Bad Sons (Booker & Cash Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  As she slid under the steering wheel I caught a glimpse of sturdy footwear, worn jeans, an outdoor top and some enthusiasm for the day ahead. She’d sprayed something nice somewhere too. She dumped her bag on the back seat and gunned the engine.

  ‘Got any idea of where we’re going?’

  ‘Yes. Got your passport?’

  She swore, killed the engine, pulled out the keys, jumped out of the vehicle and ran back to the entrance to her building.

  I resisted the urge to mention it when she returned a couple of quick minutes later breathing heavily and looking flustered. She took her aggression out on the vehicle and I kept quiet. The way she was driving led me to believe we might not be late for the train after all if we didn’t end up becoming an RTA statistic.

  We weren’t late but we cut it fine. The traffic had already started rolling to board by the time we pitched up. We went smoothly through the necessary checkpoints – maybe Jo flashed her warrant card – and were soon squeezed in our carriage sandwiched between a family saloon and a sports car. The tension that had tightened my body as we drove fast for the train faded away to be replaced by feelings of relief similar to that experienced when removing a tight pairs of shoes after a long walk.

  I congratulated her.

  She mistook my patronising remark for sarcasm. ‘We didn’t miss it, did we?’ It wasn’t worth fighting about.

  I was interested so I asked: ‘What did you tell work?’

  ‘The truth, of course. I’m following up a lead pertinent to the investigation.’

  ‘In France?’

  ‘I don’t think I mentioned exactly where.’

  ‘What if they want you urgently?’

  ‘They won’t.’ She seemed quite sure about that.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ she said, as if that explained everything.

  *

  The forty-minute train ride was uneventful. We discussed the route we should take. I showed her my suggestion in the atlas and she took it from me and made a meal of checking the publication date then made some clever remark about believing the UK had still been attached to mainland Europe when it was printed, but we had nothing better. Neither of us owned smartphones with international map applications.

  We followed everyone else off the train and out of the gates of the Channel Tunnel terminal, if not on to French soil then French tarmac.

  There wasn’t a signpost that tallied with the map so we went with the flow on the A16. A short while on I was worrying whether we were going in the right direction when I saw a sign for the D243E3. That was in my atlas. We took it while everyone else appeared to know something we didn’t. The atlas indicated that in five or six kilometres we would find the D940 somewhere near Sangatte.

  I knew two things about Sangatte. One: it was twinned with Sandgate, just up the road from Dymchurch. Two: it was notorious around the turn of the twenty-first century as the site of a refugee camp from which its largely eastern European inmates would regularly walk away without difficulty in their individual bids to find a way across the Channel and into the UK – the promised land. So lax was security reputed to be at the camp that it earned the nick-name ‘Sans-gate’. Much to the relief of British immigration officials, the camp was closed in 2002.

  We were heading towards the coast. Everything was labelled in kilometres. The D940 was about five away. I thought Romney Marsh was flat and featureless but the landscape we were driving through took open plains to a new... plane. The view put me in mind of the film, ‘The Big Country’. At least the Marsh was regularly broken up with trees and hedges. In every direction the flat land rolled away to the horizon with only sporadic clusters of housing to interrupt the view. For all its blandness there was something typically French about it in an exciting continental way.

  What we saw of Sangatte was tidy and well looked after. My guess was that the French government had been generous to the municipality in its compensation for foisting a refugee camp on them, which could not have been a popular development. The French, I supposed, had their own version of NIMBY and as a people they had a reputation for effective civil action when they could be bothered to unite or felt threatened.

  We came to a T-junction and turned left. We were on the D940 in northern France and less than two hours previously I had been at home in southern England. Incredible.

  We quickly progressed through the modern, functional, built up centre-ville and were once more travelling up the asphalt scars in the vast swathes of open farmland.

  I got the idea enclosure hadn’t taken off in rural France like it had in eighteenth and nineteenth century England. Or maybe it had but the French peasants had claimed it all back in their Revolution. Good for them.

  The scenery quickly became a stunning distraction as the sun blazed down on La Manche to our right and bathed the countryside to our left in its warm squeeze. I thought that once this was all over I’d return and explore this area more fully. It seemed as though it would be worth it.

  The roads were as quiet as a Christmas morning in a home without children. We drove for several minutes without encountering another vehicle.

  We passed through the small, sleepy, unremarkable yet typically French northern-provincial settlements of Wissant, Audinghen and Audresselles, and half an hour after leaving Coquelles arrived at Ambleteuse without a clue regarding what to do next. Everywhere was so peaceful it might have been a period of extended siesta or a public holiday.

  ***

  42

  Ambleteuse was the biggest of the villages we had encountered so far along this stretch of the extreme northern coast. There were people around, even some traffic, if three moving automobiles, a tractor and a bicycle constituted traffic.

