48

I was up early and took the shotgun and a pocket full of cartridges. Frankie had been keeping it clean after I’d shown him how to look after it. Give him a few months and I’d show him how to shoot, turn him into a country boy.

I walked out to the field of spring wheat, wincing as I saw my boot marks crossing it on the diagonal. If the man from the War Ag saw those, we’d get marked down.

I took up my position with my back to an old oak that cast a deep shadow over the edge of the field. To anyone out in the sun, I’d be invisible in my dark clothing, as long as I kept still. I sat, and waited, and thought.

Miriam had been sent to investigate the radio signals, that much was clear. But Vaughn was openly pro-German. He’d say he was pro-peace, but that was splitting hairs. It was a cover, and a short hop from that to wearing swastikas, as a number of other ‘peace’ organisations had shown. As it was, Vaughn was treading a fine line, and he’d have to be careful not to end up behind bars with Oswald Mosley. If I had to bet on whether Vaughn would help an arriving parachutist or turn him in, my money would be on him helping him. And if I felt that way about Vaughn, logic dictated Miriam should be treated with the same level of caution.

All of this was a circular argument which brought me back to my initial preference. My founding principle.

If you want something done right, do it yourself.

If there was a parachutist hiding out in my patch, I backed myself to track him down. If he put up a fight, I’d do whatever was required. If he survived that, I’d hand him over to Neesham. The good thing about Neesham – I didn’t need to know his politics. He wasn’t that complicated. He was an honest copper, who’d do the right thing.

I saw movement in the hedgerow, and raised the shotgun to my shoulder.

I watched, and waited, slowing my breathing, my world reduced to the field of fire laid out in front of me.

I fired, twice, and cracked the gun, but I didn’t need to reload. I’d got what I came for. Two rabbits. Two less pests to eat my crops. Two meals for Eric, and his nan.

*

Eric was in his garden, same as last time. He was nailing up an enclosure around a dirty pond. Inside the enclosure he had a coop, and as I approached a pair of ducks waddled into it, hiding from the threatening newcomer.

‘Thought you might be able to find a use for these,’ I said, handing over the rabbits.

‘Thanks, Mr Cook,’ he said. ‘Stick around, I’ll get you a couple of these duck’s eggs. Lovely with a bit of bread.’

I let him root around in the coop and took the two eggs he handed me, still warm.

‘Any luck with those German voices?’ I asked, not expecting much. It had only been a couple of days, and Eric was a busy man.

‘I was going to come over,’ Eric said, feeling in his inside pocket. He pulled out a page from a notebook – rough paper, flecks of brown pulp still visible. He handed it to me and I unfolded it.

‘I can find more if you give me more time,’ he said.

I scanned the page. He had at least ten readings. Each one had location, time and date, and a note.

‘That’s how loud,’ he said. ‘I asked each person the same question – if the person was standing next to you in a busy pub, would you think they were talking normal, too quiet, or too loud.’

‘Good thinking,’ I said, and I meant it. It was a clever way of getting people to use their judgment without overthinking. Everyone could relate to being in a busy pub, and everyone would have a similar calibration.

‘This is impressive,’ I said. Eric shrugged.

‘Like I said, I’ll get more if you give me longer.’

‘This’ll be good to be getting on with,’ I said.