‘Man to man…’ replied Marshall, grinning infectiously and ignoring his host’s request for clarity.
‘This is very er – irregular. Am I to understand you wish me to give of myself for free?’
‘Call it what you like Mr Beautimann,’ replied Marshall cockily, smiling broadly again, as he pushed himself up onto his toes. I’m not going to cross your palm with silver, or gold… if you get my drift,’ said Marshall, dropping a very large metaphorical pebble into Derek’s metaphorical glassy pond. There was a very distinct glug from the throat of the solicitor, as his Adam’s apple reset itself.
‘Would you like to come through?’ asked Derek, opening the door of the tiny office for the inspector and his colleague with a nervous air. ‘Maureen – would you give us ten minutes?’
‘Well gentlemen, what can I do for you? It’s always a pleasure to see our friends in the police,’ he said without irony. Detective Sergeant Broadhead had never felt more tempted to comment but restrained himself in deference to his inspector who was about to spike the solicitor’s guns.
‘Do you get out much in the evenings sir..?’
‘What do you mean exactly, Inspector?’
‘Any outdoor hobbies… pastimes… Would you say you were the outdoor type?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Are you familiar with the plateau above Cayton Bay, Mr Beautimann?’
‘Only as much as anyone else is in Whitborough, Inspector.’
‘Have you been there recently, Mr Beautimann?’
‘During the evening sir,’ added DS Broadhead, ‘after dark…?’
‘Can I ask what your interest is exactly?’
‘Well sir, two of our officers were witnesses to a very unusual get-together a few nights ago at that very location. They both identified you as the conductor of some kind of er… ceremony– not that there’s anything illegal in practising… whatever it was you were practising. But I’d like to know if you saw anybody else in the general area acting suspiciously…’
The two policemen were trying so hard not to smirk and erupt into shrieks of laughter that it must have looked as though they were suffering some kind of nervous facial cramp.
‘Is something the matter, Inspector?’ asked Derek, feeling very uncomfortable.
‘Sorry sir… itchy nose. George and I…that is…Detective Sergeant Broadhead and myself, are very sensitive to pollen. We get terrible hay fever. I think it’s come early this year.’
‘The two policemen to whom you were referring are fully recovered then are they, Inspector?’ asked Derek, trying to buy himself some time to think.‘I read that they were suffering from hallucinations and delusions after being bitten by adders and a swarm of wasps. If that had happened to any of us we’d probably be seeing pink elephants, so their recollections of the night in question are open to all kinds of interpretations, wouldn’t you say?’
‘A very sensible summary sir and a very plausible viewpoint. Very reasonable. Fluent even, wouldn’t you say George?’
‘Very fluent,’ added Detective Sergeant Broadhead, deadpan, looking at a smudge on his finger with disgust after rubbing his teeth.
‘Is something the matter?’asked Beautimann, fascinated by the detective sergeant’s demeanour.
‘Greenfly…’ replied Broadhead, wiping his finger very slowly on the solicitor’s blotter.
‘So– you weren’t actually present at this gathering sir?’ asked Marshall. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I don’t wish to comment, Inspector, because I’m not particularly interested and I happen to be quite busy,’ though he was trying hard to ignore the sight of the horrible greenish yellow smudge on his blotter which seemed to be mixed with tiny seed husks. Broadhead gave him an unfriendly fixed grin.
Satisfied he now had his man exactly where he wanted him, Marshall went for the kill. ‘It’s just we’ve got two other witnesses who are willing to swear you were in Cayton Bay last Monday night in your dressing gown with your prayer cap on, brawling with someone who was a dead ringer for the Milk Tray man would you like to comment on that?’
Chapter Eighteen
Police on My Back
The George Cayley conference room at Whitborough Police Station, where the first meeting between the police, the Home Office, MI5 and the Navy was just getting under way, was named after the Yorkshire-born pioneer of flight,though no title, or scheme of works, could ever hope to redeem its horrible interior. It had no natural light, character, or ambience and always produced a profoundly negative effect on the dispositions of anyone forced to endure its claustrophobic atmosphere for more than an hour.
