Charles reflected on the situation, thinking it all sounded a little like a William Le Queux novel. Then he asked Kell if he believed it to be a genuine threat to Mrs Churchill.
Kell grunted. ‘Let’s say that Winston believes it. He certainly did when he came to me last night.’
‘And she believes it,’ Charles indicated the letter. ‘Believes it; has some details – kidnap by aeroplane: ransom being one of the Navy’s capital ships. And she is very brave.’ He quoted, verbatim, from part of the copy he had just read. ‘“I have no intention of allowing such villainy to succeed. You must not sacrifice the smallest or cheapest submarine, or even the oldest ship. If you gave in to the ransom I could never live with the unpopularity it would undoubtedly bring. If I die unransomed, then I shall die a heroine, and you will be hailed as a spartan…”’
‘I think that’s the bit which rattled Winston, Kell gave a thin smile. ‘Anyway, he was quite clear. She is not to know that we’re keeping an eye on things. Thomson’s kindly put a couple of his lads down there, and I’m sending you, on a watching brief.’
‘If you say so.’ Charles disguised his delight.
‘I need someone I can trust. If we ignored this business, and something happened, there’d be the very devil to pay. I want you on the afternoon train to Cromer.’
Detective Inspector Brian Wood – with whom Charles had already worked on the Ernst surveillance – was waiting at Cromer station.
‘I somehow thought Mr Kell might send you, sir. I’ve only got DC Dobbs here, and we’ve been going it from the moment we arrived.’ He ushered Charles into a waiting cab, and indulged in small-talk until Charles had registered at the Queen’s Arms, an old and respectable public house with five bedrooms. At the southern tip of the town, on the Norwich road, overlooking the North Sea, it was an ideal headquarters, of which Charles approved.
‘What d’you make of it?’ They were in Charles’ room, and Wood had opened the door, taking a seat where he could see along the passage, as a precaution against them being overheard.
Wood was a careful, well-trained officer, who seldom took chances, even with the simplest of jobs. ‘Hard to say. We arrived on the first train this morning, so we still need time. The Guv’nor got us out of bed at dawn. I’ve checked out the house where Mrs Churchill’s staying. That’s not an easy situation to start with: there’s three entrances to the place…’
‘Just her and the children?’
Wood shook his head, ‘’Fraid not. Mrs Churchill, the two children, her sister-in-law Lady Gwendeline Churchill – Lady Gwendeline Bertie as was – with her young lad John, two maids, a cook and a butler.’
Charles groaned, ‘And what’s the good news?’
‘The staff are in the clear. The maids’re local, they go with the house, and have served the family before. The cook is Lady Gwendeline’s cook, and the butler’s another family retainer.’
‘Local police?’
The DI grimaced. ‘Felt it best not to bother ’em yet, sir. Get settled in first.’
‘Nothing suspicious, then?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. No, sir. But I shouldn’t be surprised if we get ourselves arrested by the local law. There’s a positive spy mania going on hereabouts – or so they told me in the bar, with a lot of meaningful looks an’ all. We’re strangers, and strangers’re definitely treated with some caution. There are tales of lights flashing in the night, and the sound of aeroplanes low overhead.’
‘Well, the terrain’s right for dropping in. Plenty of flat open spaces for landing near the town.’
Wood agreed, but seemed concerned as he said, ‘If this really is a problem, then you do realize we’re very shorthanded?’
‘That’s nothing new. Your other man – Dobbs, is it? – has the Churchills under watch?’
Wood nodded, preoccupied. He was a tall, tough young man who looked as though he should be farming instead of being involved in police work – a ruddy complexion and the hard hands of one who worked the land. ‘I wonder,’ almost to himself, ‘I wonder if we should talk to the local force? Have to get the Guv’nor’s say so, of course.’
‘It’s essential to contain the knowledge. Heaven knows, this is a delicate one, but I think we should do something – without giving the facts, of course.’ It worried Charles that other people might have to be called in. You could never completely trust local police. They were good, efficient, knew the area in which they worked, yet this was sometimes a drawback in matters secret. Locals talked to locals. Inevitably the circle of confidence widened. ‘We’ll have to cook up some story, particularly if it becomes necessary to use them for surveillance.’
