The Lucifer Network (22 page)

‘I've waited twenty-seven years,' she whispered eventually. ‘Twenty-seven years waiting for someone to come.' She opened her eyes and dabbed them with a fresh tissue extracted from the sleeve of her bed jacket. ‘But I never dreamt for one moment it would be his own son.'

Sam leaned forward. ‘Please. Will you tell me about it?'

She tugged at the bed sheet as if to cover herself more.

‘How much do you know about me?' she whispered.

He decided to be blunt. ‘I've been told that you worked as a prostitute and had several clients who were sailors.'

‘
Several.
Och, you make it sound like I was big time. There might have been a dozen at the most.' She spoke without any sign of shame and took in a deep breath to sustain herself. ‘But yes. I earned a little money from business. Life here was dull in them days. I had a mother to look after who'd gone senile. Having men pay me for doing what I liked doing anyway seemed a harmless way to earn some cash. But I was only an amateur at it. Months would go by without a single client.' The effort of speaking was exhausting her. She lay back with her eyes closed. ‘Just get me breath,' she croaked.

‘Of course.'

When she opened her eyes again, she forced them wide. The whites were yellow and brown veined.

‘I gave it all up for ye da, y'know,' she said, looking at him intently. ‘After I'd been going with him a while, I gave it up. Cos I loved him, you see. Loved him to bits.'

Her mouth puckered suddenly, whether from physical pain or a mental hurt, Sam couldn't tell. But he knew he had to press on, to discover the extent of his father's betrayal. ‘These sailors you . . . you took in, you knew from the start that they had access to military secrets?'

‘Och, I didn't know anything of the kind,' she protested. ‘To me they were just men who'd been shut away in the dark for too long. They were all decent fellers. I made sure o' that because I turned away the rough ones. I wasn't that desperate for the cash.'

‘And many of them were married, of course.' He'd sounded unintentionally reproachful.

‘Och, you're no a prude, are you?' she snapped. ‘Telling me I was a wicked woman taking your father away from your mither? Let me tell you something. In his heart your father left that woman long before he met me.' She began to pant for breath again. Sam gave her time to recover.

‘Tell me about him, Jo,' he probed, more gently this time. ‘Tell me how he came to be spying for the Russians. Was it blackmail?'

She nodded. There was the look of a cornered animal about her. ‘They sought him out because he was the wireless operator,' she whispered. ‘Followed him around, in secret like, until they knew more about his life than he did himself.'

She adjusted her position in the bed, then reached
feebly for the glass on the bedside table. Sam picked it up and held it for her while she drank.

‘Thank you.'

She breathed heavily for a few moments, summoning strength and gathering her thoughts.

‘It started the Christmas before Trev died. I had a foreigner come to me for business. I'd just about given the work up because of your da, but I was in bad need of money that day. He spoke good English, this feller, but with an accent. Said he worked at the naval base and had heard of me through friends.' She paused, as if to think through what she was going to say next. ‘But when I let him into the house it wasn't sex he wanted. He was after Trevor. Showed me pictures he'd got of the two of us together on the bed. Somehow he'd hidden a camera in the room – we never found out how.' Her eyes widened, as if still astonished at his ingenuity. ‘And he knew about you and your sister. Said he'd make sure the pictures got to you two kids as well as to your mother. He was ruthless. Said if Trevor didn't give him what he wanted, the pictures would be in the post the next time he went away to sea.'

Sam frowned. ‘The man didn't approach my father direct? He did it through you?'

‘Aye. I don't know why.'

‘Did the man give you his name?'

‘Johann. Like Johann Sebastian Bach, he said.'

‘And this was a Russian?'

‘No. German. From the east. Working for all the peoples of free Europe, he said.' She flicked up her eyes at the absurdity of it. ‘According to Johann, the Russians had been having trouble with MI5 and were using him because he could move around the country more easily than they could.'

