Singapore 52

by Bailey, Murray

  The poor man started to cry again. His mates came over. One took the pack whilst the other put his arm around Franks and supported him.

  I was fuming and instead of getting into dry clothes, went to the office block intending to confront Vernon. He wasn’t there so I ranted at Robshaw instead. I knew I was being unreasonable, it wasn’t the lieutenant’s fault. Vernon was the CO. It would have to be pretty bad for one of his officers to defy him. It would be one man against another and, in my experience, the senior officer always won such battles.

  “Is it common?” I asked once I’d calmed down.

  “Pretty much,” Robshaw said. “He’s quite sadistic… or being generous maybe he’s just thoughtless. He thinks it’s a stronger message to make someone suffer because of their stupidity. The equivalent of an eye for an eye. Hurt your hand, he’ll make you use it. Get ringworm, he’ll make you wear wet clothes. And Private Franks is a classic: get sunburn and carry a heavy load so it hurts like hell.”

  “Heavy load?”

  “There will have been a rock in the man’s pack.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “It’s going to stop,” I said. “Before I leave here, I’m going to make sure of that.”

  On reflection, I was glad Vernon hadn’t been there because I wasn’t ready to declare my hand. I would confront him at the right time, on my terms.

  Cooke’s book was now dry and I picked it up. I flicked through it as I walked back to my room but I was in no mood to do any work for the rest of the day. The sun was out and I hadn’t exercised much in the morning so I did my full routine, went for a run along the coast road and then a swim in the pool at the barracks.

  I ate dinner alone and went to bed early, setting my alarm for one in the morning.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Hoping I looked inconspicuous, I crossed Coleman Bridge. I wore the black clothes I’d bought earlier. The top fitted comfortably although the trousers were too short. My belt didn’t really match but I needed it for my torch. However, it was dark except for the well-spaced sodium lamps, and the smattering of people on the street didn’t seem interested in my strange attire.

  The Singapore River was slick-black with the boats strung across its width for the night. A constant low creak and groan came from below as the boats moved against one another.

  On the far side of the bridge I spotted the dinghy at the foot of the steps. I’d asked the inspector for a favour and he’d arranged for the boat to be left for me.

  The engine started on my second pull on the cord and I untied from the quay. Within seconds I was under Elgin Bridge and following the channel between tied up boats. The river snaked like a reverse S as it widened and then curved back and narrowed under the Cavenagh footbridge and then immediately under Anderson.

  At the promontory, I swung west into the inner roads. The wind was now in my face and water splashed up, stinging my eyes. There were few lights on the water and the little dinghy bounced through inky darkness. I could see the piers, Floating Pier and Clifford Pier, and beyond them the lights of Empire Docks. But I didn’t hug the shore. Instead I found a line of anchored ships and followed those.

  Even if someone saw me out here, I reckoned they would pay no attention. It was just a police boat on a typical patrol after all.

  Initially, the vessels were small and Asian. After a few hundred yards the small ships were replaced by huge cargo boats sailing under flags of many countries.

  When I was in line with the end of Keppel Harbour, I turned off the engine.

  The Windrush was no longer in dock. In its place was a two funnel American troopship, the USS General William Weigel. It was probably returning from Korea, overladen with maybe four or even five thousand men on board. Many would be wounded and I knew the worst would have been taken to Alexandra Hospital on the island.

  The giant American ship dominated the quay and was midway between the cargo docks at the far end and the depots and offices nearest me. A handful of people on the quayside looked like dock workers. I could see the guard at the gate and there was a US MP—we called them snowdrops on account of their white helmets—talking to him. I watched as the snowdrop walked to the ship and stood by the gangplank. He seemed relaxed enough and I judged that he wasn’t waiting for men returning late from shore leave. The arrival of more MPs with stragglers would have seriously hampered what I had planned.

  I decided against the engine and used a paddle to cross the channel. I aimed for the end of the harbour where a double fence ran from the road to the water, separating the public and secure docks.

