Voices on the Wind (21 page)

‘You're looking well,' Dorothy said briskly. And then, frowning slightly, ‘I haven't seen you all dressed up like that for ages. Is it new?'

‘No, quite old in fact. How are the boys?' Katharine changed the subject and her daughter explained what a nice time they'd had sailing. Great fun for them and such a coincidence, meeting a couple who had a boat and offered to take them out for the day – of course, she added, they were so disappointed not to come down, but she'd promised on their next half-term.…

Katharine offered her a cup of tea. Dorothy said, no, she'd make it. She treated her mother as if she were always tired and did things for her that made Katharine feel incapable. It was such a pity, she thought, sipping tea she didn't want, wishing she was closer to her only child. What a shame to sit here and make up a pack of lies about a non-existent friend, instead of telling her the truth. But Dorothy would have been horrified, rushing to the phone to speak to her husband, convinced that her mother was either inventing the whole story or about to be kidnapped and murdered by some confidence trickster. The little terrier, sensing upheaval, retreated under the table. No use regretting an intimacy which had never existed, Katharine realized. She was light years away from the matter-of-fact woman sitting opposite, already making excuses about having to get back early. Dorothy took the packet of dog biscuits and a couple of tins for the reluctant Polly, who had to be caught and put on the lead. At the door, she pecked her mother's cheek again and then said,

‘By the way, hadn't I better have a telephone number?'

Katharine said lightly, ‘I'm sorry, dear, I can't remember it exactly, you know how vague I am, but I'll ring in a day or so and give it to you. Thank you so much for taking Polly. She'll be very good.'

‘Of course she will. We'll go for nice long walks. Have a nice time, Mother. It'll do you good to have a break.'

‘I think so,' Katharine said, and stood waving as they got, into the car and drove away.

By ten o'clock that night she was driving with Paul Roulier along the wide coast road from Nice airport. It was dark and warm as velvet; the windows were all open wide and a breeze fanned them as they drove. He had ordered champagne on the flight over and raised his glass in a silent toast. They hardly spoke after he collected her from the cottage. Perhaps we've said too much, she thought, watching the descent over the sea to Nice, seeing the kaleidoscope of lights on the coast. He made me see something I've been shutting out for all these years, and he's leaving me time to get used to it. But his silence is companionable. He understands and I know it. I know what that raised glass of champagne means, without the need for words. We're allies, he and I, and if the enemy thought they were safe at last, they will soon find out there's no such thing as safety.

They continued on the coast road. She said, ‘Why are we going out of Nice?'

He glanced at her for a moment. ‘We're not staying in Nice. We are going to the Hôtel du Cap, at Antibes. Nobody will think of looking for you there.'

There was nobody at home. Colonel Reed walked round the garden to the back and peered in through the kitchen window. He went back down the path, noting the neat flower beds and well-kept lawn. The last time he came was for Robert's funeral, two years ago, at the parish church at Amdale. A sad day for him, Colonel Reed thought, remembering the service in the Norman church, a trusted colleague and friend. The friendship had lapsed after he married Kate Fitzgerald; lunch in London twice a year, when they had an unofficial reunion of the old Baker Street Boys, as they called themselves. His wife, Kate, didn't know about it. Alfurd had buried the past for them both. Firmly and effectively. Reed came back from a holiday in Spain to attend his funeral. Tea and drinks at the little cottage afterwards, with the widow looking stunned and lost and the sensible daughter and son-in-law taking care of the guests. He sat in his car for a moment, thinking. Then he called at the village pub, ordered himself a drink at the bar and asked where he could find Mrs Alfurd.

‘She was here three days ago,' the barman remembered. ‘Always pops in for a drink and a bite to eat on a Saturday. She's lonely, I think, and likes to talk to people. Sad, being a widow.'

‘Indeed it is,' Reed agreed. ‘That's why I thought I'd drop in on her and see how she was. The Colonel and I were old friends. And you haven't seen her since Saturday?'

‘No, Sir, but then I wouldn't. She only comes in at a weekend when there's people about. There was a fellow came in that lunchtime – they were chatting away in French in no time.'

Reed raised his eyebrows and smiled encouragingly.

‘Really? I didn't know foreigners came here.'

