The Secret of Spandau Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Peter Lovesey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Also by Peter Lovesey

  ABRACADAVER

  BERTIE AND THE CRIME OF PASSION

  BERTIE AND THE SEVEN BODIES

  BERTIE AND THE TIN MAN

  THE BLACK CABINET

  THE BLOODHOUNDS

  BUTCHERS AND OTHER STORIES

  CRIME OF MISS OYSTER BROWN

  THE DETECTIVE WORE SILK

  DIAMOND SOLITAIRE

  DO NOT EXCEED THE STATE

  THE FALSE INSPECTOR DEW

  KEYSTONE

  THE LAST DETECTIVE

  A MAD HATTER’S HOLIDAY

  ON THE EDGE

  THE REAPER

  ROUGH CIDER

  THE SEDGEMOOR STRANGLER

  THE SUMMONS

  SWING, SWING TOGETHER

  UPON A DARK NIGHT

  THE VAULT

  WAXWORK

  WOBBLE TO DEATH

  THE SECRET OF SPANDAU

  Peter Lovesey

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Originally published in Great Britain 1986 by Michael Joseph under the pseudonym Peter Lear.

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 1992 by Peter Lovesey.

  The right of Peter Lovesey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8612-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-709-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-770-7 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Foreword

  The idea for this novel originated with Vere Viscount Rothermere and I wish to express my thanks to him for allowing me to use and develop it in my own way.

  George Greenfield demonstrated once again that the role of a top literary agent is to inspire and enthuse his authors as well as promoting their careers. He made a number of creative and practical suggestions and introduced me to a tenacious man who spent many hours with Rudolf Hess and finally gained his confidence: Lieutenant-Colonel Eugene K. Bird, the former US director of Spandau Prison. I wish to set on record my gratitude to Gene Bird for guiding me around Berlin and so frankly and generously answering my numerous questions.

  Any blemishes or errors in the writing are mine alone.

  Peter Lovesey

  1

  The pilot stared.

  Through the windscreen of his Messerschmitt, several thousand metres ahead, the North Sea ended in a dark shoreline.

  England; the Northumberland coast, if his bearings were right. Above it, jutting through the mist and picked out in scarlet by the setting sun, a range of hills. But a range. He had expected one, the Cheviot, 816 metres high. He depended on this for his first sighting, the navigational key to his route inland. No doubt the Cheviot was one of those peaks, but which one?

  Somewhere down there in the shadows were three destroyers, based between Holy Island and the coast. Any German pilot who strayed within range of their anti-aircraft guns would not be a pilot much longer. It was hardly a moment for indecision. Recalling a trick of Hitler’s personal pilot, ‘Father’ Bauer, the pilot sniffed, snapped his fingers, chose one of the peaks and steered straight for it.

  His luck was in. Seconds later, he sighted Fame Islands well to his right. He was safely south of Holy Island as he crossed the shoreline at an altitude of 2,000 metres. The time was 2212 hours.

  Saturday night over England; 10 May 1941. Alone, the Deputy Führer of the Third Reich had piloted a Messerschmitt 110 from Augsburg, a journey of 800 miles, including a detour to confuse the enemy.

  At home in Germany, they would say it was impossible, that he must have come down in the sea. They could not have known of the planning he had put into this secret flight. Eleven months of preparation: studying the maps; perfecting the technique of flying the Messerschmitt 110; having it modified for longer flights; arranging for special radio signals as an aid to navigation; checking the phases of the moon and the weather reports; and even ordering a military tailor in Munich to make him the uniform of a hauptmann in the Luftwaffe. He wanted the British to be in no doubt that this was a German officer flying a Luftwaffe aircraft with the German black cross prominent on its wings and fuselage. He knew what they did to spies.

  A stern test of courage lay ahead. He was to locate his target by moonlight, bale out and crash the plane. And he had never in his life made a parachute-jump.

  Over the land hung that evening mist. He welcomed it. For the past hour, he had been in a clear sky, conspicuously open to attack. The Air Ministry in Berlin had promised a dense layer of cloud at 500 metres, but all he had seen so far were isolated patches that, from his position, had looked like pack-ice on the sea.

  At full throttle, he dipped the plane towards the cover of the mist – barely in time, for in the void behind him had appeared the outline of a Spitfire. His plane carried no ammunition. A few minutes more, and the British fighter would have shot him out of t
he sky.

  He dived clean through the mist from 2,000 metres and levelled out beneath it like a stunt pilot, perilously close to the ground. He had shaken off the Spitfire.

