by Joe Lane
I had no reason to doubt the information Steven’s had received from the MDP concerning Filbert. And it was plainly obvious that cold callers such as those two creeps who had come thumping on my front door were hardly going to leave behind their true calling cards. I decided in my best interest not to press on about them. Instead I watched with intrigue as Stevens opened the folder he had brought into the room and began to flick through individual pages with eye-popping reactions of what appeared to be photo-copied script. I could tell by the sudden gleam in his eye that he had found something incriminating against me.
Finally, he said, “I’ve acquired this special piece of information from the police computer that should interest you, Mister Speed.”
More like he’s been checking up on me, I thought. “Have you really!” I said.
“My-my-you have been extremely busy over the past few years. Eleven court appearances in front of the judge concerning non-declaration of treasure trove.”
I struck back sharply. “It should also mention that I was acquitted eleven times?” I said, defensively.
His brow scrunched with my untimely interruption. “And, neither has your exploits escaped the attention of Interpol. It seems that you have been plying your infamous trade among the scallywags in the black market labyrinths of Amsterdam, Brussels, Hamburg, and other various seedy parts of Europe as far as Turkey. Yes, Mister Speed, this suggests to me you’ve been a very busy man on the wrong side of the law.”
The smarmy bastard, I thought. So I dug a few English antiquities from the ground and sold them on in Europe. What’s the big fuss? It’s not my fault the highest bidder happens to be in Amsterdam or Brussels or Hamburg. It was time to defend myself before he got too carried away.
I said, “You’ll find all the allegations are untrue. Is there a point to all this? Only I thought the reason for coming here today was to discuss Larry Lazerow’s demise. Not if I’ve been a naughty boy in the past!”
“Most definitely there’s a point, Mister Speed,” his tone was sharper now, “It’s a warning really, to stay away from the crash site.”
“There’s no law against looking,” I said stubbornly.
“I was referring to the use of a metal detector. Because if I get word from the Berkshire constabulary that anything has gone missing, I’ll make sure the next conviction against you will stick forever. Is that clear?”
I stood up and looked him straight in the eye with the strong urge to tell the sad bastard he was a week too late, but I resisted the temptation. “I guess you’ve finished with me over the photography shop?”
“I don’t think I’ll be bothering you again on the matter.”
I headed for the door hastily only for the Detective to stop me in my tracks.
“There is another issue that you should be aware of, Mister Speed.”
I didn’t bother to turn and face him; I already knew what was coming. Over my shoulder I said, “Yes!”
“It’s advisable that you refrain from spreading rumours concerning your inappropriate theories, especially to the newspapers, until after the Coroners verdict has been announced. Remember, Mister Lazerow died as a consequence of his own misfortune and nothing else. We’ve concluded a thorough investigation and we’re confident of our findings. Is that understood?”
I said nothing in return and was halfway through the door when he added: “Please convey my condolences to Mister Lazerow’s family. Good day, Mister Speed.”
I left sharply before I said something I would never regret and probably end up in gaol for the night.
I left the police station in a state of frustration. It was maddening to think that I’d gone there with the good intentions of persuading the investigation team that they had a murder enquiry on their hands and instead they turned the whole episode into an inquisition against me. Back in the Roadster my anger blurred my concentration. In a better frame of mind I might have noticed the black saloon slipping in behind the Roadster sooner than I did.
When I finally noticed I was being tailed, it wasn’t difficult to guess the occupants of the vehicle behind me and I wouldn’t be far wrong in assuming that the two vultures I’d previously encountered were circling their intended prey. I prepared myself mentally, my sweaty palm hovering over the gear lever for a racing gear change in case of a sudden attack. They weren’t going to catch me out as easily as they caught Larry or Tommy. With every manoeuvre I made, I double-checked the rear view mirror, mainly to confirm by sight if it was the two bogus MDP officials. But in a blink of the eye I’d lost them. I’d turned around a corner and the car didn’t follow. I was alone again and my panic subsided.
I detest being labelled ‘paranoid’, as detective Stevens had suggested. Paranoid people require treatment for their mental state and I wasn’t ready for the asylum just yet. There were questions buzzing around inside my head that required an answer and I was determined to get them regardless of whose nose I got up. For me now, I would have to rethink my strategy because I suddenly realized that I wasn’t going to get any help from anybody who represented the badge of a Peeler.
Chapter Four
I declined the opportunity to attend the inquest on Lens’s death and have my say. There was no point? My presence at the official hearing would have had no bearing whatsoever on the eventual outcome, well not without the hard evidence that a murder had been committed. Accidental death was firmly planted in the minds of everyone concerned and any interference from me would change nothing other than to infuriate those officials in attendance at the Coroner’s court.
I had to start thinking about myself and my own safety. Naturally I was pensive as to why I walked this crazy wretched earth still in one piece and why they hadn’t made a positive attempt to silence me for good. Surely I was on their list for extermination just as Tommy and Lens were. I could only assume that they hadn’t finished with me. Knowing that, the sensible solution would have been for me to go into hiding. Loose myself amid other tourists in some over-crowded resort far away. Frigging hell I was fooling myself! That was the easy way out. I wanted to kick arse. I wanted to avenge Lens’s death. But my most disturbing thoughts centred on how far I would be willing to go to achieve my revenge.
