Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1)

by Richard Harrington

  ‘Good grief, the boffins have been busy. So are the phone numbers of the Forty all stored on the hard drive? That seems dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, and it would be, which is why I must use the external scrambler drive, and it can’t be activated till the correct code has been selected in the printer’s number box, then by hitting the OK button, the scrambler automatically dials out to a spare line at International Operator Services - but it will be recorded on the bill, here at Squirrels, as faulty, and in seconds, the message is distributed to the members worldwide through the international communications satellite. So you see, it’s quite easy really.’

  Angela smiled when it simply confirmed that Sir Henry was now redundant.

  ‘Sir Henry, as you will obviously need a copy of the DVD to show the Forty, why don’t you come back with me and I’ll arrange it.’

  Lightly rapping her fingertips on the table, she thought ahead.

  ‘And you haven’t seen my little hideaway, have you, it’s just so peaceful and quiet, and it even has its own beautiful private church, and if you’d like to, I could arrange for you to meet the Church Warden.’

  Wandering down by the stream, Frank’s thoughts were full of Monty’s postcard, and now he could see why he’d taken the chance of sending it.

  Glenndenning was on the Isles of Scilly. But why was he there?

  No wonder Mrs P was upset, that was far too close to Moon Shadow for comfort.

  And why had he received visitors from all over?

  Well something was obviously going on, and Monty hadn’t sent the postcard for fun.

  So had he discovered something requiring urgent action but couldn’t do it for himself?

  Or more likely, Mrs P wouldn’t let him.

  But how could he get over there with Angela watching him like a hawk?

  Deciding to sleep on it, he flicked the Zippo, and having set fire to the postcard, watched as the fiery embers drifted away, and walking back, collected the torch.

  The time had come to go down that hole.

  The old workshop was bathed in early twilight as he pulled on the slimy chain, and as the flagstone silently rose up, switched on the torch and stepped onto the first rung of the ancient handholds, and as he made his way down, the air became heavy with the aroma of old brick, crumbling mortar and stagnant air.

  He counted sixteen rungs to the bottom, and shining the torch, could hardly believe his eyes when he found himself standing on the platform of a miniature railway station, and all crafted from ancient white-glazed bricks.

  Beside the platform there was a single narrow-gauge track, and sitting there, was one of those old pieces of rolling stock that was sent hurtling down the line by pushing its handle up and down, and hanging on the handle was a miner’s helmet complete with lamp.

  He was tempted to jump on board and see where it would take him, but Angela might return unexpectedly, and if she caught him down here, he would probably never get to the Scilly’s, or see old Monty ever again.

  So maybe have a quiet evening, think things through and let tomorrow take care of itself.

  Angela awoke to the memories of Sir Henry and his laptop, and slipping out of bed, quickly showered and dressed, and had just made coffee when an urgent tapping came on the door.

  It was Sir Henry, but he looked haggard, drawn and washed out.

  ‘Are you alright, Sir Henry?’

  ‘I think so, but I’ll be much happier when this whole wretched business is over.’

  She poured him some coffee, ‘I quite agree, which of course, then begs the question.’

  He stared blankly, ‘And which question is that?’

  ‘Oh, do come on … Have we been successful with the Forty?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. Well as you know, I communicated with all the members, except of course, Glenndenning, and they agree that due to the danger they must both be cleansed, and Cardinal can take Immediate Action as soon as I’ve verified and sent the evidence.’

  Angela sat lost and mesmerised in a dream world.

  After all these years, everything was coming true, and not only could she now arrange the destiny of Rattenegger and Glenndenning, but as soon as Sir Henry had verified the DVD, his communications laptop would be hers - and this government advisor, who had so recklessly confided in a media reporter, would wander off and disappear forever, and if she could arrange it, her golden thread might even be able to blame those un-elected advisors who controlled and kept the government so squeaky clean.

  Arriving at her security lodge, the slim delicate form of Sir Henry could hardly be noticed as he lay on the rear seat, covered by a travel rug.

  ‘George, open the gates will you, I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Yes ma’am, and could you tell Mr Lewis, we won’t be needing the torch back.’

  ‘The torch?’

  ‘Yes ma’am, he thought he heard noises.’

  Frank was drinking coffee at the old stone bridge when Angela drove up and parked, and he was surprised when she opened the rear door to let a slim older man step out.

  ‘Frank, this is Henry, an old friend, he’s staying with us for a while.’

  Shaking his feeble hand, Frank thought he seemed as jumpy as a cat on a hot tinned roof, and as Angela guided him away, she looked back, ‘So why did you need the torch?’

  ‘You had birds in the eves.’

  ‘So is that how you spent your time, checking the eves?’

  ‘Well there was nothing else to do.’

  She didn’t believe a word of it, but let it go. Right now she had bigger fish to fry.

  The kitchen was empty when Frank wandered up, and then he heard Angela in the study.

  ‘Louise, I will not argue with you, because if I can, I intend to send Lewis out tomorrow, that’s why it’s imperative we find Glenndenning, and yes, I know it’s short notice, but I insist you put the Church Warden on immediate standby.’

