Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Of course I would. It was a very dangerous thing to –’

  ‘Besides, if I’d involved you in any way, you’d have been an accomplice, which would have landed you in a whole lot of trouble.’

  ‘And I suppose this isn’t a whole lot of trouble?’ he said dryly, waving a hand at their surrounds.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick. I’m so sorry.’ She felt wretched. ‘I didn’t know you were going to come charging to my rescue.’

  ‘Nor did I.’ He shrugged. ‘It just happened somehow.’

  ‘Is this a major dilemma? What will they do to you?’

  ‘Well, decking a member of the military constabulary doesn’t win you a promotion, put it that way.’

  ‘But he seemed really nice about it, the sergeant.’

  As the two MPs had taken them to the cells, Nick had apologised to the man he’d hit. He knew Gus Oakley well.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, I don’t know what came over me,’ he’d said.

  Gus had exchanged a knowing look with his mate. It wasn’t half obvious there was something going on between Nick Stratton and the good-looking woman. Half his luck, their look had said.

  Gus had accepted the apology with equanimity. ‘You landed a beauty, Colonel,’ he’d replied, gingerly touching the side of his face that was sore, and Nick had apologised again.

  When they’d arrived at the holding cell, Gus would have chatted on a little longer – he liked Nick and didn’t give a stuff about Harold Dartleigh’s orders – but Ned Hanson had turned up.

  ‘Gus isn’t the problem, Elizabeth,’ Nick said. ‘Harold Dartleigh is. Dartleigh will insist they throw the book at me, you can bet your last penny on it.’

  The mere mention of Dartleigh’s name had been enough to get Elizabeth going. ‘Did you see the look in his eyes when I mentioned Gideon Melbray, Nick?’

  ‘No, I was too busy looking at you. So was everyone else.’

  ‘He was caught out. We were right. Gideon Melbray’s MI6 too, they’re working as a team …’

  She was off and running again without a shred of proof, he thought. She really was amazing. ‘Great,’ he said, ‘I’m glad we sorted that out.’

  His cynicism was wasted on her.

  ‘Which means MI6 killed Danny,’ she concluded triumphantly. ‘And I tell you what else, Nick. I believe it was Dartleigh himself who did the deed.’

  ‘Because of the look in his eyes, I take it.’ There was no mistaking his sarcasm this time.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with more than a touch of defiance, ‘because of the look in his eyes, because of the way he overreacted, because of his whole manner. The man’s entire reaction was one of guilt, surely you must agree.’

  What a very female viewpoint, Nick thought. To his mind, Dartleigh’s reaction had been absolutely in keeping with that of a man in a position of authority confronted by the gross flouting of top-security regulations. It would have been surprising had Dartleigh acted in any other manner, he thought. But there didn’t seem much point in telling her that.

  ‘Whether I agree or not is incidental,’ he said diplomatically. ‘You still have to prove your case.’

  That had successfully brought the conversation to a close, and now, as they ate their meals in silence, Elizabeth was a little subdued.

  ‘Do you think if we ask him, the sergeant might let me stay here with you?’

  ‘I hardly think so, Elizabeth, and if he did, Ned Hanson would have a heart attack. It might not look it, but this is a military prison, you know.’

  ‘Oh. What a pity.’

  She sounded forlorn, which for some strange reason gratified him.

  Harold spent an anxious hour or so waiting as the de Havilland refuelled in Darwin. Again, he expected the arrival of police with orders for his arrest. He was not so much worried about the discovery of Gideon’s body, which he considered safe for a day or so – no-one but he used the cupboard in his office. The woman, however, was a different matter. Had she talked?

  But no incident occurred at Darwin airport and the de Havilland took off for its next fuel stop, Singapore. Having left Australia, Harold felt a degree safer, but time continued to be his enemy as they flew through the night. In the morning, when it became known that he’d left Maralinga, they would have to release the woman. He kept a watchful eye on the clock.

