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  The Dead Of Winter

  by

  RENNIE AIRTH

  He could see in searchlights probing the night sky, illuminating the barrage balloons which floated like giant moths above the darkened city to hinder

  the approach the V-2s which descended without warning like thunderclaps and which Londoners had come to fear more than any other weapon used against them.

  During a blackout on the streets of London on a freezing evening in late 1944, a young Polish land girl, Rosa Nowak, is suddenly and brutally killed. For

  the police, their resources already stretched by the new war regulations and the thriving black market, this is a shocking and seemingly random crime.

  No one can find any reason why someone would want to murder an innocent refugee.For the former police inspector John Madden, the crime hits close to home.

  Rosa was working on his farm and he feels personally responsible for not protecting her. His old colleagues Angus Sinclair and Billy Styles are still at

  the Yard but struggle to make sense of their few clues. Their only lead points towards Europe – but as the war rages across the continent, will they find

  the killer before he strikes again?

  Also by Rennie Airth

  RIVER OF DARKNESS

  THE BLOOD-DIMMED TIDE

  MACMILLAN

  First published 2009 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London ni 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  isbn 978-0-230-71484-7 HB

  ISBN 978-O-23O-73696-2 TPB

  Copyright Š Rennie Airth 2009

  The right of Rennie Airth to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

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  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex

  Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham me5 8td

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

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  For Jonathan Randal

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  so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases. PROLOGUE

  Paris, May 1940

  Dusk was falling by the time Maurice Sobel reached

  Neuilly, and he walked the short distance from the Metro to

  his house in the cold, not quite earthly light of the blue

  painted street lamps which were the city’s sole concession to

  the war that was about to engulf it. His pace was brisk, and

  twice he glanced over his shoulder to assure himself that the

  street behind him was empty. The creak of the garden gate

  when he opened it was a welcome sound.

  Only then did he relax his grip on the handle of the

  attache case he was carrying. Since leaving Eyskens’s office

  he’d been holding it tightly, and he felt the prickle of pins

  and needles in his fingers now as he shifted the case to his left

  hand and fumbled in his pocket for his house key.

  Normally he would have been brought home by car, but

  that morning he’d paid off the last of the household staff,

  including his chauffeur, a blunt Breton by the name of

  Dugarry. Maurice had found the farewells upsetting and the

  sight of the darkened house as he walked up the gravel path

  to the front door was a reminder of the loss suffered by all

  parties. Florence, their cook, and a family retainer for the

  better part of a quarter of a century, had clung to his hand

  when they’d said goodbye. There’d been tears in her eyes.

  'Tell Madame . . .’ She had begun to speak three or four

  times, but been unable to continue. 'Ah, but you’ll be

  back . . .’ It was all she could say.

  Maurice had pressed her hand in return. 'Of course, of

  course . . .’ Not knowing if it was true. Not knowing if they

  would ever meet again.

  With a sigh he unlocked the door and switched on the

  lights in the hall. The emptiness around him seemed unnatural – he was used to the house being filled with people, loud

  with the voices of family and friends – and he regretted, not

  for the first time, his decision to postpone his departure,

  when he could have taken passage on the same ship that had

  carried his wife and their two sons across the Atlantic to New

  York a month earlier. Unwisely, deceived by the slow march

  of events in Europe following the occupation of Poland, he’d

  chosen to remain in Paris for a little while longer, taking time

  to dispose of his business and to attend to the many other

  details, such as the leasing of his house, which had required

  his attention. The delay had proved costly. He had not yet

  wound up his affairs when the long-threatened German

  invasion had been launched a week earlier, and with their

  armoured units advancing now with giant strides across the

  Low Countries and – according to as yet unconfirmed reports – about to encircle the French army entrenched on the

  Somme, he had been forced to take emergency measures,

  selling off the last of his stock at rock-bottom prices and,

  even worse, engaging in the kind of transaction he would

  normally have shunned in an attempt to salvage at least a

  portion of these assets.

  On that last day – the last for him, at any rate – the city

  had worn an air of exhaustion. The soft breeze with its

  promise of spring had expired, like the hopes of so many, and

  it was the stifling heat of summer that hung in the air now

  and seemed poised to descend on streets already starting to

  empty as cars made their slow exit bumper to bumper from

  the capital in anticipation of the threat that daily drew closer.

