by Guy Walters
‘Can I see your identity papers, please, sir?’
Armstrong made a great play of searching for them.
‘Sorry, officer,’ he said, politely apologetic, ‘but I must have left them behind.’
The constable sighed. No doubt he was used to such forgetfulness.
‘And where is that?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Where have you left your papers? Where are you staying?’
‘Oh, right – I see. Sorry. I’m staying at Damnaglaur House near Drummore.’
This was a punt. Armstrong had seen Damnaglaur House on a map at Richard’s – it was the first name that came into his head.
‘Aah! So how is old Mrs Collins?’
Armstrong couldn’t help but pause slightly before replying. In for a penny, he thought.
‘She’s . . . she’s very well. Much better, in fact.’
The constable smiled.
‘I’m very glad to hear it. The poor wee dear’s had a tough time.’
‘Oh yes,’ was all Armstrong could think of. ‘Very tough, very tough indeed.’
‘And what’s your connection with Mrs Collins, Mr . . .?’
‘Mr Standing, David Standing. I’m her son-in-law.’
‘Really? And where do you live, Mr Standing?’
‘In the Lakes – near Keswick.’
The constable raised his eyebrows.
‘Long drive, sir,’ he said, to which Armstrong merely shrugged.
‘Could you turn off your engine, please, sir?’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘No, sir. Could you turn it off, please?’
Armstrong put the car into neutral and turned it off. For a moment it felt quiet and still, eerily still. He could feel several pairs of eyes scrutinising him as he pulled up the handbrake. He watched his interrogator walk over to the Vauxhall and start talking to the figure in the driving seat. Armstrong looked to his right, down the length of the bay, all the time aware of the Smith & Wesson in his pocket. It felt reassuring, but if they found it, its presence might do him more harm than good.
He glanced casually back to the Vauxhall. The driver was staring at him, and then referred to something on his lap – a photograph no doubt. The other occupant spoke excitedly, and then the doors opened. This was it. This was the moment of his arrest. As the two men got out, Armstrong noticed they were both wearing thick black double-breasted suits – far too hot for an August morning, he thought. He clutched the gun in his pocket. He had killed before; this time would be no different.
The driver of the Vauxhall leaned in through the open window. The other man stood in front of the car, smiling at him through the windscreen.
‘Captain Armstrong?’ said a voice in his right ear.
Armstrong ignored it.
‘Captain James Armstrong?’
The voice was English – Armstrong guessed Yorkshire. Once more he ignored it, putting the finishing touches to his plan. It depended on the secret policemen having left the keys in the Vauxhall’s ignition. If they had then he would be free – for the time being at least.
‘Come on, Armstrong, the game’s over. Time to go back to your holiday camp.’
Armstrong took a deep breath, steeling himself. He was all right, he thought, he could do this, he felt clear-headed.
The subsequent events took place within less than a minute. They started with Armstrong gently opening the door and then pushing at it hard with his right shoulder, knocking the secret policeman over. As he leaped out of the car, he produced the Smith & Wesson from his pocket, cocked it, and then fired a round into the man’s heart, killing him instantly. So far the other secret policeman had not moved. What caused him to was the impact of a bullet in his chest, which punched him to the ground. He started screaming, and Armstrong thought about shooting him again, but his intention was escape, not slaughter.
By now, the six policemen had taken cover behind the Wolseley and the motorcycles. Thank God, thought Armstrong, thank God they were not armed. He ran to the Vauxhall and found that the keys were indeed in the ignition. He started it up, gunning the large engine, and then began to move off along the verge, gently manoeuvring the car back on to the road. Out of his right eye he could see a policeman running towards him, his truncheon raised high. Brave man, thought Armstrong, before shooting the constable in the leg. He could have gone for the chest, where it was far easier to ensure a hit, but he still couldn’t let himself kill an ordinary member of the police. The man’s screams joined those of the secret policeman, who was yelling as loudly as men had done in the trenches.