They agreed that nobody from outside should be brought in on watching the Churchill family itself. ‘That’s far too risky.’ Wood frowned. ‘Even if the three of us have to work around the clock. That part must be kept close as skin to flesh. I’ll telephone the Guv’nor and suggest a story. Knowing him, he’ll come up with something better.’
Within the hour, they were on the way to Cromer Police Station, with a concocted tale about anonymous letters concerning aeroplanes in the area, and lights seen signalling at night, leaving out any mention of a threat to the wife of the First Lord of the Admiralty.
Superintendent Dove – a name which belied his nature – was already expecting them. ‘The Assistant Commissioner, Crime, telephoned me.’ He spoke of Basil Thomson whose duties included overseeing serious crime, naturalization, and the Convict Supervision Office, as well as the Branch. ‘Asked me to co-operate, which I shall if possible.’ He was a pompous, heavy man, with a walrus moustache and slightly protruding eyes. Now he glared at Charles, ‘Told you’re not one of us. An oddity, what?’
Charles coldly said that he did not follow the Superintendent. ‘Not in The Job. Not a police officer. An oddity, eh?’ Wood tried to come to Charles’ rescue. ‘Mr Rathbone holds a rank senior to your own, sir. But no, he’s not in The Job.’ – ‘The Job’ was the way most policemen spoke of their profession; Rathbone was Charles’ name ‘in the street’, as Vernon Kell would say.
‘Like to know what I’ve got on my patch, actually.’ Dove’s eyes began to pop when Wood mentioned rank. ‘Don’t really hold with civilians messing around. Don’t know the ropes; unfamiliar with the form. Particularly important in a place like Cromer, where we entertain a large number of special people – foreign royalty; many titled folk. Have to take care, you understand.’
‘I think you’ll find I’m very familiar with the form,’ Charles tried out the Railton charm.
‘Have to see about that,’ Dove puffed. ‘I’ve got to co-operate, so I’d best know why you’re here.’
Charles took the lead. ‘The Branch, and my own department, work very closely…’ he began.
‘Rather hear it from one of our own, I think.’
He could only presume that Dove did not really know how offensive he could be. Wood looked highly embarrassed. ‘Well sir,’ he took over, giving Charles a quick sideways look. ‘There is an emergency, and this is emergency business – wartime business…’
‘Ah!’ Superintendent Dove gave a quick smile. ‘Don’t see why that should worry us too much. Whole thing’ll be over by Christmas. Had that from an unimpeachable authority.’
‘With respect,’ Charles bit out the words one at a time, ‘whether this damned war is over by Christmas, or in twenty years’ time, is of little consequence. We are concerned, Superintendent Dove, with the possible nefarious activities of enemy aliens. Even the probable fact that German intelligence agents may well have already been landed on this part of the coast.’
Dove’s eyes bulged to bursting point. ‘Here? On my coast? Most unlikely, I’d say.’
‘We’ve had reports of signal lights flashing, and aeroplanes flying low at night, over this part of Norfolk.’ Charles turned and spotted a pair of stand chairs. Motioning to Wood, he spoke with all the command he could muster. ‘I think we’d better sit down, Superintendent, this could take t
ime, and – having spoken to Basil Thomson already – I’m sure you must realize that we come here with a good deal of backing and authority.’
Once seated, he continued, ‘Now, Mr Dove, we need to know how many of these incidents have been reported to you, or your officers, since the declaration of war.’
‘Well… well…’ Dove floundered. ‘I know there’ve been some, but it’s mostly rumour, or vivid imagination.’
‘All reports have been followed up, I presume?’
‘Lot of tittle-tattle goin’ on, of course. Lot of rumour. Spy mania and all that…’
‘Spy mania or not,’ Charles raised his voice, ‘it is of national importance that all rumours and reports are checked. For every couple of hundred red herrings there may be one genuine article. If so, then the two hundred rumours have proved useful. Now, sir. All reports. All follow-ups.’
Dove muttered something about ‘…getting the officer concerned,’ rose from his desk, and stamped angrily to his office door.
