Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  Salim explained. “Why we wanted you here, Shah, was because we thought we might move to that stable.”

  Shazada started to say, “What stable—?” and then realised that it was pointless. The boys were all grinning.

  “The one where you’ve been having it off with young Sunley,” said Saghir.

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Pipe down, Sher,” said Salim in his commanding officer’s voice. “All we want to know, Shah, is whether this place is easy to get at, do other people come there, that sort of thing.”

  “I shan’t tell you anything.” She launched a withering look in the direction of Saghir and swept out of the room.

  “It’s all right,” said Salim. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it all out of her later, when she’s on her own.” He had no doubt about his ability to do this. Shazada, treated reasonably, would do anything her elder brother asked.

  That evening she took him on a conducted tour.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” she said. “No one ever comes up this lane, unless they’re using the sports ground. It doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  They had reached the steel gate and chain-link fence with its ‘Keep Out’ and ‘War Office Property’ signs.

  “Now we have to crawl for a bit.”

  On her hands and knees she showed him the hole, no bigger than the entrance to a fox’s earth, which went under the overgrown hedge on the right of the track. After they were through the hedge it was a little easier, but the summer crop of nettles had not entirely died and there were thorns.

  She must be in love with him, thought Salim, if she does this very often. When they had climbed through a ground-floor window and up into the stable he looked appreciatively at the solid brick and wood structure. It had survived the passage of the years well.

  “Just the job,” he said. “Even if they found out where we’d gone to they wouldn’t burn this down in a hurry. Sit down for a moment, Shah, and tell me about Tim.”

  “Tell you what about him?”

  “Keep calm. I’m not asking about your love life. That’s your affair. I wanted to know about Tim’s job.”

  “Oh. Well, if you mean about the army, he’s in Number Three Platoon of ‘C’ Company of the 134th Regiment of Royal Engineers. Their headquarters is at Erith.”

  “Then what is he doing here?”

  “He explained that. When the Arsenal moved out of London they didn’t take everything with them. There are six explosive sheds out there on the marshes. They’ve still got stocks there. Some of it’s last war stuff. They have to be guarded. The platoons take it in turns, three months at a time. Number Three Platoon is on duty until Christmas.”

  Salim sat on a bale of straw, swinging his legs and thinking. Shazada had found before that she could follow his thoughts with an uncanny accuracy which is more usually associated with twins.

  Salim said, “Tell me about this guard duty. How’s it carried out?”

  “The guard is five men and a sergeant. They have a—I don’t know the proper name.”

  “A guard-hut?”

  “That’s right. It’s in the Arsenal grounds, near the old Gun Yard, on the river. The sentry crosses the canal by a private bridge and goes out, past the Black Sheds – that’s where three of the explosive dumps are – then along to the Proof Butts, where there are three more and round in a circle and back again. Tim says it’s creepy, that bit is. The night birds make noises and there are things that move about, in the rushes.”

  “Then he does the round on his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he do when he gets to one of these – what did you call them? – explosive stores?”

  “Nothing much. What he has to do is see that the padlock is still on the door and if he saw anyone hanging about he’d have to—well—whatever sentries do.”

  “Challenge them.”

  “That’s right. Challenge them.”

  “If he thought someone had been messing about with the padlock, I suppose he’d unlock it and look inside to see if anything had been stolen.”

  “I don’t think he could do anything like that. He hasn’t got a key and anyway he wouldn’t know if anything had been stolen, because he’s never seen inside one of the sheds.”

  “Suppose they had to get in?”

  “The sergeant’s got a key, I suppose.”

  “Where does he keep it?”

  “I don’t know. He’s never told me things like that.”

  Salim thought about this, whilst Shazada watched him anxiously. Then he said, “When Tim was going his rounds, has he ever actually run into anyone – an intruder, I mean?”

  “Not so far. It isn’t an easy place to get into.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. So when Tim comes to see you, how does he get out?”

