He was standing outside the darkened house almost before he knew it. There was no point in him being there, it was far too late to go knocking on doors, but he stood there nevertheless, fingering the note, looking up to where he knew she would be sleeping. The blinds were down at every window, all except the drawing room and the bar at the bay window, the stools empty, the glasses still and polished, a decoration of despair illuminated by the moon. He stood by the gate, edging imperceptibly onto the path. He wondered whether she still left the key under the stone frog by the door, wondered who else she’d left it for since last he had lifted the base and picked it out from the scuttling beetles, wondered if Lentsch had ever brushed his hand thus.
“Can I help you at all?”
Ned span round. Mr van Dielen stood directly across the narrow road, by the gate of the bungalow opposite. Behind him Ned caught sight of a large bulky figure closing the glass-panelled door.
“Mr van Dielen.” He tried not to sound surprised.
“Mr Luscombe, is it not? Or should I say Inspector Luscombe.”
“Whatever, there’s no need to be alarmed.”
“Alarmed? Indeed not. No. I am not… alarmed.”
Van Dielen moved across the road in short sharp steps. Ned edged back to give the man access to his own property. He experienced the same feeling as he had felt that earlier time, embarrassed, a boy caught raiding an apple orchard.
“Quite an elevation since we last met,” van Dielen observed, taking out a large key and rubbing it with a handkerchief. “From young man leasing unroadworthy pushbikes to young man masquerading as chief of Guernsey’s police. Ah, the fortunes of war, Mr Luscombe. They cannot be all bad.”
He stood on the brick step holding the key to the light. He was the same height as Ned now.
“I was a policeman even then,” Ned told him. Van Dielen sniffed.
“Hmm. If I’d known that I might have been—”
“Think nothing of it,” Ned broke in.
“Even angrier.” Van Dielen said it lightly, an observation made for his own amusement. “And now you are here to take your revenge. A civilian snared after curfew, apprehended in the black-out. Though I doubt if my host will welcome the complaint.” He looked back. There seemed to be a dull flickering coming from behind the bungalow’s curtains. “Major Ernst,” van Dielen told him. “In charge of all the foreign labour. You know him?”
“Not at all.”
“An excellent man. A great organizer and a good host. He likes a job well done. He believes in…progress.” He patted his coat and breathed in the night air. Ned could smell the brandy on his breath. “He has his own film projector, you know. Nature films. All perfectly decent, mind, just not my cup of tea.” He stopped quickly, anxious to divert attention from his indiscretion. “So I’m not under arrest, then?”
Ned obliged. He did not want to be questioned too closely either.
“Not at all, Mr van Dielen. Crossing the road isn’t a crime.”
Van Dielen smacked his lips.
“Ah, but that’s exactly what it is at this time of night, Mr Luscombe. A crime. By rights I should be found guilty and fined appropriately. This is an island of fines. A fine for crossing the road after eleven at night, a fine for not finishing the job on time, even, I am happy to report, a fine for unauthorized swimming in the sea. A great advancement from the days of old, wouldn’t you say?”
“Some rules are less important than others, Mr van Dielen. I’m not after to fine you for anything.”
“Are you not?” He peered up and down the road. “Then what, by the grace of all that’s straight and narrow, are you doing here? Is this one of your authorized smuggling routes?”
“I was on my way home and I saw a light on. Or thought I did.”
“A light, you say? It is not there now.”
“No.”
“So it went off, like a signal perhaps? And yet, the house is dark, the blinds are all drawn.”
“Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.”
“A trick of light? I suppose a light could do nothing else but its own trick, Mr Luscombe.”
“I might have imagined it.”
“Perhaps you imagined a daughter under it too.”
“I was just checking, Mr van Dielen.”
“How very intriguing, Mr Luscombe, how very lame and how very like yourself to be sticking your spoke in where it does not belong, as you might say.” He twirled the key in his hand. “Isobel went to a party this evening. If she is back,” he pointed to the grey, lifeless window, “she is asleep. It has been a mercirul long time since she last laid eyes on your constabuleric form and long may it remain so.” He raised his hat. “Goodnight, Mr Luscombe.”
He disappeared up the overgrown path. Ned moved on. He wanted to be home now, away from this empty world, in bed with his curtains drawn and the sky blotted out and sleep dulling his sense of impotence. He wanted to run, to hear the rhythm of his own breath in the air, hear his feet pounding along the road, but it was a foolish man who ran along Guernsey’s curfewed streets. Halfway down the Rohais Road he heard a car steaming towards him. He hurried along looking for a place to shelter. This was the hour of the black-market run, goods ferried in from the harbour or any one of the hidden bays to the south, brought in under organized eyes, stored in cellars and attics and army barracks. It would be well for him to stand in the shadow unobserved and let it pass, noting the vehicle and who might be driving. It was part of the lifeblood of the island now, strong and close, like the corrupt branch of an extended family, ready to embroil its relations in its fierce and unpredictable excesses. It could never be eradicated, not now that they were beginning to feel the pinch too. His mum’s Staffordshire White, Sally, had been stolen months back, her throat slit not thirty yards from the back door. Three pairs of hobnailed boots were all they found, or rather the bloody prints of them, dried hard in the mud and leading across the fields. They all knew what that meant. Soldiers. He had complained about it in his monthly meeting with the Feldkommandantur. Lentsch had promised to get to the bottom of it. He had heard nothing since.
There was nowhere to hide; a long wall loomed up above him while opposite ran a line of tall spiked railings. He wasn’t going to ruin a pair of perfectly good trousers in an undignified scramble trying to get over. Anyway it was too late, for now the car came sweeping up, opening the narrow road with a reckless stream of light. This was no black-market run. To be bold was one thing, to be brazen was quite another. Ned stood motionless, hoping it might pass. He could see the dark pennant fluttering at the head of the bonnet. The car drew level and pulled up a few yards ahead. The front passenger window rolled down.
“Pass,” a voice demanded.
Ned rumbled in his pocket. Crossing the road he walked up to the window and held out his curfew permit. A torch went on in the interior of the car, wavered over the card and then came up, shining ruil in his face.
“Out of uniform?” he heard. Ned knew better than ask the interrogator’s identity.
“No,” he said. “If you look at the bottom. I’m not required.”
There was a stifled giggle in the back. Ned looked down. A pair of legs could be seen, stretched out on the back seat. Nice legs. Bet they didn’t have a pass either.
“And no salute,” came the voice. “Did not the Feldkommandantur order all policemen to salute German officers when they see them. It is a rule, is it not?”