Sandpiper

By Michael Pert

IN A COLLISION OF SACRIFICE, LOVE AND BETRAYAL, AT A WAR'S END, EVERYTHING WILL BE FOREVER CHANGED...

1916. Brutally coerced by his German captors, George Findlay commits an unspeakable betrayal and believes his foul deed remains hidden in the past.

1938. War clouds gather, and Findlay is propelled into greater treachery,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Apr 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922701459

Michael Pert

Michael lives on the Sunshine Coast with his wife, Kerry. His interests include family, travel, bushwalking, sports, movies, reading and research. A graduate of QUT, he holds a BA in International Studies and Psychology, and a Master of Justice in Strategic Intelligence. A former career military intelligence officer, Michael served overseas in Asia, South-East Asia, Africa and the Pacific region and was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia. His first published novel, The Kissing House, a spy thriller based in East Timor, was longlisted in the Yeovil Literary Prize in 2018. Michael brings a sense of authentic narration to his exciting and enjoyable books for reader's to experience.

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Sandpiper © 2022 Michael Pert.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed in Australia

First Printing: April 2022

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN- 9781922701398

Ebook ISBN- 9781922701459

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael lives on the Sunshine Coast with his wife, Kerry. His interests include family, travel, bushwalking, sports, movies, reading and research. A graduate of QUT, he holds a BA in International Studies and Psychology, and a Master of Justice in Strategic Intelligence. A former career military intelligence officer, Michael served overseas in Asia, South-East Asia, Africa and the Pacific region and was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia. His first published novel, The Kissing House, a spy thriller based in East Timor, was longlisted in the Yeovil Literary Prize in 2018. Michael brings a sense of authentic narration to his exciting and enjoyable books for readers to experience.

For Owen, Patrick and Joni,

You little rascals make my heart sing. With love and strength from your Pa always.

I know you will become the people your generation will need.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am grateful for the early, critical work undertaken by the team at Lynk Assessment, even though they are anonymous to me. Without their advice such an ambitious project would not have seen the light of day, nor taken the form that it has. To my editor, Stephanie, and the team at Shawline Publishing Group, I am thankful for the care and exacting work in transforming my manuscript into a book.

And finally, love and deep appreciation always to my wife Kerry, and my children Kylie and Ryan, and their families. For their love, support and encouragement which sustained me, and without which Sandpiper would not have come to fruition.

1

Camden Town, London

September 1938

Ernst Ritter watched the entrance of the small photographic studio from the comfort of the Oxford Arms pub. It was unseasonably warm, and the nearby sash window was propped open allowing a light breeze to circulate. His grey herringbone suit jacket was draped across the back of his chair.

Ritter’s black fedora sat on the table and his leather satchel lay idle at his feet. He nursed a pint of the house bitter while he appeared to read the newspaper spread out before him. The appointment in the studio would end in about thirty minutes, and this would allow him plenty of time.

Time to finish his drink, and then to make his way there after the customer departed. It was the photographer’s last session of the day and he had chosen the time with care. Today was the culmination of months of painstaking work, and his visit would not be interrupted.

Nobody in the busy pub paid him any heed. The English minded their own business, and he looked much like those around him. He had long ago perfected the art of blending into his surroundings. Almost a decade before, he had attended university in England and qualified as a chemist. He had lived and worked in London now for more than two years.

Ritter had worked for various pharmaceutical firms in Switzerland and France before securing his current position. This had been thanks to the support of his former friends from university, all of whom had been happy to help their clever and likeable colleague.

Ritter’s physique was athletic, and he looked younger than his fifty years. His fair hair was tending towards a shade of grey which neatly blended the two, but his complexion remained youthful and was sun kissed from his recent holiday in Europe.

His face sported a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, but this was a deception. As were his steel-rimmed spectacles, which contained nothing but window glass. His demeanour was designed to be innocuous, and it belied his true nature. Ritter was single-minded and ruthless, and there were those in the past who had underestimated him. Some had lived to regret it.

Most of the other patrons would have picked him to be English. The barman might have thought him foreign by his accent, which was ambiguous. But Ritter had also adopted the habit of saying very little to make his way. When he had ordered his drink, he had tail-gaited the man in front and mumbled the same, before taking his change without comment.

