Our Friends in Berlin Read online

  They both burst out laughing. Good old Bobs, thought Amy. It had gone eleven when Jo glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Right, time to toddle off, and leave you to dream of your mysterious Mr Hoste.’

  Amy rolled her eyes tolerantly. She sensed in Jo’s teasing a vicarious interest; if she couldn’t find romance for herself she would plot one for Amy instead. They belonged, both of them, to that multitude of odd women – not odd as in ‘strange’ but odd like a glove, or a shoe: missing its pair. They said goodnight on the doorstep, and Amy looked up at the velvety night, marvelling at the peace. No guns, no searchlights, no drone of engines.

  She had just turned off the gas when she heard the doorbell ring from below. She presumed it was Jo, returned to collect something she’d forgotten. Hurrying down into the darkened hall she unlocked the door – and reared back in surprise at the sight on her step. It was a stranger, a man – no, a woman in a blue worsted coat. She wore a man’s trilby over her brow, which she cocked to reveal her face.

  ‘Hullo, Amy,’ she said, and Amy knew the voice at once, though she could hardly believe her eyes.

  Standing there, with a half-smile she used to know well, was Marita Pardoe.

  6

  Her hands had trembled as she poured them each a drink – Scotch, she’d asked for. Amy had felt herself being scrutinised as she carried the glasses to the couch. She sat at one end, her guest at the other. Marita had cast her appraising eye around the room, and in doing so seemed, to Amy’s discomfort, to comprehend exactly what she’d been up to in the time since they’d last met. She had removed her hat to reveal glossy black hair done up in a chignon. Her face had retained its somewhat pointy allure; a pale forehead sat above dark, dark eyes, while the red-lipsticked mouth was made emphatic by the sharp jut of her chin.

  ‘It must be – you were at our wedding, of course – five years?’

  ‘Almost exactly. Spring of 1936.’

  Marita nodded, smiling. ‘I remember you gave us that exquisite water jug.’

  Amy remembered too. It was exquisite – and extravagant, given their subsequent disappearance from each other’s life. They stared at one another for a moment. Amy’s gaze dropped first – nobody could outstare Marita. It transpired that Mrs Florian, despite claiming ignorance of her daughter’s where abouts, had in fact passed on Amy’s letter enquiring about her erstwhile friend.

  ‘It’s true I was holed up in Ireland for a few months. A safe exile – though what a country. A superstitious, priest-ridden wilderness. And the incessant talking. I managed to slip back here at the end of last year. Under an alias, naturally. I’m obliged to be cautious.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. But you surely didn’t think I would –’

  ‘Hand me over to the authorities?’

  Something now occurred to Amy, who narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you been … following me?’

  Marita’s smile turned pitying. ‘Forgive me, meine Liebste. I had to make sure you weren’t in the pay of – I am determined not to end up like Bernard in some godforsaken camp.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Furious. Miserable. He was taken by surprise. I, on the other hand, saw which way the wind was blowing.’

  ‘Whereabouts are you?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Ha. Between the living and the dead. I’m afraid my address is classified – even among old friends.’ Marita looked at her, and chuckled. ‘You think me paranoid, I can tell. But there’s the devil to pay for anyone who was involved with Mosley …’

  As they talked Amy began to remember why she had once been so bewitched by Marita. It wasn’t simply that she was bright and quick-witted – Marita had something else, a charisma, a confidence that gripped and overwhelmed. It was combined with a force of personality that was almost glandular. She looked through people so easily it inclined her to arrogance; even friends she could take a vicious delight in crushing. Amy thought Marita saw through her, too, but for some reason it was her company Marita sought out above anyone else’s. Indeed, it was she who had first befriended Amy, not the other way round.

  She was just replenishing their glasses when Marita said, in a tone that carried more edge, ‘So I’m still wondering. What did make you get back in touch?’

  Amy, seeing no need to dissemble, said, ‘As a matter of fact I was hoping to do you a favour. It seems Bernard is owed a substantial amount of money – a rebate – by the Inland Revenue. An inspector wanted to know your address, and the only person I could think of applying to was your mother.’

