed his neck and whispered: ‘Come on, carry me.’

Later he watched her sleeping beside him, curled into a ball, her hair loose about her shoulders and the pillow. And he wondered at their lovemaking, a little miracle of forgetfulness in which for such a short time there was only comfort, excitement, joy. But it was over and even there in the stillness of Mary’s room, with her warm body pressed against his, restless thoughts forced their way to the front of his mind. Tomorrow he would interrogate Mohr again. He would be taking a risk, like a sapper pushing into dangerous ground.

He rolled from Mary on to his back and she whimpered a little, unconsciously pushing herself towards his warmth. Turning back to her, he swept a loose curl from her face then bent to kiss her cheek. Without opening her eyes she reached up to touch him and he caught her hand and kissed it.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ she asked dreamily.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Why are you always sorry?’

‘Mother’s Calvinism.’

She smiled, her eyes still closed: ‘But you’re of the elect?’

‘No. A helpless reprobate.’

‘I can help you.’

‘You already have.’

She opened her eyes a little. ‘Kiss me,’ and he did, tenderly.

‘Why can’t you sleep? Are you thinking of the ship again?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘It’s tomorrow. Tomorrow I will interrogate the commander of the U-112 .’

Mary groaned.

‘I know. I know. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s important.’

And he told her about the wireless operators, that it was no coincidence they spoke English, that they had both joined the 112 for its war patrol south, and that Mohr had been ‘one of the six’ senior Staff officers at U-boat Headquarters.

‘I can’t be absolutely sure but I think it’s something to do with our codes…’

‘Again,’ said Mary sleepily. ‘Haven’t they ordered you not to get involved?’

He ignored the question: ‘It’s not proof they’re reading our signals but it’s evidence. Mohr was on the Staff. A word from him and I’d have the proof…’