Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Outside Honiton Station, Charlie Barnes stopped the grey Jaguar. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Swan, have a safe journey up to Carlisle.’

  ‘Thanks Charlie.’ He suddenly remembered something Morris had mentioned. ‘Oh, by the way, we were talking about the novel in Baines’s briefcase.’

  Barnes nodded. ‘Yes, Shogun, I’ve read it - really good book. Why?’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of translation scribbled at the back of his copy. I’m speculating he probably did it as reference, but there were two words that didn’t have any translation with them at all - Locust Rain. Does this ring any bells with you about the story?’

  Barnes thought for a few moments. ‘Sorry, Alex, I’ve read that novel twice so far, second time was last year on our holiday in Marbella. Can’t say I remember Locust Rain ever being mentioned, though.’

  ‘Swan raised a brow. ‘Is that so?’ He looked at the documents on his lap. They were certainly going to be an interesting read. He shook Barnes’s hand. ‘Thanks for the ride, Charlie.’ The next morning, with the Ford Capri parked in the grounds of a 17th Century mansion house, Munroe rose early.

  On his arrival into the village of Lillingston Dyrell, Buckinghamshire, the previous evening, he had been shown to a room by what he took to be a butler; not the stereotypical long jacket and white shirt, but even though this man had been in casual attire, his mannerisms were much that of an aristocratic servant of a big house, and had introduced himself as Jempson.

  Once in the room, Munroe had a lingering shower, then ready to settle down in a four-poster bed, climbed in without the light on only to discover that naked under the covers, had been a small reward for his accomplishments, named Clarissa. She had been already waiting for him; the slim petit brunette slipping inside the room while he had washed himself of the evening’s proceedings.

  Today was a new day, and now a few hundred pounds richer, Clarissa had already left early in her orange three-year-old Lotus, to head back to her Oxford flat. As a third-year student reading Classic English Literature, she was happy to have found some way of funding herself through her expensive studies.

  This morning, Munroe had been served a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast in his room, washed down with the finest Columbian coffee he had ever tasted; today’s newspaper had also been added. Afterwards, he had got dressed and as instructed to wait until he had been sent for, immersed himself in the paper.

  The knock on the door came and once again there was the ‘butler’ Jempson, standing there.

  ‘Mr Mallinson will see you now, Mr Munroe,’ he announced in a formal tone.

  The South African followed him along the corridor and down the stairs, where he was shown into a large drawing room. Henry Mallinson, a short balding middle-aged man was standing by the bay window smoking a pipe in a long draping burgundy Sherlock Holmes style housecoat and walked over to shake hands.

  ‘Mr Munroe. My apologies for not being here when you arrived last night, but I trust that Jempson made sure that you were made most welcome, and that you were well entertained.’ He winked, in reference to his little present for him.

  Munroe nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Mallinson, Clarissa was most entertaining, thank you.’

  Mallinson smiled, ‘Splendid. Anyway, now onto business, Lance has given me the package and it’s now safe. Trouble is, it’s all a bit of a mess. I was expecting Baines to be cooperative after what we paid him, however, from what I’ve been informed this morning, this doesn’t seem to be the case. I certainly didn’t expect him to be found floating in a river. You couldn’t elaborate on this, could you?’

  Munroe spent the next ten minutes explaining what had happened on the train, after which Mallinson shrugged. ‘I see,’ he raised an eyebrow, ‘well, it’s a bad show, and has caused us a bit of a problem, but I suppose the first part of our agreement is now finished with.’ He sat down, holding his hand out to invite his guest to do the same. ‘Which moves us now onto the second part of the plan.’ He reached over onto a side table to retrieve a large envelope. Leaning closer to Munroe, he showed him a photograph. ‘I take it you recognise this man?’

  Munroe just nodded. It was a face he wouldn’t forget easily.

  ‘So, we want you to kill him!’

  Munroe grinned. ‘We?’

  The older man shifted in his seat. ‘Yes, there are a few of us who would like to see this man dead.’

