by Joe Lane
I found Inspector Dan Hamer seated at a window table drinking what appeared to be coffee. The daylight did him no favours. By the deep age lines around his eyes, I guessed he was touching the age of fifty. His physique bordered a person whose love affair with the gymnasium had all but gone and if he had made the effort to improve his level of fitness, it’d have probably killed him. He wasn’t grossly fat by any means, but the loss of a few pounds of flesh would have improved his health tremendously.
Hamer half rose from the comfort of his chair for the courtesy shake of hands, his grip strong and commanding. I estimated his height to be around five feet ten inches which carried his plump figure adequately. There were streaks of grey running through his neatly trimmed brown hair. He had deep set hazel coloured eyes, a slightly bent nose, and a strong square chin that I reckon could take a decent punch.
“Glad you accepted the offer, Mister Speed. Please, sit down.”
As he re-seated I gave him back his credentials. “I did check them.”
He smiled thinly and slipped the documents inside his jacket pocket. “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”
I sat down and pulled the chair in. I said, “I don’t usually accept offers from strangers but I’m notoriously weak minded with the offer of free food and hopefully some answers.”
“I won’t have all the answers, Mister Speed, but I’ll try my best.”
My first impressions of Hamer had me thinking that I was dealing with a polite chap, but first impressions mean nothing. Anyone can be polite when they want something and Hamer wanted something.
“I gather those two Neanderthals didn’t return last night?” he sounded genuinely concerned.
“Nothing disturbed me, and Winston slept like a log.”
Hamer smiled at my quip and nodded his approval. “Good. I must say you certainly look in better shape after a few hours sleep. And how’s your dog?”
“Winston’s fine. He’s still chewing a piece of his victim.”
“It must be a tough piece of meat to last so long.”
“Not really. It’s just that he likes to savour his meal slowly.”
“And where’s the dog now?”
“I left him at home, on guard. Besides, I thought the other diners wouldn’t appreciate his slobbering jowls when he’s after food from their plates.”
“He’s an incredible animal and a cleverly vicious one too! That was some display last night. I’m glad I stayed on the opposite side of the road.”
“He’s not usually that vicious.”
“Isn’t that something all dog owners plead after their dog’s bitten somebody.”
“I wouldn’t know. He’s not actually mine. His owner died recently. I’m just looking after him for a while until things have been sorted.”
“I’d say that he was looking after you, Mister Speed. And such a strange looking beast too! I’m not familiar with the breed?”
“He’s cross bred between a Labrador and a Staffordshire-Bull Terrier.”
“Ah! Now I understand his ferociousness in battle.”
“Winston’s a softy at heart. He just detests anyone attacking his friends, as you duly witnessed.”
Breakfast arrived. The aroma drifting from the plate making me swallow saliva quickly before it excreted down the sides of my chin. I was famished and tucked in heartily asking the appropriate questions in-between mouthfuls.
“How come your card landed through my letterbox, I’ve already had a bad experience with the ministry police.”
Hamer swallowed the mouthful of food he was chewing. “You mean the two thugs from last night? They certainly don’t work for the MDP.”
“I thought as much at the time. Their approach to their work didn’t have the same panache that I would have expected from government officials.”
“What did they want with you?”
“I got the impression they were trying to kill me.”
“Well you’re still alive. They were obviously after something from you?”
“They accused me of having something that belonged to them.”
“Have you?”
“Never found out. So who are they?”
“If I’m right, you’ve got a major problem on your hands, Mister Speed. They’re dangerous people.”
“How dangerous should I be worried about?”
Hamer lowered his voice as he spoke, “Professional killers from the Eastern European regions. They go by the names of Damian Love and Theodore Hate. Nobody knows their real nationality. For recognition purposes you tackled Love and the dog had hold of Hate. Love is the mouthpiece of the two. Not to be underestimated, as his brutality is on equal terms with Hate. They have no preference of victim as long as there’s a paymaster. They butcher people mercilessly, quietly and without fuss. They’re well known throug hout the European police forces, yet no force has managed to make anything stick against them; never any witnesses to their crimes. They are usually highly efficient bastards, and if they mark their target for death then it’s usually funeral arranging time. You’ve had a lucky escape, Mister Speed.”
“You seem to know a lot about them?”
“They’re on our wanted list too; a little incident in Cyprus five years ago when a British army sergeant was murdered on the orders of a Turkish Mafia boss. We knew the slimy toad sergeant was up to no good, and we were on to him. Love and Hate got to him before we did; knifed him to death. On whose orders we’ve no idea. End of our investigation.”
“Well they’re at it again.” I thought I’d mention the fact to him.
Hamer jabbed his fork towards me. “It doesn’t surprise me. They’ve obviously been brought into the country to cause havoc in London by someone.”
“Have you any idea who would want to hire that calibre of men?”
“The only suspect we have is a chap named McClusky. He runs an Irish-American import and export and storage business at the docklands. Does that name sound familiar to you?”
I shook my head. “I can’t say it does.”
“We’ve never heard of him either.”
“You’ve proof that they work for this McClusky character?”
