Dominion

Chapter Sixteen

GUNTHER WAS PICKED UP FROM his flat by Syme, driving an old Wolseley, at ten o’clock. They set off an hour after David’s party, through quiet suburban streets empty save for a few early churchgoers. It was a cold, cloudy day.

When Gunther had got up he had found a letter pushed under his door. It was addressed to his flat in Berlin, and he recognized his wife’s handwriting. The postmark, stamped over the Führer’s grey head, was Krimea. The Gestapo must have collected it from his flat and forwarded it to the embassy, who had then brought it round here for him. He was certainly getting first-class treatment.

There was a brief, formal note from his ex-wife, dated a week before. She said his son was doing well at school, that she hoped the security situation would allow Michael to visit his father in Berlin next spring. She hoped he was in good health.

He opened the letter from his son and read it eagerly.

Dear Father,

I hope you are well and that your work in trapping bad people who work against Germany is going well. Here it has become cold, but not so cold as Berlin, and I am wearing a new coat Mummy got me for school. I am doing quite well in German, not so well in mathematics. I am second top of the class in gymnastics. A new settler family from Brandenburg has moved in next door. They have a little boy called Wilhelm who comes to school with me and I am helping him find his way around. There was a terrorist attack on the railway line to Berlin last week and a freight train was derailed. It was out near Kherson. I hope there is a bad winter in Russia and the terrorists all starve.

Thank you for saying you are sending me a train set for Christmas. I look forward to getting it so much. We will be putting the Christmas tree up next week and I will think of you on Christmas Day.

Mummy says I may come to Berlin to visit you next year. I would love to come.

Kisses,

Michael.

Gunther folded the letter and laid it on the coffee table. He kept his hand on it. His son, the only family he had left, so far away.

Syme said little as he drove but there was a hint of a smirk in his expression that puzzled Gunther. The inspector was restless, too, lighting one cigarette after another. Then, as they reached the outer suburbs, he said, ‘I thought we might’ve seen something interesting on the way, but it looks like the fun hasn’t started yet.’

‘What do you mean?’ Gunther tried to keep the irritation from his voice.

‘I heard about it when I went to collect the car. They’re moving all the Jews in the country this morning, taking them to special camps. Everyone’s involved, Special Branch, Auxiliaries, regular police, even the army.’

Gunther stared at him, annoyed at his smug tone.

‘We’ve had the plans ready for years, of course, we thought the government would give in to German pressure eventually. About bloody time so far as I’m concerned.’

Gunther frowned. ‘I did not know this.’ So that was what Gessler had meant about the police having something else on their minds.

‘Nor did anyone else.’ Syme smiled, obviously happy to be in the know when the German wasn’t. ‘Apparently Beaverbrook and Himmler agreed the final details in Berlin. Mosley’s going to broadcast about it on TV later on.’

‘What sort of camps are they being sent to?’

‘First to army barracks, closed factories, football grounds. Sounds like they’re going to shift them somewhere else afterwards.’ He looked across at Gunther, smiling. ‘Maybe we’re giving them to you.’

Gunther nodded slowly. This was a big political step, a move closer to Germany. The price, he guessed, for economic advantages and the right to raise more troops for the Empire. And of course with Mosley’s people in the government, there were more at the top who wanted rid of the Jews. ‘Do you think there will be any opposition from the public?’ he asked.

Syme tapped his foot on the floor of the car. ‘If there is we’ll deal with it. But the idea was to do it out of the blue on a Sunday morning, when nobody’s around apart from the churchy types. If they make any trouble we can easily deal with them.’

‘I congratulate you,’ Gunther said. ‘It has worried us, this alien element in Britain, our most important ally. Maybe the French will get rid of their Jews now,’ he added thoughtfully, remembering Beaver-brook had stopped in Paris on his way to Berlin.

Syme said, ‘Dockland’s always been crawling with Jews and foreigners. I’ve always hated the lot of them. So did my dad.’ His eyes were shining. He was excited now, worked up.

‘Is that why you joined the Fascists?’

‘Yes. I joined in ’34, when I was a police cadet. Quite a few of us East End police supported Mosley. Having a Party card helped with advancement after the Berlin treaty. Even more now, with Mosley Home Secretary.’

‘It is the same in Germany. Being an Old Fighter, an alte kämpfer, it helps you get on.’

Syme looked at him. ‘Are you in the Nazi Party?’

‘I joined in 1930. I, too, was young.’

‘It helped me get into Special Branch, then up to inspector. I’ve led a couple of investigations now, winkling Resistance people out of the woodwork.’

‘I am sure your own talents helped as well.’

‘Trouble is, so many idiots sympathize with them these days, with the depression going on forever. I wish we could find Churchill.’

