The British Lion (9 page)

“A man died in a tailor’s shop on Regent Street,” Neumann finally said. “A tailor’s shop you have an account with.”

“Brown’s?” Koehler remembered the name of the shop.

“Mr. Brown died.”

“Oh . . . oh, that’s such a shame.” Koehler felt his heart beating so hard he thought it was going to erupt out of his chest.

“I’m not sure it was just the tailor who died. Someone else took a round in the shop; I’ll wager they are hurt pretty bad, if not—”

“Who?” The word came out, soft as a breath, as Koehler’s heart suddenly stilled.

“We only found blood. It wasn’t far from where your wife’s ID was lying.” Neumann shrugged. “There was no body, but a body’s worth of blood. I don’t know whose, but as soon as I do, Major, so will you.”

Neumann nodded to March and then walked away toward the lift.

He didn’t care who he woke up.

ROSSETT WAS FREEZING.
He looked at the half-frozen sentry standing on the step that he’d been watching for the last ten minutes and shook his head.

He took out his cigarettes and looked for his matches.

He didn’t have any.

The boy didn’t look old enough to smoke, let alone have any matches, but the heavy hangover Rossett was carrying around was craving nicotine.

The sentry eyed him as he approached, so Rossett forced a smile to relax the boy. He guessed he didn’t look his best, because the sentry took a half step backward.

“Do you speak English?”

“A little,” the sentry replied.

“Do you have a light?” Rossett held up his cigarette. The sentry’s eyes darted toward the door, then back to Rossett, who read the signal.

“There is nobody coming. I’ll keep a lookout.”

The sentry changed hands with the rifle, then took out some matches and passed them across. Rossett nodded thanks, struck up, and then gave them back.

Rossett offered a cigarette to the German, who took it and lit up.

“Cold,” the sentry said, his English clunky and simple, smoke slithering out of his nostrils as he stamped his feet in the snow.

“The major?” The sentry pointed over his shoulder. “You wait?”

Rossett nodded.

“The police.” The sentry rolled his eyes and jabbed his thumb back at the door again. “They talk and talk.”

“The police?” Rossett looked up at the building.

“Yes, police, inside, nice and warm.” The sentry smiled, but this time Rossett ignored him.

He took a few steps back toward the car and looked up to where he guessed Koehler’s flat was on the third floor. “Did they say what they wanted?” he asked while still looking up, blinking at the snow.

“No.”

Rossett flicked his cigarette into the snow, where it hissed, still smoking, sitting on the surface four inches above the blanketed pavement.

“How many?”

The sentry held up four fingers.

“You’re sure they didn’t come back out?”

“Yes.” The sentry was frowning now, uncertain about his new English friend.

Rossett didn’t try to reassure him; he walked into the foyer of the building through the revolving door.

IT WAS HOT.

So hot he had to pull at the scarf around his neck to get some air. He looked at the empty concierge desk and then carried on toward the lift. The indicator over the cage doors told him it was on the third floor; he reached for the call button, but before he had a chance to push it, with a noisy clatter the lift started to descend.

Rossett wavered, debating whether to walk back out to the car or stand his ground.

He stood his ground, just like he always did, for better or worse, for his friend.

The lift was coming slowly, banging in the shaft.

Rossett saw the bottom of the car rattling down. He stepped back from the cage doors and watched the sole occupant’s feet descending into view.

The man inside opened the cage and paused when he saw Rossett.

Plainclothes, fifty-odd years old, gray mustache with a yellow tinge that could do with a trim, and a raincoat that could do with a wash.

Policeman, thought Rossett.

“May I help you?” said the man with fairly good English.

“You the lift operator?” replied Rossett.

“No.”

“No, then.”

Rossett moved to step past Neumann, who had taken a pace forward himself.

“I’m Generalmajor Erhard Neumann of the Kriminalpolizei.”

“Good for you.”

“It is gone midnight, and you don’t live in this building, and you are English. This is a German officers’ accommodation block. So, I’ll ask again, may I help you?” Neumann produced his ID from his pocket and flashed it at Rossett.

Rossett held up his own ID, finger carefully covering his name, years of practice coming into play.

