The Shadow Network, page 21
‘Just before nine-fifteen. Curfew’s not till ten.’
‘That time already?’ She was horrified. ‘I’ll have to make a run for it to the bus station.’
‘No, don’t go. Can’t you stay, pretend to them you went out early in the morning?’
‘Are you crazy? I’m a registered enemy alien! I have to toe the line, or heaven only knows what they’ll do to me.’ She was hopping into her shoes and grabbing her scarf from the chair.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘No time,’ she said. And she was out of the room and running down the stairs. Stupid. Stupid. She berated herself as she went.
She knew no more about him, but had almost fallen in with his demands. Fortunately, the stairs were lit, and the door was unlocked. She pelted away down the path, only glancing back once, in time to see a corner of the front blackout blind drop back.
Someone had seen her go. No time to worry about that now, she had to make that bus.
In fact the panic was unnecessary, for the bus was running late due to an air raid warning and she had to wait in the wind-buffeted bus shelter along with a few other night-workers, puffing away on their cigarettes, and shivering in the damp.
The bus trundled in and she hoisted herself aboard, into the stale smell of smoke-ridden upholstery and wet coats. She stared at her reflection in the dark bus window, into her own troubled eyes. She felt guilty about Neil. They hadn’t even kissed, not like the fumbling in the dark with Bren, and yet though she hardly knew Neil, she trusted him and she didn’t want to hurt him.
She hadn’t managed to close it off with Bren. He was different from how she remembered him, less impulsive, more uptight and controlling. Perhaps it was that they’d both grown up, seen what war can do. But there was a domineering feeling about him that made him hard to resist. She had to remember The Night of Broken Glass to remind herself what she was doing.
Her father, lying, telling the Brownshirts she was out.
She’d find definite proof Bren was in league with the enemy, then tell someone. She must try to get in his flat again, but this time she’d have her wits about her. She’d persuade him to go out to the shops for something – then she could search his things.
But what about Neil? The feeling she had about Neil was small, like a tiny spring shoot. But it was undeniably there, and to pretend it wasn’t would be foolish.
She was playing with fire. She dreaded one of them finding out about the other.
*
The next morning as Bren bounded down the stairs, Mrs Gammage stopped him at the door. Damn, the old witch must have been waiting for him.
‘I told you, no women or shenanigans in my house. Only respectable working gents.’
Bren put on a puzzled look.
‘Did you have a young woman visit you last night?’
‘A woman?’ He should win a prize for acting. The odious old bat couldn’t prove whose room Lilli came out of, and he could protest his innocence.
She scrutinised him. ‘Frank says it wasn’t him, and Mr Battle is away. So that only leaves you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is there some sort of problem?’
Mrs Gammage narrowed her eyes under her black-painted eyebrows. ‘Now look here, Ralphie, I don’t want any trouble. Working men only, and no callers. Am I clear?’
‘As crystal, Mrs Gammage. Perhaps you were mistaken and she came from next door.’
‘Call me Bar.’ She allowed a coquettish smile to play on her lips. ‘And I’m not bleeding stupid.’
There was silence and a kind of unspoken truce. ‘I assure you, there’ll be no trouble from me,’ he said, pushing past her. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my bus will be along shortly.’
He set off to the station, it would be quicker than the push-bike. It was only a few stops to Milton Bryan and he used the time to read an English paper from the newsagent on the corner. Best be up to date with the Allies’s news, and try and see what Delmer’s Operation Dartboard was about, before meeting Estofal again.
The bus rattled along, through lanes ruffled white with may blossom, and verges of bluebells, but Bren saw none of it. His mind replayed what Lilli had told him yesterday, about this mega-transmitter somewhere in a forest. She’d been useful already – definitely worth cultivating her, and she obviously had no idea he was an agent. The position of the transmitter would be information that Pfalzgraf would want. Perhaps he could pump Ron, as he was so enthusiastic about it. Feign interest in the technical stuff and ask for a tour.
