There Is No Going Home Read online

  Freda had felt the man’s wrist for a pulse and said there wasn’t one. Overwhelmed by the reality that she had killed a man and overcome with grief, she thought she would faint. Freda had told her that by killing her attacker she had saved her life. It didn’t make her feel better.

  When she arrived at Bletchley she told Commander Dalton who immediately telephoned MI5. The director of Five said he would send two men to meet the train and deal with the body. Later the commander had told her that there was nobody - dead or alive - in that compartment or any other compartment on that train.

  For two years Freda had watched her become more and more consumed with guilt. Freda sometimes brought up the accidental killing of the man on the train, always assuring her that it was their secret.

  She had thought of Freda as a loyal friend, until the day she had found her out to be an unscrupulous liar with secrets of her own. By chance, she had found a key taped to the back of Freda’s desk. On closer inspection, she realised it was a duplicate of the one that opened the safe where blueprints and classified documents from Bletchley Park were kept. She also found petrol coupons from the accounts department at Bletchley, which would have allowed them to take work down in the car. Freda had intercepted the coupons. The date on the envelope was three days before Mr Silcott had been beaten up on Rugby station: the day that she had been drugged and her work had been stolen.

  No wonder Commander Dalton had looked at her with disbelief when she told him they had to travel to Bletchley that day by train because they hadn’t received the petrol coupons.

  What had prompted her to telephone the commander on the day she found the duplicate key to the safe and the missing petrol coupons was finding three one-way tickets to Ireland on the Lady of Liverpool ferry in the names of Frieda King - not Freda but Frieda spelt with an i - Walter King, Freda’s brother, and H. Villiers, their uncle. With the tickets was a letter from Walter. It began, “Darling, I cannot wait until we are home. I will be on the Liverpool train, as arranged.” It ended with, “Wear the red beret I bought you in Paris, it reminds me of the times we spent together when we were young.”

  Her next visit to Bletchley Park had been to receive instructions on how to play her part in getting Freda King - her brother and her uncle - arrested for treason.

  The time soon came for her to put what she had learned into practice. She had felt nervous walking along the station platform and had to take several deep breaths. Feeling calmer she had boarded the train to Liverpool wearing a red beret and clothes identical to those she had seen Freda wear. When the train left the station she felt more relaxed. Except for the empty seat next to her, she knew at least four of the seats in the compartment were occupied by military security and MI5 personnel.

  Remembering the events that followed sent waves of fear searing through her. The train had pulled out of Northampton before she was joined by Freda’s brother Walter. She recognised him immediately as the man Freda told her she had killed two years before. He recognised her at the same time and took a knife from his pocket. With the blade at her throat, King forced her off the train at Rugby.

  At the exit barrier, King ordered her to produce the train tickets. She opened her handbag, but instead of taking the tickets from it, she took out a gun that Commander Dalton had given her.

  The last she saw of Walter King, who she now knows as Walter Voight, he was lying face down on the northbound platform of Rugby station. Later she learned that Freda, whose real name was Frieda Voight, had been arrested in Liverpool trying to board a ferry to Ireland. H. Villiers, if he ever existed, has never been found.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ena left the underground at Green Park and walked the short distance to Leconfield House where her husband Henry worked. Crossing the road at the junction at South Audley and Curzon Street, the windowless ground floor headquarters of the Security Service and MI5 - the United Kingdom’s domestic counter-intelligence and security agency - came into view.

  Leconfield House was a smart building; a palace compared to the nondescript bomb-damaged dwelling where Ena spent her days scrutinising cold cases. Number 8 Mercer Street, a stone’s throw from Covent Garden and Leicester Square, equal distance from Long Acre and Cambridge Circus, was surrounded by cafés and shops. She had wanted to work with Henry at MI5 after the war, but couples - engaged or married - were not allowed to work for the agency. Relationships of a romantic nature between operatives were seen as invitations for spies to kidnap one or other of the couple and blackmail them into giving away the country’s secrets. It was happening, Henry let slip one night, though Ena hadn’t heard anything. She didn’t know anyone who had, except Henry, who seemed to know everything that went on at MI5 but shared nothing with her.

