Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  “And if you are called after the explosion has taken place?”

  “Then we examine the location to see whether we can obtain any evidence as to what sort of device it was and, possibly, to deduce from this who had been responsible.”

  “And that is what you did here?”

  “That is correct. It was difficult, in this case, because of the almost total destruction. But I did recover a portion of thick steel which could have been part of a hydraulic jack. I also found a heavy torch battery. It had been blown by the explosion into the far corner of the room and was comparatively undamaged. There were fragments of wire still attached to each terminal. The only other item which might have been significant was a twisted scrap of tin.”

  Leopold said, “These are exhibits W 1–3 in this case, sir. And can be seen by you if you wish.”

  “Thank you. I’ll look at them afterwards.”

  “We have heard a suggestion, Major, that the accused may have stolen a cheap alarm clock. Could this metal have been part of it?”

  “Yes. It could have been.”

  “Now, as to the general condition of the site. Could I ask you about that?”

  “As I said, the destruction was considerable. Most of the breeze-block walls were standing, but everything else had been carried away. All the woodwork had been burned to ashes by the fire which followed the explosion.”

  It was clear that Major Webster had very little more to tell them.

  Leopold chose his final question carefully. He said, “Speaking as an expert, is it your view that the destruction you have described could have been caused by the detonation of four pounds of compacted cordite?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Diwaker was on his feet. No sign, now, of lethargy. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the rail in front of him and said,

  “Major Webster, you have just given us your opinion ‘as an expert’. May I ask you, an expert in what?”

  “In dealing with explosive devices and their effects.”

  “On the first point, we must agree. Your exploits in dealing with unexploded bombs have been amply applauded in the press.”

  Trying to make him lose his temper, thought Leopold. Too old a hand to fall for that, I hope.

  Since this was not a question, the Major did not feel obliged to answer it. Diwaker said, “On the second point, however, the effect of explosives, what are your qualifications for dealing with that?”

  “After qualifying as an ATO I spent a year at the Central Ammunition Depot at Bramley, followed by a practical course at Trawsfynydd in North Wales. I also attended the short course at the Royal Military College of Science.”

  “That was the six months’ young officers’ course?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not the three year degree course?”

  “No.”

  “I am not attempting, Major, to depreciate your expertise.” Diwaker showed his teeth in a token smile. “Merely to indicate the precise field in which it lay. Which was the practical matter of dealing with bombs. Yes? Not theoretical considerations of the thermo-dynamic properties of explosives.”

  “We had to consider such points, from time to time.”

  “We shall find out about that,” said Diwaker smoothly.

  He turned over a page in the file which he had on the desk in front of him. It was a thick file, with a Cambridge blue cover. Anthony noticed that Leopold and Mr. Norrie appeared to have similar files.

  “May we now turn to the evidence you gave at the inquest? It seems that your first view was that the explosion was caused by open-cast gelignite. What is that, precisely?”

  “Nitro-glycerine and nitro-cotton. Possibly some ammonium nitrate as well.”

  “A powerful, high-density explosive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very useful, therefore, for quarry work.”

  “Certainly.”

  “However, you later abandoned the idea of gelignite and adopted the view that the explosive concerned might have been cordite. Can you tell us something about that?”

  “Cordite is also based on nitro-glycerine. Its other constituent is largely gun cotton, with some mineral jelly.”

  “A considerably less powerful, less easily activated explosive?”

  “To some degree, yes.”

  “Much safer to handle. But—” here Diwaker leaned forward a little, “very much more difficult to detonate, yes?”

  “Somewhat more difficult. I couldn’t go any further than that.”

  “Could you not perhaps, go a little further if I tell you that I shall be adducing evidence – from a ranking expert – who will tell us that a single detonator in four pounds of cordite would probably not detonate it at all. That it would blow the container to pieces and make a mess, but nothing more.”

  “I have given you my conclusion.”

  “Then may we examine the basis on which you came to that conclusion? What is the detonation speed of gelignite?”

  “I don’t carry all these figures in my head.”

  “You find the question difficult? Let us take a somewhat simpler point then. What is the direction of the explosive waves of gelignite?”

  “More or less all round.”

  Diwaker selected a book from the pile on his desk and opened it at the place he had marked. He said, “In this work on blasting practice I see it is stated that the shock waves generated by gelignite travel mainly in a lateral direction. It is this that makes it particularly useful in quarrying. Well?”

  “Mainly lateral, perhaps.”

  “Not all round, then?”

  “I may have used the expression loosely.”

  “I see. You spoke loosely. Just so. Now, when you examined the site, Major, did you examine the floor underneath the spot where the explosion is presumed to have taken place and the walls on either side of it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “There was nothing in your report about them.”

  “There was nothing to report.”

  This answer seemed to please Diwaker more than it did Leopold, who was frowning.

