Red Joan (39 page)

He professed to recognise the extremely difficult situation in which we were placed and said that he was so sensible of my inability to produce any evidence against him that he was barely able to restrain himself from thumping the table between us and demanding that the evidence against him be produced. In the absence of any evidence against him, he felt he was utterly unable to help the inquiry. He also made the point that since he was under suspicion he might, upon reflection, think it quite impossible to continue his work at the laboratory in any case, and if he came to that conclusion, he would offer his resignation. He seemed to consider that in this eventuality he would be able to apply for a research post at a university, and while demonstrating frustration at not being able to continue with his work at Cambridge, did not seem to be fully aware of the consequences of these allegations.

I find it extremely difficult to give a conclusive view qua the guilt or innocence of DAVIS. His demeanour during our interview could have been indicative of either condition. If he is innocent, it is surprising that he should receive allegations of this kind so coolly, but perhaps this squares with his mathematical approach to life. It could also be argued that he is a spy of old standing and was prepared for such an interrogation. On the other hand, his flat refusal to cooperate and his occasional bursts of anger might be seen as an indication of innocence.

However, reviewing all the facts in the light of the interrogation, I feel sure that we have selected the right man, unless by chance, someone in the nature of a twin brother was in Canada when he was there and continues to be at Cambridge with him now. Having considered all other scientists at the laboratory who would have had access to the same information, it is difficult to find any candidate for the suspect other than DAVIS himself.

 

That same afternoon, an official charge is brought against Professor Maxwell George Davis.

 

Nick smashes his hand against the windowsill. ‘I knew it!'

‘Nick, wait.'

Nick does not wait but strides out of the room and down the stairs. The back door opens and then is slammed shut.

There is a pause. ‘Could I go outside for a minute?' Joan asks.

Ms. Hart glances at Mr. Adams. ‘I don't know if that's appropriate.'

Mr. Adams sits back in his chair. ‘None of this is appropriate, but it won't change anything when it comes down to it.' He shrugs, and indicates the recorder which holds the entire roll of evidence. ‘Might as well let her go.'

Joan gets out of bed and walks to the door. Her head feels dizzy and she has to clutch the bannister as she descends.

‘Five minutes,' Mr. Adams barks after her.

Nick turns to face her as she steps out onto the patio. ‘It's Dad, isn't it? He worked on the bomb too, and he didn't bother to mention it to me either.' He shakes his head. ‘Why did nobody think I'd like to know? I always thought he was too much of an academic to be teaching at that school.'

‘But he liked it there. He didn't want to be working on the bomb any more, or have anything to do with it. He liked his long summer holidays and playing tennis in the mornings and living by the sea.' She pauses, and when she speaks again her voice is softer. ‘And you, Nick. He adored you.'

‘But you let them arrest him. You let them come and arrest him and you didn't even stop them.'

‘I thought he'd be fine. There was no evidence against him so I thought they'd just let him go.'

‘But you still allowed it to happen.' His neck is flushed with heat. ‘You were too cowardly to stand up for him when he needed you.'

Joan opens her mouth to protest but then closes it again.

‘Everything you were saying in there, it's all excuses, reasons. You still think you were right, don't you?' Nick's voice cracks as he speaks. ‘You've always thought you know best about everything. You've always wanted to control everything.'

‘No, Nick, no.'

He waves her away with his hand. ‘All my life, you've wanted to control me, to have things your way. I never asked to be so
special
. I used to pray that you'd adopt another child so that it wouldn't all be on me.'

‘Oh, Nick.' Joan's stomach feels as though it is full of ice, huge numbing lumps of it, sharp-edged and heavy. ‘Of course I thought you were special. I'm your mother.'

‘No, you're not,' Nick mutters, but already his shoulders are drooping. He has always been quick to flare up, although the initial burst of anger doesn't usually last for long. His voice is quiet when he speaks again. ‘Just tell me one thing. Are you sorry? Do you regret it?'

Joan is silent for a moment. She feels the beating of her heart strongly now, pulsing through her whole body. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do. In the circumstances.'