German was Ritter’s mother-tongue, but he was also fluent in French and English. He had learned both languages while growing up in a small town near the German-Swiss border and had perfected them during his long absences abroad.

He readily passed as a Swiss national, which was something all his colleagues and friends believed him to be. There was no-one in England who knew he was German, and few people anywhere who knew he was an officer of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence service.

His name wasn’t Ernst Ritter either, but that was the name on his English driver’s registration, which in turn matched his forged Swiss passport. It certainly wasn’t the name he would give the man in the photographic studio.

2

Camden Town

September 1938

Ritter slipped into the shop front of the studio and the Judas bell tinkled. He closed the door behind him and locked it, turning the sign on the door handle to read Closed as he did so. The photographer appeared from the adjoining studio door, drying his hands on an old towel.

He wore black sleeve covers extending to his elbows in order to protect his shirt cuffs from chemicals, the aroma of which wafted into the shop front. His shirt collar was frayed and devoid of studs, although it was the type which required them.

Ritter knew from his clandestine observations over many months that the material of the photographer’s trousers and suitcoat was worn smooth, the stitching was missing from the band of his hat and the heels of his shoes were in need of repair. He had also taken to walking to work rather than using the Underground, even though it was only one stop from his modest terrace house in Chalk Farm.

The sign above the studio door read George Findlay and Son, Photographers. This George Findlay inherited the studio on his father’s death, and Ritter’s discreet investigations also revealed the business was not doing well.

Findlay ran his hand back through his thick black hair. It was oiled down in the brushed back style, although a few errant strands hung down across his forehead, almost touching his eyebrows. It contrasted with his face, which was sallow and gaunt. Dark rings under his eyes were testament to his many troubles.

The recent warmth of the summer months had not reinvigorated his skin. It sported several small tufts of stubble across his cheeks, and an angry cut on his chin from trying to push a razor blade beyond its natural life.

‘Hello Corporal Findlay,’ Ritter said, holding the other’s gaze with a confident air as he removed his hat.

Findlay stared at the stranger, perplexed at the unusual greeting. It was twenty years since the Great War, and he couldn’t recall the last time someone used his former military rank.

He looked through the steel framed spectacles into the visitor’s eyes; blue-grey, strong and alert. There was something familiar about those eyes, not these particular ones perhaps, but he had seen eyes like them a long time ago and they stirred uneasy memories.

‘I’m sorry, have we met?’ he asked, without realising one of his knees had begun to shake.

‘No,’ Ritter answered with a warm smile as he extended his hand, ‘but I have a business proposition for you I feel could benefit both of us. Please, do call me Max.’

They shook hands but the oblique reference to the war had unnerved Findlay.

‘Why don’t we go to your office so we can talk in private?’ Ritter suggested, his manner engaging and his head inclined towards the nearby office door. He started to move in that direction, knowing that Findlay would follow.

‘Yes,’ Findlay answered, at the same time trying to process a multitude of unwanted thoughts that were invading his mind. ‘I shall make us some tea.’

Ritter smiled inwardly. It was the English way of dealing with stress. It was their way of dealing with everything, and he had come to envy the English their tea. There was no equivalent on the continent and he found the ritual so beneficial to forming a connection with people. Against all his expectations, he had even come to like the taste of this very English beverage.

Ritter adjusted one of the hard-backed wooden chairs in front of Findlay’s desk, the legs squealing on the linoleum floor as he sat. He looked around. There was only the desk and chairs, a spindly wooden coat stand on which Findlay’s jacket and hat now hung, and a little sink and bench in the corner.

There was no window through which any natural light might penetrate. Instead, overhead an electric bulb in a skirted shade burned and washed the room in yellowish light. The chaos across the desk told him Findlay probably didn’t like the administrative aspects of his job.

It offended Ritter’s sense of order, but he also knew that it could comfort people like Findlay, and he was interested in the photographer’s comfort, not his own. He had learned that Findlay’s photographic skills were first class, and this was central to his visit.

Findlay filled the kettle at the stained enamel sink and then placed it on the gas ring. A loud pop filled the room as the gas caught in a yellow flash, but then it settled to a gentle hiss as the blue flame danced around the base of the kettle.

