by John Morris
“I guess. But why come here? It doesn’t make any sense. We live in the outback of nowhere. I know. I’ll give you a call tonight, if they come again. And bring your latest smart phone for when mine dies.” The boys turned to planning, and imagining what was afoot.
Kevin’s phone rang at five-past two. “I hear the jet. Get moving.” This time it was Kevin who was half asleep, as he floundered out of bed, and donned the nearest clothes. He grabbed a bag he had prepared in advance, and was halfway out of the door, before he remembered his phone. He raced upstairs and put it in his pocket, intending to run to the top of The Mountain.
“And just where do you think you’re going at this time of night?”
His mother’s words brought him up short, and he turned, saying, “Chris was right. A passenger jet landed here last night, and another is about to do so. Gotta dash––get the info.”
He waved with his phone, and left his mother speechless. He ran out of the house, sprinting at first, before dropping down into a sustainable running gait. As he closed on the path leading up to the highest point, he glimpsed a flashlight above him on the trail, Neville presumably.
Kevin arrived less than a minute behind his friend, who was already filming. “That’s a passenger plane!”
“Yes it is. I checked the internet today, and know it is an Airbus A300 B4. It can carry about two-hundred and fifty people, depending upon internal configuration.”
“They’re going into that hangar, is that the same as last night?”
“Yes. Quiet, I’m counting.”
Kevin was startled by a noise nearby, and stood to ward off a threat. Instead he found himself greeting his mother. “So where are the girls? The booze, the drugs?” Her yes scanned the surroundings, before aligning with the boy’s direction of sight. “Oh … that’s a plane. A big plane. People are getting off it. Oh my God! Chris was telling the truth.”
She settled to watch, trying to understand what she was seeing. Had it been the middle of the day, she may have had a better handle on the images she saw. But she witnessed a passenger plane where none should ever be.
When all went dark, Neville stated, “Two-hundred and eighty people at least, they are cramming them in. There doesn’t seem to be much luggage. Maybe they’re local?”
“I dunno. That forklift is removing some large boxes, and that seems odd for a passenger plane. I’m staying here to see what happens. This time I will film it all.”
“Me too,” said Kevin.
Cathy Collins looked at the pair of them and said, “I need to sleep. Call me if anything happens––I’ll be in the car, just down below.”
“You drove here mum?”
“Yes Kev, sometimes it is better to use brains than brawn. See you in a few hours.”
Cathy received the call at 4.30 a.m., just less than two hours later. She was in time to see the jet take off, and took pictures of it on her smart phone. They talked about what could be going on, bizarre imaginings without substance.
Tired to the core, Cathy Collins rose to leave. “I’ll give you a lift if you come with me now. Well done, by the way.”
Kevin left with his mother. He didn’t think it wise she be alone in the dead of night, on a forested hill. Neville stayed, but came running up to them before they entered the family home.
“Come quickly, I just saw a coach leave, and it’s heading west. Here’s the video.”
A glance was all she needed, and Cathy ran for the car. The teenagers scrambled in as she changed from reverse to forward, and they left. “Text your brother an apology and tell him where we are,” she said as they turned onto one of only two roads out of the hamlet, headed east.
“Why not go west mum, it’s the shorter route?”
“Yes dear, but the slowest. That lane is dreadful, especially at night. This way we hit the main drag much sooner, where I can quickly catch up. You’ll both understand, once you get your licenses.”
“Okay mum, you know best. But tell me this, who are these people? What are they doing?”
“I can’t say for sure. They may be illegal immigrants, refugees, freedom fighters of Islamic disposition, ne’er-do-wells, freeloaders, or frightened families fleeing oppression. I see women and children, the elderly, and I see soldiers, not cohesive family units. Your thoughts?”
Neville responded, “The men are on a jihad, they have rifles.”
Kevin answered, “But the women and children? They are fleeing persecution.”
“Are you sure? Maybe they are plants. What if they were sent to plead family rights, in order to bring over their ‘brothers’, ‘uncles’, and ‘cousins’? All young men are of fighting age, armed with Kalashnikov’s.”
“No man, you’re stupid. These are regular families, okay, without the men. So what?”
“Because it is the men who go to war. This is an invasion.”
“So I guess you mean that all these women and children will end up being suicide bombers. Get real Nev.”
“Why not?”
“Because the world is not like that. Most people are decent.”
“Yes, in the West. Do you know what they do to their women?”
Cathy spoke out. “That’s enough, the both of you. You have few, if any facts, so this is irrelevant. Evidence boys. Proof. You have nothing except hearsay and grand ideals of conspiracy. Where are your facts?”
The rest of the journey was spent adapting views of conspiracy theory, none of which rang true, but were not entirely hollow either.
The road was straight as an arrow, if narrow. It ran on for miles; the large fields nearby, flat as a pancake. Cathy closed to a quarter of a mile, and switched off her headlights, using only sidelights for cursory view. She was following the large seater coach directly in front.
They continued in formation for several miles, until the coach began to change speed, as if the driver were looking for somewhere particular in the dead of night. Cathy backed off, afraid their tail would be discovered.