  It was likely we were going to have communication problems. My French was limited to asking someone their name, enquiring after their health and asking how old they were. Jo could manage a ‘Bonjour’ that even I found offensive. But we had a stroke of luck. Without warning we found ourselves driving past a large World War II museum. Really. Don’t believe me, Google it.

  I told her to stop and, having overshot the entrance, she pulled into a lay-by a hundred metres further on. The main road was not busy but she still managed to almost get us killed as she executed her U-turn. She coloured the air with her language and gesticulated in the general direction of the French driver who had not seemed in the wrong to me. Thankfully, he appeared oblivious to it all. I needed an incident of French road rage like I needed a case of shingles.

  The museum looked like a converted industrial building – low and sprawling and clad in that particular style of corrugated metal sheeting reserved for them. It seemed well maintained and clean. I counted five flagpoles on the front lawn but couldn’t spot the German flag. Behind the six-foot barbed-wire-topped mesh fence that hemmed it in, the grassed area fronting the road boasted jeeps, tanks, heavy artillery and a variety of complementary military hardware. It looked like a labour of love of someone living in the past. Wars had to be remembered but for the right reasons.

  If the car park was anything to go by, it wasn’t going to be particularly crowded inside. I suppose Second World War war-tourists have their seasons just like fans of anything else.

  We had our pick of several parking spaces near the main entrance. It was mid-afternoon. I checked the opening hours on the door. We had plenty of time to find out where the French end of the PLUTO operation had been sited. And if no one here knew then we were probably going to be screwed.

  We went inside. It seemed only polite to buy a couple of tickets. I told Jo it was my treat. She gave me a look that didn’t say thanks very much.

  The middle-aged woman in the little kiosk put her knitting aside to serve us. I asked whether there was anyone around who might ‘parlez-vous Anglais’. I understood that either my syntax or semantics of the French language, possibly both, were flawed but she seemed to get the gist of what I was trying to say. In her linguistic ignoranc
e Jo raised an impressed eyebrow at my efforts. I winked at her and didn’t see the need to put her straight. The woman nodded and waved us through towards the exhibits.

  In we went. There were several static displays of crudely-posed manikins clad in military uniforms of both sides from the period being commemorated. Behind the glass of cabinets were exhibits of weapons and ephemera. I couldn’t get excited about this kind of thing myself. Sure, it was interesting; it was history, but it never bit me like it did some. Each to their own. Probably not too many people who came through the door would get gooey about a British first edition, first impression of Fahrenheit 451. Sober and without gloves, I’d strangle a puppy for one.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone else around who looked like they worked there, so we just mooched and waited.

  I was starting to wonder whether the knitter might not have understood my request after all when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a man with a purposeful stride approaching us. I turned to face him. He was about my height and about my weight. He had a small moustache and big ears that stood out all the more for his close-cropped hair. If I had ears like that I’d have worn my hair long, or a wide-brimmed hat.

  He was dressed in overalls and he was wiping his hands on a rag. He looked like a mechanic but when he spoke he sounded better educated than that. His English was very good, just a trace of an accent.

  ‘You are looking for an English speaker?’ His demeanour suggested he was a busy man. His brow was furrowed and his gaze was quite intense.

  I smiled and nodded confirmation. ‘Thank you. Sorry to drag you away from whatever you’re working on.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘We’re looking for something to do with the Second World War.’ He nodded his encouragement and I realised that given our surroundings he might have reasonably surmised as much. He showed no outward sign of thawing. ‘Have you ever heard of something called PLUTO?’

  Something slight happened to his face; something I see in people’s faces when I swear at them and mean it. He forced himself to smile a tight little smile.

  ‘Why are you asking about that?’

  I thought that a strange response. ‘You know what it was?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’re trying to find out the whereabouts of the operation in Ambleteuse. Where the pipeline would have come ashore. A building or something.’

  He rephrased his question: ‘May I ask why it interests you?’

  I decided to lie to him. It seemed the easiest thing to do. ‘I recently found out that my grandfather was involved in the Dungeness side of things. He was stationed in one of the pumping stations there. I’m interested to see what things were like on the French side.’ My lie pleased me. I didn’t look to see what it had done for Jo.

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There was no similar arrangement on this side of La Manche.’

  I gave him my confused look. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is very simple. When the Allies laid the pipelines this area of France was under Allied control, of course. They would hardly have been likely to go to all that trouble and danger if the Germans had still been here, would they? They wouldn’t have got near the beach. So they didn’t need the specially-constructed kinds of buildings that were erected in England to fool the Luftwaffe. When the pipelines reached the French shore they were simply laid across the beaches to pump their contents into waiting tankers and temporary storage containers.’

  I felt very stupid indeed. Of course, he made perfect sense. There had been no need of secrecy because the Allies were in control and it was all to be temporary. The Allies were pumping fuel one way and all that was needed at the French end was a big stopcock and some tankers to pump it into. They didn’t need buildings. They didn’t require secrecy. It would also explain why I had not been able to find anything on the Internet detailing ‘pumping stations’ disguised as seaside bungalows in the area. They weren’t pumping anything, they were only receiving. I really could not remember the last time I felt such an idiot.

