‘Yes,’ Syme answered abruptly. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Bill. I live on the second floor. I saw your locksmith waiting about outside and let him into Dr Muncaster’s place. What about the Jews, eh?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Yeah,’ Syme answered non-committally.
The old man led them upstairs and into a shabby flat. Through the open door of the kitchen Gunther could see smashed crockery and dented tins. In the lounge a grey-haired man in a long brown coat sat in an armchair, nursing a cup of tea the old man must have brought him. Gunther surveyed the chaos. Strange to think of that frightened-looking man, Muncaster, doing this.
‘Looks like you won’t be needed,’ Syme said curtly to the locksmith. ‘You can get off.’
The man rose. ‘Right-oh. But I’ll still charge for the callout.’
‘He’s been telling me he’s been securing some of the Jews’ houses,’ the old man said. ‘Gor, I bet there’s some valuable stuff in there.’ He accompanied the locksmith to the door, chattering away happily. ‘You still see a few blackies around. Get them next.’
‘Britain for the British,’ the locksmith agreed. He left, but the old man, Bill, stayed, hovering. ‘Where’ve you taken ’em?’ he asked Syme. ‘The Yids?’
‘Watch the TV later. Mosley’s broadcasting.’
‘What do the police want here, eh?’ Bill pressed; he seemed unembarrassable. ‘Dr Muncaster wasn’t a Jew, was he?’
‘None of your business, mate.’
‘Suit yourselves. Only it’s funny, nobody comes to this flat for weeks and then two lots of visitors in one day.’
Gunther turned, giving Bill a look that made him step back a pace. ‘Two lots? Who were the others?’ he asked sharply.
Bill happily told them about the earlier visitors, the two men who had known Dr Muncaster at school and the foreign woman. Syme became suddenly friendly, complimenting the old fellow on his memory and his patriotism in helping them. Gunther added a few questions. Realizing he was German, Bill looked at him with a fascinated, half- fearful awe. He told him how he’d heard Muncaster shout out, ‘Why did you tell me?’ at his brother, and something about the Germans. He looked at Gunther with narrowed eyes and said, ‘It sounded like “they mustn’t know”.’
‘Know what exactly?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Bill replied. He had become respectful. ‘I didn’t tell those other visitors that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Didn’t like them. Hoity-toity, they were. Posh voices. You could see they weren’t pleased when I told ’em about the Jews.’
Gunther smiled. ‘That was wise.’
‘Don’t tell secrets to people you don’t trust,’ Bill said. ‘It’s a good rule.’
At the end Gunther thanked him courteously for his help, and asked him to contact Syme at once if anyone else called. Syme nodded agreement.
Bill asked, ‘Is this about the brother? Was he injured worse than I were told? He hasn’t died, has he?’
‘Let’s just say he’s not very well. Now, I’d like you to let me have the key to the flat.’
Bill looked disappointed. ‘It’s the freeholder’s.’ Gunther wondered if Bill was planning to have a nose round when they were gone. Syme held out a hand and, reluctantly, the old man retrieved the key from his cardigan pocket and handed it over.
Syme led Bill out; the old man turned in the doorway for a last curious look, then left. Gunther went over to examine the photographs of Muncaster’s father and the university group. He looked up at Syme. ‘We’d probably have bumped into them if we hadn’t been waiting at the HQ.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And I wonder what might have happened then. Some excitement, perhaps. So, these visitors had a key. Now where did they get that?’ He studied the college photograph. ‘I spent a year at Oxford, you know. Over twenty years ago.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I hated it.’ Gunther looked at the row of faces. ‘Born to rule.’ Then he frowned. ‘Someone’s picked this up and looked at it. See those fingerprints?’
‘The old man?’
‘Why would he do that?’ Gunther considered. ‘School friends coming to visit. Nearly twenty years after they all left.’ He shook his head. ‘University friends, though, whose picture you kept . . .’
‘You think that’s who they might have been?’
‘Possibly. The old man said they were the same age as Muncaster.’
‘But why lie?’ Syme asked. ‘If they’re Resistance, Special Branch need to be involved.’
‘I don’t know who and what they are yet.’ Gunther studied the photograph carefully. ‘There he is, that’s Muncaster. Look at that grin. Easy enough to contact the college and find the names of all these other people.’
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll have to talk to my superior and he’ll get in touch with yours.’
‘Why am I getting uneasy about this?’ Syme asked. ‘The brother is an American scientist. What did he tell his brother that the Germans shouldn’t know about?’
‘I don’t know. I promise you, if there is a Resistance angle to this your people won’t be kept in the dark. Now, I am going to have a look round this flat and then we’re going to see the old man again and ask if he handled the picture, or recognizes either of the men who came here in it.’
‘Want some help?’
Gunther hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
They did a methodical search together. They found nothing except the dirty magazines under the bed, but Gunther soon saw that the flat had already been searched; there were fingermarks in the dust everywhere, the signs of busy hands looking for something. When they had finished they stood in the lounge together. Syme looked up at a cobweb. ‘Miserable place, ain’t it?’
‘Let’s talk to the old man, show him the photograph. Then get back to London, see what they make of all this at the embassy.’
He went over and took the two photographs, Muncaster’s father as well as the university group, slipping them under his arm as they left the flat. Then Gunther switched off the light, plunging the room with its blocked window into total darkness again.
The old man’s flat was almost as messy and decrepit as Frank’s. However, he had a large new television set, which was showing a police serial, square-jawed officers trapped by American spies in a cellar filling with water. Gunther showed him the photograph and asked if he had touched it.
He shook his head. ‘No, why would I?’
‘No reason,’ he answered reassuringly. ‘Perhaps it was these visitors. I know they said they were old school friends, but could you look at the photograph, see if you recognize either of the men here?’
‘All right.’ The old man answered cheerfully, clearly pleased at the prospect of helping. He fetched a pair of glasses and peered at the photo. ‘Gor, it’s a grainy old thing, innit? And they’re all much younger.’ He pointed at one of the students. ‘That one, the fair one, that could have been one of them. Yes, yes, I think it was.’ He scanned the photographs again, then pointed at a dark-haired, good-looking boy in the back row. ‘The other one could’ve been him. But I’m not sure.’ He looked up apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t have my specs on when I saw them.’
‘That’s all right. You’ve been very helpful,’ Gunther said, and smiled.
SARAH MADE THE JOURNEY HOME in a state of numb shock. Alone in the tube carriage, huddled in Ruth’s duffel coat, she began shivering uncontrollably. She thought,
A young couple got into the carriage and began arguing irritably about whose family they would be spending Christmas with. Sarah carried on staring out of the window, trying to control her trembling. When the train stopped at Wembley she thought of Mrs Templeman’s husband, at home probably, awaiting her return, and had to put a clenched fist to her mouth to prevent herself crying out.