The coach continued its unusual pattern, until it braked sharply. Somebody with a rifle got out and guided the coach to rest. Cathy killed all the lights, and on tick over, crept as near as she thought safe.
“We’ll scout ahead and get good shots, mum.”
“Stop! Let me switch off the interior light first … Okay, but don’t get too close.” As the boys leapt into action, her heart was torn. Was she being a sensible mother? After all, this could well be a wild goose chase, or their lives could be in danger. Nevertheless, she got out her mobile, and began filming, zooming to catch what was about to happen.
Two more men got out, touting Kalashnikov’s or something similar, dragging a man with wrists tied behind his back, struggling in vain. A heated exchange took place, before another man, presumably the leader, got out, pointed a handgun at the man’s forehead, pressed it into the skull, and pulled the trigger.
The body began to fall forwards, as Cathy zoomed in to maximum. It would not be the most defined image, but it would be the best. No sooner had she locked on the image, than the man was flung violently backwards, and over the side of what appeared to be a bridge.
The men with guns held them to their shoulder, sights to eye line, as they checked around the coach. Finding nothing, they withdrew, and in short time, the coach headed on its way.
Cathy gave a huge sigh of relief, doubled when both young men came back to the car. They were elated; she was disturbed. She had never witnessed a murder before.
They talked for several minutes, before she edged the car, still using only sidelights, to where the coach had been. There was nothing, no bullet, no body, nothing.
Kevin said, “It was a pistol, and none of them searched for the casing, let’s find it.” It took a while, but they found the casing, and a lot farther away than they expected. Cathy took a tissue from her bag, and carefully wrapped it up so as not to disturb evidence or possible fingerprints.
They scanned for anything in the river, either floating, or underwater:
nothing. The boys split up, taking one side of the river each, and they went as far as they could, but there was no sign of life, or death.
Returning to the car, Cathy stated, “We are going home.”
“But mum, we need to follow the coach.” Neville enthusiastically agreed, but Cathy put her foot firmly down on the accelerator; soon her car was headed in the opposite direction.
She explained, “We have just witnessed an execution, the first and last I ever hope to see. This is a war situation, and sometimes, especially when nobody else knows, it is better to get word back, than have that information lost through trying too hard.”
“No Misses Collins, we need to know where that coach goes to.”
“Yeah Mum, same for me.”
“Children, quiet. Think some more. Only we three know something is going on. You want to be executed like that poor man? I do not. Get the information back to those that know what to do with it.”
“But Mum…”
“Silence. This is what is happening, like it or not.”
“Well at least let’s call the police. The body can’t be far away.”
“Yes it can, actually. As soon as the river gets to Falls Reach, a tributary comes in, it gets deeper, and there’s an undercurrent. A body can disappear, and wash up near the sea months later.”
“I still say call the police. We got the videos.”
Cathy watched the boys in the mirror, and listened as they continued to argue. She took the shorter, but more time costly route back, and stopped the car just short of Neville’s home.
She turned to look at the pair, her eyes looking directly into theirs by turns. “This is how we do this. Save your pics and videos to somewhere safe. I’ll have a discreet word with the local police. End of story.”
“Not old plod Percy Blodwell. You cannot be serious. We need forensics, a search party of cops, divers, scouring the river. We just saw a man killed, mum.”
Neville was in full agreement, until Cathy asked, “And what would be the result of that?”
“They’d find the body, mum.”
“Doubtful. I’ve heard of several people lost to that river. What else?”
“Even if we don’t find the body, Misses Collins, we draw attention to the locality. They would probably investigate the old aerodrome, and then we would get answers.”
“Yeah Nev, the national media would be all over it. Nice one. We’d get our pictures, interviews on the main news channels. Cool.”
Cathy reasserted her authority. “Yes they would, at least for a day or two, before the next big headline comes along, and we are forgotten about. You want media exposure. Then what will they do after all interest has died? Come on, I’m waiting …”
“You mean the airbase, the coach people … come after us.”
“Yes. You got it in one. I am not going to let the pair of you sacrifice all of our lives for a few seconds' fame and glory. This stops here, stays here, and nobody else knows. And no posting anonymously on the net. Deal?”
She held her palm out eliciting high fives from both boys, even if it was not freely coming.
Cathy’s life had become complicated overnight. She made a call early the next morning. “Lower Meddlington Police, I’m Police Assistant Gordon, how may we assist you?”
For no reason, except an impulsive reaction, Cathy gathered herself quickly. “I know this is stupid, and probably not a crime at all, but could you ask the beat officer to call round today?”
“What is the nature of the crime Miss?”
“Misses, Misses Cathleen Collins, he knows me well. The crime, well, my garden gnome has been stolen, and I wonder for his safety. I hear they travel all over the world, even sending postcards and holiday pictures back. Please, can you help me?”
“Let me check, Misses Collins … Yes, the beat officer is due in your village today, and I have annotated he contact you. Is there anything else we can help you with?”
“No, thank you.” That’s more than enough, thought Cathy as she wandered, distracted, into the kitchen. She boiled the kettle, made tea, and dozed. It seemed only minutes passed before there came a rap upon the front door.