  Down there below the mist, he could see several miles ahead. It was strange to have such clear light so late in the day, but the British were on double summer time, so it was only 9.15 p.m. at home, and he was also a lot farther north. Relishing the conditions, he hedge-hopped at speed, sometimes no more than five metres above ground, practically skimming the trees and farm buildings, actually waving to people in the lanes and cottage gardens. It was part exultation, part the satisfaction he felt each time he spotted a landmark he could identify. For on numerous sleepless nights, he had stared at the map he had pinned to his bedroom wall until it had become so imprinted on his brain that when he did sleep, he had dreamed of flying over British fields.

  2220 hours. The Cheviot. The pilot gripped the joystick and raced up the face, judging it nicely. He was in his element: seven years before, he had won the air-race round the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest mountain. He had been congratulated by Lindbergh, his personal hero – after the Führer of course.

  Due west was another peak: Broad Law, in the centre of the Scottish Southern Uplands. By now, the moon was streaking the mountains with faint white light.

  Then, at 2240 hours, his destination: Dungavel, home of the premier Duke of Scotland, the Duke of Hamilton, a large stone mansion with a cone-shaped hill nearby. It had to be Dungavel; but seized with the finality of that jump into the unknown, he decided to postpone it and make a second run, from the west.

  He flew on to the coast, out to sea, where he jettisoned the auxiliary fuel tanks fitted to enable the Messerschmitt to make such a journey. Then he took his bearings, banked and came in over Troon. By 2250 hours, he had spotted the reservoir south of Dungavel. He climbed to 2,000 metres, the height for his jump, and switched off the engines.

  One would not respond.

  After a thousand miles of continuous flight, the plane had been pushed to its limit, and the red-hot cylinders were igniting the petrol vapour. The engine continued to turn. Calmly, he waited for it to cool, stutter and stop. Then he reached up and opened the canopy roof.

  This was when inexperience let him down. He was pinned against his seat by the force of air. He could not possibly bale out. And the plane was rapidly losing height.

  The brain can work fast on the edge of disaster. He had once heard a tip from a Luftwaffe pilot with experience of Messerschmitts: you had to turn the thing upside down and fall out. This had got quite a laugh in the officers’ mess at Augsburg. He was about to find out if the tip had been serious.

  Possibly he half-disbelieved it, because instead of pulling the joystick to the right, he tugged it towards him. The plane swung into a startling loop, the blood rushed from his head and he momentarily blacked out.

  Near the top of the upward arc, he forced the steering column away from him. Instead of completing the loop, the Messerschmitt hung for a moment nose upwards in the sky. In the instant before it plunged earthwards, he recovered consciousness. He thrust with his legs and felt a stab of pain as his leg struck some part of the fuselage. He fell clear and tugged at the ripcord on his parachute.

  It opened.

  2

  At about 10.45 in the evening of Saturday 10 May 1941, David McLean, head ploughman of Floors Farm, near Eaglesham, south of Glasgow, heard the drone of an aeroplane overhead. McLean, a bachelor in his mid-forties, lived in a single-storey cottage facing the farmhouse. He was about to get into bed. His widowed mother and his sister Sophia slept in the other bedroom.

  McLean was used to aircraft, because the RAF trained their pilots nearby; they had a flight-path that brought them from the airport at Irvine up to Renfrew and then down over Eaglesham to Dungavel, ten miles to the south. Dungavel Hill served as a landmark before they returned to Irvine. But tonight there was something unfamiliar in what he could hear, a different resonance in the engine-note. While he was listening, the sound altered, as if one of the engines had cut out. Then it stopped altogether.

  A few seconds later, he heard a muted impact, perhaps a mile away. The earth under the house gave a perceptible tremor.

  David McLean put out the light and pulled aside the blackout at the window. The full moon glowed pinkly through a light mist, and he could see over the garden, beyond the stone wall, to the fields and the dark hills. All looked as usual until a movement caught his eye, the shimmer of moonlight on something large and white drifting from the sky.

  He knocked on the wall of his mother’s room and called out that he had seen a parachute and was going outside to investigate. He pulled on his trousers, tucked the nightshirt inside and reached for his boots.

  The parachutist was on the ground grappling with his harness when David McLean got to him. The billowing silk was tugging at the man, jerking him across the grass until he managed to disengage it.

  ‘Who are you?’ McLean called across to him. ‘British or German?’

  ‘I am a German officer. Hauptmann Horn, from Munich.’

