Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You!

by E. R. Pomeransky

  Just as Suzette was wrapping a black shawl around her shoulders ready to go, a uniformed RAF corporal walked in through the door, and headed towards them.

  ‘I knew we should have gone to Perranporth,’ he whispered to her.

  ‘Sir, operation is ready for dispatch.’

  ‘Well done, Corporal Mylor. Take a seat.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir. I didn’t realise you had company.’

  ‘This is my wife, Suzette. Have you met before?’

  ‘No, sir. Nice to meet you, Mrs Trembath,’ Rob Mylor gave a nod, his eyes catching sight of the flute.

  ‘Suzette’s a musician.’

  ‘I can play the penny whistle, sir,’ Rob laughed. ‘What do you play, Mrs Trembath, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Piano, saxophone, flute, violin, and cello.’

  ‘Wow. If you don’t mind my saying, Mrs Trembath, you look like a film star.’

  ‘Ha-ha,’ Trembath laughed, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘My husband’s laughing because I did a little stage acting when I was younger,’ Suzette smiled, her dimpled cheeks adding to her sensuality.

  ‘Her father made her give it up. He claimed she was too intelligent and packed her off to the Sorbonne, and quite rightly.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame, you’d have made a great film star.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it’s what you make of your life that counts,’ Suzette smiled graciously.

  ‘Suzette, why don’t you order a liqueur or another coffee while I have a chat outside, shouldn’t be more than 15 minutes.’

  Once they were outside the pub Trembath lit up another Gaulois.

  ‘Are the flowers ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the crates are ready to go.’

  ‘And how are you finding it, not too much?’

  ‘Not really, sir. More like a challenge. And I really liked seeing the Indian Ocean, never seen it before, it was fantastic.’

  He gave a nod of approval. ‘You’ll be travelling to Belgium soon, are you up for it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, definitely, sir.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Corporal. I have a position for someone of your calibre. Play your cards right you could go far in the for...’ Something suddenly caught his eye.

  It was raining by the time the Professor left the pub. He had departed early, bored with all the nonsense they spouted. Simon, the golden boy, had constantly self-praised, as the foolish junior doctors danced around him like some demi god.

  The pavement was daubed with puddles bombed by the rain, but he did not notice, walking straight through them, his shoes and trouser legs soaked.

  As he neared the hospital he heard footsteps behind him. Turning round he was disconcerted to find nobody there, apart from an elderly couple sheltering at the bus stop. He should have been at home now, with his family. Playing with the children, putting them to bed; making love to his wife. They were supposed to have been planning their summer holiday this evening, but now a holiday seemed out of the question. He had missed every parents evening, every nativity play and for what?

  A red helicopter flew overhead, away from the hospital. His eyes followed its trail along the night sky, embossed with grey rain clouds.

  The hospital car park was packed when he entered the grounds, it was visiting time.

  Footsteps - they were right behind him. He walked faster, but so did the footsteps, crunching over the uneven wet tarmac. Hurrying through the main doors of the hospital, he made a dash for the shop.

  Hiding behind a pyjama stand, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. Maybe he had imagined that he was being followed, it would not be the first time.

  Deciding that he needed to go home, he made his way to the car park.

  Just as he was about to climb into the driver’s seat he felt a hand come down hard on his shoulder.

  ‘Hello.’

  The Professor jumped with fright, his face paled on seeing the familiar figure standing before him.

  ‘What the hell are you doing stalking me?’

  ‘You didn’t return my call.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘You’re late with the order.’

  ‘What do you mean I’m late?’ he yelled. ‘I handed over the order late because of your arseholes.’

  ‘They most definitely aren’t mine,’ the man sneered. ‘Just make sure you deliver on time. We’ll need a batch by next week. I’ve found another buyer who’s interested.’

  ‘Listen, and listen well. I’ve told you before, I will not be bullied by you or anyone, is that clear?’ he demanded, his face contorting. ‘If you continue in this vein I shall just throw down my cards and go to the police and tell them everything.’