Findlay placed his own chair next to Ritter rather than sitting behind the desk, a position to which he was entitled, and from which he might have felt protected. Ritter took it as a good sign.

‘George. May I call you George?’ Ritter began, his face open to the other’s scrutiny and seeking consent. He was rewarded with a slight nod.

‘I understand you spent much of the Great War as a prisoner at Minden.’

It was a statement, not a question. As their eyes met, Ritter noticed a flicker of fear, and he knew why. Unfortunately for Findlay, it was a bumpy road down which they both had to travel to get where they needed to go.

Findlay said the first thing that came into his head, and it told of all his fears.

‘Are you German?’ he asked.

‘Would it concern you if I were?’ Ritter put to him, smiling. He was never one to answer a question he didn’t need to, and more inclined to pose a question instead.

Findlay shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ He was committed to speak with this curious visitor but was still without a clue as to how he might benefit from it. He found himself captive to the situation, just as the other knew he would be.

The kettle whistled and Findlay rose to tend to it. There was some clinking as he set two old china cups with matching saucers among the mess on the desk. The tea made, he slowly poured from the chunky, brown china pot.

At intervals he jerked the pot upright before he poured again, his left hand holding pressure on the lid as he did so. He offered Ritter a small tin of condensed milk, pierced at the top, and they both watched as the thick yellowish liquid swirled into the tea and dissolved. Findlay placed the sugar, loose in an old biscuit tin, on the desktop.

Together they stirred their tea in silence before Ritter placed his spoon in his saucer and looked up.

‘I would like to show you a photograph George, or more correctly, two photographs.’

Findlay frowned as Ritter reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small sepia photograph of a woman. It had two holes along the decorative edge where a metal staple had been removed.

He handed it to Findlay and watched as the blood drained from the photographer’s face. Findlay looked up, his jaw agape and his hand cupped protectively around the photograph.

‘Heidi,’ he murmured, his voice catching in his throat. His eyes were both sad and afraid at the same time.

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you get this?’ the photographer asked. He licked his lips as he held the photograph close to him, sensing a new threat.

‘From your file. I thought you might like to have it.’

Findlay stared at him and again said the first thing that came to him.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured. And then warily, ‘what do you mean my file?’

Ritter let the question hang. ‘It was because of your relationship with Heidi that you were questioned by Hauptmann Krause at Minden and punished with solitary confinement – KK bread and water only for one month, yes?’ He smiled ruefully, knowing his reference to the coarse black, bran and potato bread would strike a chord with Findlay, just as it would with other veterans of that terrible war.

Findlay nodded, his lips pursed.

‘And it was to protect Heidi that you agreed to perform… certain tasks… for Krause when you came out of isolation. Secret tasks which were not known to the other British prisoners. This is also true, yes?’ he prompted as he sat back and watched Findlay.

Findlay’s thoughts were far away as he battled to process a thousand memories coursing in from the past.

‘It was the only way I could protect her,’ he spat, but the emotion wasn’t directed towards Ritter, rather at the bitter memory of it. ‘Krause said he would put her in prison for collaboration if I didn’t help him. I couldn’t let that happen, it would have killed her… she wasn’t well,’ his voice trailed off as he lowered his eyes.

‘I know. And you were very gallant to do so,’ Ritter soothed as he nodded. ‘You weren’t married at the time, were you? But you were already promised, and you married your sweetheart when you came home from the war, yes? I take it your wife knows nothing about Heidi?’

Findlay shifted uneasily. ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘but that’s in the past now.’

‘I see. Then we shall have to ensure it remains in the past and that the secret is preserved.’

Findlay looked up at him but said nothing.

‘It is also true these secret tasks from Krause included informing on your comrades to ensure the smooth running of the Minden camp, yes?’

Findlay nodded.

Ritter continued his emotionless narrative. ‘In doing so, in November 1916 you provided information about a plot to sabotage farm equipment, equipment which was classified as essential to the German war effort.’

‘Yes,’ Findlay whispered.

‘I understand those responsible were tried and executed.’ It was a statement, and without accusation, but Findlay was tied to the rhythm of Ritter’s questioning anyway.

