Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘Is that you, Dr Henderson?’ There was a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘Yes, yes, I want to try…’

But Sutherland was concentrating too hard on his files to care what she wanted. And what did she want? It was a foolish notion — certainly not what Fleming meant by ‘careful’ — but it had taken hold of her in the corridor. She wanted to speak to Lindsay.

‘Well, go on, take the door,’ said Sutherland sharply.

Mary held it open for him then stepped inside.

Room 30 was a little larger than its neighbour across the corridor but just as smoky, with the same droplights and shabby office furniture. It had its own plot table too and on it a mad cat’s cradle of thread and cardboard arrows tracked the enemy’s small fleet of ships. A clerical assistant at the plot smiled warmly at Mary, another looked up from her desk for just a moment, but neither said anything to her. The room was unusually quiet. That was unfortunate. Personal telephone calls were strictly forbidden but at busy times no one noticed you, or wanted to be noticed.

In the far right-hand corner, an anonymous blue door led to the Teleprinter Room — the home of ‘the secret ladies’. One of them, dumpy in brown lambswool and tweed, was standing over a teleprinter coiling a coded message around a spool. She was too lost in her world of printer’s ribbon and tape to notice Mary enter and there appeared to be no one else in the room. At times, it was full of the harsh mind-numbing chatter of a dozen teleprinters sending and receiving signals. The ladies would hover about them like acolytes of a strange mechanical oracle, ready to rip, read, and distribute. To the right of the door, a long table was subdivided into six desks and on a shelf above there were a number of heavy black telephones. After just a moment’s hesitation, Mary walked to the far end of the table, picked one up and placed it on the desk in front of her. The Admiralty switchboard connected her without question.

‘Lindsay.’ He sounded very weary.

‘It’s me.’

‘Darling, I was hoping you’d ring.’

‘Were you?’

‘Is something the matter?’

‘You’re such a fool, Douglas. Why didn’t you listen to me?’

‘You know then? Thank you for your support,’ he said frostily.

‘Ian asked me what I know about your work and what I’d told you about mine.’

Lindsay said nothing.

‘Well?’ asked Mary.

‘Well what?’

‘Say sorry.’

‘For what? No please don’t answer that. Sorry. Satisfied?’

‘No.’

The tense silence was filled by the brutal rhythm of a teleprinter.

‘Where on earth are you?’

‘Never mind. What’s going to happen to you?’

Lindsay must have caught the note of anxiety in her voice because his tone softened too:

‘I don’t know. Your brother says I’ll be sent somewhere I can’t cause trouble.’

‘Ian says we have to be careful and…’

There was a flash of tweed between desk and shelf — one of the ladies was on the move.

‘I have to go, Douglas.’

A round and very stern face appeared above the telephone shelf: ‘Miss Henderson, what are you doing?’

Mary cupped a defensive hand over the mouthpiece: ‘Dr Henderson, if you please.’

It was time to insist on full academic dignity. She raised the phone: ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant, we can discuss this tomorrow. Please send me a note.’

And without waiting for a reply she put the receiver down.

The clerical assistant’s face was pink with confusion: ‘Dr Henderson, no one is supposed to make calls from…’ And after a deep breath: ‘I’ll have to report this to the Officer of the Watch.’

Pushing her chair back smartly, Mary stood to face her. The clerical assistant was clearly younger than she looked — no more than twenty, with a minor public school voice, too finely cut.

‘You must do as you see fit, Miss…?’

‘Barnes.’

‘…I was looking for a clerical assistant and the room was deserted.’

‘But I was here —’

Mary broke in: ‘Really, you must be more careful. I won’t mention it this time, Miss Barnes.’

And with a short prayer for forgiveness, she stepped briskly from the room, across the next and into the corridor.

Later, at her desk in the Tracking Room, Mary began to regret her sharp words to Lindsay. It was a terrible waste, maddening. He was fumbling for the truth, breaking the rules, and now his reputation was clouded by failure and distrust. And she had let him stumble into this mess. He was paying the price for her silence.

The silence was broken only once. Lindsay snatched up the telephone, hoping to hear Mary’s voice but it was his mother.

‘Are you all right, Douglas?’

She spoke to him in English for the first time. They had always spoken German in the family. His father was working too hard, his brother had joined the Royal Air Force — ‘Why don’t you ever ring? I’ve heard nothing from the rest of the family but the papers say they’ve bombed Bremen.’ And then there were tears. He was relieved when the call ended.

Rising from the couch, he drifted to the window of his little sitting room. It was half past eleven and St James’s Square was deserted but for a couple kissing in the shadows, entirely caught up in each other. Everything seemed to be falling apart. He shook his head, disgusted with himself for being so full of self-pity. The spooning couple separated and Lindsay watched them amble along the pavement. A black Morris was parked against the kerb opposite and as they passed it he was surprised to see the glowing orange pinprick of a cigarette behind the wheel. He stepped away from the window and drew the heavy blackout curtains. After a moment’s fumbling, he switched on the desk lamp and, reaching for a sheet of paper, wrote a brief note to Mary. If he delivered it now she would be able to read it in the morning, if not before.

The front door swung heavily to behind him and he stood on the pavement outside, catching his breath in the warm, still air. The city was humming restlessly even in the blackout and he could hear drunken voices outside the gentleman’s club on the opposite side of the square. Close by, a car engine grunted. It was the Morris and peering closely at it, he could distinguish the silhouettes of two men. It pulled away quickly from the kerb as he approached. The driver seemed to glance furtively across at him before swinging the car into Charles II Street. Were they spivs conducting a little night-time business? If you knew the right person you could still buy anything in London.

The house in Lord North Street was close-shuttered. Slipping the envelope through the letterbox, Lindsay turned to wander slowly back, glancing over his shoulder in the hope that Mary would find it at once and call after him. He considered returning to ring the bell but it was after midnight and her uncle was probably at home. He spent a long hour brooding, walking he knew not where before turning almost reluctantly for home. On the doorstep, his keys slipped through his fingers. As he bent to pick them up, he glanced through the iron railings to his left. The black Morris was now parked between two other cars in the north-east corner of the square. The driver and his passenger were lost in shadow but Lindsay knew they were there and that they were watching him. The door clunked firmly shut and he turned to lean against the wall in the dark hall, his chest tight with anxiety. They were not black-market wide boys, they were Special Branch policemen, he was sure of it, perhaps the Security Service. He had been identified as a risk. Perhaps they had searched his apartment. He raced up the stairs, his head pounding, giddy with breathlessness. He would ring Fleming, and he picked up the phone, only to slam it back a few seconds later. Collapsing into a chair, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing deeply. Two, three, four minutes passed and his pulse began to slow. He must keep calm. They were probably ordinary policemen carrying out some sort of surveillance operation that was nothing to do with him. Lighting a cigarette, he sat in the darkness and smoked it slowly down to a small stub. This had happened before. Something in him snapped and he lost control. Foolish. Without bothering to look out of the window again, he walked through to the bedroom and flopped on to his lumpy old mattress.