Sandpiper Page 2

  The woman in the photograph was young and pretty, her hair as black as a raven. She was smiling and dressed in rural working clothes. It looked to have been taken on a farm.

  ‘I don’t know this woman,’ he pleaded, anxious to please his visitor.

  Ritter smiled. ‘George, Heidi wasn’t ill at all, was she? She was pregnant, with your child. This is your daughter. She is now a woman, and needs your help.’

  Findlay’s face paled and his larynx worked up and down across the front of his collar. The hand holding the photograph trembled. It was true, Heidi was pregnant at the time he was taken away. That’s why he couldn’t let her go to prison. He looked down at the girl in the photograph. Like anyone in such circumstances he saw what he wanted to see, and the longer he looked, the more he saw it.

  His wife had given him two sons, they were both now grown men but he had no daughter. The more he looked, the more he was sure he could see Heidi in the young woman. And the more he looked, the more he saw something of himself as well.

  Was it the black hair, the mischievous grin, or just the shape of her nose? It didn’t matter, it was their daughter smiling back at him.

  ‘What’s her name?’ he gasped, looking to the man who was now the only conduit between him and his newly found daughter.

  ‘Liesel.’

  ‘Liesel,’ Findlay repeated under his breath as his eyes returned to the photograph.

  ‘But what can I do to help her? I’m here and I take it she is in Germany,’ he implored, at first frustrated, and then with a rising determination. ‘Perhaps I could travel there and bring her back with me to England?’

  Ritter watched Findlay carefully. He sipped his tea and placed the cup back on the saucer, the little clink of crockery the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

  ‘I think you and I both know that is not possible,’ Ritter said, shaking his head slowly. ‘It could place Liesel in even greater danger. But it is a testament to your character that you would make sacrifices for your daughter, just as you did for her mother, I think.’

  ‘I owe it to Heidi. But what can I do?’ he pleaded, the lines of anguish evident on his face.

  ‘Listen carefully, George.’ The other counselled. ‘Your memories of Germany while you were a prisoner of war are probably not happy, and I understand this. They were bad times, even for Germans. But you must understand that Germany now is a very different place, a much more dangerous place. There are many there now who are just like Krause and they are in control. Nazi brutes, they are nothing but thugs and criminals. But they want certain things and they are ruthless. If it served their purpose, they would have your wife informed about Heidi, or tell the British authorities about the things you did at Minden, and we know what that would mean for you. Be in no doubt they would hurt Liesel, or worse, if it suited them.’

  ‘So, what can I possibly do?’ Findlay begged.

  Ritter took his cue. ‘Work with me to give them what they want. For now, it is the only way. I have some discretion for how things work in England and I can help you, but my influence in Germany is less so. In a sense I am as bound to choices I made long ago, just as you are for your decisions in 1916.’

  Findlay sat back and looked at Ritter. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Ritter reached into his jacket once more and pulled out a collection of newspaper cuttings which he placed on the desk and smoothed out with his fingers. Findlay leaned over to look at them. He could see they were advertisements, freshly cut from the daily newspapers they had not yet yellowed.

  ‘I want you to apply for these positions George, and others like them when they are advertised,’ he began, ‘and continue to do so until you are successful.’

  Findlay picked up the cuttings and perused them. They were all government vacancies in the technical, printing and photographic area.

  ‘What about my studio?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t see any problem. In fact, it could work out well for you. Imagine a government wage as well as any income you would derive operating the studio. It would just mean being more organised. You could still do weddings like you do now, and take other appointments for portraits and the like in the evenings. You could do your darkroom work and the accounts on weekends. I’m sure your wife would support you when she sees the results,’ he finished confidently.

  Ritter waited as Findlay processed the idea. It quickly grew on him, and he nodded slightly without realising it. It is always true a drowning man will reach out for anything that might save him from going under.

  ‘Why do they want me to get one of these jobs?’ he asked finally, his eyes narrowed and holding the cuttings towards Ritter.

  It was the moment of truth; Ritter knew it and had planned for it. He sensed Findlay knew exactly why but he needed to be salved, needed to be convinced it was the only way forward.

  ‘George, let me ask you a question. Do you think there will be another war between England and Germany?’

  ‘No, I hope not. I don’t know. The politicians say not, although Churchill says as much.’

  ‘The truth is I don’t know either, but those people in Germany think there will, and they are planning for it. They want people here in England who can help them if war does come. It’s a preparatory move, that’s all.’

  ‘So, they want me to provide information about my government work?’

  ‘It’s like we discussed earlier George, our decisions follow us for the rest of our lives, and don’t forget why we are even talking about this,’ he reminded as he inclined his head towards the photographs still held by Findlay. ‘And remember, if no war comes, as we both expect, then they’ll drop the whole idea and you will have achieved what you want. As a bonus, it’s entirely probable your financial position will be improved.’

  Findlay nodded, at least not fighting the logic of it. ‘But what if war does come?’ he pressed, as if he felt compelled to ask.

  ‘Let’s jump one hurdle at a time George. For now, we are seen as cooperating if you apply and can secure one of these jobs. Can you do that for me? More importantly, can you do that for Liesel, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Findlay answered, looking between the advertisements and the photographs in his hand as he did so.

