An Ordinary Girl

By Dave Siddall

Kriminalinspektor Karl Brunner tightened his grip on the upholstery of the black Woolsley and glanced at his subordinate at the wheel. As the car swung onto a rain-drenched Victoria Embankment and the tyres squealed, he felt bound to ask, “Must you drive so fast Paul?”

Briefly taking his eyes from the road, Paul Brietner saw Brunner's pinched expression and lightly pressed the brake pedal. The car skidded. Just for a moment Brunner thought they would slide off the road and into the Thames . But as he closed his eyes and saw the words of his obituary written on the back of their lids, Paul brought the car back under control. Brunner relaxed his grip. And while Paul muttered an apology, he reopened the file on his knee and bent his head to read.

It was nothing he didn't already know, yet two weeks after the atrocity that had shaken a largely peaceful London , Head of Security Dr Alfred Six, had at last handed him the file. The specifics were well known: a bomb, an underground train, six dead and a score injured. The Gestapo had taken the initiative and blamed the ‘League of Patriots', a shadowy organisation whose name rather than deed were known to the authorities. But after round ups, interrogations and the execution of a dozen nationalists, had discovered nothing. And that, presumed Brunner, was why the investigation had passed to him. Twenty-five years at the ‘Alex' in Berlin had given him a solid grounding in the art of murder, and his part in the ‘Polish Affair', had brought recognition to a wider audience - including those in the party. But it was a two-edged sword. For Brunner knew, there was little room for failure in the new, ‘Greater Third Reich'.

“Do you think we will learn much?”

Brunner looked up from the file.

“This guy we are to interview,” continued Paul, “We will learn something?”

“We always learn something Paul.” Brunner pursed his lips. “Big or small, lie or truth we always learn something.”

Paul was less than convinced. That very morning they had indulged in what Brunner called, ‘Old fashioned police work' – interviewing witnesses and the families of victims. Intimidated by days of Gestapo questioning, they were less than forthcoming. And Brunner watched as his once enthusiastic assistant was worn down beneath a curtain of silence and dumb insolence. Remembering his taste in American literature, Brunner added, “Not all things are achieved in car chases and shoot outs Paul.”

Concentrating on the road, Paul said nothing.

Brunner looked through the windscreen. Ahead lay the Houses of Parliament. Closing the file on his knee, he took another from the briefcase at his feet. Spreading it over his lap he began to read: Elisabeth Woolcot had been sitting close to the bomb. So close that only the remnants of her I.D card and clothing recognised by her husband identified her. Charles Woolcot worked for the new administration and according to his file, was a friend of the regime and a man who could be trusted. Brunner couldn't wait to meet him.

Waiting for them in Westminster 's Central Lobby was the Sergeant-at-Arms. He looked down his nose at Paul and Brunner, ignored the grey suited soldiers posted at each entrance of the octagonal room and escorted them through a labyrinth of narrow passages. Eventually he stopped outside an oak panelled door. As Paul reached for the brass knob, the door burst open and a young woman careered into him. The papers she was carrying scattered across the floor.

“Oh you bloody fool.”

Paul stammered an apology then got down on his knees to retrieve her belongings. Stifling a grin at the ‘Master Race's' weakness when confronted by a pretty face, the Sergeant-at–Arms, turned smartly and marched back to the lobby.

“Are you just going to stand there?” The girl turned her eyes on Brunner.

She was slim and attractive, mid twenties with emerald eyes and perfect ruby lips - the most perfect lips Brunner had ever seen. Brunner's mouth twitched. “Yes”, he said and nodded towards Paul on the floor. “I believe you have all the help needed.” Hearing his accent the girl's shoulders stiffened. It was, Brunner reflected, a natural reaction.

“And you are?”

“Celia Hammond.”

Brunner waited.

“Mr Woolcot's secretary.”

Brunner nodded. “Good. Tell Mr Woolcot I should like to see him.” He held out his

warrant disc.

