by Joe Lane
“What if he had got away with it, until now?”
“That’s preposterous and unthinkable.”
“What if it was proven?”
“I’d shoot the bugger myself. But things like that just didn’t happen during the war. Craven was the victim of circumstances beyond control.”
“Frigging right he was! Deveron shot him from the sky.”
“You have a vivid imagination, Mister Speed.”
“I have a reliable living witness who watched the entire sequence on that fateful day in 1944. The witness saw a Spitfire open its guns on another Spitfire. When the witness reported the incident it was dismissed as fantasy. Nobody followed up to check the story.” I considered it inadvisable to mention the mental state of my star attendee at the scene of the crime.
Josh Bane was in a state of shock. “No, no, it’s too incredible to comprehend. There has to be a mistake? Where was this person watching at the time?”
“Close enough to see the incident, but probably too far away to pinpoint exactly where the Spitfire crashed.”
“Then it’s possible the witness was mistaken.”
“The witness didn’t hesitate when describing the attack to me.”
“Why didn’t this person come forward at the time?”
“He was a kid and probably scared in case he received a clip around the ear for his troubles. Or he never really understood the consequences of what had happened at the time.”
“Deveron…shoots down Craven’s Spitfire?”
“Admittedly I’m not a hundred percent if this Deveron was the pilot responsible.”
Josh Bane shook his head at me in disgust. “I shouldn’t even be discussing the matter with you. Do you realize the consequences of such a treacherous act if it had been known at the time?”
“I think he would have been hanged for the crime,” I said, casually.
“Try hung, drawn and quartered, more like, and that would be from his fellow warriors at Duxford even before Deveron had got the chance to plead his innocence in a military court.” He calmed and sank in his chair, shaking his head in retrospect of what I’d told him. “It’s unthinkable. Why should Deveron want to commit such an awful act on a fellow brother in arms? It beggars belief.”
“The rumour of gold bullion sounds a feasible reason.”
“I can’t believe he would do such a despicable act on a myth?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Deveron fought hard for his country, not for self glory.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “But even a myth can change the way a person thinks and acts.”
“Nobody could be sure if the gold even existed never mind if any was aboard the second I-52.”
“Deveron gambled with Craven’s life on the assumption there was gold. He shot Craven from the sky and concocted the story of losing sight of him.”
“He did loose sight of Craven. He reported having engine trouble and that Craven had continued on alone. And then there was confirmation that a lone Spitfire was spotted by a Home Guard observer between the Welsh and Scottish borders on the time and day stated.”
I paused for a few seconds to think it over. “So Craven obviously located the sub somewhere during his lone flight, snapped the photographs and on his return back to base, rendezvoused with Deveron. Somehow I think he told Deveron what he’d found and the rest is elusive history which only Deveron himself would have known.”
“Who’s to say that the submarine didn’t scarper to another destination after being spotted by Craven? That would be the logical thoughts of the submarine captain. It would make the death of Craven seem pointless.”
“Not really, the evidence was on film. The photo graphs I’ve shown you prove the submarine itself was in dire trouble; listing and on the verge of sinking. That submarine was going nowhere. Deveron must have known this too.”
“It doesn’t make sense, Mister Speed. Why would Deveron continue serving in the RAF after the war had finished if there was gold to be found?”
“That’s because the location of where the submarine was anchored was stored on Craven’s reconnaissance camera. Only Deveron couldn’t find Craven’s crashed Spitfire. The plane had buried itself two feet under the earth inside a gully. The summer grasses were high and easily camouflaged the craft. After the war in Europe it became a matter of time. Summers came and went, the plane lost forever. But that didn’t deter Deveron. Riches beyond belief drove him on in his pursuit. The search for the plane became his career. With every discovered crash site around the United Kingdom he could have monitored the situation; checked every missing craft as they were unearthed. His only problem was time itself. The search became years, a lifetime, in fact. Now that’s changed; the plane has been found, and let me tell you there are a lot of undesirables in hot pursuit to discover if the submarine really existed and are willing to kill for that information.”