  “Now you mentioned that the walls, being breeze-block, had largely survived. This would include the wall between the inner and the outer room?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the explosion, as we were told, set fire to some petrol in the inner room, did it occur to you as significant that Mr. Leone, who was there within a minute, should have found the heat in the outer room – I use his own word – over-powering?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Major, are you not doing what no scientist should ever do, trying to fit the facts to your theory rather than the theory to the facts?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You really wish the court to believe that this massive explosion of force and heat was caused by four pounds of comparatively inert explosive, a home-made detonator and an alarm clock?”

  “It’s a possible explanation.”

  “Possible, Major, possible. But is it the truth? You showed us a scrap of metal. You say it could have come from an alarm clock. Could it not equally have come from a Thermos flask, a tin of beans, or a canary cage?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Diwaker resumed his seat.

  Leopold did not re-examine. He was reading the report in the Cambridge blue cover. Mr. Norrie said, “Is that your last witness, Mr. Leopold?”

  Without looking up from his reading Leopold grunted out what sounded like agreement. Mr. Norrie said, “Very well, Mr. Diwaker.”

  “I have only one witness, sir. I think that when you have heard him you will agree that there is no case to go forward on the second and third charges.”

  As Professor Meiklejohn ambled into the court, took his stand in the witness box and adjusted his glasses, another man slipped out of the back of the court. The small man in the upstairs window listened to him with interest. He said, “That’s lovely. Spread the news that the bloody lawyers may be wangling the Pakis ofF. Say we’re
planning an assault on the court.”

  His young adjutant looked doubtful. He said, “I don’t think they’ll fancy that. The old Bill are getting a bit rough. There’ve been a lot of heads broken on both sides.”

  “I didn’t say we’re going to assault the court. I said we were planning it. Get them massing at either end of the street.” As the boy turned to go, he said, “You can spread the word, privately this time, that we start shutting up shop at half-past four. Our lads should all be clear by five. Understood?”

  In the court room, Diwaker had introduced his witness, rolling the alphabet of his distinctions lusciously round his tongue. Then he said, “My learned friend, Mr. Leopold, and you, sir, have a report produced by this witness. To save time, I intend to adopt it as part of his evidence.”

  “I can’t agree to that,” said Leopold.

  “You feel that it would be improper?” said Mr. Norrie.

  “Most improper, sir. To start with, I have hardly had time to read it. Also, as you may be aware, the Lord Chief Justice has recently laid down strict lines on the admissibility of written evidence when the writer is available as a witness. Allow me to refer you to the case of the Romford Urban District Council against Walliker—”

  Professor Meiklejohn gazed mildly round the court. With his prim mouth, his scholarly half-moon glasses and his domed forehead topped with untidy grey hair, he personified the scientist of tradition; the absent-minded boffin, lost in abstract thought, blind to the realities of life. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He was a poet. A man who was delighted by the significance and the contradictions of the world.

  He found the present situation enchanting. The noise of the crowd outside, rumbling and grumbling and occasionally bursting into spurts of sound, like an angry sea beating against the rocks; in the centre, a calm temple of justice, with its arguments and its precedents and its legalistic disputes.

  One of the policemen touched Anthony on the arm. He said, “Is that right, you’ve got a St John’s Ambulance certificate?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Super wondered if you’d come along and lend a hand?” Anthony said, “Of course.” He was anxious to learn what evidence the Professor was going to produce, but Diwaker had opened a law book and it looked as though the argument about the admissibility of the report was likely to take some time.

  What had been the witness room was now a first-aid centre and half a dozen of the walking wounded were sitting round smoking and waiting for damage to be attended to. From the way Sergeant Blascoe was holding his arm Anthony diagnosed a broken collar bone. The long-haired Sergeant Ames had a black eye and had lost some teeth in this, his first experience of physical combat. He was talking to Sergeant Montgomery, who had been kneed in the groin and kicked in the ribs, but had managed to remain cheerful. He said, “‘Ullo, Mr. Leone. Come to patch us up?”

  “Do what I can,” said Anthony. “Better take your jacket and shirt off.”

  As he was undressing, Montgomery said, “I wish now they’d let me stick to my job up at Scotland Dock. But no such luck. It was all hands to the pumps down here. Even the PLA boys. So what I did, I went up there very early this morning, before the crowd started to thicken up, and handed over my box of tricks to Bunny Larwood – he’s the Dock Superintendent.”

  Anthony said, almost choking, “Are you telling me that your regular job was handling the ACID detector at Scotland Dock?”

  “That’s right. It isn’t all that hard to use. If a ship turns up today Bunny should be able to cope.”

  “And he’ll be there on his own?”

  “Well, he lives there, see. The point is, no one else can get to him until this crowd makes off.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Anthony. “Someone else will have to look after you.”

  “Something wrong?”

  He left the room without stopping to reply. Sergeant Montgomery sat staring after him. He was trying to work out why anything he had said should have upset the Probation Officer so much.

  In the passage outside, Anthony ran into Wynn-Thomas. He said, trying to control his voice, “I most urgently need to telephone.”

  “Well,” said Wynn-Thomas, “if it’s urgent, why don’t you use the Super’s phone? He’s not in his office at the moment.”