‘I see.' Sam remembered a spate of tit-for-tat spy
expulsions at around that time. ‘And my father agreed to provide information?' he asked, resigned to the worst. ‘So that my mother wouldn't learn about your affair?'

Suddenly tears streamed down her face. She picked up the hem of the bed sheet and pressed it to her eyes. ‘It was because of
you,
' she sobbed. ‘Not because of
her.
He didn't care if your
mother
found out about us. She couldn't think any worse of him than she did already. But he knew that you idolised him. And he couldn't cope with the idea of seeing your crushed little face after you'd had an eyeful of those pictures o' us together.'

He shook his head, dismayed that he himself could have been the ultimate reason for his father's agreement to commit treason. ‘And he gave Johann some Navy secrets . . .'

‘No! No he never,' she protested. ‘You mustn't think that.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Nothing that mattered, anyway.' She dried her eyes, her wan face totally washed out. ‘He gave Johann old signal codes – that's what he told me. Information that looked right but which was already out of date.'

‘The Russians would have seen through that,' Sam told her.

‘Oh aye. They did. The next time Trevor returned from a patrol Johann made the threats all over again.'

‘And?'

‘Your father played for time. Keeping them at bay until he worked out what to do.'

‘Which was what?'

‘He didn't have to do nothing in the end. The headaches started and they found the brain tumour. Johann backed off when he realised Trevor was going to die.'

‘You mean that was it? Out-of-date signal codes was all he ever passed to them?'

‘Absolutely.'

Sam felt absurdly relieved. ‘You're quite sure about that?'

‘It's what Trevor told me. And he never did hide anything from me.'

‘And what about Johann? Did he just fade away?'

‘Aye. But he was kind to me.
Keep
your
chin
up,
he said. Sounded odd the way he said it, like he'd read the words in a book. And then when Trevor died, he sent me money to buy a wreath for the funeral.'

‘You were there?' Sam asked, astonished.

‘Och no! I couldn't be. But I sent the flowers.'

He remembered the scent outside the crematorium, made heavy by the heat of summer.

As the woman recovered her breath Sam sat back and pondered. Through the wide window he saw a uniformed nurse helping a stick-thin man in a dressing gown inspect the flower beds.

‘The German, Johann, you never knew his proper name?' he checked.

‘No. But . . .' She put a hand on his arm, looking at him uncertainly for several seconds as if trying to think through the consequences of what she was about to tell him. ‘But there was something strange as happened a couple of years ago. I got a letter. Written by someone saying he was a friend of Johann.'

‘Really?'

‘He said that now the cold war was over, Johann wanted to say sorry for the pain he'd caused.'

‘Extraordinary . . .' Compassion wasn't exactly commonplace in the spying business.

‘The letter asked me to write back and say how I was.'

‘And did you?'

‘No. I didn't want to be reminded.'

Sam saw her flinch as some internal spasm took control.

‘Sometimes it shoots through me like a sliver of glass,' she whispered.

‘D'you want me to call someone?'

‘No. I'm not allowed the injections too often. They'll be round when it's time.' She closed her eyes and sank into the pillows, her mouth half open. ‘It'll pass in a wee while.'

Sam knew he should let her be now, but there was more he wanted to know. For his own sake.

‘Will you tell me about my father? Why were you attracted to him more than the other sailors?'

Slowly her mouth formed into a smile which, if it hadn't been contorted with the pain, might have been mischievous.

‘He was awful good in the sack,' she whispered. ‘The best there ever was.'

‘That was it?'

‘Och no. But that was the start of it. He was just lovely. Kind. Funny.'

‘My mother and sister saw him in a rather different light,' Sam murmured.

‘Your mother? Och, what d'you expect from a woman who tells her man there'll be no more sex?'

‘She said that?'

‘It's what your father told me. He said that after giving berrth to you she wouldn't let him near her.'

‘No wonder he had a wandering eye.'

‘And hands.' She managed a laugh. ‘He was dead sensual, you know.' She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Och I shouldna be saying such things to his son . . .'