For a few moments the sound made Armstrong freeze. He could feel himself start to lose control, thinking of those poor bastards at La Quinque Rue, at Festubert, at Aubers Ridge. He wasn’t on a road in Scotland in the middle of August, but back near Neuve Chapelle. Some of his Gurkhas had been killed by the gas which had just been released by the 3rd London Regiment. A change of wind direction had blown it back towards their lines. The men had screamed like that, yelled as they drowned in the open air, gargling with blood and mucus. The sound had horrified him then, and it horrified him now.
But he had gone on to win the high ground that day, had led the only company that had got through. Whatever he had had in the September of 1915, he had to find it again. He had to move, otherwise he was dead. Come on, man, get going, get going.
The car edged forward and was now fully on the road. His presence of mind was returning, flooding back. He paused near the Wolseley and once more took aim with the revolver. The policemen hiding behind the car moved back, utter fear in their eyes, but Armstrong was not interested in them. Instead he shot out one of the rear tyres, causing the car to jolt violently down. He had two bullets left – one for each motorcycle. Each of their engines received a round – ammunition well spent. In a perfect world, the Austin could have taken a slug too, but he knew the police wouldn’t waste their time trying to chase him in it.
Armstrong tossed the revolver on to the passenger seat, oblivious to how the heat from the muzzle was scorching the leather, and then accelerated sharply away. It was Mosley who had killed those men, he thought. They wouldn’t be lying there bleeding if he hadn’t come to power. And the King, Armstrong also blamed the silly little King, so desperate to keep his bloody throne.
* * *
A career policeman, and a clandestine member of the BUF since its inception in October 1932, Sir Roger Ousby was the natural choice to head His Majesty’s Secret State Police. Six foot three, slim, and with a thin, sallow face, Ousby’s physical presence was offset by his quiet nature. It was often said of him that he could enter a room unnoticed, and would remain silent until he deemed it absolutely necessary to speak. When he did so, people listened, because he spoke so softly that they had to strain their ears to hear him. His voice was hypnotic and carried with it an air of threatened menace that made listeners shudder slightly, as if they had heard fingernails on a blackboard. It was unsurprising, then, that Ousby had few – if any – friends. He had a wife called Peggy whom he was said to adore, but the only evidence of her existence was a slightly dog-eared snapshot kept in a cheap frame on his desk.
The telegram arrived at his office at around ten o’clock in the morning. It was from the police station at Stranraer and marked for his eyes only.
HMSSP AGENTS OGDEN AND MACKENZIE SHOT DEAD AT ROADBLOCK OUTSIDE STRANRAER AT APPROX 9.15 THIS MORNING STOP SUSPECT PRESUMED TO BE CAPTAIN JAMES ARMSTRONG STOP SEEN HEADING EAST IN AGENTS VAUXHALL ON MAIN ROAD TO NEWTON STEWART STOP ONE POLICEMAN WOUNDED ENDS
At first, Ousby could not believe his eyes. He read the telegram again and then put it down, exhaling gently. It was inconceivable – Captain Armstrong, Conservative chief whip, privy councillor, a war hero even, had killed two of his men. The bastard. The sodding murdering bastard.
Sir Roger picked up one of the two phones on his desk – the red one. The line was connected to the switchboard at Downing Street, from where a female telephonist’s precise v
oice was saying, ‘Leader’s office.’
‘Sir Roger Ousby here – I need to speak to the Leader immediately.’
‘Certainly, Sir Roger. Would you wait, please?’
Before he could answer, the line went dead. All switchboard operators were like that, Sir Roger thought, no matter how important you were. After a minute’s wait, however, he was rewarded by the unmistakably patrician voice of the Leader.
‘Hello, Sir Roger. How can I help?’
‘It’s Armstrong, sir.’
‘Yes?’
Mosley drew the word out, his tone patiently inquisitive. Sir Roger imagined him sitting back in his chair.
‘He’s killed two of my men. This morning, up in Scotland, near Stranraer.’
The line went silent. For a moment Sir Roger thought he had been cut off.
‘Carry on, Sir Roger.’