  Marita looked disbelieving. ‘A rebate? That seems highly unlikely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Bernard’s tax affairs were in disarray. He was always in debt – the bailiffs would turn up at the door.’

  Amy pulled a doubtful expression. ‘The inspector I talked to assured me there was an error in the accounting.’

  ‘But how on earth did this inspector know to get in touch with you?’

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. Quite by coincidence I happened to see Bernard’s file lying there in his office – and I mentioned that I knew him.’

  Marita’s stare had hardened, and Amy knew something was wrong. ‘Tell me exactly how you came to meet this man.’

  So Amy went through it, from her first meeting with Hoste at the bureau and their accidental encounter at the National Gallery a few days later, to the cup of tea at his flat – not his office – where Bernard’s file happened to be lying around. Marita listened in silence. It was the cold, measuring silence of someone who knew her own power. Amy remembered it of old. It wasn’t just that she had respected Marita: she had been rather frightened of her, too.

  She felt a distinct relief when at last Marita spoke. ‘I find it difficult to believe that this Hoste is from the Revenue. Anyone working there could have found out that Bernard had been interned. From what I can gather he seems to be more interested in what I have been doing.’

  Amy, thinking back, agreed this was the case, though it hadn’t struck her at the time. ‘He was a queer sort of fellow,’ she said. ‘But he seemed plausible.’

  ‘They always do,’ Marita fired back.

  ‘Who are “they”?’

  ‘Police. Snoops from the Home Office. The sort who would like to put me in prison.’ Presently she said, ‘Where may I find this Mr Hoste?’

  Amy went off to fetch her diary, a sense of alarm gathering in her. She found his Chancery Lane address and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. Marita read it aloud, musingly, then tucked it in the pocket of her mannish trousers. Amy watched, and wondered – things might not go so well for Mr Hoste if Marita took against him. The idea of him being an impostor was baffling. Why would anybody claim to be a tax inspector who was not one? But then she remembered his curiosity about the Pardoes, a curiosity that didn’t quite fit with his alleged line of business.

  Marita asked her for a cigarette, and lit up. Through a veil of smoke she considered her old friend. When she spoke again her tone had reverted to the affectionate irony of earlier.

  ‘Amy Strallen. I never imagined seeing you again. I was certain that you would be married …’

  Amy laughed and told her more about her work at the bureau with Johanna. Marita listened with a smiling grimace to stories of their objectionable clients. Her mind seemed to be turning over their previous conversation, though, for she eventually said, ‘You told me Hoste came to you first as a client. Did you … find him a match?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘He was rather awkward about the whole thing. But the afternoon we ran into one another he seemed altogether more … agreeable.’

  Marita took this in with a squint, as though Amy had implied more than she’d intended. From outside came the distant toll of the Marylebone Workhouse bell. Two o’clock. Marita softly put down her glass and rose from the couch. She walked over to the window and peeked through the blind onto the street.

  When she turned back Amy was looking at her in puzzlement. ‘Surely there’s no one out there?’


  ‘No. But I’m in the habit of checking. It has saved me before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m on the police’s list of enemy aliens – one of their “most wanted”, I gather. Fortunately they have no recent photograph of me.’

  ‘You sound like a regular Mata Hari,’ said Amy admiringly.

  Marita had shrugged on her coat and opened the door. ‘Unlike her, I won’t get caught.’ Her gaze fell squarely on Amy. ‘I still trust in the discretion of my friends. Hoste may be harmless, but while there is doubt I must be on my guard. Should he contact you, don’t let on that I’ve been here.’

  ‘Will we … meet again?’

  Her back was to her as they descended the stairs, but she could hear the smile in Marita’s voice. ‘Depend on it, my dear.’

  Hoste was already seated in the Corner House on Coventry Street when he spotted his man coming through the door. Kilshaw seemed to carry himself with a good deal more confidence than he had at their first meeting in the pub. His step was almost jaunty as he made his way through to Hoste’s table.