‘They don't normally, Sir. We get a lot of ramblers and people sightseeing, but not foreigners as a rule. They got on very well; had lunch together and I think she must have invited him back. She does talk to strangers a bit. Goes on about the war. Nobody minds, she's such a nice lady. By the way, was that little Russell of hers in the house? Barks like mad if anyone comes near.'

‘No,' Colonel Reed said, ‘I don't think it was.' He finished his drink.

‘Then she must be away,' the barman said. ‘Always takes it with her.'

He watched the distinguished gentleman go out. Went a funny colour when he mentioned the Frenchman and Mrs Alfurd. He dodged round the bar and peered through the window. He saw the stranger get into an old Daimler. He didn't drive away for quite some minutes.

Dorothy was watching television with her husband. The little dog was sulking behind the sofa. She sighed and he looked up and said,

‘What's the matter, love? You've been very down all evening. Mother again?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘As usual. Peter, I don't know what's the matter with me, but she makes me feel so guilty whenever I see her. Why do I always feel on the defensive, as if I were being mean and neglectful? Don't I do my best?'

He reached over and took her hand. He loved her, or he would have grown impatient with the endless repetition over the years of her problems with her mother; worse when that cold fish of a father had been alive.

‘Of course you do,' he said. ‘She's very independent, you know that. We've asked her to come and stay and she gets out of it every time. She likes to live her own life and if she knew you were sitting here making yourself miserable she'd think you were mad. Now come on, darling, you've taken that bloody dog for her and what more can you do?'

‘She was upset because the boys didn't come,' Dorothy went on. ‘I knew as soon as I walked in. I said how sorry they were and we'd bring them next half-term, but she just looked at me and asked if I wanted tea. She looked odd today: all dressed up and made up to the nines. I felt she was dying to get rid of me.'

‘And weren't you dying to go?' her husband asked.

She squeezed his hand. ‘Yes, I was. Peter, you're a saint. You see everything in perspective; I just get fussed and start waking up in the night worrying.'

He slipped his arm round her. ‘Watch the programme,' he admonished gently. ‘We've missed half of it talking about your mother.'

She had been an awkward, introverted girl when they first met; not even pretty, rather sharp-tongued. He couldn't understand why she had attracted him, but on impulse he asked her out. It was a slow courtship; neither was inclined to rush into a relationship. When they did sleep together it was understood that they would get married as soon as he had been promoted and could afford a house. He met the parents in due course. The Colonel and his lady. Living in a charming cottage, with expensive little antiques and remnants of their life in the big house in the village. He didn't like Dorothy's father and the reason was quite simple. He didn't like the way he treated Dorothy. He showed his indifference and that turned only too easily into impatience. And then there was her mother. He could see why the girl he loved was shy and stiff with people. How difficult to have a mother so obviously beautiful even in middle age, with that combination of sex-appeal and charm. How frustrating to be in competition with her for the attention of a father who adored his wife and clearly didn't like his daughter. He and Dorothy had been married for fourteen years, were comfortable financially and loved their two sons, but Dorothy still suffered the effects of that lonely childhood and he still resented how she had been rejected.

When the telephone rang he swore and cut off the sound of the television. He said irritably,

‘Dot, it's for you. A Colonel Reed, friend of your parents.' He held out the phone and she took it from him, making a grimace. Reed – she mimed ignorance and then said in her bright voice,

‘Hello, this is Dorothy Miller speaking.'

It was quite late when Colonel Reed got back to Montpelier Square. The telephone call to Katharine Alfurd's daughter had confirmed his suspicions of the Frenchman in the pub who joined her for lunch. He lifted the telephone and dialled Richard Wroxham's Wiltshire home. There was a pause, then the familiar voice said,

‘Jim? How are you, nice to hear from you. There's a note thanking you for our splendid dinner in the post.'

Reed didn't waste time. ‘Kate Alfurd,' he said. ‘Cecilie. Don't you realize we forgot about her? I've just been down to Amdale. No, I don't know why, just instinct I suppose.'

Wroxham said slowly, ‘It's never been wrong yet. Go on.' He listened for the next few minutes.