Josh Bane absorbed what I’d said thoughtfully. “It’s a very scary situation you have fallen into, young man. It would be better to let the police handle the problem and safer for you. Perhaps you should report it to the Ministry of Defence?”
“I’ve already had a run in with some dodgy officials from the Ministry of Defence Police.”
“You can’t possibly manage the situation on your own.”
“I’ve no other choice.”
Josh Bane nodded but seemed genuinely concerned with my plight. Then we were back on the subject of Deveron. “Still,” he said, “I do find it rather difficult to imagine a man, Dillon Deveron’s age, would be running amok, killing innocent people for what I still believe to be nonexistent gold. Yes, the pictures you have do prove the existence of another submarine. It doesn’t prove there was gold bullion on board in 1944. Would you go on a killing spree on those pretences? Would you risk the probable wrath of British justice if you were wrong? Have the dishonour of such a cowardly act splattered over every newspaper in the country, your life in complete ruins. Would Deveron have risked all that? I certainly wouldn’t have.”
There seemed no point in me pressing on about whether Deveron was guilty or not. I felt as if I was heading in the right direction and I wasn’t going to be distracted by Josh Bane’s defence of the ‘stiff-upper-lip brigade’. Josh Bane had no chance of changing my mind. Yes, Deveron could be in the same position as Josh Bane and is probably scuttling around with the aid of a Zimmer frame. Hardly killer potential if that’s the case. But anyone can give orders or hire the right kind of villains. It would only take a phone call. No, I couldn’t excuse Deveron from guilt, at least not until I’d confirmed his innocence and that was very unlikely because Deveron was the last man to see Craven alive.
“Have you seen or heard of Deveron recently?” I asked.
Josh Bane was flabbergasted. “Surely you’re not thinking of asking him to his face if he’s a murderer?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Well I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”
“You won’t reveal where he might be just in case I upset his feelings?”
“Oh-no-no, I don’t even know where he is and neither do I know if he’s still alive. Yes, I’ve seen him on occasions many years ago attending the odd reunion and at Remembrance Day. As for his present whereabouts, I haven’t the foggiest.”
And that more or less ended my conversation with Josh Bane. I eased from the chair and stood, apologising for leaving. “I have to get back to London. You’ve been a tremendous help, Mister Bane and I appreciate the time you’ve given me. There’s no need for you to get up. I’ll see myself out.”
Josh Bane’s gaunt sunken face had me worried. I’d seen that type of expression before. That traumatized look of a man about to witness the imminent death of a condemned man. It sent a shiver down my spine.
“Take care, young man,” he said kindly. “Intuition tells me you’re turning over a barrowful of rotting maggots. Finding that submarine might favour your quest for the truth but
it might also be your death warrant.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him.
“That might be so, young man. I only hope that when I pick up a morning newspaper in the future I’ll be reading about the greatest gold find ever, though I pray I don’t read your name in the obituaries column instead.”
I rather hoped he was joking, but I sensed he wasn’t. In the meantime what he had given me was a lead to the whereabouts of one elusive submarine, which without doubt, would stir interest among the natives, especially those I was after. What a perfect excuse to flush those cockroaches from their hiding hole with the faint whiff of gold in the air.
*
I headed back to London nursing an overactive mind, a bad headache and the bruises from my earlier clash at Duxford aerodrome, now beginning to remind me exactly where they were. And I was badly in need of sleep. Winston was already snoozing. Nothing seemed to stop the wretched hound from sleeping. He’d flaked out on the passenger seat the moment I turned the engine. I also made an astonishing discovery. I never realized dogs snored and farted when they slept and with such an annoying effect, which at least prompted me not to drop asleep while driving back down the motorway.