  He recovered something of his composure in the light of my obvious embarrassment. ‘Also, the Dungeness to Ambleteuse pipelines were not called PLUTO.’

  ‘Weren’t they?

  ‘No. PLUTO referred to the overall operation. Whoever decided on the code names must have had a fondness for the characters of Walt Disney. The lines which ran from The Isle of Wight to Cherbourg were code-named BAMBI. The Dungeness to Ambleteuse system was code-named DUMBO.’

  Jo piped up: ‘Where did they actually come up the beach here?’

  He gave her a sorry look and complemented it with what I imagined was a typically French shrug. ‘I really couldn’t say. There were many lines, perhaps as many as twenty, I believe. There would have been many points along the coast that they lay across the sand and probably they would have been well spaced to prevent the tangles, no?’

  Yes. I remembered reading that a two-mile channel had been swept on the seabed prior to the pipelines being laid.

  We thanked him and left without exchanging another word. The defeat hung on me like a leaden cloak. I didn’t look back. I didn’t see any of the exhibits and I didn’t look in Jo’s direction again until we were standing on opposite sides of the car.

  ‘Well, that was a total waste of time, effort and money. I owe you an apology. I have been incredibly stupid. If I can make it up to you in some way, please say.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. It didn’t occur to me either.’ I thought that rather generous of her. ‘Besides, I’ve had a nice trip to somewhere I’ve never been before.’

  I smiled at her for her kindness and over her shoulder saw the man that had spoken with us appear to stand with another very big man at the open back doors of a white Transit van parked at the side of an adjacent building. The very big man was completely covered in some sort of bee-keeping suit and they were looking in our direction.

  ***

  43

  My heartbeat gathered pace and intensity like something big, irregular and out of control plunging downhill. My mouth dried up and I had to swallow hard before I said to Jo across the metal roof between us, ‘Don’t say anything. Don’t turn around. Let’s just get in the car and leave.’

  Naturally, she made to speak but something in the look I gave her zipped her mouth. She released the central locking, we got in.

  ‘I’m serious. Don’t let your gaze wander. Just get us out of here and on the road back to where we came from. I’ll explain.’

  The museum quickly became a distant shape.

  Her impatience got the better of her. ‘What is it?’

  I had turned in my seat to study the road behind us. ‘The guy who spoke to us was talking to a giant of a man at the open back doors of a white Transit van. They were looking in our direction.’

  I felt the car begin to slow. Jo turned off the road down a narrow tree-lined lane and came to a stop around a bend that would hide us from view if anyone went past on the main road. She killed the engine and got out. I followed suit.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We can talk here. You’re saying the van and the man are the same as you saw in Dymcurch?’

  ‘You know I can’t, not for certain. I’m saying it’s a coincidence that makes me feel very uncomfortable. And they were looking in our direction. They were interested in us.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be? The business they’re in would make it natural for them to take an interest in people who shared it. Did you actually see the man in Dymchurch?’

  ‘No, but I told you, I could tell he was huge.’

  ‘You were wearing a hood. You had received a blow to the head. You were disorientated and scared. Did you just get a look at the registration plate of the van back there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could you at least tell whether the plates were French or British?’

  ‘No
.’

  ‘When you saw the vehicle in Dymchurch, which side was the driver’s?’

  ‘I can’t say. I hid my face when they passed me. What’s with all the questions?’

  ‘Calm down, David. Just doing my job. There are a lot of big men who drive white vans, you know. White-van-man ring any bells?’

  ‘I know.’ I could hear the testiness in my voice.

  ‘Did you see the way that guy’s face altered when you mentioned PLUTO?’

  ‘You noticed that? He didn’t like it, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t like it.’

  Nothing had passed on the road in either direction. Above us in the branches a pigeon called for a mate or as a warning. The smell of the country was pungent and affecting in a good way. It seemed a very remote spot and I wondered where the lane led.

  Jo broke into my thoughts: ‘What do you want to do?’

  But I was thinking differently. ‘There was no pumping station this side of the Channel. Just pipelines lying on the beach for the fuel to flow through. All this time, I’ve been assuming that whatever is at the root of this business must be something they were intending to pump from France to the UK. But with no hidden base, no pumping station, that’s a non-starter.’

  Jo was looking at me. ‘So you’re saying that if pumping something under the English Channel from one place to another is what they were proposing it wasn’t France to UK but UK to France?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been so stupid with this. Pumps pump, they don’t suck.’

  We temporarily forgot our conversation to focus on the highway as a tappety diesel engine increased in pitch and volume, signalling its approach. Through the trees we saw a white Transit van speed past the top of the road in the direction of Calais. There was no chance of a look at the driver. We looked at each other and I don’t know what she saw on my face but on hers I saw anxiety.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Avoid that vehicle for a start.’

  ‘Agreed. And then?’