‘You thought it was right to spy?'

‘I thought the information should have been shared with Russia. After Hiroshima. I thought it needed to be made fair, so that it didn't happen again.'

Nick doesn't move.

‘Russia needed it. They had just lost twenty-seven million people during the war. Can you imagine it? Twenty-seven million.' She stops, suddenly aware of how much like her own mother she sounds. ‘Everyone was more sympathetic towards them in those days, and everyone believed they would be the next target.' Joan glances at him. ‘And besides, there was still hope that it might work.'

‘What might? The great experiment?'

‘Yes.'

Nick rolls his eyes. ‘And now?'

‘I still think communism is a good idea.'

‘But it doesn't work, does it? Humans are too selfish for it to work.'

‘I know. But in theory—'

‘No!' he shouts. ‘Why can't you just admit you were wrong? That it was the wrong thing to do. That it was bad, Leo was bad, Sonya was bad. That you're ashamed of what you did.'

Joan is silent for a minute. How would you know? she thinks. You didn't see how much they cared, both of them.

‘They weren't bad,' she whispers.

‘How can you be so naive? Can't you see anything? Sonya didn't care about you. She betrayed Leo, her own cousin, just to keep you as a source.'

Joan shakes her head. ‘No,' she says. ‘No. It was a mistake. She didn't mean to.'

But Nick doesn't stop. ‘The interrogation proved to her that MI5 were onto him. It was only a matter of time before they worked out he was seeing you, and then your information would dry up too. And she wanted to protect that.'

Joan shakes her head but she does not deny it.

‘Who else would it have been?' he continues. ‘Maybe she didn't intend for them to shoot him, but it's like Leo said: she was out of her depth. She thought it was all a game.'

Joan feels the ground tip beneath her. ‘But she loved him,' she whispers.

‘Exactly. But she couldn't have him, could she?'

Joan looks at Nick. No, she thinks. No, no, no. She will not believe it. And yet there is something in the suggestion that makes her wince. The expression on Sonya's face when she told her that he'd been shot, her breeziness over Joan getting on with her life. These things struck her as odd at the time but she had refused to think about them. She had been so determined to hold on a little tighter, wanting to protect their friendship from unravelling, as it had done once before. ‘But why would she do something so callous?'

Nick shrugs in an exasperated manner. ‘Because she was jealous.'

Jealous? Joan shakes her head, although the word prompts a sudden memory to flash in her mind and then disappear. What was it? Something Jamie said in the Albert Hall? She closes her eyes and tries to summon it up, but her mind is blank, empty. It has gone. ‘No,' she says. ‘Sonya wasn't the type.'

‘For God's sake! Even now, you still think she's some sort of super-human. She's just evil.'

‘She's not evil.'

Nick shakes his head. ‘And what happened to her then? Did she ever get caught? Oh no, let me guess. She didn't. She got away. She was fine. She just left you to clear up the whole bloody mess.' There is a pause. ‘Am I right?'

Somewhere in the distance a police siren wails and fades. Joan shudders. And then, so slightly that the movement is barely perceptible, she nods her head.

T
here is a stunned silence in the laboratory. Nobody can quite believe that it has happened, that the Russians have beaten them to it and Max—Max!—has been arrested.

‘You don't think he did it, do you?' Karen asks.

‘Of course he didn't.' Joan's voice is a scrubbed whisper. She turns the wireless on, hoping that the noise of it might calm her, might drown out the terrible thumping of her heart, but it is yet another news report about the Russian bomb. She turns it off again. She stands up. ‘I'm going home,' she announces.

Karen raises her eyebrows. ‘Don't you think we ought to stay here in case they need us?'

‘They'll be able to find us if they need us.' She pulls on her jacket. ‘See you tomorrow.'