When I’d finally reached the dark street where I lived I came back alive and alert. I say Dark Street because none of the street lights were illuminated; the odd one extinguished sometimes but not usually all of them. The road was darker than the deepest depths of an abandoned coal mine. Not just that. None of my security lights came on as I swung the Roadster into my extensive driveway; they were definitely working yesterday. I immediately thought of a power-cut in the area but I’d noticed other houses in the vicinity still had electricity on. My suspicions of something more sinister were confirmed in the blink of an eye. And considering there was no breeze that evening, I could have sworn the shrubbery to my right began to move as I drove up to my garage door.
Chapter Seven
The bushes had stopped moving by the time I switched off the engine and stepped from the Roadster. I didn’t require psychic powers to know that I had hostile company. Winston had already indicated trouble when he shot out from the car to be by my side. The dog was agitated but controlled and neither did he bark or growl. He waited patiently. I think his intention was to allow the danger to come out into the open. The dog obviously knew more than I did because the ploy worked and out from the shadows of the shrubbery stepped two beady-eyed vultures. I knew them as Filbert and his bogyman minder, alias the two fraud ministry policemen.
The pair approached me with a quick pace. They failed to notice Winston tucked in behind my left leg. Any anxiety I had when I got out of the Roadster had dispersed the moment I prepared myself for the inevitable attack.
“You’re frigging trespassing!” I said, assertively. “So you’d better get your skinny arses off my property before the police arrive.”
They were impervious to my threats; cold blooded killers usually are when they know differently. I heard the double click a second after I felt Winston’s body tense against my leg. Although no switchblades were shown or swished in a frantic arc of rage as they neared, the distinct positioning of their hands hanging limply by their sides told me all I needed to know.
Winston reacted far quicker than I did. The moment the bogyman’s hand twitched, Winston had latched onto the striking wrist and I had parried Filbert’s upward strike and caught hold of his blade hand, twisting the weapon away from my stomach. The threat on my life turned me into a raving lunatic. I hit the bogus Filbert with every thing I had: head, hands, knees and feet, and not necessarily in that order. It was ten years since I’d thrown a decent punch in anger and I hadn’t lost my touch. My attack on him was vicious and frantic but I didn’t cease the bombardment until I heard the sound of the blade crashing to the ground.
I didn’t stop there. I hit him again with a flurry of body punches before finishing off with a terrific uppercut that dropped him to the floor with a crunching thud. He lay there, groaning and then silenced. I’d knocked the bastard out.
With the feeling of invincibility I quickly switched my attention to the fracas behind me. Winston had his fangs buried in the side of his victims face with the expected savagery of a pit bull dogfight. I thought of intervening but changed my mind when human screams of agony ghoulishly crept through the night air and I decided that my hand wasn’t going anywhere in between the action.
I turned back to Filbert when I heard him moan, knelt down beside him, grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up. He might have been groggy but I didn’t care. I wanted answers.
“Right you piece of shit! Start by telling me your proper employer? And don’t give me verbal diarrhoea that the Ministry are because I know differently.” I shook his head hard to grab his attention. I got carried away and slapped his face a few times. “You’d better start talking shit breath!”
I was distracted by noise behind me.
My head spun round to see Winston’s piece of meat had broken free and the bogeyman was off and running down the driveway with the dog snapping at he heels with every stride. I let Filbert’s head hit the ground and rose to my feet to watch the pursuit, making my way to the roadside. I made the wrong move. Stupidly I’d given Filbert the chance to scarper, which he did, straight through the shrubbery and scaled the high garden wall that surrounded my home. I heard him drop to the pavement and then the sound of running feet. I reached the end of the driveway in time to see Filbert scampering away in the same direction as his companion.
I cursed loudly and gave chase. I would have caught him if a dark coloured car hadn’t raced past me and screeched to a crawl. This allowed Filbert and his bogeyman to scramble into the rear of the vehicle before the car accelerated away with Winston in gamely pursuit of the tailpipe.
