They understand when they are met with someone who is determined to do his job.” Schmitt turned to Koehler. “I do enjoy early-morning sport. Thank you for the entertainment.”

Koehler smiled and nodded to Rossett.

“Another satisfied customer.”

“I’d best be going. Don’t want to keep the trucks waiting too long.”

“Of course, we don’t want any of those Jews dying before we get them on the train!” Schmitt laughed a little too loudly at his own joke.

Rossett climbed into the Austin.

“I’ll see you back at the office,” he said to Koehler. “Unless you are coming down to the train?”

“No, you deal with it.” Koehler turned from the car and headed to his Mercedes. Schmitt gave Rossett a wave and followed Koehler. It occurred to Rossett that Koehler never went to the station to see the Jews being loaded. Rossett watched the Germans get into the car and thought for a moment about how Koehler contrasted with Schmitt, who was now laughing and pointing at the truck. Koehler looked across to him and nodded his head. Rossett nodded back and watched them drive away.

“Were they happy with how things went?” Rossett jumped as the uniformed inspector leaned in through his window.

“Yes.”

“Will you let them know what station we are from? It’s nice to stay on Jerry’s side, you understand?”

“Everything will be in my report.”

“Anytime, Sergeant,” said the inspector as he walked briskly toward the waiting area car, its engine already running, with a belch of smoke hanging behind it in the cold air.

Brewer lifted a hand to Rossett from the back as the area car pulled away from the curb. Rossett gunned the little Austin and fell in behind the trucks to make the journey across to Nine Elms goods yard.

THE GERMAN SENTRIES at the yard already had the barrier up as they approached. They waved the convoy straight through with a friendly, halfhearted salute and a shouted joke to the police hanging onto the back of the third truck. Although the rain had petered out to a drizzle, there was now a strong wind blowing across the tracks, and the wide-open spaces offered no shelter as the trucks bounced across the yard toward the waiting goods train.

Rossett always arranged for these operations to happen before the place came to life in the morning, a nightmare taking place while the rail workers had sweet dreams. He’d told the Ministry of Railways that he needed the yard in the early mornings so that it didn’t interfere with their schedules, but in reality he knew it was because he didn’t want too many judgmental eyes to see him pushing and prodding Jews into rail cars.

The freight train was already waiting for them when they arrived. It would have traveled all night, Glasgow to London, stopping along the way at Preston, Liverpool, and Birmingham to collect the Jews who were no longer useful. Rossett wondered when the trains would run out of cargo. He lit another cigarette and rubbed his forehead again, trying not to think about who would be chosen to fill the train the day it ran out of Jews.

He stayed in the Austin, about forty feet from the blackness of the freight car, watching as the trucks with the Jews backed up to the wooden ramp. Two railway workers quickly made themselves scarce as the police and HDT climbed down from their own transport and formed a human cordon to channel the Jews.

Rossett looked around the yard: no civilians in sight. He considered whether to pull on his hat but decided against it as a gust of wind shoved the little car and made it rock. Across the yard, the men waiting by the rear of the trucks glanced across for the okay to start work so they could get out of the rain as fast as possible.

Everyone wanted it to be over for their own reasons.

Rossett sighed, got out of the Austin, and made his way toward the waiting troops, who were squinting at him through the drizzle. As Rossett passed the other freight cars he could make out shouts and the banging of fists against the heavy timber doors. He’d once made the mistake of stopping and listening, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

“We okay to crack on, Sarge?” said the bobby nearest the canvas flap at the rear of one of the trucks.

“Who’s counting?”

“I am, Sarge, and Kelly on the ramp,” said another policeman, who held up his notebook.

Rossett nodded to the first policeman, who started to untie the ropes holding down the canvas. Once the flap was open and the tailgate dropped, the bobby stepped back, expecting the Jews to jump down.

They didn’t.

Koehler had once said they were like “rats in a tipping barrel, creeping farther into the dark away from the light.”

Apart from the wind and the flapping of the newly untied canvas, there was no other sound until Rossett took his cigarette out of his mouth and shouted, “Come on, we’ll be here all day. Get them off!”

Almost immediately the men came to life and started to shout into the wagon. A couple of them jumped up onto the bed of the truck and disappeared into the darkness. Soon, the first of the Jews, men and women, many of them elderly, started to tumble down like leaves in autumn into the waiting arms of the HDT and police.

The wind whipped everyone in the yard, almost taking the sound of the count away with it.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” as the first three shuffled along, confused and holding themselves with arms folded tightly, two old ladies and a teenage girl, their nightdresses providing little comfort in the rain and wind. Slowly the others started to jump down unaided, the younger ones helping their parents and grandparents. Some were crying, while others just looked around, sheepish and confused.