“The car used by your attackers last night is registered to McClusky; I traced the registration through the DVLA at Swansea this morning. But let’s not get carried away. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the vehicle hasn’t already been crushed into a cube at a local scrap-yard. Or they’ll probably say it’s been stolen.”
“Obviously you checked to find out if it had been reported stolen?”
“There’s been nothing yet reported concerning the vehicle.”
“What about McClusky himself?”
“He’s clean; a bona-fide business man who deals in raw materials for the animal feed industry.”
“Then how come I’m at the top of everybody’s forthcoming Christmas card list?”
“That’s clearly obvious. You piss people off, Mister Speed. Somebody wants their retribution.”
“I only piss off authoritarians.”
“That’s exactly what a certain Detective Constable Stevens told me after he rang the MDP to enquire if we were conducting an investigation concerning you.”
“Were you investigating me?”
“Not then, but we’re interested now.”
“So where do I fit into your investigation?”
“I’m not sure of that either.”
“What are you sure of then?”
“I know that two enforcers from the dregs of Europe are connected to a stolen identity in regards to an ex officer of the MDP. I know that you’ve a passing interest in a recently exhumed world war two Spitfire fighter plane. What I don’t know is what connects the two. Maybe you can throw some light on the matter.”
I sighed. “I knew the farmer who owned the land, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Yes, I did speak to Mister Bickermass when I was overseeing the salvage operation at his farm; such a nice, pleasant chap. Strange
that he never mentioned your presence at the crash site.”
“It’s hardly surprising since I wasn’t there, as I explained to DC Stevens, when he interviewed me over another matter. Did you know that the farmer died in mysterious circumstances shortly after the recovery of the plane?”
“I’d heard that he had been killed in an unfortunate accident. Fell into a slurry tank, I was led to believe.”
“Rather strange don’t you think considering there are two known killers floating around unchallenged and posing as MDP?”
I could have easily taken up some serious issues with Hamer on how I thought Lens had died, but I suspected it would only fall on another pair of deaf ears. I drank some tea and stuffed a piece of bacon into my mouth.
“Please understand, Mister Speed, I’m not here to take over official constabulary business. And neither am I here to persecute you over a plane wreck. It’s your help on a different matter that I really sought.”
He wants my help? I almost choked on my food with the request. I said, “I’m listening.”
Hamer wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
“I’m not one bit interested in any active part you had in the discovery of the Spitfire, Mister Speed.” I was about to protest my innocence when his hand rose. “Please hear me out.”
I shrugged and carried on eating before the food went cold.
He jerked an appreciative smile. “I believe, Mister Speed, that it was you who first discovered the wreck with your metal detector. I believe you allowed Mister Bickermass to take the credit; a nice gesture Mister Speed. I assume the number of arrest warrants you’ve accumulated over the years for non-remittance of treasure trove obviously accounted for your silence. How am I doing so far?”
“You should take up writing fiction. And you’ve obviously had an extensive chat with that Peeler DC Stevens.”
He ignored my remarks and pushed on. “Look at it from my point of view. The plane is found, exhumed, and the pilot, a chap by the name of Rowlands, is given a military funeral. After cross-referencing, everything is logged and stored in the archives for eternity. Another chapter in history concluded. Sounds so simple don’t you think? But out of nowhere questions are asked by a local police station enquiring about you and a retired MDP official who has had his name used by criminals, all because of a piece of wreckage and a military uniform full of bones.”
I was thinking about something else. What had happened to the identity tags around the skeletons neck bone which would have identified the body correctly? I hadn’t removed the tags, so where did they get the name Rowland from?
Hamer went on. “There has to be a connection surrounding the wreck of a Spitfire with a renowned treasure hunter and two killers from Europe.”
“It does seem a strange concoction, doesn’t it, Inspector?” I said, and promptly wiped my plate clean with a slice of cold toast.
He frowned at my indifferent response. I suppose I should have eased his mind and told him the name I saw on the tags, but why should I stupidly strangle myself by admitting I was there at the scene. I was deep in it enough to want more additions.
“I feel that you’re not taking me seriously, Mister Speed?”
“I’m not clear as to what you’re getting at?”
“I think there was something else at the wreck site which isn’t there now.”
“What might that be?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You could have asked Tommy Bickermass what he saw, if he hadn’t been killed accidentally.”
“You sound as if you don’t think it was an accident?”
“At last I’ve got someone following in my direction. I believe Winston has met those two thugs before at the farm. He proved that by his reaction. He was old Tom’s dog, and as I said before, he reacts against anybody who harms his friends, especially his master.”
“Have you any proof?”
“That Love and Hate killed Tommy? Yes if I can get the dog to talk.”
“Being facetious won’t help, Mister Speed.”
“What difference would I make? I couldn’t even convince the local police to investigate the suspicious death of a good friend of mine; another statistic of the Love and Hate crime consortium. Why don’t you try and persuade the police otherwise, since you’re on friendly terms with that Peeler Stevens.”
“I’m hardly on friendly terms, Mister Speed. But you could still prove to the police that they were wrong if you move without delay.”