‘Say whatever you like,' he told her. ‘Did he . . . did he ever talk about my sister?'

‘Oh aye.' Another spasm gripped her. Sam handed her
the glass again. She swallowed some water, then breathed heavily and evenly to control the discomfort. ‘He was dead upset when Beryl took against him too.' Her voice came out as a whisper. Sam could see she was fading. ‘Said your ma worked hard on her, poisoning her mind against him.' She picked up the Rothesay photo again and managed a smile. ‘It was three days we had together in Bute. The longest we ever had alone. Three of the happiest days o' my life.'

The door clicked open and the nurse came in.

‘You'll be tiring her out, Mr Packer. I need to give her some medication.'

Jo Coggan grabbed his hand. ‘Don't go just yet. I've talked too much. I want to hear about you.'

‘Would you wait outside while I do the injection,' the nurse asked firmly.

‘Of course.' He stood up. ‘I'll be back in a minute, Jo.'

Outside in the corridor he leaned against the white wall and sucked in air. Mysteries had been unlocked. He understood now about Beryl. And he'd learned that although his father had been a rogue, he had probably not been a traitor. The icon was torn, but not destroyed.

‘You can go back in now, Mr Packer,' the nurse told him, holding open the door. ‘But not for long because she'll be asleep soon.'

‘I understand.'

Already Jo Coggan was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

‘You,' she whispered. ‘Tell me about you.'

‘I will. In a moment. But I have one more question.'

‘Questions, questions . . .'

‘The man who wrote to you from abroad with the message from Johann. Do you remember his name?'

‘No. But . . .' She turned her head towards the side
of the room where a dark brown wardrobe stood. ‘In there.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘On the floor. A small green case.'

He opened the cupboard door. A few clothes hung from the rail. Below, next to a pair of trainers was a vanity bag.

‘This one?' He held it up.

She nodded. He placed it on the bed and she indicated he should open it. When he lifted the lid she reached in and brought out a bundle of letters held together with an elastic band.

‘From your da, mostly,' she croaked, sleep rapidly overtaking her. ‘But there's one in there with a foreign stamp.'

Sam flicked through the letters, recognising his father's immature hand. He dearly wanted to read them but knew it would be a mistake to do so. Eventually he found the envelope she'd meant. Franked in Vienna. From it he extracted a single sheet of white notepaper.

As he read the address at the head of the page, a shiver ran down his spine. It was startlingly familiar. He turned the letter over to be sure. The signature was neat and forward-leaning. The name – Günther Hoffmann.

Sam shook his head in amazement. This was extraordinary. The letter had been written by a former Stasi officer whom he'd helped debrief several years ago.

He felt a hand on his arm. The woman was almost asleep, but she knew he was about to go.

‘Will ye come an' see me again?' she whispered.

‘I will,' he promised, staring disbelievingly at the page.

Her lips quivered as she summoned up her failing strength.

‘We were to be married, you know, your da and me. I'd have been your step-mummy, Sammy. Would you have liked that, d'you think?'

She fell asleep before he could think of a reply.

FROM THE POLICE
station in Paddington Julie had returned to Acton to collect a bag before heading for Woodbridge. She'd found photographers outside her flat. Before they could spot her she'd fled back to the underground and thrown herself onto the first train. She had a desperate need to be away from people – from everybody. At Hammersmith she'd left the tube and walked over the bridge to the south bank of the river, finding a bench amongst the horse chestnut trees.

An hour later she was still sitting there, watching a rowing club eight carry their razor-shell craft down to the water. Strongly built boys and girls with nice accents. Normal teenagers at the end of the summer hols. She imagined secure, two-parent homes with siblings and dogs, and she envied them. On the bank opposite, people in suits stood outside pubs, enjoying an extended lunch break in one of the few bursts of good weather they'd had that summer. Her spectacles were smudged. She took them off, polished them with a soft cloth from her bag, then watched a police launch purr past, heading upriver.