Season Of Darkness (7 page)

“Then I saw a man break rank. He tried to shove the men in front of him out of the way. One of them, who was wounded, fell off the pier. The man didn’t care. He was berserk, trying to get ahead to the waiting boat. That’s when I recognized Fred Scobie from my unit. I hadn’t even known he was on the beach. The sergeant yelled at him to get back in line but he couldn’t listen. He was too panicked. So the sergeant took aim and shot him. In the back. Fred joined the other bloke in the sea, the one he’d knocked over. He was thrashing around and I could see the blood pouring out of him. I know blood is red, of course I know that, I’d already seen plenty of it, but the sea was blue that afternoon, it was broad daylight, and the blood looked so red as it flowed out of him. I kept thinking to myself, ‘That is one hell of a lot of blood. We’d better staunch it before
he bleeds to death.’ But I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid that if I went to pull him out of the water the sergeant might think I was breaking rank and shoot me too. The men behind continued to move forward. Scobie went on splashing frantically. He called out and he tried to lift his arm but a wave slapped him in the face and filled his mouth … he started to choke.… That’s the last I saw of him. I was trapped by the men in front and the men behind me. I turned around best I could but I couldn’t even see where he was anymore. Fred Scobie was one more carcass, face down, bobbing on the sea … And you know what? If you were to ask me to describe the man who shot him, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t recognize him if he passed me on the street. He was a naval officer, an Englishman, one of ours, doing his duty. He probably didn’t even feel bad about it.”

Carefully he lined up the little sachets one beside the other. “Fred Scobie died a coward’s death. Those are the stories nobody wants to tell, but they happen. They happen all the time.”

E
XCEPT FOR THE BARBED WIRE ENCLOSURE, THE CAMP
could have been an army base. Over a thousand men were housed in row upon row of khaki tents. For safety and ease of administration, the camp was divided into three sections, each with a barbed wire fence but connected with each other by gates. There was a large mess tent at the north end of the camp where everybody ate in shifts. In non-meal times, it doubled as an assembly hall and entertainment centre. Behind the tent was a strip of grass set aside for recreation. It wasn’t as wide as a regulation football field, but the young men used it anyway for games that were highly competitive. The occasional ball that was sent over the wire was willingly returned by one of the guards. The scrubby grass of the heath had been beaten down; was a good thing the summer had been unusually hot and dry, or else the camp would have been a sea of mud. There was a guard tower at each corner, and two wide walkways crossed the camp. This was a favourite meeting place for many of the older internees who strolled up and down, debating the Torah animatedly. Electric cables were strung across the enclosure. Except for running water, the internees had all the amenities.

Only on the east side were there any trees to speak of, a small copse just beyond the barbed wire. To the west were mostly high bramble bushes and a few solitary ash trees. Outside the barbed wire, the heath was as it had been for centuries: dun-coloured gorse dotted with purple heather, dainty blue butterflies flitting about.

Tyler turned onto the service road that ran down the western side and parked the Humber next to one of the army lorries. There was a dusty
MG
nearby and he guessed it belonged to Clare.

He tightened his tie, put his hat on, and headed for the commandant’s tent, which was pitched underneath a stand of trees a few hundred feet outside of the main entrance to the camp. All of the flaps were up to get a little more air into the tent, and as he approached, Tyler could see the major was seated at a table talking to Clare. He’d told himself it would be better if she wasn’t there, maybe the fire would die out naturally, but he couldn’t suppress the rush of joy he felt when he saw her.

Major Fordham got to his feet at once. Clare turned and smiled. Today she was wearing a pale yellow frock with a scoop neck that showed off her tanned skin, but in spite of that, Tyler thought she looked tired and drawn.

The commandant was a jolly looking roly-poly sort of man whose flushed cheeks suggested a problem with blood pressure.

“Come in, Tyler. Dreadful business all this.”

“It is that, sir.”

“Allow me to introduce Mrs. Devereau, our translator and general liaison with the internees.”

“We’ve met,” said Tyler. “Many years ago.” He tried to sound casual.

