Eye of the Needle(50)
It had drawn him and Bloggs together, this common bereavement. And the war had brought him back to life; revived in him those characteristics of dash and aggression and fervor that had made him a fine speaker and teacher and the hope of the Liberal Party. He wished very much for something in Bloggs’s life to rescue him from an existence of bitterness and introspection.
At the moment he was in Godliman’s thoughts, Bloggs phoned from Liverpool to say that Die Nadel had slipped through the net, and Parkin had been killed.
Godliman, sitting on the edge of the camp bed to speak on the phone, closed his eyes. “I should have put you on the train…”
“Thanks!” Bloggs said.
“Only because he doesn’t know your face.”
“I think he may,” Bloggs said. “We suspect he spotted the trap, and mine was the only face visible to him as he got off the train.”
“But where could he have seen you—oh, Leicester Square.”
“I don’t see how, but then…we seem to underestimate him.”
Godliman asked impatiently, “Have you got the ferry covered?”
“Yes.”
“He won’t use it, of course—too obvious. He’s more likely to steal a boat. On the other hand, he may still be heading for Inverness.”
“I’ve alerted the police up there.”
“Good. But look, I don’t think we can make any assumptions about his destination. Let’s keep an open mind.”
“Yes.”
Godliman stood, picked up the phone, and began to pace the carpet. “Also, don’t assume it was he who got off the train on the wrong side. Work on the premise that he got off before, at, or after Liverpool.” Godliman’s brain was in gear again, sorting permutations and possibilities. “Let me talk to the Chief Superintendent.”
“He’s here.”
There was a pause, then a new voice said, “Chief Superintendent Anthony speaking.”
Godliman said, “Do you agree with me that our man got off this train somewhere in your area?”
“That seems likely, yes.”
“All right. Now the first thing he needs is transport—so I want you to get details of every car, boat, bicycle, or donkey stolen within a hundred miles of Liverpool during the next twenty-four hours. Keep me informed, but give the information to Bloggs and work closely with him following up the leads.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep an eye on other crimes that might be committed by a fugitive—theft of food or clothing, unexplained assaults, identity card irregularities, and so on.”
“Right.”
“Now, Mr. Anthony, you realize this man is more than just a conventional murderer?”
“I assume so, sir, from the fact of your involvement. However, I don’t know the details.”
“It’s a matter of national security, important enough to keep the Prime Minister in hourly contact with this office.”
“Yes…uh, Mr. Bloggs would like a word, sir.”
Bloggs came back on. “Have you remembered how you know his face? You said you thought you did—”
“Oh, yes—and it’s of no value, as I predicted. I met him by chance at Canterbury Cathedral and we had a conversation about the architecture. All it tells us is that he’s clever—he made some perceptive remarks, as I recall.”
“We knew he was clever.”
“As I said, it does us no good.”
Chief Superintendent Anthony, a determined member of the middle class with a carefully softened Liverpool accent, did not know whether to be peeved at the way M15 ordered him about or thrilled at the chance to save England on his own manor.
Bloggs recognized the man’s conflict—he’d met with it before when working with local police forces—and he knew how to tip the balance in his own favor. He said, “I’m grateful for your helpfulness, Chief Superintendent. These things don’t go unnoticed in Whitehall, you know.”
“Only doing our duty…” Anthony was not sure whether he was supposed to call Bloggs “Sir.”
“Still, there’s a big difference between reluctant assistance and willing help.”
“Yes. Well, it’ll likely be a few hours before we pick up this man’s scent again. Do you want to catch forty winks?”
“Yes,” Bloggs said gratefully. “If you’ve got a chair in a corner somewhere…”
“Stay here,” Anthony said, indicating his office. “I’ll be down in the operations room. I’ll wake you as soon as we’ve got something. Make yourself comfortable.”
Anthony went out, and Bloggs moved to an easy chair and sat back with his eyes closed. Immediately, he saw Godliman’s face, as if projected onto the backs of his eyelids like a film, saying, “There has to be an end to bereavement…I don’t want you to make the same mistake…” Bloggs realized suddenly that he did not want the war to end; that would make him face issues, like the one Godliman had raised. The war made life simple—he knew why he hated the enemy and he knew what he was supposed to do about it. Afterward…but the thought of another woman seemed disloyal.
He yawned and slumped farther into his seat, his thinking becoming woolly as sleep crept up on him. If Christine had died before the war he would have felt very differently about remarrying. He had always been fond of her and respected her, of course; but after she took that ambulance job respect had turned to near-awestruck admiration, and fondness turned to love. Then they had something special, something they knew other lovers did not share. Now, more than a year later, it would be easy for Bloggs to find another woman he could respect and be fond of, but he knew that would no longer be enough for him. An ordinary marriage, an ordinary woman, would always remind him that once he, a rather ordinary man, had had the most extraordinary of women….