Lorelei’s letter told of the American colonel who, she suggested, was in a more underhand section of the army than the Education Corps to which he claimed allegiance. But before she wrote of him, she had described some of the other guests at the party – and one in particular:
…the town is also full of the worst sort of harpies ready to fall backwards with their legs in the air if it means an audition. Half of them have a permanent grin like a hyena. It’s stuck on with lipstick and regular injections from a doctor, Max Jacobson, who everyone here calls Dr Feelgood. I have no idea what’s in those shots but I have to say that after I gave one a go I was dancing from Friday night until lunchtime on Tuesday. He was telling me how he could get hold of the latest medical drugs in big quantities when a Yank officer marched over, announced that his name was Colonel Hank Dee, that he was a huge admirer of mine and that he would be honoured to take me out for a drive. I politely told the good doctor I would talk to him later about his offer…
‘I found this hidden in the house.’ From my pocket I drew the broken piece of thin, circular glass with jagged edges that had been in the box. The typed label that stretched to the rough edge read: ‘Jacob’, the last few letters having been torn off. ‘I’m sure it’s the base of a medicine phial. I saw them all the time at the surgery.’ The card boxes with their little compartments, those that had reminded me of the cartons full of rifle rounds, had held the delicate little tubes. And Tim Honeysette had handed me ten pounds at his house, expecting something contraband but vital in return.
So it had all fallen into place. Medical drugs. Everyone knew that the Americans had treatments years ahead of our own – antibiotics to fight infection, and medicines for your heart or blood – and this man, Jacobson, was offering them to Lorelei. Nick must have read and reread her letter, weighing the possibilities and the dangers. Even before the Soviets’ arrival, it had taken years before American drugs had become legal here, and after our new friends arrived there hadn’t been a hope in hell of getting them.
Grest examined the letter slowly and carefully. I could see him considering what I was saying. Would he be convinced by it? It wasn’t conclusive proof, no, but it all seemed a damn sight more likely than Nick working for the CIA. ‘Has he told you something like this?’ I asked.
He gazed at me for a long time. ‘I haven’t spoken to him – it’s someone else’s case. But I haven’t heard anything about this.’
‘The other officer. Is he junior to you?’
‘As it happens.’
‘So you can take over the case?’
He brushed some dust from the desk. ‘If I want to. Tell me more about this supposed activity of theirs.’
‘They’ve been doing it for years. I think they were selling some to patients, and some was going to Party officials.’
Grest sneered a little as if the very idea were absurd. ‘Which Party officials?’
I held my nerve. ‘Tim Honeysette. Deputy Secretary at the Ministry of Food. He tried to buy some from me yesterday.’ I felt guilty handing over his name – he had only bought whatever it was Nick was supplying him with – but I had no other way of getting Nick out of there.
There was a pause. ‘Impossible,’ Grest replied. But I knew he had believed me. ‘And what was he trying to buy?’
‘I’m not sure.’
The book had detailed the trade, each section noting a batch of orders smuggled from America. The first column, I knew, listed telephone numbers for the buyers. That was how they were identified. Then the second column, a string of three letters, probably recorded what they had ordered, but I couldn’t decipher it. ‘It cost ten pounds, though, and he might do you a favour or two if you let Nick out to keep up the supply.’ He sat back and stared at me again. Most NatSec officers were true believers and Nick couldn’t have approached them with such a confession and offer. But Tibbot had already told me that Grest had a history of looking the other way in return for a few quid. And here I was, also dangling before him the prospect of entry to the Closed Shops. ‘It can all be confirmed by a woman called Rachel Burton. She’s in a hospital in Kent. She was part of the group. There will be other buyers too. Maybe in the Ministry of Justice.’
‘Who?’ The prospect of rapid promotion was the most magnetic to him.
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to find out.’
‘How did they bring in the medicines?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I see.’
I gained a little courage. ‘My husband isn’t working for the CIA. I don’t know why you ever thought he was – you half heard something somewhere and came to the wrong conclusion.’
He waved away my words. ‘Can you get me the details – where they came from, who they were going to?’
‘No, only my husband could do that.’
‘If you’re lying to me, Mrs Cawson, it will go hard with you, and with your husband,’ he said. I nodded. He shifted in his seat. ‘This Comrade Honeysette. Did he approach you?’
‘No, I went to his house.’
A flicker of surprise. ‘How did you know he was buying from your husband?’ I hesitated. I didn’t want to mention the ledger unless I had to – I wanted to keep a bargaining chip for later in case Grest went back on his word and kept Nick in custody. If I told him, he would demand I hand it over and then I would have nothing if he reneged on the deal.
‘I heard him and Nick talking about it once,’ I said.
He thought it over, drumming his fingers on the desk, before seemingly coming to the conclusion that it was at least worth considering. ‘Wait here.’ He left the room and locked it from the outside. There was a window with wire mesh over it, and I looked out to the street. People on the other side of the road stared up at the edifice, not seeing me. I knew everything that they were thinking, though.
Somehow I felt that I was betraying Tibbot by keeping all of this from him; but he really was better off not knowing. Good, sad Frank Tibbot could go back to his quiet life and retire, never having got revenge for his daughter’s death, but all the safer for it. And I felt sorry for Rachel too. Like the dissidents, she had been dragged to an insane asylum to keep her quiet. No one listens to the mad.
I sat there for more than an hour, hearing that harsh building’s distant sounds, until, finally, I heard a key rattle in the lock. Grest came back into the room, carrying a folder of documents. ‘Your husband will be released,’ he said.
I gasped. The joy I felt was as if I were the one being pardoned from a death sentence, not him. ‘When?’ I asked, jumping up.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Why not today?’
He snorted. ‘There was a set-to with one of our guards. Stupid, really. Especially when Hopkins broke his wrist in return.’
I was secretly a little proud of Nick. ‘But what’s that got to do with releasing him?’
‘You don’t understand how this works, do you? If he had just kept a hold of himself, I could have been able to get him out today. But Hopkins might object if your husband walks out of here without a bit of a stay in the cells to teach him a lesson. You don’t want to draw any undue attention right now.’
‘Will he be all right? You need him too.’
‘Hopkins and a couple of the others will stop by to make him understand. Nothing too serious. I’ll make sure he can stand at the end of it.’ I felt something harden in the pit of my stomach. ‘Now go home. You’ll see him tomorrow.’ He opened the door for me. ‘By the way’ – he checked one of the documents he was carrying – ‘it’s not really “Lorelei”. It’s “Anne”. “Anne Addington”. It seems she changed it.’