  After refuelling in Singapore, as the aircraft set off en route for Bombay, Harold’s fear became palpable. It would soon be morning, he thought. Any moment now they would radio through to the aircraft. Any moment now, a member of the RAF crew would point a gun at him and place him under arrest.

  He lifted his briefcase onto his lap, unlatched it and slipped his hand inside. His fingers encircled the Walther and, as the minutes ticked by, he sat there waiting.

  Ned Hanson sought out Harold Dartleigh first thing in the morning to ascertain his further instructions. He’d spent a sleepless night, most of it propped up in an office chair outside the holding cells until the duty officer had persuaded him to go back to his barracks with the absolute assurance that there would be ‘no communication with the prisoners throughout the night’.

  In the early morning, however, Ned could find no sign of Harold, either at his office or his barracks. Aware that Lord Dartleigh was to fly out that day, he rang the airport to check the time of his departure, although he knew it wasn’t scheduled for several hours yet.

  ‘Lord Dartleigh flew out last night,’ he was informed.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Around 1900 hours,’ the controller said. ‘A last-minute change of plans. He had an urgent communiqué from London.’

  Ned was utterly astounded. Why hadn’t he been informed? What was he to do? Where were his orders?

  Upon reporting the news to the military police, Ned was fortunately relieved of any further responsibility. The MPs informed Nick Stratton’s superior officer, and the brigadier ordered the colonel’s immediate release and return to duty. Personally, the brigadier considered the sooner the whole messy business was swept under the carpet the better, although he was exceedingly angry with Nick. He bawled him out in the privacy of his office.

  ‘Assaulting a member of the rank and file – and in public, man! In front of the press, what’s more. What the deuce possessed you!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Fortunately Sergeant Oakley has no wish to press charges,’ the brigadier said, ‘which is just as well. This outrageous business of the woman being smuggled into Maralinga must be kept quiet at all costs. You say you’re absolutely sure she’s no risk?’

  ‘Absolutely sure, sir. I can personally vouch for her, I promise.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m quite sure you can.’

  The brigadier gave a disapproving snort. Nick had admitted to having an affair with the journalist, which, in his view, was entirely improper. Thank God the Hoffmann woman’s credentials were impeccable, he thought.

  ‘Of course, I’m not so sure Lord Dartleigh will see eye to eye with you,’ he continued sternly. ‘If Dartleigh considers the woman a security risk she’ll have to be investigated, in which case you may still have to answer for your untimely outburst, you do realise that?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

  ‘Now get yourself off to Adelaide. And at the conference, you’re to stress to those members of the press who witnessed the fiasco that occurred here yesterday the vital importance of discretion in the interest of national security. I don’t care how you do it. Seek them out individually if you must, but this story is not to see the light of day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Elizabeth was returned to Adelaide on the same flight, and Nick was surprised at how calm she was. He’d been surprised by her composure from the moment of their release. There’d been no protestation, no accusation. She hadn’t attempted to explain her case to the brigadier or the MPs; she’d simply apologised for the trouble she’d caused. He had to admit that, at the time, he’d been grateful. It had certainly helped his own case.


  ‘All right,’ he said when they were safely airborne, ‘what’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You had the perfect opportunity back there. Why didn’t you put your argument to the brigadier?’

  ‘Firstly, he wouldn’t have believed me, and secondly, I don’t have any proof.’

  He looked at her askance. Neither reason seemed to have bothered her in the past.

  ‘But mainly,’ she continued, ‘because I didn’t feel the need.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Dartleigh’s doing it all for me, don’t you see?’ She turned to him, her eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘Ned Hanson had no idea he’d gone. Dartleigh disappeared without even telling his own staff. That’s the action of a guilty man. There was no communiqué from London. Harold Dartleigh’s on the run, Nick. I’ve frightened him.’

  Her excitement was contagious, and so now was her theory. Nick found himself tending to agree with her. Perhaps Dartleigh really was guilty, he thought, but if so, guilty of precisely what?