Charles raised his eyebrows at Brian Wood, almost laughing aloud at this pompous comic opera policeman. They could hear him talking to the desk sergeant outside. ‘See if Detective Inspector Partridge is in and send him to me immediately. If not, locate him, and get him here double quick!’
‘Doves? Partridges? Place is full of bloody birds,’ Charles whispered.
‘Not of a feather I hope,’ Wood replied as Dove returned.
‘Naturally you have my full co-operation,’ he was trying not to look concerned. ‘If any reports have not been followed up, I’ll want to know the reason why…’
‘So will we.’ Charles maintained a gritty hostility. ‘And so will those whom we represent. As I’ve said…’ A tap on the door announced the arrival of Detective Inspector Partridge, a very different kind of man; whom Charles immediately recognized as professional, ambitious and careful. He proved to be a mine of information, and it soon became most apparent that Partridge got on with the work, filed the reports, and tried not to concern himself with the self-importance of his superior whom he, almost blatantly, regarded as a stupid and overbearing poltroon.
‘The tales come in by the dozen.’ The DI had an easy manner, and was not put off by Dove’s presence. ‘Mainly false leads, but we have a couple of interesting possibilities – Oh, by the way, we were informed about both of you, and your DC Dobbs…’
‘Dobbs? Who’s Dobbs?’ blustered Dove.
‘One of my men. Here with us,’ Wood said crisply, immediately turning back to Partridge. ‘You’ve talked to Dobbs?’ – Only Charles caught the fragment of concern in Wood’s voice. The DI would be worried lest Dobbs, a slightly less experienced officer, had been indiscreet about Mrs Churchill, and the true reason for their presence in Cromer.
Wood shook his head, ‘Not personally, but the beat constable chatted with him – saw his warrant card. He didn’t mention you. Claimed he was here on leave, but my fellow reported the incident: a new face on the seafront, you know. My lads can spot holidaymakers. They also sniff people who seem out of place. Your Mr Dobbs was very obviously not on holiday. Also the Queen’s Head reported two new guests yesterday, and another who joined them today. People around here have become very suspicious.’
‘No bad thing,’ Charles was impressed. ‘You mentioned a couple of possibilities?’
‘Our old friend the flashing lights, sir. From the area around the golf links just down the coast, near Overstrand: and a waiter at the Hotel de Paris.’ He pronounced it Hotel dee Paris. ‘The man’s been there about a year now; registered last week under the Aliens Restriction Act, as a Dutch citizen, though we know he talked about taking out papers of naturalization when he first came…’
Wood briskly asked the man’s name.
‘Sklave. Joost van Sklave.’
‘Von Sklave, I’d wager.’ Wood rose. ‘May I use a telephone? Sklave is German for Slave. Better check it with Naturalization, and the Alien Central Register.’
Partridge put up a hand to stop him. ‘Please, just hear me out. Friend Sklave does not know that I’ve had a man watching him. Not full time, of course, but mainly on Sklave’s days off, and sometimes after work. Two things about him. He visits Norwich every other week, where he sees a woman called Hilda Fox. The Norwich people’ve helped me there. She arrived about five years ago. Real name Hilda Fuchs.’
‘I’ll check her as well.’ Wood moved another two paces towards the door, but was again halted by Partridge.
‘That’s not all. Sklave is in the habit of taking long walks, late at night, as far as the links near Overstrand.’
‘You caught him at it?’ Charles leaned forward.
‘All new to me. Why haven’t I been informed?’ Superintendent Dove obviously felt left out of things.
‘With respect, sir, you have. All in the daily reports.’ Partridge answered his superior first, before returning to Charles’ question. ‘We’ve caught him at nothing, sir. We do know he is in possession of a powerful torch. Any of this help, sir?’
‘It might.’ Charles turned to Wood. ‘Brian, you’d best see if the Register really has everything about Sklave, and Fuchs. If not, then I suggest your Guv’nor gets someone onto the Fuchs woman. You have an address, Partridge?’
The DI nodded.
