The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Nothing would come of the discovery of the bodies in far-off Australia, Harry convinced himself. But he would feel better if he had someone on the ground to monitor the situation.

  Valley View

  Present day

  Morgan could not believe his luck. There, in a fading brown carton were the police records for the station dating back to 1905. The string that tied them in bundles had left a faint stain like rust on the outside edges of the paper and it was clear that they had remained untouched since some police officer stationed at Valley View had filed them some time in the 1950s, according to the protruding slip of paper. Many officers had come and gone in their postings to the town but the box of old records had been undisturbed. Morgan was surprised that they had survived. He knew from experience that such papers were often consigned to the fire by police little interested in the history of policing in the area.

  Carefully, he flipped through the bundles, each marked with fading red ink on the outside page of yellowing paper, until he found the year he wanted – 1920–1921. Removing the thin file he walked back to his office and sat down at his desk. As it was early evening and he was off duty he hoped that he would not be disturbed. He glanced around to ensure that he was alone and then placed his booted feet on his desk.

  The papers contained records of lost and found property receipts, wanted posters and, most importantly, occurrence page entries. The occurrence pad was the log of incidents in the town that brought police attention or action. Morgan smiled when he read the names of culprits picked up for drunken and disorderly behaviour, many of them leading families in the district whose ancestors had not been so upright. He soon found himself absorbed in reading the day-to-day life of a country policeman who had once ridden a horse to attend call-outs, and whose duties went beyond simply enforcing the law. The local policeman was also the ex officio officer for about every government department that existed at the time, issuing licences and collecting monies on their behalf. But he sat up suddenly, removing his feet from the desk when he came across the name of Joshua Larkin. The entry was mystifying. The constable reporting the matter in his fine copperplate writing wrote in his stiff, formal reporting style:

  20 December 1920

  I proceeded to the recently vacated residence of Capt. Joshua Larkin at one o’clock this day as a result of a complaint from a Mr William Crawford of 2 Main Street, Valley View who expressed his concern for the security of the residence of Capt. Joshua Larkin and Mrs Larkin. I proceeded to the said residence and made a thorough search of the grounds but did not find anything untoward. I informed Mr Crawford of my inquiries and he was satisfied with my report to him. No further action required in this matter.

  It was time to try to find the missing persons reports – almost a century out of date. Morgan returned to the property room and rifled through the remaining stored papers but this time he was out of luck. But at least he had confirmed that Joshua Larkin and his wife had either left Valley View around November 1920 – or that one of them remained as one of the bodies discovered in Monique Dawson’s backyard.

  EIGHT

  Northern Russia

  August 1919

  Sergeant Joshua Larkin and Corporal George Littleton stood outside the tent sign-boarded as the headquarters of the regiment. A tall, well-built major with a polished brass-tipped wooden swagger stick tucked under his arm, stepped out and eyed the two Australians. Joshua, as the senior of the NCOs saluted.

  ‘Are you the two chaps who are to report to me?’ asked the major, returning the salute.

  ‘Sergeant Larkin and Corporal Littleton, sir,’ Joshua answered.

  ‘Good,’ the major grunted. ‘I am Major Locksley and I have a task that may suit you both as, I believe, before volunteering for the British army you were both commissioned officers in your own army. I will need to speak to you both privately and separately. You first, Sergeant Larkin,’ he said, turning his back and returning inside the tent.

  Joshua followed and the British major sat down on a camp chair, leaving Joshua standing. The major planted the swagger stick between his legs, toying with the symbol of his field rank.

  ‘Your commanding officer nominated you and Corporal Littleton as soldiers who have proved your mettle here. I believe that you have already done so for the King in France and Belgium and have been decorated for your bravery,’ Locksley said, as if reviewing an invisible file.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Joshua answered.

  ‘I have requested two men to accompany me on what could be a dangerous mission behind the Bolshie lines,’ Locksley continued. ‘You were chosen because both of you are men who understand the meaning of loyalty to the Crown. You have sworn your allegiance to the King and his heirs in the past – and I would presume that the oath of office you once took still stands.’

  Joshua was intrigued by the conversation. Where was it going? ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘I may now be a non-commissioned officer but I still adhere to my oath to the King.’

  ‘Good,’ Locksley commented. ‘Once an officer, always an officer, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I am going to request that you volunteer to accompany me on this mission of utmost importance to the outcome of this war – and to the British Empire itself. At this stage I am unable to tell you anymore and will rely on you being discreet in all matters pertaining to your secondment. I can promise you that if we are successful there will probably be another gong in it for you and possibly restoration of your commission in the British army, Sergeant Larkin.’

  ‘I am not going to volunteer for another gong, sir,’ Joshua said stiffly. ‘But I will volunteer if you say that the mission is of great importance to the outcome of this war, because from what I can see, we are losing it very badly.’

  Locksley shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stopped tapping the end of his swagger stick. ‘I am sure that you have heard the rumours that we will be evacuated very soon.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The rumours have been circulating since we heard that General Ironside has been replaced by General Rawlinson.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ Locksley said. ‘It appears that at this stage we will be out before Christmas. We cannot see any victory in this campaign against Lenin and his Bolsheviks. But if my mission is successful we might just turn things around.’

