Last Out From Roaring Water Bay

by Joe Lane

  Checking with old colleagues! That statement interested me. Maybe Deveron had the missing documentation from the Whitehall archives?

  “It beats me,” I said, casually. “I don’t recall mentioning any names during our discussion.”

  “I’m a little confused, Mister Speed.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Deveron probably thought he had me trapped, and to be truthful, I couldn’t remember if I screamed out the name Craven while I was under duress, not unless Deveron was attempting to piece together things he wasn’t sure about.

  Deveron then showed me his darker side when he burst out angrily, “Let’s stop the pretence, Mister Speed! Craven’s name never made the newspapers for reasons I’m not sure of. Not that it would make any difference to you, as you were already aware of the name Craven. You could have only known that by the identity tags hung around the bones you found in the wreck.”

  I shrugged, expressing my innocence.

  “I think you found something of deep interest at the crash site; something you didn’t want to share with others. Afterwards you covered your tracks from the crash investigators by the intervention of a farmer and his dog who took the credit for the find. I’m well aware of your clashes with Customs & Excise and the Treasure Valuation Committee and I fully understand your reluctance to put yourself in the frame.”

  I’d heard that latter statement quite a few times recently. I never really looked at myself as an honest villain if there was ever such a person.

  “Not just that, Mister Speed. I can’t understand why you should keep silent about your abduction by terrorists which had nothing to do with the discovery of the Spitfire. You even managed to escape from the utter carnage that followed, and yet you kept the entire episode from the reaches of the tabloids. I should have thought you’d have jumped at the chance to tell your story to the papers, and the money the papers would have offered for such a story: ‘man escapes the clutches of terrorism’. I think such a large financial contribution would inflate a dwindling bank balance.”

  “I don’t have a dwindling bank balance.”

  “No, I shouldn’t think a man with your reputation would be struggling for money. But you’re missing the point, Mister Speed. I think you’re searching for something more substantial; something that requires great distance from police interference. I’m interested to know what?”

  “Vengeance is high on my agenda. And I don’t want to be killing people in front of the Peelers.”

  Deveron smiled, obviously thinking I was jesting. “There’s more than vengeance clicking away in your mind, Mister Speed. You’re a treasure hunter. Am I jolting the correct nerve ends, Mister, Speed?”

  “More like you’re beginning to get on my nerves,” I snapped.

  “How is that, Mister Speed, we’ve only just met.”

  “Have we? Maybe we’ve only met face to face now, but what about your connection with events in London. Someone sent a couple of goons to extract information from the farmer whose field the plane was found in and tormented a photography friend of mine. Those friends of mine were eventually murdered because the killers thought they knew where a certain item could be located.”

  Deveron seemed puzzled by my accusation. “And you think I am involved in such wickedness?”

  “You’re standing deep in shit, Deveron. Let’s start with the name McClusky. That’s an easy Irish name for you to remember. Shayna knows all about him, so you must know him too?”

  Deveron thought the name through. “I’m not familiar with a McClusky.”

  “Well they’re all interested in a crashed Spitfire in Berkshire too.”

  Deveron went a shade whiter than he already was. “Mister Speed, you’re making a terrible mistake. I would never be involved in such drastic circumstances. What Shayna does is her own private affair.”

  “That’s frigging bullshit! Throughout your professional career you’ve created men designed to kill others. So how hard would it be for you to dig for some hired killers from the sewers of the criminal underworld to do your dirty work?”

  Deveron was visibly shaking. He was no longer the confident man he probably thought he was a moment ago, though I couldn’t tell if his shaking was responsible for his guilt or the fact that he was innocent.

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort!” his tinny voice echoed in protest. “I’m not acquainted with any of those men mentioned, Mister Speed. I ordered no such instructions. Good god, man! I can’t even get out of this damn chair without assistance.”

  “You don’t need legs to issue orders.”

  “You’re accusing the wrong person, Mister Speed.”

