Season Of Darkness (39 page)
They’d established early on that in a matter of extreme emergency, he would receive a note in a packet of cigarettes, to be destroyed immediately, and that the rendezvous would happen that night. He’d stayed out of sight until darkness fell, going back to the estate only to do the job. There was a constable leaning against his own door but he was fast asleep. At first, Trimble considered just getting the hell out, but he needed the other man’s help
.
When he reached the small clearing with the dead tree in the middle, he stopped, straining his ears to listen. He didn’t hear the man move but a shadow separated itself from the tree. It was him
.
“Good evening, Arthur.” His voice was muffled and he didn’t speak above a whisper, but for Trimble the words seemed dangerously loud
.
The man took another step toward him. “Did you do what I asked?”
“I did and bleeding difficult it was. I had to siphon some from the old lady’s Rolls and God knows how I’m going to explain that to her. But I could only get two gallons all together.” He put the cans down. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s this all about, are you?” His voice was truculent, going as far as he dared
to the edge of defiance. As usual the man was wearing a black balaclava. Trimble had never really seen his face
.
Trimble stepped closer. “I think the police might have found the transmitter.”
“How did that happen?”
“When I went by this afternoon just to check, I thought the leaves were disturbed. The coppers have been combing the woods looking for clues to the Watkins girl’s death.”
“That was unfortunate,” said the man ambiguously
.
“It wasn’t my bloody fault. She saw what I was doing. She’d have reported me immediately. I had to do it.”
“Is the transmitter still there?”
“It is. But I’m not taking any chances. I’m getting out. You said you could give me the name of a contact in Ireland and that’s where I’m going. First thing in the morning. I’m not going to stick around and get my neck stretched.”
The other man sighed ostentatiously, making his impatience obvious. “Well, there’s no good crying over spilt milk. The problem is that everything could completely unravel at a moment’s notice. Maybe the Secret Service do know about you and are playing you like a fish.”
Trimble had been wondering the same thing and he could feel his bowels loosen at the thought
.
“My job here is over,” said the other man. “The camp is breaking up soon. I’m getting out too.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to Ireland?”
“Like I said before, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
“You’re not planning to renege on our agreement, I hope. I’m going to need a lot of dosh.”
“Of course.”
They were standing close together so they could speak quietly, and the other man reached into his pocket. When his hand came out, he was holding a switchblade. He flicked it open. Trimble
didn’t see it, didn’t have a chance to move or defend himself. One swift stroke and the blade penetrated his heart with complete efficiency, right under the ribs. He dropped with hardly a sound, just one gasp as if he’d been punched and the wind knocked out of him
.
The man poked at him with his foot, then checked Trimble’s pockets to make sure he had nothing incriminating on him. There was nothing except the keys to the lorry, some loose change, and a couple of pound notes. He took everything. Then he rolled the body underneath the tree and pushed dead leaves over it until it was completely hidden. He did the same with the two containers of petrol. He’d brought a torch with him and, keeping it pointed low to the ground, he made his way to the road. He was taking a risk being away from the camp for long, but he’d noticed that since the announcement that the camp was being disbanded, the soldiers on guard duty had become even more lax
.
Trimble had parked the lorry in a pass-by a hundred yards up from the entry to the woods. The man started the engine and slowly drove further away, pulling the lorry off the road at a break in the trees. He drove it into the woods as far as he could go, the branches making hideously loud cracking noises. Finally, he reached a place where the ground sloped sharply downward. He inched the lorry as close to the edge as he could, then, slipping the gear into neutral, he got out and pushed. The lorry obeyed easily and rolled down the slope until it crashed into a rock and tilted on its side. It wouldn’t be a good hiding place in an extensive search, but it was far from the road and he didn’t think it would be detected immediately. All he wanted was to buy some time for his escape
.
He tossed the keys into the trees as far as he could and headed back to camp, regaining his tent without incident. Once on his cot, he lay on his back for a while, thinking
.
O
N
M
ONDAY MORNING
, C
LARE
D
EVEREAU FOUND
what they had been waiting for.
There was only a light post delivery, and the thick, brown envelope addressed to Dr. Beck stood out. It was stamped with the letterhead of the London Psychoanalytic Institute and, according to the postmark, had been mailed on Thursday, arriving with a speed unusual these days with the demands of war slowing the post.
Carefully she slit it open. Inside was a short note from the director of the
LPI
. He simply said he was forwarding the papers Dr. Beck had requested from his desk at the Institute. He had been forced of necessity to reassign the doctor’s office given the uncertainty of the date of his return, but he wished him luck and he was sure he would soon be released from the camp. He also enclosed a sealed letter which was addressed to Dr. Beck in care of the Institute. This letter had been franked four months earlier from Berlin. It had gone via Switzerland.
Clare opened that envelope next. The letter was written in German, the handwriting scrawling and hurried.
Berlin. May 1940
.
Dear Dr. Beck
,
I do hope this letter reaches you. I’m sending it to the London Psychoanalytic Institute in the hopes they will forward it. We have heard that many Germans residing in England are being interned as enemy aliens. If that has happened to you, I do hope
you will be released soon. If you do get this and can write back to me, I would most appreciate it as I am at a loss as to what to do and as always would welcome your wise guidance. First, let me bring you up to date about matters here
.