“I’m hardly in a position to take the law into my own hands without having them slapped for unnecessary intimidation. DC Stevens did warn me to watch where I stepped.”
“But if you could, would you like to bring those responsible to justice?” His expression was serious.
“Damn right, if I knew where to begin.”
“Begin by telling me everything you haven’t told me? Like what you saw or found at the wreck site that has got people spooked enough to bring killers into the affray.”
Hamer was pushing his luck. He’d chosen the wrong line of approach to ask for my help. My reaction towards his clever ploy to get me to reveal information for his benefit and a possible prosecution against me probably sounded a little hostile. I didn’t care a toss!
“I’ve already told you I wasn’t there at the farm. So why push it? Inside the ministry you probably carry a lot of whack. Outside in the real world you’re way out of your jurisdiction. If you really want to be a good policeman, why don’t you work alongside our wonderful police force scattered around good old London and between you, hopefully you can find the two unscrupulous characters roaming the streets bothering people with the intention of wanting to murder them.” I stood to leave. “Thanks for the wonderful breakfast. I only hope I don’t vomit on the way home when I think of what you tried to pull.”
Hamer was certainly persistent and being the typical policeman, he attempted to put the frighteners on me.
“Be warned, Mister Speed. This is far from over. I implore you to reconsider working alongside me. Those two brutish fiends are still a threat to you. It isn’t going to go away. All you’ve achieved is to stand on the tails of a couple of rattlesnakes without getting bit. You’re treading a dangerous path. I know them; how their devious minds work. They’ll want retribution. They’ll strike back and they might be successful next time. I can’t protect you unless you help me. Hand your problems over to the professionals who get paid for dealing with dangerous villains.”
I smiled confidently. “Don’t fret. I’m a big boy. Must get back or Winston will start tearing my place apart in search of food.”
I turned to leave but checked my stride. I thought he deserved something for buying me breakfast. I asked him, “Ever heard of a wartime operation ‘Huggermugger’?” His expression said he hadn’t. “Look it up in the military archives,” I told him. “It’s very interesting. World War Two, I’m informed. R.A.F. Duxford carried out the operation.”
I probably should have kept my mouth shut because when he finds out what I know, he’ll no doubt be even more suspicious of how I know so much. By giving him that information I was thinking more on the lines that the military might rectify their mistake and bury Craven under his own name with full military honours; then again, the inevitable embarrassment of owning up to their gaff would have them sweeping the mess under the carpet as usual. As for my own enquiries, the right direction had me heading towards McClusky’s which I located at Greenland dock in Greenwich.
I parked the Roadster and went on foot to the dock gate. It was busy when I got there; bustling with traffic passing through security. I used the confusion and sneaked past the security hut alongside a long wheeled-based lorry trundling through the gate. When I’d reached the warehouse where McClusky’s resided, a large red brick and concrete structured building with an array of warning signs indicating a fragile roof, I peeped through the large opened steel doors.
There wasn’t much happening inside; just the horrible scraping no
ise of a solitary bucket loader shovelling piles of grain into sectioned bays. I noticed to the left a steel stairway leading to what appeared to be raised offices which would be worth a look inside. I decided I would return later. In the middle of the night when it was nice and dark, perhaps bring along a selection of tools to break-in and have a look inside when nobody was around. What I would be searching for I’ve no idea.
*
I was back at McClusky’s just after midnight. I was prepared this time, dressed in black combat type clothing, a zipped and buttoned bomber jacket, trousers and black soft soled boots. I considered a balaclava with slits for eyes as a little excessive in case I got caught and it would be hard to explain away. I parked the car down the road, collected a leather bag, something similar to a doctor’s bag, from the boot and walked fast-paced to the main gate and past the security gatehouse with unimaginable ease. I suspected that the lapse of disciplined security was duly down to the attitude of the two guards within the gatehouse, who probably decided that first class security requires first class pay and the pittance that they were probably paid didn’t warrant the effort to get off their backsides in too much of a hurry; such consideration only served to make my task simple.
I didn’t want to use my flashlight with the fear of the beam being seen. Luckily the moonlight flickering through the night clouds lit my way sufficiently to scamper across the compound, having to clutch the leather bag tightly to stop the tools from playing a metallic jingle as I bounced along. I checked that every where was clear at the front of the warehouse before making my way to the rear. It was there where I saw a light emitting from a lower window underneath a steel stairway that led to a first floor doorway which I assumed was a fire exit.
I angled across, away from the building and pushed my back tight against a large steel container and waited there for a few minutes thinking there might be lookouts wandering around the perimeter. Satisfied I was alone I circled the container to check what was on the other side. There I found a lorry tarpaulin covering what I thought was a medium sized vehicle. I peeled back the corner of the sheet and the momentary flash of moonlight lit up, ‘wash me’, finger written in the dirt on the right rear door of a white van. Things were looking promising, and if I was to examine the vehicle closely, I’d have probably discovered a large dent on the front offside with car paint matching the blue colour of the vehicle that the van had hit while attempting to dissect me at Duxford.