‘Apart from the famine resulting from the civil war, there was far greater evil afoot. For many years Europe has been dumping their chemical and medical waste on the country causing untold misery. Most of the waste was dumped on the beach in broken containers and leaking barrels. The Swiss and Italians were the greatest culprits highlighted by the Italian newspaper Famiglia Cristiana. Of course, the local warlords were also to blame when Barre had been forced out of office in 1991 and his replacement, Ali Mahdi Mohamed, took over for a year. He was paid £60 million in exchange for allowing 10 million tonnes of toxic waste to be dropped on the country. But, that was merely a minute piece of icing on the very lucrative but deadly cake.
Britain withdrew from British Somaliland in 1960, so that it could join up with Italian Somaliland, and become Somalia. Just over 20 years later Greenpeace proved that there had been the dumping of chemical waste there, they claimed it began in the late 1980’s, but it probably began much earlier. Greenpeace exposed Italian and Swiss companies and others, of being involved with this transportation of waste, including the Mafia. And this might interest you, Guthrie, it also included Nancekuke. The company who shipped the waste was owned by the Somali Government. Around 35 million tons of waste was exported to Somalia. Puntland has only just declared autonomy.’
So Nancekuke had been active during the 80s, yet how could that have been possible? Guthrie asked himself, seeing as the men from RAF St. Mawgan who would usually oversee Nancekuke had been sent to the Falklands and Yugoslavia, and possibly even to Ireland. So, who were those left behind? Well, he already knew from Tom Smith’s coded letter, that one of those left behind was a very young pilot, who later became a Wing Commander, based at RAF Portreath.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Miller’s, Lanhams and Laity’s estate agents had offered Guthrie a brief list of available properties in the town. They had all said the same thing - that he had chosen the wrong time of year to flat hunt in the area.
The first home he looked at was described as an ‘Apartment’. It was halfway up The Stennack, a steep hill leading away from the harbour towards the council estate and Halsetown. By the time he had puffed his way up the hill, he had little energy left to climb the three flights of stairs to the bedsit. The room consisted of single bed, wardrobe, and wash basin.
‘There is a TV room you can use, but there is a no smoking policy,’ the sour faced landlady told him. ‘For another £5 I can change the bed every fortnight. There’s a shower room and toilet on the floor below. If you’re on the dole, I expect the money weekly.’
‘Um, I don’t think…’
‘If you’re working you can pay monthly if that’s easier. But I want a month in advance. Also you’ll need to give me 2 references.’
The second apartment he viewed was an attic on Penbeagle Estate. The accommodation looked more the size of a large toilet than a flat. The third viewing was a tiny, but lovely, bedsit near the harbour. To view it had meant him walking back down The Stennack and cutting along Fore Street, a long cobbled street that ran parallel with the wharf. Starting at Market Place it terminated just before the Sloop Inn, depending from which end you came in by. The stonework on the frontage of many of the shops, along with the cobbled road, ensured an ambiance of times past. Catering mainly for tourists, it included shops selling Cornish pasties, fish and chips, Cornish Fudge, gifts and surfing equipment. There was also a public house, Methodist church, and a large black and white shell shop that had been there for donkeys’ years. Most of the gift shops were getting ready for the tourist season. Windows were being washed and painted, iron grilles taken down, and new stock filling the shelves.
Taking a quick look at the façade of the vacant bedsit above the fish and chip shop, Guthrie thought better of it and headed back the way he came.
The bells rang out from the Parish Church of St. Ia on the hour, like a timeworn old grandfather watching over his town.
Guthrie followed the line of tourists inside the church, although, they somehow reduced the aura of spirituality, packing out the aisles with their beach bags and constantly flashing their cameras.
Standing below the rood beam, he peered up at the effigy of Jesus, Mary and John. They appeared to be looking down on the Jacobean pulpit, although no one was preaching.
Although the rood screen had long gone, destroyed by the Puritans in 1647, the church was still extravagantly decorated. Everywhere he looked there were carvings, even on the ends of the pews, where examples of ornate 15th century craftsmanship could be seen.