  Although government spokesmen had said that every inch of

  French soil would be defended, Maurice knew from other

  sources – from the rumours that sped from mouth to mouth – that the German panzers were already moving south from

  the coast. He had glimpsed military lorries drawn up in lines

  outside ministries, pre
pared to cart away files and other vital

  equipment. And although no refugees had yet appeared in

  Paris, travellers arriving from the north-east spoke of roads

  clogged by those trying to escape the fighting; of whole

  families on the move pushing handcarts loaded with their

  possessions. More ominously still, there were even reports

  that French soldiers without their arms had joined the fleeing

  columns.

  Although his appointment with Eyskens was not until the

  afternoon, Maurice had gone into the city earlier and after

  calling at his bank had paid a final visit to what had been

  until recently the store that bore his family’s name: Sobel

  Freres. Furriers of distinction, the shop was located off the

  rue St Honore, and although Maurice had relinquished the

  lease on the property he still had a key to the street door.

  Wandering about the deserted rooms, he had felt a deep

  sadness. It had taken his family years to build up the business – the company had been founded by his grandfather – and its

  loss felt like an amputation. He could think of no sight more

  desolate that day than the rows of empty hangers where only

  a few weeks before the finest furs had been on display, no

  sign more indicative of abandonment and flight than the thin

  patina of dust already starting to gather on the glass-topped

  counters.

  Seeking an antidote to his depression, he’d chosen to lunch

  for the last time at a favourite restaurant in the rue Cambon,

  one he had patronized regularly over the years, where his

  face and name were known not only to the patron and waiters

  but also to some of the other clients, successful businessmen

  like himself, with whom he was accustomed to exchanging

  nods. No doubt some of them had heard of his decision to

  leave: he thought he detected sympathy in the glances cast his

  way. But for the most part they seemed preoccupied with

  their own affairs. (How could they not be?) They were taking

  stock of the new reality. And while there was little they could

  do to alter it, Maurice had nevertheless been distressed to

  observe the all too familiar hint of a shrug in their manner;

  that lift of the shoulders so peculiar to the French, signifying

  acceptance of a situation, however disagreeable.

  Catching sight of his own image in a gold-framed mirror

  on the other side of the restaurant – wryly noting the elegance

  of his appearance, his silvered hair barbered to a millimetre,

  the distinction of his dark suit, one of several he’d had

  tailored in London, its sombre hue set off by a splash of red

  silk spilling from his breast pocket – he’d reflected on how

  little he differed from these pillars of the bourgeoisie, at least

  on the surface. How even now, he might have been pondering

  his country’s future in the light of the fate that was about to

  overtake it: assessing what impact occupation by a foreign

  power would have on himself and his family, how best to

  protect his interests. In all probability the course of his life

  had not differed much from theirs. As a youth he had run up

  debts and made a fool of himself over women – to the despair

  of his father – but later redeemed himself by volunteering to

  serve in the war which only a generation earlier had bled his

  country white, and being twice decorated for gallantry. He

  had married well and raised a family.

  But none of that mattered any longer, he knew, none of

  it counted. The future lay with the jackbooted conquerors

  whose armoured units even now were beating a path to the

  city’s gates, and they would not be deceived.

  A Jew was a Jew.

  Willem Eyskens’s office, or rather his place of business, since

  buying and selling were very much part of his day-to-day

  operations, was located off the rue de Rivoli. The brass plate

  beside the locked door bore his name, but gave no further

  information. Indeed, if you were not expected there in all

  likelihood you were not welcome, and beyond the door,

  which was only opened after the caller had adequately identified

  himself, access was further barred by a guard, presumably

  armed, who sat at a table in the small entrance hall with

  an alarm button close at hand. Maurice had been given

  Eyskens’s name by a business associate, a dealer in costume

  jewellery and other fashion accessories with whom he did

  business from time to time.

  'He’s a diamond broker with connections in Amsterdam.

  Dutch originally, but he’s been settled here a long time. He

  only deals in good-quality stones, I’ve been told, and he’s

  discreet. He can certainly provide what you need – at a price,

  of course.’