“Is he expecting you?”

Brunner smiled. If he felt so inclined he could kick open the door and march right in. And Celia knew it. She fidgeted with her necklace, pulled the hem of her skirt then pushed open the door. “Through here.”

Apart from a table, chair and a few filing cabinets the room was bare. There were no windows and the dark wood panelling gave it a grim air. Behind the desk was another door. Celia followed Brunner into the room and told him to wait while she knocked. She disappeared inside and Brunner glanced over her desk: typewriter, files, loose papers and a photograph of a young man. Brunner studied the topmost paper – production figures for a coalmine in South Wales .

The door reopened and Celia Hammond stepped to one side. “Mr Woolcot will see you now.”

Leaving Paul outside, Brunner found himself in a much larger room. A single window looking over the old palace yard gave plenty of light. In front of the window and dominating the room was a broad table. Behind it and rising to take his hand was Mr Charles Woolcot. Immaculate in jacket, waistcoat and tie, his handshake reminded Brunner of handling a dead fish. Greased hair with a centre parting and a thin pencil moustache did little to improve Brunner's impression.

“Thank-you for seeing me,” he released Woolcot's hand.

“Not at all Inspektor.” Woolcot gestured to a seat in front of his desk then flipped open the lid of a silver box. “Cigarette?” Brunner raised his brows, the box was full.

“You obviously have no problems with supply,” said Brunner. He took one and sat down.

Woolcot's smile was as slick as his image. “The benefits of being a politician Inspektor.” He slid back into his seat and reached for a round desk lighter. “Besides,” he said, “Now the United States has elected Lindberg, these shortages should come to an end. I have it on good authority the oil embargos about to be lifted. Blast!” Woolcot tried and failed three times to strike a light. Putting the lighter down, he opened a draw on his side of the desk and took out a book of matches. On its front was a picture of a blue cat holding a glass of champagne. Tearing one off, he struck it on the back of the packet and held it across the table. “Is there news Inspektor?”

Brunner took the light then waved his cigarette in the air. “I wanted to go over a few things.”

Woolcot's face fell. “I've been over everything a thousand times.”

“I want to be sure nothing has been missed.”

Woolcot closed his eyes. To Brunner, his well-worn grief seemed a little too palpable, rehearsed even. “Very well Inspektor. But you must understand, this isn't easy for me.”

Brunner nodded sympathetically and took a long pull on his cigarette. He took it from his mouth and examined the burning end. “Where were you when you heard about the incident?”

“Here – at my desk. Celia told me. Of course it was some time before we realised Barbara was involved.”

“You've returned to work rather quickly. After losing your wife I mean?”

Woolcot shrugged. “I'm not one for tea and sympathy Inspektor. I thought I'd be more use here.”

“Is this your wife?” Brunner picked up a silver frame from the desk. The face was open and warm with a charm that exuded through the blank medium of the photographic paper.

“Barbara? Yes that's,” Woolcot corrected himself, “was her.”

Brunner replaced the picture. “On the day of the bombing was there anything unusual in your wife's habits?”

“Such as?”

Brunner shrugged “She was travelling from the city. Was there any reason she was there or caught that particular train?”

Woolcot placed his elbows on the table and made a pyramid with his fingers. “She did voluntary work at ‘The Royal London Hospital'. She took it very seriously.”

“And she always caught the same train?”

“From Aldgate yes. She did three mornings a week – nine until one o'clock in the afternoon. So yes, I assume that she would. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“She had business in the city, tea with a friend that sort of thing.”

“But not this time?”

“No - not this time.”

There was a moment of awkward silence while Brunner watched Woolcot close his eyes. The pain was still raw; or that was the impression he liked to convey. Brunner watched as a frown began to form. “Where exactly are you going with this Inspektor?” There was a hint of arrogance in his voice. Brunner repressed a smile. English or German, the elite responded in much the same way.