  Joshua had no idea how this could be done but from his manner and demeanour had summed up the British major as no fool. There was just something a little un-British about the major he could not put his finger on. Something about his face and build.

  ‘When do I commence my secondment to you, sir?’ he asked.

  Locksley stared at Joshua for a moment, examining his expression. Finally he spoke. ‘You start immediately after you answer one question, Sergeant Larkin. Would you be prepared to kill your friend and colleague Corporal Littleton if I so ordered it?’

  At first Joshua was stunned by the question. It was a test and he did not believe the British major was really serious – just one of those things the army did to test a man’s blind obedience to the service. ‘Yes, sir – if the conditions at the time warranted it,’ Joshua answered. ‘And I would expect Corporal Littleton to do likewise.’

  ‘Good chap,’ Locksley said, rising from his chair and tucking the swagger stick under his arm. ‘Get your kit together and report back to HQ within the hour. The paperwork will be pushed through to your unit HQ. You can send in Corporal Littleton.’

  Joshua saluted and stepped outside the tent to see George’s questioning expression.

  ‘The major just wanted to know if I was prepared to shoot you,’ Joshua whispered. ‘I said I would.’ He was rewarded with a stricken look from his friend which melted when he saw the broad grin spread across Joshua’s face.

  ‘Your turn to see the major,’ Joshua continued in a louder voice and dropped his voice to add as George stepped past him, ‘Don’t forget to promise the major that you will also shoot me.’

  Confused, George entered the tent, leaving
Joshua to wait for him. Joshua suspected that George would receive the same speech and like him, volunteer for the mysterious but intriguing mission, although the promise of a medal might be the main inducement for George. After all, the only reason the former Australian officer had elected to lose rank and go to war was for a taste of glory. Like so many other young men he had quickly learned that there would always be war – but no real glory. Just mud, exhaustion, bad dreams and the fatalistic knowledge that death might ruin any plans of returning home. One’s name etched into a marble memorial in the middle of town was no consolation to being alive and living a full life.

  Joshua waited for around fifteen minutes and George finally stepped out of the tent with a bemused expression on his face.

  ‘I promised to shoot you,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘That means you were as stupid as me to volunteer for services with the mad major,’ Joshua said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘Whatever the bloody mission might be. How come you volunteered?’

  ‘Because you did,’ George replied, puzzled that his friend should ask such a stupid question. ‘You can’t let your cobbers down.’

  The answer echoed in Joshua’s mind. How many times had he heard the same words in France and Belgium? How many times from the lips of dead men?

  ‘Maybe we made a mistake,’ Joshua grumbled.

  ‘No,’ George answered, checking his pace to step in with Joshua as they marched back to their portion of the Allied lines. ‘I feel that whatever the major has planned is of vital importance to this war. And if that is the case then it is only proper that you and I be of assistance in any way that we can. It’s just the right thing to do.’

  ‘What in hell do you think the mad major is up to?’ Joshua asked, shaking his head.

  George screwed up his face. ‘I bloody well don’t know,’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But whatever it is I have a feeling that you and I are going to see a bit of the countryside before returning to Australia.’

  Joshua remained silent as they reached their lines. He suspected that his friend was right.

  Even as the three scruffy-looking men, wearing the clothes of Russian peasants trudged through the shadows of the tall, silent trees, around them the Australian members of the British army were fighting a pitched battle near Emtsa village.

  Joshua, George and Major Locksley each carried little other than a Scott & Webley revolver, along with two hand grenades and a razor-sharp knife, all carefully concealed beneath the many layers of clothing they wore. Each man also carried papers in case they were stopped by the Bolsheviks, compasses, and tins of bully beef with packets of hard biscuits for rations. Locksley had revealed to George and Joshua that he spoke Russian and that they were to remain silent, feigning to be deaf and mute if questioned by any Russians they should meet on their trek. He would have a story that he was a relative in charge of them if any questions were asked.

  Even at this stage – when they were two days from their last position inside the British defensive lines – neither of the Australians had been informed what their mission was. All they knew was that they were acting as a kind of bodyguard to the British major and that if he should be killed they were to attempt to get the message back to London of his failure to complete the mission. They were to inform only one man in that eventuality and that was the chief of the British Secret Service. This did not surprise either George or Joshua. Everything about the way the mission was conducted smacked of intrigue at the highest levels of government: the threat that either could be killed by the other on orders from the mad major; the fact that they were no longer wearing their Australian army uniforms and were setting out to travel deep into territory occupied by Lenin’s forces.

  They walked in silence with the major leading, occasionally stopping to shoot a compass bearing. Satisfied, he would signal to continue.

  ‘We should reach a village before nightfall,’ Locksley said on one brief stop. ‘There, we are to make contact with the village priest.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you are going to tell us why, sir,’ Joshua said, rubbing his mittened hands together against the bitter cold.