Entering the Lady Chapel to the right of the altar, he sat down on one of the small wooden seats and focussed on Barbara Hepworth’s Madonna and child. The plaque below the sculpture revealed that she had carved it in honour of her son, killed whilst serving in the RAF. Suddenly, he was overcome by a feeling of remorse. All those heroes in the Royal Air Force who had sacrificed their lives for their country, and there was he, about to destroy their good name.
Placing a few coins in the tin, he removed a thin, white candle from the box. Putting the wick to one of the other lighted candles, he watched it catch the flame, and then placed it into the candle holder.
Falling down onto his knees he crossed himself.
‘I confess to Almighty God, that I have sinned through my own fault, in thought, word and deed. In what I have done and in what I have failed to do. And I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, to pray for me to the Lord our God. In the name of the Father and of the Son…’ He paused to cross himself. ‘And of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’
Leaving the church by the side door, Guthrie made his way to the Blue Haven teashop along Pednolva Walk. In the summer there would not be an empty seat in the place, but now he was the only customer.
‘Pot of tea and...’ he glanced down at the cakes on the counter. ‘A piece of lemon meringue, please.’
‘Clotted cream?’ the waitress asked.
‘Please.’
He found himself a seat by the panoramic window overlooking the ocean. Two small children were playing with their buckets and spades on the patch of beach opposite the tea shop. Using their spades, they dug into the soft sand, watched over by their mother who was holding a baby in a sling. He wondered what it would be like to be a father. To kick a ball about with a son, or walk a daughter down the aisle. Odd, that he had never discussed having children with Stella, the subject had never crossed their minds. Work had dominated his life since he was twenty-one. Sometimes he had wondered how his life would have turned out if he had followed his university peers into law or medicine.
The waitress placed the tray down on the table. His eyes focussed on the enormous slice of pie and cream.
‘Thank you. I love clotted cream,’ he said, tucking in.
‘Yes, so do I, legend says that it was brought here from the Middle East. I think it was the Babylonians, or maybe it was the Hebrews.’
‘Wonder who stole the recipe?’ he laughed.
‘This cream is now made in Redruth, a firm called Roddas, they’re in Scorrier.’
Guthrie was astounded that the town he could not wait to leave, had produced this piѐce de résistance.
‘Well, who would have believed it, but it’s yummy, that’s for certain.’
‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘No, I’m actually thinking of moving here,’ he replied, with a mouthful of pie.
‘Oh, you’ll love it. My husband and I moved down from Essex.’
Guthrie’s heart missed a beat. Too many Essex people were moving here. One day he would be spotted and the game would be over. He knew she was waiting for him to say where he came from, as he still retained his London/Essex accent.
‘Clacton-on-Sea,’ he lied.
‘No, well what a small world. We went to Clacton for our anniversary. Used to go to Jaywick as a kid, loved it.’
‘What part of Essex do you come from?’ he just prayed she wasn’t going to say ‘Ilford’.
‘Harold Wood.’
Guthrie smiled, yet felt sad at his deception. It would be nice, just for once, to tell the truth. Perhaps he was getting old.
A blue and white paper napkin beside the plate caught his attention, embossed with Cornish words and pictures. The picture of a head read Pen, a house was Chy and a fish, Pysk. It reminded him of the Latin word for fish, and the astrological sign, Pisces. A Cornishman had told him that the Cornish used the word Piskie for Pixie. But he could not see any obvious connection between a fish and a fairy-like creature.
*****
After he had left the teashop he decided to give MI6 a call. Although, of course, it was no longer called MI6 but SIS. They had even changed their headquarters from Century House in Lambeth to 85 Albert Embankment at Vauxhall Cross. If they agreed to his request then he would continue with this investigation, if not, then he would have no choice but to pull out and return to his home in Sussex. But that would mean he had failed Stella, and he knew that he would rather die than do that. He also knew that if he continued in his search for her killer, it might actually come to that.
