by Peter Watt
Morgan had to agree. What they had was simply two bodies, possibly killed at the same time for what could have been a variety of reasons: robbery, anger, jealousy, or even an accident for that matter. What was of more interest considering the time that had elapsed was the identity of the person who had buried the bodies. Whoever that had been must be long dead by now, Morgan mused.
‘Go through everything we have on the running sheet and come up with some info for our PR lady from HQ,’ Ken said, finishing his cigarette. ‘With any luck we will wrap this up to the satisfaction of the coroner in a week or two and continue chasing cases a bit fresher than this one. In my experience this case isn’t just cold, it’s a bloody frozen circle we aren’t likely to break.’
Morgan silently concurred and walked back to his vehicle. He would return to his station and assist the public relations officer to put together a press release. Not that they had a lot to go on; the discovery of the discs with one of the bodies was not considered conclusive proof as to the identity of the deceased.
In front of the local television team, a newspaper journalist, a current affairs program reporter and three crews from national TV networks, the no-nonsense police PR officer delivered a statement on the steps to Morgan’s police station.
A policewoman who had previously been a journalist before joining the NSW force, she had carefully collated the facts and just as carefully deleted any possibility of speculation on the discovery of the two long-buried skeletons. She did, at least, release the name on the military ID discs. It was something she knew her former colleagues could get their teeth into – an angle like this for a story would mean they would not indulge themselves in creating stories that could cause irritating interference to investigations down the line. No doubt the reporters would rush off to learn more about this Captain Joshua Larkin but learn no more than the police already knew anyway.
When the press conference was over Morgan nodded to the PR officer. She had done well and he guessed that the story would fizzle out with a short story on page ten and not even get to TV. As for his role, Morgan felt the least he could do was locate Mrs Harrison from the local historical society and ask some questions about former residents of Valley View. He knew that the small group met on Wednesday nights at the CWA hall. He suspected that the ladies simply got together for the tea, scones and gossip rather than compiling a history of the area but it was worth a try. At least he could then do his bit for the investigation by writing up his findings for the coroner.
Morgan was somewhat surprised to see that not all the members of the local historical society were little old ladies, knitting baby booties between bouts of gossip. Also sitting around a trestle table were the local school principal, a man in his thirties, a couple of senior high school students and, most surprising of all, Monique Dawson. When he entered the hall there was a momentary pause in the conversation but that fell away when Morgan greeted all who stared at him with a broad smile and a warm greeting. ‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen,’ he said.
Gladys Harrison, a warm matronly lady in her late sixties, hurried forward to guide him to a table covered in old black-and-white photos where the small group sat around fingering the records of the past. ‘Constable McLean, what a surprise to see a member of our local police interested in our group. I assure you that we are not serving intoxicating liquors,’ she said with a wicked grin.
‘Wish you were,’ Morgan retorted. ‘I could do with a beer. Hello, John, I didn’t think teachers had any interest in history anymore,’ Morgan added facetiously.
‘That’s our students you are thinking of,’ John Peters replied with a broad smile. ‘I have a feeling that your interest in our little group has been prompted by the recent grisly discoveries at Monique’s place.’
Morgan glanced at Monique sitting beside the two young girls from the local high school. She returned the look with a faint, challenging smile.
‘Spot on,’ Morgan answered, taking a seat opposite Monique.
‘Well, we have beaten you to the punch,’ Mrs Harrison said proudly. ‘We have addressed the recent find at this meeting and are examining all we know about the old Larkin residence – that’s the place Monique and her partner are currently renovating. Monique has joined our meeting to assist with our research.’
‘I will appreciate anything you come up with for the coroner’s report,’ Morgan said. ‘I doubt that we will ever solve the case but maybe at least we will be able to give some kind of closure to any living relatives we may be able to find as a result of the investigation. There may be a possibility that someone in Valley View is related to one or both of the people whose bodies were uncovered.’
‘We don’t think that the body identified in tonight’s six o’clock news is that of Joshua Larkin,’ John Peters said quietly. ‘It doesn’t fit the description we have found in our records. The man you said was Joshua Larkin was far too tall to be him.’
Morgan was taken aback by the school teacher’s statement.
‘You see,’ John chuckled. ‘We amateur historians need to be as thorough in our investigations as you coppers. According to his military records, Joshua Larkin was only around five foot ten, yet your skeleton was measured at around six foot one. I doubt that Captain Larkin could have grown so quickly in a year.’
‘Interesting,’ Morgan said. ‘We do not say categorically that the body we found the identity discs on is that of Larkin but there must be some link with him.’
‘Joshua Larkin was certainly a resident of the district,’ Mrs Harrison said. ‘But, only briefly.’
‘What do you know about him?’ Morgan asked, turning to her.