I whistled the dog back from his pointless pursuit and gave him a pat for his gallant effort. “Good boy, Winston. Sure showed those sad bastards who’s the boss.” And the dog promptly spat out half an ear. I winced. “Didn’t like the taste, hey boy! I don’t blame you. Never mind, I’ve a juicy piece of proper meat in the fridge that’s far more appetising than bits of scum.”
I watched until the red tail-lights of the car had disappeared in case they decided to double back for another attempt on my person. I didn’t think they’d take the chance of a return. They didn’t. I turned round and headed for my driveway only to be startled by a man’s voice beckoning me from the shadows across the road. I’d missed his presence because of all the commotion.
“Mister Speed, I presume?”
I glanced across, vaguely making out the lurking figure standing there with his hands down by his side. He didn’t appear to be a threat and I think Winston agreed with me, as the dog made no move.
“Depends who wants me?”
The stranger approached warily, a bulky man of medium height, which was about as much as I could make out in the dark. I was ready to repel another attack and so was Winston until we noticed he had raised the palms of his hands to show he carried nothing to endanger us.
“You’re certainly a hard man to track down,” the stranger said, slightly out of breath. “I’ve been waiting your return for hours. I’d actually dropped to sleep in my car,” he threw a thumb over his right shoulder to indicate where he had parked down the road. “The fracas woke me up.”
“Well-I’m really sorry about that,” I said sarcastically. “But I shouldn’t be disturbing you again tonight”
“We need to talk, Mister Speed.”
His timing was wrong for starters. I wasn’t in the mood to talk or listen and my answer was obnoxious and quick. “It’s late. I’m knackered. I’m damned well agitated. So fuck off!”
The stranger took a cautious step back and said, “I fully intend to leave after watching your heroics. Yet if you can spare the time, I must speak with you on urgent matters. I appreciate the situation is momentarily inconvenient, so I posted my credentials through your letterbox. You can give them back to me later, i
f you’re interested.”
He was certainly a calm character and a person not used to taking no for an answer.
“Why should I want to talk to you?”
“If I’m right, I can probably put a name to your attackers for starters.”
He had my attention.
“But since you’re in a foul mood, and obviously in need of sleep, perhaps we can meet later today. Breakfast perhaps? I’ll be at the establishment called, ‘The Greaseless Grill’. Do you know it?”
“King’s Road,” I said. “And you’re paying?”
“Indeed, Mister Speed. Shall we say ten AM?” He gave a flick type wave and toddled off down the road. I heard the click and slam of a car door, the engine starting up and he drove away.
I looked down at Winston and he returned the look. “What a frigging day it’s been.”
Winston responded with a whine.
Before going inside I inspected the security lights around the front of my home. I wasn’t surprised to discover that the light fittings had been vandalized beyond repair and I guessed the street lamps had suffered the same treatment.
I picked up the stranger’s credentials as I entered, closed the door and studied the details. They were impressive so I had no excuse not to accept that Inspector Dan Hamer of the Ministry of Defence Police was the genuine article. There was a telephone number and extension number for me to check if the details matched the visitor, which, after some sleep, I rang. Everything about him was confirmed. Why he had turned up on my doorstep was a mystery, and I detest not knowing what the frigging hell was going on. I left Winston behind to watch the house and went to meet Hamer.
*
‘The Greaseless Grill’, serves a gourmet breakfast equal to any of the top restaurants in and around London, everything cooked to absolute perfection. Fresh crisp bacon, perfect yellow eggs, large flat mushrooms in a delicious sauce, cooked tomatoes, and toast that melts in the mouth. All swilled down the gullet with a pot of proper brewed tea, none of that dry tasting paper tea bags, just pure leaves soaked in boiling water for a minute before adding a splash of silver top milk. It’s an expensive place to eat but understandably busy and I was going to enjoy breakfast immensely because I wasn’t dipping my hand into the money pocket.