And he’d make another date with Lilli. He’d be happier knowing she was tied to him more tightly, so he could control who she was seeing and what she was doing. He didn’t want her telling anyone about his Nazi Party friends or any doubts over his legitimacy to be working at Milton Bryan.
*
Bren waited until Ron had removed his headphones then walked over to where he was hunched over a console.
‘Pretty interesting, the way all this works, isn’t it?’ Bren said. ‘Have you always been a radio buff?’
Ron turned, his face pink. ‘Ever since I heard my first broadcast. It was magical. Just to hear voices coming at you from nowhere. It always fascinated me, how they canned those voices. Took my first radio apart as soon as I could get hold of one. I was about seven. My dad went nuts. After about my third one I’d learnt how to reassemble them, and it just went from there.’
‘It’s amazing we can reach Germany,’ Bren enthused. ‘Lilli says everything goes through a big transmitter. And Max was telling me it can also change wavelength to hop onto their broadcasts. I’d like to see that.’
‘It’s not wavelength, it’s frequency. It’s that we can split it, so the power can go to different places, reach wherever we need it.’
Bren nodded. ‘Is it possible to get a tour of it? It sounds grand.’
Ron shook his head. ‘’Fraid not. Its official staff only. Last time I nearly got caught taking unauthorised visitors in. And I’d get sacked, or even charged with treason, if they caught me.’
‘Aren’t you on their staff list?’
‘Yes, but they’ve tightened up security in the last few months – since February when Goebbels declared “total war” against the Allies. Now we can only be approved by Delmer or Harold Robin himself, and a standard pass won’t cut it. A memo came round telling us the place is strictly off limits.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Near Crowborough. Ashdown Forest.’
‘Shame,’ he said, aiming for a light tone. ‘I’d like to see the machinery that sends our voices into the ether.’
‘When the war’s over, I’ll take you on a trip.’
‘Thanks, pal. That’d be great.’
He left Ron putting his headphones on again, and headed to his pigeonhole to pick up the script for today’s broadcast. Crowborough. Ashdown Forest. He’d got a location, even if not a tour. That should please Pfalzgraf.
He’d have to do a recce to get co-ordinates though, and find some excuse to get away from here and go take a look, though from the sound of it, and what Lilli had said, it was pretty secure. He’d have to go carefully.
He watched Max come in and the easy way Ron greeted him, and a stab of envy made him tighten his lips. For a moment, he wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn’t been an agent, if his friends had been real friends, and his world had been less lonely.
Chapter 21
Lilli was early to the studio, because she wanted to be there before lunchtime. Under the guise of practising her lines for the news broadcast, she waited until she saw Delmer go past the window heading for the canteen.
As soon as he’d gone by, she slowly creaked open the door to his office, which was next door to Max’s, leaving it ajar.
Strangely calm, but listening hard for any sound of Delmer’s return, she opened up the filing cabinet, looking for the staff files. The buff-coloured files were labelled with metal tags bearing stickers with the names of personnel in surname order. She thumbed through the Ms, looking for Johnny Murphy’s file. Ah, there it was. She opened it up. Not too much stuff, but it might solve the mystery of what Bren had been doing before he came here. Then as an afterthought, she took out her own file. Lilliana Bergen. Hers was thicker.
Aware time was ticking by, she thrust it back. One file missing might not be noticed. But she didn’t want to link herself to Bren’s missing file if Delmer should spot it was gone.
Taking documents off the premises was forbidden. They’d signed the Official Secrets Act to say so, on day one. Now her breath caught in her throat as she shoved Bren’s file inside the leather satchel that she wore over her shoulder to carry her music.
A draught, and the door swung open. Expecting Delmer, she took a step back, clutching the bag to her chest.
Bren. He looked just as startled to see her.
‘I was just collecting my music,’ she said, patting the bag, which now was almost burning her chest. ‘The door was open and I saw it on the desk.’
He frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be in here. Delmer wouldn’t like it.’
Nor should you.
He stared a moment, but offered no explanation as to why he was there.