Neumann squinted at Rossett’s warrant card and then smiled.

“I think you will find my card trumps yours, so once again, for the last time. May I help you?”

“I’m visiting a friend.”

“Who?”

“Major Koehler.”

“Why?”

“We have work to do.”

“At this time of night?”

Rossett looked at the floor, sighed, and then punched Neumann hard in the mouth.

The force of the punch drove the older man hard into the back of the lift, which rang like a bell in its shaft. For a split second Rossett thought he had knocked Neumann clean out and he looked over his shoulder toward the concierge’s office, half expecting a squad of policemen to come running out.

They didn’t, so he turned back to Neumann, who was folded at the waist, his left hand drunkenly reaching for the thin brass handrail that ran around the lift. Rossett was impressed Neumann was still functioning. He punched the German again, this time on the left temple with a chopping right hand at half power.

Just enough for the job.

“You ask too many questions,” Rossett said as Neumann finally went down, face sliding down the side of the cage with his feet sticking out into the hallway beyond. The old elevator clanged again once or twice against its workings as Rossett crouched down, looking toward the concierge’s office as he dragged the unconscious Neumann’s legs into the lift.

He pulled the door closed, then pressed the button for the third floor several times impatiently. Neumann groaned as the cage started to rise, and Rossett knelt down, roughly searching through Neumann’s pockets.

He found a Mauser and some cuffs. He slipped the Mauser into his own pocket, snapped one cuff onto Neumann’s left hand, and then, pushing hard on the German’s shoulder, managed to free the other arm and cuff both wrists to the rear.

Neumann blinked and gave a tiny shake of his head as the lift shuddered to a halt on the third floor. Rossett, still crouching, gently tapped him on the side of the head with the Webley.

“Do you see this?”

Neumann struggled to focus his eyes on the gun; he blinked a couple of times and then nodded.

“Who is in the room with Koehler?”

“Are you mad?” Neumann finally spoke, his voice weak but incredulous.

“Who is in the apartment?”

“You’ll hang for this.”

Rossett thumbed the hammer on the pistol and jammed it into the temple he’d punched moments ago.

“Who is in the apartment?”

“My assistant, just one man, that’s all,” Neumann replied, his eyes now closed.

“Is he armed?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

Neumann didn’t reply, so Rossett pulled back the pistol an inch and then jabbed the barrel forward again, hard.

“Answer the fucking question. What are you doing here?”

“We are looking for Koehler’s wife and daughter. They are missing, and he’s up to something. I’m trying to figure out what.”

Rossett tapped the pistol against Neumann’s temple, lighter this time.

“Shush now.”

Neumann fell silent.

The lift arrived at the third floor. Rossett pulled open the cage and looked along the silent, red-carpeted corridor. Four gold-numbered doors led off to either side. The contrast with Rossett’s own accommodation couldn’t have been greater, but that didn’t matter right now.

His friend needed help.

“Is Koehler locked up, handcuffed?”

“No. This is crazy. We were only questioning him. This is crazy.” Neumann shook his head, his voice stronger now. “Uncuff me and we can sort this out.”

“Where are the uniforms?”

“What?”

“Where are the uniformed policemen?”

“In the office with the doorman. I didn’t bring them up. The major is an officer; I didn’t think it was correct.”

Rossett looked back along the corridor and then down at Neumann.

“Get up.”

Rossett half dragged, half pushed Neumann to his feet. The German flopped against the wall of the lift until Rossett took a handful of his collar and pushed him out into the corridor.

“What door?”

“I thought you were his friend,” Neumann replied. “You don’t know where he lives?”

“Which door?” Rossett shoved Neumann forward a few steps more.

“You’re taking a big risk for someone who wouldn’t invite you to his flat.”

Rossett pressed the gun into Neumann’s neck.

“You’re the one taking the risk. Which door?”

“Pull the trigger and March will know you are coming. I thought you English policemen were supposed to be the best in the world?”

Rossett looked at the back of Neumann’s head, sighed, then hit him with the butt of the Webley just behind the ear, knocking him down again.

“Smart arse,” muttered Rossett as he lowered Neumann to the floor.

