Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

Lindsay smiled quietly to himself as he reached into his jacket for his cigarettes: ‘Here, take one, Helmut.’

It was dusk when they made their way back across the deserted lawn and the shutters were already closed in the house. The first bats were flitting in and out of the trees, caught black against the deep blue twilight. They walked in silence side by side. What more was there to say? Lange had spoken of that night in the kitchen at the camp, every small detail, the blood on the engineer’s nightshirt, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the scuffing of boots on the kitchen flags and the twisting, biting rope red raw about his neck. He had moved restlessly beneath the willow, tearing at its branches, the pain and disgust and remorse written in his face. The effort had left him drained but, it seemed to Lindsay, perhaps a little more at peace with himself.

At the bottom of the terrace steps, he stopped and turned his back on the house to gaze across the lawn to the lake and the hillside beyond, a crown of beech at its crest.

‘And you will protect me?’

‘I said so.’

Lange did not answer for a moment but kept his eyes fixed on the decaying sky, Venus bright yellow in the west. Then very quietly: ‘I am glad I told you.’

‘Why did you want to? Was it your mother?’

‘If I told you, you would laugh. Your girlfriend, she would understand.’

‘Try. Please.’

The expression on Lange’s face was lost in the gloom but there was a moist light in his eyes.

‘My mother. I couldn’t pray for her.’

Anight of cold thoughts and dreams, of Heine with his tormentors, of Mohr and the ship — always the ship — and at first light Lindsay left his camp bed to find some peace alone in the park. Walking quickly, almost running, the freedom of movement, the sun already warm on his face and a low mist rising from the dew-covered grass. A soft summer haze — it was going to be a fine day — on into the beechwood, fast short rasping breaths. At the top of the hill he sat on a log to smoke a cigarette and watch the guard changing at the wire below. Was it murder? Heine may have been driven to commit suicide. Did it matter? No. He died because he had helped Lindsay loosen the first threads. All that mattered to Naval Intelligence, to him, was the unravelling of the rest, those secrets locked so securely in Mohr’s head. There was a way — it had begun to take shape in his mind beneath the willow tree as Lange was telling his story — a desperate way. It was with him through the night, although he tried to bury it, and it was hovering in the back of his mind there above the park. And as it pushed itself forward he got to his feet again and, grinding his cigarette butt into the grass, he began running, running as quickly as he could down the hill to the house.

He washed in cold water and changed, then ate breakfast in the mess canteen and it was there Lieutenant-Commander James Henderson found him. His brisk manner suggested he had forgotten nothing since their last meeting in June and was anxious to spend as little time in Lindsay’s company as possible.

‘Fleming’s telephoned. Says he will be here at ten. He wants to see you in Colonel Checkland’s office.’

But the Director’s Assistant was late. Checkland was sitting alone in his office.

‘Come in,’ and he pointed to a chair in front of his desk.

‘You’re back for the Director?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The head of Section 11 stared at him for a few seconds, his face empty, then pushing his chair from the desk, he got up and walked a little stiffly to the window.

‘Our codes,’ he said thoughtfully. Then he turned to look at Lindsay and his face was almost lost against the window: ‘You don’t think much of me Lindsay, so you’ll be surprised to hear that I think quite highly of you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I know what you’ve been through, you know. I saw people like you in the last war. I spent some time at the Front, did you know that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘It takes people in different ways. Some fall apart but others just draw into themselves — stand back from everyone.’

He paused for a moment, then turned back to the window, his face very white. When he spoke again his voice was tight with suppressed emotion: ‘Sometimes you lose your compass. Guilt, anger, you distrust others, hate yourself. Believe me.’

‘Yes…’ It was difficult to know what to say. Lindsay knew he was speaking from the heart and he suddenly felt very sorry for the man. Sorry too for the things he had said about him.

‘…And you need to seek help, guidance, it’s not something that…’

But before he could finish Fleming was shown into the room. ‘Help is at hand,’ he said breezily. Checkland pursed his lips a little sourly and walked, head bent, back to his desk where he picked up the report he had been reading.

‘Do you need me, Ian?’ he asked with a nonchalance that sounded forced.

‘No, sir.’

‘Very good. Then I’ll leave you.’

Fleming remained on his feet tapping a cigarette on the back of the packet until the door swung to, then flopped into the chair beside Lindsay.

‘And do you need help?’

‘Probably.’

‘There are the interrogators here. Do you want that chap Samuels back?’

‘Yes, that would be useful.’

Lighting his cigarette, Fleming inhaled deeply, his eyes narrowing a little as if preparing to throw a punch at Lindsay: ‘The Director wants to know what progress you’ve made.’

‘I know what happened to Heine before he died, and why. I can’t be sure he didn’t take his own life.’

‘…But Mohr…’

‘I was going to speak to him today.’

‘There is a new urgency to this business. We can’t wait six months, we can’t wait six weeks. A lot of lives are at stake here. We need to know what he knows.’ Fleming got to his feet and walked across the room to peer at a photograph of a battleship that had been cruelly nailed to the oak panelling.

‘Can you do it?’

‘…I think I can…’

Fleming turned to look at him, drawn by the hesitancy in his voice, searching his face for meaning. Checkland’s secretary was clacking her typewriter in the outer office and a small carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds. Their eyes met for a moment. Fleming understood.

‘Whatever you need to do.’

‘Gilbert here.’

The line crackled and hissed as if the Colonel’s office at MI5 was burning around him.

‘Fleming from NID. Admiral Godfrey asked me to ring you, Colonel, about our man. He thinks it’s time we called your chaps off.’

‘Really? Would you mind explaining why?’ Gilbert’s voice was clipped and cool and sceptical.

‘Of course we’re grateful for their good work. They certainly seem to have made their presence felt…’ Fleming smiled at the recollection of the punches traded in a London square. ‘But they haven’t come up with anything to suggest Lindsay’s a spy or a security risk, have they? Nor has Duncan at the camp. Quite the contrary — he seems impressed.’

For a matter of seconds there was only the angry crackle of the line. Fleming slipped behind Checkland’s desk and into his chair: ‘So I’ll let the Admiral know you’re happy to let this thing drop now, shall I?…’

‘I think you should let me question him again. Duncan says he was very upset about the death of his cousin — the U-boat commander…’

‘Yes. I read that,’ said Fleming drily. ‘I think I’d be a little cut up about my cousin too. Wouldn’t you?’

A few more hostile seconds crackled by until Fleming spoke again:

‘I don’t think you like Lindsay, Colonel… that’s a pity because I was hoping Five would help him… help us out.’