“I am saying that if she always caught the same train, it could have been known to others?”

“You're not suggesting Barbara was the target?”

Brunner shrugged. “Not all of your countrymen take such an enlightened view of the present state of affairs. Some see you as a collaborator.”

Woolcot didn't move.

Brunner continued. “Maybe a way of getting at you would be to hurt your loved ones.”

Woolcot's hand moved to his mouth. There was a new found tremor in his fingers. “I can't believe what you're saying.”

Brunner stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and gestured with the empty hand.

“The bomb exploded on a train she used on a regular basis.” He shrugged. “Maybe it wasn't such a random act.” Brunner saw the turmoil on Woolcot's face. He stared at him for half a minute before Big Ben's three o'clock chimes broke the silence. He shifted his gaze to the window behind Woolcot. “But then,” he said, “I am merely speculating.”

Woolcot pulled a handkerchief from his top pocket. “Is this plausible?” He wiped his brow.

Brunner was about to elaborate when the door opened and Celia Hammond bustled in. “I'm terribly sorry but Sir Tristram has been on the line. He needs those figures for South Wales immediately.” She came to Woolcot's side of the table and placed a series of files on the desk. Brunner watched. Was there more here than just a working relationship?

Woolcot hovered between the urgency of Celia's request and Brunner's presence. Lost in uncertainty he turned to one and then the other. In the end Brunner made it easy for him. He rose from the chair. “I see that you are busy.” Woolcot began to rise but Brunner waved him aside. “Please. The needs of the many outweigh those of the few.” He bowed his head. “I will see myself out.”

* * *

Paul Brietner skipped along the corridors trying to keep pace with Brunner. Not a word passed between them until they were standing on the Green in front of the Palace. Brunner paused. “He reminds me of this place Paul.”

“Inspektor?”

Brunner gestured behind him, “An elaborate front hiding a vastness of secrets.” He shook his head. “Too perfect.”

“I don't understand?”

“I mean Woolcot. His manner is a little too perfect.” Then almost to himself, he added, “And then there's Miss Hammond.”

“Celia?”

Brunnner raised an eyebrow and watched Paul scurry to the car. Brunner followed and walked to the driver's side. Paul's mouth dropped as Brunner opened the door and sat behind the wheel.

“You're driving Sir?”

“Yes and don't look so surprised. I have a job for you.” Paul's keen eyes sparkled. “You seemed to be getting on very well with Woolcot's secretary.” Paul's face was devoid of expression. “Catch her as she's leaving and see what you can find out.” Paul took a black notebook from his inside pocked and began to make notes. Brunner watched as his forehead began to crease.

“Inspektor, how do I – I mean what does one…”

Brunner sighed. “Paul, you're young, she's young. Use your imagination.”

Paul grinned. “And you Inspektor?”

Brunner started the car and crunched it into first gear. “I'm going to find a cat that likes champagne.”

* * *

Tea! Brunner looked at the insipid liquid in his cup and pulled a face. How had the English built an empire? He lit a cigarette and slumped back in his office chair. It had been a long night. He had spent most of his time in Soho 's Blue Cat Club. Since the curfew's relaxation, Londoners had flocked to the clubs, finding a universal tonic in cheap booze, sex and gambling. He had sat at a table away from the lights and ordered beer and whisky. The whisky was expensive, the beer – English. The red headed waitress who served him smiled and for the price of a large gin, talked. In fact Brunner had trouble shutting her up. She knew Woolcot. He was a regular she said with more interest in the card table in the back room than the girls upstairs. And he always left a good tip. Brunner took the hint, bought her another gin and left the change. He figured it was a fair exchange.

The door opened and Paul pushed his face around the frame. “Are you ready Inspektor?”

Brunner grunted and waved Paul into the room. “Of course I'm ready. I've been waiting for you.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you have a good night?”

“Oh yes, we went to a tea shop and had fish and chips.”

