The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon

My mother refused to tell me, and now she’s dead, too. But … I believe that my father consulted your father-in-law shortly after the end of the war, and I believe that if I searched through your father-in-law’s records for that period, I would be able to identify him. From the dental work done on him. Then I would have his name.’

      Mrs Wessels was sympathetic. ‘I see … But why do you think your father came to Dr Wessels?’

      ‘Because,’ McQuade said, ‘it is one of the few details that my mother ever told me.’ He smiled: ‘One of the few things I know about myself is that I was conceived in Swakopmund. In 1945. My mother happened to be here, looking for a job. Plenty of jobs, because so many Germans were interned in concentration camps. The war ends and the Germans start coming home. And out of the desert comes staggering this handsome German. That’s how my mother described him.’ He smiled, then went on: ‘Evidently when the South Africans had started rounding up the German males, my father hid in the desert. And survived there throughout the war.’

      ‘I see …’

      ‘Evidently my father had been in a fight. He was in bad shape when my mother met him. And in pain. His front teeth had been broken. My mother took him to the dentist. And the only dentist in Swakopmund in 1945 was your father-in-law.’

      ‘I see …’

      ‘And,’ McQuade said, ‘if I could get his name, maybe I could trace him. If he’s still alive.’

      In the corner of the spare bedroom stood an old filing cabinet. On the floor lay the long boxes of dental cards which McQuade had already searched. Mrs Wessels came in with another mug of coffee for him. ‘Any luck?’

      ‘Your father-in-law was a busy man.’

      ‘He used to say that his practice here extended over an area the size of Bavaria.’

      ‘Do you know who his dental nurse was in 1945?’

      ‘Sometimes it was my mother-in-law. But she’s away at the moment. Sometimes it was Mrs Kruger. She lives in the apartments on the beach called An der Mohle.’

      McQuade was delighted. ‘Do you think she’d mind talking to me about your father-in-law’s patients?’

      ‘I’ll telephone her when you’re finished here.’

      ‘Thank you very much.’

      Each card showed two crescent rows of teeth: upper and lower jaw. At the top was the patient’s name, address, age. On the rows of teeth, Dr Wessels had made marks in black, indicating the dental work done before the patient came to see him: other marks, in red, indicated the work which Dr Wessels himself had done. Below were notes, describing the work. Extracted teeth were marked with a cross.

      McQuade was only concerned with cards after May 1945. Females, children and males under thirty he discarded immediately.

      He ran his eyes over the marks on the upper jaws. He was only concerned with the front teeth and red marks. He flipped through them, his eye racing, looking for the marks on the two front teeth.

      It was afternoon when he saw them.

      McQuade looked at the card joyfully. There they were: the two front teeth crossed out.

      And below were the notes: 27.6.45. Both front teeth broken. Extracted. Denture made.

      At the top of the card was written: NAME: Mr H. Strauss. ADDRESS: In transit. Cash £10.

      McQuade exulted silently. He had found it! He feverishly scrabbled through the remainder of the cards for 1945. Not one of them recorded such work on two front teeth.

      McQuade sat back. This was the man: Mr H. Strauss. It was too much of a coincidence not to be true! Even the initial was right! A man who takes on a false identity wants to keep his first name because that is how he thinks of himself!

       Of course it is the same man!

      Mrs Kruger received McQuade cheerfully and offered him coffee. ‘Strictly speaking, you should not have been shown those records – but it’s done now.’ She put on her spectacles and peered at the dental card that he showed her. She shook her head. ‘No. We had a number of patients named Strauss, it’s quite a common name. But no H, that I recall.’

      ‘Mrs Kruger, you must remember the months after the war ended quite clearly? The men coming home?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

      ‘In fact, Doctor Wessels must have had fewer adult male patients than normal, because so many men were interned in concentration camps?’

      ‘That’s quite true.’

      ‘About that time, don’t you remember a German man coming into the surgery who was very sunburnt? And probably dirty. Probably a bit wild-looking. And hungry-looking.’

      Mrs Kruger frowned. McQuade waited, then went on: ‘He was in pain. An emergency. He probably said he had lost his teeth in a fight. He may have said that he had walked across the desert, to explain his condition.’

      Mrs Kruger frowned into the middle distance.

      McQuade said: ‘Now think carefully: probably his arm was injured. Maybe it had a bandage on it, or it might have healed over, but obviously it was a recent injury.’

      Mrs Kruger looked at him. ‘Any other clues?’

      Playing his last card, McQuade pulled out the old English five pound note. ‘Have you ever seen one of these?’

      She took it.

      ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I remember now.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘The injured arm! And he paid for his treatment with two notes like this!’

      McQuade was exultant. He thrust the dental card back at her. ‘Was it this man? If I tell you that I’ve been through all Doctor Wessels’ records for this period and this is the only case of two front teeth being extracted, does that jog your memory?’

      Mrs Kruger looked at the card again.

      ‘If that’s true, then it must be the same man.’

      McQuade wanted to jump up and kiss her.

      ‘Mrs Kruger, you’ve been very helpful. In helping me trace my father. I have only one further question.’ He paused, for emphasis. ‘Have you ever seen or heard of this man again?’

      Mrs Kruger shook her head slowly. ‘No.’

      McQuade got back into his Landrover, and sat, trying to think. He was exhausted after his sleepless night.

      So? He had found out that the man had survived, as well as the name he had used. And, it was possible that he had continued to use that name.

      So? So what?

      Well, was he still alive? Where was he now? McQuade sat there, dog-tired, trying to think. Tomorrow the Bonanza was going back to sea and he had to have his decisions made. So, where did all this get him?

      Well firstly, if indeed there had been more loot aboard that submarine, it was highly likely that the man had later salvaged it himself. And McQuade was wasting his time, except for having the bastard arrested for murder.

      Secondly, if the man had not succeeded in salvaging the loot, but was still alive, it was quite possible that he would find out about it when McQuade started sending down divers, and it was highly likely that he would try to stop him.

       Was that what that threatening telephone call was about?

      McQuade stared down the road. Then he shook his head. No, he’d thought this one through last night. How could H.M., or H. Strauss as we now know him, know what McQuade had been doing these last four days? Unless Skellum was slobbering around town. But how likely was that, in so short a time? No, that phone call was purely ‘political’. Some Hitler-crank throwing his weight