The Darkest Hour (38 page)
K
OEHLER AND SCHMITT
had visited eight pubs in Wapping before they finally found themselves standing outside the Prospect of Whitby.
Across the street, Werner climbed down from the cab of the troop transport and nodded to Koehler as he adjusted the machine pistol across his chest and took up a station at the rear of the truck.
“How many more of these places do we have to visit?” Schmitt said, burying his hands in his pockets.
“We keep going until we find news of this Irishman, Chivers, or Rossett, simple as that.”
Koehler checked the Mauser in his pocket, then walked to the bar doors and pushed one open. He squinted into the darkness of the pub and waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust before walking inside.
The fat man sitting behind the door looked up at the two Germans entering and then across to the bar. He stood, picked up his old coat from the back of his seat, and made to leave.
Koehler shook his head, and the fat man sank back into his seat. Koehler walked slowly to the bar, aware that the general noise of the pub had dropped to barely a whisper. He rested an elbow on the brass rail and then turned so that he was facing the customers of the pub, who in turn all managed to not face him.
Schmitt stood at the pub door, hands still in his pockets but eyes alert, holding his Mauser tightly and watching the shadows for movement.
Over his right shoulder Koehler noticed the barmaid moving reluctantly toward him. He turned to rest both elbows on the bar and smiled at her.
“Good afternoon, Fräulein.”
“What can I get you, sir?” the barmaid replied politely.
“Is the manager of the pub about?”
“He’s upstairs, sir.”
“Could you fetch him, please? I’m looking for a friend and he might be able to help me.” Koehler smiled again, and the barmaid, much to her own surprise, smiled back.
“I’ll not be long, sir.”
Koehler gave a half salute and then turned to face the room again. Taking his time to look around, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and leaned back before speaking loudly.
“I’m looking for George Chivers?” Koehler left the question hanging in the air as he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
Nobody spoke, so Koehler pushed himself off the bar and walked among the tables, smiling at the few customers who dared to meet his eye.
“It’s very important I speak to George. So important I’m prepared to pay handsomely for any information that could help me.” As he spoke, Koehler stopped at a table around which three men were sitting. He lifted a pint glass out of one of their hands and sniffed its contents, then frowned at the man whose drink it was. “You should try some good German lager, my friend.”
The man stared silently at Koehler, who smiled warmly back at him and gently placed the glass on the table before he continued to wander around the bar.
“Can I help you, sir?” A voice from behind him caused him to turn.
Koehler looked at the pub manager, who had appeared behind the bar. The small man smoothed a gray shirt across his potbelly and then nervously put his hands in his trouser pockets and attempted to affect an air of confidence. Koehler smiled and approached the bar, charm personified.
“Good afternoon. Are you the manager?”
“Yes, sir. Alf Beckett.” Beckett produced a clammy hand and shook Koehler’s over the bar.
“Alf, I wonder if you can help me,” Koehler said genially, desperately resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his leg to remove the sweaty residue left by Beckett’s.
“Anything at all, sir. Always happy to help,” Beckett replied, eyes flicking around the room. Koehler smiled again, leaned against the brass rail, and flicked a finger for Beckett to come closer.
“I’m looking for George Chivers.”
“Sir?”
“Come now, Alf, let’s not be foolish.”
“I think I know the name, sir.”
“Think hard, Alf. I don’t like asking questions twice.” The smile was now gone and Koehler’s eyes darkened in the gloom as he leaned even closer to Beckett.
“This is difficult for me, sir.” Beckett’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Trust me, Alf, it can be an awful lot more difficult than you’d imagine.”
Schmitt appeared at Koehler’s shoulder and leaned against the bar, his leather coat squeaking as he did so. Schmitt turned and faced the room, causing all those looking to turn away.
“He was in earlier, sir.” Beckett was barely audible and Koehler had to lean forward on his tiptoes to hear him. “With another feller I didn’t know.”
“Describe him.”
Beckett squirmed and looked over Koehler’s shoulder again. Koehler reached and gripped his forearm, causing him to flinch.