We are all struggling. Although patients are now plentiful because of the government subsidies, we are scrutinized in a way we have not been before. We are only allowed to take so-called deserving patients, and we have to make a decision as to whether they can be so considered. Whereas previously this was a matter strictly of diagnosis – no latent psychosis, no narcissism, no mental retardation; those whom it was obvious cannot benefit from psychotherapeutic analysis – now we are forced to take on patients because of our financial circumstances, accepting even doubtful cases. However, even more important, rumour has it that anyone who is turned down as not treatable stands a very good chance of disappearing for good. It is the most dreadful dilemma and I have already taken on two young men who are quite unsuitable. One is a soldier who was injured during the invasion of Poland. I suspect he is suffering from brain damage, although it might be a matter of shell shock. He cannot concentrate at all and his thought process is most strange and incoherent. I believe he is a hopeless case but dare not turn him away. The Hitler regime doesn’t like soldiers who might throw a negative light on the military. So I lie and say he is making steady progress
.
The other client is also a young man, the son of a wealthy manufacturer here in Berlin, but he is clearly a borderline mental defective and psychoanalysis is incomprehensible to him. His father begged the director to take him on. At least it gives him somewhere to go four times a week and they pay handsomely, but it is a travesty to think I am helping him. However, I am also afraid that even his wealthy father cannot protect him from being considered a “useless life.” And then what? I shudder to think
.
However, enough of my woes; I have sufficient interesting cases
to keep me going, and really it is about one of them that I am writing to you
.
Do you remember that when I was under your supervision (how I wish I still had that privilege), I was assigned a Frau Mueller? It was over a year ago now, so may I refresh your memory. She came to the Institute in May of 1939, complaining of severe headaches and suffering from a general malaise and anxiety. A not untypical story of a middle-aged, middle-class housewife with no work to occupy her mind. Very quickly, she began to complain about her husband, his neglect and indifference. I considered she was making some progress in the analysis when she finally revealed her suspicions that her husband was a homosexual. She also let slip that he was a high-ranking member of Herr Hitler’s inner circle, but she never said his name. Hers was undoubtedly false. She became more and more insistent that I believe her story. I followed your advice and constantly emphasized that this need was coming from her transference toward me as her indifferent father. I insisted it didn’t matter what my views were; it was more important that we examine this transference. She fought me tooth and nail and said she would prove what she was saying was true. I didn’t think we were making much headway. Then, alas, you had to leave the country and I was on my own. Shortly afterward, she came to her session with an envelope which she said contained photographs of her husband that were of a decidedly incriminating nature. Not only that, he was cavorting with young men who hardly seemed to be at the age of consent. I have no idea how she came by these pictures and I didn’t ask. Following orthodox practice, I refused to look at them. I again tried to get her to understand why it was of such paramount importance that I believe her. (Perhaps, dear Dr. Beck, I was also somewhat afraid. I had no idea what I would do with evidence of that nature in this climate of suspicion and fear.)
She was utterly furious, cut the session short, and left in a huff. She cancelled her next appointment and I have not seen her since
.
However, a few days ago, I received a letter which I have copied out as follows
.
Herr Schreyer. I left some photographs with you at our last meeting. It is imperative that I have them back. My husband has discovered I have these pictures and frankly I don’t know what will happen to me if I do not return them to him at once. You can send them to the above address.
My dear Dr. Beck, you can imagine my chagrin when I realized I could not lay my hands on the package she had given me! Then I remembered that in all the confusion of your departure, I had gathered together all my case notes from my patients so that you might be able to peruse them at a later date. I dropped Frau Mueller’s photographs into the envelope with the other papers. Do you still have that package? Even as I write this I realize the absurdity of the question. Even if you do have it, I don’t know how you can get it to me. However, I can but try. I understand some post is going via Switzerland where the Red Cross may distribute it. Perhaps the best thing, given current censorship rules, would be to hold back the photographs and simply advise me as to the best course of action to take with my patient. If these pictures are indeed “proof” that her husband is a homosexual, what approach shall I take? The same question applies, of course, in reverse. If there is no “proof,” how shall I proceed? And if, as she says, he is a high-ranking member of our illustrious government, is there anything I should do about that? I shall write to her at once with some excuse and perhaps she will come in. If she does, I shall have you in my mind and I know that the kind guidance I have received from you in the past will stand me in good stead
.
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am your ever faithful servant
,
Otto Schreyer
.
Clare put his letter aside and removed the papers from the brown envelope. There were four bunches each clipped separately. One was in the same handwriting as Otto Schreyer’s. And there under the paper clip was a smaller envelope, sealed, addressed
FOR DR. SCHREYER
.
She removed it and opened it carefully.
Inside were three photographs. All of them compromising indeed. In two, in spite of a certain haziness as if the picture had been taken through a fine screen, the face of the main participant was clearly visible. And identifiable. Frau Mueller was quite right. If these photographs were genuine, her husband was indeed engaging in homosexual acts with very young men. He was indeed a high-ranking Nazi and his name wasn’t Mueller.
She was admitted to Grey’s office immediately, and found the director seated at his desk, holding a cloth to his jaw.