by Jim Eldridge
Stark and Eric followed Bird out the back, where he gave them each a pair of overalls. ‘You’ll need these on,’ he said. ‘They check who’s in my cab when I go in and out of the gates, so you’ll be hiding in sacks. These’ll keep you a bit clean.’
But our shoes will be covered in coal dust, Stark reflected. We’ll be making a mess of Glenavon’s carpets.
‘Won’t they check you emptying the sacks?’ asked Eric.
Bird shook his head. ‘No,’ he said vengefully. ‘Since that bastard screwed me over that delivery, he knows he can get away with it again, so why bother? Nowadays, his men check there’s no empty sacks lying on the lorry when I arrive, and count the empty sacks as I leave. That way he knows I can’t get my own back on him.’ He looked at Stark, curious. ‘What’s he done?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ said Stark.
‘Must be something big if there’s this many of you,’ said Bird. ‘Before we go in, what about the money?’
Stark took four five-pound notes from his wallet and handed them to Bird, who checked them before putting them in his pocket.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
They put on the overalls, then Bird handed them each a large coal sack and took them to where his lorry was waiting. The back of the lorry was loaded with sacks of coal, with a space left for them to hide.
‘Park yourself in there and I’ll put a few sacks in front of you,’ said Bird.
They climbed up on the flat-bed back of the lorry. Eric slipped into his coal sack and hopped to a space, where he settled, pulling the top closed over his head. Stark being larger, struggled to get into his sack and only managed it with difficulty. Already, he could feel his leg muscles complaining at the way his body was being squashed up.
He could hear sacks being moved and felt their weight against him as Bird hid them.
‘Right,’ said Bird. ‘No noise.’
Thankfully for Stark, the journey was a short one. The lorry jolted all the way to Red Tops. When it pulled up, Stark heard voices – Bird’s and another man’s – then the lorry moved on, finally juddering to a halt a few seconds later. There was the sound of the rear tailboard being dropped, then Bird opened the top of Stark’s sack.
‘Stay limp,’ he ordered.
Stark was cramped and every joint in his body ached. He felt himself being lifted up, then carried. He was dumped on a hard concrete floor. As he struggled out of the sack, he spotted the ladder leading up to the loft. He climbed it while Bird departed, carrying the empty sack. Bird returned with the sack containing Eric, and soon Eric had joined Stark in the loft.
‘So far so good,’ commented Eric. He shut the trap door, plunging them into darkness. ‘Our eyes will soon get used to it,’ he assured Stark.
Stark nodded. He’d spent enough nights in Flanders hiding in outbuildings and barns to be aware of that.
Below them, Bird continued his delivery, emptying the sacks on to an ever-increasing pile of coal, before they heard the door to the coal shed finally slam shut.
‘Did you see the inner door?’ asked Eric. ‘The one that goes into the house?’
‘Yes,’ said Stark. ‘But I didn’t check if it was locked.’
‘No need,’ said Eric confidently. ‘If it is, I’ve got me tools.’
Stark struck a match and swiftly checked the time. Five o’clock. Three hours to go.
They sat in silence in the dark, intent on not talking or making a noise of any sort in case it might be heard. But, as time passed and they didn’t hear any sounds from either inside the house or outside, Eric obviously decided they were safe enough, because he whispered, ‘I believe you’re not a football fan, sir.’
‘I enjoy a good game,’ whispered back Stark. ‘It’s just that I don’t have a particular affinity for any club. None of my family were that interested; they all concentrated on work. There wasn’t the time or the money to go to games.’
‘We lived right near White Hart Lane,’ said Eric. ‘So it was easy for us. My old man used to take me. Or, if he wasn’t around, one of my uncles.’ He fell silent, then added with deeply felt anger, ‘We was the only North London team. Until the Arsenal moved in. The Woolwich Arsenal. The clue’s in the name, sir.’ He sighed. ‘It should never have been allowed.’ And with that he fell silent to brood on this great injustice.