“Please, sir.”
“Last chance, Alf.”
“Big bloke, angry looking. They met the Irishman.”
“Irishman?”
Beckett looked like he might cry.
“I didn’t see it, sir, it was only what I was told. I—”
“Irishman?” Koehler repeated.
“Pat Flanagan. Please sir, he’s a dangerous man. I could—”
“Alf?” Koehler interrupted quietly, causing the other man to stop speaking and nod dumbly. “You are talking to the most dangerous man in London right now, right at this minute. You are whispering in death’s ear. So please, get your priorities straight.”
Beckett looked like he would faint. Koehler released his grip and then rested his hand on Beckett’s shoulder.
“This could get me shot, sir.”
Schmitt sighed loudly and impatiently, then reached into his coat, produced his Mauser, and placed it on the bar. He stared at Beckett but didn’t speak before turning his back on the conversation and again looking around the room, which had fallen totally silent.
The pistol sat on the bar like a fat black cockroach, and Beckett found he was unable to look away from it. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and it briefly crossed Koehler’s mind that the other man might have a heart attack before he could pass the information that was required.
“Will this Flanagan drag you out into the street in the next two minutes and shoot you in the face?” Koehler whispered, placing his hand gently onto Beckett’s arm once again.
Beckett shook his head.
“I will.”
“Flanagan is a . . . I don’t know, sir. He’s able to get you things, anything you want. He has boats.”
“A smuggler?”
Beckett squirmed before nodding.
“Chivers was buying something?” Koehler gripped tighter.
“He was. He was buying passage.”
“Passage?”
“On one of Flanagan’s boats, sir. He wanted out, him and the other bloke, as far as I know, to Ireland.”
“When?”
“This is only what I heard, sir.”
“When?”
“Tonight, on the tide, about eleven, from the Pelican Stairs, just next door.” Beckett pointed to the back of the pub, as if Koehler could see through the wall, then used the same hand to wipe his face.
Koehler leaned back from the bar and turned to look at the other customers. Schmitt picked up his pistol and slipped it into his pocket, staring at Beckett.
“How many customers are in here?” Koehler murmured to Schmitt.
“Twenty-five, maybe thirty, why?”
“Tell them they are all under arrest.”
J
ACOB LAY FAST
asleep in Kate’s arms, the restocked fire crackled and popped, and the darkness outside pushed against the windows like the sea against a submarine as Rossett listened to the clock in the hall outside chime the hour.
Eight, nine, ten. He counted the bongs, then listened to the heavy tick-tock that had dragged throughout the last few hours like chains around a prisoner’s ankles. Chivers must also have counted the chimes, as he moved for the first time in hours and pointed to his wrist, his eyes meeting Rossett’s.
It was time.
“Kate, wake Jacob and get your coat and wait in the hallway,” Rossett said.
Kate looked at him, then at her uncle, then at Rossett again.
“John, you’re not going to . . . He’s my uncle.”
Rossett ignored her and looked at Sterling, who had straightened on the settee and was staring back.
“She is coming with me. If you or your men interfere in any way, I’ll kill her. Do you understand?” Rossett asked Sterling.
“Yes,” Sterling replied.
“Don’t doubt me, I will kill her. The boy is my only concern. If you love her, you will remember that.”
“I don’t doubt you.”
Rossett nodded, pulled out a handful of bullets from his pocket, and held them out to Chivers.
“Load the Browning.”
Chivers took the Browning and the bullets and did as he was told as Rossett stood and walked toward Sterling, stopping just short of the settee and looming over him.
“Where are the sovereigns you took from me?”
“What?”
“At the warehouse, you took the sovereigns. Where are they?”
Sterling shook his head. “I don’t know, I left them with someone.”
Rossett thumbed the hammer on the Webley and raised it to point at Sterling’s forehead. Sterling raised his hands and closed his eyes, then opened one slightly to peek out at the black hole of the muzzle, inches from his head.
“Where are the sovereigns?”
“In my drawer, second one down.” He pointed across the room at a small writing desk.