Gladys Harrison shuffled the papers before her, adjusted her reading glasses and cleared her throat. ‘Joshua Larkin had once served as a soldier of some distinction in France and won a Military Cross as an officer as well as a Distinguished Conduct Medal and Military Medal as an enlisted soldier. He was eventually promoted to captain. In 1918 – instead of returning to Australia – he took his discharge from the Australian army to enlist in a British regiment, the Royal Fusiliers where he was given the rank of sergeant. He then served in Russia with an expeditionary force sent to oppose Lenin’s Bolshevik forces. There is an intriguing gap in his record of service in Russia but we know that he returned from Europe in 1920 with a French wife, Marie, and purchased the property where his alleged body was found. From our records it appears that both he, and his French wife, mysteriously disappeared in 1921. At the time there were rumours that they had been murdered and buried on the property.’
‘The second body we found was that of a male,’ Morgan said. ‘Not female, but your information will be very worthwhile for the coroner.’
‘We can go one step further, Constable McLean,’ Gladys said. She flourished a photograph before Morgan’s eyes of a man and woman dressed in early 1920s clothing: she with her hair piled on her head under a hat, and he with his stern features supported by the starched collar of a good shirt. It appeared that the couple were posing at a picnic beside the creek that ran behind the town and Morgan could see others in the background with wicker picnic baskets beside blankets on the grass.
‘The photo was taken for the local paper in 1920 for the centenary celebrations of the founding of Valley View by the famous Macarthur family,’ Mrs Harrison continued.
Morgan continued to stare at the two faces in the photo. Whoever the photographer was, they certainly knew their craft. He dwelt on the face of a very pretty woman, possibly in her early twenties, and that of a man in his early thirties and thought he detected just the hint of haunted expressions on the faces of the couple in the photo.
‘Shortly after the photo was taken the couple disappeared,’ Mrs Harrison said, taking back the print and replacing it in the folder marked, Larkin Mystery.
‘You should have been a copper,’ Morgan grinned.
Mrs Harrison puffed up with pride. ‘Well, we do our best,’ she answered. ‘And we are still digging into the hist
ory of the Larkin mystery. It truly caused some interest to the town way back in 1921.’
Morgan looked across the table at Monique who had remained silent. ‘As current resident of the Larkin house you do not have any further information, do you?’ he casually asked.
Monique seemed taken off foot by the question. Maybe she did know something worthwhile.
‘The property has always been in my family,’ she uttered, as if reluctant to reveal the fact. But under Morgan’s unrelenting stare she found herself divulging more. ‘I was born in England and came out to Australia when I was only a baby,’ she explained. ‘The property is now in my name.’
‘How far back has your family owned the property?’ Morgan asked, his interest piqued by the revelation.
‘I think that is a personal matter, Constable McLean,’ Monique answered, her face flushing red. ‘I would not rather speak of it in public.’
The exchange had caught the attention of all at the meeting and it was clear Monique wished she could stand up and leave.
‘Sorry, Ms Dawson,’ Morgan hurried. ‘I was talking like a copper and did not mean to intrude.’
‘Apology accepted,’ Monique said, relaxing a little. ‘You can probably understand that it is not every day bodies are dug up in your backyard with implications of murder that might be related to my family.’
The meeting continued with Mrs Harrison delegating tasks to the members in further research on the Larkin mystery – as she liked to call the file. Before Morgan could intercept Monique at the end of the meeting she disappeared quickly to her car. Gladys Harrison took Morgan’s arm and pulled him into the kitchen for tea and scones with the other members of the society. But Morgan was preoccupied. His instincts told him that there was a link between the bodies in the ground and Monique Dawson’s family history. He would arrange to meet with Ms Dawson as soon as possible and attempt to get her to reveal more of her family’s past.
Tea-and-sconed out, Morgan returned to his residence attached to the station and resumed his duties, unaware that the name of Joshua Larkin had set off a red flag in the distant offices of a department of British Military Intelligence. A casual news item transmitted on the website of a national Australian television network had filtered through a computer system in the UK. Although both Joshua Larkin and the campaign in the dark woods of Russia were now beyond living memory they were not beyond the interest of a modern intelligence department. The Larkin file still carried the stamp Top Secret and was classified as Not to be closed until 2020.
Whatever the classified file contained required a century to close. In the opinion of those who had come and gone in the highest echelons of the British government since the end of the Great War the matter had to be so sensitive that it had the potential to alter history. But now a lowly employee of Military Intelligence 6 was just about to open the file with the simple act of pushing a key on his computer.
FOUR
West of Onega
Northern Russia
July/August 1919
Corporal George Littleton felt his hands sweating. Although the air was bitterly cold in the dank, dark stands of the almost silent pine forest he felt a hot flush on his cheeks. Fear – he knew he was feeling fear – as the platoon edged forward, rifles ready. Beside him extended in a sweep were the men of his section and just behind his section Sergeant Joshua Larkin moved with the platoon headquarters.
For weeks since their arrival the Fusiliers had been deployed to patrol the massive clearings in the forests for enemy activity. They had been assigned to strengthen the positions along the road and rail stretch towards Onega in the west. Some local White Army units had proved to be on the side of the Bolshevik revolution and had either deserted or been disarmed and replaced by the arriving British expeditionary force. Until recently Joshua and he had carried out mundane garrison duties in the cold and mud of northern Russia, but now George was about to face his first real action. A Bolshevik machine gun post had been spotted and the platoon he was a member of would attack and destroy the crew of the deadly weapon.
