Dunkirk Spirit Part 50

'I see,' said the detective. He started a new page in his notebook and then he picked up Kitty's ident.i.ty card. 'Visible distinguishing marks.' He looked across the desk and stared at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The interrogation room was just as cold as her cell and the detective could clearly see the outline of her nipples through the starched white blouse. She folded her arms.

'Do you like outdoor sports, miss?'

'What has that got to do with anything?'

The detective sighed deeply before leaning down to the floor and producing a large brown paper bag. He upended it like a sack of potatoes directly onto the desk in front of Kitty, and then he began to fish with his fingers through the former contents of her large shoulder bag.

'Why would anyone need eleven cigarette lighters?' He sat back in his chair, folding his arms. He pursed his lips and tilted his head.

'Eleven!' Kitty tried not to smirk. 'Is that what all this is about?' She relaxed and lent forward. 'If Mr Hawksley wants his lighter back he can have it. I must have picked it up by mistake.'

'And the other ten?'

Kitty shrugged her shoulders. 'I find things.'

'You observe everything and anything and you find things?'

'Yes.' Kitty stretched out the word.

'And you write things, don't you?' he asked. 'Secret, coded things.'

'Pardon?'

The detective made a casual hand gesture and the constable beside the door slipped out of the room. He then pulled several sheets of paper from the file and placed them before Kitty.

'Well, those are my notes,' she laughed nervously. 'My notes for M-O.'

'Your coded notes.'

'Well, it's not really a code. It's a kind of shorthand.'

'Shorthand is it?'

The door then opened and a thickset policewoman, an F35C with acne scars, stepped up to the desk and came to attention. The detective spoke.

'Proudlock here is a graduate of the Pitman Secretarial College.' He slid the papers across the desk. Before the policewoman bent down to examine them, she turned her head and examined Miss Karen MacDonal. An unpleasant shudder ran down Kitty's spine and she quickly uncrossed her legs and refolded her arms.

'That's not any kind of shorthand that I've ever seen, sir,' proclaimed Proudlock coming back to attention.

'And what do you make of it?' asked the detective, looking up.

'I'd say it was code, sir. A secret code.'

'Thank you very much Proudlock. That will be all.'

He turned his attention back to Kitty and tilted his head again. 'It would be best, of course,' he said softly, 'if you were to cooperate. It might save a lot of unpleasantness.'

Kitty tried to match his stare but she knew her face was flushing a fresh pink.

He slid a single crumpled sheet across, together with a large notepad and freshly sharpened pencil. 'You can begin,' he said, 'by de-coding this page.'

Kitty sat back and crossed her legs again. She puffed out her chest. 'You are barking up the wrong tree, I am afraid.' She tutted and tilted her own head. 'I have not been charged with anything have I?'

The detective made a dismissive gesture with both hands.

'And I know my rights. Either you charge me or I shall go back to my hotel and you will be hearing from my organisation's solicitors.'

'Perhaps you would like to make a statement...' He let the offer hang loose in the air.

'What kind of statement?'

'An admission of your activities will do for starters. Then we can move on to the details.'

'All right,' smiled Kitty. She leant forward and laid her hands on the table. 'It's a fair cop, gov'ner. I'm the one what dunnit!' She stared him straight in the face. 'How's that?'

'Is that your statement?' he asked, smiling to himself.

'Is it likely to be read out in court?' she asked.

The policeman kept his face blank.

'Because if it is, I'd like to see the judge's face.' Kitty laughed; a gentle sound like the tinkling of bells. She dropped her voice and took on an authoritative tone. 'And the accused,' she grimaced. 'When presented with the evidence said, and I quote, "It's a fair cop, gov'ner. I'm the one what dunnit!"' She sat back and crossed her long legs again. 'You would be laughed out of court, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it!'

'I don't smoke a pipe,' said the detective. 'And I don't even need to charge you. Not under the Emergency Powers Act.' He placed both palms on the desk and made to stand up. 'I can keep you here just as long as it pleases me.'

He pulled himself up from the chair and gave Kitty a painfully hard cold stare. He stepped around the desk and peered down at her with eyes grey and sharp. One fist lay nestled in the palm of his hand. 'Now,' he smiled, heavy with menace. 'If you will be so kind, please de-code that page.'

'All right,' announced Kitty suddenly. 'I am prepared to make a deal.'

The policeman's face lit up. 'That's better.' He returned to his chair and sat down.

'I will de-code that page if I can have a cup of tea,' smiled Kitty. 'And some biscuits.'

07:35 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Bray, France

Join the German Army and see the world.

Join the British Army and see the next.

The cheerful greeting had been sloshed in green paint across one of the few remaining walls on the seafront at Bray. The Padre shook his head and turned to look at the beach. There were significant differences between the beach at La Panne, the scene of his rescue, and the beach here at Bray. For one thing, the Germans had not been directing h.o.a.rds of dive-bombers onto the beach at La Panne. That beach had been deserted. This one held countless disorganised and demoralised men. The carnage beggared all belief.

