The Second Midnight. Andrew Taylor

Next they did it to make sure your son is really English. But, most of all, they did it so that you would hand over the diamonds to them at a place which they choose, not you. Once you have exchanged the diamonds and the boy, we can all get down to business.’

      ‘How did they know where I was staying? How did they know the one time that Hugh was going out by himself? It was your suggestion that he should go for a walk.’

      Madame Hase ignored the suspicion in his voice. ‘I had to tell them your name and where you were staying. They wouldn’t just take my word, you know. They’ve been watching you since you arrived. There will be plenty of Party members at the Palacky to act as their eyes and ears. Communism makes a simple emotional appeal to waiters and bellboys and that class of person.’ She squeezed his knee. ‘Leave the talking to me, as much as possible. We will offer them two of the diamonds in exchange for the boy; they do not know how many you have brought.’

      ‘What if they search you?’ Kendall objected.

      This time she nudged him in the ribs. ‘Two diamonds are in my bag. The others are in a hiding place only ladies have.’ She tittered and snuggled closer to Kendall. ‘Jan and Bela are not the sort of men who enjoy searching the intimate parts of ladies.’

      Kendall blushed and cleared his throat. It was difficult to imagine anyone less like a lady than his present companion. To his great relief she pulled away from him.

      ‘You must say very little – be cold and angry and very British gentlemanly. I want to make them feel that they have gone too far, that they have been rash in offending you so casually.’ She broke off and studied Kendall thoughtfully for a few seconds. ‘Yes, I think I shall say you are the head of the Middle European network of SIS. That should impress them.’

      Kendall had never heard the acronym before. He guessed it might refer to the British secret service. He felt a sudden spasm of hatred for this domineering woman beside him. He drew out a cigarette and tapped it deliberately against his case.

      ‘That, madame, is precisely who I am.’

      When the van stopped, Hugh wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and stood up. He had been crouching for so long that his knees screamed with agony.

      The doors opened and the curtains were pulled back. The bull-like man beckoned him to come out.

      Hugh jumped down and glanced around. He was in a cobbled yard. On three sides were sheds; on the fourth was a brick wall, ten feet high and topped with a row of spikes. The other man had his back to them: he was barring the heavy double gates in the middle of the wall. During the journey the afternoon had turned into evening.

      His captor seized Hugh’s ear between a huge thumb and forefinger and led him over to one of the sheds. He shot back the two bolts, undid the padlock and pushed Hugh inside.

      A match rasped and flared. The tall, thin man followed them in and closed the door behind them; his colleague lit a paraffin lamp. The wick was untrimmed and the lamp sputtered fitfully, throwing out a flickering yellow light.

      The shed was about five yards square. It had a concrete floor and was lined with crudely built shelves of unvarnished pine. There were piles of tins on the shelves. All the tins which Hugh could see bore the same picture – a garishly pink joint of ham.

      The picture connected in his mind with the blood on his face and hands. He might have fallen against a pig’s carcass. The thought made him feel slightly better.

      The taller man pointed at Hugh’s face and said something in Czech. Both men chuckled.

      Their laughter made Hugh feel a little bolder. ‘Why have you brought me here?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you?’

      Neither of them replied. The bull-like man, who seemed to be the leader, said something else in Czech. He walked behind Hugh and grabbed him by the shoulders; the grip was firm but not painful. The younger man knelt in front of Hugh and methodically emptied his pockets.

      One by one, Hugh’s possessions formed a little pile on the concrete. Some items aroused little interest; but others, including the guidebook and Hiawatha, were obviously considered important.

      Hugh tried to work out the motive for their search. When the thin man passed his purse, containing Aunt Vida’s half-crown, to his colleague, the answer suddenly occurred to him: they were interested in anything that suggested he was English. The guidebook had the stamp of a London bookshop on the flyleaf; underneath Hiawatha’s base were the words Made in England. The hypothesis seemed to be confirmed when the two men exclaimed excitedly over the school outfitter’s label inside his jacket.

      The conclusion intensified his fear: perhaps they were going to strip away all evidence of his name and nationality as a preliminary to murdering him.

      When the search was over, the big man released his shoulders. Hugh backed away until he came to the shelves. He knew he had to do something before it was too late. One of those tins might make a weapon. He could knock over the lamp and make a break for the door. Plans chased feverishly through his mind, all nullified by the sheer impossibility of carrying them out.

      But nothing happened to him. After a rapid, incomprehensible conversation, the men left without a word to him. They took the lamp with them. The bolts shot home and, a few seconds later, he heard the van’s engine. The roar of the motor grew louder and then gradually diminished into silence.

      Once he was alone, Hugh began to tremble uncontrollably. It was cold in the shed, but he knew that was not the only reason why his teeth were chattering. It was also completely dark. The only sound he could hear was the distant grumbling of traffic.

      He edged across the floor, using his feet to probe for his belongings. When he found them, he stuffed them back in his pockets. Hiawatha remained in the palm of his hand.

      ‘Well, sir, they say it’s always darkest just before dawn,’ his batman would say in the gruff voice he reserved for tight spots. Somehow Hiawatha seemed less reassuring than usual.

      Hugh tried to act as Major Kendall, VC, would do. He made a reconnaissance, which in this case meant looking in vain for a window and banging helplessly on the door. He laid an ambush: having chosen half a dozen tins of ham, he stood behind the door and waited for the enemy to return. As he made his preparations, he knew it was hopeless: Major Kendall lived in a different world from the two Czechs.

      Of course it was possible that they didn’t intend to murder him: perhaps they were going to hold him to ransom, in the mistaken belief that his father was a wealthy British businessman. But his father wasn’t wealthy; and, even if he were, Hugh rather doubted that he would spend money to ensure the safe return of his son.

      After five minutes of waiting in ambush on his feet, Hugh decided that he could wait just as well if he sat on the floor. He was tired; and he might feel warmer if he clasped his hands round his knees. He would have plenty of time to stand up when he heard the van’s engine in the yard outside.

      His head fell forward and he dozed.

      The door cannoned into him, waking him abruptly.

      Men were laughing; an unbearably bright light shone into his eyes. He turned his head away from the glare. His hand closed around one of the tins.

      A woman’s voice said, ‘But there’s blood on his face.’

      ‘Get up, boy,’ his father said.

      A hand grasped one of his lapels and hauled him to his feet. The torch swung away from his face. Hugh recognized the fat woman with the fur coat and the two Czechs behind his father. Everyone seemed to be grinning and there was a heavy smell of spirits in the air.

      His father cuffed him lightly. ‘What’s that mess on your face? Have you been crying again?’

      Hugh shook his head automatically. He had learned long ago that admitting weakness to his father was always rash.

      Alfred Kendall turned to the woman. ‘He’s a regular mother’s boy.’ The tone was jocular; in private he often used the same words in an entirely different