by Mark A Biggs
It was many months later, when we were back in Australia, that our contacts in Cliff told us of Inspector Axel and his investigation.
Inspector Axel of Interpol had been delayed for over an hour by an overturned vehicle which blocked the road in both directions while he travelled on DK35 from Prague to Walbrzych. When the road was again open, he was surprised to see what appeared to be the police clearing the site of another accident some two kilometres further on. Then, a further kilometre up the road, was another overturned vehicle.
It was the following day, and now back in Lyon, when Inspector Axel first saw the news report of the accident involving an elderly couple—apparently riding through Poland on a 1948 motorbike and sidecar.
Due to the terrain, the rescue helicopter has been forced to land at the Hotel Eden to evacuate the yet to be identified accident victims, he learned from the news reports.
Inspector Axel recalled seeing the Hotel Eden while waiting for DK35 to be opened. He remembered because Eden was not a name that would ordinarily be associated with Poland.
The news report concluded by asking anybody who knew the identities of an elderly couple riding a black 1948 BSA A7 sidecar to contact Polish authorities. He had thought this strange. It wasn’t the accident that sparked his interest, but the call to help identify the couple. Why didn’t they know who they were? Where was their identification?
Three accidents, a road blocked in both directions and an anonymous couple. When taken together the events were an unlikely coincidence, Inspector Axel had reasoned. Why go to such lengths to target an eighty-five-year-old couple? The circumstances, he had believed, warranted at least a cursory glance.
When police need to make inquires across multiple countries, Interpol is the agency to which they turn. It was fortuitous that the request made by Polish authorities to assist in the identification of motorbike accident victims went to Inspector Axel.
Identifying us hadn’t taken long. The public appeal for assistance generated substantial leads and within twenty-four hours Inspector Axel had contacted Jane in Australia and she had positively identified the motorbike. Generally this is where his involvement should have ended, but, after detailing his suspicions to his superiors, it was agreed that he should make further inquiries.
Inspector Axel spent the next two weeks examining credit card and mobile phone data to help unravel our movements across Europe. Because people are creatures of habit, generally daily movements and even purchases can be predicted with a high degree of certainty. Credit card companies employ algorithms and data mining techniques to identify variations from the holders’ established parameters. In plain English, they are looking for variations of routine. These deviations may indicate fraud or a marketing opportunity due to changed circumstances. Amazon famously sent a young lady maternity advertising before she knew she was pregnant. Her regular purchase of ladies’ sanitary items had stopped and Amazon rightly predicted this change was due to pregnancy. Mobile phones switch to the nearest telecommunication tower as people travel, and this information is recorded and kept by the provider, offering a visual representation of a person’s movements. In an average week these are remarkably consistent and repetitive. They travel the same way to work, have one or two favourite coffee shops and visit the same friends and locations. If web browsing is included, in combination with phone and banking transitions data, the predictive capacity is impressive. Before going on holiday people explore various options on the web, purchase airline tickets, hotel reservations and hire the car, all on their credit card. Once on holiday the mobile phone and credit card record the route travelled. There are predictable patterns and routines for people on holiday. For example, when tourists stop in a town, their mobile phones will generally show travel to and from major tourist sites within the vicinity. The digital picture expected is a cloverleaf as people travel out to sites then back to the hotel, rather than the linear travel lines of our daily routine to and from work. Unpacking the digital story, for an experienced investigator, is to understand the ‘why’. Is the footprint consistent with the story? If not, why not?
One of the first things Inspector Axel established about us was that we almost always purchased petrol on the credit card. Sometimes we purchased fuel two or three times a day, these purchases following the mobile phone footprint. What really piqued his interest was something a less experienced detective may have missed; on three separate occasions fuel was purchased following a number of days where, according to our mobile phone records, we stayed in range of a single transmitter. The first such occurrence was in Brest, the second in Antwerp, and finally in Walbrzych. Such departures are easily explained, but it was a variation from routine. Is it possible they were trying to hide their digital footprint? Inspector Axel had written in his final report. It was our stay in Walbrzych that convinced the Inspector that all was not as it seemed. Our mobile phones had been stationary and our credit cards unused for long periods of each day. Yet, most evenings the motorbike was filled with petrol—a pattern repeated four days in a row. He concluded, rightly, that we had been riding somewhere and choosing to leave phones and credit cards behind. Such caution, he reported, seemed strange. However, because we had been travelling by vintage motorbike and sidecar, he believed we would have been memorable to people we passed. It would take only good old-fashioned police work—talking to people—to unravel our movements.
The serious accident, coupled with the image of me, Max—a doddering old vicar riding with his wife of over sixty years—captured the hearts and imaginations of the public; the media loved it. Social media became awash with reports, personal accounts and sightings of us. The romantic images of the trip, a trip brought to a tragic end, made us instant heroes. People wrote to the newspapers, posted on Facebook, tweeted and blogged any sightings and personal encounters with us, the two old farts, as we came to be known.