Fordham went back to the tent entrance and beckoned to the sentry standing nearby. “Nash, see if there’s such a thing as a cold drink you can get us from the mess tent. I heard the cook made some lemonade. Bring us a jug, there’s a good fellow.”

The soldier strode off, happy at the task. “We’ve got some Eyeties in the camp,” said the major. “Two of them were working at the Savoy in London when they were arrested. They
do produce the most marvellous meals. I never thought salt herrings could taste so good. And the coffee is extraordinary. They say they put an egg in it, which is probably wickedly extravagant, but my oh my, it’s divine.”

He pulled over a folding camp seat for Tyler, and his manner became grave. “Sir Percy came in person to inform me about the young woman who was killed. I have told Mrs. Devereau. We are both dreadfully shocked. Dreadfully. I knew the girl, Tyler. She used to come over here regularly to help some of the internees write their letters and to teach them English. God forbid with her accent, but better that than nothing as far as I’m concerned.” He grimaced. “She was actually teaching some of them a few good old Saxon cuss words, but I had to put a stop to that.”

“Have you found out any more about what happened?” Clare asked Tyler.

“Not yet. The coroner promised to rush through the post-mortem, so I’ll know preliminary results later today.”

Fordham picked up a piece of paper and began to fan himself. “Elsie Bates was a lively girl. Very attractive. A diamond in the rough. Who on earth would attack her?”

Tyler had no answer for him.

“Sir Percy told me about the gun being a German Luger
P-08,”
said Fordham. “He wants me to question the internees and of course I will, but I tell you now it’s not likely to have come from here. The place is guarded and I don’t know how anybody could slip out and back again undetected. Besides, we hold regular surprise inspections just in case one of them is concealing something they shouldn’t. But as I told Sir Percy, we are dealing with refugees for the most part, mostly professional men, teachers, musicians, students. We’re even housing some priests. They’re all in here because they were originally German citizens who emigrated to England
and for one reason or another hadn’t got their British papers in order. You should see what they’ve set up. It’s a veritable university. Talks and lectures take place all day long. We’re not dealing with the criminal classes here, Inspector.”

He spoke with undisguised pride, a school headmaster sort of pride, which he’d been before he was called up.

“We’re going to have a roll call and you can come and address them. Mrs. Devereau will act as translator. A lot of them speak English, some of them better than I do, but there are others for whom it’s still rudimentary. Mrs. Devereau’s help is invaluable.” He beamed at her. “She acts as a sort of ombudsman as well, fielding complaints or requests for them. She also handles the post.” He frowned. “We haven’t told them anything about what has happened but I’m sure they’re speculating. They’re probably getting frightened. Contrary to what our esteemed war cabinet might think, these men have no reason to want Herr Hitler to take over England. A few of them have already had terrible experiences under Nazi rule. They feel tied and trussed here, as one man put it. In the event of an invasion they are convinced Jerry will massacre them … Ah, thank you, Nash.”

Private Nash had returned holding a tray with a jug of lemonade and some glasses. Fordham took the tray and put it on the table. “Nash, you know who the camp father is, don’t you? Dr. Beck. Tell him to start the roll call. I’ll be there momentarily.”

“Yes, sir.” He marched off, full of self-importance, to do his job.

The major poured three glasses of lemonade and handed them around. Tyler downed his at once. Somehow the cook had managed to cool the drink, and it was sweet and tart at the same time. Not as good as a long pint of bitter, but it would have to do.

He was so aware of Clare, but he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. He hadn’t lost his hair, thank God, but he was heavier than when she first knew him, although the extra weight was mostly muscle. He wished he didn’t have the sunburn on his nose and cheeks, then cursed himself for that little bit of vanity.

Fordham put down his glass. “I’ll just go and keep an eye on things. Be right back.”

He ducked out of the tent.

“Tommy …”

At the same time Tyler said “Clare,” and they both laughed.

“Rock, scissors, paper,” said Tyler. “You first.”

“No, you.”

If you had asked him a month ago if he would ever say what he said next, he would have scoffed.