  Ena loved her job. Attached to the Home Office, the cold case department was also top secret. She was not based anywhere as prestigious as Mayfair, but Covent Garden was what they called, up and coming. She liked working out of Mercer Street, there was always something going on. She liked the men she worked with too.

  Sid, the older of her two colleagues, was in his mid-forties. During the war, Sid had been a code breaker first at Beaumanor, and then at Bletchley Park. He had also spent a short time at Scotland Yard. His Home Office file said Consultant. What kind of consultant Ena didn’t know. She had never asked him and he had never said. Sid was a clever man. He was also a bit of a fusspot, which as far as Ena was concerned made him thorough.

  Artie Mallory was a good looking man in his early thirties. He was tall with dark wavy hair and wore fashionable clothes - blazers and slacks and open neck shirts. In contrast, Sid wore dark suits, white shirts - was never seen without a tie - and you could see your reflection in his shoes they were so highly polished.

  Artie was as relaxed about his work as Sid was serious. Sid would work until he had dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. Artie, on the other hand, was always ready to leave and go to the Salisbury pub on St. Martin’s Lane, or a club in Soho. Artie was a chatterbox and often gossiped, Sid was economical with his words and, unless he and Ena were on their own, only spoke when he had something to say. To her knowledge neither men had ever been married.

  You could set your watch by Sid. He was always on time. Artie occasionally tipped up half an hour late with a hangover. But, like Ying and Yang in Chinese philosophy, the two men complemented each other, worked well together, and, more importantly, they got results.

  Ena sighed. Henry didn’t see her job as important. She dealt with cold cases and he dealt with current cases, many of which were ‘red’ hot. Henry occasionally went overseas, which thankfully she didn’t have to do. Ena was happy working in the Mercer Street office. The work she did was fascinating, even though the hours were long and she often got home at night exhausted.

  She entered the plain marble foyer at Leconfield House and approached the reception desk. ‘I’ve come to see Henry Green. All right if I go through?’

  ‘Mr Green has just left,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘He said he’d wait for me.’ Ena looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m late. You wouldn’t know where he’s gone, would you? It’s important that I speak to him.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Green. He’s usually back within forty-five minutes. If you’d like to wait.’ The receptionist pointed to a row of chairs by the window.

  ‘I’ll try The Boar’s Head. I’ve met him there before.’ Leaving the MI5 building Ena walked along Curzon Street for fifty-or-so yards until she came to the pub.

  She was peering through the window when Henry, putting his arms around her, said, ‘Are you looking for me?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Ena turned to greet him. ‘You won’t believe me when I tell you how it happened.’ Henry’s brow furrowed. ‘How I saw Frieda. Buy me lunch and I’ll tell you everything. It’s been an age since I had breakfast, I’m starving.’

  Taking her by the hand, Henry led Ena across the road to the café opposite. It was bustling with office workers, but
no sooner had they entered than a table became free. They ordered two steak and kidney pies with mashed potatoes and peas, and two cups of coffee. Ena was bursting to tell Henry about seeing Frieda and began her tale while they waited for their food.

  ‘I first saw her in Ladies Fashions. I needed some shoes so I popped in on the way to the office.’

  Henry gave her a look of disbelief. ‘Okay, perhaps Selfridges isn’t exactly on the way to Mercer Street, but it isn’t far out of my way.’ Henry laughed. ‘Anyway, listen.’

  At that moment the waitress brought their food. Ena waited until she left, before continuing with her story. ‘My heart nearly stopped when I saw her. She looks taller. I expect it’s because she’s thinner than she was when we worked together. Oh, and she’s a blonde.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound much like the Frieda we knew.’

  The blonde hair is out of a bottle,’ Ena said, ‘you can tell it isn’t natural. It was Frieda all right. I know I haven’t seen her for ages, but you don’t forget someone who tried to have you killed, do you?’