With his eyes grown used to the darkness, Stark was able to check his watch at regular intervals. He sat, waiting, as he had sat and waited so many times during the war. At least this was different, he told himself. Then, death could come from anywhere: from a massive shell, a hail of bullets from a machine gun, poison gas. Here, nothing would happen until they went into action against five armed but hopefully unsuspecting guards.
The problem was getting Amelia out safely. And, somehow ensuring there were no repercussions against Sarah and Stephen.
I should have brought a gun with me so I could kill Glenavon and Cavendish, he reflected. Dead, they wouldn’t be able to exact revenge. Had he been wrong to come here unarmed?
He’d had this idea that he could arrest them, put them on trial and expose the stinking corruption in the higher levels of society. But would it save Sarah and Stephen?
He checked his watch again. It showed nearly eight o’clock.
‘They should be sitting down to dinner now,’ he whispered. ‘Time to make our move.’
The two men took off their coal-stained overalls, then lifted the trapdoor and descended into the coal store. Eric went to the door and tested the handle. It was locked.
He took a long, thin patterned piece of metal from his pocket, inserted into the lock and jiggled it around. There was a click, and he turned to Stark, a satisfied look on his face. ‘Piece of cake,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll leave you to find the lady while I let the others in. I’ll be quick as I can, but it depends where the guards are.’
Stark opened the internal door. A short passageway led to the kitchen, from where he could hear the sounds of pots and pans being moved around. He crept to the end of the passage and peered in.
The cook had her back to him. He could see she was serving fish on to four plates. Four? He hardly thought that they would let Amelia join them at dinner, so who was the fourth person? Had Churchill not succeeded in keeping the Prince of Wales away?
The cook loaded the four plates on to a large tray and headed for the dining room. Stark took the opportunity to slip into the kitchen, and was just about to make for the open door that led to the stairs when he heard footsteps approaching. He ducked down and took cover in a small curtained alcove, which contained a broom and a dustpan and brush. He peered through the curtain and saw that the cook had returned, still carrying the tray laden with the four fish plates. From the look of frustration on her face, he decided that they must have waved her away, not yet ready for the fish course.
She took the fish from the plates and put it into a warm oven, and then set to work preparing vegetables.
I’m going to have to do something, said Stark. I don’t want to be trapped here.
Then he became aware of voices coming through the wall of the alcove from the dining room.
‘A new world order,’ said a voice in clipped English, but with a German accent.
So, Hitler speaks English, mused Stark.
The next voice disabused him: it was a voice speaking in German that veered between smooth and silky and rough and hectoring. Stark caught some German words he recognized, those for France and Russia and Jew. Then the previous voice, speaking English with the German accent, chimed in. Hitler’s translator – the fourth person.
‘We, as Germans, are happy to make the initial attacks on France and Russia, but it is vital that England does not come to their aid.’
‘I don’t think you have any reason to think that England will want to come to the aid of the Bolsheviks,’ came the voice of Glenavon. ‘The whole country loathes them after what they did to the Tsar and the royal family.’
‘B
ut France …’ began Hitler in German.
‘If our plan succeeds, there will be no backing for a war in support of France. Not again. Not after the losses this country suffered last time.’
‘And you won’t be waging war against France,’ came in Cavendish. ‘You’re just recovering lands that were wrongly taken from Germany as a result of the unjust deal at Versailles.’ Stark could hear the smug smile in his voice as he added, ‘Of course, when the French try to fight back, Germany will have to defend itself. But I can’t see France holding out against German forces, not without the support they had last time.’
Quietly, Stark eased his shoes off. When the time came for him to make his move, he didn’t want to arouse suspicion by leaving easily spotted coal-stained footprints over the carpets.
‘And you are certain that the British and American governments will remain neutral when that happens?’ he heard the translator say.
‘Speaking for America, absolutely,’ said Cavendish. ‘There is no desire in Washington for us to get involved in another European war.’
