by M C Jacques
THE
PATH
OF THE
BULLET
The Cambridge Mysteries
Volume 1
M C JACQUES
Copyright © 2015 M C Jacques
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To my friends
Cambridge Evening Chronicle, Wednesday March 14th, 2000
Army Sergeant Found Dead at Royal War Museum!
Cambridge CID are investigating the unexplained death of a Falklands War veteran last night in an exhibition hall at Europe’s premier war and aviation museum.
“We are baffled by this unfortunate event. Sergeant Graham Smith was a decorated soldier and a regular and popular patron of the Royal War Museum,” commented Inspector Paul Burrows of Cambridgeshire CID.
“We would ask anyone who can throw any light whatsoever upon Sergeant Smith’s death to come forward. Whatever we are told will be treated in the closest confidence, wherever possible.”
Asked if Smith’s death was in any way connected with rumours of a Middle Eastern terrorist cell working in and around Cambridge, the Inspector replied, “It’s too early to say anything certain at this stage but any such likelihood is tenuous, to say the least.” One local woman who wished not to be named said, “We heard guns and a lot of noise; it was terrible.”
“The deceased was known to have financial and family problems, and had recently been treated for alcohol abuse, including a stint at an eminent London rehabilitation centre,” he added.
Sergeant Smith’s family and relatives have been informed. Details of the funeral and a planned memorial service will be announced soon.
1
Wing Commander Mountfitchet meets Matt Fothergill in his office at the Royal War Museum, Tuxford…
It had been a nothing sort of a day and Matt Fothergill knew that he had drunk more of his favourite strong Colombian coffee than was usual and, as he begrudgingly acknowledged to himself, more single malt than was probably necessary. But the problems had just kept mounting up, like a car scrap yard he pictured, and the stack was reaching skyscraper proportions! Mountfitchet might well be a pain, and a snob of sorts, he thought, but, damn it, he was probably correct in a number of his protests and ravings, too. ‘Things are not what they should be around this place!’ the old soak would fire.
Bang! thought Fothergill – the echoes of Mountfitchet’s last tirade resounding about his mind’s cavities.
‘No good you trying to pull the wool over our eyes, you know, Fothergill! No good at all, my man! It’s about time you began to square up to matters, you know! Head in the sand stuff doesn’t even work in the desert! God, no!’
Bang! thought Fothergill. Further reverberations.
Something was seriously wrong at the Royal War Museum, Tuxford, and the responsibility of sorting it all out fell weightily upon his own, already over-stressed, shoulders, as the Museum Director. It would not go away of its own accord! And – to make matters worse and even more immediate – Mountfitchet in person had just pulled up outside in his vintage Rover, prompt as ever, the old codger! Soon he’d be here, as real as Monty was to Rommel, to pile on the coals, constituting an ever so slightly overweight waddling Nemesis, a hiccupping but pungent Waterloo, or even a surreal, but horribly real, El Alamein.
Mountfitchet: Fothergill was aware that he’d fought in the Second World War, had been schooled at Repton, and that his father had been an aviator, too. His mother, well, she had been some sort of multi-lingual medic who had served a variety of regimes and charities as a medical aide in Tanzania, Bangladesh and the Belgian Congo. He knew all this simply because the scrupulously efficient Ms Sarah Millar, the museum’s Visits Coordinator, officially, book-keeper, general secretary and do-it-all, unofficially, had taken the time to check the old codger out! ‘We can’t have just anyone consuming so much of your valuable time, Matt!’ she had insisted more than once. ‘Besides, we should know exactly who this anyone really is.’ She didn’t like him – Mountfitchet, that is. Matt had observed this fact on numerous occasions; her tone, her asides, her slight, but almost reactionary, pouting at the very mention of his name, even at Executive Staff Meetings, gave it away and left no room for appeal.
What really grated Fothergill so sorely was the fact that he had realised (some time back) that he was, on this occasion, batting for the wrong side. And he became still more perturbed when he couldn’t recall another single instance of when he had been so stupid. He was wearing the uniform, the team colours, of his stated and of his spiritual enemies. And he felt rather like he imagined a Fifth Columnist might have done at Chartwell or somewhere similar, in the War Office perhaps, or at Bletchley Park.
Treacherous and traitorous he might feel, but he knew that any disproportionate actions would attract greater media attention and put his own job, not to mention his managerial reputation in the City, on the line. Some, inside and outside the RWM Tuxford, would gladly line up to take a pop at him. Certainly, he mused, his restructuring programme of Catering had not been popular, nor had the recent introduction of the modern, brushed-steel, counter-style furniture at Reception. The discontent amongst the ranks was audible, at times, and visible most of the time. What would happen if these dissenters felt that their finger was near an accessible trigger, asked the slightly nervous former pilot and current Director of the Royal War Museum, Tuxford?