  The price, as it turned out, had been high. Eyskens had

  outlined the cruel economics of it at their first meeting. 'It’s

  always the same in dangerous times. People try to save what

  they have. You can’t take a factory with you, a business.

  So you turn it into something you know has value. Gold, if

  you can carry enough of it; otherwise stones. Diamonds.

  There’s no need to explain what effect this demand has on

  the market.’

  A thin-faced man with red cheeks and fair hair brushed

  back from his forehead, Eyskens had kept his gaze on the

  surface of his rosewood desk while he spoke. It was as though

  he was embarrassed to meet Maurice’s gaze.

  'Sufficient to say you are not the first to come to me with

  a request of this kind, Monsieur Sobel. These are, as I say,

  terrible times. Let us be businesslike. Your need is urgent, I

  see that. The short notice makes for difficulties, but I can

  provide what you want. However, I would prefer if this were

  a cash transaction.’

  'You don’t want a cheque?’ Maurice hadn’t been altogether

  surprised.

  'It’s not a matter of trust, I assure you. Your reputation is

  beyond question.’ Eyskens had shown small signs of discomfort.

  'But I will be forced to cut corners, if I can put it like

  that. And later on questions may be asked – I don’t mean by

  the French authorities. Paris may soon be under new rulers,

  men who might wish to enquire into favours done for . . .

  for . . .’

  'Jews?’ Maurice had furnished the word he was trying not

  to utter.

  “I am sorry . . .’ Eyskens had spread his hands on the desk.

  Their first meeting had taken place the previous week, and

  that afternoon, having earlier withdrawn the cash from his

  bank – Maurice had given Eyskens a round figure to work

  with – he had proceeded to their final appointment. Once

  again he’d been shown upstairs to the diamond broker’s

  office, a small, windowless room, bare of decoration, where

  Eyskens was waiting. Before him on the desk was a black

  velvet bag tied with a drawstring. It lay on a piece of felt

  which had been spread across the desk. Beside the bag was a

  jeweller’s loupe.

  “I will leave you now.’ Eyskens rose. 'You will want to

&
nbsp; examine the stones. Please take your time. I have made a list’ – he took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed

  it to Maurice. 'The stones are marked by weight, but you will

  be able to tell by the size and the shape which is which.

  Taken together they match the sum we agreed on. Of course,

  if any of them doesn’t meet with your approval, it can be

  discarded and we will make the necessary adjustment to the

  total.’ He bowed and left the room.

  Maurice had wasted no time. Uncomfortable though the

  transaction made him feel, he had taken a decision and meant

  to stick to it. With the start of the war, the movement of

  funds by more orthodox means had become increasingly

  difficult and the German invasion had brought even those to

  a halt. True, in the past few months he had managed to shift

  a good portion of his assets abroad, but he was reluctant to

  leave anything he possessed to the new masters of Europe,

  these brutal despoilers of his people.

  Emptying the velvet bag on to the felt, he had examined

  the glittering contents. Though no expert, his experience as a

  furrier had made him familiar with all aspects of the fashion

  trade, including its most luxurious and costly items, and a

  few minutes’ study with the loupe were enough to reassure

  him of the quality of the goods he was purchasing. The bag

  contained a score of diamonds – cut stones, as he’d requested – the biggest the size of his thumbnail, all of the finest water.

  By the time the broker returned ten minutes later, Maurice

  had emptied the attache case, which had been resting on the

  floor at his feet, and laid out the stacks of banknotes he had

  brought in a neat pile alongside the diamonds.

  'You are satisfied, then?’ Eyskens resumed his position

  across the desk.

  'Perfectly.’

  Maurice was relieved that their business was over. For

  some reason – its hole-in-the-wall nature, perhaps – he’d

  found it distasteful. Nor had he warmed to the man who sat

  facing him. The Dutchman’s pale blue eyes were unreadable.

  'Would you like to count the money, Monsieur Eyskens?’

  'Given who I am dealing with, that will not be necessary.’

  The broker had accompanied these words with a polite bow.

  They both rose.

  'Goodbye, Monsieur Sobel. I wish you good fortune.’

  There was nothing more he could do. Everything was set

  now for his departure the following morning, and as he