“Thank you.” Rossett walked to the desk and opened the drawer. He found the pouch under an address book and took both out. He placed the book in his pocket and tossed the sovereigns to Chivers, who caught them in midair.
“For you.”
Chivers’s eyes lit up and he weighed the bag in his hand.
“For me? Why?”
“You earned them.”
“But . . . I . . .” Chivers didn’t finish the sentence, as if he didn’t want to repeat his own treachery out loud.
“You did what you did, George, but you were right about one thing. You did it to survive,” Rossett said.
Chivers looked back at the pouch and then up at Rossett. He made to speak and then closed his mouth, shaking his head again.
“I need you. This isn’t over.
We
need you. Are you with us?” Rossett spoke again.
Chivers nodded and Rossett turned back to Sterling, who sat on the couch, breathing deeply, waiting for the judge’s verdict.
“I’ve a wife and child,” Sterling said, his voice a whisper.
“So did I, once,” Rossett replied matter-of-factly.
“Please.”
Rossett looked at the young maid, who was crying in the corner, sitting so close to death, and then looked back at Sterling.
“Don’t follow, don’t interfere, or I swear, my vengeance will curse you for the rest of your life.”
Rossett turned and left the room.
“
I
WANT EVERYONE, EV
ERY
man we have, down by that fucking pub as soon as possible!” Sterling shouted into the telephone and slammed the glass of brandy he was holding onto the table next to him. “We’ve only got half an hour before they get there!”
Sterling threw the phone down with such force it bounced out of the cradle and into the spilled brandy. Leigh, who was standing next to him, gently replaced the handset, then watched as Sterling picked up his brandy again and paced a few steps back and forth.
“What took you so long to get here?” Sterling snapped.
Leigh tilted his head.
“I came as soon as you called, sir.”
“He had a gun in my face, Leigh, a gun held in my face in my own home!” Sterling shouted so loudly spittle flecked his lips and some landed on Leigh’s face.
“Should I get someone to remove Johnson and Wilson, sir?” Leigh finally spoke.
“Who?”
“The men Rossett killed, sir.”
“Get your car and get your arse down to Wapping. Johnson and Wilson can wait.”
“Do you think it wise, sir, after what Rossett said to you? I’m thinking about your niece.”
“There are many victims in war. My niece may end up being one of them. Now get going and fucking kill him!”
A
THICK FOG WAS
rolling in off the Thames as Kate’s Volkswagen made its way slowly down Wapping High Street. Rossett squinted into the gray, trying to make sense of the shadows and shapes that drifted into focus and then melted away again like ghost buildings in dreams.
Chivers had called the wrong turn twice as they crept along, and now he waited until the last moment before pointing over Kate’s shoulder and indicating the correct turn into the road the pub sat on.
Rossett spoke for the first time since they’d left the house.
“Park here, I’ll go look first.”
“Flanagan won’t let us down,” Chivers replied.
“It isn’t Flanagan I’m worried about,” Rossett said, wiping the side window with the back of his hand and looking out.
Kate pulled to the curb and shut off the engine and lights. Rossett took out the Webley and replaced the spent cartridges he had fired at Sterling’s.
“If you hear anything or see anything you aren’t sure about, just go. If I’m not back in five minutes, just go. I’ll find you, and we’ll try again another time. Understood?”
Kate nodded. Rossett opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. He looked up and down the empty street as far as the blanket of fog would allow, then leaned back into the car and gestured to Chivers.
“Give me the Browning.”
Chivers handed over the pistol and Rossett dropped it into his pocket, before looking into the backseat at Jacob, who sat silently with only his face showing above a thick scarf and coat.
“I’ll not be long, all right?”
“Promise?”
“I promise. You’ll be safe soon.”
“With grandfather?”
“With me.”
The boy nodded and Rossett nodded back, both accepting that their fate lay in the hands of others.
Rossett looked at Kate and then Chivers. “Five minutes.” He didn’t wait for a reply before he closed the door.