“And?”

“She's very beautiful Inspektor.”

Brunner expelled a long drawn out sigh forcing Paul to clear his throat and consult his notebook. “She lives in Bromley with her maiden aunt, has no boyfriend …”

“What about Mrs Woolcot?”

Paul turned a page. “She comes from a wealthy family; her father has estates here and in Ireland . In fact that's where she was born.” He flicked the page. “Oh Mr Woolcot had her insured for five thousand pounds.”

Brunner sat up. “You're sure?”

“Oh yes Celia – Miss Hammond said he renewed the policy recently.”

Brunner looked at as assistant and tapped the table with his fingers. “That's good work Paul.” He heaved himself out of the chair and squeezed from behind his desk.

“Are we to see Herr Woolcot again Inspektor?”

“First the hospital. There is a man there who was in the carriage that had the bomb. Perhaps he can tell us who else was there.” He took his hat and coat from a peg behind the door. “We can leave Woolcot for later.

Paul nodded and opened the door. “Inspektor.”

“Yes Paul?”

“Did you know the English put vinegar on their chips.”

* * *

Brunner loathed hospitals. It was a prejudice nurtured from childhood when a white-coated butcher had removed his tonsils. Directed to the ward, he paused in the open doorway and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Antiseptic and disinfectant rolled over his senses. Paul looked into his face. “Are you alright Inspektor?”

Brunner ignored him. Swallowing back his nausea he entered the room. The ward was open plan with a row of neat beds lining either side of the room. Most of the beds were occupied. A nurse in immaculate white uniform looked up from her desk and crossed the polished floor to remind them of the hospital's strict visiting hours. Her advance stalled when she saw Brunner's I.D. To his enquiry, she pointed to the last bed on the right side of the ward. “But you can't talk to him,” she said. “It's Doctor's orders.”

Brunner sidestepped her, smiled as sweetly as his nature allowed and made his way to the cast iron bed. As he neared Brunner could see the man beneath the covers wasn't as old as he first thought. His face was sickly and grey.

“Mr Benson?” Brunner pulled a wooden chair close to the bed, “I'd like to ask you a few questions.” He sat and placed his wide brimmed hat on the bedside cabinet.

Benson turned his head. Beneath a sheet, a protective cast had been placed over his lower body. He had lost his left leg in the blast.

“I know nowt.” Benson fired the words and turned his head to stare back at the ceiling.

Brunner noticed the drawn out vowels. “You're not from London ?”

Benson didn't reply.

“I thought not.” He glanced at Paul hovering near the bed's foot. “I hear it in your voice, the accent I mean.”

“Regular Sherlock Holmes ain't ‘yer.” Benson faced his questioner, “Well I'm telling yer nowt.”

Brunner patted the pockets of his coat looking for cigarettes. “Now there's a dilemma.”

Benson narrowed his eyes and faced his questioner. “Eh?”

“First you say, ‘I know nothing,' and then you say, ‘I'm saying nothing.'” Brunner found the packet and matches in an inside pocket and placed them on the bed. He jutted his chin towards Benson. “Either you know nothing in which a few questions won't hurt, or you do know something but are not willing to tell me.”

Benson didn't reply.

Settling back, Brunner opened the pack and took a cigarette. Lighting it, he blew a stream of smoke across the bed. Benson's nose twitched.

The nurse, whose dilemma bordered between seeking matron and leaving the ward unattended, plucked up enough courage to confront Brunner. “Smoking is not allowed anywhere on the wards Inspektor.”

Brunner gazed into the nurse's eyes.

“If you persist I'll have to call matron.”

Brunner inhaled and blew the smoke towards her. She took a step back, hesitated then went for reinforcements.

Benson watched her disappear and licked his lips. “I could murder a ciggie.” Brunner took one from the packet and passed it to Benson. There was a brief moment of doubt, before he accepted a light. He inhaled like a man starved of oxygen. “Heroes.” He settled back on his pillow.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Heroes,” Benson repeated and turned his face towards Brunner. “That's who done it. Bloody heroes.”