A moment of uncomfortable silence, until the slap of footsteps down the corridor made them both hurry out of the room. Lilli clutched the bag and on her way down the corridor passed Delmer, who was striding towards her holding a plate with a sandwich, and a cup and saucer slopping tea.
‘Were you after me?’ he said.
‘We were just passing and saw you left your door open,’ Bren said.
‘Did I? I only nipped out to get lunch.’
‘Thought you might fancy a drink at the Swan later,’ Bren said, ‘when we’re done with the broadcast tonight.’
She heard Delmer agree, and it made her uncomfortable. What was Bren doing in Delmer’s office? The same as her, she guessed, spying.
After the broadcast she braved the sentries, her heart in her mouth. The men at the gate knew her well and after the first few weeks had given up checking the familiar faces on the way in and out. Still, the thought of actually leaving the building with Bren’s file in her possession made her body break out in a cold sweat.
But as usual, the sentries were used to the sight of her on her bicycle, her music bag over her shoulder, and they waved her on down the road towards her billet at Simpson Village. She prayed Delmer wouldn’t need the file before she had a chance to return it.
Once she was at home, she laid out all the documents on the bed. There was a copy of an Irish passport, and a couple of references from the post office. A pay slip, and clocking-in card. With amazement she read the references given by the head of the post office, ‘Murphy is a good worker, trustworthy and helpful.’ Huh. She’d see about that. She resolved to follow them up the next day.
As she pawed through the papers, the thing that struck her the most was that the history seemed pretty thin. It was odd that there was no record of any other kind of work, except the GPO and the university, no details about the theatres where ‘Johnny’ supposedly did his cabaret work, no flyers or cast lists or theatre programmes. There was no hint about any previous career or training as an actor. And of course nothing about his friends the Brownshirts. It was the sort of file you’d give to an agent as a cover story.
Wait a minute. Now she was looking at it, all spread out; that seemed to be exactly what it was. Without ‘Johnny’s’ exuberant personality and charisma, this was all pretty bald.
All night she wrestled with it, until early the next morning she cycled to the Bedford Post Office, and asked to speak to the postmaster there. She had to wait a good half an hour before she was invited up poky narrow stairs and into the postmaster’s office, a sweaty, enclosed little box with a sash window painted out black, and a coal fire blazing.
The postmaster, a Mr Greenland, balding and bespectacled, left her standing without offering her a seat, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. ‘I’m a busy man,’ he said. ‘If it’s about the WI raffle then—’
‘No. I’m from the government base at Milton Bryan.’ She showed her pass.
He scrutinised it, then looked up at her. ‘You’re not English, are you?’
‘No, refugee working for the British.’ She rushed on before he had time to think. ‘I’ve been sent to enquire about one of your employees. A man named Murphy? Johnny Murphy. Irishman?’
‘No. No one here by that name. Or anyone Irish. What’s this about?’
Lilli took the passport photograph out of the file and slapped it down.
Mr Greenland studied it. ‘No. Never seen him before, I could swear it.’
‘So who wrote this?’ She pulled out Johnny Murphy’s references, and singled out the letter of recommendation on official post office paper. Placing it before him, she smoothed it out.
Greenland pulled it across the desk, frowned, and rubbed at his moustache. ‘I never wrote this. And it says Edwards. Mr Edwards was my predecessor – died fifteen months ago. I took over after him. But I’m pretty sure that’s not his signature either. I know what his writing looks like.’
‘So it’s a forgery.’
Greenland turned it over on his hands. ‘Can’t see any other explanation. I’ve never set eyes on it before.’ He sat up straighter, his expression full of outrage. ‘If someone’s been impersonating someone in the GPO that’s a criminal offence.’
‘Can I go through to the sorting office, see if anyone recognises this photo?’
Greenland shrugged. ‘You can, but I don’t think anyone will have seen him. I keep a tight eye on all my employees.’
Tight enough that anyone can get access to official paper and forge a reference.
