Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

‘Sir Robert asked me to see you at short notice,’ McCaigue said. ‘He thought I would be best able to deal with what you had to say.’

With relief that someone in authority was willing to listen to him, Conrad explained everything that Anneliese had told him.

Major McCaigue listened carefully.

Whitehall, London

An hour later Conrad and Anneliese emerged on to Whitehall.

‘What now?’ said Anneliese.

‘I suppose we leave it to McCaigue.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘I think so. But I’m not sure I trust those around him. The government. The “authorities”.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Van won’t see me. The “powers that be” seem to think I’m a Russian spy. The War Office is trying to get me confined to barracks.’

‘Major McCaigue seemed confident he could stop Alston,’ said Anneliese. ‘Captain Foley did a good job in Berlin.’

‘That’s true,’ said Conrad. For a mild-mannered bureaucrat, Captain Foley had indeed been effective, springing Anneliese from a concentration camp and spiriting her and her family over to England, as well as hundreds, possibly thousands like her. ‘But somehow I think McCaigue is up against more serious opposition.’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘The hotel in Bloomsbury. I won’t stay at Kensington Square. I think you are right about Father; I don’t trust myself with him. And I have to ring up Veronica.’

‘Veronica?’ Anneliese sounded disapproving.

‘She wrote to me that Polly Copthorne had rustled up a man called Parsons with important information about her husband’s death, and I should get in touch when I was next in London.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘To see Veronica?’

‘No,’ said Anneliese, slipping her hand in his. ‘Just to your hotel.’

‘Yes,’ said Conrad, grinning. ‘I rather hoped you would.’

Mayfair, London

It was still light as Conrad walked up the small street in Mayfair where Veronica lived. Anneliese was unhappy that he was seeing her that evening, but Veronica had insisted on meeting the mysterious Mr Parsons with him. Anneliese had decided to head off to the Russian Tea Rooms to see if she could squeeze something more out of Constance. But she had at least agreed to see him at the Bloomsbury hotel later. Conrad suspected that she just wanted to be sure where he spent the night.

Which was ridiculous. After the afternoon he and Anneliese had spent together, Veronica wasn’t a danger. Conrad was glad to be doing something rather than leaving everything to McCaigue. He wasn’t sure what to make of what Anneliese had told him. Should he really ignore his father? Was there nothing he could do or should do? McCaigue had urged him to go back to his unit, but Conrad would find that very difficult.

Perhaps he would learn something from this man Parsons.

He was taken aback for a moment to see his own name, ‘De Lancey’, on one of the four bells by the front door of the building. He pushed it, and a few moments later Mrs de Lancey appeared, wearing a stunning green dress.

‘You do look dashing in your uniform, Conrad,’ she said.

Conrad was about to compliment his ex-wife on how she looked, but decided not to. ‘Where are we meeting this fellow?’

‘We’re not seeing him until eleven. He said he wanted to wait until it was dark.’

‘So what am I doing here now, Veronica?’

‘I thought we needed a drink beforehand. We can’t go to a rendezvous unfortified, can we, darling?’

‘Do we really?’

‘Don’t look so disapproving, darling. I was clever finding this chap, wasn’t I? You might show some appreciation.’

‘Yes, you were,’ Conrad said. ‘Of course I can buy you a drink. Where do you suggest?’

They went to the Café de Paris near Leicester Square, which was crowded. Veronica said it was always crowded. They ordered cocktails; Conrad was disconcerted by Veronica’s choice of a gin and It, which had now become Anneliese’s drink in his mind. That was his fault for introducing his wife’s favourite drink to his girlfriend.

Veronica seemed to sense Conrad’s tension, and was friendly and well behaved. Conrad even found himself relaxing a little. He was careful not to discuss what Anneliese had told him about Alston and his father. Reluctantly, he danced with Veronica. Twice. He enjoyed it.

Then it was time to go. It was completely dark when they emerged on to Piccadilly.

‘Where are we meeting him?’ Conrad asked.

‘Not far. A street near Shepherd Market.’

‘That’s an interesting choice,’ said Conrad.

‘Apparently Mr Parsons thinks that no one will notice people meeting each other around there.’

‘That’s certainly true,’ said Conrad. Shepherd Market had been a haven for whores for centuries. And in wartime, it was bustling. Or perhaps rustling was a better word. Women stood around alone or in pairs, whispering to the servicemen who prowled the streets.

The corner Veronica was looking for was a few yards from Shepherd Market itself, and a little quieter. They stopped. It was exactly eleven o’clock. Veronica lit a cigarette.

‘This is all rather interesting, isn’t it?’ Veronica said, watching a French girl discussing her skills with a fat middle-aged man.

‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad.

‘Aren’t you tempted? Some of these girls look rather pretty.’

‘They look cold and they look desperate,’ said Conrad.

‘If you want to slip away afterwards, I won’t object,’ said Veronica, a hint of amusement in her voice. ‘I might even come along and watch.’

‘I know what you are doing,’ said Conrad.

‘And what’s that, darling? I would have thought bringing your wife along would make the whole thing more, I don’t know, respectable?’

‘Ex-wife,’ muttered Conrad, trying to maintain his grumpiness. But it was oddly pleasurable being teased by Veronica.

Three men sauntered past, talking loudly. They had American accents, but were probably Canadians.

‘Do you know what this Parsons looks like?’

‘I told you I haven’t a clue about him, apart from that you simply must meet him. You are sweet on this German girl, aren’t you? Anneliese.’

‘Yes,’ said Conrad. ‘Yes, I am.’

A man appeared at the top of the narrow street. A big man.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Veronica, quietly.

Conrad glanced at her keenly. She looked away from him as if embarrassed.

The man was now having difficulty keeping on the pavement. Drunk. Very drunk. And easy game for the local traders.

Not Parsons.

Veronica’s eyes widened. ‘Conrad!’ she yelled as she pushed him sharply off the pavement.

Conrad saw a blade moving rapidly towards his side. He went with Veronica’s shove and twisted. The blade ripped his tunic.

Conrad took two steps back. In the gloom he could make out the drunk, holding a thin, pointed knife, legs apart, balanced perfectly. Not drunk. He was big and he was dangerous.

Veronica screamed. The man ignored her, and Conrad backed towards the wall, hands open, eyes on the blade.

The man feinted to the right and then plunged again towards Conrad’s left side. Conrad was quick and skipped to his right, turned and somehow grabbed the man’s wrist.

The man tripped Conrad, but Conrad didn’t let go and they both fell on the street, the man on top. Conrad stared into his eyes, black in the darkness. His nose was broken, a boxer no doubt, or at least someone who had been in a few fights in his time. The man was pushing the knife downwards towards Conrad’s neck. Conrad was strong, but the man was stronger. Conrad stared at the blade as the man pressed it down to his chin; below his chin.