or suspected what had really happened, but it was always spoken of as a dreadful, careless accident. Lumsden left at the end of the term, to go to another school. Frank, relieved, wondered if Strangmans had asked him to go. His English teacher, who had formerly mocked him for his lack of interest in anything but science fiction, was now patient and careful in helping him learn to write again. He continued to work and work, hardly speaking to the other boys at all. He would listen to their conversations though, and had a dim awareness that life was passing him by, leaving him behind. He didn’t even understand some of the slang they used nowadays.
One day in the spring the science teacher, Mr McKendrick, asked him to stay behind after class. He was a large, middle-aged man, the suit under his black gown always shabby. He had a gentle, enthusiastic air, unusual among the crusty Strangmans masters. He sat at his desk on its dais, looking down at Frank.
‘How’s the hand?’ he asked in a friendly way.
‘All right, sir.’ It wasn’t, it tingled and hurt a lot of the time, but the doctor said there was nothing more to be done.
‘You’re a clever boy, Frank, you know that.’
‘Am I, sir?’
‘Yes. You can grasp scientific ideas as well as any boy I’ve taught. You could go to university, spend your life doing real scientific work.’
Frank felt a glow of pride, and something else new: hope. Mr McKendrick continued, ‘But you’d have to work harder in your other classes. Your English isn’t bad, but your marks in other subjects aren’t great.’
‘No, sir.’
Mr McKendrick seemed thoughtful. He leaned forward and said, ‘You don’t appear to have any friends, do you, Muncaster?’
‘No, sir.’ Frank wriggled a little, the pleasure replaced by shame.
‘You should make an effort to join in.’ McKendrick looked at him appealingly. ‘Why don’t you try harder at sport, perhaps, once your hand’s better.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Frank answered woodenly. He had hated rugger, was glad the doctors said he mustn’t play that term. Nobody ever wanted him in their team and they would kick or barge him out the way if he came anywhere near the ball.
‘Oh, Muncaster, please do take that grin off your face.’ McKendrick sighed. ‘I just don’t want you to waste your talents, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Waste is a terrible thing,’ he said quietly. ‘I remember during the Great War, the casualty lists, those boys whose names are on the memorial in the Assembly Hall. For me they weren’t just names. I look over the desks and think, this boy sat here, that one there. I pray to the Good Lord another war never comes.’
Frank stared at him. He understood what McKendrick was saying about the War, he had lost his own father, but as for the rest, he was talking nonsense. As though the other boys would ever let him join in. But he thought, yes, he would work in class. The idea of spending his time somewhere studying science gave him, for the first time, a sense of purpose. A life somewhere far, far away from Strangmans.
‘Frank!’ It was Sam, the older attendant, shouting from the doorway.
He stood up wearily; it must be time for his walk round the airing courts. But Sam said, ‘You’ve to come to Dr Wilson’s office. People to see you.’
Frank frowned, puzzled. It was too early for David, and he had thought he was seeing him in here. His heart pounded. But he had come. David might rescue him.
But then Sam said, ‘It’s the police. Probably something to do with what happened to your brother.’
GUNTHER WAS PICKED UP FROM his flat by Syme, driving an old Wolseley, at ten o’clock. They set off an hour after David’s party, through quiet suburban streets empty save for a few early churchgoers. It was a cold, cloudy day.
When Gunther had got up he had found a letter pushed under his door. It was addressed to his flat in Berlin, and he recognized his wife’s handwriting. The postmark, stamped over the Fuhrer’s grey head, was Krimea. The Gestapo must have collected it from his flat and forwarded it to the embassy, who had then brought it round here for him. He was certainly getting first-class treatment.
There was a brief, formal note from his ex-wife, dated a week before. She said his son was doing well at school, that she hoped the security situation would allow Michael to visit his father in Berlin next spring. She hoped he was in good health.
He opened the letter from his son and read it eagerly.
Gunther folded the letter and laid it on the coffee table. He kept his hand on it. His son, the only family he had left, so far away.
Syme said little as he drove but there was a hint of a smirk in his expression that puzzled Gunther. The inspector was restless, too, lighting one cigarette after another. Then, as they reached the outer suburbs, he said, ‘I thought we might’ve seen something interesting on the way, but it looks like the fun hasn’t started yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gunther tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘I heard about it when I went to collect the car. They’re moving all the Jews in the country this morning, taking them to special camps. Everyone’s involved, Special Branch, Auxiliaries, regular police, even the army.’
Gunther stared at him, annoyed at his smug tone.
‘We’ve had the plans ready for years, of course, we thought the government would give in to German pressure eventually. About bloody time so far as I’m concerned.’
Gunther frowned. ‘I did not know this.’ So that was what Gessler had meant about the police having something else on their minds.
‘Nor did anyone else.’ Syme smiled, obviously happy to be in the know when the German wasn’t. ‘Apparently Beaverbrook and Himmler agreed the final details in Berlin. Mosley’s going to broadcast about it on TV later on.’
‘What sort of camps are they being sent to?’
‘First to army barracks, closed factories, football grounds. Sounds like they’re going to shift them somewhere else afterwards.’ He looked across at Gunther, smiling. ‘Maybe we’re giving them to you.’
Gunther nodded slowly. This was a big political step, a move closer to Germany. The price, he guessed, for economic advantages and the right to raise more troops for the Empire. And of course with Mosley’s people in the government, there were more at the top who wanted rid of the Jews. ‘Do you think there will be any opposition from the public?’ he asked.
Syme tapped his foot on the floor of the car. ‘If there is we’ll deal with it. But the idea was to do it out of the blue on a Sunday morning, when nobody’s around apart from the churchy types. If they make any trouble we can easily deal with them.’
‘I congratulate you,’ Gunther said. ‘It has worried us, this alien element in Britain, our most important ally.