Rossett’s steps echoed off the pavement as he walked casually down the street. He stopped on the corner of Wapping Wall and lit a cigarette, listening to the night as the flash of the match died down.
On the river he could hear bells and the occasional ship’s horn, but from the land side all seemed to be silent. He looked up at the towering warehouses that ran along Wapping Wall and backed onto the river. All were in darkness. Such was the thickness of the fog that he couldn’t make out the tops of the buildings or even the far side of the road. A whisper of wind was shifting the odd shadow, and as Rossett walked toward the pub, buildings appeared out of the mist like vague memories.
He stopped short of the Prospect of Whitby and tilted his head to listen. He could just make out voices and laughter, and he glanced back over his shoulder and took a few more paces toward the pub entrance.
“Hey, are you the copper?”
Rossett turned to see a man, wrapped up against the cold, standing at the end of a narrow alley, barely two feet wide, that ran alongside the pub. The man stepped back into the dark as soon as Rossett saw him.
Rossett approached the alley. It was almost completely black except for a narrow band of fog visible at the other end. A horn wailed on the river, sounding closer than before, and Rossett realized that the alley led directly to the bank of the river.
“Yes,” he whispered, unable to see the man he was talking to.
“I’m the boatman sent to fetch you. Where are the others?”
“At the end of the street. I’ll get them.”
“Be quick, the tide’s already half turned.”
Without replying, Rossett turned and walked back along Wapping Wall toward the car, glancing over his shoulder as he went. All was quiet, the fog providing privacy and comfort for the cautious traveler.
Rossett could hear the car engine running when he reached the high street. The headlamps were still off and he bent slightly as he approached to check that all was well inside.
Kate smiled through the windshield when she saw him, and he found himself smiling back. He opened the door and leaned in, looking first at Jacob and then at Chivers.
“They’re there. We don’t have long.” He pulled the front seat forward and helped Jacob out, then tugged Chivers free from the cramped space and out onto the pavement.
“I was thinking, you and the boy, you’ll need these.” Chivers held out the pouch with the sovereigns.
“No, George.”
“I took a couple, to get home like, but I thought . . . well, the lad, ’e’ll need a start.”
“No, keep them. You’ve earned them,” Rossett replied. Chivers nodded and slipped the pouch into his overcoat.
“Yeah, well, maybe.” Chivers held out his hand to Rossett, who shook it firmly.
“Thanks, George.”
“You shouldn’t thank me, not the way I’ve behaved.”
“The way we’ve all behaved,” Rossett replied, looking the other man in the eye.
Chivers turned away and bent down to hug Jacob, who stood, confused, on the pavement next to them.
“You write me a letter, boy, when you get to your new ’ome.”
Jacob didn’t reply. He just held the old man close and reached as far around Chivers’s neck as his little arms would allow.
On the other side of the car, Kate stood on the pavement, wearing a white woolen coat with a fur collar. Her blond hair and the white wool made her stand out against the fog like a dash of white paint on a gray canvas. She smiled at Rossett nervously.
“Well?” Rossett asked. “I need to know; the tide is turning.”
Kate looked down the street, then back at him. Rossett thought she was crying but wondered if it was a trick of the fog.
“I’m ashamed,” Kate said softly.
“Don’t be.”
“For what I’ve done, before this.”
“I’m ashamed, as well. The tide is turning, Kate. We can catch it if we hurry.”
Kate looked down at the pavement.
“Will you hate me?”
Rossett shook his head. “New beginnings.”
Kate took a deep breath.
“Okay, new beginnings.”
Chivers took a step back, waving at Jacob, who waved back.
“You shouldn’t go home,” Rossett said to the old man.
“I’ll be all right. I’ve been in worse trouble. It’ll be my missus I’ll ’ave to watch out for.”
“Won’t she be with the Germans?”
“They won’t be able to put up with ’er. They know they need me outside, doing what I do, and they know I need ’er with me to do it. I’ll fix things up.”
“Take care.”
“Time to go,” said Chivers, taking one last look at the three of them and then walking away into the night.