  “How come Shayna was there in London, at McClusky’s place with her terrorist croakers? Now, strangely, she is here with you. One doesn’t need the powers of deduction to connect a deceitful bunch of congregating warlords. Two and two make four and you have a team of professional killers from both sides of Europe.”

  “You’re completely wrong, Mister Speed! There’s no connection whatsoever between Shayna’s misdoings and myself, I assure you. It is purely a Grandfather and Granddaughter relationship between us and no more. She is my illegitimate daughter’s child, a grandchild I never knew I had until two years ago.”

  “How convenient it all sounds.”

  “It’s the truth, Mister Speed! Because of my reluctance to marry Shayna’s grandmother, she instead dashed off to America. It was only after I retired from the military that I found out all this. Sadly the daughter I didn’t know died giving birth to Shayna. After I settled back in Ireland, Shayna became a regular visitor from America.”

  “And you let her use your home as a terrorist base?”

  “I never once suspected she was an active terrorist until three months ago when a particular bunch of activists began arriving at my home. Friends, Shayna assured me, dressed in military uniforms and playing war-games. She forgot that my life was spent fighting unseen enemies. My eyes are failing but I know terrorist activity when I see one. I soon dragged the truth out of her. Alas I’m too old to dissuade her from her actions though I tried. And I certainly won’t turn against her.”

  “She’s a terrorist and terrorists kill people.”

  “I don’t see her that way, Mister Speed. She’s my angel. I can’t betray her to the authorities; not now or ever. She is the only piece of life I have left in this world. In a way I admire her. She has the spirit of a true warrior, the same wild enthusiasm I had when I was young; that same ego; a chip off the old block you might say.”

  “That’s maybe all lovely to you, but Shayna and her band of merry terrorists subjected me to some unpleasant treatment and ruined expensive items of clothing I was wearing at the time.”

  “You can’t blame me for that, Mister Speed. My only interest with you concerns Craven’s Spitfire, and nothing else. I have no reason to send killers after you. I’m only interested in one piece of vital information, and I wouldn’t get that if I was to kill the messenger; now would I?”

  Deveron wasn’t going to crack in a million years. He had too much going for him for me to lay the blame directly on him. Of course I could have been wrong that he was connected to the deaths of Tommy and Lens. Perhaps I hadn’t been thinking straight; anger and revenge blanketing my direction. Deveron could be telling the truth, and then again, the easiest form of defence is to lie through your teeth. I do it myself regularly, but I still hadn’t finished with the bastard just yet. I still had a nasty surprise waiting for him.

  I said, “I may have misjudged you on the matter of my problems.”

  “Forget it, Mister Speed. Tell me about the Spitfire you found?”

  A little subdued, I shrugged and said, “There wasn’t much left of the plane, a smashed cockpit with a skeleton strapped to the seat, hardly distinguishable as an aircraft.”

  “I know all that, Mister Speed. I also knew the M.o.D. had released the wrong name of the exhumed pilot. Straight away I realized there was a mix-up. I knew Rowland.
He flew a Spitfire Mark One. He’s still out there, waiting to be found. But you would have already known that straightaway since you saw the name on the tags around the skeletons neck.” Deveron’s eyes widened slowly. “It was Craven’s remains you found?”

  “That was the name on the tags.”

  Deveron was thoughtful.” After all these years lost, now he’s returned.”

  “Under the name Rowland,” I reminded him.

  “And it’s going to be difficult to change that without upsetting relatives.”

  “So you don’t think it’s wise to advise the MoD that they’ve made a huge mistake and they should put things in perspective?”

  “What concerns me more, Mister Speed, is how the mistake was made when the tags around the body clearly stated the name Craven, as you have assured me.”

  “Somebody substituted the tags. And then that same somebody craftily switched the documentation that identified the two pilots.”

  “How can you be positive about that, Mister Speed?”

  “I can’t. But it would explain a great deal.”

  “Who could possibly be in a position to alter such things?”