Awakening, Cathy took a large swallow of cold tea, and opened the door. She welcomed the police officer inside, gushing with uncertainty, to make him a fresh pot of tea, returning with biscuits also.
“So, what can I do for you, Misses Collins? A missing gnome I am told.”
The question came against the flow of chatty, inane conversation, and she stopped short of putting the digestive biscuit to her mouth.
Laying the biscuit down, and leaning forward she stated, “The gnome was just a ruse. I need to share a secret with somebody. I think, hope, you are the right person.”
“Go on, Misses Collins, I offer you utter discretion.”
“Hmm. We’ll see. Let me show you something.” As Percy viewed the images, Cathy explained what had happened.
Percy was an old hand, just shy of retirement. He had never had a big case, and at that current moment of his career, didn’t need one. He looked up from watching the videos, inspecting the still shots, and removed his glasses. As he settled back, he asked for more tea and quietly munched a biscuit. His bushy moustache caught a few crumbs which he casually brushed aside.
In time he spoke his thoughts aloud. “These aeroplanes, this bus, the execution, I see the three streams of information, and still I cannot believe it. Why here? There’s nothing hereabouts.”
“Then you already have your answer, Percy. The only link is the aerodrome.”
“No. All I have are unanswered questions. You are correct when you say that filing a murder complaint, thus calling in all and sundry will prejudice the case. They’ll stop operating for a while, and take recriminations on those they believe to be involved; they aren’t afraid to pull a trigger. I’ll need to verify this with the kids when they return from school.
“Regards landing the plane, that would normally be reported to the Border Force’s East Anglia Command. I am loathe to do that, at least initially, in this matter. We don’t even know where the aircraft originated from. Besides, they would go in gung-ho, and I think a more cautious approach is required.”
“So, what’s your tack?”
“On my days off, I’m a keen angler, so I propose to drop some bait, and see who bites.”
“You mean you are going to release this information to the press?”
“No Cathy. I am going to file a low-key missing person’s report, with the photo you took. It will percolate through the nationwide systems and databases. Let’s wait and see if we get a response.”
Chapter 2 ~ Missing Person
On Tuesday morning, back from the ranks of the injured, Agent Danforth Glover, SIS, was enduring a seemingly never-ending bureaucratic nightmare. His desk telephone rang, and he picked up immediately. “Hello?”
“Dan, pop into my office for a moment.”
Intrigued, Dan hurried to see his line manager, Harry McBride. “Come in Dan, take a seat. Tell me, how is your recovery coming along?”
“Rather well. I still get the odd twinge where the bullet grazed my femur, but I’m off painkillers, and the new, harsher physio regime is helping a lot. I hope to return to the field soon.”
“Good. That’s exactly what I’d hoped to hear.” Harry drummed his fingers on the file in front of him, before opening it and removing a picture. Passing it over he said, “You know who this is?”
The picture of a man had been enhanced, and Dan recognised him at once. “Simon Walters. He’s been deep undercover in Syria for over two years. Last I heard he was in Raqqa.”
The controller leaned forward conspiratorially. “He was still there on Friday.”
Harry placed another picture before Dan. “This picture was taken last night, early hours. Somewhere in the wilderness of East Anglia.”
“That’s a bullet hole in his forehead. He was executed.”
“It would appear so, and that is all we ha
ve. GCHQ picked it up as a missing persons report, filed by one Constable Percival Blodwell of Lower Meddlington Police. It would appear, he initiated the action himself. When it hit our database a flag was raised.
“You are one of our best field agents, especially where hidden clues need to be found. Leave as soon as you are ready, say within the hour, and find out what the hell is going on.”
“Yes Sir! It’ll be great to get back to doing some real work. I don’t know how you stick all this office bullshit, it’s been driving me crazy.”
Back at his desk, Dan Glover finished his immediate work, cleared his desk and sat back to read the file he had been given. There was little to it. His last act before leaving was to call Lower Meddlington Police, and make an appointment with Constable Blodwell for late that afternoon.
He took a company pool car, and swung by his home to collect an overnight bag and field kit. He added a body bag just in case. Soon he was on his way, headed for the wilds of East Anglia.
Wilds? He’d never imagined anywhere so flat and lacking life. Lower Meddlington was a small town consisting of a few hundred houses with signs of a modern housing estate to the east. It was like a time warp: no modern shopping centres, no shops of national chains, just private bakeries, butchers, and general stores. The only road had a war memorial in the middle of it, the police station nearby.
He parked outside, surprised there were no yellow lines. Getting out to lock the car, Dan watched a mum, toddler by the hand, stop and chat with a shop keeper sweeping his steps. Dan momentarily wondered if this was not a better age, than the one he currently inhabited.
Several minutes later, Dan was greeted by an aged cop with rotund belly and cheerful demeanour. “Constable Blodwell at your service. How may I assist you?”
“Dan Glover, SIS. The pleasure is all mine. Is there somewhere we can talk privately, like out on the street?”
“My patrol car, but first I need to verify your ID. I presume that is acceptable.”
“Of course, knock yourself out.”