Lilli manoeuvred her way awkwardly down the dark stairs to the ground floor and into the sorting office, a place busy with the clatter of sorting machines and wheeled trolleys. She went round asking if anyone recognised the man in the photo, closely followed by Greenland, who by now was just as curious as she was.
‘Hang on a moment,’ said one old chap who was shoving batches of mail into pigeonholes. ‘I’ve seen his face before. He took the mail sometimes on the Wavendon round. Haven’t seen him for a long while though. Why? What’s he done?’
‘Some of the mail didn’t reach its destination,’ Lilli improvised.
Mr Greenland was flabbergasted.
‘Hope you get him then,’ said a postwoman who’d overheard.
‘Now listen,’ Greenland said. ‘I don’t want this getting out. It would reflect badly on the branch and I’m not far from retirement—’
‘It’s all right, Mr Greenland. This is just between us. I shan’t be putting in an official report. We just want this man stopped and arrested.’
Mr Greenland frowned, but looked relieved.
Lilli got back on her bike and pedalled back to Milton Bryan wondering what to do. It seemed obvious that Bren had produced fake documents and probably wasn’t who he said he was. But why? What was his endgame? Should she talk to Neil?
*
Neil was watching Lilli sing, mesmerised by the expression on her face and the way her hips swayed to the tune. He’d come up to Milton Bryan again supposedly to deliver the next day’s script to Miss Blum for typing. In reality, he was hoping he could get another date with Lilli. Once the band began packing up their instruments, he tried to catch her eye, but he was too late. Johnny Murphy was there before him, bounding over, and placing an arm proprietorially on her shoulder.
He watched covertly as Johnny steered her away towards the door. At the last minute she turned to look towards him, her brown eyes contrite, and he almost stepped forward to speak to her, but Johnny pushed her out of the door.
‘They’re pretty close, those two,’ Ron said, seeing him staring after her. ‘He’s a quick worker.’
‘Suppose so,’ Neil said. He was surprised how much it stung, to see Johnny Murphy wind Lilli around his little finger.
‘She’s nice though, isn’t she?’ Ron said. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’
‘Uh huh.’ Neil was deliberately casual. How could he compete with Johnny? He’d always found it hard to talk to women. Johnny, handsome and confident, was fast becoming the star of the show. Sucking up to Max and Ron, bringing them cups of coffee, laughing at their bad jokes, drinking in the Swan with Delmer. Johnny never brought Neil a coffee, and glared frostily at him if he went near Lilli, even just to give her the music for the broadcast.
‘I’m taking Maureen out on Saturday,’ Ron said. ‘We’re going bowling. D’you think I should wear a suit, or just my shirt and jumper?’
Neil blinked. What did it matter? ‘Oh, shirt and jumper should be all right.’ What did he know? ‘Ask Johnny, he’s Mr Man-about-town.’ The words came out more bitter than he intended.
Ron gave him a puzzled frown.
He’d had no chance to talk to Lilli even though he’d waited all morning, and it was galling. He’d try again tomorrow, but for now, he had to be getting back to Wavendon Tower before the broadcast proper. He swung his way down the corridor, but as he passed Delmer’s door Delmer stuck out his head. ‘Ah, Neil. I thought it was you. Heard your stick going by. Come in a minute, would you.’
Neil went in and sat down. Delmer and he had become closer colleagues since he started there, and the two men had grown to like and trust each other.
‘How’s it going?’
Neil gave him an update.
‘Ah yes I heard about the accident. Rotten luck. Your shoulder okay now?’
Neil brought his hand up to it. ‘Still a bit stiff, but on the mend.’
‘You’re not having trouble with Music Hall Len, then?’ Delmer lit himself a cigar. ‘I hear he’s a bit too fond of the whisky.’
‘No more than usual. We feed him coffee and keep him busy.’
‘And the new guy, Murphy, he’s a belter, isn’t he?’
‘He’s good at his job.’
‘I sense a “but”.’ A cloud of choking smoke came Neil’s way.