‘Right. Then I think we should mount some kind of operation on Sklave here and now. Brian, when you’ve finished talking to your guv’nor, I’ll have a word with my chief.’ At last he turned back to Dove. ‘Superintendent, I have to remind you that this is highly confidential. I have to ask you to speak to nobody about this conversation – not even your wife.’
‘Mrs Dove is…’
‘The soul of discretion, I’ve no doubt.’ Charles stood up and went to the door, following Brian Wood.
*
A warm, airless night followed the heat of the day. Dobbs, after a short break covered by Brian Wood, was back on duty, watching the Churchills’ rented house; and Charles, together with Wood, Partridge, and four local plainclothes officers, began their surveillance on the waiter, Sklave.
The quartet of locals were told it was a routine watching assignment. In reality they were being kept in reserve, posted at strategic points near the Hotel de Paris, along the road to Overstrand – some two and a half miles up the coast, and at good vantage points on the golf links, nearer to Cromer.
All had specific orders to do nothing unless summoned by three quick whistle blasts from DI Wood, or ‘Mr Rathbone’.
Charles took up his post near the hotel, strolling along the seafront, conscious of the heavy Webley revolver tucked under his coat. His mind was on the protection of Mrs Churchill and the family, though occasionally it strayed to his son William Arthur whose fourth birthday it was next week. The boy was a sturdy little fellow now, and Charles wondered if this job could be completed in time for him to be at the excitedly-planned birthday party.
Both Wood and Partridge were close at hand; Wood with instructions to stay well in front, but in sight, of Charles; while Partridge was to keep to the rear. Sklave, Partridge said, was not devious. ‘Not yet anyway. He has no reason to think we’re on to him, and he behaves like a creature of habit. If he is going to take one of his walks tonight, he should leave by the staff entrance a mite before eleven.’
As it turned out, that was exactly what he did.
Partridge – the only one of the three able to make positive identification – stayed back, on the inland side of the road. As various members of the hotel staff emerged from the rear of the hotel, Charles would glance across, in the dimmed street – waiting for Partridge to light a cigarette: the signal that it was their man.
Just before eleven, a slight figure walked quickly across the road from the hotel, and Charles saw the match flare. From then on, he concentrated on the man he now knew was Sklave. They had certain details about him from the Central Register. He had declared his age as thirty-two, born in Amsterdam, unmarried son of a café proprietor. In London they were already cross-checki
ng the facts; just as they were also looking into the background of the Fox woman.
Sklave, Charles considered, was ideal espionage material. The reports said that he was well liked in the hotel: quiet, helpful, unassuming, thorough – a perfect waiter, and very useful; as he spoke his ‘native’ Dutch, together with French, German and Spanish.
True to Partridge’s word, Sklave set off, at a steady pace, towards the golf links near Overstrand.
Charles wore heavy, rubber-soled boots and moved silently behind the man.
Sklave stepped out, looking neither to left nor right, nor, indeed, over his shoulder. What was more, he wore studded boots which clicked on the pavement, allowing Charles to fall back slightly. This noise factor also meant that Wood could place himself even further forward, so their quarry could never catch sight of him. As a suspect, Sklave was almost too good to be true.
It took three-quarters of an hour before they reached the links. The moon was up; and all who watched could see the small figure walk upright across the broad open land, taking up a position towards the sea, near the fourth hole. Charles was not the only one to immediately realize that Sklave had chosen the ideal part of the course, roomy, flat and uncluttered.
It was there, on the fourth green, that Joost van Sklave sat down and waited.
Earlier in the evening, the moon had been a great silver ball, tinged with red, low in the sky. Now the light dwindled, soon there was total darkness, and a silence broken only by sea noise and the occasional sound of a predatory bird or animal. Once, Charles heard a screech owl and wondered if this was natural, so close to the sea. He was used to hearing them at Redhill Manor, but townspeople, he had discovered, were superstitious, and held the sound of an owl in a heavily populated area to be a sign of death.
Slowly, the watchers’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, and they became as cats; seeing, hearing and moving with a stealth which comes only through training and experience. Charles sensed someone nearby, and slipped the Webley from its webbing holster set under his jacket, high against his ribs. It was Brian Wood, crawling through the grass to whisper, asking the MO5 officer what he thought about the situation.