‘Yes.’

‘Does anyone else know about this incident?’

‘No.’

‘The six men executed were British prisoners of war. If your part in that became known you would be reviled by your own people, disowned by your family – and you would hang for treason. You understand that, don’t you?’ Ritter summed up, although there was nothing threatening in his voice.

‘Yes.’

Findlay’s eyes watered at the edges and he hung his head. The burden he had lived with for all those years was all the more bitter now for having been brought up so unexpectedly, and by a complete stranger.

‘Then we shall have to preserve that secret also,’ Ritter said simply, as if the problem was inconsequential and he had a magic wand with which he could wave it away.

‘Is there a recent picture of Heidi,’ Findlay asked, hopeful he might see how the years had treated the woman he had loved so intensely, but in secret.

‘No George, I’m sorry. She was taken in the influenza epidemic; it killed more than the war itself you know.’

Findlay nodded and dropped his eyes to the photograph.

‘Did you never see her again after you were taken back to the camp?’ Ritter pushed.

‘No, when I was released from isolation, I was very ill from the cold and… mistreatment. I never left the camp after that and I was never allowed on farm labouring details again.’

Mistreatment was an interesting word, and indicative of Findlay’s intrinsic strength. Something he didn’t know he had. Krause had beaten Findlay to within an inch of his life. His confinement in a freezing cellar replete with ravenous rats and forced to sleep in his own excrement was brutal, even for those times.

Krause’s records were meticulous and his assessment of Findlay was incisive, but he had used a steamroller to crack an acorn, as the Krauses of the world often do. But he never broke Findlay with the violence. Findlay had complied only to spare the girl he loved.

‘I see, and you had no contact with Heidi after the war perhaps?’ he searched.

‘No, it wasn’t possible,’ Findlay answered, regretting all that had passed and confronting the fact it was too late to do anything about it.

This was where Ritter had planned to be, and the regret writ large on Findlay’s face was a green light on the path he had set himself.

‘George, allow me to show you another photograph,’ Ritter said as he reached inside his jacket again and passed the contents to Findlay.

Findlay examined the photograph, holding it between thumb and forefinger. His professional eye told him it was a recent black and white shot from a modern camera. It was printed on good quality German paper.

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 told 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 place 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.

His neighbours knew he was foreign but they had seen enough not to care about this particular foreigner. The Swiss breed little animosity from anyone, even the English, and Ernst Ritter was the perfect neighbour.

He knew some of his colleagues at work thought him to be a homosexual, because he had overheard them saying so. But it wasn’t true. Occasionally, he would dress in his dinner suit and go to Soho to seek out female company of a particular kind; the kind that was attractive to his taste, didn’t ask questions, and was happy to have a gentleman’s company for breakfast the following morning.

What others thought didn’t offend him or cause him any great concern. It often suited his purpose. While he thought it odd they would come to such a conclusion because he was middle-aged, unattached and particular in his ways, it meant he was spared the match-making from their wives, and the unwanted attentions of their eligible, but boring lady-friends.

It enabled him to better sustain superficiality in his relationships with his male friends too. This left him free to use his spare time do the things he needed to do most, and not be tied to meaningless social engagements.

At weekends Ritter would often leave London and drive into the countryside. His Morris Eight two-door saloon – it was important to own an English car – was also unassuming. It frustrated him that the sleek black paneling was exposed to the ravages of the English weather, but there was no garage and he was forced to leave it on the street. Here it sat at the mercy of the elements, and to the autumn leaves which covered it and collected in huge piles around the wheels at that time of the year.

He motored into the countryside to indulge his passion as a birdwatcher, a subject on which he had a great interest and compendious knowledge. He would sometimes hike and fish, and while he did these things, he did much more besides. All of his activities allowed him to gain knowledge of the English towns and countryside in the south. When it suited him, he would stay overnight at a country pub or a guest house, but he never returned to the same establishment.

Before he purchased the Morris, he travelled widely by train to familarise himself with the rail system. He knew that if war did come, the English would probably take down the station markers and the road signs. It was important he knew where to go, and how to get there without attracting attention. He would need to explain this to others who would come later, and he had annotated copious maps for their use, if war came.

