The Darkest Hour (8 page)

This day was getting worse and worse, and Rossett wasn’t expecting the situation to improve in the near future.

It didn’t; the air swooshed out of his lungs as the German sentry he’d spoken to earlier smashed a rifle butt into his kidneys from behind. Rossett’s brain started to shut down as he tried to turn to face the source of the blow to his back and also keep hold of the Gestapo man.

Bang!

The rifle butt slammed in again, and this time his legs crumpled and he sank to his knees. The Gestapo officer pulled free and produced a pistol from his pocket, which he leveled at Rossett’s head. The thought crossed Rossett’s mind for the briefest of moments that he was about to be shot as around him the crowd were yelping and pushing each other to get as far away as they could.

He realized he’d lost his grip on Jacob, and he searched, head spinning, tunnel vision setting in, trying to rise up from where he crouched on all fours on the pavement, trying to swallow down the pain in his kidneys, and, most important, trying not to get shot.

He looked back to the Gestapo man, who was regaining some composure now that he had a pistol in his hand.

“Nehmen Sie diesen Mann fest.”

“I don’t speak German.” Rossett was blowing hard, the air slowly returning to his lungs. “I’m fucking English, you Kraut.”

Chapter 10

T
HE INTERVIEW ROOM
had hardly changed in the ten or twelve years since Rossett had last visited. The only thing different, as far as he could tell, was the shade of nicotine yellow the ceiling had turned. It wasn’t lost on him that last time he had been there he’d been sitting on the other side of the table, where now an empty seat waited for whoever was going to ask him some questions.

Rossett imagined himself sitting there all those years ago, fresh faced, except for the bloodied dressing, and still in uniform. He’d arrested a man who’d stabbed a bookie on the Old Kent Road one night after a dispute about some winnings. He thought back to the chase that had taken place after he’d come across the two fighting. He’d had to run for almost a mile and a half through midnight streets before finally catching the bloke and disarming him, but not before he had his face sliced open by a well-handled shiv.

He touched his cheek and ran his finger along the scar, remembering how the girls in the dance halls used to love it, the air of danger and excitement it implied, the bad boy chasing them around the dance floor.

He thought about Lucy, his wife. He saw her eyes again, playfully smiling at him from across the dance floor the first time, holding his gaze and making his stomach flip and the scar redden even more as his cheeks flushed.

He wondered what Lucy would say to him now.

He wondered what that young bobby would say to him now.

Then he remembered that they were both dead.

The door opening dragged him back from the past and into the room. It was with no small amount of relief that he saw Koehler enter. The German was in full dress uniform, Rossett guessed for the parade; it struck him that he’d never seen Koehler in uniform before. Rossett sat back in the chair away from the table and stared at Koehler, who closed the door behind him and leaned against it, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets.

“What were you thinking?” Koehler spoke softly, shaking his head.

“He’s just a child. I didn’t want the Gestapo getting involved.”

“He’s just a Jew. You could have been shot.”

“Those bastards would have thrown him in a cell.”

“What did you bring him here for? To listen to the band?” Koehler tilted his head. Rossett sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

“Yeah, fair enough. You’re right,” he said by way of surrender. “I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Koehler stepped away from the door and took the seat opposite Rossett.

“Stupid Englishman, give me a cigarette.”

Rossett fumbled in his coat, produced a pack, and slid them across with some matches. Koehler lit up and blew smoke out of his nose as he waved the match out. He slid the cigarettes back and stared at Rossett for a moment before speaking.

“I’ll speak with Schmitt, explain about the good work you do for us.”

“Schmitt?”

“You met him this morning; he’s the new head of Gestapo. We’ll put down this incident to a misunderstanding about a prisoner. I’ll tell him you didn’t know who they were and that you thought they were trying to take your prisoner away, to rescue him.”

“Where is Jacob?”

“You need to stop worrying about the Jew and you need to listen to me. You have to remember, Rossett, that you have been chosen to do a very important job for the Reich. A job which you have been doing very well, until today, of course. I warn you, another day like today would go very badly for you. Upsetting the Gestapo never goes well for anybody. Do you understand?”

Rossett nodded.

“You will need to write a letter to apologize to Schmitt, and maybe one to the station commandant as well, just to smooth things over. He wasn’t best pleased that the band stopped playing to watch you get dragged up the steps of the station, even if the rest of us were.”

Rossett smiled, despite himself, and was relieved to see Koehler smile back.

