Sean Gallagher saw it all. ‘Is this something to do with the invasion?’
Kelso nodded. ‘It’s coming soon.’
‘Sure and we all know that,’ Gallagher said.
‘Yes, but I know where and I know when. If the Germans could squeeze that out of me, can you imagine what it would mean? All their troops concentrated in the right place. We’d never get off the beach.’
He was extremely agitated, sweat on his forehead. Helen soothed him, easing him down. ‘It’s all right, I promise you.’
‘Is George Hamilton coming?’ Gallagher asked.
‘He was out. I left a message with his housekeeper that you wanted to see him urgently. I said you’d cut your leg and thought it needed a stitch or two.’
‘Who’s Hamilton?’ Kelso demanded.
‘A doctor,’ Helen said. ‘And a good friend. He’ll be here soon to see to that leg of yours.’
Kelso was shaking again as the fever took hold. ‘More important things to think of at the moment. You must speak to your resistance people here. Tell them to get on the radio as soon as possible and notify Intelligence in London that I’m here. They’ll have to try to get me out.’
‘But there is no resistance movement in Jersey,’ Helen said. ‘I mean, there’s a hell of a lot of people who don’t care to be occupied and make life as awkward for the enemy as they can, but we don’t have anything like the French Resistance, if that’s what you mean.’
Kelso stared at her in astonishment and Gallagher said, ‘This island is approximately ten miles by five. There are something like forty-five thousand civilians. A good-size market town, that’s all. How long do you think a resistance movement would last here? No mountains to run to, nowhere to take refuge. Nowhere to go, in fact.’
Kelso seemed to have difficulty in taking it in. ‘So, there’s no resistance movement. No radio?’
‘No links with London at all,’ Gallagher told him.
‘Then what about France?’ Kelso asked desperately. ‘Granville, St Malo. They’re only a few hours away across the water, aren’t they? There must be a local unit of the French Resistance in those places.’
There was a significant pause, then Helen turned to Gallagher. ‘Savary could speak to the right people in Granville. He knows who they are and so do you.’
‘True.’
‘Guido was leaving as I came up from the beach,’ she said. ‘He told me they were trying for Granville this afternoon. Taking advantage of the fog.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘They won’t have the tide until noon. You could take the van. There are those sacks of potatoes to go into St Helier for the troops’ supply depot and the market.’
‘All right, you’ve convinced me,’ Gallagher said. ‘But if I know Savary, he won’t want any of this, not in his head. That means writing it down, which is taking one hell of a chance.’
‘We don’t have any choice, Sean,’ she said simply.
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’ Gallagher laughed. ‘The things I do for England. Look after our friend here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
As he reached the door she called, ‘And Sean?’
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Don’t forget to drive on the right-hand side of the road.’
It was an old joke, but not without a certain amount of truth. One of the first things the German forces had done on occupying Jersey was to change the traffic flow from the left- to the right-hand side of the road. After four years, Gallagher still couldn’t get used to it, not that he drove very often. They only had the old Ford van as a special dispensation because the de Ville farmlands supplied various crops for the use of the German forces. The size of the petrol ration meant the van could be used only two or three times a week anyway. Gallagher stretched it by coasting down the hills with the engine off, and there was always a little black-market petrol available if you knew the right people.
He drove down through the tiny picturesque town of St Aubin and followed the curve of the bay to Bel Royal, St Helier in the distance. He passed a number of gun emplacements with a few troops in evidence, but Victoria Avenue was deserted on the run into town. One of the French trains the Germans had brought over passed him on its way to Millbrook, the only sign of activity until he reached the Grand Hotel. He checked his watch. It was just before eleven. Plenty of time to catch Savary before the Victor Hugo left for Granville, so he turned left into Gloucester Street and made his way to the market.
There weren’t too many people about, mainly because of the weather. The scarlet and black Nazi flag with its swastika on the pole above the Town Hall entrance hung limply in the damp air. The German for Town Hall is Rathaus. It was, therefore, understandable that the place was now known as the Rat House by the local inhabitants.
He parked outside the market in Beresford Street. It was almost deserted, just a handful of shoppers and a sprinkling of German soldiers. The market itself was officially closed, open for only two hours on a Saturday afternoon. There would be enough people in evidence then, desperately hoping for fresh produce.
Gallagher got two sacks of potatoes from the van, kicked open the gate and went inside. Most of the stalls in the old Victorian Market were empty, but there were one or two people about. He made straight for a stall on the far side where a large genial man in heavy sweater and cloth cap was arranging turnips in neat rows under a sign D. Chevalier.
‘So, it’s swedes today?’ Gallagher said as he arrived.
‘Good for you, General,’ Chevalier said.
‘Do you tell me? Mrs Vibert gave me swede jam for breakfast the other day.’ Gallagher shuddered. ‘I can still taste it. Two sacks of spuds for you here.’
Chevalier’s eyes lit up. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, General. Let’s have them in the back.’
Gallagher dragged them into the room at the rear, and Chevalier opened a cupboard and took out an old canvas duffel bag. ‘Four loaves of white bread.’
‘Jesus,’ Gallagher said. ‘Who did you kill to get those?’
‘A quarter pound of China tea and a leg of pork. Okay?’
‘Nice to do business with you,’ Gallagher told him. ‘See you next week.’
His next stop was at the troop supply depot in Wesley Street. It had originally been a garage and there were half-a-dozen trucks parked in there. There wasn’t much happening, but a burly Feldwebel called Klinger was sitting in the glass office eating a sandwich. He waved, opened the door and came down the steps.
‘Herr General,’ he said genially.
‘God, Hans, but you do well for youself,’ Gallagher said in excellent German and prodded the ample stomach.
Klinger smiled. ‘A man must live. We are both old soldiers, Herr General. We understand each other. You have something for me?’
‘Two sacks of potatoes for the official list.’
‘And?’
‘Another sack for you, if you’re interested.’
‘And in exchange?’
‘Petrol.’
The German nodded. ‘One five-gallon can.’
‘Two five-gallon cans,’ Gallagher said.
‘General.’ Klinger turned to a row of British Army issue petrol cans, picked two up and brought them to the van. ‘What if I turned you in? You’re so unreasonable.’
‘Prison for me and a holiday for you,’ Gallagher