‘I checked up in case she was with her daughter,' Reed concluded. ‘She'd left her the dog to look after. Some cock-and-bull story about going to stay with a friend who had cats. Oh, for God's sake, Richard, isn't it obvious? She left the bloody animal behind because she's gone to
France
! Yes, with whoever this Frenchman happens to be. What a coincidence, finding the last surviving member of the Dulac network in a village pub on a Saturday morning!'

‘What are we going to do?' Wroxham's voice was calm; he never showed his feelings in a crisis. Once, Reed had seen him cry. Just a glimpse of tears in the eyes before he turned away and talked of something else. His mother had been killed in a car crash.

‘You've got contacts in France,' Reed said. ‘I suggest you tell them to look out for her. Remind them how much trouble she caused in the past. And according to the man behind the bar in that pub, she's been talking about the war!'

‘We can't have that,' Wroxham said. ‘Not now, not after all these years. I'll phone a friend of mine, put him in the picture. Good God, Jim, just think we were talking about it a couple of nights ago.'

‘Bloody woman,' Reed muttered and hung up. He didn't speak his thoughts out loud even to Wroxham. What a pity Eilenburg let her get away.

‘There are the transcripts.' Pierrot dropped them on the table. ‘They confirm everything I've told you.'

The Major in the Abwehr nodded, started reading through them. Kate's messages to London, their replies; the angry exchanges between Baker Street and Dulac. Pierrot waited, looking out of the window with his back to the Major. The meeting with Dulac had ended in a furious row between them. He had put London's view in terse and brutal language. Dulac had retaliated with accusations of English deceit and self-interest. They didn't care what became of French civilians so long as they could select the targets that suited
them
. He wasn't going to listen to any argument against killing the German troops replacing the garrison and taking hostages against Gestapo reprisals.

‘It's pride!' Pierrot accused. ‘You've decided to take on this German and you don't care who suffers in consequence! Dulac has to win, Dulac has to cover himself with glory!' For a moment it seemed as if they might come to blows.

The Major had finished reading. Pierrot turned away from the window.

‘There's only one way to stop this man,' the German officer said, ‘and you must realize it. He can't lay hands on that convoy because of the General and his staff officers. Will you see to this, or shall I?'

Pierrot said, ‘Leave it to me. You've finished with those?'

‘Yes. You can destroy them now.' The Major smiled unkindly. ‘By the way, your money has arrived. Here.' He opened a desk drawer and took out an envelope. ‘I asked for a bonus for you; you'll be pleased, I think.'

‘Thanks,' Pierrot said. He put the envelope in his inner pocket. ‘Everything is expensive; this will be very useful.'

The Major looked up at him. ‘Are you going to tell me what you plan to do, or is it better not to know?'

‘Better not to know,' Pierrot answered. He left the flat and went down into the street. He bought a bottle of good wine and some cheese at black-market prices and, on impulse, some flowers from a stall at the end of the square.

From the window of his flat the Abwehr Major watched him come back and into the building. He noticed the flowers. Strange, he thought, remembering his old career as a policeman, how the most contemptible beings can have a human side. He turned away. His friend was in Nice at an army meeting. He would take his French girlfriend out to dinner and they could spend the night at the flat afterwards. He was going to miss her when his tour was up. And if all went well, it might end much sooner than anyone expected.

In the flat above, Pierrot became Philippe Derain, coming home after a day in his bookshop, having made a little profit. His wife looked up fondly at him, and propelled the wheelchair across the room. He bent and kissed her and placed the flowers in her lap. Six years ago polio had struck; she was paralysed from the waist down and unable to do anything for herself but move the chair from room to room. He loved her as he would have loved his child, because the wasted body didn't belong to a woman any more. The pinched face, the sad eyes and trusting look were childlike. The poor slack body lay inert beside him in the bed and a thin hand would creep into his at night, as if to apologize for the end of their married life. He loved her tenderly and cared for her as only a man can, when he loves with such a depth of pity. Taking German money to make her comfortable didn't worry him at all. Later he played the dance music she loved and they listened to it together, winding the gramophone and changing the records, till she was tired and he wheeled her into the bedroom and got her ready for bed. A nurse looked after her when he had to go on business. Sometimes he was away for weeks on end. She never complained.