get that Carol Bennett woman in here, too.’
‘Later,’ Gessler said. He pointed at the door of the cell. ‘Get this one to talk first, Hoth.’
‘Is someone watching the Fitzgeralds’ house?’
‘Yes. In a car a little further up the road. Our people. That won’t be so easy in daylight, people sitting in cars on suburban streets get noticed. Net curtains twitch.’
Gunther nodded. He had had a thought about that.
Gunther went back into the bare windowless cell. The woman was sitting in a chair. She hadn’t taken off her coat although it was hot down here and she looked at him with that same mixture of fear and defiance. She had a strong face, she had probably been quite attractive once but she was beginning to age. She wasn’t trembling now, she was holding her fear in. He laid the file on the desk and sat opposite her, smiling again. ‘I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Hoth, I’m from the German security police. I’m not a soldier, just a detective.’
‘Gestapo,’ she said suddenly, with an utter bleakness.
He inclined his head. ‘That’s a very broad term.’
‘I want to speak to a lawyer.’
Gunther shook his head. ‘You don’t have that right.’ He continued, in the same mild tone, ‘You see, you’re at the embassy, you’re on German territory now. I want to ask you some questions. That’s all, just some questions. Now, your name is Sarah Fitzgerald, yes?’ She just stared at him. ‘Come on now,’ Gunther laughed. ‘It can’t do any harm to answer that one.’
She hesitated. ‘Yes.’
Gunther guessed that she knew nothing about interrogation techniques or it wouldn’t have been so easy to get her to answer. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘And you were born on 17 May 1918.’ She looked startled. He smiled again. ‘It’s on your identity card. Remember, when we took your handbag and got you to empty your pockets, at your house? I’m sorry we frightened you then, by the way. But we couldn’t leave the lights on.’
‘You wanted me to walk into your hands. And I did.’
‘Yes.’
She stared at him, uncertainty now as well as fear and anger in her face; she obviously hadn’t expected to be treated so gently. Gunther tapped the file. ‘I see your father was a pacifist in the thirties. Along with you and your sister. Well, I wish your people had won the day then, we’d never have had the 1939–40 war.’
‘Where did you get all this information?’ she asked.
‘The Home Office have records of people who were active in politics before the war.’ He spoke almost apologetically. ‘But according to the records your family seems to have accepted the status quo after 1940, certainly your sister. And, after 1941, your father.’
‘The government must have files on thousands and thousands of people, then,’ she said quietly, almost to herself.
Gunther spread his hands. ‘With all the trouble from the Resistance, you can see why they think it’s necessary. The violent demonstrations, the bombings, the assassinations. It’s as bad here now as in France. Though I know as a pacifist you wouldn’t be involved in any of that.’
She did not reply. Gunther smiled. ‘I want peace as well, you know. Germany’s sick of war. I long for the day when the world is at peace.’
‘With everyone under your thumb,’ she said bitterly.
‘I wish you could understand.’ Gunther couldn’t keep a touch of irritation from his voice. He did wish for peace; this woman, a nice educated woman, pure Aryan by the look of her, should be happily at home caring for her husband and children. He said, ‘Where were you this afternoon, Mrs Fitzgerald?’
‘I went out for the day. I went into town, to Blakeleys Stores, to the toy section, I spoke to the manager there. You can check that with him if you like.’
‘How do you know the Blakeleys man?’
‘I do voluntary work for a charity that sends toys to the children of poor people. Mr Fielding has been helping us.’
‘Ah. Something like our Winter Relief in Germany.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not like that.’ Then she thought a moment and said quietly, ‘Or maybe it is.’
‘You and your husband have no children?’
She looked at him. ‘We had a son, but he died in an accident.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gunther said.
She was clearly surprised by the catch of real sympathy in his voice. ‘Have you children?’ she asked.
‘A son, Michael. He is with his mother, out in Krimea. I miss him.’
‘Why have you arrested me?’ she asked suddenly. ‘What have I done?’
‘In a moment. Now, where did you go after visiting the shop?’
‘To the National Portrait Gallery. I had lunch before.’
‘It was after eight when you got home, Mrs Fitzgerald. The gallery closes at five. What did you do after your visit?’
She hesitated. Gunther saw that. ‘I walked.’
‘On a cold, dark winter’s day?’ She was starting to lie now, he felt it.
‘I sat in a cafe for a while.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere near Victoria Station.’
‘Now why would you do that? Wouldn’t your husband expect you to be home when he returned from work?’
‘Sometimes he works late.’ He caught a little bite of anger in her voice. He thought, things aren’t so good at home. She asked, ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Look at me.’ Gunther spoke quietly. ‘Look at me. I know you’re keeping something back.’
She was silent a long moment. He could see she was thinking. Then she said, almost in a whisper, ‘I’ve been afraid my husband was having an affair. I noticed little things, changes in his manner, the way he behaved to me. Our son dying was a bad blow.’
‘Who did you think he was having an affair with?’
‘I – I don’t know. Women have always found him very attractive.’
Gunther saw it now. He said, ‘Was the woman concerned named Carol Bennett?’
Sarah drew in her breath sharply. Her eyes widened.
‘It was, wasn’t it?’
‘How do you know?’
‘We had information that your husband might be involved in illegal activities. We questioned some people at his work today, those who knew him well. Miss Bennett’s name came up.’
Sarah said, ‘She wasn’t having an affair with him. She’d have liked to, but he – didn’t. I spoke to her this evening, you see. I went round to see her, that’s where I went. I wanted to confront her.’
Gunther smiled. ‘I believe you. Tell me,’ he asked, ‘how long have you been married?’
‘Nine years.’
‘My wife left me after seven. She didn’t like the hours I work.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Where did you learn to speak such good English?’
‘I studied in Oxford. Then I worked here at the embassy for several years.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re one of those who believes it all, aren’t you? All the Nazi poison.’
‘Remember where you are, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said, an edge to his voice.
She gave a little humourless laugh. ‘I’m not likely to forget, am I?’
‘Were you expecting your husband to be at home when you returned? From Miss Bennett’s?’
‘Yes. I’ve no idea where he is. Nor why you want him.’ She paused. ‘He always told me political action was useless, we had to get along with the system. All these years he’s said that.’
‘He was protecting you, perhaps.’ She didn’t answer. ‘The evidence is pretty conclusive, I’m afraid. It seems your husband was part of a larger ring of spies inside the Civil Service. You’ll know his friend, of course, the one he went to university with. Geoff Drax.’
‘Geoff?’ There was real surprise in her face.