‘And, as far as this country is concerned, our organization, the British Union of Patriots, has made huge inroads into all levels of government,’ added Glenavon. ‘We have key figures holding important positions in the Commons and the House of Lords. Influential people who can sway the vote in Parliament. And we have the power of the press, which I can assure you, from my part, will urge the great British public to support Germany as the victims in this case. And if not actively support Germany militarily, with the dreadful memories of the last war being so vivid, they’ll at least vote to remain neutral.’
‘And we have the feather in our cap to persuade the public,’ said Cavendish, and again there was that same smugness in his voice. ‘None other than the future King of England. He certainly doesn’t want a repeat of what happened before.’
‘He fought bravely in the conflict,’ put in Glenavon. ‘As you did yourself, Herr Hitler. He won the Military Cross. You, the Iron Cross. Two brave warriors with one common purpose: peace between our nations, and a new order for Europe and the world.’
‘You are sure he will agree to an alliance?’ asked Hitler in German.
‘That will be up to you, Herr Hitler, to be your persuasive self when he comes here tomorrow evening,’ said Cavendish.
‘The omens are good,’ said Glenavon. ‘Remember, our two nations have a common ancestry. Our royal family are German – the Saxe-Coburg-Gothas. I’m sure it was some fool like Churchill who persuaded the King to change their name to Windsor. Completely unnecessary.’
There was the tinkle of a bell ringing in the kitchen. Through the curtain, Stark saw the cook go to the oven and take out the fish, and put it on the four clean plates. She loaded the plates on to the tray and once more headed to the dining room.
This time, Stark made for the door and was immediately out in a hallway, at the foot of the stairs. He stood, straining his ears for footsteps or movement upstairs, then mounted the stairs.
With the plan of the house secured in his mind, he located the room where Peters said Amelia was being kept prisoner. A key in the lock seemed to confirm it.
Stark turned the key. Amelia was sitting on the bed, and as she saw him enter the room she leapt to her feet. ‘Paul!’
‘Sshh!’ Urgently, he put his finger to his lips.
She was already across the room and in his arms. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get here?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Right now we have to get out.’
‘No. Right now you have to put your hands up.’
Stark and Amelia jerked round to look at the door, where Cavendish stood pointing a pistol at them.
THIRTY-NINE
‘It’s just like a movie!’ smirked Cavendish. ‘The brave but incompetent hero coming to the rescue of his lady love. And failing.’ He jerked the barrel of the gun at them. ‘Downstairs.’
As Stark and Amelia walked past Cavendish, Stark debated hurling himself at the American and trying to wrest the gun from him, but Cavendish had moved to a safe distance.
Stark and Amelia walked down the stairs, as Cavendish called out, ‘Come and see who I’ve got!’
Three men appeared from the dining room: Glenavon, Hitler, and a short, thin bespectacled man who Stark guessed to be the translator. They stared at Stark, stunned. Stark noticed that Hitler and his translator, in particular, looked worried.
‘I was heading for the bathroom when I thought I heard voices,’ said Cavendish.
In German, Hitler angrily demanded to know who this man was.
‘He is Detective Chief Inspector Stark,’ said Glenavon grimly. ‘A pest, whose days have come to an end.’
Hitler snapped something, still angry, and the translator said, ‘He has come here for Herr Hitler! We have to leave!’
With that, Hitler stormed up the stairs.
‘Wait!’ Glenavon shouted after him. ‘He didn’t even know you were here! He came for the woman!’
Suddenly, they heard the sound of gunfire from outside.
‘What the hell!’ burst out Glenavon. He swung to Cavendish. ‘Kill the pair of them!’
Glenavon rushed up the stairs in pursuit of Hitler and the translator.
Cavendish pointed the pistol at Stark, then at Amelia. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘If we’re under attack, I might need you as a bargaining chip. Who’s out there?’
When Stark didn’t reply, Cavendish lowered the gun and fired. Amelia screamed and fell to the floor. Stark dropped down beside her, shocked.
‘That time it was her leg,’ said Cavendish. ‘The next one is in her guts. A bad way to die.’