After sunset Ritter pulled the curtains closed on every window before he took a small screwdriver from the utility drawer in the kitchen and went to the main staircase. It was a split staircase joining the ground and upper floor. It had a small landing in the middle before the steps turned back on each other.

He carefully unscrewed one side of the top brass keeper holding the maroon patterned carpet runner, which ran the length of the polished wooden staircase. He pulled the holding rod away and peeled back the runner, neatly rolling it in place on the step below.

Using the screwdriver, he operated an unseen spring hidden within the other brass keeper. There was an audible click as the hidden spring caused the vertical panel of the top step to pop open like a little garage door, revealing a secret cavity inside the step.

It was an ingenious set-up, and Ritter wished he could take the credit for it. The degree of perfection suited Ritter’s personality although he had not made it himself. An Abwehr man, posing as a friend on holidays, had visited him after he purchased the house and over the course of a weekend had created the masterpiece for him. He had watched as it was made, intrigued and admiring the older man’s craftsmanship.

From the space he withdrew a radio set housed in a grey metal case about the size of a house brick, with a small canvas bag and a soft, black-covered notebook. Into the space he neatly packed away the disguise kit he had used earlier in the day, carefully placing the beard and glasses in a special container.

Ritter had furnished one of the upstairs bedrooms as a study. He spent a great deal of time in the room and it was a comfortable place in which he could retreat and enjoy his own company, but particularly his reading. Bookshelves lined the entire expanse of the two longest walls from floor to ceiling.

The contents covered a wide variety of topics; there were classics, fiction and non-fiction, and a large number of natural history and scientific books and journals, including his chemistry textbooks. They numbered over a thousand.

There were an equal number in English and French, and some in Italian and Latin. None were of German origin, or written in German. He had installed a heavy walnut roll-top desk next to the window, over which was positioned a reading lamp. The fringe of the shade cast a series of long droopy shadows which danced across the pattern of the wallpaper when it was moved, or the breeze from the open window disturbed it.

He glanced at his watch. Each radio transmission from Germany was sent according to a random schedule known only to him and his headquarters in Dortmund; the details were annotated in the back of his notebook. The procedure ensured that neither the date and time, nor the frequency used for the transmission, could be predicted by the British security authorities.

The interval between schedules varied from one to three days and the times were set randomly between 9 pm and 6 am London time, but never on the hour or the half hour. Tonight’s schedule was relatively early, and Ritter regarded any transmission before midnight as a treat because it meant a full night’s sleep. He needed it. It had been a long day and the recruitment of Findlay had been taxing – satisfying, but taxing too.

Ritter set the radio on the desk and emptied the contents of the canvas bag next to it. He unwound the cord to connect the mains power and inserted the shiny brass jack of the headset, complete with its canvas covered earphones, into the top of the radio. He positioned a similar jack from the radio into a small hole drilled into the underside of the window frame.

This connected through hidden wiring to the antenna, which he had long ago disguised in the guttering of the house while appearing to repair the roof. With the mains power now on, a warm orange glow emanated from behind the dials and knobs on the top of the set, indicating the valves were warming up. They hummed in anticipation.

Ritter set the receiving frequency on the dial and waited. It was his habit to set up five minutes prior to the scheduled time and he adjusted his earphones. He suspected he was one of several listener agents across England, although he did not know how many there were, or their identities.

Listener agents were equipped with radio sets that could receive, but not transmit. Thus they could never provide a telltale signal to the British security authorities and be detected through direction finding. While any radio tuned to the correct frequency could certainly receive the incoming signal, the messages were coded and those intercepting them would have no knowledge as to the contents, the intended recipient of the signal, or their location.

With a minute to go, Ritter opened his notebook and flexed the spine back to lay it flat on the desktop. He held his pencil at the ready. He knew back at headquarters there was a clock on the operations room wall set to London time. The operator there would wait until the prescribed time before sending the message. Just as he set his watch to the BBC time signal each day, so did the duty operator in Dortmund.

When the signal came through, it was clear in his headset. For technical reasons, their operational headquarters had long ago been established in Dortmund; in the west of Germany not far from the French border. It was ideally suited for radio communications into England.

The message was short; just a jumble of number groups sent