Catherine Fisher - The Slanted Worlds

Jake shook his head. “I don’t get it. You’re the police. Why not get the suitcase out . . .”

“Oh, we did. We examined everything in there.”

“So you saw. It’s just family stuff. Papers. A roll of film . . .”

Allenby shook his head. “The film is too fragile to be playable. Those papers must be in some sort of code. Names, dates, operations. Maybe she wasn’t doing anything herself. But she was the center, the contact. We’ve known for some time that important information was being passed, from the offices of the Cabinet. So we slipped in some disinformation.”

“What?”

“False stuff. Just to see. It got through all right. So we checked for any connections between the ten people who had known of it—ministers, secretaries. Their wives. Turns out six of their wives regularly attended dear old Alicia’s séances.” He smiled, bleak. “What better cover? We posted watchers. We found that all sorts of people came to her house every week: civil servants, army wives, members of Parliament. What messages were passed, what information changed hands there, under the tilting table, in the fake voices of spirits?” He laughed. “She was a charlatan, they all are. But worse, she was a traitor.”

Jake shook his head, then stood and paced restlessly to the window. “You don’t know that. It could have been anyone there. My aunt was just an old woman who thought she could talk to the dead.”

“You believe that?”

Jake remembered the word from the rubble. David . “Of course not. But she did.”

“No. She was a deliberate con artist. She took money from gullible people—well, I don’t blame her for that. But treason is another matter.”

He was watching Jake with professional calm. When he said, “Sit back down,” his authority was complete.

Jake frowned. And sat.

“We searched the suitcase. Then we put it back. We were waiting for you to collect it.”

“Me?”

“Someone. Her contact.”

“Don’t be ridiculous . . .”

“You had the ticket. You knew the code name.”

“She gave me the ticket! Passed it to me, through the rubble, in the air raid.”

“You said she was your aunt.”

Jake thought fast, cursing his own stupidity. “All right. All right, you want the truth? I’ll give you the truth. I lied. She wasn’t my aunt. I’d never met the woman. I just chanced along the street, right? And this ARP warden made me help him. We tried to dig her out, but there was no way. She was trapped, she knew she was dying. So she gave it to me—that ticket.” He rubbed his dirty face with a dirtier hand. “I was going to throw it away. But then I thought . . . there might be something valuable. Not that I’m a thief . . . I was . . . just curious.”

Was he saying too much? He had to sound scared and confused, as if he was breaking down. After all, it was pretty much the truth.

Allenby sat back. His brown eyes studied Jake with an inscrutable stare.

“Not so cocky now, are we.”

Jake shrugged. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“So you never met her?”

“No.”

“Never even heard of her.”

“Before today, no. I swear.”

Allenby put his fingertips together and gazed at his yellow-stained nails.

“I want to believe you.”

That was unexpected. Jake sat up.

“Can I go then? You’ve got no reason to keep me here. I’ve got rights.”

“So you keep telling me. But this is war, Jake. Life and death, for millions of people. And you need to explain something to me.”

“What? I don’t . . .”

“You need to explain why, when she left the suitcase, three days ago, dear old batty Alicia said to the office-boy My nephew will call for this. His name is Jake Wilde. ”

Oh God.

Jake stared.

And understanding crashed through him like the bomb through the houses.

He must already have met her—no, he would meet her. In his future, and her past. That’s how she knew his name, who he was, that he would be there.

“So you see,” Allenby said calmly, taking out another cigarette, “that you are in it up to your neck, Mr. Jake Wilde. Of course, you could come clean. Tell us who you work for, how they get the information out, where the transmitter is. Spill the beans on the whole network. I’d advise you to do it, because if you don’t, our orders are to hand you over to the military. They have a few unpleasant little methods to get their information. And that’s before they hang you.”

Jake rubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes. A click on the desk made him open them quickly—

The bracelet lay there.

“Look, Jake. I like you. Talk to me.” Allenby put the cigarette down and pulled his chair closer with a scrape along the floor. Suddenly he was animated, his lean face alight. “This bracelet. Not the sort a thing a lad like you should have. Silver. Heavy. Old. And then, these.”

He fished out a few coins from the purse and slid them over.

Jake stared at them. A shilling, a sixpenny piece. Piers had made sure they were all safely . . .

He closed his eyes again . . . Oh hell hell hell. Pre-1960!

The sixpence, close to his hand, was dated 1957. The young Queen Elizabeth’s face looked at him sideways.

“Where do you come from, Jake?” Allenby tapped the coin. “This is the one thing I don’t understand. They sent you out all prepared, but with coins dated fourteen years in the future. That’s one big mistake. It’s almost as if . . .”

A rap on the door interrupted him. He frowned, scraped the chair back, and went over. Jake saw the burly sergeant framed in the doorway, murmuring, sounding anxious. Allenby glanced over. Then they both went out.

Jake leaned back and groaned aloud. How on God’s earth had he gotten into a mess like this?

He couldn’t sit still; he got up and slammed around the bare brick walls in fury.

It wasn’t like the interview rooms on police TV shows—no two-way mirror, no recording device, no responsible adult. But surely he must be entitled to a solicitor? Or had the war changed all that too?

Hang.

That was the word that already was choking him. Sticking in his throat. For a moment he couldn’t swallow, coughed in stupid panic.

Get a grip.

Get . . .

He turned, instantly. The bracelet lay on the table. He picked it up and shoved it on his wrist, clicking it shut and pushing it well up under his sleeve. They’d find out, but . . .

Voices.

He jumped back, stood by the chair.

The door slammed open; Allenby came in with the sergeant behind him. They both looked fraught.

“Sorry, Jake. Too late. The military police are here.” Jake backed away. “What?”

“They’re taking you now. Nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid. Sergeant!”

The big man tugged a pair of steel handcuffs from his pocket. “Come on, son.”

“No way!” Jake backed against the wall. He balled his fists.

“Forget it laddy, I’ve cuffed more prisoners than you’ve had hot dinners. You wouldn’t know what hit you, and I won’t even break sweat.”

Jake felt the damp bricks at his back. He flung a despairing look at Allenby. “You can’t let them take me like this.”

“Nothing I can do about it.”

“I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything. The whole thing. But I won’t talk to them. No one else. Just you.”

The sergeant stopped.

He looked at Allenby. Quietly the inspector said, “You might just be bluffing.”

Jake forced himself to stand up straight. He unrolled his fists and spread his hands wide. “Let me go and you’ll never know. I’ll make a deal. Don’t let them take me, and I’ll spill.”

Allenby’s scrutiny was intense. “If you try . . .”