Just along from the café was a lane called The Warren, a fairly narrow, cobbled lane with houses on both sides. One of those houses was named, LOBSTER ROCK. It was a lighthouse shaped building, four floors high. The front door was at the back of the property.
Guthrie opened the door, and found himself inside the kitchen. In the centre of the room was a spiral staircase. A small table stood in the corner, covered in a red and white gingham table cloth, matching the curtains.
A small bedroom led off from the kitchen, he decided that would suit him fine. He would just need to buy a bed.
Climbing up the stairs he came to the next level, the sitting room. Nicely decorated in Wedgewood Jasper print wallpaper of light blue and white, with a matching blue and white striped suite. A drop leaf dining table stood in the corner, under a Keith English print of the harbour. But, the first thing that caught his eye was the panoramic window and French doors.
Guthrie headed straight through the doors onto the veranda.
The view across the bay took his breath away. Tranquil blue waters stretched in every direction across the panorama. He could even see the Western pier and the harbour, like a painting on a chocolate box, almost too perfect.
Below the veranda the tide ebbed and flowed gently onto the granite and blue Elvin rocks. Lumpy stone with patches of greys and browns resembling a crocodile’s tail, as it jutted out from the foundations, seeping down into the ocean.
On one side of Lobster Rock was a large house, Crab Rock, it had been converted into flats. On the other side was a hotel.
After inhaling a few deep breaths of salty air, Guthrie felt refreshed enough to climb some more.
On the next floor was a small, all white shower room and toilet with washbasin. A box room stood opposite. Inside were bunk beds and a broken wardrobe. The spiral staircase rose up another flight and terminated in the centre of the top floor bedroom. It overlooked The Warren, a good post for a CCTV camera.
Perhaps he would invite his family to come and stay once this was all over. It was very good of the MOD to agree to buy Lobster Rock for him, but of course, there had been conditions.
Katie joined him early that evening, over a bottle of chilled Muscat Blanc on the veranda.
‘Oi would love to live in a place like this.’
‘Yes, it does have lovely views,’ he conceded, looking out over the sun-spangled ocean.
‘Oi’d get myself a boat, a small yacht and sail over to the Scillies.’
‘Sounds nice, am I invited?’
‘We’ll see,’ she laughed. ‘Have you seen any dolphins?’
‘No, not yet,’ he confessed, his hand stroking her slender arm. ‘Perhaps we could swim with the dolphins if we ever find any.’
‘Oi wish oi could stay here forever and ever...with you.’ Katie lowered her head and rested it on his lap, lulled by the sunshine.
‘What’s so special about me?’
She did not reply, just snuggled up closer.
The gulls swarmed overhead, some landing on the balcony of the neighbouring hotel, hoping for rich pickings from empty plates. Guthrie watched them, greedy yet beautiful as they glided past, their white wings gently flapping their way up into the heavens.
As he stroked her hair, he wondered if Our Lady was watching them, and if she approved.
An hour or so later they decided to go for a walk on nearby Porthminster beach. Holding hands, as if glued together, they headed down the black slippery rocks that led to the beach.
‘Be careful,’ he warned, helping her step down from one boulder onto another, carefully avoiding the seaweed.
‘Should have worn my bikini.’
‘It will be dark soon, wear it next time. You could even stay over when you get time off work.’
‘What are your swimming trunks like, bet they are woollen?’ she laughed.
‘Think we should go skinny dipping,’ he joked, helping her down the final boulder onto the sand.
The beach was empty apart from a small crowd on the far side.
‘What’s happening over there, Gut?’
‘Private party by the looks of things.’
Katie giggled, ‘shall we take a look?’
The air was still warm, the sky azure blue, as hand in hand they skipped barefoot across the beach like teenagers.
The group of people were all dressed in 60s paraphernalia. They were listening to man play Rod Stewart’s, ‘Maggie May’, on his guitar.
‘Hi, sit down and join us, we’re having a reunion,’ a woman wearing a flowery dress and headband called over.
They both sat down on the cold sand, observing their surroundings. Only one man had long hair, the rest had short back and sides or were bald. The women also had strains of conventionality streaking across their middle aged faces.
