‘Before you go-I’d like to ask…’
Evans stopped, standing over him, lean and angular in his wing collar and black homburg, like a Mafia undertaker.
‘… Would you find out what’s happened to Hannah Liebermann and her family?’
He studied Denham for a moment and gave a curt nod. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, making towards the door. He put his hand on the door handle, then turned and said, ‘A word of advice. The press think you were detained for interviewing Liebermann, so leave it at that. Mention the dossier to no one. If Heydrich still believes you know something… you are not beyond his reach.’
W hen Denham got back it was still early. Eleanor’s shoulders rose and fell gently in sleep, the hair across her cheek golden in the dusty light. He looked around the room, with all its reminders of his father. A pile of technical manuals, drawers filled with odds and ends. But it was the picture above the nightstand that sent a tingle over his scalp. He hadn’t noticed it last night: a framed photograph of the project engineers at Cardington, posing beneath the control car of the R101, one of two gigantic airships built to link the capitals of the empire by air. Must have been taken sometime in 1929. His dad, hands behind his back, neat and trim with his Fairbanks moustache. His colleagues with serious smiles. The mighty ship behind them nearing completion.
‘Where were you?’ Eleanor’s voice was thick with sleep.
‘Just talking to a neighbour.’ He sat on the bed, facing the picture. She brushed the hair from her eyes and stretched lazily, reaching her arm towards him.
‘Did he help build that Zeppelin, your dad?’
‘Yes… he died on it, too.’
‘Oh gee, I’m sorry,’ she said, sitting up.
‘Took off for India in bad weather. Crashed over northern France and burned. On its maiden flight.’
D enham sent Tom out for some pastries, and told him there was a shilling for him if he could get hold of any more of the weekend’s newspapers from Mr Blount’s shop or the neighbours. In the meantime Eleanor got the mains water running.
The boy excelled himself, returning in fifteen minutes, beaming, with the Manchester Evening Guardian, the Times, and the Daily Express. This last one carried a long feature on Hannah by Pat Murphy, using the news agency snap of her standing, tight-lipped, on the podium. There was plenty of backstory, but news of what happened was thin, posing the question ‘could she have been coerced?’ rather than taking the words of her dynamite broadcast at face value. It cited a German press report that she had suffered a breakdown and mixed in some conjecture that this may have stemmed from the strain she felt over German policy on ‘the Jewish question.’
Oh, Pat, Denham thought, guessing that his friend had been leaned on by Lord Beaverbrook. Go and work for someone else.
Laughter came from the kitchen, where Tom was giving Eleanor his tips for winning at conkers.
The Times scored far higher, with an article on page two by Rex getting most of the truth across. Must have cost him a fight with his editor. The bare facts were so startling that the lead column felt obliged to comment, albeit in an exculpatory tone: ‘Hannah Liebermann, an Olympian not noted for outbursts of an emotional kind, has revealed the brutality and coercion surrounding her decision to participate; further evidence, if any were needed, that the German government is prepared to back policy with force, and that its grievances resulting from the Treaties of Versailles and Locarno must be taken seriously
…’ He would cable Rex later to thank him.
He put the papers down and stared at the frayed pattern of the sitting room rug, his mind working. He hadn’t a day to lose. If somehow he was going to get the Liebermanns out of Germany, he must publish his interview with Hannah now while everyone was talking about her. It would be his biggest and best shot.
W hen Tom had eaten his breakfast Denham took him on the bus up the hill to Hampstead and delivered him to the gate. Anna rushed from the front door in a sort of crouching run, her arms wide, crying at the sight of Tom’s face, hugging him on the garden path. She didn’t invite Denham in.
It started to rain as he hobbled back towards Rosslyn Hill, wishing he were recovered enough to make the walk down.
He’d almost reached the bus stop when a wave of dizziness hit him.
His left shoulder was seized with a bolt of pain that almost made him faint. By the time he was seated on the bus and heading towards Fleet Street, the pain was so intense, his head spinning so violently, that the lower deck rolled like a raft on the high seas.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Harry Garobedian sat behind the desk in his dingy office suite above the Olde Cock Tavern on Fleet Street. His hard brown eyes were wide now with understandable astonishment.
‘My God, Ricky boy. This… this has got everything.’
‘You wanted a human interest story… and I want to give the Germans a bad press week. So this one works for both of us.’ The attack of dizziness had subsided, leaving him with a dull headache.
Harry picked the telephone receiver off its cradle and replaced it immediately, breathing deeply through his nose, as though smelling his mother’s lamb keshkeg simmering in the pan. ‘I got to hand it to you. “Hannah Liebermann- My Story ”… When do I get the copy?’
‘Tomorrow.’
He opened a drawer and rolled a cigar across the desk to Denham.
Denham said, ‘I need this piece to go huge, Harry. To turn the heat up so high they have to release her. Her family, too.’
Harry lit his cigar from an enormous brass table lighter and leaned back in his chair, observing Denham through the fug. A rumble of barrels rose from the tavern cellar.
‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked.
Denham lit his cigar and drew on it, but did not speak.
Harry continued to watch him, then leaned forwards to tip his ash.
‘Okay, listen, I want a follow-up, too.’ He placed his fingers in the air, as if seeing Denham’s name in lights. ‘ “My Gestapo Nightmare,” by Richard Denham.’
Denham smiled. Harry had the eyebrows of a vaudeville villain. The agent lifted a cash box onto the desk, unclipped four white?5 notes, and handed Denham an advance.
‘Tomorrow then,’ Denham said.
E leanor had found some engineer’s overalls and had tied a tea towel as a scarf around her head. She had cleaned out the iron boiler, reconnected the flue with a spanner, and got the thing burning with coal she’d found in the basement, finding the whole task oddly satisfying. All morning it had helped clear her mind and set her thoughts on her future. On Richard… on Herb. ‘No electricity, no gas,’ she said, kissing him, ‘but there’s hot water. I’ll just serve notice on the spiders and the place will be almost habitable…’
He slid his hands around her lower back and pulled her towards him.
That afternoon Denham cleaned the grime off his father’s Edwardian typewriter and got down to work. The strange pain in his left shoulder was now constant, and his ribs seemed to be rubbing against needles, but he ignored it, tapping away quickly at a little escritoire in the drawing room, listening to the children playing in the street. Children without brown shirts or daggers.
By seven o’clock the rain had passed over and a sunset beckoned, sending its crimson light into the house. Eleanor was writing letters at the kitchen table. He noticed that one, already sealed, was addressed to her husband. He had a fair idea of what it said.
‘Get your hat,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the Hill.’
Clouds parted, filling the sky with drama. A flock of sheep scattered before them as they climbed Primrose Hill, deserted apart from a few boys flying kites in the gathering breeze. At the top of the path Denham turned her round towards the city below.
‘Oh my,’ she murmured, clutching his hand.
Beyond the trees of Regent’s Park, dark with rainwater, London shone from myriad chimney pots to the cross
