by Peter Watt
Joshua remained awake for a long time thinking about his decision to wait two days to see if the major’s condition improved enough to move him. A wolf howled in the distance and the patter of rain grew louder against the stout walls of the log cabin. Joshua’s mind whirled with thoughts for George and then he found himself gazing once more at the flickering shadows dancing on Maria’s face. She had a serene beauty unlike that of any other woman he had known. Even though they had really only just met, Joshua already felt that he would give his life willingly to protect her.
At last Joshua fell into a deep sleep. When morning arrived with the bleak sun showing between broken clouds, Joshua sat up, throwing off the blanket that he had wrapped around himself. Maria was no longer sleeping by the fire and the woodcutter was also absent from the cabin. Locksley still lay in the bed when Joshua went to check on his condition. Although sweat beaded the major’s forehead he appeared to be less in the grip of the illness than he had been the previous evening.
Joshua walked towards the closed door of the cabin but froze when he heard the scream from outside. He knew immediately that the sound of terror had come from Maria and the revolver was in his hand. He pushed the wooden door ajar to peer through it.
‘Bloody hell!’ he swore under his breath.
In the yard only twenty paces away three armed men he presumed were Bolshevik militia were wrestling Maria to the wet earth. Her long dress was being dragged up over her hips, revealing the smooth, pale flesh of her thighs. There was no doubt in Joshua’s mind what the three men intended to do as they laughed and jostled with each other. Maria was forced down screaming until one of the men slammed his fist into her face, silencing her cries of distress. Joshua was about to put his life on the line for the young woman yet he did not hesitate.
FIFTEEN
Valley View
Present day
The tents sprouted like mushrooms in the camping ground along the creek of Valley View. Caravans crowded the park by the showground and long beards adorned the faces of floppy-hatted men. The annual folk festival had arrived along with magnificent spring days of wildflower-covered paddocks. Beer-drinkers from the town’s hotels spilled onto the pavements and tourists strolled up and down the quaint streets gawking at the reminders of a century when local stone was the building material of choice.
A festival air pervaded among the lovers of folk music and Senior Constable Morgan McLean was relieved that the average age of those who had flocked to the small rural town in the hills was thirty-something plus. He was even enjoying the sight of the colourfully dressed tourists in their casual clothing somewhere between new age and country. He cruised the main street. The crowds of people appeared relaxed and friendly, sharing in the festival’s down-to-earth atmosphere.
So far so good, Morgan thought. The extra two police that would be sent to assist him with crowd control that evening would probably not be earning any overtime. If this friendly mood persisted at the dance to open the week of music, folk art sales and old-fashioned barbecue stands, everyone would have a good time.
Monique Dawson and David Greer mingled with the crowd at the folk festival. It was not often that David could take time off from his busy schedule to share some time with his partner. The weather had been so perfect and the gaiety of the event drew them to the many little stalls already displaying T-shirts, leather hats and strings of colourful beads. Laughter and the sound of banjos, fiddles and guitars from the visiting musicians filled the air.
Monique stopped in front of a stall where beads and bangles attracted her eye. David walked a few paces on to gaze at a stand selling leather-crafted hats. The tired expression on the middle-aged seller’s face suggested that the festive atmosphere had little to do with the fact that he had to make a living from selling his wares.
Monique was considering a bracelet when someone in the passing parade of pedestrians bumped her. She turned, immediately thinking about the expensive bag slung over her shoulder; along with the honest attendants at the fair there were also those who made a living off pick-pocketing. Glancing into the open bag Monique noticed a letter sticking up from among her personal items. She scanned the people immediately in her vicinity but all she saw were a sea of faces; young people, children, middle-aged couples and a dog or two being led by skinny elderly ladies.