  Munroe sniggered. ‘You mean people like you, Mr Mallinson? Maybe people with some political influences in your country? So, what’s this all about? First you get me to meet with a scientist to get something from him, and now you want me to kill the leader of a rebel army helping a nation trying to gain their independence. What exactly is your game here, man?’

  Mallinson fidgeted. ‘Mr Munroe, I pay you for your services. What the reasons are for those services, are really none of your bloody business! You know as well as I do, if this man was to disappear, both the country being threatened by him and your own native soil, will be a much better place all round.’ His eyes then bore into his guest. ‘The question I now put to you is – can you do it?’

  Munroe stared at the photograph of the man wearing a black beret and camouflage fatigues, his eyes focussed on the enigmatic smile on the leader’s oily-black face. ‘Of course, man. It may take a little time though. He’ll be heavily guarded and has a lot of followers. But I believe with a little planning, I could get a result for you.’

  Mallinson smiled. ‘Good man. A little dickie tells me that you’re good with explosives. So, for an extra fee, and when I say extra, I mean quite a large one, I was wondering if you would be able to manage a small demolition job.’ He reached back into the envelope for another photograph. ‘This is his personal limousine, perhaps you could put something under it to cause a large bang? While he is in it, of course. It just so happens according to my contact in Salisbury, he is due to attend a conference at Government House on Friday.’

  Munroe studied the car, a highly-polished black extended six-door Cadillac in the centre of the picture. ‘No problem,’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, Mallinson, you do realise what will happen if this man is assassinated. The black parties will blame the whites. There could even be civil…’ he suddenly had a thought. ‘Oh, this now all makes sense. I’m still not sure about what I got for you last night, but I’m beginning to see how all the other things are starting to fit in.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Christ, Mallinson, you really like to play dirty, don’t you man?’

  The old man huffed. ‘Right, Well, I’ll be in touch. Feel free to let my man, Jempson know what you will need, and I will foot the bill. However, if you are thinking of bringing in some help, then that will have to come out of your own fee, you understand?’

  ‘What about the explosives?’

  Mallinson stared him in the eye. ‘Come Mr Munroe, I’m sure that a man like you, have your sources.’

  Munroe nodded. ‘Of course, Mr Mallinson.’ He rose from the chair. ‘Right, I’ll be on my way now – and I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, Mr Mallinson.’

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Munroe.’

  The South African walked towards the door and turned. ‘Oh, when I do get this job done, I don’t suppose there’s a chance that I could find Clarissa in my bed again?’

  Mallinson gave him a lecherous smile. ‘If you manage to pull this all off, Mr Munroe – I will even see that she brings a couple of friends as well. Lance will drive you to anywhere you wish to go today.’

  After waiting for him to leave, Mallinson picked up the telephone and dialled a long number to a farmstead in Southern Rhodesia. ‘Toby– it’s Henry. Looks like Operation Cascade can go ahead. His face soon changed when the person on the other end probed him about the train incident. ‘What?’ Mallinson was disappointed to hear his driver, Lance, had been speaking to one of his old mercenary friends at the farm. ‘Yes, sounds like our man at Porton, got cold feet. There was a bit of a struggle, and Munroe was a bit too heavy-handed with the poor chap. Still, he serve
d his purpose and we have what we wanted I shouldn’t worry about the local Plod, but I do suspect this incident will be passed on to a higher authority. I know someone I could ask about it. Perhaps in their sphere of influence, they could find out who takes this up. Anyway, my courier will be coming out with it on the Salisbury flight. Is the room all set up?’

