by Peter Watt
‘You have …’ the officer hesitated, searching for the words. ‘Identify,’ he finally said, pleased with his recovery of the word.
George reached inside his shirt to produce his identity discs, which the officer leaned forward to examine. George could smell a trace of vodka on his breath.
‘What is name?’ the officer asked.
‘Corporal George Littleton of the British army.’
‘I am Lieutenant Andrej Novotny of Czech cavalry.’
George could hardly believe his luck. A weary smile broke across his face. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Novotny,’ he said with a sigh of relief. ‘You came at the right time.’
‘I need to take you as prisoner,’ Novotny said without any sign of malice. ‘We need to make sure of your identify.’
George nodded, understanding the protocols. He was sure that he would be released when they contacted the British authorities. The Czechs, who were allies in the fight against the Bolsheviks, would have liaison officers attached to British HQ. ‘I am sure that you will have my identity and status confirmed when you contact the British army,’ George said confidently.
A frown crossed the Czech officer’s face. ‘That could be problem,’ he said. ‘We are cut off and trying to reach Archangel. We have mission but mission hopeless. Now, all armies go home. War lost.’
No sooner had the officer made his statement than one of the mounted soldiers shouted something, causing the Czech to look beyond George into the depths of the forest. A rifle bullet cracked past George’s ear, followed by a volley and the distinctive burst of a machine gun. A horse neighed in pain and collapsed with its rider.
George instinctively fell to the earth, reaching for the pistol concealed in his clothing. The officer dropped beside him, searching desperately for the source of the sudden attack on his patrol. He shouted in his language and the horsemen galloped away leaving two horses and two dead soldiers behind. It was obvious that the Bolshevik militia had caught up and carefully laid out a line to fire on the Czech patrol.
‘We have to get out of here,’ George shouted in the Czech’s ear, gripping his sleeve to drag him away.
Novotny did not resist and the two men wriggled along the ground towards a fallen tree, which George hoped would provide them with temporary cover. From behind the rotting log George peered cautiously to see figures flitting between the tall trunks. ‘Must be a company of the bastards,’ he said aloud. ‘Doesn’t look good. We need to get further away.’
Novotny wiped away dirt from his eyes. ‘We stay,’ he said. ‘My men have orders. We stay. It safer.’
George frowned. As far as he could ascertain they were pinned down and the Russians were manoeuvring in the forest to outflank their position. To confirm his pessimistic opinion that they were trapped a Russian suddenly appeared only a few feet away, running at them with a rifle. George popped up from the log, exposing himself to snap off two shots from his pistol. The Russian collapsed and tumbled to stop at the edge of the fallen trunk. A hail of machine gun fire raked the log, chopping away the rotting timber as if it were paper. George knew a bullet would eventually find them. It was all over but at least he would go out fighting, albeit in some forgotten part of the world, against an enemy hardly anyone back home knew about since the cessation of the War. It all seemed so futile.
Then he heard the shouts and increase in gunfire. It was coming from their flank.
Novotny grinned victoriously at him. ‘They good men, my men,’ he said. ‘They do what I say.’
George had a sudden respect for the fighting abilities of the Czech army. It was obvious that the officer had commanded his men to retreat and redeploy for a dismounted assault on the Russian flank. The Czechs had fitted bayonets to their carbines and charged along the line of Russians with the fury of devils possessed. The Bolsheviks had seen the mounted patrol retreat and presumed that they had frightened them off but they had underestimated the discipline and courage of their enemy and were now paying the deadly price.
George now knew he was safe even if he was in the company of the Czech soldiers who’d become cut off from the main forces retreating to Archangel. Unwittingly the Czechs had aided his own mission – whatever it was – to assist the British major and Joshua in having a clear run to their objective – wherever it was.
THIRTEEN
Valley View
Present day
Two weeks later
Morgan realised that the battered journal in his hands was probably worth its weight in diamonds to a collector. But it was also as deadly as if he held a small atomic bomb in his hands. As far as he could ascertain the book belonged to the Crawford family as they had possession of it for so many years.
Morgan knew the family as hardworking and deserving of a break; they were, in the Australian vernacular, ‘battlers’. So he would return the journal to them with strict instructions to keep it somewhere secure until a time when they could possibly sell it. As far as he knew, the original documents that had caused the interest by the media were still with Gladys Harrison. She also would have to ensure those documents were kept in a safe place.
The Crawfords and Gladys Harrison listened to Morgan’s story and agreed to follow his instructions, as well as safeguarding their secret for the moment.
When he returned to the police station Morgan was met by Detective Senior Sergeant Ken Barber who stomped out a cigarette before following Morgan inside.
‘You’ve got the diary?’ he asked with a pained expression. ‘Or those other documents you mentioned?’
‘Sorry, Ken,’ Morgan replied. ‘I can’t seem to locate anyone who knows about them.’
The burly policeman stared at Morgan as if sizing up a suspect. ‘What about this Mrs Harrison sheila?’ he asked.