The order to halt came and George signalled to his section of eight men to go to ground and wait. Joshua moved cautiously forward towards him.
‘You and I are going to have a closer look,’ Joshua whispered in his ear. Together, the two men slithered forward on their stomachs until they were able to insert themselves in a tangle of fir tree limbs that lay on the ground. It was then that George felt real fear knot his stomach; he could smell the acrid scent of tobacco and hear the muffled voices of the Russian enemy just yards away.
Joshua carefully peeled aside the dying foliage to see the object of their stealthy advance. The fur caps of five Russian soldiers appeared just above a small rise in the muddy ground. Among them he saw the thick barrel of a water-cooled machine gun. Joshua guessed that the enemy crew must be poorly trained as they displayed little discipline with their noise and smoking. He tapped George on the shoulder and indicated that they should make their way back to the platoon, where he would brief the young British officer on the situation.
Although the young lieutenant with no combat experience had said that he would reconnoitre the weapon’s pit, Joshua had convinced him that he, as the platoon sergeant with combat experience, should carry out the task. The young officer happily agreed, accepting his sergeant’s rationale; the majority of the platoon had not seen action and this would be their first taste of it. Best that those with expertise be given the task of making sure nothing went wrong. Joshua had sized up the young man. He was not one of the toffy-nosed twits from the upper class but rather a boy from a middle class family who had proved his intelligence and leadership abilities to tough, war-seasoned instructors before he was granted his commission. Lieutenant Randolph Jones’s family were originally Welsh and his father had worked his way through a coal mining company to a position of authority and minor comfort. He had encouraged his son to take a commission in the army as a way of furthering his son’s future in an English establishment. Short and stocky, the young officer had no airs and was prepared to listen to those experienced in combat.
Three section commanders, the platoon sergeant and the platoon commander huddled together over a hastily sketched map on the floor of the dark forest. Joshua provided a brief on the layout and location of the machine gun pit and closed by commenting that he did not think the enemy was expecting them. They had numbers and surprise on their side.
Joshua was pleased to see that his platoon commander lay out a sensible plan of attack and mused that the British army had come a long way in recognising martial talent over class representation. They would attack the post from the front with two sections while holding the third section in reserve. It would also be in a position to provide a withering cover fire from its own heavy machine gun set up on its tripod. George’s section would be in the assault group to attack, armed with the hand grenades they had been issued.
George returned to his small party of white-faced soldiers to inform them of their role in the attack. They listened silently and on the order, quietly attached the long bayonets to their rifles. A couple of his men were veterans of the French and Belgian battlefields and they helped settle the others of the unit with their easy banter about how this show was a pushover. There was nothing really to fear, the veterans reassured the younger, untested soldiers. George was secretly happy to hear his veterans accept the situation with such ease; it helped his nerves just as much as those of the section who had not seen real combat.
Hand grenades primed and trailing rifles with bayonets fixed, the Australian soldiers inched their way forward at a crouch, moving carefully in the direction of the tiny clearing where the Russians were located. On their left flank the other men of the platoon also moved forward. They were only twenty-five yards out when the whistle blew to indicate that they make their first move. With practised fingers, pins were pulled from the grenades and each man hurled his lethal casing of explosive towards the enemy which they could clearly see
once they stood.
A rain of bombs fell on and about the nest, catching the defenders offguard. Barely had the Russian cursing began when the fuses on the grenades spluttered into lethal blasts, hurling metal fragments in all directions. The last grenade had hardly exploded when George found himself flinging towards the wisp of smoke, his bayonet-tipped rifle extended forward. His men and the accompanying section followed with strangled war cries. In seconds George was at the lip of the rise and looking down into a pit. The gun crew had not had the chance to get the deadly machine gun firing and George could see blood running down the face of the huge man before him. Without thinking, he thrust the tip of the bayonet into the wounded man’s chest as he attempted to wipe away the blood from his face. The man let out a scream of pain and terror, then gripped the blade of the bayonet embedded in his ribs. He fell, taking George into the mud at the bottom of the trench with him. Desperately, George attempted to pull the bayonet from the man’s chest, aware that a Russian soldier on his left was raising his own rifle to club him. The man’s bearded face was a mask of fury and George let go of his rifle to shield himself from the crushing blow.
But suddenly, the soldier with the raised rifle toppled forward and bloody gore splashed over George’s face. A bullet had taken off the top of the enemy soldier’s head. Around him, George could hear the grunts, curses and sobbing of men caught up in vicious hand-to-hand fighting. Reeling backwards, George tripped over a dead soldier and caught sight of a patch of blue sky through the tiny gap in the fir trees. For a second he could smell the antiseptic scent of the forest. Everything seemed surreal. A hand reached down to grip his elbow and George saw Joshua’s grim face staring at him.