  “You would be, Deveron.” I’d caught him cold. Nobody would suspect a retired Chief Air Marshall.”

  Deveron expressed his horror. “Me! Is this a private joke or has someone put you up to this? Has Shayna anything to do with this? She’s always playing practical jokes to cheer me up.”

  “I can’t eradicate you from blame, Deveron? You still carry some whack at the MoD. You’re probable part of the Stonemasons sect and got one of your comrades to change things discreetly.”

  “You’re talking absolute nonsense, Mister Speed. There would be no need for me to conduct such a dastardly deed; none whatsoever! Where are you getting this pathetic information from? I demand to know?”

  “Craven told me himself.”

  Deveron went whiter than white. “Craven’s dead!”

  “How would you know, Deveron? Did you see him die?”

  “His plane crashed. He was listed as missing in action; it’s in the military records for all to see. And you found him, Mister Speed. You brought him home.”

  “Yes I found Wing Commander Craven. You do remember your flying partner then?”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “You’ve done some research and you’re deeper in this than I imagined, Mister Speed?”

  “I’ve been busy, put it that way. And the most conclusive slice of research was that you were Craven’s escort the fatal day he went missing.”

  Deveron looked as if he was about to throw up. He swallowed hard. “Yes, that was the last time I saw him. I must admit I went cold and my spine tingled when I read about the plane found in the Berkshire countryside. Even then I knew it was Craven. Strangely I sensed his spiritual presence and that he’d returned to haunt me for leaving him behind. I shall have to seek forgiveness for not finding him at the time; that he never received the hero’s burial he fully deserved.”

  “The dead don’t forgive. That’s left to the living. It’s the living where you must seek your repentance. I’m afraid I don’t make those arrangements.”

  The door to the study opened and a rather scrumptious looking maid came into the room carrying a tea tray. Perhaps growing old isn’t too bad after all, I thought lecherously.

  “Thank you, my dear!” Deveron said to her. “I’ve changed my mind. Can you pour me a neat, double whiskey, I think I’m going to need one to thin my blood, I’m beginning to experience high blood pressure again.” He turned to me. “Can I offer you one or do you prefer tea?”

  “Tea’s fine.”

  I thought I caught a lecherous glint in Deveron’s saggy eyes too as she poured the tea. She placed a cup and saucer in my hand and smiled, crossed the room to a drinks cabinet, returned with a glass of Irish whiskey for Deveron, and quietly left the room.

  I swigged some tea. Deveron twisted the glass in his hand and raised it slightly.

  “I think a toast is in order no thanks to you, Mister Speed. What I failed to do during my entire military career, you came along and found Craven’s Spitfire within a day even if it was by sheer accident.”

  “It’s a knack I have that doesn’t come cheap.”

  “I’d always hoped Craven had perhaps survived the crash. Maybe he’d lost his memory and was holed up in some faraway hospital and had probably started a new life elsewhere after the war. It’s been a hard burden to carry all these years that I never found my dearest friend.”

  I nearly choked on a mouthful of tea when he mentioned his dearest friend. I said casually, “Is it normal for a friend to shoot their friend in the back when they’re escorting a fellow pilot on an important mission together?”

  Deveron looked at me hard, his eyes widening. I thought he was on the verge of a coronary, especially when one side of his mouth dropped slightly. I noticed too that his hand was squeezing his whiskey glass in an impossible attempt to crush the thick glass. He snapped out of his temporary shock and swiftly gulped down the remnants of his drink in readiness for his defensive lies that he’d probably rehearsed a million times over the years of his guilt.

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me with that one, Mister Speed?” His robotic tinny voice actually sounded squeaky with fright. “What exactly are you getting at?”

  “Which part of ‘shoot friend in the back’ are you struggling to understand, so I can clarify it for you?”

  “Not one god damned word you’ve said! Do you know what you’re implying?”

  “That you shot Craven from the skies.”

  “That’s preposterous!”

  I placed my cup and saucer down on the table, as I calmly said, “Is it?”