“I’ll write them as soon as I get back to the office.”

“No, you take the rest of the afternoon off. In fact, take tomorrow, as well.”

“I’ve too much to do. I can’t.”

“You can. You have to. It’s an order. You’re working too hard, Rossett. This is a tough job. For some people it’s easier than others. But for you? Well, I think it’s starting to catch up. You need a break. When did you last have some time off?”

Rossett shrugged his shoulders. It seemed that he worked every day and that he had been doing so for months. Maybe Koehler was right; maybe he did need a break. Rossett leaned forward and, placing his elbows on the table, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He suddenly felt very tired and needed a drink.

“Are you all right?”

Rossett nodded and placed his hands on the table palm down. “Before you came in I was thinking about when I was in uniform.” He looked up at Koehler.

“In France?”

Rossett smiled and sadly shook his head.

“No, before that, when I first joined the police, before the war.” He lowered his head at the memory and stared at the back of his hands again. “I just wanted to be a copper, lock up bad people. Ever since I was a little boy that’s all I wanted to do. Maybe I should go back to it?”

Rossett looked up at Koehler, who silently shook his head.

“No, I thought not.”

“None of us can go back to before the war, especially you. The world is a different place. You just need to make a space for yourself in it. Soon your work for us will be finished and we will look after you. Maybe a promotion, a nice job at Scotland Yard, maybe some sort of liaison role, propaganda. We’ll look after you, remember the work you’ve done for us. You are our friend.”

Rossett let out another sigh.

“What?” Koehler tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “You can’t change direction, you’re too far down the line now.”

“Like those trains we put the Jews on?”

Koehler didn’t reply. He chose instead to look at the still-smoking cigarette butt on the floor, then ground it out with his polished boot before looking back to Rossett, who hadn’t taken his eyes from the German.

“Where do they go to? Is it true what people say about the camps?” Rossett pushed, for maybe the first time. Koehler linked his fingers on the table like a bank manager who was about to give him some bad news, tilted his head again, and considered Rossett for a moment. The two men faced off across the table like chess players who had no board but had decided to play anyway.

“They go to Poland, most of them anyway.”

“And what happens to them there?”

“What do you think happens to them?”

“Do they work?”

“Some of them.”

“I hear rumors.”

“Who from?”

“Different people. They say that the Jews are killed when they get to Europe. Is it true?”

“We aren’t animals, John.”

“I saw Germans killing unarmed people in France. It does happen.”

“You of all people should know that was war. Now it is different.”

Rossett sat silently looking at Koehler, who calmly stared back.

“Are we friends, Ernst?”

The German smiled, like a father to a child.

“I think so, yes. Why?”

“Would you tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

“I need to know if I am killing these people.”

“You are putting them on trains, John, making sure things run smoothly, doing your job and following orders.”

“If I put them on the train and the train takes them to their death, that means I am killing them, just the same as if I shot them myself, doesn’t it?”

The German leaned across for another cigarette as Rossett spoke and then took his time lighting it, letting the silence and the smoke float to the ceiling before answering.

“You do a job for the Reich. If you did not do the job, someone else would do it. The job you do brings you a car, extra pay, and, most importantly, security in troubled times. You need to worry less about what you do, and just get on with doing it. They are only Jews, Rossett. Young or old, that is all they are. I’ve worked you too hard. I can see that now and I am sorry. You must take a few days off, I insist. Being around those people drains you. They suck the life out of you when they get under your skin, even the children. Some time off and we will start again on Monday, fresh and new. Yes?”

Rossett nodded silently, and Koehler stood and moved to the door, beckoning for him to follow.

“Come now, I will see you out, so you don’t get into any more trouble.”

Rossett picked up his cigarettes and stood wearily. He was tired. His head hung heavy and his back hurt from the rifle butt as he shrugged on his raincoat. He followed Koehler down the short corridor to the old custody desk, where Rossett had handed in his prisoner all those years ago. A couple of German soldiers were hanging around, and they sprang to attention and saluted as Koehler passed them. Rossett was aware that a few eyed him silently as he followed. He guessed news of his “Kraut” comment had gotten around the building, and he doubted it had gone down well. They walked past the cellblock, where a lone, overweight, and somewhat untidy guard was writing on a chalkboard. The guard stiffened and then fumbled with some keys to open the iron gate that led to the exit of the jail. As the guard nervously rattled the lock, Rossett glanced at the board and read down the list of names it held. At the bottom he saw:

Zelle 14: Galkoff: Jude (Koehler: Sonderzuge oder Ausführung)

Rossett heard the keys in the lock and the groan as the gate pulled open. Koehler thanked the guard and stepped through the gate while Rossett stared at the board, softly mouthing the words he’d read there.