  Harold couldn’t believe his luck. They’d left Bombay hours ago and still no crew member had confronted him with the news of his arrest. At one stage he’d dozed off, his hand still resting in the briefcase on his lap. By now he’d been twenty hours without sleep. But he’d snapped wide awake as he’d felt the briefcase move. He’d clasped it tightly to him, his right hand clutching at the Walther inside.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the crew member had said. ‘Didn’t mean to disturb you; just thought I’d make you more comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ he’d heard himself say, as cool as a cucumber. ‘How very kind of you, thank you.’ He’d closed the briefcase and put it on the seat beside him. ‘How soon do we arrive in Istanbul?’

  ‘Four hours, sir.’

  ‘Splendid. Radio ahead and book me into the Istanbul Hotel, will you, there’s a good chap.’

  From that moment on, Harold had started to relax – only a little though, not enough to let down his guard.

  They landed in Istanbul, where they were to stay the night, just twenty-four hours after leaving Maralinga. It was shortly before midday and Harold caught a taxi directly to his hotel. The crew members were staying at the nearby RAF base, and everyone was to report to the airport at 0600 hours, one hour before the scheduled take-off for London at 0700.

  The following morning, the crew members reported as ordered, but there was no sign of Harold Dartleigh. No-one worried; it was typical of the man’s arrogance. But twenty minutes before departure time, when he still hadn’t appeared, there was genuine cause for concern. They had a schedule that needed to be maintained. The flight lieutenant contacted the Istanbul Hotel and was informed that Lord Dartleigh had not checked in.

  ‘We have a booking for him,’ the desk clerk said, ‘but he never arrived.’

  Harold Dartleigh had disappeared without a word, leaving behind him a very confused RAF crew unable to explain his absence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Several days passed and still there was no explanation offered for Harold Dartleigh’s mysterious disappearance. Nick’s far-reaching connections could come up with nothing, and when Elizabeth contacted Reginald Dempster in London, he too was confronted by a wall of silence.

  ‘MI6 isn’t giving out a word on the subject,’ he said when he phoned her back. ‘A strictly “no comment” response, I’m afraid.’

  Always thorough in his investigations, however, Reg was able to offer the interesting news that Harold Dartleigh had not been sighted in his home area of Sussex, nor had he been seen at any of his regular London haunts.

  ‘The chap seems to have vanished.’

  Elizabeth, convinced that her bluff had proved successful, was delighted.

  ‘They think I have proof, Nick,’ she said, ‘proof about the circumstances of Danny’s death. They’ve secreted Dartleigh away somewhere. It’s time to stir the pot.’

  P. J. was more than happy to give Elizabeth’s article front-page prominence. Why not? The subject matter appeared controversial in its suggestion, but the article simply reported the facts and was in no way libellous. Elizabeth’s story was an editor’s dream.

  MARALINGA MYSTERY, was the eye-catching headline, and the subtitle beneath a picture of Harold Dartleigh read: MI6 has questions to answer.

  The article, written by E. J. Hoffmann, who had gained quite a following amongst The Advertiser’s readers, stated that Harold Lord Dartleigh, deputy director of MI6, had mysteriously disappeared from the Maralinga atomic test site on 9 October. Lord Dartleigh had left no details of the reason for his abrupt departure, the article said, or of his intended destination. His on-site staff had not been informed, and it appeared no-one knew of his current whereabouts. MI6 was refusing to release any information.

  Elizabeth then turned the piece into an indictment of MI6. Surely, she suggested, the British public had the right to demand accountability for the actions of one of its most senior public figures. She wrote of the historical ties between Britain and Australia and the strengthening of the bond the two countries shared through the post-war atomic test project, and closed the article with a direct challenge:

  Australia, too, as the host country for the British nuclear test program, has every right to insist upon answers from MI6. Why has such a key figure in our midst vanished without a trace and without giving any reason for his actions? This journalist, for one, demands an explanation.

  The E. J. Hoffmann article was picked up by other leading newspapers and syndicated throughout the country. Harold Dartleigh’s disappearance became a major story in Australia, a fact which was quickly brought to the attention of the relevant authorities in Whitehall, but still there was no response from MI6.