  ‘Excellent. Always remember to be discreet. Those in Germany already have eyes here, and the British security authorities are also a threat to you. Trust no-one and tell nobody about our conversation. My discretion extends to assisting you in any way I can.’

  He reached once again into his jacket and withdrew a small roll of banknotes. Findlay’s eyes lit up as he watched Ritter place it on the desk and push it gently towards him.

  ‘There is fifty pounds here in five-pound notes. It’s yours. Take it as a show of good faith on my part, but necessary too. Be very careful with it, and don’t tell anybody, including your wife. Everything you spend must be attributable and wanton spending will attract undue attention. I don’t have to tell you that fifty pounds is three month’s salary for the average Londoner so be very prudent. But you will need a new suit and shoes for a job interview, so purchase incrementally over the next few weeks and stay within your usual choice of clothing, nothing too eye catching,’ he advised with a smile.

  Findlay nodded. ‘What did you do in the war, Max?’ he asked unexpectedly. Ritter smiled and his hand instinctively moved to his face although Findlay had no idea of the connection. Beneath his false beard Ritter was scarred from his ear to his mouth where his jawline had been opened up by a British bayonet. It was a very identifiable characteristic, and one he liked to disguise at times like this.

  ‘I remember being hungry, cold and afraid George, although sometimes the order changed.’

  Findlay laughed for the first time that afternoon; it wasn’t a hearty belly laugh and nor would Ritter have expected it to be. Instead, it was light, conspiratorial laughter and it t
old Ritter the connection he had sought with Findlay had taken seed and would grow.

  There was truth in what Ritter said. But he didn’t tell Findlay he had spent the war interrogating prisoners just like Findlay; first in the French sector and then in dozens of filthy holding camps up and down the British line.

  His mastery of the enemies’ languages meant he was always going to have that job, but he had a talent for it too, a talent which had led him to where he was sitting today. He had spent thousands of hours sitting, afraid, in freezing or muddy holes, or under leaking canvas, interrogating the miserable and frightened wretches from the other side of the River Somme.

  In the early years he had led dozens of trench raids across no-man’s land to get his own prisoners, and been wounded more than once. Later, the flood of prisoners was so great there was little need for raiding. It was bloody and exciting work, and sometimes terrifying. It was how he had earned his first Iron Cross.

  Crawling silently with his men through the mud and crater littered ground by night, artillery shells landing around them and the ghostly landscape startled into life by the illumination shells bursting overhead. Then the cutting of the wire, and the frenzy of clubbing, stabbing and shooting their way through the enemy’s trenches, dragging away a few of the very unlucky souls.

  But he didn’t tell Findlay any of that because he knew that was how Findlay was captured. To tell him would simply break the spell. The essence of what he said was still true; they were all frightened to death, there was always the gnawing hunger, and during the winters, they learned a new meaning for cold. None who were there would ever forget.

  ‘I must be on my way, and you are expected home,’ he announced as he stood and glanced at his watch. ‘Should anyone ask about my visit today, simply say I was obtaining the cost of a family portrait sitting.’

  Findlay nodded as he stood, and the two men shook hands.

  ‘Thank you, George.’ Ritter said warmly, ‘Trust me, we can make this work. Do your best and when it’s over it will all be forgotten and you will have achieved everything you want. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘How can I contact you?’ Findlay asked.

  ‘You can’t, it’s safer that way.’

  3

  Camden Town Police Station

  August 1938

  ‘Hullo Sergeant Todd,’ the small boy chirped as he looked up at the forbidding desk sergeant, ensconced behind his counter in the foyer of the police station. Sergeant Todd was a mountain of a man, with not an ounce of fat on him. He cut an impressive figure in his sleek black uniform with its silver buttons, and the three silver chevrons on each sleeve.

  There was a splash of colour across his left breast pocket, medal ribbons from the Great War that told their own story. His hair and the whiskers on his face had greyed. He had seen a lot in his life, but none of it had ruined his faith in human nature or dampened his sense of humour. At hearing the boy’s voice his round ruddy face split into a genial smile.

  ‘Hullo Mouse, what’re you up to then, eh?’ he answered, as he lowered his pencil and peered over the counter. Everybody in Camden Town knew Mouse Jenkins – even if they didn’t know him by name. He was a regular fixture selling newspapers at the local tube station and in the high street before and after school. At eight years old he was small for his age, which had earned him his nickname.

  His tweed flat cap was a tad large and his grey shorts slightly longer than knee-length. They were big at the waist too, but the braces holding them up were hidden by his sleeveless patterned pullover, his shirtsleeves haphazardly rolled to the elbow. His nose wrinkled at the smell of floor polish and disinfectant wafting through the sterile police station from the direction of the cells.

  Mouse’s relationship with the staff at the station was personal. It was Sergeant Todd who had rescued him and his mother from their burning house when the boy was still a toddler, one under each arm it was reported in the newspaper and at the inquest.

  Mouse had no memory of it, but he knew it was Sergeant Todd who had saved them and then gone back into the burning house to find his father, who had already perished. Afterwards the station had adopted the boy in a fashion, looking out for him and making sure any items of clothing or shoes that were in good repair found their way to him.