  Mallinson nodded his approval. ‘Good. Now, regarding the target, something has just come to light, and hopefully, what I am putting my faith into, will be ready. I hear you’ve managed to carry out some short engine runs, and the strip is nearly finished. That’s splendid. If it all goes to plan, then we will be needing those missiles as soon as possible. Is your team ready?’ He listened again, being informed they were. ‘There is one other thing, our man Munroe, I think he may be a problem after we have dispensed with his services. Sort of chap who may give us some trouble. Don’t worry, I have decided to send him on a fool’s errand.’ Mallinson was asked more about it. ‘Let’s just say, he will be doing us a favour and getting himself set up at the same time. And if Cascade fails, at least he will be providing us with some consolation prize. Cheerio Toby. I will keep you informed about the Baines investigation.’ He bit his tongue. ‘Providing of course, the internal jungle drums don’t beat us to it.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘I think we better keep an eye on this. Have a word with the men, and I’ll do the same here. Threaten them with a reduction in pay if they can’t keep their mouths shut. Money is always the best way to get results in this game. Bye for now.’

  Mallinson put down the phone and shook his head. This was not going to be the smooth ride that he hoped for. Having the mercenaries chatting openly to each other about things, was not what he had expected. He reached for the telephone again. ‘Jempson. Can you send Lance into see me, please? Right now!’

  Outside the house, as the white Capri drove out along the drive, Munroe looked over at the man behind the steering wheel. ‘So, Lance, how long have you been working for Mallinson?’

  ‘Almost two years,’ the former protection officer sniffed, ‘Driving him around like Lord Shit.’

  Munroe laughed. ‘Why can’t the lazy bastard drive himself?’

  ‘He’s been medically exempt. He has epilepsy. Has to take pills every day for it.’

  Munroe sensed a different tone to the chatty man who had drove from Axminster to the house the previous evening. It was an angry tone. There was something not quite right, this morning.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve just lost a week’s pay for opening my bloody mouth.’

  Munroe just nodded. He thought best not to say anything. He knew this would be a problem and decided instead to think about where he would like to go right now. It wasn’t long before he had the idea. He needed explosives and there was only one place he knew he could get them without any backlash. Providing of course, she was still in the market. ‘Could you take me to London, Heathrow Airport?’

  Lance gave a quick nod. ‘No problem. Are you going home?’

  ‘No, not home, not yet anyway. I have to go somewhere else first.’

  3

  Wearing a British Rail issue orange high-visibility jacket, Andrew Gable walked carefully along the side of the underline bridge that spanned the River Axe at Weycroft.

  Accompanying him, was Ian Morris and around them, the area was quiet with the only evidence of civilization being the mud by the footpath churned up by last night’s emergency vehicles.

  Morris checked his watch. They wanted to make a search of the scene before being beaten by the fading light. Clutching the iron rail, he leant over to look down into the river where Baines had been found.

  Further along the bridge, the equally-clad pathologist examined the area for clues to aid his final report, taking photographs and checking measurements with a tape measure.

  Morris studied the murky water and fastened his jacket to protect his neck from the strong gust. ‘Still not sure, if our man hit the railings before going into the river or fell down the bank.’

  Gable continued to stare down at the river. ‘It would help if we could wait for the next train to pass so we can check the distance from the carriage door and the top of this railing.

  Morris glanced at his watch again. ‘There should be one in about nine minutes, a Salisbury to Honiton shuttle according to the timetable I read at Axminster.’ He reached inside his jacket for his notebook. ‘The type of train we want is a Class 501 commuter train, but I think that really doesn’t matter as every train carriage should be the same height for the platforms.’

  Gable agreed. They would wait. ‘I suppose checking its speed along the bridge would also be useful,’ he added. He offered the detective a cigarette of which on this blustery day, was gladly accepted.

  ‘Thanks. So how long have you been working with Alex?’

  ‘Five years now. I joined SID in October Seventy-Four. Before that, I was just coming up for Super at Maidstone CID.’

  Morris laughed. ‘I thought there was some Bobby-blood in you. You don’t really fit the profile for one of these public-school, MI5 spook types.’

  Gable grinned. ‘No, I’m most certainly not one of them. I joined Kent after basic and worked my up. My dad was also in the force, a Scotland Yard detective. In fact, I took his place in SID after he retired.’

  Morris laughed again. ‘Like father and all that?’