  Gideon Melbray’s body was discovered three days later. He’d been reported missing by his workmates and barracks roommate for a whole week now, and it had been presumed he’d gone AWOL, although no-one could understand why. The discovery of his decaying body came as a shock to all.

  Ned Hanson, who had duplicate keys to Harold Dartleigh’s office, had unlocked the doors to allow the cleaners access. A putrid smell had instantly been detected, and the office cleaners had traced its source to the cupboard.

  London was notified immediately and MI6 stated it would handle the murder investigation, then, in typical secret service fashion, refused offers of collaboration from all other relevant authorities, both British and Australian. Again no announcement was made and no information offered regarding Harold Dartleigh.

  It was Elizabeth’s article that eventually proved the catalyst. The editor of one of the more salacious London newspapers whose editor’s eagle-eye constantly roamed the world for gossip, noted the Australian interest in Harold Dartleigh. Although Marty Falk considered the content of E. J. Hoffmann’s article of no particular value, the disappearance of Lord Dartleigh of Somerston greatly interested him. A peer of the realm always made for good reading, particularly a peer of Dartleigh’s stature.

  The story appeared on the tabloid’s front page exactly two weeks after Harold’s disappearance. The headlines were lurid: HIJINX IN THE PEERAGE! PEER OF THE REALM VANISHES! WIFE AND FAMILY DESERTED.

  Beneath were two photographs of Harold with a different beautiful woman in each, and beneath the photographs was the further headline: THE BLONDE OR THE BRUNETTE – WHICH IS IT, LORD DARTLEIGH?

  A third and smaller photograph of Lavinia Dartleigh, impeccably groomed and dignified as always, was inset to one side. The actual content of the article was remarkably thin, Marty’s principle being that carefully cropped photographs and headlines that insinuated were all that was necessary to provide the readers with what they wanted.

  Aspersions have been cast on the supposedly idyllic marriage of Harold Lord Dartleigh, 6th Baron Dartleigh of Somerston, the article snidely read. Apparently His Lordship disappeared a fortnight ago, abandoning his wife, well-known socialite and benefactress Lady Lavinia Dartleigh, without so much as a word. H
e’s not been seen since and his whereabouts are unknown, but rumours abound. One can only presume that in deserting his marriage of over twenty years, Lord Dartleigh’s latest affair is a little more serious than his previous peccadilloes.

  Upon reading the article, Lavinia Dartleigh was furious. How dare they portray her as the pathetic deserted wife, she thought. How dare they intimate her husband was a philanderer. Previous peccadilloes indeed! Harold had never once strayed throughout their marriage. As if she didn’t have enough to contend with, she thought angrily, and she stormed out of the house.

  Later that afternoon, upon returning from the local beautician and hairdresser, Lavinia found herself accosted by members of the press who’d travelled down from London. No sooner had she pulled up in the front courtyard and stepped out of her car than reporters and photographers appeared, apparently from nowhere.

  They’d actually been waiting for some time, but had kept themselves well hidden for fear she’d drive off upon seeing them. Now they emerged like magic from behind bushes and shrubs and conifers in stone tubs to surround her, camera shutters clicking and questions firing.

  As always when sensing a major story, the general press had moved with startling speed. Having been alerted to the fact that Harold Dartleigh had vanished, they’d swooped upon MI6, but had been unable to glean any information whatsoever. ‘No comment’ had been the terse reply to all queries. The reporters were not to be fobbed off, however. The disappearance of the deputy director of MI6 was big news and the press had every intention of getting the story by whatever means possible, including the harassment of Dartleigh’s wife.

  ‘What can you tell us about your husband’s disappearance, Lady Dartleigh?’

  ‘Is there another woman involved as rumoured?’

  ‘Has he left the country?’

  ‘Why has there been no statement to the press?’

  Alerted by the commotion, the domestic staff appeared on the scene. The housekeeper stepped out onto the porch glowering forbiddingly, the cook and the maid peered through the front windows, and Wilson, the butler, strode into the courtyard waving an imperious hand at the reporters, bent on rescuing his mistress.