A square, inward-facing, fixed seating arrangement compounded the dreadful laboratory-like atmosphere and forced its guests into rigid adversarial positions. Even the lecterns were bolted to the floor, like the rows of benches beneath the departure boards at major railway stations. The Cayley Room was the antithesis of every principle of Feng Shui and was universally disliked by everyone who was forced to use it.
Two feeble extractor fans could barely cope with the smog of half a packet of Benson and Hedges, six of which had already been shared by Marshall and Broadhead, who were contemplating their recent visit to the offices of Beautimann, Buerk and Trippe, before Superintendent d’Ascoyne rose to introduce himself and his inspector at the lectern.Half an hour and another six Benson and Hedges later, Marshall closed the incident file and his talk on the week’s events and returned to his reserved place on the benches. A handful of spare chairs had been brought in, in an attempt to make the room layout less rigid, but it only added to the general discomfort by forcing people to twist around on their seats. The room remained quiet for a few seconds and then James Stocke, the senior man from the MI5 delegation, rose and walked over to the projector screen wall.
‘Thank you for your excellent briefing, Inspector. It’s always refreshing for us in the Security Service to be able to work alongside the Police Service, the armed forces and the other departments of state,’ he said, nodding towards the Home Office team and the two senior Royal Navy officers.
‘We shall now reveal what we know, in order to ensure you all have a full picture of the situation here. This information is highly classified and will remain so for many more years after this meeting and of course you’ve all signed the Official Secrets Act,’ he continued, before taking a deep breath. His opening statement was quite a surprise…
‘There are ten KGB sleeper agents in Whitborough-on-Sea, gentlemen. Six of them, we suspect, have had special training with their Spetsnaz special forces. These people are here to disable our facility at Staxton Wold, in the event of a war.
Seven have regular jobs, in the public sector, in transport and utilities. The command pair work in agriculture, because farms are much more difficult to monitor, as we all know from the experiences of our people on the Irish border. I’ll come to the big fish last,’ he said, pausing a moment to look into the eyes of the Home Office delegation once more.
‘Our homegrown Ivans have been a peaceful lot until recently, but since the first Monday of the month there has been a marked increase in the volume and frequency of their communications, correlating directly with the deterioration in East-West relations. Our analysis of the attack on HMS Brazen has concluded that this is a clear signal the USSR is preparing for war with NATO and has activated its agents in the west. We can expect many more of these incidents in the weeks ahead.’
‘This year, other allies of the USSR have been assisting the arming of the IRA, the INLA and WRA to put an extra strain on our resources at home and to take our attention and dissipate our forces in this time of increasing tension.’
‘The WRA?’ said Marshall. ‘Who the bloody hell are they?’
‘The Welsh Republican Army, Inspector. A small but significantly militant minority.’
‘Hol-idday cott-edge arrrson-ests witha grudge, d’yew mean d’yew?’ added the second Home Office liaison Huw Griffiths, sardonically.
‘We also know they’re establishing a racketeering operation in the borough, using minor players from the Republican movement and a pool of doormen from Belfast and Glasgow,’ continued Stocke, ignoring the jibe from the Welsh civil servant.
Marshall decided the time had come to offer his own opinion on MI5’s revelation, before the moment had passed.
‘I’m not sure whether we should now feel privileged or flattered, that you’ve shared this intel with us at last, because up until today we’ve been kept in ignorance of information which would certainly have been essential to the wellbeing of our people,’ bemoaned Marshall sarcastically. Superintendent d’Ascoyne crossed his legs and looked despairingly into the black mirrors of his shoes, from his detached chair.
‘This type of information is shared only by the Security Service, Inspector; under normal circumstances, on a need-to-know basis. The classification rating would normally restrict its disclosure to anyone outside the Intelligence Services, to prevent it escaping into the public domain.’
‘I should point out that we have all taken a similar oath to the Security Service in the police. And we take the same risks… racketeering certainly comes under our responsibility.’