  “They’ve got some private way they use when they don’t want to go out through the main gate. He’s never told me what it was.”

  “There must be some way behind this building. We got in at the front, so it couldn’t be too difficult to get out at the back. The snag is you’d still be outside the perimeter fence, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose so. Tim could tell you.”

  “Would he?”

  “What?”

  “If you asked him particularly, would he come along some time and have a word with me? Privately, I mean. Not with all the boys.”

  “If I asked him, I expect he would.”

  “Then see if you can fix it. Best would be to meet here.”

  “Lim.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know what you’re planning to do, but don’t do it. Please don’t do it.”

  Salim looked at his sister for a long moment. It was quite dark in the stable by this time and he could just see her face as a pale blur of whiteness.

  He said, “Darling Shah, if you know what I’m planning to do, you’re wiser than me. Because I’m not at all sure yet what I’m planning to do.”

  12

  “When I first came here,” said Superintendent Groener, “this stretch of the river really was the Port of London. Full of cargo boats heading up for the Surrey Docks on the south bank or the India and Millwall Docks on the other side. All shut now, except for the Royals and they’ll go soon. Nowadays it’s a leisure-orientated highway.”

  The Superintendent had a North Country voice with the faintest burr in it. Agreeable to listen to, Every found.

  “I expect you get all sorts,” he said.

  “We certainly do, Colonel. Pleasure steamers, yachts, private boats of all types and sizes.”

  “But you still get an occasional – I don’t know the right word – I should call it a tramp steamer.”

  “Coasters. Yes, a few of them, but not above the Royals. Small craft, two hundred up to twelve hundred tons. The Princess Line uses the King George V Dock. One or two foreign lines like the Elskamp and the Lorraine prefer the Old Gun Dock and the Scotland. Cheaper dues and they’re handier for their customers in East London, you see. But I gather it isn’t docks you’ve got your eye on right now?”

  “We don’t think that our friends would risk landing this particular cargo at an official dock. They’re well guarded and it would be properly scrutinised before it was allowed out. What we had in mind was a wharf or pier.”

  “Got plenty of those,” said Groener cheerfully. “You can have a look at them as we go. More’n a hundred, I guess, between here and Gravesend.”

  They were seated in the forward cabin of one of the new Thames Division boats. Every had been admiring her smart black and white paint and chequered sides and now he felt the drive of her twin 220 horsepower turbo engines as they headed out into London Pool.

  He said, “What can you get out of her?”

  “Twenty-seven knots. Maybe thirty, if we were pushed. But anything we might have to chase is slower than we are. And we’ve got enough radio equipment to cut it off, or call for reinforcements if we need them. That’s our mainset radio, netted t
o the Information Room at the Yard. The other’s the marine radio. We can talk to ships on that, through Channel 14 – that’s Woolwich – or Channel 12 – Gravesend. We can pick up any ship between here and Southend on one or other of those frequencies.”

  He looked proudly at the bank of shining instruments in front of him. Like a child, but with an unchildlike toy, thought Every. Loud hailer and siren. Flashing lights and warbler. It was a police car on water. An extension of the land arm of the Metropolitan Police.

  “I’ll try to define the problem for you,” he said. “What I visualise is a coaster coming up river. She’ll have entered her manifest at Gravesend and passed Customs. If she’s a regular visitor she may not have been searched. In fact, we’re indicating that that’s the way we prefer it.”

  “Let them come up here and put their heads into it, right, Colonel?”

  “Absolutely right. Ostensibly, they’ll be heading for the Royals, or maybe one of those private docks you mentioned.”

  “Then our search area will be Blackwall Point to Barking Creek. There’s nothing much beyond that except the Ford Motor works on the north bank and Erith Marshes on the south. In this stretch, you won’t have to deal with more than fifty wharfs.”

  “I suppose that’s an improvement,” said Every.

