Gordon Ferris - The Unquiet heart

Should we try to break out?

I strained to hear my words and for a moment, my head filled with new sounds and structures. We were talking in German. It might not have been High German, given the polyglot culture of the camp, but it was recognisable.

“I had no idea, Prof. All I’ve been doing is trying to recall incidents. The language side of it never occurred to me. You don’t get far trying to order a pint in German in Camberwell Green. Some of those old boys still have their Home Guard rifles under their beds.”

“I don’t suppose I’d recommend it as a new educational approach. But another language is always handy. I suggest you try to find a way to consolidate it.

Make sure you don’t lose it. It was hard enough earned.”

At the end of our session he walked me to the door. “You’re doing fine, Danny.

Just fine. See you in a few weeks.”

I collected my hat and coat from the cool Miss Allardice.

“Danke viel mal, fraulein. Guten tag, auf wiedersehen, Viv.”

It was unkind, but worth it to see her perfectly smooth jaw drop and her eyes take on a look of panic as though Goering himself had just touched her up. I threw my coat over my shoulder, jammed my hat on and walked to the bus stop, whistling again, this time Lili Marlene; the German version of course. I checked my watch. Eleven-thirty. I was meeting Eve Copeland at one o’clock in pub near her newspaper office in Fleet Street. I’d get the bus down to Trafalgar Square and walk along the Strand.

Walking down Fleet Street is like going back in time. The straggling lines of buildings are black with soot but still have that air of lofty grandeur I associate with top hats and carriages. There were plenty of bowler hats about, and wigs – lawyers from the Inns of Court – but the air was thick with traffic smoke, and the stink was enhanced by the odd steaming pile of horse manure. Hard to imagine the old river somewhere under the road, burbling down to the Thames.

The best view, through the arch of the railway line that sliced across the street, was the dome of St Paul’s. No one knows how it survived; it’s not as if Jerry was trying benevolently to miss our cathedrals. Look what they did to Coventry.

The Wren was dark and low-ceilinged; their original customers must have been a lot shorter. I settled in with my papers and beer. I read the Trumpet from cover to cover, got stuck on The Times crossword, and finished a pint and two Players before Eve materialised next to my table.

“You’re reading the wrong rag, you know.” She flicked my Times. She was flushed but not a bit embarrassed at being half an hour late.

I sprang to my feet. My memory hadn’t betrayed me; teasing eyes and turbulent hair. Something flipped inside me, a forgotten thrill. I’d be quoting Burns to her next.

She slung her coat over the spare seat and sat down opposite me. She looked round to get her bearings. I’d chosen a corner spot and we were sufficiently far from the next table not to be overheard. Not that the two old boys had any interest in anything other than their next domino. It was war; they clutched their tiles to their chests like they held details of Hitler’s last secret weapon in their hands, silent except for the occasional crash of a tile on the wood table or muttered oath before “chapping”. Eve caught me eyeing them and smiled at me. A good smile. A conspiratorial smile.

I pulled the Trumpet out from under my coat and flourished it. “I’ve already done my homework. Yesterday and today.”

“Good. That’s how to butter up your clients. What did you think?” She put on her inquisitorial look.

“The truth, or do you want me to make you happy?”

She laughed. “The truth makes me happy.”

“There are some very, very good… cartoons.”

“Bastard.”

“And… some of the writing is pretty good too. I’m not just saying this. Your column is about the best in the paper. It’s well written, and makes its point.”

“Hmmm. I think you’re being sincere.” Her head lifted and her sallow eyelids narrowed like a haughty face on a Pharaoh’s tomb. “But I don’t know you well enough, Daniel McRae.”

“Trust me, I don’t know why you’re worried about losing your job. I don’t see any competition. Not in here.”

“Remind me to introduce you to my editor. I need to be ten times better than the next man. That’s how it is. I need new material, new angles, new stories. All I do is report what I hear sitting in the Old Bailey.” She pointed up towards the Aldwych. “And then some follow-up with the victim’s family. The personal angle.

Any fool can do that. I want to report stories before they get to court.” She had that gleam in her eye again, the one I saw in my office when she got enthused at the idea of patrolling the dark side of town with me.

“Right, then. Have you got your walking shoes?”

She looked down at her leg and lifted her foot.

“Will these do?”

I admired her slim brown leg for a moment longer than I needed. “They’ll do nicely,” I grinned.

“I meant the shoes,” she said dryly. “Where are you taking me?”

“Tea with Mary.”

We cut through the green stench and slippy cobbles of the market at Covent Garden. Several stalls are still serving fruit and veg, but the real business finished long before sun-up, unloading the fresh produce from the lorries and carts. The bars down Longacre are full of the porters who breakfasted on full fries and stout, and stayed on for the fun of it.

We resist their siren calls and cross Charing Cross Road into Soho. Along Rupert Street, trying to look businesslike rather than furtive. But a red-light district on a sunny afternoon isn’t an easy place to blend into. The denizens of the night are creeping about in mufti pretending to be normal citizens doing normal things like shopping, getting a haircut and chatting with their mates on street corners. It feels like a stage-set before the evening performance. We get the odd offer: two for the price of one, guv? You and your girl looking for a threesome, luv? But there’s no conviction in the solicitations, just practising their lines for when the curtain goes up.

“And this Mama Mary, you know her purely through business?”

I pretended not to hear the irony in her voice. “I helped her with a little thieving problem. Then she helped me over the Caldwell case.” That was as far as I would go. I just hoped that Mama Mary would heed my phone call plea to stick with that line. It was no business of Eve Copeland what I got up to in my private life, but I didn’t want her thinking badly of me.

We stopped outside the green door. “Now remember our bargain, Eve. Whatever is said in here is off the record. No mention of Mary or her girls in anything you print. Or all bets are off…”

“Relax, Danny, I’m like a priest.”

“You are nothing like a priest. Shall we?” I knocked and waited. Mama Mary must have been watching for us. The door eased open, a bird-like head darted out, looked each way, and a tiny but strong hand dragged us both inside. We crowded into the hall with its tasteful fake Rubens, a big fleshy girl with dimples in her rear.

“Scared what the neighbours might say, Mary?”

“Scared of big fat rozzer. Always sticking nose in.”

My blood cooled. “Not Wilson? Don’t say he’s back on the beat?”

“No, no. Silly man. You stopped him plenty good. Shoulda stopped him dead. Tea for you too, missy?” she asked Eve as she brought us into her private room.

Eve was too busy gawping at the sea of crimson to respond.

“Sorry? Tea would be lovely. This place of yours, Mama Mary, it’s very… very…”

“Red,” I whispered.