  Life was hard for a widow bringing up a child by herself, there was always a mug of tea and a sticky bun for Mouse at the station and each Christmas there was a present for him under the big tree in the foyer.

  ‘I’ve seen an evil villain, sergeant. I’m here as a respectable citizen to make a statement.’

  A wry smile played at the corner of the old policeman’s lips.

  ‘Have you now?’ he asked, with all the seriousness he could muster. ‘So, tell me about it.’

  ‘I’ve seen a geezer, a neat old gent in the Oxford, without a beard one minute, and then, presto! – with a beard the next – like magic.’ He clicked his fingers in exclamation. ‘He must be up to no good.’

  ‘Is that it? You’ve seen a man with a beard, who later shaved it off.’

  ‘No Sergeant Todd, you’ve got it the wrong way around. First, he had no beard, and then he did. It’s not possible to grow a beard in under an hour, is it?’ the boy challenged.

  ‘Maybe you got mixed up. Maybe it was the other way around?’ the sergeant suggested, trying to see something of interest in the story, and not wanting to let the boy down.

  ‘Nope, not possible.’ The young boy was adamant. ‘I sold him the Evening Standard at the tube station, and he paid for it straight, no change. At that time, there was no beard. Half an hour later I was in the high street walking past the pub when I saw him at the window there, reading the very paper I sold him. But this time he had a beard, and glasses. There’s no mistake.’

  The policeman looked at Mouse. His flat cap was now under his arm respectfully, and his fair hair had fallen free onto his forehead, a spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His eyes, clever and friendly, belied his youth.

  While it wasn’t a criminal offence to either have a beard, or not – or even to wear a false beard for that matter – it was certainly odd. In all his years as a policeman, it was the only time he could recall a report of this kind.

  Mouse had an eye for detail. He was a budding artist and his drawings were first class. He didn’t fancy buildings or street scenes, landscapes or even airplanes like the other boys. Instead, he sketched portraits. He had a good eye and he was very adept.

  Their tea-room wall down the polished linoleum corridor sported several of his sketches. For each he fleeced his subjects three pence a pop, for his time and talent, he would tell them, and for which they were happy to oblige.

  Experience had taught Sergeant Todd many things. One was it can always prove handy if strange things are written down for later reference; another was it was amazing how often strange things popped up again.

  He knew the boy wasn’t prone to wild imaginings or exaggeration, and for some reason, this man had caught his attention. He thought for a moment as the sounds of a constable’s metal heel caps echoed through the foyer.

  For not the first time in his long career, he decided to go on his gut instinct. He licked his generous thumb and with great theatre he turned a page in his ledger, holding his pencil at the ready as he smoothed the page flat.

  ‘Alright then, Mister Jenkins, please start from the beginning.’

  4

  Peckham, London

  September 1938

  Ritter arrived home later than usual, and while daylight saving ensured it was still light, the day was losing its warmth. He unlocked and then eased open the shiny navy-blue painted door, using the heavy brass central door-knob, which creaked as he did so.

  Appearing to drop his key, he bent down to retrieve it and was thus perfectly positioned to check that two tiny pieces of matchstick were still in pla
ce against the door jamb. He had positioned these when he left that morning, knowing they would be dislodged in the event the door was opened more than a quarter of an inch. All was in order as he recovered his key and palmed the two slivers of wood.

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a heavy metallic click that echoed in the silent house, before sliding the metal cross-bolt in place to re-lock it. He set the small pieces of wood on the shelf of the coat closet, and hung up his suitcoat, exchanging it for a brown cardigan with matching leather patches at the elbows.

  His routine never changed. He checked the back door which was also fitted with a sliding metal cross-bolt, making it impenetrable from the outside. He then checked each window in turn, upstairs and down, to satisfy himself no-one had entered the house while he was away.

  Reassured, he set to preparing his evening meal. Routinely it was simple fare; a portion of fish, chicken or red meat, and a medley of vegetables, supplemented from the small patch he tended in his back garden. With his meal he usually took a glass of red wine and while he ate, he would listen to a play on the wireless or to music from his gramophone. He owned an enviable collection of classical and modern recordings, none of which were in German.

  He commuted daily from his neat, late-Victorian semi-detached house in Peckham into London and it fitted Ritter’s needs perfectly. It had been chosen for that purpose. Over the years he had painstakingly built a life that was unremarkable in every way.

  He nodded to his neighbours, and occasionally spoke to them in passing. He was careful to be polite to old Mrs. Mumford, who lived in the house attached to his own. But she was frail and reclusive, and he rarely saw her in any case. A son who lived elsewhere came irregularly to cut her grass, sweep the leaves and do any minor repairs that were needed.

  Otherwise, Ritter minded his own business, because that’s what others did, and hence that’s what was expected of him. He would loan a tool from his little shed in the back garden if he were asked, but he would never borrow, because he knew it could breed silent resentment. Sometimes he let the grass in his small patch of lawn grow longer than it should, or he would bring his dust bin in a day late – because that’s what the English did, although it irked him and it was in his nature to be much more fastidious.