  ‘Ha-ha, I don’t think that will be beneficial to either of us. Goodbye.’

  Once he was inside the safety of his car, the Professor dropped his head down into his hands and wept.

  Unlocking the glove compartment, he carefully removed a bottle of Scotch he put it to his lips. When he had drunk at least quarter of the bottle he returned it back to its hideaway. Instead of locking the compartment, he removed the object lying behind the bottle, a black revolver. With trembling hands, he put the gun against his temple. Making the sign of the cross he slowly pulled the trigger. Click. But, to his deep dismay, he discovered that the gun was out of bullets.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was gone 8 p.m. by the time Guthrie returned home after his first shift at work, and he was exhausted. The past 4 hours had been spent riding up and down from Truro to Derriford Hospital in Plymouth.

  Lying on his bed, he thought about the letter that he had just picked up from the post office box. More like a package than a letter, in an A4 envelope. It was different to the previous correspondence, in that there was no sender’s name or postmark. Yet, the envelope was written in the same handwriting as the letter he had received in prison - from the person calling himself Tom Smith.

  Well, too bad, he did not have time for riddles, he just needed to rest. But, as his mother used to say, there is no rest for the wicked.

  As the tea was brewing he went into the bedroom to change.

  ‘Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, wear your hair long, babe you can’t go wrong,’ he sang, while climbing into a pair of dated black trousers. After all, he was not going out for pleasure. Really he should shower, but tonight an extra spray of deodorant and after shave would have to suffice.

  In the street outside the local youths were making a din. They had probably downed a few bottles of cider from the local off licence on Fore Street. Well, he had done worse himself as a teenager in Ilford, sneaking into the clubs and pubs underage. Smiling, as he recalled the pubs that both he and his friends had entered, barely 15, The Cauliflower, The Cranbrook, and even one named, General Havelock.

  After eating half a cold pasty, he decided that it was time to take a look at the contents of the envelope. Ripping it open, he discovered a thin document inside. The cover read: MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, TOP SECRET, along with a motto and emblem. But, he had seen enough papers like this to know they were rarely Top Secret.

  Turning the first page, it showed a map and a large photograph of a desolate air base.

  He was even more puzzled when he turned the next page and discovered that it was not written in code. What was the point in writing the first letter in code? Guthrie seethed. It had merely caused him the unnecessary problem of deciphering it. There again, the original note had been sent to him while in prison, and that meant anyone could have read it.

  The first line of text read:

  “Nancekuke Common became a Chemical Defence outstation of Porton Down Wiltshire.”

  Of course, he already knew that Porton Down was an MOD agency. It was a government military science park, a defence research institute. It had often been criticized for developing and testing out weapons of mass destruction on animals and humans.

  He continued reading down the pag
e.

  “Nancekuke Common manufactured the nerve agents, sarin, CS and VX, Illegal under the Geneva Convention of 1925. Churchill had wanted to increase production there, but his plans were halted when he suffered a stroke. In 1969 there was a protest by locals and others against the manufacture of chemical weapons at the base, as seals, fish and birds were dying in the area. Although the MOD assured the public that production had ended in the late 1950’s, it was known that it was still being manufactured until at least 1980. They claimed to have destroyed all the buildings when it was given back to RAF Portreath, which is now ‘officially’ just a reporting post for RAF St Mawgan. But they lied! Not all the buildings were destroyed. Nancekuke Common produced 20 tons of the nerve gas sarin during 1951 to 1976 and 35 tons more after, 41 men died from working there, 9 of them during their time of employment. That was 41 out of the 150 workers employed on the base – and production is continuing. There are five dumping areas for chemical waste on the hill top. Some of the chemical waste was disposed of down mineshafts.”

  What was the person thinking, sending this letter to him? After all, he was not an agent anymore so why would he be interested?

  Irritated, he turned to the next page.