By applying a degree of healthy scepticism to media reports, a bit of guesswork and by cross-referencing the accounts with digital records, Inspector Axel pieced together our journey to Walbrzych. He had hoped either to confirm or dispel his hunch that we travelled to locations outside of Brest, Antwerp and Walbrzych when mobile phone records had us staying put. He was pleased and disappointed. No sightings from the surroundings of Antwerp or Walbrzych, but we had been seen in Lannilis and Landeda, some thirty kilometres from Brest. These reports served only to increase his suspicions as notes in his diary revealed. The more I think about it, the more I reconciled myself to seeing shadows. Was I like all the others? Romanticising the tale, but going even further and adding secrecy, mystery, and intrigue? As he was an experienced investigator, we can only guess that he tried to dismiss the conspiracy but found himself drawn even closer to the story.
To satisfy himself once and for all, Inspector Axel had examined the police reports for a week either side of our visit to Brest. He focused on a ten-kilometre radius around Lannilis and Landeda. Unfortunately, two days after we left Brest, eighty-seven-year-old Mr Pierre Gicquel of Lannili drowned in the estuary of Aber Wrac’h. Mr Gicquel, according to the local papers he read, had been a leading figure in the French Resistance during the WW2, risking his life on clandestine operations helping allied service personnel escape to England from the beaches nearby. The article concluded that his death was being treated as a tragic accident.
Inspector Axel, perhaps because he didn’t believe in coincidences, became certain that our visit to Lannilis and the drowning of Pierre Gicquel, were in some way connected. If true, he later said, it was also likely that the three crashes near Walbrzych were not accidents and the theft of our possessions meant someone had been seeking something. His final report contained handwritten notes showing his thinking during the investigation. What were Max and Olivia doing in Walbrzych? Where did they go each day? Were they searching for something? Did they find it? Did the thieves get it? What was it? Was Pierre Gicquel killed for it? Is this somehow connected with the war?
Most police, unlike
the way they’re portrayed in the movies, are happy to share information. The Polish and French authorities had listened with interest to Inspector Axel’s story and were swayed to expand their investigation into the accidents and death. If inadvertently you investigate a person or persons of interest to one of the spy, security forces, undercover, or specialist police units, a call is quickly received. The Agency at Cliff ensured all was quiet. Requests for information, military records, banking, and credit history were sent with no hindrance. No one of significance appeared interested in either Olivia or me. My Ministry of Defence (MOD) service record had no links to Special Forces, SOE, SIS, or MI9; nothing out of the ordinary or remotely secret. As far as Inspector Axel could tell, my Coastal Forces vessel, ML 243, was not linked to clandestine sea operations to Brittany. Olivia’s military service was, as reported in the media, as a pay clerk. He did write however, because Olivia and Max were stationed in different parts of the UK, it is difficult to see how they met during the war. But he added, that did not account for holidays, leave, mutual friends, and many other explanations.
Having drawn a blank on us, Max and Olivia, Inspector Axel delved into Mr Gicquel’s past. His wartime involvement with the French Resistance was well documented and, after the war, he was decorated for services to the Free French. The remainder of his life, from a media or authorities’ perspective, was uneventful. He had no contact with police, was a life member of some local community groups and there was nothing suspicious or unusual in his finances. However, the night before we were seen in Lannilis, Mr Gicquel received a phone call from Brest originating from a public phone booth. CCTV footage of the booth was inconclusive, it appears the caller was trying to hide his or her identity from the cameras, he reported. Further examination of phone records uncovered another payphone call—this time two weeks earlier—from the UK, but no CCTV footage.
In his personal diary and not included in the official report, Inspector Axel wrote that he felt confident Max, Olivia, and Mr Gicquel knew or knew of each other. If a betting man, I would lay money that they met in WW2. The drowning was most probably not an accident and, while I do not suspect Max and Olivia of murder, I feel the death was probably a result of the visit.
With no new information, and us now back in Australia, his suspicions were insufficient to warrant re-interviewing. One year after the accident, the file was closed. The Coroner determined Mr Pierre Gicquel’s death a tragic accident. The loss of Pierre Gicquel must have weighed heavily on inspector’s conscience. ‘I should have done more,’ was the last entry of his personal diary.
CHAPTER THREE
Sentenced
I must have drifted off into a deep sleep at this stage in my remembering, because, with a sudden jerk, I woke to find that I had been dribbling.
‘Hello Max,’ said one of the nurses, while wiping away the saliva that had accumulated on my chin.’ She was slightly blurred as seen through my half open eyes still heavy with sleep.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you, dear,’ she continued. ‘You go back to sleep now.’ With those words she slipped quietly away leaving me in my chair.
I had been dreaming of our European trip, the motorbike crash and the murder of Pierre. This was not the first time the memories from the past had visited to haunt my sleep; it had become an unwelcome feature of my long nights alone. It was an unusual occurrence for my daytime naps, however.