I began to devise a plan of where I should start. Since I’m no super sleuth I considered hiring a private detective but I didn’t want the responsibility of another death on my hands regardless of how professional the person was at their job. Besides, when it came to chasing answers, I’d spent a good part of my life in the pursuit of lost treasure and I’d gained considerable notoriety when outwitting the Treasure Valuation Committee, all of which puts me in a position of not being a complete novice after all. I could be tough and vicious if I needed to be and with no remorse whatsoever.
I knew my situation wasn’t favourable. I would be a one man army with no fire-arms experience and up against...what was I up against? Two vicious, nameless men insisting I hand over a battered camera, for starters. That frigging camera! I cursed.
Something pinged in my brain. I suddenly remembered what Lens had told me over the phone. Without even doing anything outrageous I already had my start; the camera! I went to retrieve the mail I’d thrown unceremoniously into the waste-bin by the study door and sifted through the pile. I could tell Lens’s handwriting straight away when I selected the A5 size brown envelope, ripped open the seal and studied the contents. I was looking at four black and white photographs of poor quality and water-marked badly around the edges. Each photograph showed the same surfaced submarine, but at slightly different angles, with what appeared to be a plume of smoke coming from its stern. I got the impression the craft was sinking by the angle of the submarine riding in the water.
I went down into the privacy of my cellar studio, the place where I clean all the artefacts I’ve unearthed in the past. I put each photograph in turn onto the enlargement projector and examined them in more detail. The submarine was positioned approximately half a mile off a rocky shoreline but I’d no
idea where other than it being a European shoreline. On the submarine’s conning tower I could barely make out the symbol of the Rising Sun and the faint lettering I-52. I was looking at a Japanese submarine which was clearly in dire trouble. But I was thinking deeper. Wondering why a Japanese submarine should have attracted the attention of a British recon naissance craft instead of a battle cruiser. It all seemed a bit strange especially when the Japanese did their fighting in and around Asia. And then I remembered there were liaisons between the German U-boats and Japanese submarines in order to transfer vital supplies. But those transfers were usually conducted out in the Atlantic or in or around the security of German held territories.
I could have continued searching forever for the right answers. Whatever the photographs were trying to tell me I couldn’t make head or tail of it, yet these photos were redeemed to be worth the lives of two men. I placed the pictures in the wall safe where nothing less than a nuclear bomb would extract them.
*
The following day I was back in Berkshire for Tommy Bickermass’s funeral. There’s a saying: you suddenly realize you’re getting old by the number of funerals you attend, and I suppose my sudden increase of two dead friends rather made my thirty-five years feel more like seventy-five. I’m not a religious man by any means nor do I disrespect another person’s faith. I believe in fate and luck and it’s served me well so far in life.
I stayed away from the church service only attending the burial itself. The whole occasion was a quiet funeral for a nice quiet man who lived for nothing more than the chance to make an honest crumb. I felt as if I had let him down in a lot of departments.
I never mentioned to any of the congregation about my suspicions of how Tommy died. Perhaps I should have but I didn’t, mainly because they were upset enough. If I’d begun spreading dodgy presumptions amongst family and friends, and they turned out to be untrue, I could imagine my arrival in these parts again would be repelled by the barrel of a twelve bore shotgun or a pitchfork shoved up my backside.
It was at the defining moment when the priest mentioned dust to dust that I heard Tommy’s dog, Winston, pining for his master. I glanced down at the poor beast noticing that Winston had received a nasty looking wound above his left eye. I waited until after the service before I asked Tommy’s daughter, Debbie, how Winston had acquired his wound.
“Nobody seems to know,” she said sombrely, her eyes red, still the odd floating tear ready to seep and trickle down her cheek. “The poor dog was cowering in the barn covered in dried blood the day after my…father was found…” She wiped away a tear. “The vet had to put six stitches in a deep cut.”
I gave the dog a sympathetic pat. “Look, I know this isn’t the right time to be asking but have you ever heard of a chap named Billy Banter? It’s a name I recall Tommy-sorry-your father-mentioning after the discovery of the plane wreck.”
Debbie looked at me strangely. “Yes I know of him. But that isn’t his real name; it’s Billy Slade. Why do you want know, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Your father said that when he and Billy were kids, during the war, Billy had been ranting on about a plane crashing in the fields at the time.”
Her lips pursed in surprise. “My father never told me that story.”
“Well actually there was no story to tell because no one believed Billy at the time. Now, after the discovery of the wreck, your father felt a bit guilty for not believing Billy and I think he wanted to make amends, but he never got the chance with…well…the accident intervened. I thought it would be a good gesture to have a word with Billy myself and finish what your father intended. Do you know where I can find him?”
“He’s still in the area. He’s in a nursing home at the far side of the village. It’s an old converted mansion called ‘Three Trees’. You do know he has learning difficulties?”
“Your father did tell me about his condition.”
“Well I don’t think it’ll do any harm you visiting him, Mister Speed.”