  They were swinging round the corner where Greenwich Reach ended and Blackwall Reach began. It was calm November weather and the river was dozing in the sun. Small, brightly painted public houses; riverside parks with children playing in them; a sunken barge which formed a gallery for a row of solemn sea-birds.

  Superintendent Groener was speaking to him, pointing out the sights on his beloved river and Every was listening to Groener, but he was thinking, at the same time, about something quite different.

  “That’s Lovells Wharf. They deal with sugar, and the next one’s a scrap-metal wharf. Morden Wharf and Delta Wharf. They’re non-operational. Bow Creek. Instones Wharf’s in there, but you can only get in at high tide. You can just see – over that old lock gate – Greenland Dock and South Dock. Part of the Surrey group. Both closed up now and used for water activities. Canoeing, skiing and that sort of thing.”

  Was it going to be possible, thought Every, just for once, to get ahead of the opposition? To forestall the man who called himself Liam? He would be engaged in landing illegal explosives and that would put him outside the law. A type of vermin, really. No one could blame the farmer for pulling the trigger. As he thought about it, he felt the anger mounting inside him and he distrusted it.

  He was a professional. Just as Liam was a professional. Professionals might kill each other, but they did not get angry about it. His first instructor, old Major Vinelott, who had killed a great many people in his time, had said to them, ‘Think of yourselves as surgeons. You combat terrorism, as surgeons cut out diseased organisms. If they allowed sentiment to affect them, the hand that held the knife would be unsteady and the results disastrous. So I say to you, put aside personal feelings. Put aside passion. Do the work you are trained for. Cleanly if you can and efficiently, but above all dispassionately.’

  “Coming up to Blackwall Point now,” said Groener. “So better keep your eyes skinned. That opening on the left is Bow Creek. Take you straight up to Canning Town station, but it’s a high-tide entrance and you might not get out again. If I had to pick a south bank landing place it’d be about here.”

  “Why just here?”

  “I’ll bring the boat over and you can see. Once you were on shore you’d be on your own. No houses or factories. Just the wharf and a quarter of a mile of track running across the marshes till you hit Woolwich Road.”

  “Ideal for us as well. Easy to block a single track. Whose wharfs are they?”

  “The first one, just below the Point, is Universal Wharf. Don’t know much about it, but we can put an enquiry through. The next one is Breakspeare. Run by a transport firm called Blaikmores. Nothing against them. Then Suffolk Wharf, said to belong to one of the co-operatives. After that Angersteins and the two Charlton Wharfs. Then Durham Wharf – that’s a firm of glass bottle manufacturers. British Ropes, Silicate, Thames, Warspite, St Marys and St Andrews, Mastpond, Tuffs Wharf and The New Ferry.”

  As they closed on the built-up area round the Royal Dockyard, the wharfs were coining thick and close together. Every wasn’t bothering to write names down. He knew he could get them out of Gaze’s List. He was more interested in assessing their possibilities as clandestine landing places. The first three, as Groener had said, possessed clear advantages.

  “Not much on the north bank until you get to Harland and Wolff. You’ll have heard of them. Then the Silvertown Rubber Company. Tennis balls and golf balls, among other things. The next lot are all Tate and Lyle, until you get to Standard Telephones and Cable. This is Gallions Reach. You can see the Barrier ahead now. Peruvian Wharf. They take gravel. Millwall Wharf, non-operative at the moment. Freight Express. They deal in specialist metals. Now you can see the two private docks I told you about. That’s Scotland Dock. It’s the bigger of the two. Proper lock entrance, outer basin and inner basin. It used to handle quite big craft, but of course any vessel of any size now is containerised and offloads at Thames mouth. The smaller one – we’re coming up to the entrance – is Gun Dock. It’s only got a single gate so you can only use it at high tide.”

