diary containing a telephone number for the dead woman’s parents-in-law. This not only made communications easier, but indicated that they were wealthy and likely to be in a position to help him out.
Over the course of several phone calls, Henderson had explained his position and thrashed out a deal with Luc Boyle. Henderson had told Luc that with so many refugees marooned in southern France there was no work and he needed a job to feed his four children.
He’d heard that there was plenty of work in the north for those who could get there and said he could obtain the paperwork required to enter the military zone. Henderson offered to bring Boyle’s two grandchildren home. In exchange Boyle would provide Henderson with a few months’ free accommodation on a farm.
‘There’s one minor detail I couldn’t discuss on the telephone,’ Henderson said awkwardly, as Vivien poured him another cognac. ‘My German contact told me that it would be easiest if we all travelled under one name. So my name and that of my family is now Boyle. It will be best if you tell the locals that I’m a distant cousin, or something.’
Vivien raised an eyebrow as she passed back Henderson’s glass. ‘Even people who’ve lived here their whole lives can’t get back into the area,’ she explained. ‘So people are sure to ask where you’ve come from.’
‘The Boche are short of translators,’ Luc said. ‘It’s lucky that you turned out to speak such excellent German.’remarkably
Henderson knew that the presumption of using his family name was likely to stick in Luc Boyle’s throat and the couple clearly sensed that there was more to Henderson than met the eye, but they were ecstatic at the safe return of their grandchildren and apparently happy to let the matter slide. At least, for the time being.
*
Marc woke on a bare mattress in a musty room with sunlight shining through a crack in the roof and a puddle in the far corner. A burp sent acid surging up his throat and for a horrible instant he thought he was going to puke over his blanket.
His head thudded as he looked around and saw PT’s boots on the floor beside him. Marc remembered the wine and a bumpy midnight ride in the back of the truck, but had no recollection of the building in which he’d awoken.
If anything, the holey-roofed bedroom was a high point of the cottage. Green stalactites of mildew hung from the ceiling in the cramped hallway and damp seemed to be consuming the building from within. A step and a door that scraped along the floor because the top hinge had rotted loose led into a kitchen.
‘Eggs?’ Rosie asked brightly, as she thrust a sizzling pan in his face.
‘Get off,’ Marc groaned, clutching a hand over his mouth before scrambling past PT and Paul and running out the back door where he spewed red vomit over a honeysuckle bush.
PT yelled through the open door, ‘Dirty beast.’
‘Poor lamb,’ Maxine said sarcastically, stepping out into the fresh air behind Marc. She’d swapped her usual stockings and smart blouses for rubber boots and an overall. ‘Looks like someone can’t handle their wine.’
Marc’s only reply was a desperate, ‘Oh god,’ as he leaned forwards and threw up for a second time.
Rosie was more sympathetic and passed out a glass of tap water for him to wash his mouth with.
‘Why didn’t someone stop me drinking?’ Marc groaned, as he staggered back indoors, clutching at his aching sides.
‘If you’re stupid enough to try out-drinking a sixteen year old who’s twice your size, you can deal with the consequences,’ Maxine said.
Marc looked up at the rotting roof beams, tattered chairs and rusted kitchen range. ‘How did we end up in this crap-hole?’ he asked.
‘You should have seen Henderson’s face when we arrived here last night,’ PT said, grinning. ‘He was raving, saying that Luc Boyle was a lying bastard and all sorts. There’s no electric and the farm buildings are in an even worse state than this heap.’
‘It’ll clean up well enough,’ Maxine said optimistically, as Rosie dished eggs for Paul and PT which made Marc heave again. ‘And we’re well out of harm’s way.’
‘Where is Henderson?’ Marc asked.
‘He’s taken the bike into Calais to meet with the Germans,’ Maxine explained.
‘How far’s that?’
‘About thirteen kilometres,’ Maxine answered. ‘But there’s no petrol left for the Jag and turning up in a lorry might look peculiar.’
‘We’d better get the roof fixed in that bedroom,’ Marc said. ‘Judging by the size