Having been awoken, it felt as though I had been sleeping for hours but, looking at my watch, I saw only fifteen minutes had passed. Another fifteen minutes, I thought, then I will get up, before Olivia returns from book club and accuses me of trying to sleep away what remains of my life. Closing my eyes, I relaxed once more, settling back into my favourite chair.
A vague reminiscence from the Prague hospital was my first memory after the accident.
The beginnings of coherent recollections didn’t start until I woke in a London hospital after being medevaced from Poland. It was three weeks later when the police, on behalf of the Polish authorities, who had been unable to interview us due to our injuries, came to take our statements. We both genuinely have no recollection of the accident so telling the truth was easy. For the rest, we told of our travels but confused times, places, and sequences. Interviewed separately, our plan was to continually accuse the other of ‘Senior Moments.’
‘Olivia forgets things. Yesterday, she went to buy a bottle of wine to have with dinner, but she became lost. Couldn’t find her way back to the hotel. It’s happened before. A couple of times she has even gone into the wrong hotel room, when she forgot our room number. Well that’s what she told me. From now on, when she goes out on her own, I’m going to put a sign around her neck, like Paddington Bear. If found, return to…!’
The policeman smiled knowingly.
‘Yesterday Olivia was here, in hospital.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we were both in hospital; we have been here about four weeks.’
After what seemed an eternity—two months in hospital, and then two months in rehabilitation—medical clearance was given to travel home to Australia. But, before leaving, a call had to be made to headquarters in Cliff using a public phone box.
‘Can I speak to Robin?’
‘She’s not here.’
‘I want to speak to her brother, Robin.’
The password satisfied, we learned of Pierre Gicquel’s death and, because of the accident, we assumed Pierre told his killers what he knew before he died. A good man and a trusted friend, we prayed his death was quick and painless. He knew only the name of the town near where the package, the “Janus Key”, was hidden—it was our contact near Antwerp who knew the actual hiding place but not the town. Neither bit of information was of use without the other. The would-be assassins had to wait for us to recover the key, but their attempt to steal it had failed.
Our departure from London caused a flurry of excitement and, at the airport, the media and well-wishers gathered to bid a warm farewell. We were deeply moved, if not a little embarrassed, by the outpouring of affection. Twenty-one weeks ago, aged eighty-five, we had arrived at Heathrow to embark upon an epic journey to retrieve the Janus Key. We were still eighty-five, but we were no longer the same people. The trip and the accident had taken a heavy toll; our bodies were damaged and struggling to recover. Perhaps they never would but, worse than that, with the death of friends, our spirit was broken.
The flight from London to Australia was long and in my opinion had become longer, proportional to our age. Our arrival in Melbourne was a total contrast to our departure from London. Our welcome committee consisted of two: Gordon and his piranha wife, Jane. Although it was four months since the accident, our health and mobility were still seriously affected. With neither of us able to drive, it was decided we should stay with Gordon and Jane for a month before returning to our home in Maldon.
Before the end of the first week, to our dismay, a letter arrived. Some anonymous person recommended to the police that we have our drivers’ licences cancelled. According to the letter from Vic Roads, we were to undertake a medical assessment, the result of which would determine if a driving test was required before our licences could be reinstated. Jane had us booked in for both the licence test and the medical assessment almost before we finished reading the letter. The result was a forgone conclusion: ‘Full driving assessment required.’ It was decided by the family that we should await the outcome of the driving test before returning to Maldon. Despite us being angry with Jane for writing to the police—for who else could it be?—it would be difficult in Maldon without a car or family to help us. The driving test was scheduled for three weeks hence.
Melissa came to dinner the second week of our return to Australia. Gordon, Jane and Melissa all explained the difficulties they faced as a family after the accident. With no power of attorney they had been unable to make important decisions, medical or financial, to help us. The travel insurance company wouldn’t talk to them and this meant they had funded the first
month of our hospital care themselves. What made them really annoyed, however, was that they had spoken to us about this very thing before we left on what they called an absolutely ridiculous trip.
‘It would be in everybody’s interest if you give joint power of attorney to all three of us. Before any decision can be made on your behalf, all three of us would have to agree. And anyway,’ said Jane, ‘we’d only exercise the authority in emergencies.’
We signed … it was the worst decision of our lives.
Since moving in with Gordon and Jane we were reminded with regular frequency of our frailty. This assault on our confidence increased from Jane in the lead up to the driving test. Helping around the house or garden was prohibited. Outings such as shopping were permitted but punctuated by regular stops so we can “rest”. Walking sticks must be used in case of falls. Our morning greeting went something like this:
‘You’re looking very pale, are you feeling okay? I think you should take it easy today.’
Even knowing that Jane was deliberately trying to erode our confidence and wellbeing it was surprising how quickly we succumbed. It’s easy to be waited on, particularly when not allowed to do things yourself. Help for us, however, came only if we played helpless.