  Mowatt had decided that, on that critical afternoon, Great Peter Street would be nearer the storm centre than St James’s Park. He found a badly worried Bearstead. Settling himself in a chair he said, in his placid voice, “Something wrong, Bruno?”

  “To tell you the truth,” said Bearstead, “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re being made fools of.”

  “How? Why?”

  “It’s the old conjuror’s ploy. Making the audience watch his right hand, whilst it’s his left hand that’s doing the dirty work. I’m beginning to wonder whether the Marie-Louise has got anything to do with the IRA plans at all.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They’re not fools. They must know that we’ve heard about that missing aeroplane bomb and will deduce that the explosive is coming over from Belgium.”

  “We’ve been through all that,” said Mowatt patiently. “Their plan is to sling the stuff ashore at some isolated wharf and have it whisked away inland. Every’s so sure about it that he’s been having nightmares. He sees the ship sliding up, in the dusk, unloading in a matter of minutes – seconds even.”

  “Exactly,” said Bearstead. “Then why is the Marie-Louise coming up in broad daylight?”

  Mowatt stared at him.

  “She cleared Customs at ten o’clock. Not the regular captain, incidentally. She’ll be about half an hour below Scotland Dock at this moment and at the Royals, if that’s where she’s heading, by four o’clock.”

  Before Mowatt could say anything the green telephone, which was his direct line, rang. Bearstead listened for a moment, passing the extension to Mowatt and switching on the tape recorder.

  Anthony tried to speak slowly and calmly. It took him two full minutes to get his message across. Almost before he had finished, Bearstead was dialling. He found Groener in his office. He said, “You’ve got a link to Colonel Every’s car. Would you please call him back to your place, now? As fast as possible.”

  It took Bearstead only one minute to repeat what Anthony had taken two to tell him. There was no need to embroider it. He said, “As soon as the Colonel’s on his way back, you can explain what’s happened and what he’s got to do. He’ll have to move fast.”

  “I’ll have a boat ready,” said Groener.

  “To put the matter quite simply,” said Every, “we’ve been had. All our careful defences have been put in the wrong place.”

  He was sitting with Groener in the forward cabin of RDB 9, the newest of the Thames Division launches. He tried to sound calm.

  “We know, now, that the Marie-Louise will unload at Scotland Dock.” He looked at his watch. “By my reckoning they’re about fifteen minutes below it at this moment. We’d always supposed, you see, that if they used a dock, any explosive they tried to land would inevitably be detected and that the police and the PLA would be able to detain the cargo. Neither of those suppositions is correct. The officer who would normally use the ACID detector at Scotland Dock is under such a heavy obligation to the assignee of the cargo that he would probably have faked the examination and let the cargo through. But the opposition weren’t relying only on this. They like two strings to their bow. They have so organised things that, as it happens, there are no policemen there at all and nothing on wheels can get near the place.”

  He demonstrated on the map spread in front of them. “There’s only the one road running inland from the dock, through Plumstead Marshes, coming out at Plumstead station – where there’s a milling mob that you couldn’t get through with a Sherman tank.”

  “If no one could get through, how are they going to get the stuff out?”

  “I expect they’ll have thought of that,” said Every grimly. “The
y seem to have thought of everything else.”

  “In that case, it might be a good idea to get to Scotland Dock first. If we can.”

  The boat seemed to hear him and gave a leap forward, its scarlet bow coming clear out of the water. They were headed directly downstream, keeping to the centre of the fairway.

  “If we hit anything at this speed,” said Groener, “we’ll both go under.” The horn snarled and a launch four hundred yards ahead which had started to turn across their bows hurriedly changed its mind.

  As they swung round the butt end of the Isle of Dogs, Groener was speaking to the Woolwich Control Zone. He was asking permission to pass through the Thames Barrier without reducing speed. After a few exchanges he said, “Right. They’re leaving Span B open for us and keeping everyone else clear.”

  When they turned up Blackwall Reach they were heading due north and the east wind picked up their bow wave and whipped it like a sheet across the windscreen. Both wipers, working overtime, could only clear it in flashes.

  “It’ll be better when we turn the corner. Two miles to go. Say five minutes to the dock. Is there some way we can get up to it, Angus?”

  The bearded engineer, a Scotsman who had not opened his mouth so far, said, “Aye. There’s a run of steps at the west side of the dock. It comes up alongside the Arsenal wall. There’s a path from there to the entrance.”

  “What do we do when we get there?” said Groener. “We’re not what you might call a massive force. Just Angus, you and me.”

  “Have you got guns?”

  “I have. He hasn’t.”

  “In that case, two will be as useful as three. We’ll leave Angus to look after the boat and you come up with me.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Play for time. ‘C’ Troop are not far off. They’re at the Southern Outfall. I got through to them before I left the car. Their quickest way is along the river-bank, on foot. Which means that they can pick up men from the five observation posts as they come.”

  “It’s a rough road,” said Angus. “‘Twill take them all of half an hour.”

  “Now don’t start depressing us,” said Groener. “I was just beginning to think we were winning.”