“Ausführung . . . ausführung . . .”
His mind searched for the meaning of the words next to Jacob’s name.

“Rossett, come on, I have work to do.”

Rossett finally passed through the gate and followed Koehler along another corridor to the stairs that led into the main building. As they climbed he repeated the word, silently this time, over and over. He could hear Koehler talking to him about a party function he had to attend that night, complaining about having to wear his uniform all day and then all night, but the German’s small talk grew ever more distant as the words on the chalkboard fell into place.

They passed through another door and found themselves back in the main entrance of the old police station. It was busy with people coming and going, and the old inquiry desk was now manned by two Home Defense Troops and one female SS officer. Koehler led Rossett past the desk, and they stopped by the heavy doors that led back out onto the street—the doors that Rossett had been carried through an hour or so earlier.

Koehler held out his hand and Rossett took it to shake.

“Go home. Leave everything to me for a couple of days. Try to rest,” Koehler said as he shook; Rossett felt the firm grip of the German and noted that it felt sincere, like his eye contact.

“The board, in the jail,” Rossett heard himself asking,

“What board?”

“I saw Jacob’s name, and next to it was written ‘special train or execution,’ with your name.”

Koehler stopped shaking his hand but continued to hold it. The two men faced each other and Rossett saw a flash of something he hadn’t seen before pass behind the eyes of the German. He felt Koehler’s grip tighten and became suddenly aware that several of the cells below ground had been empty and that if he found himself in one, nobody would come looking for him.

“I just wondered what it meant, that’s all.”

Koehler’s face softened. He released Rossett’s hand, walked back to the desk, and spoke to the female. She rummaged under the counter and passed him a book, which he signed and then tore a page from. Koehler walked back to Rossett and passed him the piece of paper.

“This is for petrol; fill up that old car from the pump in the courtyard and then tomorrow take that landlady of yours with the comfortable arse down to that freezing beach you both like to sit at. Buy her some tea and ice cream and then take her into the sand and fuck her. It’ll do the both of you good. Now get out of my sight, I don’t want to see you till next week at the earliest.”

Koehler turned smartly and walked off toward the main stairs that led to his office. Rossett stood in the foyer for a moment watching him go. He stuffed the chitty into his pocket and walked out into the street, which had returned to normality after the earlier parade.

He walked down the steps and past an old man with a dustcart who was coaxing a few cigarette butts down the gutter with a balding broom toward a half-blocked grate.

The old man obviously didn’t care what would happen if the grate became fully blocked and had to be investigated. Nobody would point a finger in his direction when things went wrong.

Rossett wished he could say the same.

Chapter 11

R
OSSETT SAT IN
the car and stared at the petrol chitty Koehler had given him. There was no upper limit filled in, which meant the Austin was going to have a full tank for the first time in years. Maybe he would ask Mrs. Ward to take a run down to the beach; they could fill a flask and fetch that tartan rug she kept folded on the settee in the front parlor. He felt something stir inside for the first time in a long time and wondered whether Koehler had been right, whether maybe he had been working too hard, thinking too much.

He started the car and looked across to the open courtyard gates. He knew the petrol pump was located on the far side of the garages, which had once been Bow Street Runner stables back when the Met had been a private army guarding the streets from the muggers and murderers who lurked in the gaslit shadows.

He pulled across and the sentry approached his window. Rossett cursed when it dropped into the door again as he opened it.

“I’ve got a petrol requisition, I need to fill up.”

The guard glanced down at Rossett’s warrant card and the note he held in his other hand.

“You will have to come back later. The area commander’s cars and escort are inside, and I can’t let anybody in until they go. The yard should be open after eight.”

The young German shrugged as he spoke. Rossett glanced past him and saw the three big Mercedeses and a troop truck parked, taking up half the yard.

“I’ll be two minutes, I promise. This tank is tiny.”

“I’m sorry, those are the orders.”

The German stepped back to his hut, conversation over, and Rossett moved the little gear lever into reverse and cursed his luck.

“First time off in years and I still have to come back later,” Rossett muttered under his breath, deciding to make use of the broken window’s being down by sparking up another cigarette.