“To hell with all your damned precautions and red tape, Fothergill! A good man, a sergeant in the British Army, for God’s sake, has been shot dead, cold dead, in this museum – and God knows how you allowed that to happen! – working exhibits and items of equipment are being sabotaged, public safety is very definitely being seriously compromised, and you expect me to sit back, think of England and to take it lying down?”
“Wing Commander, there is protocol here to take into account: Europe… all sorts of things!”
“Exactly! All sorts of things, like the health and safety of the British public, for example! There was protocol here, Fothergill, of precisely the wrong sort! I myself am going to deal with this fiasco before it becomes too late for even our special forces to be employed! There’s intrigue here of the worst kind and it’s going to stop. No! Let me finish. You can either go along with this or you can risk facing the consequences! And it’s not only the Friends and the Trustees you’ll need to worry about! God, no! All hell will let loose should you try and stand in my way! I’ll see to that, by God!” He sighed, taking a deep breath
soon thereafter. His pale knuckles contrasting his blushed hands, spread apart and propping him as he leaned across Fothergill’s teak desk. By this time Mountfitchet’s neck, too, had become cinder-reddened.
For his part, Fothergill stared dismally downward, desk gazing, trying to ascertain whether or not this mess-hogging old gin-merchant had actually just threatened him or not. A pallid frown flashed across his brow as he tried to bring to mind the precise phrase that the cricketer, Ian Botham, had used, some years back, to describe a certain cricketing body…
“The local police, quite understandably, want rid of it, too; they daren’t move for fear of treading on this government body or that MOD body’s foot! Think about it, man! What can they do? Their own hands are cuffed! We’ve got to act ourselves, the RWM, and we’ve got to act now; pronto! And I think I know what to do. No! Hear me out, Fothergill, and for heaven’s sake, either sit down or stand up straight and don’t look like an old misery guts! We’re not done yet! Not by a long chalk!”
“So what exactly do you propose to do, or what should be done, about the situation, Mountfitchet?” Fothergill almost shuddered as he realised that, quite subliminally, he’d omitted the old beggar’s title!
Mountfitchet looked furtively at his flinching adversary as he secured direct eye contact: linear and tactical. He then paced about in a small circular orbit in front of his opponent’s desk, his eyes frequently relocking themselves, with radar precision, onto those of his prey.
“You are worried about bad publicity, aren’t you, Fothergill? That’s what it all boils down to, isn’t it…? Well, speak, man!”
“Well, if you choose to put it…”
“Right. Jackass reason for not doing anything, if you ask me! But in any case, that aside, I think that I might know just the fellow to help us out at this juncture. He’s from military stock. His old man was a mate of mine, a damn fine mate and a bloody good chap all round! Do you hear me, Fothergill? What do you say about that, eh?”
“Well, I suppose if you reckon that…”
“Yes, I do reckon that! And that’s sorted that out as well! Damn fine accord, Fothergill! We’ll have this mess sorted out sooner than France fell to the Nazis, what! And I’ll make account to the Board of Trustees, too. They’ll be relieved that you have come to your senses, man, even if it might be just a little late in the day… Anyhow, who knows, old man, you might just even be able to cling on to your job if this all comes off, what!” Fothergill could see no particular cause for his adversary’s bout of enthusiasm, or for what he considered to be his ‘ballistic’ sense of humour, and looked back plainly at the older, superior airman.
Fothergill remained seated, watching as Mountfitchet made his exit, which included a courteous, but dutiful rather than deferential, nod of the head before he swung the office door wide open. What a straight back he has for a man of his age, thought Fothergill, studiously regarding the old pilot’s posture and motion, rather as one would marvel at some exotic, yet lethal, bird of prey or a big cat on safari.
2
Jill Prestons in Matt Fothergill’s office…
What an extremely penetrating voice that man has, for his age! thought Jill Prestons, who had been hovering in the serene greyness of the pleasantly uneventful corridor immediately outside the Director’s office, longingly eyeing the four or five bars of milk chocolate whole-nut queuing in one of the vending machine’s alleys. Now, though, it was her turn to advance.
Jill was quietly pleased with her station in life and couldn’t quite compute why she was not perfectly contented. She hadn’t quite decided whether she actually loved Matt Fothergill or merely longed for that intimacy a female ‘junior’ often seeks from her boss. An acknowledgement of her beauty and of her feminine prowess was, after all, what it was all about, at least that’s the way in which she liked to think of it. That way, the situation was kept fairly tidy. He was married, though, and that made things tricky and, potentially at least, quite messy, too. Jill was certainly confident that she had the measure of Lisa, Matt’s all too frumpy wife.
