Not so simple for the blokes who want to go home to their families at the end of their shift.”

Rossett looked at Fraser, who immediately regretted his words.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . your family. I’m sorry.”

Rossett stared at the river, putting his cigarette into the corner of his mouth. The cigarette glowed orange, the only color for what seemed like miles around.

Rossett breathed out the smoke through his nose as Fraser tried again to explain his position.

“All I’m telling you is it can be dangerous.”

Rossett nodded, then looked at Fraser again.

“Are you a bent copper?”

Fraser opened his mouth as he took half a step away from Rossett, their shoulders no longer touching.

“What?”

“Are you a bent copper?”

“You’re asking me that?”

“I am.”

“I can’t believe you’d ask me.”

“You can’t believe I’d ask you because we’re mates? Or because nobody asks that question?”

“Because we’re mates.”

“I’m sorry.” Rossett finally blinked.

Fraser nodded, then followed Rossett’s gaze across the river.

“This place is all changed. Time was, if we knew who was up to no good we would just go and lift ’em. Now, well . . . we know who runs the manor and we can’t touch ’em.”

“Who is that?”

“What?”

“You know who runs the manor—­who is it?”

Fraser took the cigarette out of his mouth.

“No, mate. Seriously, no . . . I want to go home of a night, and you want to be careful.”

Rossett thought about the answer as he lowered his head and flicked away his cigarette into the snow to smolder and die.

“You’ve got to learn, John, things have changed around here. Do you understand?”

“I thought I understood.” Rossett pushed himself off the car and turned to face Wapping Police Station with its bare brown brick, topped off with a limp Union Jack, hanging next to an even limper bloodred swastika flag. “I’m not so sure now.”

“You take care, John, you hear me? Take care about what questions you ask and where you ask them. It’s dangerous, even for someone like you.” Fraser tapped a finger on the roof of Rossett’s car and turned to head back into the station. Rossett looked up at the heavy gray sky and the dots of snow that were falling faster from it.

He looked back at the station where he had learned to be a policeman all those years ago.

It seemed the same on the outside, all except for the swastika.

Rossett fingered his own swastika lapel badge and then looked down at it. He and the station had a lot more in common than he cared to admit. He watched as Fraser jogged up the steps and pushed against the heavy entrance door.

“Fraze!” Rossett shouted. Fraser stopped and turned, half in, half out of the building, one hand holding the door open.

“What?”

“I just want to be a policeman again.”

Fraser stared at Rossett, then let the door swing shut behind him, leaving Rossett alone in the snow.

 

CHAPTER 4

January 1947

YOU’VE FULLY RECOVERED, Ernst?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“The hand?”

Koehler lifted his left hand and studied the black glove before wiggling his remaining fingers.

“It’ll never be the same, sir, but it is better.”

“Good, that’s very good.” Oberführer Adolf Hahn studied Koehler, who sat stiffly in front of him on an uncomfortable wooden chair, before looking down at the file on the desk and half turning a page. A minute passed before he spoke again, this time not bothering to look up.

“So you’re totally healed?”

“I think so, sir.”

“How long have you been on restricted duties now?”

“Just over two months, sir.”

“Hmm.” Hahn returned to reading the file.

Koehler silently puffed out his cheeks once he was sure his boss wouldn’t look up at him. He looked around the office, noting how bare it was compared to his own: no books, no pictures, no plants, no soft settee, no rugs, nothing.

“I don’t understand.” Hahn interrupted Koehler’s sightseeing.

“Sir?” Koehler whipped his eyes back to his boss.

“If you are fully fit, why are you asking to go back to Germany?” Hahn removed his wire-­framed spectacles from his nose, signaling he’d finished with the written request Koehler had spent days composing.

“As I say in the report, sir, I feel, with respect, that I could do more for the Reich back in Germany.”

“You do say that, but you don’t say why.”

“Sir?”

“You don’t say why you think you’d be more useful in Germany than in London. If it was because you were no longer fit enough to do the job, well, I could understand that, but this . . .” Hahn lifted his index finger and then rested it on the file, as if it were a dagger jabbed into the tabletop. “This doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I feel . . .”

“You feel? Feelings don’t come into it, Major. Tell me what you know.”

Koehler shifted on the chair and looked at the brown carpet for inspiration; there wasn’t any there.

“I just thought, sir . . .”

“What you know, Major, what you know.”

Koehler tried again.

“I know, sir, that I’ve been here a long time.”

Hahn nodded.

“I also know,” Koehler continued, “that my work has been to the highest standard.”

“Without doubt.” Hahn nodded.

“And I think—”

Hahn held up his hand for Koehler to stop speaking, and Koehler obliged.

“That, Major, is the problem. You think. You don’t know, you merely think. Thinking, feeling, wanting: none of that matters when you are a soldier. Knowing matters. Knowing is the key.”

“I know I am tired, sir.”

“We are all tired.”

“I know I miss my family, sir.”

“Many men miss their families, Ernst. You still haven’t told me why you are different.” Hahn rested his finger on his temple, waiting for Koehler to continue.

Koehler rocked slightly to the side and then shook his head, looking again at the carpet.

“I want to go home, sir; it is that simple. I need to go back to Germany.