The growing warmth of the sun was burning off pockets of mist and now ships and boats could be seen scattered out to the horizon. Closer to sh.o.r.e, small vessels rode in and out on the gentle waves. The Padre snapped his jaw back shut and tried to swallow. The eruptions out to sea each resembled tall black trees. They held their shape for a second or two and then collapsed back down in a cloud of hissing steam. Small puffs of grey smoke drifted guiltily away. Remarkably, flocks of white seagulls braved the Luftwaffe to scoop up tasty tidbits and screech their delight. It was all too much to take in.

The Padre simply did not know where to start, or even what starting might entail. Would Saint Cyril be as perplexed as he? He looked across the beach. A number of men were lying flat on their backs, taking pot shots up at the Stukas. A sh.e.l.l or bomb ploughed into the sand close to the water's edge. First it resembled a poplar and then an elm. An earlier sh.e.l.l crater held about half-a-dozen men. And then the penny finally dropped. He jumped down off the seafront and ran towards the crater. He would do his job; plain and simple.

'Good morning, chaps!' The Padre peered down into the crater. 'Got room for one more?'

The soldiers budged tighter together. 'Room for a little one, sir,' smiled a corporal. 'Better hop in quick!'

'Thank you very much.' The Padre sat down and adjusted his tin hat to give himself a moment's thought, and then asked, 'So, how are you chaps getting along?'

The corporal tightened his mouth. 'Well, all right, sir. Just looking forward to getting home now, sir.'

'Yes, I understand. Are you getting anything to eat or drink?'

'No, not exactly, sir. It's been a bit of a shambles really. Not quite what we're use to.'

'No, probably not.'

'Perhaps you could say a prayer for us, sir,' offered a stocky Welshman.

'Yes, yes, of course. Delighted. Anything in particular?'

'The Lord's Prayer would do just fine, sir,' said the Welshman.

Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespa.s.ses, as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us. And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. Amen.

'Amen!' chorused the soldiers.

'Thank you very much, sir,' nodded the Welshman. 'That was very nice.'

'Very comforting, sir,' offered another Welshman.

'Glad I could help.' The Padre felt awkward and decided to stand up. 'Good luck to you all.'

'And you, sir.'

'I must press on. No peace for the wicked! Ha, ha!'

'Keep your head down, sir!'

In the next crater the Padre delivered a shortened version of the Holy Communion to some Anglicans from the Suffolk Regiment, and then several more Lord's Prayers to the odds and sods in various depressions. Eventually, he found a group of atheists from the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry.

'But why would any G.o.d allow this sort of thing to happen?' The boy was no more than eighteen.

'You're placing the blame in the wrong place,' said the Padre. 'Why should people blame G.o.d when the fault is on man's side?'

'Well, it ain't my doin',' said the boy.

'But perhaps it is,' suggested the Padre. 'This sort of thing, as you put it,' he waved an arm above the lip of the crater. 'Is because people have neglected G.o.d. They have ignored him and even despised him.'

The boy shrugged.

'And that is why this evil has come upon the world.'

'Right.'

'G.o.d has given man freewill, and if man chooses to thwart G.o.d's will and goes his own selfish and sinful way, then how can man blame G.o.d for the mess he had made in G.o.d's world?'

'Dunno,' said the boy. The others shook their heads.

The Padre had better luck with the admin platoon from the Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. They huddled beside a burnt lorry in a scooped out depression in the sand. He gave one Lord's Prayer and a shortened Holy Communion as well as answering questions on the edibility of the razor clams that littered this section of beach.

In time, the Padre gravitated towards the truck jetty and began looking around for somebody in charge. He settled upon Commander Babbington RN. The Commander was giving a running commentary while peering through a very large pair of binoculars.

'Christ! That was d.a.m.n close!' shouted Binky. 'G.o.d in Heaven! What are those blasted gunners playing at? They couldn't hit a flaming barn door. Jesus! Given 'em more lead!'

The Commander was stepping sideways like a crab, watching as the destroyer Keith zigzagged and blasted at the Stukas.

'G.o.d d.a.m.n it!' he swore as Keith disappeared behind the immovable hulk of HMS Devonia, the grounded minesweeper, and momentarily out of view.

'Oh, excuse me,' said the Padre. He stepped aside and rubbed at his still deadened arm.

'Watch where you're going,' warned Commander Babbington. He tried to shuffle past but the Padre was eager to gain his attention.

'But I was,' said the Padre. 'I was wondering...'

The Commander looked at the Padre's three pips and then at the dog collar. 'No exceptions! Sorry about that. You will have to join the queue like the rest of 'em.'

'Actually,' began the Padre.

'You will have to excuse me.' Binky tried to step aside. He would now have to trot to the far side of Devonia if he wanted to witness the outcome of Keith versus the dive-bombers.

'Actually, I don't want to leave. I was wondering if there were anything in particular that I could do to help.'

'What?' asked Binky. He hesitated on the spot, unsure whether to humour the man because he was a man of G.o.d or dismiss him as a blasted fool. He pointed to an untidy heap not fifty yards away. 'Well, you can say some words over the dead if you like. That should keep you busy.'

The Commander then turned up the beach and bellowed. 'Mr Hockley! Let's get rid of these bodies now, shall we? This chaplain here wants to lend a hand. Excuse me!'

09:00 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Off Mardyck, France