‘We appreciate your efforts to protect the public, Inspector, but this is the way the game is played.’
‘It may be a game to you and your colleagues– but it’s been life or death for us this last week. Which farm?’ asked Marshall, with deadly seriousness, demanding a response.
‘I beg your pardon, Inspector?’
D’Ascoyne put his hand over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
‘Which farm is it that’s kept by these bloody KGB goons?’
‘As the inspector has so recently signed the Official Secrets Act, and is “on side” I think we can justify disclosure,’ said one of the men from the Home Office.‘Let the inspector see the first page summary. We can’t let you have a copy, Inspector, but you’re welcome to read the particular page we’ve highlighted in orange.’
A shallow black box file made its way down the line from the Home Office team to Inspector Marshall via their civil servants and the Royal Navy. Marshall opened the lid and studied the contents.
‘Only the top leaf, Inspector – thank you. We’ll take it back as soon as you’ve read it please.’
‘Manor Farm, well that’s a surprise…’ said Marshall with angry exasperation and a large dollop of sarcasm.
‘Inspector?’
‘Manor Farm,’ he repeated, locking eyes with Superintendent d’Ascoyne, who puckered his mouth as if to speak, but clammed up in the interests of self-preservation.
‘That’s correct,’added the older agent, trying to read the invisible communication between Inspector Marshall and his superior.
‘How long have you been watching the place?’ Marshall asked, still staring at his chief.
‘On a daily basis, nearly a year. Since the last Warsaw Pact manoeuvres.’
‘Not since the last bloody war started though have you?’ snorted Marshall disrespectfully. ‘So you won’t know about the Hoopers then and their secret arms dump!’ he snapped, breaking off his accusing glare to stare at the smoke-stained tiles on the suspended ceiling.
‘Arms dump?’
‘The munitions they stole, during the war.’
‘Munitions?’
‘Munitions! Guns!’ shouted Marshall. ‘Things that go BANG! A bloody Heinkel bomber crash-landed on their land in the war. When my predecessors got to it, the guns had been stripped out and two of the bombs were gone. They’ve never been recovered. The Hooper brothers were in the frame for it but the authorities couldn’t find the weapons. They never found the bloody grenades, or the rifles, or the Bren guns they nicked from the Home Guard either. It was all forgotten after the war. But some of our other crims who dared to cross swords with the Hoopers certainly saw them. Somebody who didn’t want to go on the record said Vernon Hooper had gone to the Mill Inn one night and fired a burst at the racks and optics behind the bar with one of those German MG’s. Then turned a one-armed bandit to scrap with another.’
‘Why is this not in the file?’ asked the head of the Home Office delegation, looking to his junior colleagues.
‘The terms of reference that dictated the scope of the report only bracketed the post-war period sir. We…’
‘Then we haven’t got the complete picture have we?’ snapped their boss.
‘It is very thorough, within the terms of refer…’
‘You didn’t think to look outside these terms of reference to include any pertinent facts that might put a completely different perspective on the rest of the evidence gathered?’
‘We were told to concentrate only on intelligence and evidence after 1950, sir. The instruction from your office.’
‘And you call yourself Intelligence officers,’ said Marshall, flinging his chewing gum in the basket. ‘I hope to God the rest of you are up to scratch, or we’ll all be working for bloody Brezhnev by 1984.’
‘You’re suspended Marshall.’
‘I’m WHAT!’
‘Would you like some time alone, gentlemen?’ asked Superintendent d’Ascoyne, enjoying the discord in the room. ‘The Inspector and I are just leaving for a moment. I will be back shortly.’
Chapter Nineteen
It’s a Long Way to the Top
The pubs of Sandside and Bleake Passage, around the vicinity of Mystery City, began to fill rapidly after opening time on Easter Monday, drawing in the students and live music fans who usually filled the bars and pubs in and around the town centre. They were joined by a large number of weekenders and visitors from York, Leeds and West Yorkshire, who added at least another fifty people to the local audience.