  Just inside the fence, the buildings started, ghostly in the faint sodium lights. My target was halfway between the fence and the troopship. I tied up at the fence and watched the dock. The snowdrop was about eighty yards away and walking towards me. At the end of the troopship, he turned and I decided he was just patrolling to relieve boredom. I’d done it myself many times.

  He was now facing the other way and no one else was looking so I pulled myself onto the quay and jogged to the sheds

  Once there, I stood still, waiting in the shadows. No one had reacted to my run and I began to move along the edge of the building.

  Twenty yards from the Stores Depot, I flattened myself against the woodwork. The building’s door opened, shedding a wedge of light onto the quay. A man stepped out and closed the door. He walked to the adjacent building and was gone. A clerk or night watchman maybe? I couldn’t tell.

  I ran lightly to the door that had just been opened. This was the risky part: I had no idea if there would be someone else inside. Would Pantelis be standing there like last time?

  I slipped in and closed the door behind me. I was alone.

  This time I could take a proper look around. Six light bulbs hung from the ceiling. They weren’t overly bright, but their wide brimmed shades reflected what there was downwards making the most of the illumination.

  It was a well organised shed. Pallets with boxes were piled in four rows. Each row had a ladder to reach the highest shelves. As I’d noted last time, the rooms were on the left and I could see metal filing cabinets at the rear. It was a typical quartermaster’s store, but bigger and everything was boxed rather than on display and ready for distribution. The one obvious thing that was missing was a secure area. There was no armoury section.

  I took a quick look at the labels on nearby boxes to confirm they were the usual paraphernalia then switched my attention to the rooms.

  I passed the first office that was more of a storage room, the second which was probably a meeting room, and then stopped at the third door: Pantelis’s office.

  A quick try of the handle told me the door was locked. Expert lock-pickers made it look so easy but this was navy property and I didn’t think it was even worth a try. I took out my torch, reversed it and hit the glass near the door handle. The breaking sound seemed loud in the otherwise silent warehouse, but I didn’t pause. If I was caught, I was caught. There was no point being caught half-hearted.

  I extracted some shards and eased my hand through the hole I’d made. A flick of the latch and I was in.

  To the right of the door were two switches—one for the office, one for the shed lights. I switched off all the lights and used the torch.

  Moving fast, I pulled a ledger from the nearest cabinet. It was a record of cargo, goods on ships and cargo transferred to the docks. I pulled another and another. They were the same. I moved onto a row of lever arch folders. Although I had never been involved with shipping cargo, I surmised these were bills of lading—originals that would support the ledger entries.

  I pulled out a different style of ledger. This one had financial records relating to customs duty. Another I checked looked like fees for storage at the docks. Big business, I thought, although why companies brought goods to Singapore to be stored and then shipped away later, I didn’t know.

  As quickly as I could, I flicked through the remaining folders and ledgers. Nothing leapt out at me as interesting. I shone
the torch on the desk. It was an ugly grey metal functional thing and immaculately tidy. There was a blotter and a pen holder, containing a number of perfectly sharpened pencils. The desk had two drawers—one small, at the top, and a larger one beneath.

  I opened the top drawer to find stationery items. I picked up a metal ruler and closed the drawer.

  The second drawer was locked. A small chrome keyhole top left of the bottom drawer. I placed the ruler in the gap between the drawers, just above the lock and tried to work it from side to side. Nothing gave.

  I pulled my sleeve down to protect my hand, positioned the ruler against the internal lever and punched the other end with my palm. This time there was a crack, metal snapping from metal, and the drawer opened slightly.

  I shone the torch over the contents. It was a neat pile of five identical, hand-sized books with grey covers. I took out the first. It was another ledger with entries entered in the same fashion as the stock movement log at Tanglin Barracks. This was Pantelis’s equivalent record.

  I removed the other four and for the first time saw a sixth book. This one was half the size and black.

