this house.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t need protecting. Tell me the truth.’
‘I’m not having an affair with Carol Bennett; I have no interest in her. That’s the truth. If you won’t believe me, I can’t make you.’ And then, as though he couldn’t trust himself to say more, David left the room.
GUNTHER HAD SENT SYME to Oxford on Tuesday. Late on Thursday, 27 November, they still hadn’t found out who had visited Muncaster the previous Sunday. In his office, Gessler was getting increasingly frantic. The Ministry of Health had dug their feet in, protecting their turf – they wouldn’t let the Gestapo take Muncaster. Gunther, though, was calmer after his odd panicky moment at Mrs Muncaster’s house. He knew from long experience how difficult it could be to identify people who wanted to stay hidden. It was steady, painstaking work, waiting for the crucial piece of data, the flash of inspiration. Syme was doing his best; he and his superintendent had people steadily working on the students in the photograph, cross-referencing the information the university had reluctantly given to Syme with the vast Special Branch records in London.
Syme had gone back to Birmingham too, and questioned Muncaster’s old workmates again. There was nothing new there, though. Muncaster had been a loner, good enough at his work but with no social contact with anyone. They had told Syme they used to play practical jokes on Muncaster sometimes, which he didn’t like. ‘What was the matter with the twerp?’ Syme said impatiently to Gunther. ‘You’ve got to put up with a bit of joshing in this world, you have to stand up for yourself.’ He had found a similar picture when he spoke to Muncaster’s old lecturers; Muncaster kept very much to himself, nobody could recall him having any particular friends. Quite a few people remembered only his strange monkey-like smile. His old personal tutor was still at the college, but was currently travelling home by ship from an academic conference in Denmark, and would be back late on Wednesday.
On Thursday Gunther reviewed the information which Special Branch had sent to Senate House about Muncaster’s former fellow-students at Oxford. He was interested to see what had happened to these people in the last eighteen years. Some had become academics, others had gone into business or the Civil Service. Several had served in the 1939–40 war, and one had died. Some had emigrated to the Empire. A few had gone down in the world; one was in prison for fraud. None of them had any links with the Resistance although that didn’t prove there weren’t supporters among them. One was a Jew but his file confirmed that he had been picked up on Sunday. Gunther had considered whether the people who visited Muncaster might have had some separate connection with him. But Muncaster had no other connections who might have visited him, and according to Muncaster’s neighbour, the old man, the people who came were the right class and age. Gunther’s instinct was that they were there in the photograph.
With the legwork in the hands of Syme and the Special Branch, Gunther was left with hours of free time. He wrote to his son in Krimea, told him he had come back to England on a case, that the country was cold and damp as always. After a page he found he had run out of things to say. He couldn’t divulge more about his work, he didn’t want to write about England and there was nothing else in his life now. He got up and flexed his stiff shoulders, telling himself he’d become prone to gloom and fantasy since going to that miserable empty house.
Earlier that day Gunther had gone to visit the officer in charge of the interrogation centre in the basement of Senate House, in his little ground-floor office. The man, Hauser, welcomed him as another Gestapo man. He was a little older than Gunther; solid and strong, he hadn’t gone to fat as Gunther had. He said he had worked in Poland and Russia for years, but had begun to suffer from arthritis in his feet, brought on he was sure by too many winters in the East. He was fit again in England, despite the damp. ‘I was in Britain before, in the mid-forties,’ Gunther said. ‘We set your basement outfit up while I was here.’
‘I was out in Russia then. Hard days. Not that they’re easier now. Their General Rossokovsky’s in charge of this winter offensive they say has started. He’s good. Him and Zhukov, they must have German blood.’ He looked at Gunther meaningfully. ‘But we have to go on till the job’s done.’
‘We do. I lost a brother out there. It’s amazing how they just keep coming at us, keep living. We know Stalin killed millions before we invaded, and we’ve killed about thirty million. But they keep on coming, out of the East.’
‘So many good Germans lost.’ Hauser clenched his big fists. ‘But we’ll go on, we’ll finish them and then it’ll be as the Fuhrer planned; everything west of Archangel to Astrakhan for German settlement. We’ll let the Russians starve, keep some of them to work as slaves. None of them allowed within a mile of a gun. When the war’s over we’ll settle the whole country with our veterans.’
Gunther nodded. ‘And other Aryans, Dutch and Scandinavians and East Europeans who meet the racial criteria. We have to. It’s Germany’s destiny.’
‘German farms to the Caspian, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed quietly. ‘And the giant memorials to our German fallen, like my brother. I’ve heard them speak of them, in Berlin; great war memorials, hundreds of feet high, topped with eternal flames that will light the countryside at night.’
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Hauser asked, ‘What are you working on here?’
‘Confidential, I’m afraid.’ Gunther smiled. ‘But if it goes well, we may have a new customer for you.’
‘We can always make room for another. We’ve got quite a few German Jews in from the roundups this week, ones that came here as refugees in the thirties and hid out with the British Jews when the German refugees were sent back in ’40.’
Gunther shook his head. ‘The Jews always look out for each other.’
‘That’s why we’ve got to see things through in Russia, get the ones behind the Russian lines.’
‘Any news from Berlin?’
‘I don’t think the Fuhrer’s getting any better.’ Hauser looked at him meaningfully again. ‘We have to make sure the right people take over if he goes.’
‘We do.’
‘I saw Rommel striding across the lobby the other day in his uniform, stiff and frowning and full of piss as usual.’ Hauser laughed. ‘Did you hear he got paint thrown at him at the Remembrance Day ceremony?’
‘Yes, everyone has been talking about it.’
‘Some little freelance British group. We dealt with them down here. If it had been the Resistance they’d have shot his head off. Done us a favour, perhaps,’ he added quietly.
‘Yes. If the Fuhrer dies and the army tries to take over, Rommel will be with them.’
‘And we’ll be with Reichsfuhrer Himmler. He’ll have a million Waffen SS forces ready to move, don’t you worry.’
‘I hope so.’
Hauser was belligerently confident, but Gunther felt that trickle of fear again, fear at the unimaginable prospect of German forces turning on each other.
Syme was due to come to see Gunther at four. It was half past two now. Gunther had a copy of Muncaster’s university photograph on his desk, propped up by books. He looked at it again; if you studied all those grainy little faces for too long, your eyes stopped focusing. He stood up. There was an exhibition on at the headquarters of the Anglo-German Fellowship nearby,
He returned to Senate House. As he went through the main door he saw Syme sitting on the same bench he had occupied a few days before, watching as a delegation of German businessmen were welcomed by embassy staff. There was a thoughtful smile on his thin face, one foot jigging up and down as usual. Gunther went over to him. Syme looked up and said, in a quiet voice, ‘I think we’ve identified one of Muncaster’s friends.’
Muncaster’s old tutor, just back from Denmark, had provided the crucial information. ‘He remembered this David Fitzgerald better than he did Muncaster. He taught him.’ Syme imitated, very well, an effete upper-class
