Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

On the bridge, Third Officer Hall wiped his brow with a damp handkerchief, then reached for the glass of cold water the steward was offering him on a tray. There were grey hulls as far as the eye could see: the Imperial Star was ship number four in column number three, limping south at the speed of the slowest tramp in the convoy. Hall was an old blue-water sailor with twenty years’ experience and keeping station between ships was a kind of special purgatory which the tropical heat was making even more unbearable. He envied the escorts their freedom — a destroyer was cutting an impressive bow wave half a mile to port — at least they had the run of the convoy. It was the single topic of serious conversation in the officers’ dining saloon. Was the ship safer in this protected box of sea? For his part, Hall was firmly of the view that she should be given her head; her twin screws were capable of sixteen knots and speed, surely, was her best protection. The captain had not expressed a view but the crew — even the engine-room stokers — were able to sense his frustration. They had all seen ships sunk in convoy and the recollection of it was sharp and cold even now on the sunlit bridge.

‘They’re still playing Vera Lynn in the lounge. I’ve begged the steward to let me throw the record over the side.’ It was Murray, the Chief Officer, a Glaswegian, short, thick-set, a White Star officer for more than thirty years. He had conducted a general round of the ship, starting with the ancient naval gun on the foredeck. Everything was as it should be; the ladies dressing for dinner, white-coated stewards serving in the bar, the Army playing bridge, in one of the saloons, in another the RAF flirting with some of the nurses who were with the ship all the way to the Middle East. The watch was in place and at a little before dusk the men would be ordered to stand to the guns. But for now at least there was a hushed, somnolent quality to the Imperial Star , the hum of the engines, the gentle whooshing of a calm sea along her sides.

The duty wireless operator was hovering at Murray’s side with a small square of signal paper in his hand: ‘From the Commodore of the convoy, sir.’

The Chief Officer took the signal, glanced at it and handed it to Hall: ‘Deal with it, would you?’

The code and cipher books were held under lock and key in the purser’s cabin. It took Hall just fifteen minutes to decode the signal and when he returned to the bridge it was in triumph: ‘Is the captain in his cabin? Admiralty orders. We are to finish the journey alone at the best speed we can make.’

His fingers were drumming excitedly on the polished brass telegraph as if he were itching to push it forward from slow through half to full speed ahead.

‘We are to alter course at sunset. Should cut at least a week off the voyage.’

‘If we get there,’ said Murray coolly.

Later, something of the same thought could be read in the faces of the passengers crowding the rail as the sun dipped behind the convoy. At eight bells the Imperial Star turned out of the column and her decks began to tremble as she gathered speed to the south and the dark horizon, churning a white fan of water in her wake. Third Officer Hall could almost feel the ship stretching as if waking from sleep. The watch changed as always, the ladies still dressed for dinner, the sheets were turned down in the first-class cabins and drinks served in the bar. But there was a new urgency and a new purpose to every action. And the atmosphere in the passenger saloons crackled like an old wireless, the conversation hushed and anxious. For once the top of the old gramophone was closed, the scratched seventy-eight of Vera Lynn’s ‘Yours’ lying on its torn green sleeve beside it.

The Military Police hut was cold and damp and smelt of diesel. Its rough walls were little more than a shelter from the Lakeland weather. But it was well placed at the edge of the woodland in front of Stapley Hall, secure between the belts of wire, quiet and hidden from the watchful eyes of the Ältestenrat. Lindsay began with the officers of the U-112 , the Nazi roughnecks, Bruns and Koch, as sullen and aggressively silent as they had been at Trent Park. The first officer, Gretschel, decent but clever and disciplined, was not to be tempted into unguarded confidences. He was restless, uncomfortable, playing with his cigarettes, and there was a slight contraction of his pupils when he was asked about the bruises on Heine’s face, but he refused to do more than repeat the statement he had given the Military Police. And the young midshipman, Bischoff, was grim and fixed-jawed, afraid lest he forget his well-rehearsed lines:

‘I only spoke to Leutnant Heine a couple of times in the days before he died. He was very upset, he hated being a prisoner. Footsteps, lights, a banging door, almost anything seemed to set him off.’

Lindsay asked Bischoff about the bruises but he refused to say any more or look him in the eye. Bischoff could be broken in time and in a different place. His relief when the guard came to take him away was almost tangible. Lindsay stepped outside the hut with a cigarette to watch the soldiers shepherd him along the fence. He had given the sergeant instructions to observe Bischoff closely when he joined the other prisoners. It was Bruns who found him first, placing a reassuring arm about his shoulders — at least that was how the gesture appeared to the sergeant from the other side of the wire.

The other naval officers presented the same story. Heine’s death was a surprise. How could it have happened? The commander of the 500 , Fischer, said he should have done more to help the dead man come to terms with being a prisoner. Richter, his engineer, felt keenly responsible. He knew Heine’s mindset and how it was tormented by the loss of the 112 .

‘He was ill. A sort of combat sickness and haunted by the thought that he had failed.’

‘Failed?’ Lindsay had asked.

‘He thought he could have done more to save the boat.’

All the prisoners were lying. He had expected them to. After two tobacco-fuelled days gently probing, Lindsay was left with the overwhelming impression of evasion and fear. Lieutenant Duncan sat in on the first day’s interrogations. His German was not strong enough to follow the interviews closely but he was a canny judge and he could sense the prisoners’ fear too. At the end of the second day, he visited Lindsay again: ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You haven’t seen Mohr yet?’

‘No.’

Lindsay pulled the door of the hut to and stepped out from beneath the shade of the surrounding trees into the evening sunshine. He stood there soaking it in through every pore, a light breeze ruffling his hair.

‘I’ll see Lange and Schmidt and Mohr tomorrow. I want to talk to them in the washroom where he died.’

Duncan raised his eyebrows: ‘Why?’

‘Why use the washroom or why those three prisoners?’

‘Both.’

Lindsay shrugged. He had resisted the temptation to speak to Lange first in order to protect him but he was still the best hope for some sort of insight into the whole business. And Schmidt had admitted responsibility for the bruises to Lange’s face. His story about a fight was clearly a lie — that made him vulnerable. But Lange, Schmidt, the sad sordid death of Heine, they were the levers, the means by which to prise open the end that was Jürgen Mohr.

‘Instinct, just a feeling,’ Lindsay said. ‘And perhaps the set will help with the performance.’

‘It’s just down the corridor from the prisoners’ kitchen so it’ll be difficult to secure,’ Duncan sounded sceptical. ‘They will all have to use Washroom B. I don’t think Major Benson will be happy.’