Frowning, Monique pulled the envelope from her bag and slipped out the typed sheet of paper addressed to her. Her frown deepened as she read the letter. David was still examining the hats two stands away. Her first instinct was to call out to him, but she almost immediately changed her mind. What she had just read was an inherent threat. Instead, Monique slipped the letter back into the bag and walked over to where David was now trying on a hat.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, grinning at his image in a mirror hanging from the tent pole of the stallholder’s tent. ‘Makes me look like a real cowboy or what?’
‘It doesn’t suit you,’ Monique mumbled, causing David to cast her an inquiring glance.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sensing Monique’s sudden change in demeanour. Only moments earlier she had been laughing at a wisecrack David had made about the local fair.
‘I have just a bit of a headache coming on,’ Monique replied. ‘I feel like something to eat. Can we go to the pub?’
‘Sure,’ David said, passing the hat back. ‘We can walk up to the top pub and get a bite.’
Monique nodded and attempted a weak smile of appreciation. She would need time to consider the letter’s contents. More importantly, she desperately needed someone who might have the experience to help her decide a course of action. Morgan McLean’s name came to mind and she wondered whether she should contact him.
As they made their way back from the paddock covered in tents and stages to the main street and away from the bulk of the tourists and market people Monique saw Morgan standing beside his police truck chatting with a young couple whose haversacks displayed the Canadian flag. Backpackers, Monique thought idly, all the way from Canada. She frowned again. The note was written by someone whose first language was not English, she was sure, and the thought made her uneasy.
As they passed Morgan, Monique noticed him turn in her direction and beam her a friendly smile. She raised her hand and waved to him.
‘Our local Mr Plod will have his work cut out for him this week,’ David said, noticing her gesture.
‘I wouldn’t say he was any kind of Mr Plod,’ Monique retorted, surprising herself at having defended Morgan’s reputation.
‘It doesn’t take much to be a cop,’ David replied. ‘All you need is more brawn than brain – everyone knows that – and be able to spell “speeding fine”.’
‘You forget that I was once a nurse,’ Monique said. ‘I saw at first hand in the casualty ward what the police had to put up with. Drunks wanting to fight, psycho druggies and people in the most distress that they will ever experience in their lives.’
David was scowling. Her defence of the local policeman was being taken personally by her partner. She slipped her arm into his to reassure him. She did not know why David would need reassurance; he was everything a woman could want: handsome, suave, rich and successful. Why would he want to belittle a simple country cop? She wondered if her contact with Morgan had been behind the tirade against the police. There had never been anything untoward in her contact but in a small town people may well have interpreted the most casual of meetings as lustful encounters. Whatever it was, David had no fear of losing her. After all, Morgan McLean was nowhere near as handsome as David, and his police salary would never make him a wealthy man.
Monique and David were not surprised when they reached the pub that they had to wait to order a meal. After their order was finally placed, David took their drinks outside, where they were lucky enough to snatch a small table under the wooden latticework at one end of the beer garden. For an hour Monique attempted to forget the letter in her bag but Morgan’s name kept cropping up in her thoughts. She wo
ndered if he would be on duty at the dance in the local hall that evening. If so, it might give her the opportunity to make contact with him and even show him the letter. Surely he would know what to do.
The walls, roof and wooden floor of the local hall vibrated under the pounding of booted feet. Whoops and yells echoed across the nearby paddocks while the squeal of fiddles blended with banjos, drums and the vocals of a folk song harmony. The odours of sweat and beer mixed with wisps of marijuana smoke inside the hall where the dancers were carried away by the music that was at the heart and soul of the Australian psyche. The old ‘South Australia Bound’ had the audience up on their feet in no time and Morgan watched from the rear of the hall as the crowd enjoyed themselves, spurred on by the professionalism of the popular band from Sydney. It was foot-tapping music he enjoyed and he hoped that the happy atmosphere would continue without fights or injury to those in the hall. He was alone at the dance as the two police sent out from the district station were out patrolling Valley View’s streets and camping grounds.
