The Falklands Intercept

by Crispin Black

  ‘But who else could have known? A few squaddies passing by would hardly put two and two together. Sorry, I know you hate the term “squaddies”. And as I said who cares now?’

  Jacot turned and faced Will. ‘It could be a motive for murder.’

  ‘Really. Do you think that? OK. OK. Calm yourself.’

  Jacot’s hands flexed more powerfully. ‘I need to get a message to London quickly. What’s the best way –I can’t hassle the governor? Poor man has been putting me up for three days. The military at Mount Pleasant?’

  ‘Dan, please. You are talking to a skilled radio ham. Admittedly we are in the middle of nowhere. My satellite phone might take a few minutes to get going but it will easily get through to a landline in London.’

  ‘What’s the time in London?’

  ‘We are three hours behind GMT and so four behind the UK at the moment.’

  Jacot laughed. ‘Easily confused. I remember during the war we all had to operate on London time otherwise everything got muddled up. Will, give me a couple of minutes while I ring my boss in London and pretend to be sober.’

  Say nodded, grinned and went into the kitchen.

  ‘Lady Nevinson, Jacot here.’ It wasn’t exactly a squeal of delight but she was certainly pleased to hear from him. He took her through what he had discovered and finished with, ‘Well, it amounts to a motive for murder. Could explain a lot and if it’s the case we are all off the hook as it’s not a national security matter. It’s not a very good line. Would you get someone to contact the Cambridge Police. They had better re-interview Mr Jones, the Fellows’ Butler at St James’. Yes, Lady Nevinson. No, Lady Nevinson. I fly out via Chile tomorrow.’

  The Austral winter wind shook the house. Jacot was no longer drafting in his mind his report to Lady Nevinson. His mind wasn’t focussing on intelligence. It was mulling over murder. Maybe Jones had killed Verney as payback for his young brother’s hellish, burning death on the Oliver Cromwell. If others were involved in Verney’s little scheme to frustrate the Celtic Guards’ efforts to leave the landing beaches that fateful night they presumably had kept silent too. Those connexions hardly mattered now, certainly not to the murder investigation. With any luck it would emerge that Verney had died of natural causes before Jones had got around to doing anything in revenge for his brother. He felt sorry for Jones. All those years of grief for a lost brother and their poor, proud mother who had never got over it.

  Jacot was going to miss playing the amateur sleuth on a secret mission from the Cabinet Office. He had rather enjoyed himself and it was more amusing than watching yet another unfolding British military disaster in Afghanistan or manically flattering the Americans, which seemed these days to be the bread and butter of intelligence work.

  Jacot took another gulp of his Famous Grouse. A malicious mistake nearly thirty years before had set off a chain of events that resulted in the ghastly, claustrophobic deaths of over fifty young men. Jacot did not believe that comforting myth about being burned alive, that the smoke and gases overwhelm you before you actually start to burn seriously. He had been told it at school about Joan of Arc and he had always been relieved that the Oxford Martyrs – Latimer, Ridley and a few months later Cranmer – would have had a mercifully quick, if frightening, death. It wasn’t true. He had heard those men dying on the Cromwell. They did not suffocate, they burned all the way.

  ‘Come on Dan, let’s finish the whisky. The RAF will be here in a couple of hours to pick you up. Who knows, the pilot might even be Prince William.’

  XVI

  LAN Flight 0045

  – Santiago de Chile to London

  The flight back from Santiago was long and tedious. Santiago was to all intents and purposes a European city, making it easy to forget just how far away South America was from home. It was a curious custom in the Cabinet Office that certain officials took the status of their bosses even when not accompanying them. The taxpayer had therefore been kind enough to pay for a premium economy seat for Jacot, rightly an increasingly rare occurrence in these straitened times. As ever Lady Nevinson’s elegant claws seemed to extend most places and a very attentive British ambassador to Chile ensured that Jacot eventually travelled in what the Chilean airline called “Premium Business” – a rare treat indeed for anyone except bankers in their heyday. The food on the Chilean Airlines flight had been excellent and, sexist though it was even to think it, the air hostesses were gorgeous. