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London, 1941. The city is in blackout, besieged by nightly air raids from Germany. Two strangers are about to meet. Between them they may alter the course of the war.

While the Blitz has united the nation, there is an enemy hiding in plain sight. A group of British citizens is gathering secret information to aid Hitler’s war machine. Jack Hoste has become entangled in this treachery, but he also has a particular mission: to locate the most dangerous Nazi agent in the country.

Hoste soon receives a promising lead. Amy Strallen, who works in a Mayfair marriage bureau, was once close to this elusive figure. Her life is a world away from the machinations of Nazi sympathisers, yet when Hoste pays a visit to Amy’s office, everything changes in a heartbeat.

Breathtakingly tense and trip-wired with surprises, Our Friends in Berlin is inspired by true events. It is a story about deception and loyalty – and about people in love who watch each other as closely as spies.

About the Author

Anthony Quinn was born in Liverpool in 1964. From 1998 to 2013 he was the film critic for the Independent. He is the author of six novels: The Rescue Man, which won the 2009 Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award; Half of the Human Race; The Streets, which was shortlisted for the 2013 Walter Scott Prize; Curtain Call, which was chosen for Waterstones and Mail on Sunday Book Clubs; Freya, a Radio 2 Book Club choice, and Eureka.

The pub, on a cobbled street off Cheapside, would empty in the early evening as City people hurried home to beat the blackout. The upper room had a low-lit, secretive air, which he had come to realise was something the new recruits preferred, the danger notwithstanding. There was nothing like a creaky staircase and Victorian gas brackets to enhance the mood of conspiracy.

Dressed in his ARP warden’s overalls, the tin helmet shading his brow, Hoste had passed through the work-weary crowds unnoticed. Back in civilian life he had been unremarkable too, a man of average build, five nine, with close-cropped brown hair, pale eyes, ‘no distinguishing features’. It was not uncommon for him to meet someone three or four times before they actually remembered who he was. He had learned the advantage of his anonymous looks; you could be absorbed into a crowd without the least trouble. People would squint at him, wondering when – where – if – they had met before, and shrug. They couldn’t swear to it.

Through the pub’s window, criss-crossed with white blast tape, he saw the lights of office buildings gradually wink out. The landlord came up the stairs, muttering to himself. As he unfurled the blackout curtains to shield the windows, an air-raid siren started up its vile drone. ‘I can time it to the minute,’ the man said, with a morose half-laugh. Hoste sat there watching him, and took a swig of his pale ale. It was odd how extraordinary things became so quickly the norm. London had experienced its first raids only last September, and yet it felt like they’d been blacking up windows and hiding lights for years. They lived like moles, burrowing through the dark. Before returning downstairs the landlord dimmed the wall lamps, as if the room were being prepared for a seance.

His guest arrived some minutes later. He was a shortish, pudgy man, perhaps fifty, sweating beneath his heavy tweed suit. Wary eyes darted behind his spectacles. He gave his shirt collar a loosening tug, pinking the flesh on his neck. Hoste inclined his head in greeting and gestured to the chair opposite his own. The man looked around the room, evidently relieved to find themselves the only occupants.

‘Mr Kilshaw?’ Hoste didn’t offer him his hand. ‘Jack Hoste. I believe we have business to discuss.’

Before they got down to ‘business’, Hoste asked him for some personal information. It was standard procedure in recruitment, he explained, to run background checks; it helped him weed out cranks, fantasists, delusional types. Doing this straight away saved so much time. Kilshaw responded with a comradely chuckle. It seemed to break the ice. He was a director at an engineering works in Watford, he explained. Married, with two children. Secretary of his Rotary Club. When Hoste asked whether he had ever belonged to a political party, the man hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Will that count against me?’

Once the preliminaries were done, Hoste leaned back in his seat and spread his hands in invitation. ‘So. What do you have for us?’ A little twitch of excitement flashed across Kilshaw’s face. This was his moment. Living in Bushey, he began, had enabled him to keep watch on developments at the de Havilland aeroplane factory at Hatfield. He had been apprised of the latest prototype, known as the ‘Mosquito’, supposedly capable of a speed of more than 400mph. It was still at the planning stage, he gathered, but once production began it would not take long to get them operational. Hoste asked whether the prototype was being developed as a bomber, a night fighter or a photo-reconnaissance plane.

Kilshaw shrugged: he didn’t know. Hoste said, ‘Such intelligence would be of significant use. You have access to the factory?’

‘No. But as an engineer I have contacts there.’ His voice dropped to an undertone. ‘Are you intending … ?’

Hoste shook his head. ‘That’s not in our remit. My business is to build a network of loyalists. This is a long game.’

They talked on for a while, mostly about the fifth column. Hoste assured him that, in the event of a successful invasion, those loyal to the Fatherland would be already equipped with means of identification – papers, or a discreet badge. By the end of their meeting Kilshaw evidently felt emboldened, for he now said, ‘Would there be any form of … remuneration? For the risk, I mean –’

‘Of course. Depending on the value of the intelligence a stipend is possible. We are more than obliged; we want to reward our agents for their work.’

Hoste decided they should conclude there. It was important not to rush this sort of negotiation; it required stealth, a degree of nous. He knew well the danger of committing oneself too early: recruiter’s remorse. He stared over the rim of his glass at the new man and, feigning unconcern, said, ‘By the way, one more thing. Have you ever come across the name Marita Pardoe?’

Kilshaw protruded his lip, repeated the name, and grimaced. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘No matter,’ Hoste said briskly. They both rose and stood facing one other across the table. He saw Kilshaw tentatively lift his hand to shake on the deal. Hoste knew better than that. Straightening, he raised his forearm in a stiff salute.

Kilshaw, momentarily thrown, stole a glance at the door. The risk! When he saw the coast was clear he mirrored Hoste’s salute. ‘Heil Hitler.’

Hoste was seated behind a couple of women on a bus bumping along to Waterloo. They were talking about the night’s five-hour raid by the Luftwaffe.

There was a long pause before her companion replied, her tone more meditative than indignant, ‘This war. I can tell you, gives me the sick.’

The bus had halted, the road ahead a minefield of broken glass and debris. It stuttered forward again, steering around a huge crater. Hoste gazed out of the window. The city seemed to him like some creature woken from a terrible dream, stunned to find itself so bedraggled and bruised. As he stepped off the bus the morning air stung his eyes with its bitterness. Greasy coils of black smoke and brick dust drifted off the bombed buildings about him.

Around the corner, a shift in the usual perspective stopped him in his tracks. Sometimes, when deep fatigue set in, his dreams would start up their hallucinatory dance while he was still awake. He blinked, sharply: this was no dream. One entire side of Medway House had disappeared, exposing a wall of mauve Victorian brick unseen in sixty-odd years. A fire crew were just packing up, their hoses coiled like green intestines about the pavement. Hoste was still in his ARP uniform – he had been on duty all night himself – so he ducked beneath the rope and approached. His footsteps crunched over glass. He looked up at what remained of the block’s scarred face; every window had been blown out, like eyes made sightless.

After a pause he nodded. ‘I live here … I mean – lived here.’ He wasn’t looking at the man, but he caught his whistling intake of breath.

‘Not really,’ said Hoste. ‘On another night I might have been in there.’

He began walking towards the wide front door, which was hanging off its hinges. Behind him he heard the man mutter a warning about its being unsafe – falling masonry – but Hoste ignored him. He stepped inside the ruined shell and looked around. A chaos of plaster and wood and brick lay strewn about. Black cinders whirled down mockingly through the air, and a steady drip of water came from where the firemen had drenched it with their hoses. He clambered across the hall to check the staircase, its iron banisters twisted and buckled from the blast. How often had he tramped up and down these stairs? He looked up, and saw a gaping wound that let in the sky. His rooms had been on the sixth floor, and he tried to imagine the scorched and blackened husk of what remained. What had he lost? His clothes, of course, photographs, nothing of any great value. Some books, a few German Baedekers, which he wouldn’t be needing in the foreseeable future anyway. The furniture was the landlord’s. The rest – his files, papers, correspondence – was locked up in his office at Chancery Lane. It was the luck of the draw. Buildings like this came down overnight, every night, and people had to go and live elsewhere. He wondered if it said something about him that he wouldn’t miss it much.

Back outside he took another long look. They were unlikely to let it stand, such was the damage. He could feel the brick dust at the back of his throat, and he spat. As he walked away he remembered, on his bedroom wall, a little watercolour of the Bay of Naples. His mother had painted it when she was on her honeymoon. He hadn’t really looked at it for years. But it occurred to him now it was something he’d have liked to save.

It was only when Hoste was heading back across Waterloo Bridge that he realised it was a Saturday. There would be no use in calling at the Section. His chequebook was at the office, but his keys had been in his rooms and the banks were closed. He stopped to think. Was there anyone in London he might apply to? The problem in his line of work was that you didn’t tend to make many friends. It hadn’t bothered him before – it didn’t bother him now – but he did feel in need of a wash and brush-up.

He remembered then that Traherne lived in St James’s, not far from here. It was just the sort of place he would live, now he thought of it. He checked in his pocket for coins and stopped at a telephone box on the Strand, but he couldn’t reach the operator. The lines were down; the raids had probably hit the exchange. He would have to take a chance. Bone-weary, he caught a bus trundling west on the Strand.

‘My dear man,’ cried Traherne, rearing back at the sight of him. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged halfway round the park.’ Hoste began to explain what had actually happened, but was cut short. ‘Come in, come in!’

Traherne, in his dressing gown and pyjamas, presented a boyish figure. His fine, caramel-coloured hair was tousled from bed. He led his guest through a panelled hallway and up a flight of stairs, chuntering away. ‘Bombed out, eh? I did hear the place getting fairly knocked about.’

As he pushed open the door to his flat he turned suddenly to Hoste. ‘How did you know to come here, by the way?’

‘Oh, I recall you once told me you lived on Jermyn Street, so I walked up and down looking for your name on a doorbell. There it was.’

Traherne looked at him slyly. ‘Trust you to chivvy a fellow out! Here, sit down, I’ll make us some tea.’

While he was gone Hoste took in his surroundings – the marble fireplace and its fender, art deco mirrors, glinting drinks trolley, old master prints on the walls, the soft patterned carpet underfoot. Hoste had not encountered taste in such casual abundance. He supposed there must be family money to go with his education (Christ Church) and his spell with the Guards. Traherne was in his early thirties, a shrewd, raffish, clubbable sort of man who belonged so comfortably to the world of ‘influence’ that no one seemed able to resent him for it. Hoste still regarded the younger man as his patron; they had become friendly with one another, if not actual friends. All the same, he could never have imagined himself pitching up on the man’s doorstep like this to beg for help.

‘Here, drink this,’ said Traherne, pouring his visitor some tea. ‘I’ll run you a bath. I dare say you’ll need some fresh kit?’

Hoste gave a grimacing smile, and plucked at his sleeve. ‘This uniform is all I have left.’ And it reeks of dirt and smoke, he thought.

Traherne looked wonderingly at him for a moment, and laughed. ‘Well, that – and your sangfroid. Must say, I’ve never seen a fellow so nonchalant after losing all his worldlies … We should put you on a poster promoting the “Blitz spirit”.’

Ten minutes later Hoste was submerged in a steaming tub. He wasn’t sure how Traherne had finessed such luxury – this wasn’t the usual couple of lukewarm inches of bathwater – but he had no intention of objecting. The bachelor ease was evident, too, in the bottles of cologne, the Floris soap, the badger-hair brush and cut-throat razor. ‘Help yourself,’ he’d said, and Hoste did so, giving himself what his barber in Holborn would call ‘a right old shave’.

‘I’ve dug out a few things for you,’ Traherne said as he emerged from the bathroom. ‘Lucky we’re about the same size.’

‘This is awfully good of you,’ said Hoste, following him into the bedroom. On the bed, laid out with military regimentation, was underwear, socks, twill trousers, a shirt and collar and tie, even a pair of conker-coloured brogues.

‘They might be a squeeze,’ Traherne said doubtfully. ‘I have improbably dainty feet.’

The shoes pinched a little, but Hoste was too grateful to pass them up. Once he was dressed Traherne pulled open his wardrobe, revealing a long queue of coats and jackets, of a quality Hoste could tell at a glance was far beyond his means.

‘Not the velvet smoking jacket, I think,’ Traherne said, pushing it down the rail with a snigger. ‘Here, this might suit. Relic of Oxford – done stout work for me!’

It was a jacket of dark green tweed, nicely tailored with leather buttons and a neat ticket pocket on the right. A scent of hair oil and warm afternoons rose from it. Hoste put it on, and Traherne took an admiring step back.

They returned to the living room and had another pot of tea. It felt strange to be sitting there in another man’s clothes, like an actor in rehearsal. Since they knew little of one another personally the talk soon turned to work. Traherne was eager to know how the latest recruitment had gone.

‘Promising, I should say. Engineer, lives near Watford. Reckons he can get out blueprints of the Mosquito – from the de Havilland factory.’

There was a pause before Traherne spoke again. ‘How soon can you complete your report on him?’

Hoste made a brief calculation. The only key to his office had been lost in the inferno of his flat, so a locksmith would have to be found. ‘Tuesday lunchtime.’

‘Good. I think we should move quickly on this one. Will you send it directly to me?’

They were preparing their goodbyes at the threshold of the flat when Hoste remembered something else.

‘All in good time. Castle will send you the memo. First you must go home and get some –’ He caught himself, and slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I wasn’t thinking. Where will you go?’

‘Oh, a hotel, for the moment.’ He cut a glance at his colleague. ‘I’m sorry to ask this, after all you’ve done, but I’m rather – short –’

‘Of course! – I should have thought.’ He dashed back down the hallway, returning moments later. ‘There’s five pounds and some change. Will that be – ?’

Traherne waggled his hand in dismissal of this delicacy. But Hoste was scrupulous, and would insist on repayment of the loan at his earliest opportunity. It was a rule with him never to be beholden to anyone, least of all a colleague. Having said their goodbyes, he wandered out again into the morning and breathed in its sulphurous air. The all-clear had gone an hour ago. From a few streets away came the wail of an ambulance, hurrying on to the scene of another disaster from the night before: a collapsed building, or a damaged shelter, or a body found blown into a basement. There was no end to it; you kept going, because there was nothing else to do. A line he’d overheard a few hours ago recurred to him – This war would give you the sick.

Amy put down her pen and rested her chin on joined hands. This was getting them nowhere. From below the window rose the honk and grind of traffic on Brook Street. She suddenly wished herself down there, striding along the pavement. You could forget, during the raids, what a wonderful thing it was to be able to roam about the London streets. Instead, she looked across the desk at her client – first of the day – a lawyer’s clerk named Sidney Kippist, short, bald, fortyish, fussy. Dismay must have registered on her face because he leaned towards her and said, ‘Is something the matter?’

‘To be honest, Mr Kippist, yes – there is. When we ask our clients to list their requirements, we expect a mixture of positives and negatives – “I would like this sort of lady, but not that; I prefer this sort of personality rather than that.” You see?’ She looked at his registration form again. ‘Yours are all negatives – “Not lazy or common. I don’t like them ‘made up to hell’. Must not chew gum … Not too old, not too fat. Not American.” It doesn’t seem to me the best frame of mind in which to set out on the road to matrimony. After all –’ you’re no bloody oil painting yourself, she wanted to say – ‘a successful marriage is based on mutual tolerance. Give and take.’

Kippist shifted in his seat. ‘I thought it would be better to establish straight away what I didn’t want. Besides, they aren’t all negatives, as I recall –’

‘Well, yes,’ conceded Amy, ‘but I don’t think “a lady with capital preferred” is much to go on. A lot of gentlemen we interview “prefer” someone with money. It’s not very original. Can you tell me what personal qualities you admire? Someone modest and quiet, perhaps? Someone who likes to play the piano, or takes an interest in animal welfare, or likes to go for walks, or … what?’

Amy stared at him. Well, which, for heaven’s sake? ‘I’ll just have another look through my files, if you’ll wait a moment.’

As she riffled through her papers, she heard a thin clicking sound from across the desk. Kippist was gazing off into the middle distance, seeming not to notice the irksome noise his false teeth were making. Oh, the poor woman who got this one … She wished she might spare her.

‘I’ve three more for you. How about this – twenty-eight years old, Londoner, convent-schooled. At present in the WRNS –’

Fair enough, Amy thought. It was hard to plight your troth to someone who next day might be dispatched to the other end of the country. She returned it to the file and opened another.

Amy tilted her head enquiringly. Did he object to Walworth? she wondered. Or to the fact she was in trade? Or to her being thirty-seven? Kippist wasn’t saying; he merely folded his arms and looked blank. She put it aside, and opened the last one.

‘Twenty-nine. Slim, dark-haired. Music teacher. Friendly, outgoing …’ She glanced up at Kippist, who had leaned forward in his chair.

‘Lived with her parents in north London until recently, now shares a flat with two girls … Would like to meet a gentleman between thirty-five and forty-five years old.’

Kippist was nodding in approval. ‘Does she mention anything about children?’

Amy read down the form. ‘Says she would like them, but would understand if her future husband would prefer not.’

By now he was rising to enthusiasm. He began to crane his head around, hoping to peek at the file for himself. ‘What’s this lady’s name?’

At that Kippist drew in his chin sharply. He stared at Amy as though she had made a dreadful faux pas. ‘Oh, Miss Strallen – a Jewess?!’

Amy blushed, though not for herself. ‘There is nothing on your application to suggest you objected …’

A silence fell between them. Amy closed Miss Bernstein’s file and put it back in her drawer. She wondered if she ought to apologise, but decided that graciousness would be wasted on him. She rose and smoothed down her skirt.

‘I’m afraid that’s all I have for you at present, Mr Kippist. We’ll be in touch when another suitable candidate comes up.’

Kippist gave a little sigh of disappointment. ‘The search goes on, then.’ He was turning to go when something apparently occurred to him. ‘Will you amend my form regarding, um … ?’

Amy said, with a tight smile, ‘Noted. And if you think of anything else to include on your proscribed list be sure to tell our secretary, Miss Ducker.’

He hesitated a moment, perhaps hearing an insolence in her tone. But he said nothing, took up his hat and left.

Once she heard the door to the street close Amy went out into reception and, with a quick double knock, put her head round the door of the adjacent office. Johanna looked up from her desk, strewn with registration forms she was busily matching up in pairs. Since there was no client in the room Amy sidled in and, with an exasperated oath, threw herself full-length onto the horsehair couch.

Amy half snorted a laugh. ‘A fantasy! A feminine paragon – like the rest of them. You know, it never fails to amaze me how a certain kind of man considers himself absolutely entitled to a woman half his age – and twice as good-looking.’

‘But not like men! Honestly, if you’d seen this fellow, just sitting there dismissing one nice girl after another, as if he were some Adonis …’

‘I know. Just think of it as a business transaction. We have his five guineas, that’s what matters. When’s your next?’

‘Matching’ – or ‘mating’ if they were feeling silly – was their term for introducing people on the basis of their registration forms. They had been running the marriage bureau for just over two years. Johanna Quartermaine, born of a well-to-do family that expected nothing of her beyond marriage and children, had sickened of waiting for Mr Right and decided to put her mind, and social skills, to some use. Aware of the legions of single people (like her) on the lookout for a suitable partner, she saw the potential in setting up an agency that would do the matchmaking for them. Drawing on a small inheritance from a late aunt, in the spring of 1939 she rented run-down premises in Bruton Place, bought a few sticks of office furniture and devised a short brochure.

There is no reason to feel ashamed because you wish to marry the right person. In fact, you ought to rejoice in your good sense for knowing it is better to seek out opportunity rather than simply wait in hope. You would consider yourself weak-minded and irresponsible if you did not make provision for other aspects of your life. How much more important is this question of making the right match!

The Quartermaine Marriage Bureau will put you in touch only with people who fulfil the requirements you specify. It is our job to remove the inconvenience and embarrassment that so often block the path to romance. We cannot guarantee the ultimate prize of matrimony, but we promise to give you the best possible chance of it.

Price on application to 36 Bruton Place, W., or telephone MAYFAIR 1629

Her enterprise was rewarded even sooner than her optimistic spirit had bargained for. By the end of the first week, she had received fourteen applicants; by the end of the first month she had nearly a hundred. Once it became apparent she would not be able to cope with the numbers on her own she advertised for a business partner. From the moment Miss Strallen sat down opposite and offered her one of the cakes she had bought en route at Fortnum’s Johanna had a feeling she was the one. Her instinct was not misguided. Amy had been raised in a large gregarious family and would spend holidays with cousins organising theatricals and concerts. In her youth she had shown promise as a musician; she liked to play the violin and also had a fine singing voice. Her school thought her good enough to apply to the Royal College of Music, but in the event the examiners considered her playing ‘exuberant’ rather than accomplished. She bore the disappointment lightly, thinking they were probably right.

Her good sense did not desert her as she grew older. She developed a shrewdness about people, and how best to deal with them. She put the shy ones at their ease and the cocky ones in their place. Her natural warmth, combined with a streak of irreverence, made her a favourite with clients, who began recommending the Quartermaine Marriage Bureau to others even if their own marital ambitions had yet to be realised. People continued to pour in, and the QMB moved to larger premises round the corner on Brook Street. A secretary was hired to deal with the appointments book. The Daily Mail ran an article reporting on the venture’s success.

As the summer rumbled to a close, however, events in Europe might have spelled the end for the bureau. With war declared, Jo and Amy assumed that the lowering mood of dread would put paid to thoughts of marriage. Yet instead of a downturn in numbers, the business actually boomed. Young men about to take up arms urgently sought out wives they could write to – dream of – while they were away. Women, conscious of the previous generation’s loss in the Great War, wanted to secure a husband before it was too late. In fact the only danger to the bureau was the physical one from the sky; during the autumn Blitz their office building had had two close shaves. They discussed the possibility of moving to the suburbs while the bombing continued, but in the end neither of them could bear to leave Brook Street.

As midday approached Miss Ducker called in to tell Amy she had three more appointments that afternoon.

‘Gentleman just telephoned to confirm. Four o’clock. His cheque’s come through, but no registration form.’

Her twelve o’clock was a pretty twenty-year-old who worked in the office of a munitions factory nine till seven, Monday to Friday, and helped in a forces canteen every other Saturday afternoon – she barely had time to go out and find a man. Her two o’clock was a fiftyish stockbroker who had lived with his mother until her death last December; it transpired that her last wish was for him to find a wife. He himself seemed unenthused by the prospect. At three she interviewed an RAF pilot, a type so in demand she was able to present him with a choice of ten female clients straight off. Amy had talked about this with Jo, who reckoned that pilots were sought after because of their sense of proportion. ‘You can’t risk death in the air every day and still have a mind for petty quarrels.’

Her last client of the day arrived at four o’clock on the nail. She was feeling rather beat, so she made herself a quick cup of tea in the tiny kitchen upstairs. Stubbing out her cigarette she cracked open her office door and asked Miss Ducker to send him in.

He entered and met her eye with a little nod, which she interpreted as a sort of modesty, his way of saying ‘I am grateful for your help’. He was of average height, wearing a smart tweed jacket and club tie. Slightly pasty skin, but not bad-looking. He had a very deliberate way of checking his place, eyes to the left, then to the right, as if he were casing the room. She asked him to take a seat, and uncapped her fountain pen.

‘We’ll just go through the formalities of registration,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s Mr … ?’

After a murmured consolation she continued the questionnaire, though his answers came in a distracted, halting way. He was more absorbed in looking about her office, his eyes glinting as they settled on this or that object. It was as though he were trying to memorise the whole room.

Amy smiled back, put down her pen and folded her hands on the desk. ‘May I ask what sort of lady you hope to marry?’

He blinked at her, evidently taken by surprise at the question. The quizzical light in her eyes disconcerted him. ‘I’m open to suggestion.’

‘Well, I thought you had all the data – that is, the relevant information.’

‘I think you’ve got this the wrong way round. Our bureau is set up to match clients with suitable partners. The type of partner is decided by the client, not by us. We don’t know what you want until you tell us.’

Hoste realised he ought to have been briefed. Preparation was key in his line of work; forewarned was forearmed. He had read the words ‘marriage bureau’ on the Section memo and ignored them, possibly because he didn’t know what a marriage bureau was. His long delay in replying prompted Amy to fill the silence.

‘You must have some idea of the lady you’re looking for …’ Her tone was encouraging, which made him want to help.

It was not a question he had considered in some time. Now he heard himself reply as if it might have been a stranger speaking. ‘I should hope for someone – a woman who – if it were possible – would like me.’

He really hasn’t got a clue, thought Amy, who nonetheless felt touched by the pathetic simplicity of his reply. ‘That’s perfectly reasonable. But you need to be a little more specific.’ She saw his blank expression and pressed on. ‘We look at things like compatibility. For instance, when a farmer has applied to us –’

‘We get all sorts. As I was saying, with a farmer we will try and match him to a woman who enjoys country life, fresh air, looking after animals, and – clearly – doesn’t mind hard work.’

Ignoring this, Amy continued. ‘Of course compatibility involves so much more than one’s occupation – there’s also age, religion, social standing, family commitments, a preference for town or the country.’

‘Indeed it is. And that’s before we even address matters of temperament and personality. Do you want someone who’s the life and soul of the party, or the quiet and homely type?’ For a moment Hoste thought she was asking him a direct question. Amy saw the confusion in his eyes. ‘It was a hypothetical point. May I ask you a personal question, Mr Hoste? You’ve had lady friends, I’m sure …’

He hadn’t thought of her, of Jane, in a while. Was it five years – or six? A nice girl. He wondered what she was doing now. As he was describing her, though, he found himself looking more closely at the woman, Miss Strallen, across the desk from him, concentrating. She had a funny way, in repose, of resting her tongue on her teeth. He supposed she was late twenties, maybe thirty. Her hair, mid-brown, shoulder-length, was very shiny. How did she get it like that? She had neat, slim hands, he noticed; altogether not bad-looking. He could not help warming to her open, approachable manner; it was so very different from his own.

He was jolted from this reverie by the sound of her voice. ‘So from what you’ve told me, this Miss Temple – Jane – was confident and gregarious. She liked tennis, travel, cookery. Keen on dogs. Quite well off. Very interested in you and your work. I must say, she strikes me as an ideal girl!’

She saw his face cloud. He looked away, and gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

There was a pause while he searched for the words. ‘Because … because I don’t think I could bear to disappoint someone like that again.’

She frowned, staring at him. ‘What makes you think you’ll disappoint her?’

He smiled, but sadly, and rose from his chair. ‘Just an instinct I have. I’m sorry, Miss Strallen, I’m not really the right sort for your … business.’

He held out his hand, which she took, somewhat at a loss. Like a lot of men he hadn’t really understood what her ‘business’ was – the idea of a marriage bureau was a new one – but he seemed suddenly eager to be gone.

‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ll have our secretary return your registration fee –’

I could have handled that better, he thought, on his way back through Mayfair. His ending of their interview had been too abrupt – graceless. She had looked quite shocked … But he had sensed her interest in him, or at least in the irreducible oddity of his character.

Shopkeepers were putting up their boards for the night, blinds were being drawn down in readiness. They had had three weeks of heavy raids, not just in London but all over the country – a spring Blitz. You could almost tell from people’s faces, from their hurried movements, that they were in for another night of it. Under the vast encircling dark, the streets, shaken from last night, vibrated with apprehension.

Back at the hotel room he began to change into his ARP uniform and pulled the blackout curtains closed. He had rather enjoyed staying at the Russell – the impersonal mood of hotel life suited him – though of course it was too expensive to maintain in the long run. He unlocked the desk drawer and took out the memorandum Castle had sent him. As usual there was no heading, no date or signature, no clue as to where it had come from.

A record has been located of MARITA Pardoe (née Florian) travelling from London to Germany, September 1935. On this occasion accompanied by a Miss AMY STRALLEN: friend or colleague, status uncertain. Duration of stay four weeks. Both resident in Berlin, later travelling to Nuremberg and Munich. At present, STRALLEN working at office in Brook Street, Mayfair – marriage bureau (?). May still be in contact with MARITA.

He took the flimsy memo into the bathroom and placed it in the sink. He lit a match, held it to the paper’s edge and watched the flame curl around it, browning into black, eating up the white. Flakes of charred nothing floated up. He glanced at himself in the mirror, the embers making an eerie chiaroscuro of his face. It was not unlikely that Miss Strallen had thought him rather sinister today. The flame went out, and the room went black.

Walking along the seafront Hoste stopped to look at the barbed-wire defences ranged on the shore. He wondered if the Germans would think them as puny as he did. The light in Hastings this morning was the drab white of laundry that had been through the mangle once too often. Seagulls wheeled above him, calling each to each.

He spotted a pub at the far corner of Warrior Square and went in. The saloon smelt of last night’s lock-in, mingled with the tang of fish and vinegar. He drank a pale ale very quickly and ordered another. He hated these ‘away days’, but he knew that his ring of disloyalists had to be kept in good order. Most were quite manageable, but now and then you got a few unstable ones, talking too loudly in public, making a nuisance of themselves. You had to take that sort in hand if you didn’t want the balloon to go up.

He finished his second beer and checked the address in his notebook. Outside, he saw a bus pass along the parade, the single bit of traffic he had noticed since his arrival. You could die of the quiet in a place like this. He began walking west up the hill, past a dairy, a bank, a butcher. A woman pushing a pram went by. He reached another terrace of shops, and found the one he was looking for: Norman Antiques Emporium. He pushed open the door, setting off a little bell, and waded into the cavernous resting place of a thousand unconsidered objects. From inside glass domes, stuffed birds – a kingfisher, a puffin, several types of owl – trained their sightless gaze upon him.

He picked his way through a jumble of gloomy Victorian furniture to the proprietor’s desk. In a wicker-backed chair sat a dumpy, rosy-faced old dear who looked up from her knitting at his approach. She gave him an expectant smile.

‘I am here to enquire about a pair of duelling pistols,’ he said with heavy significance.

‘Just down those stairs, dear,’ she replied, not bothering to acknowledge the coded phrase by which she should recognise him. (Her reply was supposed to run ‘I’m sorry, they’ve already been sold’). She clearly preferred her knitting to the cloak and dagger.

He descended the narrow flight of stairs, inhaling the scent of ancient dust and rising damp. A single bulb illuminated the basement passage. Voices rose and fell from behind a wall. Someone must have heard him, for a door at the end cracked open and a shadowed face peeked round.

He followed the summons. The room he entered was a musty old parlour, with a fireplace and cherrywood table redolent of an eighteenth-century coffee house. Brasses and prints, some of actual coffee houses, decorated the limewashed walls. A patterned rug had been worn through by immemorial footprints. At the single window hung a pair of ratty net curtains. The smell of damp persisted. Around the table sat four people he recognised, and one he didn’t. The man who had spoken to him was Ernest Dorling, tall, gaunt, with an ingratiating manner that didn’t match his restless troubled eyes. Having assumed the role of host he began reacquainting him with the assembled. The ferrety man with brilliantined hair and sallow complexion was Gleave, and the slot-mouthed woman in the brown cardigan and spectacles was his wife, Eileen. Next to her was Alfred Herzig, a jowly, stiff-looking man with a moustache that might have done duty on a Prussian cavalry officer. On his right was Franks, a morose young bruiser with pitted skin and a twitch that made Hoste feel sorry for him.

‘And I don’t believe you’ve met Mr Scoult,’ said Dorling, gesturing to a heavyset fellow of about forty with a ruddy complexion and wavy grey hair. He stood up and shook hands with Hoste. Scoult radiated a chummy air, as if he’d rather have been meeting in the saloon bar Hoste had just left.

‘Heard a great deal about you, sir,’ Scoult said, with a wink. His accent was northern, possibly from Yorkshire. ‘I might have some information that will interest you –’

‘We’ll come to that in due course, Mr Scoult,’ Dorling cut in, his tone slightly agitated by the newcomer’s pushiness. ‘First of all, I’d like to present our esteemed guest – if I may address you so, Mr Hoste –’ a nervous tinkle of laughter went round the room – ‘with a report on recent activity in the district of Hastings and St Leonard’s. Mrs Gleave has agreed to keep the minutes of this meeting.’

There had been, said Dorling, a number of tip-and-run raids by German planes in the last month. Some had hit their targets: a church, a library, several local businesses and shops had sustained bomb damage. The most significant was a direct hit on a school clinic, resulting in casualties. Mrs Gleave observed, with a satisfied grin, that a pregnant mother and two young children had been killed – several more had been injured.

‘So that information we gave you at our last meeting clearly did the trick. The pilots knew where to bomb.’

She was still smiling rather proudly. Hoste, staring at her for a moment, gave a slow nod. ‘Intelligence regarding the layout of the town has been very useful. Our friends in Berlin are pleased.’

Scoult pulled a demurring expression. ‘And yet the raids continue to miss targets more often than they hit them.’

‘Many near misses in the last two weeks,’ said Dorling, trying to sound positive, ‘including a narrow squeak for the ARP headquarters. A great pity.’ He asserted that the tip-and-run raids were worthwhile, all the same. ‘For the record, four hundred houses have been made uninhabitable, and over a thousand people in Hastings are now homeless.’

Murmurs of approval greeted this statistic. Hoste looked around the table, their expectant faces tilted towards him. ‘Unavoidably, night raids are prone to error. Bombing in built-up areas cannot be exact, even when supplied with coordinates. But, as I’ve said before, your willingness to gather intelligence is vital to the Luftwaffe.’

Discussion then turned to the likelihood of invasion. While debating the relative strengths of the Wehrmacht they put forward theories as to why Hitler had so far refrained from the great thrust – fahren gegen England. Rumours were still abroad that troops would be parachuted into the country wearing disguise, though no one at the table seemed to take this very seriously. Germany would only invade once they had control of the skies, and after the Spitfire Summer of last year that objective had been shelved. Still, Britain was vulnerable in its coastal defences – South Wales, East Anglia – and the Home Guard, for all their pluck, could not be expected to mount a proper resistance. Gleave, the best informed of the company, wondered if Hitler had turned his sights in a different direction: Russia, for instance.

Hoste was fascinated by what they knew, and what they didn’t, though he seldom volunteered an opinion of his own. It was his policy to listen, to absorb, to remember. When Herzig asked him if he had received any private assurances regarding the Führer’s plans, he gave a self-deprecating half-smile. ‘You flatter me, Mr Herzig, by suggesting I might be privy to such information. And even if I were, I know you are too much of a professional to believe I would readily disclose it.’

Herzig laughed, and the others joined in. He had taken the rebuff in exactly the spirit it was intended: we are men of the world, let us not fall out over matters of protocol. Up to this point the mood had been agreeable, albeit what they were agreed upon was the violent overthrow of the British government and the immediate institution of Nazi rule in its place. It was only when the name of Oswald Mosley came up that the atmosphere began to change. Mosley, focal point of British Fascism, had been detained in Brixton Prison for almost a year. His wife, Diana, was imprisoned at Holloway. There was no sign from Whitehall that they were about to end their internment – a cause of outrage to the company. Franks, hitherto almost silent, now spoke up.

‘We wouldn’t be in this mess if Mosley had seized his moment. The BU should have stuck it to the Jews before the government and the police got involved. If he’d been a bit more savvy about using force we could have imposed ourselves – could have scared the life out of ’em.’

There was a pause before Scoult said, ‘I’m afraid you’re talking rot, young man. Mosley did as much as anyone could. Times were against him.’

Franks’s thin, pockmarked face coloured angrily. ‘What would you know about it? Ever had a battle on the streets with the commies and the Jews? Half of what’s wrong with this country is it doesn’t want to get into a fight.’

‘You know what I’m talking about,’ muttered Franks, whose hatred struck Hoste as virulent even by the standards of this company.

‘It’s important that we focus on the long term,’ said Dorling, aiming for a conciliatory tone. ‘We are agreed that the one hope of salvation for this country – and the world, come to that – lies in a National Socialist victory. To this end we must continue to do all we can for Germany.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Mrs Gleave. ‘It won’t be long before the whole of Europe realises that Germany was right – Jewish Bolshevism is the enemy. Even if Hitler is attacked on all sides, the struggle goes on. Isn’t that right, Mr Hoste?’

Again, Hoste sensed a hush descend whenever he was consulted for a view. It was a taste in miniature, he thought, of what actual power must feel like. There were people out there who not only liked to be ruled; they longed to be. He wondered if there were many of them. Enough to foment a Nazi revolution? Mrs Gleave was still looking at him eagerly.

‘The struggle will go on, Mrs Gleave. But in common with Mr Franks I fear the BU has ceased to be a dependable ally. Their members are monitored by the police, and associating with them will only invite suspicion onto us.’

There followed a long discussion about how best to serve as a fifth column. Hoste rejected the efficacy of leaving lights on in buildings during a raid: they might just as likely be a decoy tactic of the Home Guard tempting German planes to waste their bomb-loads. He advised against other domestic acts of sabotage such as scrambling local radio signals. That kind of meddling might be traced to its source and jeopardise other cells of resistance.

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

March 1941

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