Weaver

'Well, partly that. And the fact that you're sleeping with an SS-UNTERSCHARFUHRER.'

He felt his blood rise. 'You know about that, do you?'

'You're not exactly discreet. And nor is she. She boasts about it!'

'So what does Julia have to do with it?'

'It's just that she is a close colleague of SS-Standartenfuhrer Josef Trojan. And he is involved in experiments at Richborough. Experiments for which he needs Kamen, for some reason.'

'What kind of experiments?'

'I don't know,' she said simply.

'And you want me to deceive Julia, somehow, so you can get close to Trojan, and Kamen. Is that it?'

'Pretty much. Why, does that give you a moral problem?' She laughed. 'I mean, you're sleeping with an SS officer!'

'What is this – blackmail?'

'No, no. I'm just trying to understand.'

'I don't pretend to understand it myself,' he admitted. 'Call it lust if you want. Must say I thought I was past all that.'

'Maybe it's the uniform,' she said archly. 'And what does she want? I mean, she could have her pick of iron-muscled young SS officers, couldn't she? No offence, but-'

'I think she's lost something too,' he said. 'She's lost her soul, mucking about with all those bloody Germans. Her English soul. So here she is with me. I mean, you can't get much more English than a copper, can you?'

'You're a decent man, Sergeant,' said Doris. 'If I can see that, she must.'

'Best not to talk such rubbish.'

'All right. But the question is, will you help us?'

'I don't know. You clowns in the auxiliaries-'

'Look, if you won't do this for Mary – and you certainly won't do it for me – won't you think about it for the sake of Hilda's memory?'

George felt his fists bunch. 'Don't you bloody talk about Hilda!'

XVI

In the end, it was well after eleven by the time Ernst turned up at the Royal Victoria Hotel, a little way out of the centre of town at St Leonards. And she was later still.

He had booked a table in the restaurant, and he sat, self-conscious as he waited. An unctuous waiter came to take his order, speaking in smooth German; Ernst asked for a bottle of French wine, for he thought it would please Claudine. The waiter brought him a list, the names in German and the prices in Reichsmarks and sterling, and Ernst picked a bottle, more or less at random.

There were plenty of uniforms here, mostly higher rank than his, and a few civilians, business types perhaps, come to investigate the investment opportunities the Reich insisted were to be found here in the protectorate, all blandly ignoring the curfew rules that confined lesser folk. One civilian sat alone at the table next to him, drinking brandy, reading a German-language edition of the Albion Times. Everybody spoke German, including the staff, although Ernst detected the stiff strain of an English accent a few times, expensive British types mingling easily with their conquerors.

And then she came in, swaying through the polished wood of the hotel bar as if she owned the place, defying the curfew herself. She wore a slim-fitting dress and what looked like silk stockings, bright red stilettos, a powder-blue jacket, and a small hat like a trilby set at a teasing angle. Her lips, red like her shoes, were the brightest thing in the room. She drew glances, covert and otherwise, from every man in the room. But she made straight for Ernst.

He stood as she approached. 'I can't believe you're here – I mean-'

'I know.' She leaned over the table, letting him kiss her cheeks.

He smelled perfume and face powder, a scent that wasn't like the schoolteacher he had known in Boulogne at all, but under it there was something, a deeper animal scent that he had never forgotten. She sat easily, crossing her legs. She snapped her fingers, and a waiter brought her a glass and filled it.

He said, 'It's so strange seeing you here – it's so different.'

'Well, nothing's the same, is it? Even if you stand still, it all changes around you. That's the war, I suppose. Look, have you got a light?' She produced a slim case of cigarettes.

He fumbled for a match. Oddly he was reminded of the incident in the car, when Heinz had offered Alfie a cigarette. He had lodged the children with an aunt in Hastings for the night; he would take them home tomorrow. It was hard to think of that strange other family of his now; it was another category of reality, he thought, separated from the universe that contained the woman before him. 'I've never seen you dressed so well-'

'Though you'd rather see me undressed.'

The forwardness of that took him aback. 'A schoolteacher's pay must be good under the Reich.'

'Well, I wouldn't know,' she said.

'You gave up your teaching? What are you doing now?'

'Oh, you know, this and that. A bit of translating; there's plenty of opportunity. It's just all so different now, Ernst. I mean, to be a teacher in the middle of all this – how is one meant to explain the war to a child?'

'You used to say teaching was the highest calling.'

'Well, we all say things that don't stay said, don't we?' There was a slight edge to her voice. 'Are you staying here, in the hotel?'

'Oh, no. This is much too grand for me. I've lodgings for the night, a "bed-and-breakfast.' He used the English phrase. 'And you?'

'I'm in a sort of hostel. Look, if we want to go somewhere the hostel will probably be best. The people are discreet – you know.'

Again that seemed oddly forward. He glanced around the bar, hoping that nobody was overhearing. The man with the newspaper sipped his drink, his face concealed.

She reached out to take his hand. 'Oh, let's not be shy. Look, I've been longing to see you. I got all your letters. I kept them.'

'You did?'

'What an extraordinary time you've had. You should turn it into a book one day.'

'Well, it's not over yet. Besides – I meant those letters just for you.'

'I know. I imagined you thinking of me, even under such circumstances. I was touched.' She was looking into his eyes; she was as lovely as ever.

Yet there was something insincere about her. He saw it, in that moment. He pulled back.

'Why, Ernst, what's the matter?'

'I'll tell you what's the matter.' The dapper civilian at the next table folded up his newspaper. 'He's smelled my aftershave on you, that's what.' It was Heinz Kieser.

'Heinz, you bastard, what are you doing here?'

'Spying on you. What do you think? I wanted to see if the lovely Claudine really existed. There are no secrets in the barracks, you know! And now here she is, and well, well.'

'Look, just leave us alone, will you?'

'And guess what,' Heinz went on, 'it turns out I already knew her after all. Except she didn't tell me her name was Claudine, did you, darling?'

'Go to hell,' she said.

Ernst said, 'I don't understand. What are you talking about, Heinz?'

'She's en carte.' He used the French phrase. 'Why don't you show him, Marie? Show him your card. Come on!'

Claudine dragged hard on her cigarette, glaring at him.

Heinz grinned and stood up. 'My work here is done, I think. Look, don't take it bad, son. We've all been there.' He patted Ernst's shoulder, but Ernst brushed him away.

When he had gone, Claudine stared at the tip of her cigarette. 'Well. This is awkward.'

'You don't have to explain. You don't owe me anything.'

She looked up at him, and anger flared in her pretty, blank eyes. 'Maybe you owe me something, though. Shut up and pour me more wine.'

He obeyed.

'It happened after you left for the barges.'

'What did?'

'I was denounced for my relationship with you. Hard-faced bitch at the school, it was. Probably jealous. Or frigid.' She laughed. 'I got my apartment walls daubed with paint, slogans.'

He nodded. 'Such people use the word "Jerrybags, in England.'