  “The squadron from RAF Portreath were sent to the former Republic of Yugoslavia in Jan 1997. 34 Sqn RAF Regt were presented with the Wilkinson Sword for Peace 1997 jointly with 1 Sqn RAF Regt for providing humanitarian support throughout Operation LODESTAR. During their absence the Wing Commander was made second-in-command over RAF Portreath.’

  ‘So what have you been up to when the boys were away, I wonder?’

  Taking another look at the note that he received in prison, he scrutinised the words until he came to the line,

  “And is a high flyer with its new wing of the eagle numbered SW673455.”

  Perhaps, if he had done better with formal logic at university, this deciphering might have come easier. He guessed that SW must mean the south-west of Cornwall.

  Opening his wallet, he removed a small travelling map of Cornwall, it had Ordinance Survey numbers on the back pages. Deciding that it would be best to start with the west coast towns and villages first, he traced his finger down the page:

  OS - Grid Ref: SW475306 - Penzance; OS - Grid Ref: SW756540 - Perranporth.

  He continued down the page until he came to OS - Grid Ref: SW673455 – It was the RAF base.

  Nancekuke Common and RAF Portreath were one and the same.

  *****

  Riding the Harley along Penberthy Road into Portreath, less than 3 miles from Redruth, Guthrie noticed Nance Wood, a dense fortress of trees. A great hiding place for a camera or spying eyes, to view any visitors heading up to the airbase, he thought. Turning off into Tolticken Hill, he rode up the long winding lane bordered with trees and thick foliage on each side. At the top of the lane he was confronted by a noticeboard pinned to a large steel gate. It read:

  MOD - RAF PORTREATH – NO ENTRY - TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  The gate was flanked by high fencing and barbed wire, it appeared to be connected to electricity cables.

  Feeling slightly uneasy, he pulled out his Walther PPK pistol from his pocket and carefully attached the silencer.

  A rodent of some sort was digging a hole near the fence, confirming that the electricity was not turned on.

  Using his flick knife, he cut a large hole in the wire and then climbed through. The silence unnerved him.

  Looking through his infra-red, optic and night vision goggles, which allowed him not only to see his own breath quicken, but also the body heat from unseen enemies, he noticed that the whole terrain was densely bordered by trees.

  Ten minutes later he found himself inside the complex. Running breathlessly through the trees and across the uneven ground, he eventually came to a lane that led into a small empty car park. It was surrounded by sporadic single storey buildings and a couple of tall chimney stacks. Some buildings resembled derelict 1950’s prefabs, others, warehouses, like the buildings at the factory shops just down the Portreath road. Even the row of barracks looked more like a museum piece than a functioning defence unit.

  Many of the stone buildings were badly damaged, which made him question why they had not been pulled down.

  Obviously it was vastly different to 1941, when the base was an RAF Fighter Command Sector Station and Overseas Air Dispatch Unit.

  He needed a cigarette. The lighter failed to light on the first two attempts, but did on the third. It reminded him of when he was at school, and his classmates’ warning never to take the third light. His mother had told him that the superstition came from the war years.

  After a few deep drags he decided to crawl towards a long, single storey block, designed on a similar scale to the barracks, but this was much smarter. Beige walls, brown window frames and sloping slate roofs. There was a tree outside on the walkway, by the made up road. Paths led from the road to all the front doors, giving the impression that this was a normal block of bungalows or offices in a normal street in the centre of town. Except for the large blue notice stating: ROYAL AIR FORCE PORTREATH.

  The lawn was neatly trimmed, with a few daisies sprouting up around the signpost. A garage stood at the end of the block with a metallic blue BMW convertible parked outside. A parked car meant that the driver was somewhere about. Maybe that was why the electric fence had been turned off.

  Rubbing off the gravel and stones that had imbedded into his dusty palms, Guthrie decided to take a look at the car. Keeping down as low as possible, he ran across the open space towards the vehicle.

