‘Did it work?’ I was fascinated by the simplicity of it.
‘Too bloody right it did. Sorry, miss. We didn’t have papers, but reckoned we’d be able to meet up with the local Resistance an’ they’d help out.’
‘Did they?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t get far before we were stopped. I was in the bushes having a piss – sorry, miss – when a couple of Germans stopped to see if we needed a ride. Me, I stayed hid and watched. They saw that the uniforms were a bit mixed. Marc, he tried to brazen it out. Didn’t speak a word of German, but there are French gaolers, y’see. He was a good bloke, Marc was. Robert, he panicked an’ ran. Got shot in the back. The others, they dragged Marc back to Fresnes.’
Shot in the back. Not Robert, it couldn’t be. He was always at the head of the pack, but watched out for the stragglers. He wouldn’t have run; running would have confirmed his guilt. He knew that. So why the devil would he do that? What would make him do that?
‘So Robert is dead,’ I asked, the effort to keep my voice steady.
‘Yes, miss. Checked him myself after they left.’
‘Then what?’ Matthew asked.
‘Didn’t bloody wait for them to come back. Scampered out of there right fast, I did.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jones.’
Feeling faint, I moved to the window. Several storeys below, the daily routine of a country not actively at war continued. Cars moved up and down the streets, men strode in and out of the gates, briefcases in hand. England seemed outside time – another reality. Or maybe Lisbon was the dream. How could Robert be dead? He deserved better than a bullet in the back.
‘You met the Resistance then, Bertie?’ Matthew asked.
Jones nodded. ‘Had to lose the uniform so stole a shirt an’ trousers off a line. Knocked on a door and asked for help. Took a chance an’ got lucky. The lass what opened the door was connected. Passed me over to one bloke, then another. Then they put me on a boat. Thought the next time I touched ground it’d be Portsmouth.’ His voice was grim.
I took a small sip of tea and topped the cup up with a splash of Scotch.
‘And then?’
‘It were night. Quarter moon. Enough light to see, but mebbe not enough to be seen. They gave me an inflatable. Told me to row towards the sub. Lads on the boat, they threw me a rope an’ helped me inside. Always hated boats. Don’t fancy the waves.’
He raised his cup, smelled the fumes, and put it back down.
‘They gave me dry clothes. ’Splained that we’d dive to get away from shore then cruise on the surface. Faster, you see.’ Jones bit his lip. ‘Weren’t long after that. Coupla hours, mebbe? I’m on the bridge and the radio operator sounds a warning. “Dive!” the captain says. No one talks but everyone moves. Orders are whispered. But intense, you know? The officers all pool together, talkin’ too low for me to hear.
‘“Another sub,” one of them tells me. The radio officer is real pale, like. Pulls off his headphones and looks scared. Kid couldn’t have been eighteen.’
His voice came in gasps, as if by increasing his speed he could outpace the torpedo.
‘“Hang on!” someone yelled, and I did. Boat shook an’ shuddered. Threw me against a table. The other blokes, they’re hanging on. I don’t know – mebbe it wasn’t their first time. The captain yells down the ’phone. Someone hands me a Mae West an’ I strap it on. Then a blast slams me against a wall. I smell smoke, fight my way up the steps. Some hands pull me back, some push forward. I touch something so hot it burns, but the water on the floors is rising. Fast.’ His voice was desperate. ‘Next thing, I’m in the water, holdin’ on to a crate. I try to climb up on it but it won’t let me. Keeps dropping me off. More hands pull at me, my legs. They want the crate too, but I kick them away. I have to, miss.’ He looked at me, his eyes tortured by the ghosts of the other sailors. ‘Or I’d be dead, too.’
He stared into the empty cup and repeated, his voice desolate: ‘I had to – I don’t know how to swim.’ Tears coursed down his ruined face.
I looked at Matthew, unsure how to proceed. He looked equally lost. With no better idea, I refilled Jones’s mug and poured another dram into my own.
‘Hung on until my feet touched bottom,’ he mumbled. ‘Bloody cursed name. Bloody Buckmaster. Bloody war. Should have stayed in Shoreditch.’
Not unkindly I pointed out, ‘Ulysses made it home, Mr Jones. It just took longer than anticipated.’
‘Yeah, miss. Twenty fuckin’ years.’
*
‘I believe him.’
On the other side of his desk, Matthew scribbled notes in Jones’s file. A large brandy sat untouched in front of me; his was already half empty. He paused, tapping the end of his pen against his teeth. His eyes narrowed at me before he spoke.
‘Something struck you,’ he said. ‘When Jones spoke of his escape from Fresnes.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Lisbet, I remember when you were born.’ He looked at me over the top of his glasses. ‘I have seen you grow into a very clever young woman. Do you really think I don’t know you?’
He was right. He knew my tells as well as I knew his. But if there was no point in lying to him, equally there was no point in telling him the full truth.
‘The man shot during the escape. Robert. I trained with him.’
‘Was he the sort to run?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no. But everything is different when you’re looking down the business end of a gun.’
He hummed a response and jotted more notes in Jones’s file.
‘What will you do with him?’
‘Who? Bertie?’ He
