Free The Darkest Hour by Tony Schumacher Page B

office. Just let him stay here of a night; I can’t have him all the time.”
    “Why can’t he go home with you?”
    Finally, Rossett’s patience gave way. “Because he’s a Jew.” He immediately regretted what he’d said and quickly looked around him. A few heads of passing bobbies turned to look at him, and he, in turn, looked down to Jacob, who shamed him by staring back and tilting his head.
    “If he is a Jew, why don’t you ask your mates in the SS to let him stay in their cells over at Charing Cross?”
    “They aren’t my mates, and you know they aren’t.”
    “Are you sure?” Clark eyed the tiny Nazi-party badge on Rossett’s lapel. Rossett subconsciously reached his right hand up to touch it and then smoothed down his suit jacket front.
    “You know it wouldn’t be right sending him to Charing Cross, Bernie; it’s no place for a child.”
    “You’ve sent enough people there, Rossett. One more won’t make a difference. Besides, wherever he is being sent on Sunday will be worse, I’ll wager.” The custody sergeant picked up his mug again and this time risked a sip.
    Rossett stared up at Clark and swallowed hard.
    “I could make life very difficult for you, Bernie,” he said, aware now that quite a few people had gathered to witness his humiliation. His cheeks burned, not with embarrassment but with anger. “You are making this hard for the child, not for me. I hope you are proud of yourself.”
    Clark stood up, collected a clipboard off his desk, and theatrically pulled a pen out of his tunic pocket before stepping down from behind the high counter. He walked around to stand side on to Rossett, who hadn’t moved. Clark leaned in close to Rossett’s ear and, for the first time during their exchange, lowered his voice so that only Rossett could hear him.
    “I’m not making it hard for the child, mate.” Then a little closer. “You are, you bastard.”
    Rossett turned his head to look at Clark; he’d known the man the best part of ten years. All that was forgotten right at that moment. None of it mattered.
    He tried to think of a reply, looking into the face of Clark, who waited, expectantly, rocking on his toes.
    Nothing came.
    Clark shook his head and walked off to the cells to carry out his rounds, leaving Rossett and Jacob standing before an empty desk.
    Rossett looked down at Jacob, who was also watching Clark walk away, his tiny suitcase resting at his feet. After a moment, Jacob turned to look up at Rossett.
    “What did he mean, it’ll be worse for me on Sunday?” said Jacob, with that furrowed brow again.
    “Pick up your case and come with me,” Rossett replied, already turning and leaving the jail.

 
    Chapter 9
    W HEN THE SS had arrived in London back at the start of the occupation, they had immediately chosen several stations that suited their purposes and evicted the local Met Police within hours. Over time they had fortified these stations, and some had become small self-contained garrisons and jails rolled into one.
    Charing Cross was one such place. Situated on Agar Street, the station was ideal because of the narrowness of the road outside the front entrance, which allowed them to set up barriers and sentry points at either end. The small triangular courtyard at the rear of the station also ensured privacy for the loading and unloading of prisoners.
    It was a perfect location for the SS and Gestapo HQ in London.
    Most useful of all was the small cell complex situated in the basement of the building, far enough from prying eyes or ears to provide discretion, but close enough to central London for convenience.
    The buildings that backed onto the courtyard had all been requisitioned as admin offices, and most of the back windows that overlooked the yard had been either blacked out or boarded up to ensure privacy.
    Rumors of occasional volleys of gunfire coming from the yard on Sunday mornings were mostly dismissed as resistance propaganda by those whose wage packet carried