“No, Kubicki. I haven’t heard anything. I can’t believe he’s gone AWOL, but if I don’t hear anything by tomorrow, I’m going to have to list him as such. It’s very worrying. Remind me, Sieczko, you were with him at the weekend, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. We went sightseeing in London on Sunday. In the evening, after dinner, he went off to meet someone. I went back to my sister’s place. He was meant to meet up with me on Monday morning, but as you know didn’t show.”
“Hmm.” Kellett stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
“Well, you know, if there’s no sign of him tomorrow, I suppose it’s a matter for the police. Doesn’t look that good though, does it? We’re just getting going here with you chaps and we have to report a Polish desertion. Won’t do a lot for our image, will it?”
Jan finished his beer. “Sir, I have… or rather my sister has a good friend in the police, at Scotland Yard in fact. Perhaps he would be able to look into it discreetly. I can’t believe Ziggy has deserted. Something must have happened to him.”
“Good idea. If we don’t find Pilot Officer Kilinski back with us tomorrow, you get your policeman on the case, Sieczko. And now, gentlemen, I haven’t got your stamina you know, I’m off to bed. I think we’re going to have another busy day tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
Friday, September 6
It seemed to Merlin that the air-raid sirens had been going off constantly for the past twenty-four hours. He had stayed put in his flat, but had been up and down all night. Having finished his Spanish history book, he couldn’t decide on a new book to read. Perhaps he’d managed an hour of sleep all told. He’d pulled back the black-out curtain from time to time and watched the dancing searchlights playing back and forth in the sky. He’d heard the almost constant drone of planes in the distance, but still central London, or at least his part of it, seemed to be unscathed. The anti-aircraft guns had pounded away, but again they were muffled and far off. At about 3am he’d put his mac over his pyjamas and wandered down to the Embankment. Judging by the glow he had seen in the east and south, he had guessed that the docks and the southern suburbs were taking the brunt of the attack again.
The early morning news bulletin on the Home Programme confirmed this. The damage was substantial but confined to a small number of dock installations. There was limited residential damage. In his usual cut-glass tones Alvar Lidell described the events of the evening, modified a little as Merlin knew for morale purposes, but fundamentally accurate.
Was this the beginning of the end? All sorts of scaremongering had arisen about the likely impact of an all-out German bombing attack. If the worst were to be believed, London’s entire population would be wiped out by Christmas. Merlin didn’t think it would be that bad, but he knew that it would be bad.
*
Peter Johnson was waiting outside his door when Merlin got to the Yard. “Come on in, Peter. Take a seat.”
Detective Inspector Johnson was a well turned out young man in his late twenties. He had dark, heavily oiled hair and a narrow, angular face. He had for a while affected a small moustache whose unfortunate resemblance to that of the German Fuhrer had brought down the A.C.’s wrath and its ordered removal. Johnson still regularly stroked his upper lip in fond remembrance. His slightly nervous and self-effacing manner masked a sharp, incisive brain and a courageous heart. Johnson withdrew a small notebook and pencil from inside his suit jacket and looked expectantly at Merlin.
“I’ve read your report on the forgers. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir. There is still more work to be done though.” Johnson spoke in a soft Geordie accent which Merlin found mellifluous.
“Yes, I know, but you’ve broken the back of the job and I’d like you to pass it over to Verey now.”
Johnson twiddled his pencil and raised a concerned eyebrow. “Very well, sir.”
“I’ve got something else for you. A ‘Gatehouse’ special, shall we call it?”
Johnson winced.