“Clare, I have never forgotten you …” He stopped. “But then what bloke would ever forget the first beautiful lass that put out for him?”

It was a crude thing to say and he was glad to see she reacted with a flinching of her shoulders.

“I suppose it’s a bit late to apologize?”

“What, for putting out? Not necessary.”

“You know what I mean. I shouldn’t have left so suddenly.”

He shrugged. “At least you sent me a letter. I’ve still got it. It’s in my ‘life lessons’ file.”

She took a deep breath. “I suppose I deserved that. Now isn’t the time, but I do hope that we will have a chance before long to talk properly.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

He was being a right pillock and he knew it, but the hurt and anger was as strong as if it were last week that she’d left, not twenty years ago.

The internees were jamming into the mess tent. A half dozen irrepressible younger men were kicking around a football on the strip of grass outside. He would have loved to join in, to run and tackle, show off how good he was, but he dared not. A couple of months ago, he’d foolishly revealed some of his skills when a loose ball had come his way. They’d pestered him then to join in. But teams were demarcated, skins or shirts. His scars might be noticed and he couldn’t risk that
.

Fear had raced through the camp like a wind. First, a big white Bentley arrived and the driver, a typical tweedy Englishman, upper crust, had hurried over to the major’s tent. Nobody’d seen him before, but one man said he was the local squire. One of the guards at the gate was summoned and he quick-marched to fetch the translator. The squire stayed about half an hour, then drove off fast. A while later, one of their regular sentries had bicycled into the grounds. There was usually two of them arriving in a lorry. The soldier, an older man, had also gone straight to the major’s tent. This unusual activity had started to attract attention and rumours sprang out of nowhere that the second soldier was dead, shot by a Jerry parachutist. Something was up. More whispering. Another rumour. The Nazis had taken London. The beginning of the invasion. Churchill was dead
.

The older sentry emerged and went to the guard towers where he had a confab with the sentries. Must be the invasion. All activities stopped. The men started to gather around the camp father, Dr. Bruno Beck. He had been a psychiatrist by profession
and it stood him in good stead. He listened to the agitated comments and questions of the internees and reassured them that there was no invasion imminent, nor was Churchill dead. The commandant would tell them soon enough what was afoot
.

Yet another car drove in. Not a toff but a man with authority. He too went into the commandant’s tent
.

He wondered what his next orders would be. Hold tight, look and listen. “Never show them your fear, they will turn on you like a pack. No matter what you feel, no matter how much pain you are experiencing, never ever show it.” That had been drilled into him in the early days, and time after time in the training sessions, he had been put to the test. And never failed. Truth was he missed that. Longed to show his mettle again, to be commended and praised. It was all very well to say he’d been specially selected for this important task, but there was nothing exciting about being stuck behind barbed wire for months, with nothing to do but watch and wait
.

One of the guards came with the message to gather in the tent. Roll call was going to be taken. He joined the others and squeezed himself into the back row. There weren’t enough tables for everybody to sit in one shift, and getting all the internees together meant many of them had to stand. There was a lot of grumbling and, in spite of Dr. Beck’s reassurance, the anxiety in the air was palpable. Dr. Beck set the roll call in motion, each section leader checking off his list
.

Finally, they were done and the group fell silent. Three people from outside the wire, plus a guard, were coming through the gate: the commandant, the female translator, and the man who had been the last to arrive. The major, stick under his arm, led the way. He was soft and out of shape and he always looked worried
.

He had only contempt for such transparency
.

The woman was different, which was why he rather admired
her, although she wasn’t really his type. Too long in the tooth and too thin. He liked his women young, coarse, and full-bodied. Nevertheless, he had to admit she had presence, a cool English elegance that he could see would be attractive. She had an erect carriage, head high, chin up. Her clothes were of good quality but not ostentatious. In her dealings with the internees, she was invariably pleasant and had quickly become popular in this woman-starved environment. However, he found her hard to read. He wasn’t sure if her aloofness was a typical characteristic of the well-bred Englishwoman, or if it was from some other cause
.