Brunner affected incredulity. “You believe that the man who took your leg is a hero?”

Benson said nothing.

“And where do you think this hero of yours is now Mr Benson? In ‘The Red Lion' or ‘King's Head'? Making love to a beautiful woman perhaps?” He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling, “Or maybe enjoying a cigarette in the company of friends.”

Benson's bruised cheeks began to glow.

“The men you refer to are not heroes Mr Benson – they are criminals, murderers who care little for who they maim and destroy. Does he think about you Mr Benson? Do you believe the man who took your leg cannot sleep at night because you are on his conscious?”

The red lines on Benson's face were flowing one into another until he could no longer contain himself. “They did what they had to, what we all want to do.” He thrashed his head side to side on the pillow. “Strutting about as if you own the bloody place. Well you don't own me.” He leant forward, trying to push his face into Brunner's. “Nor will yer - ever!” He mashed his cigarette to pieces in a saucer that lay on the bed then collapsed back onto his pillow panting heavily. Brunner waited as the air rasped in and out of Benson's smoke damaged lungs. Eventually, his ragged breathing subsided. Brunner lit another cigarette and placed it between Benson's lips.

When he spoke again, it was softer, gentler than before. “This man you believe is a hero – what did he look like?

“I didn't see anyone.”

“There were others on that train Mr Benson, innocent people who didn't deserve to die.” From his inside pocket he produced a series of photographs. He pushed one beneath Benson's nose. “Miss Christine Collins – dead.”

Benson twisted his face away. “No.”

Brunner laid it on the bed then showed him another. “Mary Ann Johnson – also dead.”

Heavy sobs were leaving Benson's mouth. “I don't want to look, you can't make me look.”

Brunner produced the photograph of Barbara Woolcot. He got off his seat and held the photograph before Benson's eyes. “Look Mr Benson, she was blown into a thousand pieces.” Reluctantly Benson focused on Barbara Woolcot's black and white features. “Do you remember her?

“No.”

“Please Mr Benson. You were in the same carriage. Who else was there? Talking to her, making conversation, offering her a seat perhaps?” Brunner heard footsteps. Paul's lame intervention was swept aside as Matron's large shadow loomed over Benson's bed.

“I insist that you take that cigarette outside Inspektor.”

Brunner ignored her. “Mr Benson?”

“No one, I saw no one.”

“Please Inspektor.”

“Come Mr Benson. Was there a parcel, a package of some kind nearby?”

“I've told ‘yer, there were no one. I just remember a girl, a young girl.”

“If you don't leave now I'll have you removed.”

Brunner turned his head and looked hard at the matron. “And if you don't shut up I'll have you shot. Paul.”

Paul's astonishment was only slightly less than Matron's where a strangulated gurgle exited her mouth. Brunner turned back to Benson. “A girl you say?”

“Aye pretty thing. She were talking to a woman.” He looked again at Barbara Woolcot's photograph.” Could have been her I suppose. She got off at Kings Cross.”

“What did she look like?”

“She were just ordinary, an ordinary girl like.” His face brightened at the memory. “Bright red lips an' green eyes she had, I remember that.” He smiled. “Lit up the whole carriage she did.”

Brunner slumped back in the chair. “Indeed Mr Benson.” He rubbed his chin. “She certainly did that.”

* * *

Standing in the doorway of Woolcot's Westminster office, Karl Brunner ran his eye over Celia Hammond. She was wearing a black woollen dress that clung to her figure and a beret with a feather that provocatively fell over one eye. An expensive pair of stilettos adorned her feet. Eyes like saucers, Celia stared back at Brunner. She stammered, “I'm afraid Mr Woolcot has already gone.” She laughed nervously. “It is Friday.” Brunner said nothing. Self-consciously she ran a hand down the line of her dress.