Gunther looked at the near-empty motorway, the still, cold countryside. ‘I think in England you have left things too long, taken too many half-measures. We rounded up all our enemies at the beginning, took firm control. To make a revolution you must act hard and fast.’

Syme frowned and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘We couldn’t do that. Remember, you let us keep our so-called democratic traditions at the Treaty negotiations.’

Gunther nodded agreement. ‘Yes. It seemed the easiest way to end the war, then.’

‘It’s taken twelve years to get shot of all that. We still allowed an Opposition till 1950. Now we’re getting tough, they’re fighting back. We don’t have your German respect for authority, you see,’ he added with heavy humour. ‘But we’ll beat them. This is the last campaign.’

Gunther wondered if they could. Britain had grown weak and corrupt after so long. Syme continued, ‘I’ve thought of getting a transfer up North. There’s a lot of London boys up there now. Good overtime, and I could do with a bit of excitement. Scotland, maybe. You know we’re arming some of the Scottish Nationalists to take on the strikers in Glasgow. They’ve always had a pro-Fascist wing, they opposed conscription of Scots in 1939 and we managed to split the party, get rid of the woolly-minded liberals and lefties.’ He smiled at Gunther. ‘We learned that from you, recruiting local nationalists against the Reds. Promise them some goodies in return.’ He laughed. ‘Beaverbrook’s promised to return the Stone of Scone to Scotland – it’s some slab of rock the Scottish kings used to put under their throne. And road signs in Gaelic and vague promises about Home Rule at some time.’

‘Yes. We have used the Flemings and the Bretons. Offered them baubles in return for fighting the Reds. And the Croats – setting them against the Serbs; they have been a big asset. It is a useful tactic. But this Stone of Scone, do not underestimate the importance of ancient symbols to a nation. Reichsführer Himmler has a whole organization, the Ahnenerbe, dedicated to uncovering the origins of the Aryan race.’ Gunther’s voice took on an enthusiastic note; it was a subject that interested him. ‘Recently we found what were definitely swastikas in some caves in Poland, proving the Aryan race was there first. It is part of our ancient heritage.’

‘Yeah?’ Syme wasn’t interested. ‘Fighting the Reds up North, that’s what I’d like, I could do with a bit of excitement. The Irish have offered to help us, you know, De Valera’s people. Put spies in the Irish community here – lots of Reds there. But he wanted a stake in Northern Ireland in return, so we turned them down. The Ulster Unionists would go berserk.’

‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed. ‘He offered Germany help too, on similar terms. But Ireland is one nationalist conflict we do not want to get bogged down in.’ A bit of excitement, he thought with distaste, there were so many in the Nazi Party who spoke of the things they had to do like that. He was always uneasy around such men, they tended to be wild, unfocused. But Syme seemed focused enough.

‘What’s your job in Germany now, if there aren’t any troublemakers left?’

‘Oh, there are always some. I look for Jews, William, and the people who shelter them. There are very few left now. Some in Poland.’

‘So there’s still some action?’

‘Action is not what I am looking for,’ Gunther replied seriously. ‘We are trying to make Europe safe for future generations, William, cut out the Jewish-Bolshevik cancer. We have to be serious, totally serious.’ Syme didn’t answer, and Gunther realized he was sounding pompous. There was silence for a few moments, then he asked, ‘Have you family in London?’

‘Nobody that matters. I was engaged a few years ago, but the girl broke it off. Said between the job and the Blackshirts she never saw me.’

Gunther smiled sadly. ‘My wife left me for similar reasons. She took my son to Krimea.’

Syme gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry. That’s tough.’

‘Women do not understand the pressure men must live under in these times.’

‘You’ve got that right. The heroic generation, eh?’

‘The generation that must sacrifice everything.’ Gunther looked out of the window. A wet, sleety snow had begun to fall.

Dr Wilson sat behind his desk, fingers laced together, looking disapprovingly at the two policemen. Driving up to the mental hospital, through the wet snow, Gunther had been impressed by the neat gardens, the building’s grand facade, but once inside he was appalled by what he saw: glimpses of crowded wards, patients with vacant or desperate faces. He was glad there was no more of this in Germany.

They were taken to Dr Wilson’s office, where Syme introduced himself as a Special Branch inspector and Gunther as his sergeant. The little fat mad-doctor had waved them to a couple of chairs then sat behind his desk, looking self-important, but worried too. He said, ‘I find it inconceivable that Dr Muncaster could be involved in political activities.’

Syme answered with a wry smile, ‘It’s often the last person you’d think of who is, sir.’