‘It was at a roadblock. Apparently he stole the agents’ car and drove east towards Newton Stewart.’
Another silence.
‘You’ll have to forgive me, Sir Roger, I’m afraid my knowledge of Scottish geography is a little, ah, sketchy. Where exactly are we talking about?’
Mosley’s voice was still calmly measured, but a hint of menace was creeping in.
‘The far south-west of Scotland, sir, one of the areas we suspected he would have made for from the Isle of Man.’
‘And Craven?’
‘His body was found this morning, sir, washed up on a beach round there.’
‘Well at least there’s some good news. Nice to have one fewer Communist around!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sir Roger?’
‘Yes, sir?’
Sir Roger expected the phone to explode in his ear, but the Leader’s voice remained calm, though it was a strained calm.
‘Fucking find him. Is that understood?’
‘Yes . . . yes, sir.’
‘And when you fucking find him, which you bloody well shall, I want you to keep him alive. Is that also understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want a trial. Do you see? I want a great big trial that’ll show them what happens if they try to escape. And then he’s going to hang.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sir Roger, and the line went dead in his ear.
As soon as the Leader had slammed the phone down, he immediately picked it up again. A secretary in the outer office answered.
‘Hello, Rebecca my dear,’ he drawled. ‘Would you get me the Home Secretary on the line?’
‘Yes, my Leader.’
‘And then tell the editors of The Blackshirt and Action to get round here immediately. Oh yes, and the Minister for Information, get him along.’
‘Yes, my Leader.’
Just before he put the phone down, something occurred to him.
‘Rebecca?’
‘My Leader?’
‘You’re not . . . Jewish, are you, Rebecca?’
‘Er . . . no, sir.’
‘I’m so glad,’ he replied, and hung up.
By midday, the editors of The Blackshirt and Action were under no doubt as to what would fill their newspapers tomorrow morning. The face of the ‘foul murderer’ would take up most of the front page, the Leader told them, and they would devote a large part of their issues to the story of how Captain James Armstrong had slaughtered two upstanding members of the police force. The victims were most certainly not agents of the HMSSP. A reward of £5,000 would be offered to whoever supplied the information that led to Armstrong’s arrest. In addition, the SBC would broadcast a newsflash at one o’clock today, furnishing the public with a full description of Armstrong. The text of the newsflash would be repeated on the hour, every hour, along with the latest developments. This would be the country’s biggest ever manhunt, Mosley told them, and the nation would pull together in its search for the MP-turned-assassin.
* * *
It took them an hour to make the petrol bombs. They made sixteen in all, enough to ensure that the police station would burn all night. The bottles were an assortment reflecting their respective tastes in drink – Tizer, Guinness, lemon barley water, Lucozade. They filled each bottle up with petrol, and then tightly twisted an oily scrap of old sheet into the neck.
‘I don’t think we’ll be getting our pennies back with this lot,’ said Danny.
The joke caused the other three members of the group to laugh, breaking the nervous silence.
‘My father would kill me,’ said Benny. ‘Just think! Over half a crown down the drain!’
‘Or rather up in smoke,’ said David, raising another laugh.
The remaining member of the group was the most nervous of the lot – this was to be her first ‘outing’. It had taken her three weeks to get this far, three weeks of persuading the Freedom Council’s leaders that she was as capable as any man. Eventually they had relented, telling her that as Alan had done so much for the cause, it was only fitting that his girlfriend should be allowed to join. She had bristled at this, saying that she wanted to join up in her own right, that the fight was as personal for her as it was for any of them. Besides, she said, not all of them had fathers and boyfriends who were imprisoned. Point taken, they told her, but all their fellow Jews were suffering, she mustn’t think she was anything special. She would need to prove herself as well as any male member of the Council. Just give me a chance, she said.
They had come for Alan just under a month ago. They had been making love in Alan’s bedsit one Sunday morning when they heard the quick and heavy footfalls on the stairs. Before they had time to react, the door had been kicked open and three secret policemen had splintered in, all brandishing revolvers. She had screamed, and even now, as she recalled those few moments, she was ashamed that she had done so. Alan had been snatched off the top of her, leaving her naked white form quivering in front of them.