  Henry looked at Ena’s food. ‘Eat your lunch or it’ll be cold.’

  ‘All right! But this is important, Henry. You don’t seem to realise just how important.’ Ena sliced through the crust on her pie, stabbed a chunk of meat with her fork and nudged some mashed potato up against it. ‘It’s good.’ After a couple of mouthfuls she put down her cutlery and, deep in thought, said, ‘I wonder who the man with her was.’

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘He looked foreign. He could have been a Russian spy or an Eastern European gangster. She’s from Berlin and he looked Germanic. He’s probably on Five’s wanted list.’

  ‘Shush,’ Henry said, looking around the room. ‘We’ll talk about Frieda, later.’

  Ena raised her eyebrows and slowly shook her head. ‘You don’t believe I saw her, do you?’

  Now it was Henry’s turn to put down his knife and fork. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked into Ena’s face. ‘I believe you believe you saw her, Ena, but Freda King– Frieda Voight, is dead. You know she is. We went to her funeral.’

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Henry finished his pie and mash, Ena pushed hers around her plate. The waitress cleared their dirty dishes, replacing them with two steaming cups of coffee. Ena took a sip, put the cup back in its saucer and, sitting side-on to Henry, stared out of the window.

  ‘It couldn’t have been her, Ena. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Ena didn’t answer.

  ‘It has been twelve years since you last saw her.’

  ‘Fourteen, actually!’ Ena snapped. ‘And I admit she looked different. Her face was narrower and her lips were fuller. But it’s fashionable to have pouting movie starlet red lips.’ An involuntary smile crossed Ena’s face. ‘We worked together for four years and in all that time I never once saw her without makeup. She always wore too much lipstick, and she was always the height of fashion.’ Ena looked into the mid-distance to remind herself of the woman who had befriended her and then tried to kill her during the war. ‘One thing that hadn’t changed was the way Frieda held herself. I would know that haughty posture anywhere.’

  Henry spoke volumes by his silence.

  ‘Do you think I could ever forget the person who had me believe for two years that I had killed a man?’

  Henry put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘Okay! Supposing the woman you saw was Frieda Voight?’

  Ena shot him a look of incredulity. ‘It was!’

  ‘Then whose funeral did we go to in forty-six?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it wasn’t Frieda Voight’s funeral because she isn’t dead!’

  ‘Okay. So, you think the woman you saw in Selfridges was Frieda Voight.’ Ena opened her mouth to correct her husband. He put his hands up again. ‘Just hear me out.’

  Ena sighed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘If it was Frieda you saw, who was the man she was talking to outside the store?’

  Ena frowned. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I don’t think it was her brother, Walter.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. Walter died in prison.’

  ‘Did he? Are you sure? If an unknown woman was buried in place of Frieda Voight, isn’t it possible that an unknown man was buried in place of Walter Voight?’

  ‘Too far-fetched, Ena. Who would go to the trouble, and why?’

  It was a warm day but Ena felt suddenly very cold. ‘I don’t know. But if MI5, MI6, or Special Branch went to the trouble to stage a funeral and burial for Frieda, why not do the same for Walter? Dead and buried is the best cover story in the world. Change your appearance, stay off the radar for six months, a year, and when those you worked for are satisfied you’re no longer around you can go anywhere, do anything - you could work for an enemy government.’

  ‘Okay, you win,’ Henry said. ‘If you think the woman you saw was Frieda–’ Ena rolled her eyes. ‘We’ll look into it. We’ll start with MI5’s archives.’

  ‘At Leconfield House?’

  ‘No, Argyle Street. We’ll go there first thing in the morning.’

  Ena’s face crumpled. ‘Why wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘Because I have work to do this afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go to the Home Office and ask Dick Bentley if Sid and Artie can work the case too.’

  ‘Will Director Bentley see finding Frieda Voight as important?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Of course! Well,’ Ena said, tilting her head to the left and then right as she thought, ‘he should. Because they died, or were killed, in 1946 that makes it a cold case - and Dick Bentley sees every cold case as important. And, because I now know it wasn’t Frieda who was buried that day, Dick Bentley will be very interested. He’ll agree with me that, if a woman was buried in forty-six and it wasn’t Frieda Voight, a crime has been committed and there has been a cover-up.’