  Sliding across to the driver’s seat, he reached into the glove compartment. There were just some gloves, a map, and a half empty bottle of whiskey. On the back seat were several children’s toys. Just ordinary stuff you would expect to see in a car, now feeling disheartened, it had been a waste of time.

  Sliding back out of the vehicle, he dropped down to the cold ground. Crawling along on his belly he suddenly noticed the bridge over a narrow stream. Moving towards it he noticed a small dilapidated utility building resembling a garden shed. The windows were secured with iron grates, the door padlocked. It made little sense why this ramshackle concrete shed would be secured, unless it contained something of value. But a padlock did not stop him.

  A nasty stench greeted him as he entered. It was empty, apart from an Air Force badge on the floor with the motto, ‘Ever Alert’. Dirt and cobwebs filled every corner of the ceiling. Paint was patched and peeling and the wooden floor had descended into the earth below. The only furniture were two cupboards. Opening one of the cupboards he found it thick with cobwebs, now wondering if there was any point in continuing with the search, he was running late as it was. An empty jar caught his eye, perched on the dusty shelf, labelled Trembath’s Cornish Honey. Holding the jar to his nose he could smell traces of honey. There also lingered another smell, probably mould. On the top shelf of the next cupboard was a grubby book about wild flowers, there was a bookmark inside advertising KING BEE HONEY. But the King had been crossed out with a pencil and Queen had been scribbled in its place.

  Bending down to inspect the space under the shelf, he found a large bundle wrapped in a polythene sheet. Pulling off the sheet thick with dust, he was disappointed to find only a long black gabardine coat, a large brimmed hat, a fake black beard, and two ringlet lengths of hair.

  Gripping tight at the fake ringlets, he tried to remember where he had seen them before. And then it suddenly came to him. It was a Hasidic costume; like those he had seen worn in Antwerp. What if one of the men in Belgium had not been an authentic orthodox Jew? Maybe, someone used the disguise in order to watch them, follow them? Was the owner of this costume the man who had murdered Stella, if so, why keep the costume? Unless of course, the wearer had plans for future use, or maybe just keeping it as a trophy. But, more importantly, who was the author of these letters, this Tom Smith? Could he in fact be the murderer, just enjoying playing mind games? Then suddenly he saw them,
a row of gas canisters that had been hidden behind the polythene.

  *****

  The music pounded loudly, as the dancers wiggled their hips and the drinks flowed. The Twilight Zone was packed to overflowing. Pseudo trendies of all shapes and sizes filled the dance floor. Overlooked by spectators seductively draped around the spiral staircase, that led up to the balcony where more drinks were to be had.

  Guthrie leaned over the balcony to see what talent there was on offer, if any. Yet, if truth be told, he just wanted to go home to bed and sleep. Checking his watch, it was 11 o’clock. Perhaps the hospital noticeboard had given the wrong date for the hen night. Wishing it was not quite so noisy he took another gulp of the neat Scotch - And then he spotted them, a group of nurses dressed as French maids with their caps, aprons, stockings and suspenders and not much else.

  They headed towards the bar tottering on their high heels, shrieking and giggling for attention, as the bleary-eyed males leered. They did not look much like nurses that was certain, with boobs and bums flashing around. He wondered which one he should approach.

  Returning to his table in the corner, he swigged back the remainder of Scotch. About to make his move, he was suddenly interrupted.

  ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’

  She was around 30, blonde streaks, very pretty face and curvaceous, but not quite as slim and toned as he normally went for. Anyway, he was not looking for romance; just a quick shag with a brainless nymphet who might be willing to do his bidding.

  About to refuse her request she sat herself down.

  ‘You a body builder?’

  ‘No.’ He made a move to stand up and walk away, when she suddenly grabbed his arm.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ She was obviously drunk.

  He did not reply straight away, weighing up his options.

  ‘I’m with the hen party,’ she revealed, on noticing the direction of his gaze.

  ‘Where are your stockings then?’ he mumbled disinterestedly, peering beyond her to the young, suspender-glad nurses.