Apart from being more than ten years her junior, Jill confidently sported – and frequently bore – her longer and altogether better legs, a slimmer waistline (despite her admittedly larger frame), a more angular cranium and facial structure, and infinitely better posture. Lisa, mind, Jill reluctantly acknowledged, did hold the edge when it came to matters of the chest; Jill had – only quite recently – been rather astounded when, on an unusually warm weekday afternoon, the usually well-shrouded Lisa had bounced in to Matt’s office clad only in tight fitting jeans (tragically binding in a broad posterior and coarse stumpy legs) and an extremely close-fitting T-shirt. It wasn’t just the sizeable dimensions of Lisa’s chest which had caught Jill’s attention but, moreover, that those two undulating and considerable protrusions defied gravity, being entirely unassisted by any evident corsetry.
In response, Jill had promptly increased the number and vigour of the press-ups, sit-ups, and other repetitive exercises in her already rigorous daily routine, and also swapped her evening Chianti for a lower calorie pear wine. She had managed to convince herself, reasonably successfully at times, that such observations and responses were merely an outworking of her competitive feminine spirit. It had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the stuffy, uninspiring Matt, who happened to be her boss and closest colleague from among the RWM’s senior management officials. And, besides, Jill had not yet quite been able to fathom the depths, or the shallows, of her boss’s relationship with the lithe Sarah Millar, Head of Marketing; an altogether atypical specimen, by any gauge.
“So what did the old rogue want, or demand, this time?” Jill pouted ever so slightly as she enquired, the fingers and thumbs of her lean hands half encircling her trim waist, which certainly had become even trimmer of late, Matt had observed, giving credence to Lisa’s unsubtle and ever-intensifying programme of cautioning him about ‘that woman’!
Matt pondered, fingers interlocked, thumbs rotating. “Action”, he eventually uttered. “He demanded that we do something rather than simply make noises and say things. And, you know, Jilly, I think he’s right. I’ve agreed, anyway, sanctioned it, if you like.”
“Sanctioned what exactly?” she retorted snappily. “And don’t call me Jilly, Matty!”
He thought for a few seconds before answering. “Action, I suppose. Some sort of action. God knows what exactly, but Mountfitchet certainly seems to. He’s got something or someone firmly in view and he made it clear to me that he’s already sounded out the committees.” The last word being Matt and Jill’s well-used collective term for the representatives of the Friends of the Royal War Museum, Tuxford, and the same museum’s Trustees or Governors.
“Wily old fox, him!” Her eyes beamed deep irritation.
“You said it! But something does need to be done. Whoever did kill Sergeant Smith could easily strike again. It was so cleverly worked out. Threading an improvised sniper’s rifle through the turret of that German Sturmgeschütz Three was, in its own way, a stroke of brilliance. The police really do seem to be no further forward, despite their best efforts – they put some good men on it as well, Jill; even Mountfitchet acknowledges that.”
“Ha! And since when, exactly, have you – of all people – been bothered by a stuffy old sergeant being taken out? You, who are always sounding off about this arrogant major or that impossible colonel on the committees! That is rich! You were turned down by the RAF, weren’t you? Didn’t you once tell me?” The terseness of her tone and terminology was tempered only by the faint smirk now emergent from her face. By now, having edged across the floor, closer to her boss, she had also resumed her initial posture – contrived through having been stirred and egged on by her own indignation at her boss’s supposed hypocrisy.
Fothergill’s dark eyes flashed up and down her grooved profile. “Well, seeing as you care to mention it, I am bothered because he was ‘tak
en out’, as you so casually choose to phrase it, in m… in this museum, the one I’m in charge of! And, the odds are, I suppose, that it was a member of the staff or, at the very least, a person associated with the RWM in some way who perpetrated it. Just think about it for a moment! That person…”
“Don’t spit, Matty!” She coughed out. “That person?” she fastened on. “And we both know who that might be, don’t we, Matty dear?” Her tone was imperious rather than inquisitive.
“He or she,” continued Fothergill, a little more slowly, a little more deliberately, “is still at large and is very likely known to us… possibly even one of us! Amongst us on a daily basis, for Pete’s sake, think about it! This is worrying on every level!”
“Particularly your own level, of course!” muttered Prestons, addressing the unexciting office carpet.
He tilted his head slightly and a frown emerged before he continued. “Look. Drop the tough girl act with me; you’re too nice for all that stuff! And besides, if we’re playing hardball, you often rant and rave about that over-friendly lesbian so-and-so who had you thrown out of the cadets! What was it? Because you wouldn’t play doctors and field nurses with her, or something like that? What other names did you call her? That’s it, she was a ‘military witch’, wasn’t she? An ‘Endora with hand-grenades’! So don’t you dare insinuate that I have any reason or motive for killing poor old Smith. Button it, okay; otherwise, start looking elsewhere for your bread and gruel! Yes, all right, I might find one or two of our military associates bloomin’ hard work to rub along with, but I certainly don’t harbour an inveterate hatred of all things military like you seem to at times! And I did let Mountfitchet move things on, today!” (Not that I’d had much say in the matter, he thought in a flash.) “And I’d hardly have done that if I had anything to hide, would I? And, lest we forget, I’m not the failed cadet!”