  I flicked through the larger ones to confirm that they were identical to the first but with different dates on the covers. The dates ran sequentially. Five ledgers covering two years. I picked up the little black book and turned the pages. It was similar to the other ledgers except it covered less than a year’s transactions and it overlapped with the records of three of the others. This was a separate type of record and this one had Greek letters. I visualized Cooke’s notebook and recalled the Greek letters I’d seen in that too.

  There also seemed to be a cross-reference code that I mapped across to a larger ledger. I found that alpha-theta was a kettle. Eighteen hundred had come in and twenty had gone out via the black book.

  Before I could check anything else, there was a click. The building door was opened and the lights came on.

  Acting on instinct, I ducked and moved to a position behind the door. I briefly glimpsed someone through the crack in the door. Was it just a clerk or could he be armed? I couldn’t see. As I prayed it was the former, my mind processed the options.

  The man disappeared down an aisle and I took my chance. Opening the door, I kept low, shoulder-rolling towards the cabinets beside the office. I stood side on and held my breath.

  I was part shielded by the office wall and part by the cabinets. That was the upside. The downside was I couldn’t see anymore.

  I could hear his footsteps: toecaps clacking on the concrete floor.

  At first he seemed confident but then he stopped. Was he at the door? Was he looking at the broken glass? Then there were three quick steps and the unmistakable sound of a revolver being cocked.

  The man barked, “Out now or I’ll shoot!”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Easing forward, I peeked out from behind the cabinets. If the man with the gun was looking, the game was up.

  He wasn’t. But he was neither a clerk nor the night watchman. It was Pantelis.

  The lieutenant was about six feet away and side on. He knew someone was here but not precisely where.

  Should I confront him? I rapidly dismissed the idea. I wasn’t ready. So instead, I took a step and did three things. I hit the light switch so that, as Pantelis turned towards the movement, he might be disorientated. In the darkness, I struck out and down with his left arm knocking Pantelis’s gun hand as it swung towards me. At the same time, still with forward momentum, I swung an uppercut with the torch in my hand.

  Contact.

  Pantelis crumpled to the floor, the gun clattering to the ground as he fell. I switched on the lights and checked him. Pantelis was out for the count.

  I picked up his gun and stuck it in my belt. A weapon that wasn’t signed out by me might come in handy. Then I went back into Pantelis’s office and collected his ledgers: the five grey ones and the smaller black one.

  With them under my arm, I headed for the shed door and opened it a crack. I looked towards the troopship and saw the snowdrop was still patrolling. He was walking in the opposite direction so I slipped out and retraced my route to the fence.

  “Hey, halt!”

  I swung around. A snowdrop was standing in the shadows. He flicked away a cigarette and walked towards me. I should have guessed they’d be two snowdrops. This one had just been taking a sneaky break out of sight.

  “Evening,” I said casually and pointed to the patrol boat. “I’m here on police business.”

  He glanced at the inflatable and I could see he bought my explanation. POLICE written in large letters on both sides undoubtedly helped.

  I continued: “We’re looking for an AWOL British warrant officer. I thought I saw someone come ashore just here.” I glanced up and down the quay as if looking for places someone could hide.

  “Maybe it was just you, having a quick smoke.”

  “I…” he stammered.

  “It’s all right, soldier. None of my business.”

  He nodded and said, “AWOL Brit? No, sir. No activity here tonight.”

  I climbed into the dinghy. “Right, keep your eyes peeled. He’s been on the run for a few of days, must be pretty desperate.”

  The engine fired on my first pull and I gave the man a friendly wave before engaging the drive. “Don’t worry,” I called, “I won’t mention the cigarette.”

  I headed back via the shoreline just in case the snowdrop was watching. He might think it strange if I didn’t continue my search. With the wind and waves at my back, I was soon at the entrance to Singapore River and then tying up by the bridge.

