Perseverance Street (26 page)

He’d once stepped in when two SS soldiers decided to rape a local woman during a routine three-man patrol. At first, Charlie had pretended to go along with the rape then, at an opportune moment, had moved behind them and knocked them both unconscious with the butt of his rifle before sending the terrified woman off to make contact with the local partisans who took the soldiers away to a fate Charlie didn’t want to think about. His only demand was that the men never be seen again, alive or dead.

He’d returned to camp and reported them to his captain as deserters. ‘I last saw them heading for the Swiss border, Capitano, not five miles away. They tried to persuade me to go with them but I refused.’

‘You should have shot them.’

Charlie had thrown out his arms, expressively. ‘That very thought did occur to me, Capitano, but how would I have explained it to you? I could never have proved they were deserting.’

Desertion was not uncommon
during this time. Many soldiers, especially Italians, could see an inevitability about the war’s outcome and they didn’t want to end up on the wrong side. Charlie’s story was accepted and he was accorded the dubious privilege of wearing a red, Waffen-SS collar tab.

A month later, under his close supervision, two groups of Italian partisans blew up the Porto Valtravaglia ammunition dump at midnight and the dump at Laveno-Mombello at four a.m. The massive explosions lit up the night sky for several minutes on each occasion and could be seen fifty miles away in Milan.

It was a major blow to the Italian SS; to the fanatical Brigates Nere (Black Brigade) and to the MVSN (Milizia Volontaria per la Sicurezza Nazionale), who were all active in the area and supposedly on top of the partisan problem. The local populace braced themselves for the usual murderous reprisals but Charlie had arranged for enough subtle evidence to be left at both scenes to indicate that the attack had been carried out by British commandos and not local partisans, who wouldn’t have had the expertise to carry out such a brilliant raid.

When word got back to Hitler he took his reprisals out on the senior officers. Many of them, both German and Italian, were sent to the Russian Front where Germany was suffering badly against the Russian counter-offensive.

At five a.m. Charlie and the undercover officer were over the border in Switzerland. The action earned Charlie a Military Medal and an early demob.

The action he was about to embark tonight on might earn him a substantial prison sentence, if not worse. Then he thought about Lily and smiled. She was most definitely worth the risk.

Sergeant Bernard Randle
kept his head down as he left the compound and made his way to his quarters. The vile rumour was still rife. He’d first been told about it by another sergeant; the one who usually never spoke to him; the one who had once given him a good hiding. Not that that would have happened in his younger days. In his younger days he’d have given Dunkersley a sound beating. He’d been given a severe roasting by the CO, despite his protestations of innocence, and now he was being stared at by everyone, even by the German prisoners. Someone who could speak German had passed the rumour on to them and, apart from the prisoners themselves, he only knew of one man on camp who could speak fluent German. Sergeant Jimmy bloody Dunkersley.

He knew it was time to call his army career a day. Joined up at eighteen, two years before the First World War and had spent the full four years of that war fighting in France. He could apply for a discharge any time he wanted and he wanted out now. Along with his army pension they had enough money to see him into a comfortable retirement; enough to buy a nice bungalow somewhere down south. Bournemouth maybe. He’d never been to Bournemouth but he liked the sound of it. So did Edith. Respectable place full of respectable people. Respect was what he craved right now. The bitch Robinson had taken all that away. She deserved to die and no mistake. Pity he’d been disturbed. He’d killed a few in his time, over in France, and he’d grown to like it. He’d killed one or two of his own by mistake but no one knew. In the fury of battle it was bound to happen. He could fire off the ten rounds from his Lee-Enfield 303 almost as fast as a machine-gun. He’d devised a method of pretending to fall back in the trench after the order was given to go over the top. He would do this a couple of times before managing to climb out, thus creating a shield of protective men between him the murderous machine-gun fire coming his way. He would kneel beside the first dead Tommy he came across, acting as if the man was still alive and he was trying to help him. Then he’d take cover behind the body of the dead man as the German guns mowed down the men in front of him by the hundred, occasionally looking out from over the body to fire off a few rounds in the general direction of the Hun. It was inevitable that he’d shoot a couple of his comrades in the back from such a position but, in the heat and the smoke and the noise and the mud, no one actually knew what he’d done and there were no close friends among them – he knew that because he had no close friends – so what the hell? They most probably would have been killed by the Hun anyway.