‘I went and saw her,’ Morgan answered. ‘She seems to have misplaced the documents and the only record she has of the papers she sent the university are her own copies. She thinks that someone may have stolen her originals. You know what it is like around here – everyone trusts everyone and no one locks their doors. But I would not put it past someone in the town to have knocked them off hoping to make a quid at a later date.’
Barber stared at Morgan. The experienced copper had not been fooled by his lie.
‘You know we need everything we can get for the coroner,’ Barber said. ‘That means all documents that may be pertinent to our investigation.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Morgan protested. ‘I am part of the investigation and the bodies are on my patch. I have just as a strong reason as you or anyone else to close the case.’
Barber sighed. ‘I get the feeling you are not playing it completely straight with me, young Morgan,’ he said. ‘But you aren’t a bad copper and for whatever reason you have to be fudging this one I will go along with you to a point. All I need is for you to come up with some evidence that will give us the identities of the bodies and we can put it all to bed. How have you been handling the media?’
Morgan felt a little less anxious. The switch in topic indicated that the matter rested for now.
‘Most have given up,’ Morgan replied. ‘I have given them the stock answer that we have nothing to confirm their stories about any Russian princesses living in Valley View – that the whole thing appeared to have a basis in a prank perpetuated by locals to encourage tourism. You know the media, no crumbs and it seems that their interest has been diverted to some Hollywood gossip about some actress having a baby.’
The slightest smile crossed Barber’s face. He well knew the attention span of the average TV or newspaper journalist. When the chance of a Russian princess being an inhabitant of some out-of-the-way Australian town in the 1920s was balanced against a well-known Hollywood starlet being pregnant, the average punter would go with the story about the Hollywood actress. History had no interest to the average punter, Barber thought, reaching for his packet of cigarettes.
‘Well, that’s about it,’ he concluded. ‘Just keep me up to date on anyth
ing that you might come across that’s relevant to the investigation.’
‘No problems,’ Morgan answered. ‘You will be the first to know of anything of importance.’
Barber pulled a cigarette from the packet and wandered out of the police station trailing a stream of smoke. He stopped beside his car to gaze around at the surrounding hills and sky as Morgan watched him from the doorway of the station.
‘I have a feeling that it’s gonna be a hot summer this year,’ Barber smiled. ‘Hope your hippies behave themselves for the festival.’
The festival! Morgan suddenly remembered that the week-long folk festival was in two weeks’ time and it was his duty to organise the policing for the event that attracted thousands to the small town and district.
‘They’re not hippies,’ he called down to Ken Barber.
‘In my book, anyone with long hair is a bloody hippie,’ Barber said, hoisting his massive frame into the driver’s seat.
As Morgan well knew, the big policeman had been a national serviceman fighting in the rice paddies and hills of Vietnam when many of his former friends had avoided military service and run off to communes. From that time on, all people Ken Barber despised were labelled ‘hippies’.
Morgan watched him drive away before going back to his office. He slumped into his chair and stared bleakly at the wall. A poster proclaimed some young person as missing in Sydney and another advertised Neighbourhood Watch. He had hated lying about the journal and papers but there seemed to be more to this case than just the two unidentified bodies found at the old Larkin residence.
A knock at the door brought Morgan back into the present. A young boy of around eleven years who Morgan recognised as one of the primary school seniors entered nervously. Morgan vaguely remembered his name as Christopher.
‘Senior Constable McLean,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Tommy has my bike and won’t give it back.’
Morgan rose from behind his desk and walked over to the boy, placing his hand reassuringly on his shoulder. ‘Where is Tommy now?’
‘He is down at the café, with the other boys from his school,’ Christopher answered.
Morgan grabbed his police cap from the front desk and ushered the boy outside, closing the door behind him. He was back in the real world of police work. He had a dispute to resolve.
Sydney, Australia
Present day
The organisation’s financiers had been relatively generous in allocating funds to the mission, Petrov Batkin mused, checking into the plush hotel overlooking the harbour.
‘You are in Room 364, Mr Olev,’ the prim, young Japanese receptionist said, passing Batkin a plastic keycard.
Batkin accepted the card without answering. His English was good but the less he said the less he gave away. His passport was false but well enough forged to fool the best in any customs service.
He had only one suitcase. He picked it up to carry it to his room, waving off the hotel’s porter service. At the third floor Batkin exited the lift. He smiled at a Filipino lady, obviously a cleaner with her trolley of equipment. It paid to blend in with the others around him and a smile was expected.
Entering his room, Batkin stepped out on the balcony to admire the view he had of the harbour below. He had never visited Australia before and his knowledge of this continent so far from Europe and Russia was limited. Observing the tranquillity of the harbour now and the openness of the busy city on his bus trip from the airport he could not help but envy the city’s citizens for what seemed an easy life compared to his experiences in Russia. They were soft, he thought, staring down at a green ferry-boat plying the calm blue waters. The people of Australia were very much like the Americans: obsessed with materialism and their TV shows. This would be an easy mission compared to the many he had once undertaken for his country. He could not foresee any problems in some little Australian village west of the city on the harbour. There would no be roadblocks and demands from machine gun toting border guards demanding identity papers. Nor shadowing by a ruthless internal security service bent on imprisoning him. The very open nature of the society he was operating in made his task easy.