Brunner took a deep breath. “Actually it's you I wanted to talk to.”

“Oh?”

“Please,” Brunner moved forward and indicated a chair for her to sit while he perched on the end of the desk. A small, open suitcase lay on the floor. “Are you going somewhere?”

“ Kent ,” she said quickly. “I've family there.” Her eyes strayed to where Paul was standing by the door. There was little comfort in his cold eyes.

Brunner took his cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Celia. Her hand darted forward. “Thanks, it's been ages since I had a decent smoke.”

“Mr Woolcot doesn't share?”

She raised her eyes to look at Brunner. “He's not overly generous if you know what I mean.”

Brunner pulled a face. “I thought having such a close association you would share many things?”

Celia said nothing. She leant forward and took a light from Brunner's hand. He placed the lighter in his pocket and picked up a photograph from the desk. “Your young man?”

“He was killed during the invasion.”

Brunner replaced the picture. “How long have you been with Mr Woolcot?”

“Two years.”

“You must know him pretty well?”

“Pretty much.”

“And Mrs Woolcot?”

Celia shifted in her seat. “Not that well. She called in occasionally, met him for lunch, that sort of thing.”

“And your impressions?”

“She was everything you would expect.”

“Did you like her?”

“I didn't know her well enough not to.”

Brunner nodded and watched Celia's face. He reached for the ashtray on the desk behind him and delicately tapped the ash from his cigarette into the bowl. “When did the affair begin?”

Celia choked. She bent forward, gasping and coughing then stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray at Brunner's side. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep, even breaths. When she had calmed, she looked back at Brunner. “May I have another of those?” Brunner tossed the packet onto her lap. Her hands shook as she placed one between her lips. “How did you know?”

Brunner shrugged. “Charles Woolcot plays the grieving husband a little too well.”

“Charles?” Celia nodded. Almost relieved it seemed, the words tumbled from her mouth. “We were working late and he asked me if I wanted a drink. One thing led to another.”

“And the bomb?”

Celia's green eyes widened. “I knew nothing about it - I swear.”

“You were on the train talking to Mrs Woolcot.”

“No.”

“I have a witness Celia.”

She tried to stand but Brunner shot out a hand and grasped her wrist. He twisted her arm forcing her to sit back down. “On the day of the explosion, what time did you take lunch?” He tightened his grip

Her face knotted. “Between one and two.”

Giving you enough time to meet Barbara Woolcot, set the device and return here before news of the outrage reached Westminster .” Brunner tipped his head, almost in admiration. “Very clever Celia.” He relaxed his grip.

She rubbed her arm. “I didn't know it was a bomb.”

“It?”

“The package.”

Brunner folded his hands and placed them in his lap. He raised an eyebrow and waited for her to continue.

“It was Charles. He asked me to meet his wife and give her a package to take home. He said it was important.” She coughed.

Brunner swivelled his head. “Paul, would you get Miss Hammond a glass of water.”

Paul poured from the decanter set on top of a filing cabinet and pushed the glass in front of Celia.

Brunner waited until she had taken a sip. “So Charles Woolcot gave you a package and told you to meet his wife…”

“At Aldgate. She caught the same train every day. He telephoned her to say I'd be on the tube.”

“And you…?”

“Did what he asked.”

“And you knew nothing about the bomb?”

Celia's big eyes looked up at Brunner, imploring him to believe her. “D'you think

I could have if I'd known?”

“And when you heard about the devastation?”

Celia looked at the cigarette between her fingers. “I guessed what had really been in the parcel.” She stared at Brunner. “But when I confronted Charles he laughed. He said if I ever mentioned it or the affair the authorities would blame me.” She started to sob.

Brunner grunted and passed her a handkerchief from his pocket. “Where did the explosives come from?”