  From across the fields came a flash and a roar as the fuel ignited in the crashed aircraft. The German officer turned to watch.

  ‘Was there anyone with you in the plane?’

  ‘No, I am the only one.’

  David McLean looked at the face picked out by the flames. This was not a young man, as the British pilots usually were. He had the stronger features of middle age, eyes set deep under thick dark brows, fine, wide mouth over a resolute jaw. He turned away from the blaze and attempted to stand, but his right leg would not support him. He toppled off balance and practically fell into McLean’s arms.

  ‘My leg … very painful.’

  ‘You’d better come into the cottage. Are you armed? Do you have a gun?’

  The parachutist shook his head, and lifted his free hand away from the side of his black leather flying-suit, inviting McLean to search him.

  ‘All right. Can you walk if I help you?’

  They hobbled as far as the gate, and rested there a moment. The German glanced back to where his parachute lay, still rippling and flapping. ‘I would like to take that with me.’

  To McLean, it was a reasonable request. The thing had saved the man’s life. ‘I’ll get it if you promise not to go away.’

  The German gave a faint smile. With one good leg, he could not have got far from the gatepost.

  McLean gathered the parachute and came back with it bundled under his arm. Then he heard a voice from the farm buildings.

  ‘What’s going on out there? Who is that?’ It was William Craig, who lived in the farmhouse.

  ‘It’s me – Davey,’ McLean called back. ‘A German has come down. Would you go and fetch a soldier from across the road, Mr Craig?’

  ‘A German?’ A pause; then, in the same even tone, ‘Aye, I’ll do that.’

  By good fortune, several of the Royal Signals Regiment were billeted at Eaglesham House, almost opposite the farm. Their work was secret, and they looked more like university men than soldiers, but they were certainly better equipped than a ploughman to deal with a prisoner of war.

  The German was considerably taller than McLean. They made their way unsteadily up the path to the door of the cottage, where Mrs Annie McLean stood watching in dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Is it a Jerry?’ she asked her son.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Och, what a life!’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, dinna stand out there. Bring him in and I’ll make some tea.’

  Inside the whitewashed living-room, David McLean dumped the parachute on the flagstone floor and helped the injured pilot into the single leather armchair. The man heaved a great appreciative sigh and eased his injured leg into a more comfortable position. He was wearing fur-lined suede leather flying-boots, easily the most elegant boots that McLean had ever seen.

  ‘What did you say your name is?’

  ‘Horn. H
auptmann Alfred Horn. I must see the Duke of Hamilton at Dungavel House. It is very important.’

  ‘You want to see the Duke of Hamilton?’

  ‘Would you take me to him?’

  McLean grinned and prodded his own chest with his finger. ‘Me, take you up to Dungavel to see the Duke?’

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘Get away with you, man.’

  But Hauptmann Horn was very persistent. He repeated the request. Apparently he believed there was nothing to stop the head ploughman of Floors Farm from rousing the premier Duke of Scotland from his sleep and introducing him to an enemy pilot.

  Mrs McLean brought in the tea. Hauptmann Horn thanked her, and said he would prefer a glass of water. He unzipped the front of his flying-suit. Underneath, he was wearing the grey-blue worsted tunic of an officer in the Luftwaffe. He felt in an inside pocket and took out some photographs.

  ‘My son. And my wife.’

  David McLean glanced at them and handed them to his mother as she returned. ‘His son and his wife.’

  Hauptmann Horn took the water and drank it without taking a breath.

  ‘Bonny,’ said Mrs McLean as she handed back the snaps.

  Someone tapped lightly on the door. McLean opened it and admitted two boyish soldiers in battledress. One of them, who wore steel-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat and said, ‘We were told …’ His words trailed away at the spectacle of the Luftwaffe pilot sprawled in the armchair with a glass mug in his hand.

  McLean exchanged a glance with his mother. If this was the best the Army could send, he was not much impressed. He had scarcely admitted them and closed the door when there was more urgent knocking.

  This time he opened the door to two of his neighbours who had been alerted to the emergency. Mr Williamson was the special constable. He wore a black steel helmet with the word POLICE painted on it in white lettering. His companion was Mr Clark, who was in the khaki helmet and uniform of the Home Guard. Clark was more than equal to the occasion. There was a whiff of Scotch whisky on the air. He said with authority, ‘Hands up!’

  Everyone looked at Clark and saw a large First World War revolver in his hand. They all half-raised their hands, even the soldiers, who then lowered them coyly.