He opened the packet only to find it was empty. This day was getting better and better. He pulled out onto Charing Cross Road in search of a tobacconist and, spotting one, dodged the Austin across the street and bumped it up onto the curb facing into traffic.

There was a fog coming down, pushed by the cold November air. A few of the passing cars had their headlamps on and the afternoon felt damp, heavy with winter. Rossett ran his fingers through his hair and noticed it was wet to the touch. He longed for some warmth and made a mental note to get a good fire going in his room as soon as he got home, damn the coal ration. If he was going to have a holiday, he was going to spend it somewhere warm.

He wrestled the window back up and stepped out onto the pavement. Next to the tobacconist’s, he noticed a small off-license window display that caught his eye. He stared at the bottles that lay in wooden boxes on beds of straw and thought about buying some Scotch and spending the evening warming his throat as he warmed his feet. Rossett stopped and tried to remember if the pleasure at the start of the bottle was worth the pain at the end. The pain that brought tears and the tap tap tap of his old service revolver against his temple as he screwed his eyes and tried to shut out the world and dam the tears that the Scotch shook free.

It wasn’t, not tonight. He walked on to get the cigarettes.

The fog inside the tobacconist’s shop was almost as thick as the fog outside. A small man with a waistcoat and a puffing pipe was stocking some shelves. He scuttled behind the counter on seeing Rossett and stood expectantly, hands clasped across his chest like an eager mouse relishing cheese.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Sixty Players.”

The pipe dropped a fraction at the corner of his mouth like a railway signal at a passing train. The shopkeeper dropped the cigarettes onto the counter and reclasped his hands.

“Can I interest sir in a nice cigar for after dinner this evening?”

The pipe fluttered an expectant fraction and Rossett frowned. He was on holiday; maybe a cigar would be nice?

“What would you recommend?”

The pipe perked up and the little man lifted the counter flap and led Rossett by the elbow to the case he’d been stocking as Rossett had entered.

“We have a wide selection, sir, all excellent.”

He stood back and studied Rossett like a tailor, then slid back the glass door and produced a box of Cubanas. With the solemnity of a bishop at a coronation, he held the box in front of Rossett and slowly opened the lid.

“I think sir will find these to his taste. One can still smell the sunshine on the box. A mild cigar, sir, a relaxing smoke perfect for that recline in an armchair after a tough day.”

The edges of Rossett’s mouth twitched.

The little man pulled four cigars from the box.

“Will sir be paying cash?”

Rossett nodded, feeling the weight of the day slip from his shoulders. The little man puffed on his pipe, sending smoke signals to the gods of a good sale, job well done.

Maybe this is why women buy hats? thought Rossett as he patted his pockets looking for his wallet in his raincoat, realizing he felt better for the time he’d spent in the shop. The little man dotted the invoice with a flourish and turned it to Rossett for him to see.

The pipe dropped again as the tobacconist looked up into Rossett’s eyes.

“Sir?”

Rossett stared back blankly, the moment’s contentedness suddenly crushed under the realization that he had left the pouch with the coins in his desk back at the station. His blood dropped from his face to his feet as something else hit home.

Koehler knew about his going to the beach with Mrs. Ward. He’d never told anyone he’d been to Southend with her, and yet the German knew.

That meant he’d been followed.

That meant they didn’t trust him.

And if they didn’t trust him before today, they certainly wouldn’t trust him now; those coins in the desk could be an end to his warrant card and a start to his death warrant.

He needed to get them out of the station quick.

“Sir?”

Rossett drifted back to the shop like a man regaining consciousness. He looked at the shopkeeper as if seeing him for the first time. Willing his brain to say something, he realized his mouth had been hanging open, and he clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.

“I . . . I just remembered something, something important.”

“These are such stressful times, I’m sure these fine cigars will lighten your burden this evening with maybe a brandy. Next door offer a fine—”

“How much is all this?”

The shopkeeper seemed disappointed that his run of form had failed him, and he placed his finger above the invoice total and smiled.

Rossett pulled a pound note from his wallet and then realized he would have to pull a couple more; he glanced at the shopkeeper and shook his head with disbelief at the expense of the cigars. The sales spell had been well and truly broken and the warm feeling long gone.

“Would sir be interested in opening an account?” The shopkeeper finally removed his pipe as he placed the change on the counter; Rossett noticed the two cracked yellow teeth the pipe had been resting against.

“No.”