A sharp tap on the window caused him to start, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, his hand thrust the sovereigns out of sight into his coat. He looked across to the passenger window, where one of the inventory team was gesturing to him urgently to open the window.

Rossett leaned across and opened the door. As soon as there was space, the man thrust the case through the gap and onto the front seat.

“For the lad. Gruber won’t notice. He tossed it onto a pile of stuff in the kitchen. Here, take it.”

Before Rossett could speak, the door closed and the man was jogging back to the house. The boy leaned forward and took the case, pulling it over the seats and held it close to his chest.

Rossett turned to look at him, and the boy said,

“It was my father’s. He gave it to me.”

“If he gave it to you, it’s yours now,” Rossett replied, turning back to look out the windshield.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want to go with my grandfather.”

“You can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because he is gone. Maybe you can catch up with him.”

“Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do I know where I can catch up with him?”

“You don’t.”

“Who took him away?”

“I did.”

“Where did you take him?”

“To catch a train.”

“Where was the train going?”

“I don’t know.”

The boy sat silent for a while, confused by the conundrum of his missing grandfather.

Rossett started the car and crunched it into gear,

“Where are we going?” asked the boy, silent tears drowning his eyes.

“To the station.”

“Where Grandfather got the train?” A little hope almost lost in his voice.

“Not that kind of station. A police station.”

Rossett waited for the next question, but it didn’t come, so he eased out the clutch and pulled away. The only sound from the back was the sniffle of tears, which embarrassed them both.

 

Chapter 6

ROSSETT PARKED THE Austin at the front of Wapping Police Station and looked up with some trepidation at the old building that faced onto the Thames. Since moving to Charing Cross he had been an infrequent visitor to his old nick. He retained a barely used office, and Brewer, his liaison inspector, was based there, but Rossett never felt welcome when he called.

He felt like an outsider, unwanted, an embarrassment. And, although he’d never say it out loud, that hurt him. He was banking on the Brits welcoming the child and treating him more fairly than the Germans in Charing Cross, with their sentries and swastikas.

Even he wouldn’t subject the boy to that.

He stepped out onto the curb, then opened the rear door and dragged the child by the hand out of the backseat. He led him up the steps and into the busy inquiry office, where the sergeant on duty was arguing with an Irishman. Rossett stood waiting at the locked door that would grant him access into the police-staff-only area.

The sergeant on duty glanced across and then carried on with his argument, deliberately causing Rossett to wait, something Rossett noticed had started to happen more and more since he’d been working with the Germans. He sighed, allowed the sergeant his little victory for a moment or two, then impatiently rapped on the door with his free hand.

“Any chance someone can open this door, please?” shouted Rossett, interrupting the dispute, which had turned out to be about a stolen bicycle. The desk sergeant ambled across and disappeared momentarily, Rossett heard a click, and the door swung open.

“Apologies, Detective Sergeant, I never saw you hiding there.” Rossett ignored the sergeant and pushed past. “New recruit to your department?” The inquiry sergeant scrubbed the boy’s hair, but Jacob ignored him as he trailed behind Rossett.

The sergeant chuckled as he watched them pass and said to their retreating backs, “He’ll fit right in with you, Rossett. He doesn’t say much either.”

On entering his office, Rossett took off his raincoat and inspected it for soot. It was showing the signs of age, and the marks he’d picked up in the fireplace merely blended in with already present scuffs and stains. He hung it on the back of his door, then reached into the pocket, removed the pouch of sovereigns, tossed the pouch into his desk drawer, and locked it.

He put his keys into his inside suit pocket, the one without the hole in it, and turned to face the boy, who was standing in the center of the office still looking down at the floor, suitcase clutched tight to his chest.

“Have you eaten?”

Jacob shook his head.

“Are you hungry?”

Jacob shook his head.

“When did you last eat?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Rossett looked at his watch, even though it didn’t have a date function, and then back at the boy. “You last ate two days ago?”

Jacob nodded.

“You must be starving.”

Jacob just stared at the floor.

Rossett sat down behind his desk and studied the child. The old duffel coat he was wearing was slightly too big, but it was of good quality and probably bought for him to grow into. It was buttoned to the neck, and Rossett could see a bright green hand-knitted scarf peeking out from the collar. It was the kind of coat any boy in London would have worn to go to school, except for the fact that it had a crudely stitched star of David on its breast, almost hidden behind the clutched suitcase.

Jacob was wearing gray shorts that stopped short of the Wellingtons by four inches or so. Rossett guessed him to be under four feet tall and could see that he was well underweight for his height and age.

The boy’s thick brown hair was shorn crudely at the back and sides, and his gray little face, all cheekbones and almond eyes, could almost have been that of an old man.

He made a sorry picture, and Rossett was aware that the boy smelled of damp.

“Look at me.”

The boy looked up.

“How old are you?”

“I’m seven, nearly eight.”

Rossett raised an eyebrow; he’d guessed the boy to be much younger.

“My grandfather says I will shoot up to be big and tall like my father soon.”

“Where is your father?” Rossett asked, guessing he already knew the answer to the question.

“Men came one morning, men like you, and took him.” The boy looked at the floor again.

“Look at me, boy.”

Up came the little head again.

“Your mother, where is she?”

“She died.”

“When?”

“Some time ago, I don’t know, I was little.” The boy bit his lip.

“You lived with your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

The mix-up in tenses caused Rossett to take his turn at looking down. He guessed the boy’s father had been a professional, maybe doctor or solicitor. They’d been the first to be cleared, especially if they had been young and fit.