‘What reunion, school or university?’ Guthrie asked.
‘A hippy reunion. We were lived here in ’73 and slept on this very beach. I was only 16 at the time.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ Katie smiled. ‘Oi wish my teenage years had been like that.’
‘Donovan was a dosser here in the ’60s, before our time. We used to sit on the harbour wall after we were booted out of the woods. We weren’t even allowed to sit on the beach in those days.’
Guthrie looked bemused.
‘In ’73 the St. Ives town council employed a security force with dogs to get rid of us, and poured lime all over our belongings. I was at work at the time and lost all my stuff.’
‘Where did you work?’
‘The Golden Egg, that was. This was where the scene was at in ‘73. Until the security force appeared. With help from some of the locals and police, they drove most of the dossers out of town.’
A man wearing a kaftan walked over and joined the conversation. ‘Looking back, I don’t totally blame the council. After all, some of us did look scruffy, and there were a couple of thefts of milk bottles. They needed the tourists, you see, that’s their livelihood.’
‘Well, oi doubt anyone would mind you sleeping on the beach tonight,’ Katie suggested.
‘We’ve all grown up now, too old to sleep rough, ha-ha.’
‘So, do you all live in Cornwall?’ Katie asked, wiping the grains of sand from her hands.
‘No, I live in Portugal. Colin lives in France, but most of the others live around Britain. Francesca over there is a neurosurgeon,’ she pointed to a tall slim woman wearing an afghan coat.
Their chat was suddenly interrupted when the guitarist began to sing Donavan’s ‘Colours’.
‘Yellow is the colour of my true love’s hair,’ they all joined in. ‘In the morning, when we rise, in the morning, when we rise, that’s the time, that’s the time, I love the best.’
It was during the last verse when Katie leant her head against Guthrie’s chest; curling her body up like a foetus, inviting protection from his strong arms. They remained in this position as the musici
an sang his way through the list of Donavan songs, and then, moved on to the albums of Simon and Garfunkel.
Guthrie began to regret having missed the hippy experience, wondering how his own life would have turned out if he had joined them. Spending the days of his youth smoking dope with the hairies, making love. Talking of peace, while watching the gentle turquoise waters of the harbour ebb and flow under the summer sun. Instead, he had spent the years murdering whoever was on the hit list.
It was during, ‘The Sound of Silence’, when Katie turned her head towards him and kissed him full on the lips.
‘Oi love you, you know, never meant it to happen,’ she whispered. ‘Oi prayed to Our Lady today, asked her what she thought.’
‘She knows me well, so hope she gave me a good reference,’ he smiled, and then gently kissed her. ‘So what is this love you have for me, Kathleen O’Brien? Is it eternal or just for now? Is it soul-deep, or is it physical, name your love?’
‘Love is love. You can’t diminish it or define it. It is just love – from the heart.’
‘Hey, who is the philosopher here, me or you?’ he laughed. ‘A guy called Moore said something like that about the word good.’ Looking into her sparkling, temptress eyes, he asked, ‘Can I invite you to stay over tonight with me at the guest house?’
‘Oi’ve told you, oi have to be at work at midnight. My employers are throwing a party, and oi’ve got to go and help clean up?’
‘Wonder they didn’t make you stay and help.’
‘Oi had to help prepare it all, that’s why oi couldn’t come over this afternoon. Oi wish oi could stay, oi am so happy when oi’m with you, Gut.’
‘Likewise,’ he smiled, pressing his lips onto hers.
By now, the air was chilly, the large white sun had turned orange. This could be anywhere in the world, Guthrie thought, as he observed the horizontal lines of reds, blues, and oranges, swimming through the fluffy white clouds as the sun slowly fell into the sea and drowned.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A dozen or so men wearing combat gear and balaclavas sat in the back of a haulage truck, loaded with grenades, AK47s and M4 Carbine, as it drove up to RAF Portreath in the early hours of the morning. Once they arrived on the base the men jumped out of the truck, and began to load the weapons into another vehicle.
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 11