‘Soldiers,’ answered Stark, taking his handkerchief and making a tourniquet just above the wound. The bullet had torn through her leg and come out the other side. ‘I don’t think the bone’s broken,’ said Stark, trying to comfort her.
‘How many soldiers?’ demanded Cavendish.
‘Thirty,’ said Stark. ‘You haven’t got a chance. Give yourself up.’
‘So I can hang?’
‘The American government will protect you. They’ll take you back to the States where you’ll be safe. You said so yourself.’
Cavendish shook his head. ‘I’m not falling for that, Stark. You’ve worked hard to get in here. You’re not going to let me get away. And soldiers don’t bargain.’
He aimed the pistol at Stark’s head and pulled the trigger. Stark tensed for the bullet, then realized the gun had just clicked. Either it was an empty chamber or it had jammed. Stark threw himself at Cavendish, swinging a punch that smashed into Cavendish’s face. Cavendish reeled back, blood pouring from his nose. He tried to bring the gun up, but Stark chopped down on his wrist, and the gun fell from Cavendish’s hand. Stark grabbed Cavendish by the head and slammed the American’s head hard against the banisters, then slammed it again.
Cavendish tumbled to the floor. His face was a mask of blood. He pushed himself up, crawling along the carpet, dripping blood. Suddenly there was the sharp report of a shot and Cavendish slumped to the floor.
Stark looked up and saw Noble holding a smoking pistol.
‘We wanted him alive!’ shouted Stark.
‘Why?’ demanded Noble. ‘So he can talk his way back to the States where he’s safe? No way!’
Behind Noble, Danvers and the five soldiers had appeared.
‘You all right, sir?’ asked Danvers.
‘I’m fine,’ said Stark. He pointed to Amelia, who was sitting up, her face a mask of pain. ‘Lady Amelia needs treatment,’ he said. ‘She’s been shot in the leg.’
‘Broken?’ asked Fred.
‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure,’ said Stark.
‘Barney, take the lady to the car and take care of her,’ ordered Fred. He looked down at Amelia. ‘Barney’s a whizz with first aid.’
‘Sergeant, give him a hand,’ said Stark.
Danvers nodded. He took a second pistol from his pocket and held it o
ut to Stark. ‘I thought I’d bring another, sir, in case you changed your mind,’ he offered.
Stark hesitated, then took it. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
As Barney and Danvers went to Amelia, Fred demanded from Stark, ‘Where are the others?’
‘Glenavon, Hitler and his translator went upstairs. I think Hitler is going to make a run for it. There’s another set of stairs at the back of the house.’
Fred ran for the stairs, followed by Eric, Pete and Joe, guns drawn.
Stark hurried to Amelia, who was being lifted up by Barney and Danvers. Her face was deathly white and she was biting her lip against the pain. Stark squeezed her hand.
‘Trust them. They’ll take good care of you.’
‘The garage,’ grunted Noble. ‘In case Hitler’s making a break for it.’
Stark and Noble followed Barney and Danvers as they carried Amelia out of the house. As the others headed for the main gate, Stark and Noble made their way to the side of the house, heading for the footpath that led to the garage. They turned the corner, and immediately there was the sound of gunfire and bullets slammed into the wall beside them. Hastily, they ducked back into the cover of the house.
‘I thought we’d got all the guards,’ said Noble.
‘Cover me,’ said Stark.
Noble levelled his gun from behind the cover of the wall and opened fire at the unseen gunman, while Stark darted for the cover of the nearest apple tree in a low, crouching run. Once there, he peered into the darkness, trying to work out where the gunman had hidden himself. He fired a shot into the darkness. There was an answering shot which tore into the tree, showering him with splintered bark. But his wild shot had served its purpose: he had located the flash of the hidden gun. Stark fired again, this time breaking cover and running for a tree nearer to the gunman, letting loose another bullet as he ran. Three shots fired: he had three left.
The gunman had fallen quiet. Either he was playing for time, having worked out Stark’s plan to try to pinpoint his position, or he was reloading. How many bullets had he fired, Stark wondered. He was certainly close to his six. But then that depended on the type of gun he was using.