She wiped her eyes. “Charles had a mission to an open cast mine in South Wales .” Celia shrugged. “It would have been easy to appropriate some gelignite.”

Brunner nodded and removed himself from the table edge.

“Where are you going?”

“If what you tell me is the truth there may be some hope for you Celia.” She began to speak but Brunner held up his hand. “But first we shall see Mr Woolcot.” He walked to the door and called the Sergeant-at-Arms who was standing outside. “I'm sending a car for Miss Hammond,” he said. As the Sergeant took a position inside the room, he added, “She's not to use the telephone or have contact with anybody.” He called Breitner. “Come Paul, let us see what Mr Woolcot has to say.”

* * *

Woolcot's home was an imposing Edwardian town house with a portico entrance and leaded windows. A white haired maid opened the door and led them across a spacious hall to the drawing room and in a lilting, Irish accent asked them to wait while she found the master.

The room was comfortable with paintings on the wall and a sofa and chairs set around an open fire. Within a moment Woolcot dashed through the double doors. There was an unfastened bowtie about his neck. “This is unexpected Brunner.” He turned to the maid. “Thank you Bridget.” She closed the doors behind her.

There was a mirror above the fire and Woolcot stared at his reflection while he grasped the tie in his hands and twisted one end over the other. “Is there something Inspektor? I'm running late for an appointment.”

“At ‘The Blue Cat'?”

Woolcot stopped what he was doing and turned to face Brunner. He grinned. “I see you've been doing some homework?”

Brunner gestured with an open hand.

Woolcot turned back to the mirror. “It's a little early for ‘The Blue Cat' Inspektor.”

“A weekend away then. Kent perhaps?”

“ Kent . Why on earth should I want to go to Kent ?”

“I believe it's very nice this time of year.”

He sighed. “If you really want to know, I have an appointment with Sir Horace Tristram.”

“So you're not meeting Miss Hammond – not planning to spend any of your wife's insurance money?”

Woolcot's clutched his throat. It seemed a noose had slipped around his neck. Now Brunner yanked the rope. “She's told us about the affair?”

Woolcot's eyes widened. “Affair - with Celia?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You've gone mad Inspektor. She's young enough to be my daughter.”

They glared at each other across the room. No one spoke. Eventually Woolcot relaxed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “Look,” his voice had suddenly lost its authority. “Of course Barbara was insured, we both were.” He swallowed. “And if you really need to know Inspektor, for the last few years Barbara and I have lived more or less separate lives.” He shook his head, “But if you're suggesting I would do her ill you're very much mistaken. I would never hurt Barbara – never. As for the affair,” he opened his hands expansively, “I could hardly conduct an affair at Westminster and the only time Celia came here was when both of us, Barbara and I, were present.”

Brunner looked on impassively.

“You don't believe me?” Confident now, Woolcot wagged a finger. “I'll prove it.” He walked to the door and called the maid. A moment passed before she appeared and stood in the doorway. “You remember Miss Hammond Bridget?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Tell the Inspektor here that the only times she's visited this house was when both I and Mrs Woolcot were present.”

Bridget scratched an ear.

“Well?”

“I'd like to sir, but if I did it wouldn't be the truth.”

Woolcot gasped. “But I was never alone with Miss Hammond.”

Bridget shook her head. “Not you sir, the mistress. Miss Hammond often called when you weren't home.” She sniffed. “Very friendly they were too sir. She even gave her clothes.”

“Clothes?” Brunner's stomach lurched.

“Oh yes sir.” Bridget nodded, “Hand-me-downs, too good to be thrown out but I believe Miss Hammond has an aunt?”

Brunner grasped the back of a chair.

Watching the exchange, a puzzled frown creased Breitner's face. “Inspektor?”

Brunner looked at his subordinate then back to Woolcot. “Do you have a telephone Mr Woolcot?”

