Weaver

There was an explosion up ahead, a sharp crack. The truck ahead of them stopped suddenly, and Heinz had to brake. Ernst was thrown forward.

'Shit,' Heinz said.

'I told you we were driving too close.'

There was a rattle of brisk orders, all in German. Ernst saw troopers, Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS, jumping down from the lorries. The vehicles began to rumble forward, but only so they could be pulled off the road.

Heinz leaned out of the car, trying to see ahead. 'What do you think that was, a Woolworth bomb?' An auxiliary special, a bit of gelignite in a biscuit tin.

'Could be.'

'Bloody auxiliaries. We might be here for hours while they search the ditches.' Waiting for room to move forward, Heinz dug a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his vest pocket. They were Camels, an American brand, and Ernst wondered how he had got hold of them. 'Smoke?' Ernst took a cigarette, and tucked it behind his ear. Heinz turned to the children, and forced a smile. 'You?' he said in English.

Alfie, still nervous, grinned and said, 'Ta.' He leaned forward and took a cigarette.

Viv was shocked. 'Alfie, Mum will kill you. Tell him, Ernst.'

'How's she going to know? You have a light, Herr Obergefreiter?'

Heinz laughed and struck a match.

There was another crump, and more shouts. A blunt, ugly shell went sailing over the column from right to left, landing harmlessly in a wheat field.

'That's a spigot mortar,' Heinz snapped.

'Get down,' Ernst said to Viv and Alfie. He made them crouch in the belly of the car.

There was another boom, the whistle of another shell, and an explosion this time. There were angry shouts in German, and the pop of rifle fire.

XV

That Tuesday night, with the clock past eleven, George set off on his curfew beat around the town centre. He started out from the town hall and worked his way down towards the sea front, taking in some of the side streets on the way.

The October night was crisp, the air fresh; he wondered if there might be a nip of early frost. And it was quiet enough for him to hear the rush of the waves on the shingles, a sound which, he had learned in the last couple of years, was just like the noise a house made when it collapsed, shaken back to its component bricks by a bomb. No sound but that, and a few German voices, all male, a bit of laughter. There was nobody else around, nobody English anyhow, save for plodding coppers like George. The civilian curfew was eleven, and midnight for the German troops.

The town, his town, wasn't quite what it had been even a year ago. Most of the streetlights were out, but not all; the blackout wasn't quite as strictly enforced as it had been before the invasion. You would see chinks in blackout curtains, glimpse parlours and kitchens dimly lit by the low-voltage supply, people straining one last cup of tea out of much-reused leaves before bed. In a few houses he saw the glow of televisions.

In the shopping streets, the walls were plastered with propaganda posters, most of them showing smiling British and German workers standing shoulder to shoulder in the face of a horde of rat-like Bolsheviks. That was the thrust of the propaganda nowadays, stressing the unity of occupier and occupied against a common enemy – and George knew there was an element in the town who agreed with it. And here was another novelty, an official sign plastered onto the door of the Marks and Spencer store in Queens Road: JUDISCHE GESHAFT – JEWISH Store.

He checked his watch.

And he saw a figure. A woman in a black, slim-fitting coat, with a dark hat, a scarf perhaps. She seemed to be heading towards the railway station. Her heels rapped on the cobbles with every step, a bright sound, remarkably loud in the dark.

George hurried after her. He called softly, 'Miss! Hold on. Police – don' t be alarmed…' This was why George was out now, along with other senior officers. If there were any curfew-breakers it was better for a bobby to take them quietly into a cop-shop for the night, rather than to leave them to the mercy of the German security services.

But the woman was hurrying now, heading deeper into the dark. She cut up an alley, out of his sight.

'Damn,' he muttered. He began to run, and he put his whistle to his lips, just in case.

When he turned into the alley, he almost collided with her. She had stopped dead, out of sight of the main drag. There was just enough light from a dimmed street lamp for him to make her out. She was quite young, he saw, mid-twenties. She was dressed smartly but sensibly. Her rather square face showed strength.

She looked at him, amused. 'Are you all right, Sergeant Tanner?'

'I don't get out of breath running ten yards, don't you worry. Now look here, Miss-'

'Doris Keeler.'

'I'm quite sure you know all about the curfew. Whatever you're up to I suggest you come with me…'

There was a half-smile on her lips. 'Three, two, one.'

'Oh. How did you know my name?'

'Mary did say you could be a little low on the uptake sometimes.'

Mary?'

'Mary Wooler. A mutual friend, Sergeant Tanner.' She held out her hand.

Confused, he took it and shook. 'Now look here,' he said, trying to regain control of the situation, 'I'm not sure what your game is, but the curfew is no bloody joke. So whatever you want from me-'

'Just a couple of minutes. That's all. If any Boche come by you can make a show of taking me in. Please hear me out, Sergeant. You'd do that for Mary, wouldn't you?'

He frowned. 'I wouldn't use words like "Boche round here. But you're not from around here, are you?'

'I grew up in Colchester. Still live there, or at least I still have a flat there; I've been inside the protectorate for months. That's where I met Mary, in Colchester, during a raid. I used to be with the ARP.'

'Used to be?'

'Things happened. I got fed up with the war, and decided to do something a bit more active. Look, Sergeant, Mary wants your help. And the people she's working for.'

'Who, the WVS?'

She smiled. 'Not them. MI-14. Military intelligence.'

'I don't believe you! Mary?'

'Do you remember a man called Ben Kamen? An Austrian.'

'Of course I remember him. Little chap. Friend of her son Gary's.'

'Yes, and of Hilda's.'

Hearing his daughter's name felt like a blow to the stomach. 'Go on.'

'MI-14 believe Kamen is being held in an SS facility at Richborough.'

'Where's that?'

'Kent. And they want him out of there.'

'Why?'

'Well, I don't know, and I don't need to know. But it was important enough for MI-14 to contact us, through me – I already knew Mary, she mentioned my name – and she suggested I should get hold of you, and ask for your help.'

'Whoa, whoa.' He held up his hands. 'And this "us of yours, I suppose-'

'I can see you've guessed.'

'The auxiliaries.'

'We call ourselves the resistance.'

'Well, I bloody don't. I have to deal with the consequences of your cowboys-and-Indians indulgences.'

'You're talking about the reprisals.'

'Yes, I'm talking about the reprisals,' he said grimly. 'When the leaves fell last winter and they cleared out most of you lot with your "scally wagging, I cheered, I can tell you. And you're all a pack of lefties anyhow as far as I can see.'

She wasn't perturbed by this. 'It's true a lot of the leaders fought for the Republicans in Spain. In fact, Ben Kamen did, you know. But it's the methods they brought back from over there that count now, Sergeant, not the politics.'

He glanced around, making sure they were still alone. 'I know the bloody Germans have got to be fought,' he hissed. 'I lost a daughter to this war. It's a question of how to fight them. I'm a Sussex copper, Miss Keeler. I keep the peace, that's my job. What makes you think I'd be any use running around in Kent? Is it just that I know Mary Wooler?'