‘You ought to get out and dance,’ a pretty young girl shouted to him as she swirled by with her partner in some parody of an old-fashioned Scottish reel. Morgan smiled. Being a small town cop meant missing out on what most people took for granted – the chance to have a few drinks and get just a little drunk; he was always on call in this job.
He slipped from the hall unnoticed, making his way across to his vehicle.
‘Could I speak with you, Morgan?’ Monique queried.
Morgan stopped and turned to see her following him from the hall.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you?’ He could see that she had dressed up for the dance, wearing a cheesecloth dress that flowed around her calves.
‘I would like you to read this letter I received earlier today at the markets.’
Monique produced the sheet of paper, handing it to Morgan who opened the door of his vehicle and flicked on the interior light.
‘You should have brought this to my attention as soon as you got it,’ Morgan said, looking up at her. ‘There is a threat of some kind in the words. Did you see who passed this to you?’
‘I felt a bump and by the time I turned around the letter was in my bag. It could have been anyone near me at the time,’ Monique answered. ‘Do you think it is some kind of bad joke?’ she asked, hoping for reassurance that she had nothing to worry about.
Morgan bit his bottom lip, pondering the meaning of the directions and the warning in the typed words. ‘It says that your life is in danger,’ he said. ‘And that you are to produce the diary and all documents pertaining to Joshua Larkin. Whoever wrote this knows a lot more than any practical joker.’
‘You know that I only have copies of the diary – as you do,’ Monique said. ‘I couldn’t comply with the demand even if I wanted to.’
‘You must not arrange any meetings with whoever wrote this,’ Morgan said, folding the paper along its original lines and placing it in the glove box of the police vehicle. ‘And you are to keep me informed of anything and everything that you think is suspicious. I will be making extra patrols out your way to keep an eye on your place. Does David know about the letter?’
Monique pulled a face. ‘I haven’t told him about it,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think that there is any reason to alarm him. I want you to promise me that you will tell no one else about it,’ Monique continued. ‘If I feel that there is some real threat to my life I will promise you that I will leave Valley View for somewhere safer.’
Morgan took a deep breath before answering. ‘I can’t promise that I will not reveal the letter to colleagues,’ he finally answered. ‘But I will keep it to myself until I ask around a bit. I have a feeling that the author is a foreigner – maybe from Eastern Europe, judging by the wording.’
‘You are definitely not a Mr Plod,’ Monique mused, catching Morgan off guard.
‘It may be wise to tell David about the letter, so that he can help keep an eye on you,’ Morgan said, wondering about what she had just said.
‘I feel safe enough knowing that you are handling the matter,’ Monique answered with genuine trust in her voice.
‘What did you tell him about your visit to the UK?’ Morgan asked.
‘I told him that I was visiting a sick relative in England,’ she replied defiantly, cocking her head to one side. ‘He knows that I have family in England. I should get back to David,’ she continued. ‘Otherwise, the good people of Valley View will say that you and I are having an affair.’
‘Yeah, it doesn’t take much around here. I have to admit that I sometimes miss the big smoke. You will have to excuse me,’ Morgan said when he heard his call sign on the police radio in the car. ‘Sounds like I’ve got a job but I will catch up with you later.’
Monique turned and walked back to the hall that by now was shuddering on its foundations thanks to the rowdy treatment it was receiving from its temporary occupants. Morgan watched her walk away. The thought that he might be having an affair with her was not unappealing, he thought wistfully. But it would never happen, he reminded himself. He had a duty to Monique and it was no different from the one he had to the rest of the Valley View residents. He was here to uphold the law and protect the people. Now he would have to use every skill he had as an investigator to track down the source of the letter and its author. That vague feeling that he had weeks earlier when he had held onto the diary was being solidified. He was already working on his first angle of the investigation. Maybe Cheryl at the service station might be able to help him.
Morgan slid into the driver’s side of his vehicle, unaware that he was being watched. Satisfied that the local police officer was driving away from the hall, a dark-clad man disappeared into the shadows of the car park. All going well his mission would be completed that night and Ms Monique Dawson would no longer be considered a threat to British national security.