  Gable nodded. ‘I heard you did some work with Alex on the Isle of Wight?’

  Morris didn’t have time to explain, noticing the pathologist was approaching.

  He smiled at them. ‘Right, gentlemen. I think I have everything I need for now. I’ll get myself back to the mortuary and perhaps catch up with you later.’

  Morris turned. ‘Can you tell us anything yet, Doctor?’

  The pathologist thumbed his notebook. ‘All I can say right now is, I think our man hit the side of the rail and then went into the water. I found traces of dried blood on the concrete overhang. So that’s my guess. I’ll be able to say a lot more after I’ve examined him.’

  The two men watched as the doctor clutched his case, waded his way down the embankment, and now back on the path, headed back to his car. They then heard a rumble followed by a short burst of a train whistle as the predicted train approached the bridge.

  Moving to a safe distance, they watched as the train trundled across it at speed and as it passed, they compared the height from the step to the bridge railing. Watching it disappear down the line towards Axminster, Gable and Morris had got what they needed to know, confirming the pathologist’s theory.

  Later, back at Honiton Police Station, the two men sat discussing the case while staring at the board in the incident room. ‘I wonder if Alex found anything amongst Baines’s documents?’ Morris pondered.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ replied Gable. ‘There’s not a lot else to go on in the briefcase. A paperback and a sandwich box doesn’t actually tell us why this man should leap to his death from a moving train.’

  Morris was about to add something humorous to lighten the mood, when the pathologist entered the room with his report. Morris pulled a chair, gesturing him to sit down at his desk.

  ‘Tea?’

  The doctor nodded, prompting Morris to ask one of his detective constables on the far side of the big room to fetch three teas. ‘So, what can you tell us then, doctor?’

  The doctor reached into the foolscap envelope to withdraw the report. ‘Well, looks like my theory could be right. There was a large flesh wound on his right side and two broken ribs, suggesting he hit the side of the bridge rail and flipped over it. This of course, matches the things I recorded on the bridge. The bruise on his forehead was caused by him then smacking his head on the concrete butt which juts out.’ The doctor showed them the photograph he had taken of this feature. ‘From the speed he left the train, this is what probably killed him. The force from this impact broke his neck. Although there was a lot of water in his lungs, Professor Horace Baines did not drow
n. He was dead before he hit the water!’

  Morris and Gable looked at each other as the doctor continued. ‘Another point of interest, is a bruise on his sternum. Looks like it was caused by an impact about the size of a large-sized foot, say a size eleven or twelve. There’s also bruising on his knuckles, typical with punching injuries.’

  ‘He was kicked in the chest?’

  ‘It appears so, the doctor confirmed. and this must have occurred before his fall. They don’t tie in with the other injuries, suggesting a possibility he could have scuffled with someone in the carriage before he fell from the train.’

  Morris suddenly had a horrific thought. His face becoming ashen-white. ‘Or even worse,’ he said, ‘after this scuffle, his attacker could have then overcome him and threw him from the train.’

  DS Barnes then appeared. ‘Afternoon gentlemen.’ He noticed the doctor sitting at the desk. This could only mean they had the results of the post-mortem.

  Morris then brought Barnes up to speed with the investigation.

  Barnes lit a cigarette. ‘By the looks of things, Guv, this train carriage has just become a crime scene.’

  Gable leant forward in his chair. ‘From your first observations, Sergeant, were there any signs of a fight?’

  Barnes shook his head. ‘Forensics didn’t find anything that suggests this, Guv. No blood or anything. There were a few scuff marks though, on the floor of the carriage. Could be evidence of soles scraping? Trouble is, there are probably hundreds of footmarks.’

  Morris rose from his chair and walked towards the board. ‘You’ve interviewed the guard and he saw nothing before entering that part of the train? I suppose if we are looking for a suspect, which now seems likely, we should get some notices at the stations on route, asking anyone to come forward should they be able to help us with enquiries. Someone must have seen these two men, even if they were just sitting there.’