  ‘Mr Kilshaw.’ He shook the man’s podgy hand and gestured to the chair opposite his own. They were meeting to discuss the filched blueprints from the de Havilland factory. Hoste explained that it had taken a while for their authenticity to be verified.

  ‘But now they have been, and our friends –’ he twitched his brow – ‘are very pleased with you.’

  Kilshaw sat back, spreading his hands in a cocky gesture of beneficence. ‘Anything to help the war effort.’

  ‘In acknowledgement of your services,’ Hoste went on, ‘I have been instructed to give you this.’ He slid an envelope across the table to him.

  Kilshaw peeked into the envelope, which contained five pounds. He counted them. Disappointment clouded his face. ‘I’m grateful, Mr Hoste, don’t misunderstand me. But last time we talked of a weekly stipend, did we not?’

  Hoste returned a patient smile. ‘Of course. I remember. But we need a guarantee that intelligence is provided on a regular basis before we make any long-term arrangement. There are other agents to finance, Mr Kilshaw – our resources are not unlimited. If you keep supplying us, we will ensure that you, as it were, go on the payroll.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kilshaw. ‘So, you still consider me on probation –’

  ‘Come now, that’s not it at all,’ said Hoste placatingly. He looked around the cafe, bustling and indifferent: no one was paying them the least notice. ‘I have something else for you, as a matter of fact.’ He produced another smaller envelope and handed it to him. ‘Look, but don’t take it out.’

  Kilshaw did so. Inside was a discreet enamelled lapel pin, crimson and silver, embossed with a black swastika. He stared at it for a few moments before looking to Hoste for an explanation.

  ‘It will help to identify you in the event of our friends’ … arrival,’ said Hoste, dropping his voice low. ‘I wear mine just here.’ He indicated the hidden reverse of his lapel.

  He could see that Kilshaw was appeased, like one who had received the equivalent of a Masonic handshake. Emboldened, he began to probe Hoste for more information about their ‘friends’, and what might be their long-range intentions. He had heard that the possibility of invasion looked less likely … Had Hoste picked up any rumours from his masters?

  ‘I’m as much in the dark about it as you. In the chain of command my position is not one that would merit such disclosures. Should I fall into hostile hands, it’s better for me that I don’t know. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Pardon me. But with these raids going on, it would be a mercy to know one way or the other. My wife’s nerves, I’m afraid, have been pushed to the limit …’ He looked embarrassed for a moment by his own candour.

  ‘The raids have been hard,’ said Hoste. ‘The building where I lived was reduced to rubble. We live in the dark, but we endure. What else is there to do?’

  A few days later Hoste received a letter at Chancery Lane.

  Dear Mr Hoste,

  I have been advised through a third party that your office is dealing with the tax affairs of Mr Bernard Pardoe. As Mr Pardoe’s accountant I am charged to pursue any outstanding payments on his behalf. My client is out of the country at present and unable to discuss the matter in person. I am available as his proxy, however. Would you be kind enough to visit me at the above address at a time of your convenience?

  Sincerely yours,

  Martin Fischer

  Hoste wrote back to Fischer, indicating his willingness to help. With the trail to Marita going cold he supposed it was worth a try. On the day before they were due to meet, Fischer’s secretary had telephoned to ask if their appointment might be rearranged. The firm had moved to temporary premises after bomb damage to their office building.

  The premises were a grim, soot-smeared Victorian paperworks just off Curtain Road in Shoreditch. Hoste initially thought the building was derelict, but then noticed lights on in the upper storeys. He ascended an echoing stone staircase, following the handwritten notice that pointed to Fischer & Co. On the second-floor landing he found the door and knocked. He heard a voice calling him to enter. The office was austerely makeshift; a desk, a filing cabinet, two chairs, no carpet or curtains. A telephone stood sentry on the desk. A pile of correspondence waited to the side, a letter knife glinting on top of it. Presently a woman entered from an adjoining room. She was an imperious figure, mid-thirties, above average height, dark hair in emphatic contrast to her pale skin. Her movements were as studied and precise as a dancer’s.