“Please, call me Shacks.”
“Well, Shacks, I just can’t imagine Billy actually remembering anything that far back in time.”
“I know it’s a long shot but think I should still try. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
I felt Winston nudged past our legs. I glanced at him concerned. His ears were pricked and he begun to growl, pulling on his restraint, his eyes seemed to be focused on the stone wall at the far side of the church. She had to drag him back forcibly.
“Something’s seemed to have spooked the dog,” I said, forgetting where I was; not that I believe in ghosts.
“He’s not usually this agitated. He’s quite placid normally.”
It got me thinking that perhaps there was something more logical concerning the dog’s behaviour. That maybe Winston was on the same wavelength that I was on and he was sensing that we were being watched from unknowns. Winston’s antics gave me a fantastic idea.
“What’s going to happen to Winston now?” I asked seriously.
Obviously Debbie hadn’t given the matter much consideration. “I don’t really know. I guess he’ll have to stay with us for a while.”
“What if I look after him? It’s the least I can do until you sort things out here at the farm.”
She was delighted with my proposal. “Are you sure, Shacks? It’ll be a great help. I must confess I’m a little reluctant to keep him at my house. I’m actually allergic to animal hairs.”
“That’s settled then.”
“You will you take care of him properly?”
I assured her I would and I would keep in constant touch.
She was alarmed. “You’re not coming back to the farm? There’s food and drink laid on for everybody. Oh please do, Shacks.”
It had been my intention to return immediately to London to formulate my plan of action. One look at her desperate expression changed my mind. I smiled, “I wouldn’t dream of missing the occasion.”
“Good. While you’re there at the farm you can collect Winston’s dog bowls, his tins of meat and biscuits; he needs regular feeding and watering. And you’ll need his doggie-do bags for when he does a number two on the pavements or grass verges.”
“Doggie-do bags,” I said unappealingly.
“Yes, to pick up his smelly bits.”
“Can’t I just leave it for the flies to disperse?”
“Not a pleasant experience I grant you, but it has to be done. The local council are very strict on people who inconsiderately leave dog poo on the public walkways.”
“He should have gotten a cat instead. There are no laws to govern where they leave their crap, and it’s usually in some unsuspecting corner in my garden.”
She smiled at my dig at the feline world and handed me the dog lead. “Here, you might as well get used to handling him.”
I flicked my head into the air wondering if I made the right choice and headed back to the Roadster with a new recruit to my regular army obediently by my heels. Yet there was still something bothering Winston as we walked back to the car park. There was nothing or nobody I could see but Winston still had issues with the stone wall at the far side of the church. In Winston I now had an ally. I would use him as my early warning system to sniff out the enemy before I did, or at least I hoped he’d respond quicker than I would.
Back at the farmhouse, eating a freshly cut sandwich, I happened to gaze out of the kitchen window and saw young Benny going about his daily business of taking the herd in for milking; somebody had to keep the farm running. I felt aggrieved for young Benny, as the farmhand he must find it eerily strange to be without the old man about the place. I only wished the whole frigging drama had been a bad dream and I would see Tommy come wandering out of the cow shed wearing the same clothes as when I last saw him...
Debbie disrupted my thoughts when she entered the kitchen and offered me another sandwich. I politely declined. I wasn’t really hungry but I did accept the offer of a sweet sherry though I cou
ld have done with something stronger. When the chance came I slipped away from the depressing atmosphere, left the farmhouse and went to see for myself where everything had happened to cause this unhappy occasion.
I located the slurry tank where Tommy had died and decided to climb to the top. I was about to mount the first rung of the vertical steel ladder that was attached to the side of the galvanized tank when I hesitated. Something on the ground had caught my eye. I reached down and picked up a large, rusty adjustable spanner which had been concealed by overgrown grass at the base of the tank. On examining the tool I noticed the tip of the adjustable jaws had a small piece, of what I assumed it to be, dried skin with a few strands of short black hair. I didn’t need any forensic freak to confirm to me that the piece of tissue was the missing piece from Winston’s skull. It wasn’t surprising they found Winston concussed having received a crack across the head with such a heavy tool as he probably tried to protect Tommy.
I cursed suddenly when I realized what I had just done and how naive I’d been as I held the spanner tight in my hand. My fingerprints were all over the handle. Worse, and without thinking about my actions, I’d just contaminated the possible finger-prints of the previous holder, because I was sure that Winston would have gone berserk if I had shown him the weapon that had clobbered him. What a shame the police had missed what would be vital evidence, but then again, they were investigating the death of Tommy and not his dog.
I threw the spanner to the ground in the almost identical spot from where I’d retrieved it and climbed to the top of the tank. I stood on the inspection platform spanning across the edge of the tank and ran a few things through my mind. The platform was long and wide enough to hold at least three men. I say three men because I could well imagine Tommy being forcibly dragged up here and threatened by the bogus MDP men that had come calling at my home. And after they had gotten the information they wanted from him, they threw Tommy into the tank of cow shit and probably held his head under until he drowned. It was a horrible thought but it all sounded too feasible to be ignored.