Wilson’s frown intensified. ‘You don’t understand. He is frightened of everything, he finds safety in quiet and routine. I don’t like that routine being disrupted.’ All Wilson’s attention was directed at Syme; he barely glanced at Gunther, no doubt thinking him just a middle-aged sergeant, which was exactly what Gunther wanted. ‘I would ask you to be careful with Dr Muncaster,’ Wilson went on. ‘If you provoke another outburst I’m not responsible. Last time, as you will know, someone was badly hurt.’

Syme’s voice took on a soothing tone. ‘I’ll treat him gently, I promise. I just want to get an impression of him for now. I’ll tell him I’m new to the district, picked up his case and I’d like to go over it with him. You may be right about him not being political, it may not even be necessary to raise that directly. We just want to tie up a loose end.’

Wilson shook his head. ‘It’s not usual to have someone like Dr Muncaster, a graduate, on a common ward. We’d move him to the Private Villa if we could sort his money out. He’s my responsibility. I want to sit in on the interview.’

Syme shook his head. ‘That won’t be possible, sir. I promise you, I’ll try not to upset him. Just a bit of questioning.’ He added, ‘If you’re not happy, you can always phone London.’

Wilson set his lips tight, but did not reply. Syme, Gunther thought, was doing well. Like most people, Wilson was frightened of getting into trouble with the Home Office.

There was a knock at the door, and a middle-aged attendant entered. He held the arm of a thin man with a closely shaved head, in a baggy grey hospital uniform. Apart from his protuberant ears, Muncaster’s face, with its large eyes and full mouth, might have been handsome were he not so obviously consumed with fear as he stared between Wilson, Gunther and Syme. Syme stood up and smiled reassuringly. ‘Frank,’ Dr Wilson said gently. ‘These men are from the police. Inspector Syme here has taken over the case of your brother.’

Muncaster jerked back. The attendant grasped his arm more firmly. ‘Easy, Muncaster, easy.’ He guided him to a chair and sat him down.

Dr Wilson went on, ‘We’re going to leave you with these officers for a few minutes, Frank. It’s all right, they just want to ask a few questions.’ He looked at the attendant. ‘Wait outside, Edwards.’ With a last sharp look at Syme, Wilson left the room, the attendant following.

Muncaster sat on his chair, gripping its wooden arms hard, chest rising and falling rapidly. It was, Gunther thought, as though he were in Gestapo headquarters already. He noticed Muncaster’s right hand was deformed. He nodded to him, and Muncaster smiled back, a horrible grimace. Syme took a notebook from his pocket, looked at it, then said in a disarming, friendly tone, ‘Like the doctor said, I’ve just been transferred up here from London and I’ve taken over the case of your brother’s fall. I see he didn’t want to prosecute. But the files are still open, you see. I just want to go over a few things. It was quite a serious assault, Frank, wasn’t it? Is it all right if I call you Frank?’

Muncaster nodded. ‘I – I know it was serious, but it was an accident really.’ Gunther noticed that the large brown eyes were watchful; there was something more than fear, something calculating in them as he looked between Gunther and Syme.

‘Well, it’s down as an assault, you see. You did push him out of that window. If you were charged it could mean prison. We don’t want that, of course,’ Syme added reassuringly, then he smiled. ‘Now if he provoked you, that would be a defence. We might even decide not to bring the case.’ Syme had folded one leg over the other and was jiggling his foot. Gunther wished he could keep still.

‘Come on now,’ Syme said. ‘Tell us what happened that night. I know you weren’t in any condition to give a proper statement then but you’re better now, eh?’

Muncaster looked at the floor. ‘Our mother died,’ he said quietly. ‘Edgar came over for the funeral. He and I never got on very well and Edgar – he was, well, hitting the bottle. We had a row, he started it, and I pushed him. He stumbled and went through the window. It was an accident. He was drunk, he couldn’t keep his balance, the window frame was rotten.’

It’s like a recital, Gunther thought.

Syme leaned forward. ‘But what did your brother do to make you lose your rag with him? Must’ve been something serious, you don’t look an aggressive chap and you’ve no police record, I know that.’

‘It was a family matter,’ Muncaster answered quickly. ‘Personal.’ He gave that strange grin again.

Syme looked at his notebook. ‘Your brother lives in California, doesn’t he? Ever been there to see him?’

‘No.’ Muncaster glanced down at his bad hand.

‘What happened there, with your hand?’ Syme asked.

‘It was an accident, at school. I fell onto the spikes of my running shoes.’ He looked away as he spoke and Gunther thought, that’s a lie.

Syme said, ‘Do you think it’s because you don’t get on that your brother won’t reply to Dr Wilson? I hear he can’t get hold of him. Maybe it’s because he knows he provoked you?’

Muncaster picked up the point eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, I think that must be it.’

‘I understand your brother’s a scientist, like you.’