Batkin returned to his room, stripped off his clothes down to his underwear and sat on the floor to complete his daily rigorous exercise regime of push-ups and sit-ups. Only then would he allow himself sleep.
When he awoke refreshed from the jet lag of the long flight, he would take out his laptop and find a website that would give him an overview of Australian culture and customs. He had work ahead of him. He needed to hire a car and then wait for Sarah Sakharov who was due to fly in the next day. But most importantly, he was scheduled to meet the leaders of Russian organised crime in Sydney and brief them on the help that they were to provide as his backup. It would be they who would outfit him with a weapon.
Valley View
Present day
As usual it was Cheryl at the local service station who informed Morgan that Ms Monique Dawson had returned to the town from a trip to England. Cheryl was a fountain of intelligence for anything happening in the district.
‘You looking forward to the festival?’ she asked Morgan as he signed the petrol book.
‘Like another hole in the head,’ he growled without looking up. For him, the folk festival meant little sleep and a lot of work policing the many visitors to the town. But his seemingly ungrateful comment was in part spurred by the knowledge that the coroner’s investigation was still his priority in policing. When he glanced at Cheryl he could see his comment had hurt her feelings. After all, the festival brought a lot of money to her service station. ‘I suppose it will go well,’ he added with a weak smile. ‘I just have a bit of work on my plate.’
To further please her, Morgan paid for a Weiss bar. The ice confectionary would go down well on this unseasonally warm day. The news about Monique having been in the UK had taken him unawares. The last thing she had told him was that she was travelling to Sydney – and the UK was a long way from Sydney.
Morgan closed the car door and shifted the four-wheel drive into gear. He knew his next stop and drove north out of town until he came to the old Larkin residence. Wildflowers sprouted in the surrounding sloping fields and the sky was studded with fluffy white clouds. Spring was well and truly settling on the Valley and even the house seemed to have taken on an air of waking from a winter slumber.
Morgan pulled into the gravel driveway and radioed off the air. He was hardly out of the vehicle when the front door opened. Monique greeted him with a warm smile.
‘Heard that you made a trip to the UK,’ he said by way of his greeting.
‘It was not originally on my agenda,’ Monique answered. ‘And hello to you, too.’
Morgan flinched. ‘Sorry,’ he said with an embarrassed smile. ‘Kind of good to see you back safe and well.’
‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ she offered. ‘David will be home tonight.’
Morgan took a breath as if considering the invitation, although he knew he would accept. ‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘We have a bit to talk about.’
Morgan followed Monique in to the living room, which was crowded with cardboard cartons. It was hard to tell if she was unpacking or packing. Items were strewn about all over the place.
Monique quickly boiled a jug and prepared two coffees. When she had placed a steaming mug in front of Morgan on the polished coffee table she settled onto a vintage settee opposite him. ‘My trip to London was prompted by some things I learned in Sydney,’ she said as if answering his silent question. ‘It was not planned when I last saw you here.’
Morgan felt uncomfortable. ‘I did not mean to appear to be interested in your personal life,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just that I too have read the journal and it did not escape my notice that if this house has been in your family since the 1920s then that would have to mean you are somehow connected to the late Captain Joshua Larkin.’
Monique took a sip from her coffee and looked past Morgan’s shoul
der to a newly framed photo of a handsome couple on the wall. ‘I went to England to look into some old records,’ she replied, looking back at him. ‘And from what I could find in my research I believe that you might be correct.’
Morgan leaned forward, expecting her to continue. ‘Is there some kind of link?’ he asked.
‘I cannot say for certain,’ Monique answered. ‘I am waiting for some information to be sent to me from a DNA test I did in the UK, but it will take some weeks to get back the results. What I learn may help identify who was buried outside our house – if your American DNA specialists are able to get a sample from the bones recovered from here.’
‘I am about one hundred per cent sure that Joshua Larkin is not one of the bodies that we found,’ Morgan countered.
‘How can you be sure?’ Monique asked, slightly frowning.
‘Because I have access to old police records. You see, I have a piece of the jigsaw puzzle just as you too have a piece.’
Monique placed her mug on the coffee table and stared at him. ‘I wish I knew you better,’ she said. ‘But if my information is correct it has the potential to cause more trouble in my life than it is worth. Please trust me to keep my silence on what I may learn from the results of the DNA test.’
Exasperated, Morgan stood up. ‘Would you tell me if you were a blood relative of Joshua Larkin?’ he asked bluntly.
Monique paled. ‘I have a feeling that if the world were to learn that it would cause a lot of distress in my life,’ she countered.
‘I’m sorry for appearing a bit less than tactful in my questions but I have to know as much as possible to close this case. I suspect that if we can cross Joshua Larkin off the list that is a start, and the fact that I strongly suspect that you are a descendant of his helps me further.’
‘If what you say is true, then you must go that one step further,’ Monique said, her eyes wide with what Morgan thought was fear.