  Backing off down the hall, he was surprised that Angela’s people were still searching for Glenndenning when Monty had already found him on the Isles of Scilly, or more likely, he’d been found by Mrs P, because what she didn’t know of the islands, probably wasn’t worth knowing.

  But it still left the question. Why was Glenndenning there?

  Thinking about it, he realised what the only reason could be, and it was the same reason why Mrs P ran her business from Moon Shadow.

  Although the Isles of Scilly were within British territorial waters, they laid off from the foot of Cornwall and passports and customs were not required, so anyone with a boat could just arrive or leave as they wished.

  And Monty had said in his postcard - Glenndenning was arranging a party on his yacht and people were arriving from all over.

  So could it be something to do with Glenndenning getting hold of the copies of that file, the file that had scared Monty half to death?

  Angela was gradually feeling more settled.

  The search for Glenndenning under way, Michaela now officially cleared for cleansing, and by tomorrow evening, Sir Henry Talbot would be laying at peace in the churchyard.

  So the concept of her strategy seemed perfect with her silver bullets now all in place, except the only knowledge she had of Michaela, was that she had a summer retreat at Henley on Thames.

  It was difficult, but she must find her as time was racing away now, and returning to her study, took out the pad and alphabet and began to transcribe the message.

  Attn DC.

  Priority Directive.

  Target name: Michaela Rattenegger, now confirmed.

  Only known habitat : River Cottage, Henley on Thames.

  Photograph, description and any other information will be sent a.s.a.p.

  Immediate Action is now required.

  Best wishes,

  A.

  She knew the message was rather vague, but what else could she do when Michaela had always covered herself in a cloak of secrecy, and now that she’d fallen foul of the Forty, it was anyone’s guess wha
t she would do.

  But surely she would have realised that Immediate Action would almost certainly be taken against her, so where would she run?

  Turning her thoughts to Frank, she wondered how he would react to his new directive, but then remembered that Glenndenning was a known predator of young girls, so Marcus Glenndenning could hardly expect any mercy from Mr Frank Lewis.

  When old Len cycled to the garage, he saw it was still locked and shuttered, and it wasn’t like Ted to be late - and then the postman arrived, and telling him of the trouble in the pub, asked if it might have anything to do with the anniversary of Maggie’s death?

  Len sighed. No, it was because of that beautiful little girl, Tara.

  He was about to open up with the spare keys when his intuition gave him a jolt.

  On the anniversary of Maggie’s death, Ted usually got rolling drunk and went walk-about till he got it out of his mind, but he’d always given him a call and asked if he would look after things till he returned. But this time he hadn’t.

  Getting back on his bicycle, he set off back down the hill, and stopping at the cottage, looked around, and everything seemed normal except the windows looked sad and lifeless.

  Walking up to the porch, he knocked, but apart from the echo there was not a sound, and trying the handle, the door stayed firmly locked, and walking round, he tried the back door but that was locked as well, and there was no movement anywhere in the garden.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he decided to go back to the garage, but as he walked down the path to the gate, he thought he heard a moan, and looking more closely, saw that some of the flowers seemed crushed, and then he saw the blood stains on the concrete statue.

  Louise felt puzzled, and although it hardly seemed possible, there was nothing listed in any file against Michaela Rattenegger except her summer address in Henley on Thames and the make of her car, a 1961 Bentley S2 Continental, 2 Door Coupe.

  It was as if she’d never been born, and Mrs A wouldn’t be pleased with this.

  But what could she do? There was nowhere else to look.

  Picking up the red phone, she reluctantly dialled the number.

  ‘Ma’am, it’s Louise. I’m calling about that info you asked for, concerning MR.’

  ‘And you’ve taken your time about it. So go on then, what have you found?’

  ‘Well actually, nothing … There isn’t anything more than we already know.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No ma’am, sorry, but there is something rather odd.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Well every file I checked, said, ask the Minotaur, and when I finally got through and requested her file, it just said, Held by the Titan of Nissyros.’

  ‘What? So what the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well find out then, it might be the only clue we have.’

  Going through to the kitchen, she angrily snatched her bag, and was about to make her way upstairs, when she abruptly stopped.

  The Titan of Nissyros was obviously Greek mythology and she ought to know of it, but nothing came to mind, and then Frank came down the stairs wearing clean clothes.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Just out for a drink. You said I’ll be getting back to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose that’s fair enough, so where do you intend to go?’

  ‘I thought I’d try that spit and sawdust place, the one the keepers use.’

  ‘Alright, but don’t be late, tomorrow could be busy.’

  He nodded, and walking through to the study, called the lodge and asked for a lift.

  ‘A lift to the pub, sir? Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  Frank smiled … So it might work out after all, and not only would he see old Monty, but he would be on the islands again, and just for a while, be close to Mrs P.

  Collecting his cigarettes and lighter, he wandered down through the wild tangled garden, and just as he reached the bridge, the Land Rover came bouncing along the track.

  ‘Morning sir, and which pub will you be wanting?’

  Frank climbed in, ‘Let’s make it your favourite, the spit and sawdust.’