“In the hall.” Bridget showed Brunner out while Brietner watched Woolcot. Not a word passed between them until Brunner returned. “We have to leave Paul.” He looked at Woolcot. “You will remain here until I find Miss Hammond and we can clear this mess up.”

Paul frowned. “Find Celia? But that ‘old' man's guarding her at Westminster .”

“He's dead Paul.”

Brietner's mouth dropped. “How?”

Brunner raised an eyebrow. “The heel of a stiletto shoe was buried in his head.”

* * *

They drove quickly and this time Brunner did not complain. At last they turned onto the Euston road and went through the great arch of the station. Leaving the car, they dashed into the great hall. Crowds milled around the entrance and congregated around the platform barriers. Brunner pushed his way to the front and caught a ticket Inspector by the elbow. After showing his I.D, he and Brietner were let through and directed to a long curved platform where the Irish Mail was due to depart. A dozen, crimson liveried carriages stood alongside and Brunner began to walk its length. At the front, a locomotive leached smoke and steam.

Paul at last voiced his concerns. “Why here sir?”

“Because she has nowhere else to go.” He jerked his chin towards the train, “The

Irish Mail Paul: straight through to Holyhead and the ferry to Dublin .”

Men and women stood by open doors, some laughing, some saying tearful goodbyes. As Brunner passed, he scrutinised every face.

Breitner gritted his teeth. “Are you sure sir?”

Brunner said nothing and looked at his watch. He squinted ahead and there, through the fug of smoke that lingered beneath the canopy, he saw two women heading towards the first class carriages. He began to run. Holding onto his hat, he dashed along the platform pushing aside those who stood in his way until he could reach out and put a hand on the older woman's shoulder. She gasped and turned quickly. Behind him, Breitner came to an abrupt stop. Brunner made a small formal bow and breathless as he was, still managed to say, “Barbara Woolcot I presume?”

For a moment she stared at Brunner. Then her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes. Behind her, Celia Hammond was backing away, trying to lose herself amongst the suitcases and luggage. She squirmed as Paul caught hold of her arm.

Barbara Woolcot took a deep breath and instantly composed herself. “I take it you're the famous detective I've heard so much about?” He inclined his head.

Paul dragged Celia Hammond away from the train and stood next to Brunner. He looked at the two women. “Barbara Woolcot?” He frowned. “Then you two are…”

“Lovers.” She shrugged. “It's not a crime.”

“No,” agreed Brunner. “But murder is.”

Holding her firmly by the elbow, Brunner guided Barbara Woolcot towards the ticket barriers. Behind them, carriage doors began to slam. “Tell me Inspektor,” she smiled, “when did you know?”

“When you're maid mentioned the clothes for Celia's aunt. A woman I presume to be approximately the same age and build as yourself?” Barbara Woolcot's smile soured. “Celia met her aunt not you on that train.” He looked across at Celia. “What was it, the promise of lunch and more elegant clothes? I take it you asked her to wear the clothes Barbara gave you the week before. A special treat perhaps?” He shook his head. “You gave her the parcel and travelled with her until you suddenly remembered an urgent assignment back in the office? What then Celia? Did you set the timer and plant the false identification papers as you kissed her goodbye?” He turned back to Mrs Woolcot. “And then you occupied Celia's aunt's room as if she'd never left.” He inclined his head. “Very clever.”

As they walked through the ticket barriers and back into the great hall, Brunner

looked again at Celia Hammond. “And I take it Celia, you learnt your bomb making skills from the young man in the photograph? Not your lover but a brother - executed last year for setting up a terrorist cell in Kent .” He shook his head. “But tell me Celia, did your aunt really deserve that?”

Suddenly Celia swung her head around to look at Brunner and her eyes were full of anger. “You don't know what its like,” she said. “She hated me, called me a whore just for falling in love.” She burst into tears.

Barbara Woolcot reached out and their hands touched.

Paul looked to Brunner, ready to pull them apart but Brunner shook his head. It would likely be, he thought, their very last intimacy.