Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

Then the man let out a cry, and his face contorted in pain. The downward pressure reduced a little, so Conrad could resist it. The man was trying to concentrate on the knife and Conrad’s throat but was finding it very difficult ignoring whatever was causing him such agony.

Conrad jerked suddenly to one side so that the knife struck the pavement, then he butted the man hard in the nose.

The man cried out and dropped the knife.

Conrad’s fingers knocked it away.

He saw Veronica grab it.

Both men got to their feet. Veronica held the knife in front of her.

‘Throw it to me!’ shouted Conrad as the man charged Veronica.

She did as he had asked her and he caught the spinning knife by the handle. The man had pushed Veronica into the wall, and pulled back a fist to strike her, when Conrad plunged the blade into his back. He slumped to the ground.

With difficulty Conrad withdrew the blade and stabbed him again.

The man lay face down on the pavement. Still breathing, from what Conrad could see. Dark liquid oozed out from under his body on to the cobbles.

Conrad stood up straight, panting. ‘Did you grab his balls?’ he asked Veronica.

‘Did you kill him?’

‘Not quite, unfortunately,’ said Conrad. Two men who had heard the scuffle were making their way cautiously towards them down the alley. ‘Time to go. Let’s split up: you run that way!’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the police?’ said Veronica. ‘If you have killed him, it was self-defence.’

‘No!’ said Conrad, grabbing Veronica by the arm and propelling her up the street. ‘We run. Now!’

Veronica hesitated and set off.

Once Conrad was sure she was moving, he slipped down an alleyway, brushing off a relatively sober corporal who tried to grab him. He emerged from the other end of the alleyway as he heard the first police whistle and slowed to a stagger, just another one of the many men looking for a little fun in the middle of a war.

Conrad took a long route back to Veronica’s flat. He rang the bell, and her flatmate answered, a very thin blonde woman who introduced herself as Betty. She looked shocked.

Conrad walked up the four flights of stairs to find Veronica on the sofa of their tiny sitting room, still wearing her green dress.

‘We don’t have a drop to drink in the house,’ she said.

‘I could use a stiff one myself,’ said Conrad. ‘But you should stay here. Betty can look after you.’

‘Hold me, Conrad.’

Conrad hesitated, but then sat down next to Veronica and held her. Her smell was familiar, yet she was shaking in a most unfamiliar way.

‘What if you killed that man?’ she said when they broke apart.

‘I’ve killed a few men,’ said Conrad. ‘He was trying to kill me.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad. ‘But I can guess. Are you sure that wasn’t Parsons?’

‘I don’t know if it was bloody Parsons!’ said Veronica. Then: ‘Sorry. Sorry, Conrad. I’ll ask Polly about him tomorrow.’

‘Find out who he is, how well she knows him.’

‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.’

‘Now I have to go.’

‘Please stay, Conrad.’

‘No. I have to go.’

Conrad smiled encouragingly at a still-stunned Betty, and left.

Anneliese was waiting for him back at the Bloomsbury hotel. Conrad wondered briefly how she had managed to get up to his room. Hotel-keepers really were lowering their standards in time of war, although she was still wearing her nurse’s uniform, which might have helped.

‘Where were you?’ she said as soon as he entered his room. And then, when she saw his expression. ‘What happened?’

Conrad told her about the attack. Anneliese had her own news from the Russian Tea Rooms. Tyler Kent and Anna Wolkoff had been arrested the previous morning. Constance hadn’t been there; in fact none of the regulars were there. Anneliese herself had left quickly and returned to the hotel.

‘I’m glad you waited for me,’ said Conrad.

‘I’m scared,’ said Anneliese.

‘Come here.’ Conrad pulled her close to him and held her tight. He kissed her forehead and then her lips.

Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary

22 May

Ordered to head north. Advanced on Boulogne. Heavy fighting.

Hampstead Garden Suburb, London, 22 May

Anneliese got up at five-thirty to get an early bus back to her home in Hampstead Garden Suburb. She was frightened for Conrad, and a little concerned for herself. She was worried about the war, about Alston’s plan, and about what would happen to her own family if he succeeded. It was hard to imagine British anti-Semitism at the level of what was occurring in Germany. Yet in the 1920s Germany had been the most accommodating country in Europe for Jews. Things had changed there; they could change here.

But despite her worries, her fears, she felt alive . She could face this. Especially if she had Conrad she could face this.

It was a lovely morning. The birds were singing and a paper boy gave her a cheery greeting. She walked down the road to her little white cottage, thinking how similar this seemed to the tidy suburbs of Berlin. She passed an empty police car and two bicycles leaning against a hedge. The police in this country were just not as threatening as those in Germany, let alone the Gestapo. Despite what she had said to Conrad she couldn’t imagine a British Gestapo.

She noticed a group of four policemen ahead of her walking down the pavement looking at the houses. Perhaps one of the neighbours had had a burglary.

They stopped outside her house. Went through the gap in the hedge where the iron gate used to be. Rapped on the door.

It was only then that Anneliese realized what was happening. She halted. One of the policemen glanced up the street and saw her.

She turned and ran. There was a shout as they followed.

But this wasn’t Soho in the dark. This was an empty suburb in broad daylight. She darted to the left into a small wood, hoping to find somewhere to hide. But one of the policemen was young and very fast.

She reached the wood, but the trees were thinned and there were no bushes. She heard footsteps and panting closing in on her, and then hands on her shoulders knocking her to the ground.

She looked up to see a tall bobby several years younger than her getting to his feet. ‘Madam, you are under arrest,’ he said politely.

Bloomsbury, London

Conrad couldn’t get back to sleep after Anneliese had left. The fact that it hadn’t bothered him that he had stabbed his attacker twice the night before bothered him. The first thrust was understandable, unavoidable. The man was about to hit Veronica. But the second? With the second he had been trying to kill. Like it or not, he was a killer now. So much for all that pacifism. In 1940, if you turned the other cheek, your enemy would blast your head off from close range.

That’s just the way it was.

Had the attacker survived? It was possible; Conrad had no way of knowing. But he thought it highly unlikely that the man would finger Conrad as the person who had stabbed him. Unless he was some kind of officially sanctioned killer.

Which also seemed unlikely. Far more probable was that the man had been working for Alston. Alston had killed Freddie Copthorne and Millie. Why not Conrad? But had he had help? Help from ‘the authorities’, ‘the powers that be’, ‘the high-ups’?

Who were these people? Right-wing aristocrats like Freddie Copthorne? Confused pacifists like his father? The army? The police? The secret service?

Van?

Van was an old school friend of Lord Oakford. From what Conrad knew of him, he was famous for his anti-appeasement, anti-German foreign policy. But could he have been got at in some way?