  She introduced herself as Miss Berens, and invited him to sit down. ‘I’m afraid Mr Fischer has been delayed. But I’m fully apprised of the case, so perhaps we can begin?’

  Hoste had a queer feeling he had seen the woman before, but for the moment couldn’t place her. ‘Are you the lady I spoke to on the telephone?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ she replied. ‘May I see the papers relating to our client?’

  Hoste had not expected to be drawn into the detail so quickly. But he had taken the precaution of mocking up a few sheets of figures on Inland Revenue notepaper just in case, and now handed them over. While she looked through them he studied her, the straight back, the animal quickness of her gaze, the stern self-possession.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said, looking up from the papers. ‘I mean, “interesting” that you should imagine these documents might fool me.’

  Hoste stared at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘They are forgeries, Mr Hoste. They have not come from the offices of the Inland Revenue and nor – I am certain of it – have you.’

  ‘Where do you suppose I’ve come from?’ he asked pleasantly, though he felt a tiny quiver of apprehension.

  ‘That is to be determined. First, however, I would like to know why you are interested in my client.’

  The hesitation between her last two words was vanishingly brief, but Hoste had caught it, and now the thing had dawned on him. He felt an abrupt thrill of anticipation that was quite close to fear. ‘To tell the truth, it isn’t Bernard Pardoe I’m interested in. It’s his wife. You, in fact. I presume I am talking to Marita Pardoe.’

  She stared at him in disdain. ‘Who are you? Hoste – is that your real name?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m rather offended you don’t know it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because we have friends in common. And a cause.’

  ‘Explain it, then.’

  ‘Very well. It involves the covert organisation of a fifth column in this country. We are united in a conviction that National Socialism is all that can save us from the Jewish–Bolshevik conspiracy. This means resisting and undermining the British war effort, at least until Churchill and his government decide to make peace with the Fatherland.’

  ‘Most impressive. And what is your part in this?’

  He shrugged at her sarcasm. ‘I am personally responsible for the recruitment of agents on the Reich’s behalf. Their br
ief is to gather intelligence against the enemy. My brief is to report it to Berlin.’

  ‘Noch so ein Traeumer,’ she scowled. ‘Wie gewinnt man diesen Krieg?’

  ‘Um zu gewinnen mussen Sie den Feind kennen. You speak German like a native. But you are part English, I think.’

  ‘On my mother’s side. I was born in this country.’

  ‘Ah. One might suppose your loyalties were divided.’

  ‘One would be wrong.’ She paused, squinting at him. Her expression remained cold, unpersuaded. ‘So you recruit agents on behalf of the Gestapo, yes? We must know some of the same people. Heinrich Brunner, for instance.’

  Hoste shook his head.

  ‘No? Well, then, you have come across Karl Greiser. Or Otto Mohr.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Hoste. ‘You see, I wasn’t recruited in Berlin. It was here in London, before the war.’

  Marita looked away, considering. She picked up the telephone on the desk, dialled, and muttered a few words before replacing the receiver. She might have been ordering a round of drinks to be sent up, but Hoste suspected something less friendly in the offing. She had said not another word before he heard heavy footsteps approaching down the corridor. A knock came, and two policemen entered. This was not a contingency he had planned for. He had not thought to arm himself.

  She stood up and addressed the burlier of the two men. ‘Constable Grigg. It’s as I warned you. This man is an agent of the Third Reich, reporting directly to Berlin. He has come here today to try to recruit me. I must ask you to take him into custody immediately.’

  PC Grigg, frowning, turned to Hoste. ‘Got anything to say?’

  Hoste, standing, gave the slightest shake of his head. He sensed months of patient groundwork about to be wasted. Grigg went through the formalities about taking him in for questioning. As he did so, Hoste noticed the man’s boots, scuffed and worn in a way hardly befitting an officer of the law. And he was pretty certain that a shoulder holster was bulking beneath the man’s coat. It made him wonder. The other constable – the killer’s accomplice – was preparing to lay a hand on him when Hoste spun him round and locked an arm about his neck. From the desk he snatched up the letter knife and pressed it against the copper’s neck. Grigg reared back in surprise.