  “Most certainly it is, Mister Speed! Why would I want to do such a terrible thing to a wonderful man?”

  “I think you’re going to need another shot of whiskey?”

  “Am I likely to need another? One’s usually enough.”

  I never gave him time to refuse. In quick time I’d rose from my chair, snatched the glass from him, ignored his weak protest, crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured him a hefty whiskey, returned, plonked the glass back into his bony hand, and sat back down waiting for his bullshit excuses I’d given him the extra time to concoct.

  “Isn’t this all a little bit dramatic? I’m confused as to what you are insinuating I’ve done that is wrong, Mister Speed?”

  “You shot down Craven’s Spitfire from the sky causing him to crash.”

  Deveron’s eyes flared. “How dare you even make the suggestion? Good god! I’m a man of integrity and honour. I fought to free the world from the might of Hitler. I put my life on the line countless times in many aerial battles during the war. A Battle of Britain war hero no less. And, may it be heard, my entire existence since the war has been devoted to serving the security of the United Kingdom.”

  “Oh I don’t doubt your courage, old man. I’m just curious as to why your Spitfire fired on Craven’s Spitfire.”

  “No! No! It’s not true.” He threw his whiskey down his throat, spilling a few drops down the side of his mouth which dripped off his chin.

  “It happened all right, while you were engaged in ‘Operation Huggermugger’.”

  Deveron cringed. “How…how on earth do you know anything about ‘Huggermugger? That was a war time operation kept secret.”

  “I’ve done my research impeccably. Operation Huggermugger involved the hunt for a fictitious Japanese cargo submarine, the I-52. The submarine I-52 number two, that is. Submarine I-52 number one was sunk by the Americans in the Atlantic. Apparently, sub number two was never found; conclusion, it never existed. But Craven found it. His reconnaissance camera snapped the big Jap can. He wanted to tell the world and would have done so if he hadn’t crashed after you shot his plane from the sky.”

  Deveron surprised me when he attempted to turn the tables on me. He pointed his crooked forefinger accusingly in my direction. “You-you thief!” he
spluttered. “You took the camera from the wreck. Wait a minute! The photographer friend you mentioned. Good god! You’ve had the film developed. You’ve found what I spent a lifetime trying to locate.” His eyeballs nearly squeezed from their sockets in anticipation; actual excitement in his voice and not one bit interested that I’d exposed him as a murderer. “The submarine is here in Ireland; somewhere in the regions of Roaring Water Bay. You’re searching for it? God damn it you are!”

  Frigging hell, I could have strangled the sod there and then. “Don’t try to twist way from your guilt, Deveron. You’re a treacherous sod and nothing else. You shot down a British aircraft and you killed a British pilot who put his trust in you to protect him from enemy attacks. And don’t even attempt to deny it because I tracked down a witness to the incident.”

  Deveron frowned suspiciously. “There were no witnesses.”

  “I found one. The witness I located had an impeccable memory. He even described the action in graphic detail. It was a brutal attack on a defenceless craft and you were the hidden enemy.”

  What a frigging arsehole I’d have been if Deveron was to get a look at my star witness, the illiterate Billy Slade, re-enacting what he displayed to me back on the grounds of Three Trees.

  In all honesty, I had expected Deveron to crack under the pressure because I knew I had him on that one, but he did the opposite and had another go at me instead. “I find it strange that you failed to disclose your imaginative theory to the proper authorities?”

  “It’s what happened and you know it.”

  “Am I to be blackmailed, Mister Speed? Money for silence, is that your game?”

  Anger had me on the edge of my seat. “You frigging smug bastard, Deveron. Money won’t bring back the lives of innocent people. But don’t fret old man. I’m not here to bring you to justice and I’ve no intentions of being your judge and jury. You’re dying anyway, so you tell me.” I thought I was a bit callous with what I said, but isn’t life a bitch. “I’m here to find out whether you sanctioned the killings of a farmer in Wiltshire and a photographer in London. That’s my goal!”