Muncaster clenched his good hand into a fist. ‘No. He’s not like me.’

‘A physics professor. That sounds impressive. Not that I know anything about it.’

‘I don’t know what Edgar does,’ Muncaster said quickly. ‘I hadn’t seen him for years till Mother died.’

Syme pressed him. ‘I would’ve thought you spoke about your work, two scientists.’

‘I’m only a research associate.’ That strange grin again. ‘He didn’t think I was worth talking to.’

Syme considered Frank’s reply, then looked at Gunther. ‘It seems there must have been an element of provocation here, Sergeant.’

‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed. He saw hope flash in Muncaster’s eyes. He had seen that look often during interrogations; desperate people would jump at any prospect you held out that they might not, after all, be prosecuted. He felt sorry for this pathetic little man, as he had for the family in Berlin who’d sheltered those Jews. He asked Syme, careful to make his accent imperceptible, ‘Will Mr Muncaster be released if he is cured?’

‘Perhaps.’ Syme looked at Muncaster. ‘What would you do if you were let out, Frank?’

Muncaster shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if they’d have me back at the university.’

‘Any other family, anyone who could take you in?’

‘No.’ There was a momentary hesitation, then Muncaster said, ‘I don’t know if anything can be done for me.’

‘Well, we’ll have to have another look at this case. You’ll be staying here for now,’ Syme said casually. ‘With so much trouble in the world, all this industrial unrest and everything, you’re probably better off in here, eh?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Apparently, after what happened with your brother, you were shouting about the end of the world. So your police file says.’

‘I can’t remember what I said.’ Muncaster’s large eyes narrowed. Syme glanced at Gunther, who nodded, and the two of them stood up. Syme said, sympathetically, ‘Well, I can see you’ve been having a bad time.’ He looked at Gunther. ‘I think we should get on, Sergeant. We’ve put this poor man under enough strain.’ Gunther nodded agreement. He turned back to Muncaster. ‘We might want to talk to you again, but don’t worry, it’ll all get sorted out.’

Syme went to the door and called the attendant. He waited as Muncaster was taken away. Then in the doorway Frank turned and met Gunther’s gaze for a second. Again Gunther noted how watchful his look was; as though someone intelligent and calculating was looking out through the crippling fear. The attendant said Dr Wilson would be back shortly. Gunther sat in the chair, thinking.

‘Seen enough?’ Syme asked.

‘Enough to see that man was hiding something.’

‘I thought so, too. But he doesn’t look like he’s got it in him to be anything to do with the Resistance. Wilson was right there, he acted like he’d be afraid of his own shadow.’

‘He may not be political, but he could be protecting people who are.’

‘What about the brother? He wasn’t telling the whole story there, was he?’

Gunther didn’t answer directly. ‘His flat in Birmingham. Has anyone been round there since the police were called?’

‘Not according to the file. The freeholder was going to make the window secure.’

Gunther rested his chin on his hands. ‘I think I would like to take a look at the flat now. Can we get that locksmith you mentioned?’

Syme said, ‘The Birmingham Special Branch has a list of locksmiths ready to get doors open with no questions asked.’ He tapped the file. ‘We’ll go and see the superintendent at local HQ who’s been liaising with me. He’s a good Fascist. Though he’ll have a lot on today, with the Jews.’

Gunther nodded. ‘Thank you. Let’s do that. Cast our net upon the waters.’

‘Our what?’

‘It’s from the Bible. I was brought up a Lutheran.’

‘My dad never had any time for religion.’

Gunther shrugged. ‘The Bible is good literature, at least.’

Syme gave him a keen look. ‘What next? After you’ve been to the flat?’

‘I think we need to force Muncaster to tell us the things he is keeping back. And that will be easier done away from here. I will recommend we get him moved to Senate House.’

‘You’re going to give him the full Gestapo works?’

Gunther inclined his head. ‘I think just being taken there would be enough.’

‘That Dr Wilson won’t like you treading on his turf. And he’s got the law on his side.’

Gunther gave him a serious look. ‘Dr Wilson will not know of any German involvement. If my people agree with me the embassy will talk to the Home Office again, and they can put pressure on him.’

Syme looked at him hard. ‘Just what’s going on here?’

Gunther smiled. ‘I can only tell you again that we are very grateful for your help. You are showing yourself to be a true friend.’ He looked at Syme meaningfully. ‘Our gratitude might smooth your path to this transfer you want.’ He became brisk. ‘Now, Dr Wilson will be back soon. Please ask him to tell his patient we were quite happy with what he said.’ He looked out of the window. The snow had stopped but a grey fog had descended, obscuring the grounds. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘We must get on to Birmingham.’

Syme laughed. ‘You should see the fogs we get in London. This is nothing.’