  I’d planned to jog back but I was keen to go through Pantelis’s ledgers as soon as I could so I found a trishaw in Fullerton Square and asked to be taken to Alexandra Hospital. If I’d asked for Gillman Barracks, I had no doubt my driver would remember me. The hospital, I thought was a good distraction—and it was only a short walk from the barracks.

  My driver tried to make conversation over his shoulder. He asked about my evening, but I didn’t reply and he soon gave up.

  I’d exited Gillman by climbing the fence behind the MT yard office. Even though I’d been seen by the snowdrop I still wanted to be able to deny I’d been out. The fence was only eight feet tall and easily scalable. In my black clothes, I swiftly rounded the hill back to the Officers’ Quarters. No one saw me.

  Back in my room I took out Sergeant Cooke’s notebook and compared it to Pantelis’s. The latter was much bigger and covered a longer period, but I found that every entry in Cooke’s book had a matching entry in Pantelis’s; the same day with the same Greek letters. Years of ingrained QM training prevented them from deviating from a well-used approach, I guessed. It made me smile at how obvious they had been—providing one could see both books that is.

  As far as I could tell, Pantelis recorded the items going out and Cooke recorded their distribution and money paid.

  I mapped all the letters and saw that they were trading in everything they could—everything that the army supplied, which was almost anything one could buy anywhere. They traded cutlery to candles, blankets to bully-tins. Each item had a combination of Greek letters and the reference code in the black book took me to the item in the official ledgers.

  With one exception.

  The last trade had happened on the same day Tom Silverman had died. Three hundred omega-deltas had been transferred from Pantelis to Cooke. On the same day, it looked like Cooke had disposed of all of them for three hundred pounds. No wonder they had stopped.

  I thought about the fifty pounds found in Cooke’s bag and figured that Pantelis took the rest.

  So what were they? There was no reference number against the entry in Pantelis’s book. There was nothing to tell me what omega-delta related to.

  I noticed one other thing. Not one of the trades related to guns or munitions. Not only had I not seen an armoury at Keppel but Pantelis didn’t trade in weapons. Or so it seemed.

  THIRTY-SEVEN
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br />   Corporal Whiteside jerked open his eyes. Had he been asleep? The night patrols had been stood down and from 1am he had been in charge of the downtown MPs’ office. He would be the only one there until relieved at eight in the morning.

  The desire to close his eyes again confirmed his worst fears. He pushed his face away from the desk, sat upright in the chair and blinked rapidly. On duty, must stay awake.

  He rubbed his eyes and face and scratched at his short blond hair. His watch said a little after three. Still five hours of desk duty to do. It’s the lack of air in here, that’s what’s making me so drowsy.

  He stood, walked to the door that opened out onto the street and propped it open. Breathing in the cool night air he glanced up and down the road. All quiet. In fact nothing was expected tonight. It was a dumb job, manning the phone just in case the SIB needed it. The sort of job you give to a rookie National Service guy. He returned to the desk and picked up the stack of papers on the desk—yesterday’s reports. He flicked through, found something that looked less dull than the rest and began to read. He jerked open his eyes. Bugger, dropping off again!

  A check of his watch suggested he’d been out for twenty or so minutes.

  Had something woken him? There was a car parked outside. A posh car. Whoever owned it had money. He stood, walked to the door to take a look. A woman in the back seat looked out of an open window at him. Lowering his head to see better inside the vehicle, he realized there was a man in the driver’s seat.

  The woman beckoned.

  Whiteside stepped into the street and to the side of the car. He squatted so that his face was in line with the open window. “Everything all right, Miss?” he asked and thought: not a great light, but she’s definitely a pretty one. Chinese, maybe?

  The woman placed her finger to her lips and then pointed to the driver.

  Whiteside looked in, through the passenger window. The driver had clearly passed out, slumped forward over his wheel. Back at the lady’s window, Whiteside said, “Drunk or asleep? Is there a problem?”