The Interrogator

half-hearted salute from the guard at the gate and walked on round the east wing to the garden terrace. For once the stately sweep of lawn between house and lake was deserted. On the hillside above, the last of the sun was creeping up the obelisk Sassoon had erected to mark a visit by members of the royal family. As he watched its steady progress, someone stepped up to the balustrade beside him.

‘The Colonel wants you to start on Mohr tomorrow.’

Henderson had followed him out on to the terrace. Lindsay turned to face him.

‘Fine, tomorrow will be fine,’ he said a little sharply.

Henderson raised his eyebrows and leant forward, an expression of concern on his face: ‘Is something wrong, old boy?’ The gentleman farmer had become the country parson but only for a moment: ‘Is it Mohr? Don’t you think you can handle him? We could ask your friend from MI5, Cunningham, Major Cunningham.’

Why did Henderson dislike him so much? Lindsay wondered, was it to do with his family? They were cast from different moulds but the suspicion he had sensed at their very first meeting had sharpened in recent weeks to something close to hostility. Perhaps it was because of Mary.

‘Be my guest,’ he said coolly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask the Security Service to interrogate Mohr.’

Henderson sighed impatiently, ‘Well, I would, Lindsay, but you see it’s the Tracking Room. Winn wants you to do it.’

‘Winn?’

‘Yes, Winn.’

‘The Colonel didn’t say.’

‘Of course he didn’t. You weren’t his choice but who can say no to the Tracking Room? Winn is hoping you can break him.’ Henderson paused and smiled: ‘But I can see that’s cheered you up.’

Yes, it made a difference, Lindsay would not deny it. He must have made some sort of impression on Winn. Perhaps the Citadel was beginning to take Section 11 a little more seriously.

‘Let me tell you something else,’ said Henderson, ‘although if you’d read the interrogation reports carefully I wouldn’t have to.’

There was an unpleasantly smug note in his voice. ‘It’s in the notes. Mohr attacked a homebound convoy last September — HX.70.’

HX.70. Lindsay turned stiffly away to gaze across the lawn to the hillside. The entire obelisk was in shadow now. He felt cold, frozen, as if he had plunged into the Atlantic once more.

‘Bit of bad luck,’ said Henderson with a sly smile, ‘That was the convoy the Culloden was escorting, wasn’t it?’

Seven, eight, nine minutes passed and the sky deepened to a still blue. Lindsay did not acknowledge Henderson’s complacent ‘goodbye’. At sea, he had hated this hour, the convoy’s ships black against the last of the light like targets at a fairground shy. Perhaps Mohr had enjoyed just that view of HX.70 through the UZO firing binoculars on the bridge of his boat. He noticed that the fingers holding his cigarette were shaking a little and he threw it down in disgust, grinding it into the brick with his foot.

The guards at the security desk in the entrance hall had logged Lieutenant Graham out but Brown was still in the house. No one in the mess had seen him but one of the duty Wrens in the office thought he might be with the RAF. Lindsay found him at the door of the old library, coat across his arm. He nodded coolly and was on the point of slipping past.

‘May I have a word, Brown?’

He frowned and glanced deliberately at his watch: ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

‘No. The 112 prisoner, Heine, I need something from him.’

Lieutenant Brown rolled his eyes upwards: ‘Not now.’

Lindsay grabbed his arm and squeezed it very firmly: ‘Yes, now.’

It was unfortunate that Brown and Graham were the designated interrogators. Lindsay did not care for either of them — the feeling was entirely mutual. Brown was a fussy little man with thin, wispy red hair and thick round glasses. Before the war, he had worked on The Times and someone in the Division had considered this a sufficient reference to recommend him to the Section. But Lindsay was amazed that a journalist could be so credulous — lazy too. He treated the Section like a bank with business conducted across a table in office hours only.

Brown shook his arm free: ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait until the morning?’

‘Heine has let something slip about Mohr. He spent time at U-boat Headquarters. I need to know what he knows.’

Brown snorted irritably and shook his head: ‘It could take days to break Heine down.’

‘If you’re not prepared to do it, I will.’

Brown blinked at Lindsay uncertainly: ‘The Colonel wants us to speak to Heine?’

‘Yes, at once,’ Lindsay lied.

The microphone amplifier room was hot and cramped with barely space for a chair between the equipment stacked high along its walls. At one end, a jack field connected the cells and interrogation rooms to the ‘mapping’ positions further down the corridor. Lindsay slipped into a chair behind the duty operator who handed him a set of headphones, then leant forward to push a plug home on his board. There was a rustle of paper and the sound of distant but heavy footsteps. Then Lindsay heard a door open and the prisoner was ushered into the room. Brown offered him a chair.

‘Don’t try to make friends,’ Lindsay muttered.

Heine was the sort of German who would respond best to commands.

Brown cleared his throat: ‘Just a few small things, Herr Leutnant. Some details to clear up…’

Yes, Heine had been a member of the Marine-Hitler-Jugend, the Wandervogel hiking club too. No, he would not describe the 112’s operational orders or give details of his commander’s service history. After forty minutes, he was comfortable, still calm. Brown was no breaker. The interrogation was going nowhere.

Lindsay slipped off his headphones and got stiffly to his feet. Sometimes an interrogator needed the patience of Job but not with a prisoner like Heine.

‘Truth in the shortest possible time.’

The duty operator turned to look at him inquiringly.

‘Forget it,’ said Lindsay as he stepped out into the corridor. Brown was going to hate him.

The interrogation rooms were on the same floor in the west wing of the house. A couple of bored-looking guards were posted at the door of Number Three. Lindsay stood between them for a few seconds, breathing deeply, then he reached for the handle and walked inside. A draught of cold air swept into the room with him, stirring the cigarette smoke above the table.

Brown glanced over his shoulder: ‘What is it?’

Lindsay said nothing but pulled the door to with a heavy clunk and leant against it, arms folded. Brown was half out of his seat, a dark frown on his face: ‘What on earth…’

‘We’re going to blow hot, blow cold,’ said Lindsay calmly.

‘What?’

‘Just sit down.’

He looked across at Heine and said in German: ‘Herr Leutnant, you are going to tell me everything you know about your commander — Kapitan zur See Jurgen Mohr.’

Heine shook his head slowly.

‘Oh yes you are,’ said Lindsay coldly. ‘I know he was on the staff at U-boat Headquarters.’

Heine gave another nervous shake of the head.

‘Don’t deny it. I know. And I’m sure Kapitan Mohr would like to know how I know.’

Silence. Heine knew he was being threatened, but with what? Then his shoulders dropped and he crumpled over the table, his face in his hands.