He didn’t do it quietly enough. The door to his right opened. March stood framed in the light, looking down at Rossett and the unconscious Neumann.

In a second he was also looking at the Webley.

Rossett rose up from the crouch and pointed at Neumann with his other hand. “Get your boss into the flat.”

March did as he was told. Quickly and quietly he gripped Neumann’s arms and dragged the older man unceremoniously into the apartment.

Koehler emerged from the kitchen holding a china teapot, which he almost dropped as he watched March, under the eye of Rossett’s Webley, drag Neumann out of the corridor.

“What . . . ?”

“This wasn’t the plan,” Rossett replied.

Neumann groaned, so everyone looked at him.

“You had a plan?” said Koehler.

Rossett looked down at March and then back at Koehler.

“Not exactly, no.”

CHAPTER 11

E
VEN UNDER A
fresh fall of snow, Whitechapel still had the grit and grime of two hundred years of soot powdered to its face. The narrow streets and the tall tight houses squeezed the people who lived there like mortar between bricks.

The occupation of the Nazis had done nothing to improve Whitechapel; the place had just gotten worse. When the Germans arrived there had been a fair-sized Jewish population. At one point there had been talk of a ghetto being established, but the clearance had been too efficient: the residents were thrown away rather than thrown behind barbed wire.

Frank King had been sure he’d chosen their hiding place well; there were no Germans or police prowling these streets when he had originally scoped the area. But looking out the window at their snow-covered Opel outside, he was suddenly feeling less certain.

No other car had been up or down in hours. There had been one solitary strolling policeman, who had stopped and stared at the car, then around at the houses in the street. King had watched from behind the curtain, in the darkened room, as the bobby had scraped off some snow to inspect the tax disc in the Opel’s windscreen.

King had squeezed to the edge of the window, breathing a little faster when the bobby turned and stared at the car again before continuing on his way.

Suspicions aroused, a silent conversation going on his head, decisions being made that King wasn’t party to. The copper hadn’t wanted to get involved, but King knew policemen gossiped, and King didn’t want that gossip drawing attention to their location.

The car, and the body of Lotte Koehler in its trunk, had to go.

He walked to the back room and looked at Anja. She looked like she was sleeping, although he doubted that she actually was. The girl hadn’t spoken since he’d helped Eric Cook carry her mother downstairs and put her in the car. She had silently watched them, face blank, too blank, worryingly blank.

King didn’t trust her. He considered giving her her mother’s coat, but decided it would be in poor taste, so he went back to looking out of the window to check on Cook, whom he’d sent out to ready the car.

Cook looked up toward King and gave a thumbs-up before quickly wiping the snow-covered windscreen and side windows.

King checked his watch: 3:30
A.M.
He should have gotten rid of the body earlier, but the policeman had worried him. He’d stared out the window for two hours before finally calling Cook and sending him downstairs.

King was angry with himself.

He squeezed his hand in his pocket tightly and dug his nails into his palm.

“Come on,” he said out loud, and behind him, through the open door, he heard the mattress springs groan at the sound of his voice.

Cook started the Opel, leaned out of the open door, and waved again.

King drew a deep breath and took out his pistol. He went to Anja and shook her roughly. Her eyes opened wide and stared into his so quickly, he was certain she’d been awake all along.

He lifted his pistol and showed it to her.

“Do as I say, do you understand?”

Anja nodded, head still on the mattress, blanket still pulled around her shoulders.

“We are going to leave the flat and go somewhere else. You must be very quiet, very, very quiet. If you make a sound I will kill you.” King whispered the threat, which hung in the air with the white wisp of breath that carried it.

Anja nodded again.

“Get up.”

King stepped back from the bed. Anja slid off the mattress and stood, staring at him, hair ruffled.

“Get your blanket, it’ll be cold.”

Anja did as she was told and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. King gripped her arm, then pushed her out of the room and down the steep, narrow stairs that led to the front door.

He could hear the engine running on the Opel. At the bottom of the stairs he pulled Anja to a halt and stepped past her to open the door. He looked out into the street, then roughly dragged Anja across the pavement to the rear door of the car and pushed her onto the backseat. He stepped back to the front door of the building, slammed it shut, then clambered in next to Anja.