At one point his
ruse had been rumbled by a sergeant who cursed him for being a coward and threatened to shoot him if he didn’t move forward. A shell had exploded nearby, knocking the sergeant off his feet. Randle looked around to see if anyone was watching, then shot the sergeant through the heart and, for the first and last time, followed his comrades towards the German lines, knowing the sergeant was dead, but not quite sure if it had been the exploding shell or his bullet that killed him.

Killing the Robinson
bitch would have given him more satisfaction than all of the Hun he’d killed put together. Too late now. He’d missed his chance. To go back and try again was just asking for trouble. The police were not
that
stupid. He smiled to himself at the way he’d pulled the wool over DS Bannister’s eyes. Told him lie after blatant lie and the silly bugger believed him. No wonder crime was so rife in this country.

He was so engrossed in thought that he didn’t hear the quiet footsteps behind him. He stopped for a couple of seconds to take the house keys from his pocket. In that couple of seconds the man behind him took up a stance at a ninety-degree angle to Randle’s back.

The classic, reverse karate chop to the carotid artery behind Randle’s left ear was delivered with such skill and precision that he knew nothing about it. The next thing he did know was when he regained consciousness in the back of a van, blindfolded, his hands and feet bound, and a gag over his mouth.

Lily was unaware of what Charlie was doing. She knew she’d given him carte-blanche to extract information from Randle in any way he could and that didn’t bother her as much as it might have done in recent weeks. She had to know for certain if her son was alive. Charlie’s assertion that he
was
alive made sense, but she also knew that Charlie was saying that to save her from complete despair. What she did know was that Randle was perfectly capable of murder. But why would he kidnap her son just to kill him? Not for the first time she cast the obvious answer out of her mind as too awful to contemplate.

But somehow Charlie’s assurance that Michael was alive had buoyed her spirits. Charlie’s very presence in her life buoyed her spirits just at a time when she needed that. She went to bed that night thinking about him as well as about Michael and Christopher. Larry was in there somewhere, but was gradually receding from her heart. For this she felt guilty. But first things first.

First she had to
find her boy. His prolonged absence from her life was gnawing away at her very soul. If she could only get definite confirmation that he was still alive it would ease this constant pain and give her renewed hope. Bringing Michael home alive and well was the answer to everything.

Randle felt the van leave the hard road and go onto an uneven surface, some sort of cart track. His hands were tied behind his back and the bindings attached to his feet were tied in such a manner as to allow him to just about stand up and walk, as and when required. He was guessing this requirement wasn’t too far off. There was a familiar, not unpleasant smell in the van. The smell of cordite. It reminded him of his time in the war. Cordite was a propellant for guns. What he didn’t know was that a certain ex-army man, now in the demolition business, had found a use for it in his work.

The van stopped. The driver’s door opened and closed. Randle’s heart was racing. He thought this might be something to do with the Robinson woman but he couldn’t be sure. Over the years he’d made quite a few enemies, done his share of back-stabbing, got a few soldiers into unnecessary trouble, but nothing that would merit this.

The back door opened
and he was grabbed by the feet and pulled out of the van until his head banged against soft ground. He could hear a soft rushing sound, the sound of water. Then a man’s voice. Irish.

‘On yer feet, scum!’

Jesus, he hadn’t made an enemy of any Irishmen to the best of his knowledge. He struggled, first to his knees and to his feet. An owl hooted, wind rustled through nearby trees, a dog barked in the distance and the water rushed on. It was obviously a river; either that or a very busy stream. Probably a river, most likely the Derwent.

‘Walk.’

From behind he felt a hand on each shoulder, pushing him forward. His heart was racing with fear. He couldn’t talk to this man because of the gag. He couldn’t scream out or have any conversation. Couldn’t ask what this was all about. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. If he could speak he could clear that up in a second. He was stumbling down what was probably a river bank. He felt his feet enter cold water. He stopped and was pushed further forward until the water was almost up to his knees. Hands behind his head undid the gag.