But Joan will not be coming in tomorrow. She knows that already. At her front door, she pulls the dark strand of hair from the lock and slots her key into it. One, two, three. Undisturbed, for now. She goes straight to the bathroom cabinet and removes the box of sanitary towels in which she has hidden her most recent documents. She no longer leaves them at the laboratory after the previous incident with the police. It is easier to hide them here. Safer. She thinks of tearing the documents out and flushing them down the toilet but she has no faith in the cistern. She imagines them blocking the drains and being dragged out weeks later, incriminating her beyond all possible defence. She takes them to the fireplace and throws them into the hearth. The match will not light. She strikes it four times before it catches and even then it flickers and extinguishes before she can hold it to the paper.

‘Damn,' she whispers. She tries again, and this time it catches straight away. She throws it onto the fire, watching as the flame spreads, devouring words and pictures until it burns itself out.

She stuffs a toothbrush and a change of clothes into her travelling bag and then stands perfectly still, her hand pressed to her forehead, and for a brief moment she wonders if she will ever come back here. Is there anything else she needs? No. There are things she might want, but nothing she needs. For a moment she wishes she had kept the money from Russia and then she would have something to work with. She could have made a plan, disappeared for a while until all this has blown over. But go where? she thinks as she unhooks her jacket from behind the door and slings it over her arm. To Canada? Australia? Russia? Her key sticks in the lock on the way out and she has to tug at the door to make it close. Would it be more obvious to run than to stay and stick it out? And what about Max?

She stands at the top of the stairs, suddenly giddy with the thought that Max might already have guessed her involvement. What if they have some real, actual evidence? Perhaps he is holding the evidence in his hands right now, shaking his head, wondering. Max, the only man in all the world with whom her cover is utterly useless, the only one who knows exactly how much she knows, who has taught her everything himself, who tells her that he loves her without the slightest hesitation. Would he tell them if he knew?

She does not know. Impossible to guess how he might react. Impossible to know if they have any evidence at all. The only thing she can be certain of is the knowledge that she has to leave Cambridge. She just needs a little time to think, somewhere to give her a few days' start. And first of all, she needs to see Sonya.

She walks to the station, doubling back on herself to check that nobody is following her. Once there, she buys a ticket to Ely and hurries onto the train. She blinks as it pulls out, dazzled by the brightness of the sun, the green of the countryside. She squeezes her hands together and closes her eyes.

Sonya and Jamie's farmhouse is quiet when she arrives, slightly breathless from the long walk up the lane from the nearest bus stop. The car has gone and there are no signs of tyre tracks on the path. She does not knock at the front door, not wishing to draw attention to herself, but goes around to the back and knocks gently on the glass. Nothing. She presses her nose up to the window and sees plates stacked neatly in the dish-rack with two wine glasses and a child's beaker upside down next to them. There is a newspaper lying open on the table, and Sonya's bright red coat flung over the back of a chair. Joan knocks again, but the sound only echoes and repeats.

She tries the door handle and, to her surprise, it is unlocked. She goes in. She calls out. ‘Sonya. Jamie. It's me. Are you here?' She listens. ‘Katya?'

Nothing. She goes into the front room. The fire has not been swept and the curtains are open but left untied, as if they have been dragged back in a hurry. She goes upstairs. There are no toothbrushes in the bathroom, no lipsticks by the mirror, no hairbrush by the bed. Joan whirls around. She goes to open the wardrobe and then realises that she should not touch anything.

Gloves. Where are her gloves?

She roots around in her handbag to find them, and her fingers are clumsy as she puts them on. She flings open the wardrobe door. There are gaps and spaces where clothes might once have been. She rakes her gloved hand along them until she comes to something familiar, her mink fur, hanging at the end of the rail. That's where it got to. She always suspected Sonya of having taken it. She slips it off the hanger and folds it over her arm.

As she does so, she notices that it has been concealing a cardboard box at the bottom of the wardrobe. It is small and dusty, but there is something about the box that makes Joan curious. She leans forward and pulls off the lid, unleashing a puff of dust, and revealing a small pile of photographs. Joan feels a quickening of her heart, anxious in case any of them are ones Joan has previously passed to Sonya revealing aspects of the work being done at the laboratory, all to be sent back to Moscow. Surely she wouldn't keep them here? She would have more sense than that.