  Ena glanced at Henry. He looked worried. ‘What’s MI5 and, or, Special Branch hiding? Do you know something I don’t, Henry?’

  Henry laughed. ‘You see a conspiracy round every corner, Ena.’

  Ena shot her husband an angry look. ‘Someone died, or was killed, and they were buried in Frieda Voight’s place. Don’t you think whoever it was is worthy of their own grave, their own headstone to mark their life? It’s more than likely the person had a family; a mother and father who haven’t heard from their daughter in all this time. Don’t they deserve to know their child is dead so they can mourn her passing?

  ‘Walter Voight may have died, but his sister did not!’ Ena was annoyed with Henry. He was being unreasonable. ‘Bentley will let the cold case office work on this because he knows I am not given to seeing ghosts.’

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  ‘I am! You may not believe me, but Bentley will. Besides, he’s sweet on me,’ Ena said, her tone lighter. ‘I shall tell him that Sid and Artie are currently underemployed, which they aren’t, and that this case will be something they can get their teeth into.’

  ‘I met one of your chaps at Bletchley.’

  ‘You never said. They both worked in decoding during the war. Cryptic analysts, I think.’

  ‘Sidney something. He was an odd fellow.’

  ‘Sidney Parfitt. And he is extremely bright,’ Ena said in Sid’s defence. ‘I’ll run the Voight case past him before I see Dick Bentley.’

  ‘Before you go in all guns blazing telling Bentley you’ve seen Frieda King - Voight - you need proof she’s alive. We need to investigate this ourselves first, get some real evidence before you get Director Bentley and Sid and Artie involved.’

  Ena tutted.

  ‘So, it’s the MI5 archive, first. Agree?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Ena stood up, Henry remained seated. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she said, grabbing her handbag.

  ‘I have just told you that I have to work this afternoon.’

  Ena threw her bag onto the table and flopped
down in the chair she had vacated seconds before. ‘You’re determined to make this difficult, Henry!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m in the middle of something that I can’t just walk away from. I’ll finish it today if I can get back to work, and we’ll go to the records office tomorrow.’

  ‘Whatever’s best for bloody MI5,’ Ena said.

  Henry took Ena by the hand. ‘I’m due some leave, so I’ll go back to the office now, finish what I’ve been working on, and I’ll take the whole of tomorrow off. We’ll go down to Argyle Street first thing in the morning, all right?’

  Ena nodded half-heartedly.

  Henry looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. See you later.’

  ‘Will you be home for dinner?’

  ‘I should think so. I’ll telephone before I leave the office. Hey,’ Henry said, ‘come here.’

  Ena walked slowly, teasingly, over to her husband, looked up into his face and pulled on his lapels. ‘Try to get home for dinner, will you?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Arms wrapped around each other, Ena and Henry left the café. Outside they went their separate ways. When she was sure Henry was too far away to hear her, Ena hailed a cab. ‘Dean’s Crescent, Holland Park, please.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Beyond the cab’s windows were the tree-lined streets of Knightsbridge and Kensington. Travelling through the leafy suburbs was like being transported to another place and time. London, Ena thought, is a city of two parts. West and northwest of the Thames had an abundance of green areas: heaths and parks, large Victorian houses with small families; Nannies to care for the children, a cook to feed them and a kitchen maid to clean up after them. Most of the houses in Holland Park had garages that were built better than many of the houses in the East End. Flashy limousines, polished within an inch of their shiny lives, were driven by white-gloved chauffeurs in peaked caps and brass-buttoned uniforms.

  The southeast and southwest of London had green areas. A favourite of Ena’s was Clapham Common, though she rarely had time to visit it. But there were fewer in the East End. Children played on bomb sites where houses destroyed by the Luftwaffe in the war still hadn’t been rebuilt, even though the war had ended thirteen years ago.