  Arriving at the pub, he thought it looked more like a farmyard, and apart from a battered old jeep, the parking area was full of tractors, and pushing the door open, it soon became obvious that some of these farmers kept pigs.

  Looking around, he saw about ten good old boys dressed in cloth caps and overalls, and to a man they were all drinking pints of cloudy cider.

  At the bar, Frank ordered the same and asked to use a phone.

  The landlord looked him over, ‘Well there’s your pint, and the phone’s in the passage.’

  Changing a five-pound note into coins, he walked out through the door and stepped into a dimly lit hallway, and pushing coins into the dirt encrusted machine, dialled the number, and then came a voice that took him back through all the long years of memories.

  ‘Hello, Mrs P. It’s Frank ... and it’s been a long time.’

  She faltered, ‘It has indeed, and some might say, it’s been far too long.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but right now I need to speak to Monty, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Yes, alright. But don’t keep him too long, he’s still as weak as a kitten.’

  After a moment, Monty came on the line.

  ‘Frank, my old friend, you got my card then.’

  ‘Yeah. So is there anything new?’

  ‘There certainly is. The local scuttlebutt says she might sail at any moment, that’s why you must hurry, some of the photos are amazing.’

  ‘What photos?’

  ‘The long range snaps that Mrs P organised.’

  ‘Right. So who’s on them?’

  ‘Well I can hardly believe it, but the faces are all from that report we saw at GCHQ, RED SURF, The Current Situation of International Terrorism, and they’re all here, the top four suppliers, the ones they codenamed, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich.’

  As Frank thought back, it suddenly all came rushing into his mind again.

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember. But what are they doing at the Scilly’s?’

  ‘Well I’m guessing they arrived on cruise ships so they could slip away to Polyvotis.’

  ‘Right. But haven’t they taken one hell of a chance, coming way over here?’

  ‘Yes, and I can think of only one reason why they would step out of their comfort zone, Marcus Glenndenning and that file - everything that’s happened has been because of that.’

  ‘Yeah, and if those buyers are after it, I don’t even want to think of the consequences.’

  Frank now had a damned good reason for going to the Scilly’s, and it wasn’t for Monty, or even the adorable Mrs P. It was simply to get rid of Polyvotis.

  But an assault on a yacht is a different ballgame to an attack on a land based target, and according to Monty’s update, Polyvotis was a lot more than just a yacht.

  Thinking back through Monty’s report, one of the Association boats had been hired to take supplies out to Polyvotis and Mrs P had put one of her own men on board, and during the unloading, her man had shared seafaring talk with one of the crew and it turned out that Polyvotis had quite a history.

  She was a 4 masted barque of about 310 feet and 2,500 tonnes, and built in Scotland around 1900 for her German owners to use in worldwide trade, and later under another flag she’d spent her last active years in the Australian grain trade.

  Then during the Second World War she was laid up in a neutral dockyard, and having been sold off, spent many years as a floating museum until she was purchased by a mystery buyer who’d rebuilt her, and regardless of cost, into a luxury yacht.

  As Frank tried to imagine her, he knew the most important thing was that she’d been built with a steel hull, so an explosion down below would send everything skywards.

  And considering the logistics, he thought Glenndenning had planned it
well, as although the distance between the two islands of Tresco and Bryher was quite narrow, there was enough deep water to drop anchor, so he probably thought he was safe.

  He remembered Angela wanting him to start tomorrow morning, but that was no good because the Scillonian, the ferry that travelled between Penzance and the Isles of Scilly, departed around 9.30 am, and without a ticket, no-one travelled, and although he could get there by helicopter, it would be better to arrive on a crowded ferry of tourists.

  So he had no choice but to phone the booking office now, then pay by plastic and catch the overnight train to Penzance.

  But he wasn’t supposed to know where Glenndenning was, and how to square that circle was a puzzle, but never mind, the sooner he called the Scillonian booking office the better.

  Calling directory enquiries, he got the number for the booking office and made passage for tomorrow on the Scillonian.

  So the die was now cast, and tomorrow belonged to the Devil.

  4 5

  Sitting in the gloomy priest hole, Lucinda transcribed the message.

  And she couldn’t believe it - there was only the address of Rattenegger’s summer retreat and the make and model of her damned car, so what fucking use was that?

  And the Minotaur was no good, telling her to speak to a bloody Titan.

  For god’s sake, was she now expected to be clairvoyant as well?

  But when a second message came through, her eyes narrowed when she read that the target’s only known associate was Marcus Glenndenning.

  That fat ugly slime-ball at Hamble Marina who just couldn’t wait to get his podgy hands on that little tart, Tara Goodwin.

  So were all these bastards working together?

  Another frigging conspiracy?

  Fuming, she made two phone calls, one to Lisa Portbury who agreed to check the address, and the other to the Harbour Master at Hamble Marina, who said, according to local gossip, Polyvotis had sailed to the Isles of Scilly.

  Thinking it through, she returned to the kitchen, but only to see Martha back away.

  ‘And what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing ma’am. But after the clock, I thought …’