  ‘No, sergeant,’ Locksley answered. ‘The least you know the better it is for us should you happen to be captured and tortured.’

  Joshua had to agree with Locksley’s logic. There was no doubt the enemy could torture him to death and he could tell them nothing of why he was out in the forest trudging around with a mad Pom and an Aussie mate. So far that possibility had been remote, as the vastness of the forests of northern Russia had concealed them from any sighting by the enemy. If loneliness lived anywhere in the world it had to be in these forests, Joshua mused.

  Eventually they stumbled onto a rutted and winding track. Locksley said that they would follow the track, paralleling it in the cover of the forest rather than walking along it in the open. They did so, moving cautiously until they came to the edge of a clearing and saw the log houses of a tiny village. Smoke rose from the chimneys, hanging in the air above the houses, and in the muddy, rough streets thin, cloth-wrapped figures moved slowly, pulling wooden sleighs stacked with firewood.

  Locksley removed a small pair of opera binoculars from his pocket and scanned the village. Beside him, Joshua and George waited for a decision.

  ‘A warm bed tonight, boys,’ the major said. ‘This looks like our destination. But I will wander in first and have a little look-see, to confirm we are at the right place. If anything happens – you know the way back to our last location. From there, just make your way to Archangel and report to a Colonel Kingston at Logistics HQ. He will look after things from there.’

  ‘Sir,’ Joshua acknowledged. ‘Good luck.’

  Locksley lowered his binoculars and looked at the two Australians. ‘Thank you, Sergeant Larkin.’ The brief moment of warmth between the three men was a break from the rigid formality of the past days in each other’s company.

  ‘You can hang onto these,’ he added, passing the glasses to Joshua. ‘I will get them when I return for you both after dark.’

  With his parting words, Major Locksley stood up and walked into the muddy clearing. Hardly anyone looked at him as he approached the cluster of buildings. This was a time when displaced persons on the run from either side often stumbled into the village, which had attempted to remain neutral in this bloody civil war. Through the binoculars Joshua watched the major disappear behind a building.

  There was little they could do for the moment except open a tin of bully beef and eat the fatty meat cold. No fires or lights to show their location – just a hope that the mad major would return for them after dark.

  Chewing on the salty meat, George wondered how the hell he had let himself volunteer for this insane mission when he was so close to going home. He had proved himself in the brief time they had spent on the Russian front and had no need to stay. Maybe he was catching Joshua Larkin’s disease of being just plain suicidal. George had meant it when he had told his friend the only reason he was also volunteering was because Joshua had. It had not been the possibility of a decoration that had induced George to remain behind in the lonely, cold and desolate forests of Russia. It had been friendship.

  The night came as an eerie twilight followed by darkness. Joshua dozed as George lay in position on sentry detail awaiting the return of the British major out of the night.

  ‘Joshua! Wake up!’

  Joshua woke quickly, gripping the butt of the pistol. He blinked away the remnants of sleep to see a file of flickering lights. Tapers of flaming sticks marked a column of Russian infantry snaking its way into the village. From their dress he could see that they were most probably Bolshevik forces and they preceded a team of horses towing a large artillery gun. The situation had just turned very bad. Locksley had not returned.

  NINE

  Valley View

  Present day

  The first that Morgan heard about the papers and journal was from Cheryl, behind the counter of the local service s
tation, when he had refuelled the police car.

  ‘G’day, Morgan, did you hear that Gladys was given a heap of papers and stuff concerning those skeletons you found up at the Larkin house?’ the forty-ish, peroxide blonde with the sun-tanned face said, pushing the police petrol account towards him to sign. Monique and David’s residence had quickly earned the title of the Larkin residence since the media attention. ‘Seems that the Crawfords found the stuff at their place.’

  Morgan looked up sharply. He had only just seen the Crawford name the night before in the old police report. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ he replied, scribbling his signature in the account book. ‘Has Gladys still got the items?’ he asked.

  ‘As far as I know,’ Cheryl answered, filing the account book in a drawer behind the counter.

  ‘Thanks Cheryl,’ Morgan said, leaving the office with its displays of trucking magazines, cassette tapes of Country and Western music and racks of lollies. Morgan always wondered why Cheryl stocked goods more at home on the busy highway north of Valley View. At least the C & W tapes sold to the locals.

  Morgan slipped behind the steering wheel and set his thoughts on visiting Gladys Harrison. It was possible that the items she had in her possession might help the coroner ascertain the identity of the two bodies. It was only a three-minute drive to Gladys Harrison’s residence. Hers was a sandstone cottage, a relic from the 19th century but well maintained and one of the tourist attractions in the tiny town snuggled in the hills. English climber plants covered one half of the front wall and the wooden verandah belied the age of the house.

  Morgan checked himself off the air over the radio and walked up the paved path. His knock on the door was answered by a balding man in his late seventies who Morgan recognised as Gladys’ husband, Stanley. ‘Hello, Stan. Is Gladys in?’ Morgan asked with a reassuring smile.

  Stan stared through rheumy eyes for a moment and called back into the house, ‘The wallopers are here to take you away, Gladys.’