Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

“You know about my memory loss?” He nodded. “Well, I’m trying to fill in some of the gaps. Like how I ended up in Dachau.”

Cassells was nodding his head off. “Absolutely, dear boy. Quite understand. Do the same myself.” He reached over to his packed in-tray and dug out a thick pink folder. “Got your file, here. Took a quick squiz the other day, eh?” He opened it and held it up like a book so I couldn’t read it upside down. He stopped on one of the first pages. He read it and glanced at me, then flicked on. There seemed to be a couple of envelopes as well as carbons and other documents. I had the impression he was already pretty familiar with it; the dumb show was for my benefit. He closed the file and sat back.

“You had a rough time of it, no mistake. A rough time. Don’t remember a thing, eh? No bad thing. Lot of jolly nasty stuff went on in these camps. Best to forget, eh?”

“I’m sure you’re right, Gerald. It’s just… “

“Course. Course. Not very complicated. May ’44 it says. Picked up by Gestapo.

Probably some local did it for money. Happened a lot. Sent you to Dachau. Bad show that.” He frowned, as though someone had tossed a low ball at cricket. That was it? “I’d thought I’d hear a little more detail than that, Gerald. I don’t particularly want to relive my camp experiences, but I do want to know what happened in France. What about my old boss, Major Caldwell?”

Cassells looked even more uncomfortable. He began tapping my folder with his index finger. I noticed how stained it was with nicotine. I always use a pumice.

“Demobbed, d’you see?”

“Is there a way of contacting him? Where does he live? I’d just like to have a chat with him.”

He was shaking his head. “’Fraid not, old chap. No forwarding address. Once chaps are out, they’re out. And we’re closing up shop,” he reminded me.

This wasn’t what I expected. “But surely you have to be able to contact everyone? Sort out things like pensions? I can’t believe there isn’t a forwarding address. Can we get hold of his file?”

Cassells was beginning to look edgy and irritated. I didn’t care. This was my life. He leaned into his desk and placed his elbows on my file.

“Even if we had such details we wouldn’t give ’em out. Security, you know. The war’s over and our chaps and gels need to get on with their lives. In private. I suggest so do you. Some things are best left forgotten. Sleeping dogs and all that, eh?” With that he was standing. The interview was over.

I stood on the other side of the street, examining the building, looking for entry points. They were due to wind up by the end of this month, the papers said. Surely they wouldn’t be quite so hot on security? A sudden fear struck me; if they were winding up, what would they do with the files? Burn them? Keep them, but move them? What if they’d already been shifted? How would I find them?

That chilling thought convinced me; I’d try the front entrance today. What could I lose? At worst they’d just throw me out before I got past the front door. But I’d be better waiting till five. That’s when everyone shot out, heading for home. With luck I’d be able to slip through the crowds without raising an alarm.

I went home, rustled up some grub using the last of my spuds and a bit of stewing steak. After chewing through the best of it, I put aside the gristle for the moggy; her teeth were sharper. Then I went into my top drawer, pulled out a pair of old wool socks and unwrapped them. I took out my pride and joy, which was a funny way for an ex-copper to talk about the tools of a thief.

Part of our SOE training was in picking locks. The expert who spent a frustrating fortnight with me and five other rank amateurs had been let out of Dartmoor for the duration. His message was simple, if daunting: anyone could become a good lockpick with the right tools and 20 year’s practice. In the absence of such a Fagin apprenticeship the best he could do was provide us with the equipment and the rudiments of the trade and tell us to practise as much as possible. And if all else failed, carry a good jemmy.

A lock is made up of pins which sit at different heights inside a rotating plug.

The trick is to push up the pins to let the plug rotate and open the lock. A key has a variable profile – think of the Alps – which push up the individual pins in the right order. A pick mimics a key by pushing up the pins one by one and getting them to stick.

We started with bicycle spokes, a pair of strong pliers and a clamp. A pick has three parts: a handle, the body – or tang, to the professional – and the business end or tip. A bent angle will do for the handle, but the tang needs to be thin enough to get under the pins without being too pliant or you lose the feel. The tip is the vital bit and its shape and angles are crucial in dealing with the wide variety of pins. You need a handful of picks with different shaped tips if you want to get past most locks.

I made five, each with different angles on the front face of the tip and the rear face. For a Yale, I have a nicely bent and filed half diamond tip like a triangle pointing upwards. Its front face slopes gently, its rear sharply.

I added a pair of pliers and a screwdriver to my precious picks and rolled them together in a piece of cloth. My torch battery was in good shape; a layer of tape over most of the lens left only a small centre hole. With toolkit and torch in opposite pockets of my coat, I waited till it was getting dark, and headed back up to Baker Street.

It was a quarter to five when I walked past the building. Some people were already making for home. I guess there was little enough to do nowadays. I stopped at the corner and lit a fag, looking as though I was waiting for someone. I wished I was. Where was Val? The doors swung open and one or two secretaries bustled out, laughing and glad to be heading home to husband or family, or to hang round till the pubs opened at six.

Ten more minutes and the doors were flapping like sheets in a gale. It was now or never. I walked smartly over the road, waited till a new bunch of workers erupted, grabbed the door from them and shouted goodnight after them. The lobby was crowded with folk putting on their coats and nattering and shouting goodnights. My luck was in, old Stan was behind the counter.

I took my hat off so he could see my face and walked past him putting some girls between me and him, but not trying to hide myself.

“Night ladies,” I said. “Evening Stan. I’m just having a word with Major Cassells, OK?”

I headed through the internal swing doors and turned right as if I were heading to Cassells’ office. My heart was hammering. I don’t know what I would have done if Cassells had been out today. And now of course, the last thing I wanted was to bump into the man himself and have him ask me what I was up to. It also wouldn’t do if Cassells left on time this evening. Stan would notice and ask him if he’d met me all right. Then there’d be a hue and cry. If Cassells hung around as the senior staff used to, till seven or after, the chances were old Stan would have forgotten about me.

It was a lot of ifs.

People were still hurrying past me and I thought it was time to get off the main corridor. I pushed through the fire doors and found myself in the stairwell that runs from the ground floor up to the top. Some folk used it as a short cut between floors, so I couldn’t simply hang around here. I had to find somewhere to lie up. On every other floor were gents toilets. Possible, but still too risky. I was looking for a broom cupboard or the like. Or even an office that wasn’t in use, but that would mean venturing back into the main corridors again.

I took a peek through the fire doors on each floor. On every one of the levels there were boxes floor to ceiling against the walls. But most offices had lights on and people wandering about. I needed to buy time. I ducked into the gents on the third floor and took the end cubicle. I sat there and waited, feeling silly.