‘Make shure Jamesy’s off the sauce agayne the neet. The darft sod pessed hez brichts orn Sat urr day… Where’s that c**t Marek?’ grumbled Barnett, looking at the empty DJ’s island for his dashing eastern European disc jockey, Marek Musolov.
‘There’s plenty of time, Barnett. This thing doesn’t start till seven,’ said Paula, his bar manager.
‘Quarter tae five? Aye, right enuff… Another hour afore the wee c***s start cummen enn,’ moaned her boss, by way of an apology. ‘Bastard cudd come early one o’ thees nights. These decks daynt look after thurr selves.’
‘He cleans them when he turns the lights on. When the lights are on full beam. While you’re getting pissed at the bar.’
‘S’whart ah like aboot hew Paula, yull nay take nonn o’ marr shite.’
‘Piss off Crosbie.’
‘Gee ush a kess…’
At seven o’clock the doors opened on the unloved warm-up band, Apache Dreamland, who plugged in and started a first and final soundcheck, as best they could, with the help of some of the more experienced members of the sound crew. After a nervous ten minutes they crashed through their first song, a cover of the Ramones’ ‘Indian Giver’ and then stopped briefly, relieved to have got through their first number without tripping over, then they tore into two of their own tunes, ‘Life’s Shit’ and ‘Girls on Buses’.
‘What kind o’ focken shite es thess?’ drawled Barnett, firing an ash-laden tab end into the bottle bin with a practised flick.’
‘They’re the anarchy band Barn,’ groaned Paula.‘They’ve come from Burniston. It’s their first gig, so don’t be mean.’
‘Make shure th’dumb barstards pay thurr drenks tab. Dedd they stump up tae play yet, by the way?’
‘Are you charging them to play here?’ You tightwad!’
‘Too focken right! Thirtay bloody quedd’s nort nearlay enuff fo’ thess focken torture. Next time it’ll be twice as focken much. Scruffy c*
**s sound like Tommy Cooper fallen’ o’er a row o’ focken dustbenns!’
After their sixth song, their singer Big Mark decided to tell a joke about the Easter Passover but lost his place in the narrative when a Pils bottle flew past his ear, narrowly missing the drummer’s head.
‘No focken jokes aboot the focken Chuch!’ yelled Barnett. ‘Yurve gort five focken mennetts preck…’
The compere for the Battle of the Bands contest, was well-known local funny man Ted Knight, the nearly man of North Yorkshire’s club scene, whose CV flirted with the great and good of the 1950s, 60s and 70s cabaret. Ted could supply anecdotes and stories for any occasion, from the reign of Alma Cogan to the Bay City Rollers and always wore the costume of a Las Vegas cabaret singer. When he heard he was going into the black pit of Mystery City, he knew there was only one outfit that was going to save his bacon. His eye-meltingly loud Royal Stewart tartan suit, red shirt, white dickie bow tie and black suede brothel creepers which drew every eye still capable of focusing to his feet, like west coast midges to a naked leg. Ted strode out into the spotlight, licked his lips and launched. They were going to be a tough crowd, so he decided to park his more polite routine and go straight for the throat.
‘RIGHT..! SHUT YER GOBS.., AN’ GUARD YER DRINKS! Because right now, boys and girls–behind the stage… in the wings…there’s a clever young fella from Yorkshire Coastal FM, to introduce our first act tonight for the 1983 Whitborough Battle of the Bands. May I present, THE SULTAN OF SOUND, THE…
‘VERUCA OF VINYL!’ yelled a gang of spiky students.
‘…TITAN OF TAPES! DARREN DUKE!’announced Ted, through a smartly-disguised grimace. He was heard to mutter the word ‘tit’ soon afterwards, through the side of his mouth in the style of a bad ventriloquist.
‘The titan of tapes? What kind of a bloody name is that? PRINCE OF PISS!’ shouted another drunk.
‘GOOD EVENING WHITBOROUGH!’ shouted Darren, grinning cheesily as he skipped and hopped over the boards of the stage, in a desperate attempt to win over his audience with a cheesy pirouette and a wink.
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