‘Don’t speak until yer spoken to.’

The voice was harsh. Northern Irish he reckoned. Randle didn’t speak. What the hell was all this about? The voice clarified the matter.

‘I’m a friend of Mrs Lilian Robinson’s husband. Does this explain ter ye just how much trouble yer in – scum? Does this tell ye just how much longer ye have left ter live?’

Oh Jesus!
Randle said nothing. He was now quaking with fear. The man suddenly reached underwater and took Randle by the ankles, pulling them back and up, forcing Randle to fall forward, until his head was beneath a good foot of water.

Instinctively, Randle
managed to take half an inward breath before he went under. His head was now on the muddy bed of the river, his legs held in the air and his arms tied around his back. He was underwater and totally helpless; totally at the mercy of this unknown man who might just hold him there until he drowned. After half a minute he was certain he was going to drown and the ensuing adrenalin surge sent a massive shiver of terror throughout his whole body, to the extent that Charlie could feel it. He held him there for another few seconds then let go of Randle’s legs, allowing the man to struggle to his knees, coughing and spewing out river water. Charlie allowed him time to stop coughing, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him back to his feet.

‘I’m going to ask ye this only once and if I don’t get a satisfactory answer I’ll assume I didn’t keep ye under for long enough, and ye go under again – and ye’ll keep going under until you’ve told me the truth or yer drowned like the sewer rat y’ are. So, where’s the boy, Michael Robinson, who ye took from his home last April?’

There was a moment’s hesitation then Randle, who wasn’t thinking straight, blurted, ‘I don’t know!’

Charlie said nothing. He
just took hold of Randle’s ankles once again and held him underwater, for exactly the same length of time as before, only he knew it would seem an age longer to Randle, who was on the verge of collapse when Charlie let go of his legs for a second time.

Randle flailed about in the water, gasping and choking, trying to push himself up but having little strength to do so and getting no help from Charlie. Eventually he struggled back to his feet and Charlie placed him in position once more, leaving no doubt what the future held for Randle if he didn’t cooperate.

‘Right, scum, ye know the question, give me the answer or ye’ll keep going under fer a whole lot longer. It strikes me yer a feller who likes the water. So, where is the boy?’

‘I … I … sold him,’ gasped Randle.

Charlie felt himself smiling. Randle had just told him that the boy was alive. Even that snippet of news had made this enterprise worthwhile, but he required more, much more. He now wanted the boy back.

‘Sold him? Who’d yer sell him to – a gang o’ filthy paedophiles, was it?’

‘What? No, nothing like that. He’s OK. He’s g … gone to a wealthy family.’

‘Yer lying ter me, yer bastard!’ screamed Charlie. He hit Randle across the side of his head, knocking him into the water.

The bad guy act didn’t come naturally, but the memory of what Randle had done to Lily drove him on. Randle was sobbing with fear as he struggled to his feet.

‘Please, I swear to you I’m not lying.’ Charlie put him in position again and stood behind him. His voice went into deranged mode.

‘Wealthy family
ye say? Which wealthy family?’

Randle hesitated, still gasping for breath. Charlie had reached into the water and had him by the ankles again, ready to pull him back under. Randle knew he was in no condition to survive another ducking. The next time he went under would be the last.

‘No, no. Please, I’ll tell you. Just give me a—’

Charlie’s voice was now laced with a spine-chilling calm. ‘Mister, if I think fer one minute yer telling me a lie I can assure ye, you’ll regret it for the rest of yer life. However, the good news is that ye won’t be regretting it for long – just the sixty seconds or so that it takes ye to die. I’m told that the quickest way out of this life is to take in a great gobful of water the minute yer head goes under. Ye might like ter try that.’

‘Please, let me think. I’m trying to remember his … his name. He wanted a son to take home to his wife.’

Charlie’s grip grew tighter around Randle’s knees. ‘Don’t!’ screamed Randle. ‘Please, please … I’m trying to think of his name!’