“Go.”

The Opel’s engine gunned and the back wheels slipped slightly on the snow, then found purchase. The car slithered forward.

“Slowly.” King reached forward and rested his hand on Cook’s shoulder. In return Cook nodded and flicked on the windscreen wipers to combat the snow that was whipping off the hood.

“To the river?”

“Like I told you,” King replied, looking now at Anja, who was pressed into the corner of the backseat against the opposite door. The car slipped and slid for a few minutes before it finally made it onto Commercial Road and headed in the direction of Limehouse Docks, next to the River Thames. Cook drove slowly and carefully through the snow until finally, they arrived at their destination.

“Go take a look,” said King, and Cook got out of the car.

Anja and King sat in silence, ignoring the cold and each other for nearly two minutes. Cook came back, opening the door next to Anja; she flinched as he leaned across her to speak to King, keeping his voice low.

“Here is good, there’s a hole in the fence where we can get straight down onto the river.”

“Get out.” King pushed Anja toward Cook and then followed her out of the car.

In the distance a dog barked as the falling snow pattered onto their shoulders and hair. Cook and King were wearing long black woolen coats; Anja watched as King slotted his pistol into his pocket and then pulled up his collar.

Cook took Anja’s arm, less aggressively than King had done earlier, then guided her to the rear of the car.

“Pull the blanket over your head,” he whispered, and Anja did as she was told.

“Right over,” King said behind her, and Anja found herself closing her eyes as he roughly pulled the blanket fully over her head and her face.

She heard the trunk of the car open and wondered if she was about to die. A curious calm overcame her, a sense that things would soon be over, and she surrended to it, feeling the knot in her stomach unravel.

She heard Cook grunt and realized they were getting her mother.

The knot returned, and so did the anger.

King took hold of her arm again.

“Keep the blanket down,” he said, surprising her with the gentle tone of his voice. Anja didn’t want to watch; she pulled the blanket tighter around her head and squeezed her eyes tight.

Anja hadn’t watched when they had struggled to lift the body off the mattress earlier. After they had taken her mother from the flat, Anja had lain on the spot where she had died, feeling the warmth fade away underneath her cheek.

She knew her mother was gone.

But she wouldn’t mourn yet.

Her mother wouldn’t want her to.

Her mother had wanted Anja to wait until she was in her father’s arms.

Right after he had killed the two men who had caused this misery.

Anja would watch that.

The dog stopped barking and a horn on the river took its place, then silence fell around them once again. Anja could see her feet if she looked down, so when King told her to walk forward she was able to watch her step by lifting the front of the blanket slightly.

Behind her she heard a curse from Cook, who must have slipped.

King grabbed her head and shoved it forward.

“Duck,” he said, as they made their way through the fence, then onward to the river.

The snow grew heavier, falling in curtainlike flurries as the smell of the muddy, brick-strewn, oil-washed riverbank of the Thames sneaked under the blanket and filled her nostrils. Anja listened to her feet crunch, and for a fleeting moment she thought about the snowman she and her mother would never build.

King jerked her again, keeping her moving.

She heard a bird somewhere, calling on the river. She lifted the blanket so she could look up. Across the water, the lights of South London twinkled in the falling snow. A breeze stroked her face as she caught a whiff of the sea from far beyond where they stood.

She shivered.

The splash to her left sounded cold.

Crisp.

All too short.

Her mother’s good-bye, the final sound Anja would ever hear her make.

Cook gently took her arm this time, and they turned back to the car.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You will be,” she replied, matter-of-fact, no doubt in her voice.

KING ALLO
WED ANJA
to remove the blanket from her head as they walked back to the car, so she wore it like a shawl across her shoulders, wrapping it tightly, keeping the shivers in.

King shoved her through the fence, and as Cook took her arm he finally looked at her.

“Are you all right?”

Anja ignored him and he looked hurt.

She wanted to spit in his face, kick his shins, scratch his eyes, but instead, she ignored him.

“I want you to know, we’re sorry for what happened,” he tried again.

Anja looked at him, holding his eyes with hers until he could bear it no more and looked away.