‘Inspector van Gils. I am sure I have broken lots of rules I don’t even know exist to tell you what I have told you. Can you not do the same for me? It sounds as if your superiors would not be unhappy to see evidence related to this particular investigation leave your country.’
‘You are right about that.’ Van Gils allowed himself a gruff smile. ‘I will see what I can do.’
28
Kensington, London
Alston walked briskly through Kensington Gardens on his way back from a luncheon at the Savoy with Freddie Copthorne, a newspaper proprietor and a general. It was late afternoon, dark, but not yet pitch black, and he could still see his way.
Luncheon had gone well. There was no doubt that Alston was widening his circle of influential admirers, to whom he knew he came across as someone who was sound, reliable yet astute. Not a hothead, but one who would take difficult decisions to do what was best for his country.
He was buoyed by The Times leader of that morning, which had floated the idea of a Cabinet shake-up, perhaps involving the War Office, and named him as one of two or three able men with experience of business as well as Parliament capable of providing an injection of vigour into the government.
It was becoming increasingly clear that in war the normal rules of political advancement didn’t apply. Alston might only have been in Parliament since 1935, and he was barely forty, but he was indeed a man of energy and vigour, and his country needed him. More importantly, he could see things clearly — he always had been able to. For him the issues of the day were unobscured by sentiment or traditional patterns of thought. The world was changing in ways that very few of his colleagues in Parliament understood. Modern Germany pointed to the future; Neville Chamberlain, with his frock coat, winged collar and furled umbrella, tugged Britain back to the past.
When the crisis came — and Alston was sure there was going to be a crisis at some point in the future — Alston wanted to be the one important figures such as the newspaper proprietor and the general turned to. He wasn’t at that point quite yet, but he was getting there.
It wasn’t just luncheon and The Times article that were responsible for lifting Alston’s spirits. Constance had said she would drop round to his flat to report on what had happened in Holland. This would be his first opportunity to see her since she had returned to England; Alston had spent the previous few days at his castle in Berwickshire with his wife and son. Alston was worried about Constance: it must have been shocking to discover Millie’s dead body like that. And he felt very sorry for poor old Arthur Oakford. Who had killed his daughter? he wondered.
Of course, what he really wanted to do with Constance was fuck her. It was less than two weeks since Alston had taken Constance to his bed, or perhaps it was the other way round. That afternoon had been a revelation. Alston had just told his wife he might not get a chance to return to Berwickshire until Christmas, citing important affairs of state in London. But really he just wanted to see Constance. And fuck her.
But he would have to be gentle with her. She would be upset. He would have to be patient, wait until she had recovered her strength.
As he strode down Ennismore Gardens in the near darkness, he saw what seemed to be the silhouette of a woman on the pavement outside his building.
It was her!
She approached him. As he drew closer, he saw that her face was flushed with excitement, rather than grief.
‘You must be cold,’ he said, touching her cheek.
She smiled and pecked him on the lips. In the dark street, no one could see. ‘I am. Can I come in? Perhaps you could warm me up?’
Alston felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he pulled Constance’s naked body close to him. Fucking had been, if anything, wilder than before, as if Constance’s experience in Holland had inflamed some primeval passion. Alston, that paragon of culture, intellect and rational thought, had felt like a caveman.
‘Could you tell I was pleased to see you?’ Constance said, running her hand over his chest.
‘Yes.’ He squeezed her. ‘I was worried in case… Well, in case you were distressed about Millie. Are you going to see her brother?’
‘I’ve seen him. In the Russian Tea Rooms, over the weekend.’
‘How is he?’
‘Rather upset, I’d say.’
‘I’m not surprised. Do they know who killed her?’
‘They think it was Theo von Hertenberg. The German spy. Millie’s friend.’
‘But why would he kill her?’
Constance unhooked herself from Alston’s arm and sat astride him, pinning him down against the bed.
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because he didn’t kill her.’
‘He didn’t kill her? But you just said he did.’
‘They think he did. But I know who really killed her.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Because it was me.’
‘You!’ Alston struggled to sit up, but Constance pushed him down on his back and kissed him. At first he struggled, but then he responded.
She came up for air.
‘Why? How?’ Alston demanded.
‘When I telephoned you from Scheveningen you said I should stop Millie telling anyone what Theo had said about the Duke of Windsor. So I stopped her.’
‘I didn’t say to kill her!’
‘No. But it was pretty clear to me that that was the only way to shut her up, and I had to do it quickly, too, before she had a chance to talk to anyone. I don’t know what exactly is going on with the Duke of Windsor, but it must be desperately important. Isn’t it desperately important?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Alston admitted. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I told her that Theo wanted to meet her out on the dunes before dawn. I sneaked into the hotel kitchens and borrowed a knife. Then I got up even earlier than her, and hid in the bushes in the dunes.’
‘You stabbed her?’
‘Yes. And then I pretended to discover her. I left the knife in her chest, but I wiped the handle clean. To get rid of my fingerprints. And I told the police and the intelligence people that I had seen someone who looked like Theo leaving the dunes. I couldn’t sound too certain about it in case it turned out he could prove he was somewhere else, but it was enough to point them in his direction.’
‘Good God!’ said Alston. He wriggled out of Constance’s grasp and sat up, reaching for a cigarette.
‘Aren’t you pleased with me?’ Constance said, smiling.
‘No, of course I’m not!’ Alston snapped. ‘That’s murder!’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Constance. ‘This is war. People die. In horrible ways.’
‘On the battlefield.’
‘This is as important as the battlefield. More, probably. Millie’s death will have a bigger effect on who wins the war, or how the war ends, than a single soldier on the battlefield. Won’t it?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘But what? I did it for you, Henry.’
‘I didn’t tell you to kill her!’
‘No. But I read today’s Times and I was so proud. You can do it, Henry. You can join the government. And then you can become Prime Minister. Chamberlain is useless. Halifax is a coward. Oakford is a pacifist. Churchill is a warmonger. Mosley has some good ideas, but he’s a snake. You can do it, Henry; you can lead this country to a just peace and a glorious future. With no Jews.’