  Every glanced at the two docks. There was a small coaster in Scotland Dock. Gun Dock seemed to be empty. He was certain, in his own mind, that the opposition would not risk a dockside disembarkation with all the formalities and chances of detection. No. It would be a sidling-up to a wharf with a party waiting on the crane and a lorry in attendance. It need take no more than a few minutes. And if he could read the riddle of Arthur Drayling and the boys, he could be waiting for them. No mistakes this time.

  He knew, though he had pushed it into the back of his mind, that his feelings were coloured by guilt. If his men had done their job properly at Cuckmere Haven, Liam would not have got away and his stepson would still be alive. He wondered whether the strength of his feelings was apparent. He hoped not. Reggie Mowatt might have guessed. He had a considerable respect for the shrewdness of that stout, soft-spoken man.

  They were past the Royals now, swinging up towards Barking Creek.

  “Not much on either bank in this stretch. On the south it’s the Arsenal, or what’s left of it, and the Thamesmead development area. On the north it’s the Gas Light and Coke Company. Plenty of wharfs and jetties, but specialised equipment for handling coke and coal and that brings us to Barking Creek.”

  “Looks the sort of place a ship might tuck itself away in” If it was careful about the tide, certainly. And it’s navigable for some way up. Again, one long road leading up through the Eastbury Level, to the Barking bypass. I’d notch that up as a possibility. Nothing much more between here and Erith.”

  “Then let’s turn round,” said Every. “I’d like another look at Universal, Breakspeare and Suffolk.”

  Back in headquarters’ office, with charts and gazetteers spread over the table, they went over the ground once more.

  “If you’d like my personal opinion,” said Groener, “I think there are three sorts of wharf you can rule out. First there’s the ones that operate under what you might call the public eye. No one in their senses is going to land a dicey cargo at Nile Street Stairs or the Steamboat Pier.”

  “Right,” said Every. He took a blue pencil and drew a line through two and then, after thought, two more of the names on the sheet in front of him.

  “Then you’ve got quite a few firms who are much too big and respectable to play in with a fiddle like this one.”

  “You know them. You’d better mark my card for me.”

  The blue pencil came into operation again. This time more than a dozen names disappeared.

  “The last point isn’t as definite as the other two,” said Groener. “But I think it’s sound none the less. Quite a few of these wharfs have got specialised equipment
. Bucket hoists and mechanical shovels for dealing with coal or coke or gravel. I don’t say they couldn’t be diverted to take an ordinary load. Suppose your man has a pull with the managing director, or even with the crane boss and says, ‘Just as a favour, I’d like you to land this consignment for me.’ All right, maybe he’d do it. But it’s the sort of thing that’d get talked about. Which is the last thing your man would want, I guess.”

  “I agree,” said Every. “Take them out.”

  “Particularly,” said Groener with a smile, “when, so I’m told, you’ve got a couple of politicos working along the south bank.”

  “Politicos? Oh, you mean Special Branch men. That’s what you call them, is it? How did you hear about them?”

  “There’s not much happens on this river or either side of it that we don’t hear about, sooner or later,” said Groener.

  “So that’s the form, Micky,” said Bearstead.

  He was in the CID office at District and was talking to Detective Chief Superintendent Michaelson, a teddy-bear of a man, known through the length and breadth of south-east London as Micky. He was a notable police officer and would, in the general view, have been one, or even two, grades higher if he had not, on one occasion, spoken his opinion of Haydn-Smith’s German wife when she had tried to interfere in a police operation.

  “Most of this information came from Groener, at Thames Division.”

  “You can bank on any information he gives you.”

  “Added to and cross-checked by two of our men.”

  “I see.”

  Michaelson did not add that he had heard his own boss, Commander Tancred, describe them as ‘two cowboys who ought never to have been allowed off the leash’.

  “Between us we’ve narrowed it down to four probables and two possibles. Three of the four probables are in your district. They all back on the Bugsby and the Greenwich Marshes and are all served by a single road, running south towards Woolwich. The other probable and the two possibles are on the north bank in ‘K’ District.”

  “Let’s have the names of our candidates.”