Grest’s words were still ringing in my ears and the sharp smell of his sweat was still on me when I arrived home. I needed to wash it off or I would be ill. As I entered the house, I found Hazel on the crushed silk sofa – one of Nick’s rescues from bombed-out houses – and the room warm, with a fire going in the grate. I usually loved returning to the house when Nick had the fire going, so we could cuddle and warm up. Now there was heat, but no warmth.
‘Did you find it?’ she asked the second that I stepped in. ‘You’ve been gone so long.’ She was still keeping her distance from me, but most of the resentment and defiance seemed to be gone. I think she had probably cried it away – her cheeks were wet with more tears – and she was now feeling sad and alone, rather than angry at me and the world. I wished that I hadn’t had to leave her when I went to search Lorelei’s house.
‘No, I’m sorry, there was nothing there,’ I said. I didn’t like lying to her, but I couldn’t have her involved any more. She sat down heavily. ‘But this will all be over soon. You don’t need to worry.’
Her expression changed. She struggled to get the words out. ‘Do they think Dad killed my mum?’
I looked into her eyes and saw such a rush of conflicting emotions that I didn’t know where to begin: her fear for her father, her grief for her mother, even a suspicion that perhaps her father was guilty. And what then? I hadn’t even come to terms with my own fears; I had no idea how to address hers too.
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘I don’t know what they think. But I know he didn’t do it. These people, they just…’ I waved my hand, unable to finish the sentence because my eyes were also seeping tears. The adrenalin had got me through the time in Lorelei’s house and the van with that foul man, but now I broke down next to her. I was glad she was there so I wasn’t alone.
We spent the evening on the sofa telling each other that we would hear Nick’s key in the lock any minute now, that he would saunter through the door, smile at seeing us together and make some joke about having escaped from NatSec’s cells. My cat Julius came in and wound himself around our ankles. I made myself feed him, and he did his best to show his affection afterwards, rubbing himself on our legs, but it meant nothing as the time stretched on and Nick never returned home.
Twice I slipped away to my bedroom – first to stow in my wardrobe the book and white carton I had found in Lorelei’s house; and then to open that book again, desperately staring at its contents. I think I was hoping for inspiration, a lightning bolt that would turn those letters and numbers into meaningful words and messages, but they remained a mystery.
At eleven o’clock I told Hazel it was time she went to bed and we would see her father in the morning. When she had got herself ready, I went in to see her and I realized just how young and vulnerable she was. Only fourteen. I stroked her hair and told her everything would be all right and she seemed to believe me. Yet, in the space of a day, the girl had lost both her parents and I, a virtual stranger, was all that was left for her.
9
All of the Republic of Great Britain is looking forward to today’s celebrations for Liberation Day. Dignitaries from the Soviet Union, France, Jugoslavia and our friends in Africa are among those attending to show their support and celebrate the day when the Red Army drove the Nazis from our shores. What a day it promises to be!
I slept for two, perhaps three hours that night before I was woken, disoriented, by the Archangel’s bright searchlight beams sweeping the clouds and rooftops, shining in through people’s windows to make the rooms brighter than day. I lay there thinking of those lost moments in Lorelei’s house, of what I had seen but couldn’t recall. And I tried to recover the memories but the effects of the concussion still kept them from me. I wondered if Hazel, in the next room, had had any more rest than I had had, or if she too had stayed awake hoping still to hear the sound of Nick’s key in the lock.
It was about seven, I think, when I heard the newspaper rattle through the letterbox. I hurried down to intercept it because I wanted to see what they knew of Lorelei’s death – maybe it would lend some hint as to who or what lay behind it – and I also didn’t want Hazel presented with the lurid details. I flicked through the pages before going back to the beginning, confused. There was no word of her. Well, perhaps it had been too late for the edition.
I sat on the stairs, thinking. Nick’s continued absence had me frightened, but, after what I had done the previous day – taking the book from Lorelei’s house and surviving the encounter with Grest – I felt more able to cope. Was there something I could do to help Nick? One idea occurred, even though it was itself daunting.
I called Number Enquiries. I had to repeat my request because it was hard to hear down the crackling line, but they connected me and the call was answered immediately.
‘National Security Police,’ said a gruff voice when it connected. There was a pause while I told myself that I really was doing this. ‘National Security Police,’ it repeated with annoyance.
I shook myself into action. I had to concentrate if I were going to find out anything about Nick. ‘Hello. You have my husband in custody,’ I said. Despite my resolve, it was painful for me even to pronounce the words, and, at the back of my mind, there was the worry that calling might somehow make matters worse. ‘My… his name is Nicholas Cawson.’
‘And?’
‘Can you tell me if you will be releasing him soon? His daughter is here. Her mother died yesterday.’
‘We can’t discuss any case. But what did you say your name was?’
My heart skipped – it felt dangerous even to give these people your name – but there was no point in withholding the information, because they would have it all on file anyway. ‘Jane Cawson. Can you tell me anything at all?’
‘No. But I’ll make a note that you called.’
‘Please, just something.’
‘I will make a note that you called.’
I didn’t doubt that. It was clear too that I was going to get nothing more from him. ‘Thank you. Goodbye,’ I said. The words seemed strange and self-mocking under the circumstances.
I thought it over. I had no influential friends in London – hardly any friends at all, in truth. But I remembered one man who had seemed kind, who might be able to help. Once again, I requested a line from Number Enquiries.
‘Borough Police Station.’ There was no love lost between the regular police and NatSec, and I was banking on that.
‘Hello. I hope you can help. I wanted to speak to an officer I met yesterday.’
‘His name?’ The accent was Cornish, I wondered how he had ended up in South London.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’ll be hard to find him, then, won’t it?’
I remained as polite as I could. ‘He’s about sixty, thin, white hair. A sergeant, I think. Detective. And he attended a death yesterday in Eastcheap.’
‘Eastcheap?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Won’t be us, then. You want Tower Hamlets Central.’
‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’
I hung up and went through it all again. Repeating my request to a man at Tower Hamlets Central Station. I heard him mumbling to someone else in the background. Then he came back to the telephone. ‘Well, we don’t know who it was. But most of CID’s not in till eight. We can try them when they get here. What’s your name?’