SIXTEEN
The taiga
South-east of Archangel
August 1919
Maria was attempting to fight off her would-be rapist, but a blow from his fist stunned her, ending any resistance.
Inside the cabin Joshua gripped the revolver, quickly assessing the situation with a soldier’s eye. He could not see the woodcutter – only three men, one on his knees between Maria’s bare legs with his pants pulled down and his rifle lying next to him. The other two were laughing, watching their comrade take the first turn with the helpless girl. Both had their rifles slung over their shoulders and Joshua wondered at their carelessness. They had not cleared the area before engaging in their savage act. Either they were poorly trained or just downright stupid.
Joshua stepped from the doorway of the cabin with his pistol raised and pointed at the three scruffy-looking Russians. One saw Joshua emerge, and immediately reached for his rifle. The act took away precious milliseconds in which time Joshua had fired off two shots at the man kneeling between Maria’s legs since he was the only one of the trio who could have snatched up his rifle to threaten Joshua. He grunted his surprise before collapsing on the semi-conscious girl.
Calmly, Joshua continued advancing on the other two, whose fear he could see behind their grimy beards. The first man to unsling his rifle had now brought it level with Joshua who fired two shots into him. The man staggered but remained standing to bring up his rifle again. Instinctively Joshua fired his last two remaining shots into the man, this time seeing him drop to the ground. The third man was the final threat, having unslung his rifle and worked the bolt to chamber a round. The precious loss of time in not having his rifle already loaded was time enough for Joshua to realise that his pistol was empty and that he would not have time to reload himself. As he was now only four paces away, Joshua flung the empty pistol at the Russian’s face, causing him to flinch. Joshua was now on him with all the force he could muster. As both men crashed to the ground Joshua could smell the stench of rotten meat in the man’s breath on his face.
Joshua found himself
straddling his opponent and smashed his fist into the man’s face as hard as he could. The blow caught the man in the nose, rupturing it in a spray of blood. Without hesitating, Joshua closed his hands around the struggling Russian’s throat. To his horror, a fourth Russian had come into the small clearing and witnessed the attack on his comrades. He halted, unslinging his rifle from his shoulder. Even if Joshua killed the man under him the fourth would surely kill him.
Joshua’s surprise translated into loosening his grip on the man’s throat. The Russian suddenly raked at Joshua’s eyes with his right hand. Joshua ducked his head, avoiding the filthy, long-nailed fingers seeking his eyes and was able to bite down on the outstretched hand, crunching through to the bone. The man screamed in agony and Joshua resumed choking the life out of the Russian, spitting out the severely injured fingers of the Russian’s now useless hand. The crack of the bullet beside his face alerted Joshua to the fact that the fourth man had fired at him. His aim was bad but Joshua knew he only had to close the distance of about fifty feet and shoot him at point blank range. At least he would kill the third man before he in turn was killed. His only regret was that Maria would be left to the mercy of men who knew none.
The Russian’s struggle grew weaker but Joshua kept his hands around the man’s throat to ensure his death. When he looked up he could see that the fourth Russian had advanced to within ten paces, his face a mask of fury. He was screaming curses at him, spittle forming on his thick lips. Joshua felt his heart beat even more heavily. Behind the Russian killer was the woodcutter wielding an axe over his head and running at the armed man. His yells caught the fourth man by surprise and he swung around to face the threat. The bullet meant for Joshua caught the woodcutter in the chest from only two paces away and he crumpled on the spot, the axe falling from his hands. Before the Russian could eject the spent case and chamber a fresh round Joshua had scooped up one of the rifles from the ground. He could not afford to pull the trigger as it may have an empty chamber and in the time it would take to work the bolt he knew the other man would already have a round ready to fire. Instead, Joshua reversed the rifle, swinging it like a club at the Russian. The rifle butt caught the startled fourth man on the side of his head, felling him.