‘What shall we do with this Jewish bitch?’ one of them had asked.
‘Leave her,’ their leader had replied. ‘We were told just to bring him. Anyway, she looks like just another Yid whore.’
‘Well, we know we’ve got a Jewboy all right,’ said the third policeman. ‘Look at his cock!’
The three men laughed at Alan’s rapidly wilting penis.
‘Not too much foreskin there!’
‘Where did you leave it then? Inside this bitch’s cunt?’
They had laughed at that, laughed long and loud. Alan had redoubled his struggle, which had earned him a savage punch in his groin.
‘There! Perhaps it’ll grow back now!’
Lucy remembered that Alan was in so much pain that his scream had just come out as a strangled croak.
‘Keep struggling and we’ll have a rummage for your foreskin around your whore!’
‘Now there’s an idea – she looks well worth a rummage!’
‘No!’ barked their leader. ‘No time for it! Anyway, you know Party members aren’t allowed to play with Israelites.’
They had left after that, dragging Alan’s crumpled and naked form down the stairs. She had screamed again, but even as she did so, Lucy knew that she had to get her revenge, that she was not going to let them win.
They finished assembling their arsenal just after midnight. Each of them would carry four bombs, stowed in the baskets of their bicycles. It felt so amateur, Lucy thought, but she kept her mouth shut. Bicycles were the Council’s favoured means of transport. Not only could a bicycle outrun a policeman giving chase on foot, but it could also go where a police car could not. Many of the alleyways in the maze that was the East End were far too narrow for the police Wolseleys and Vauxhalls to negotiate.
They pedalled out of the lock-up ten minutes later, taking a carefully planned route of side streets to get to the target. All of them had made the journey at least half a dozen times, although never during the curfew. They had also ensured that the bottles were tightly packed, wrapped in cloth to stop them from chinking together as they rattled over the cobbles.
Lucy felt both ex
hilarated and terrified as she rode, her head buzzing with nervous energy. At last she was doing something for Dad, for Alan, for all of them. The occasional light came on in a house as they cycled past, but for the most part the streets were quiet. At times, with the absence of any form of lighting, they had to slow down to walking pace to negotiate the heaps of rotting fruit, splintered wooden packing crates, piles of hay mixed with manure, and all the other detritus that could be found on the reeking streets.
These were the streets the Leader had promised to tear down, to clear away. But here they were still, a testament to yet another broken promise, another lever he had pulled to enable him to get into power. Mosley needed the opposition that lay within these streets, was Machiavellian enough to know that to stay in power one needed an enemy. And the Jews, the filthy, slum-loving Jews, the parasites that crawled out of these stinking gutters, were his perfect enemy. Well, thought Lucy, they were going to clear the slums of one thing tonight, and that was one of Mosley’s police stations. In the Council’s eyes, the police were no better than the Blackshirts themselves, because they were enforcing Blackshirt laws, and as far as Lucy could tell, agreed with those laws. Policemen – and there was no discussion about this – were a legitimate target.
They were now only two minutes away. David, who led the group, came to a gentle halt underneath a dripping railway arch.
‘Matches,’ he whispered.
They all checked their pockets and nodded back.
‘You all know your positions?’
Once again a collective nod. Lucy could see in David’s eyes that he was petrified, even though this was his fifth bombing mission.
‘Lucy,’ he whispered, ‘are you sure about this?’
She glowered back at him in the darkness, her resolve now strengthened. They said that the HMSSP were raping female prisoners now, seeing it as a privilege, a reward for work well done. Lucy knew that would be her lot if she was captured, knew that the days before a noose went round her neck would consist of a non-stop procession of faceless men beating her, brutally slamming their groins into her. Rumours, only rumours some said. Lucy found that attitude at best hopeful, at worst cowardly in its willingness to pretend that bad things weren’t happening.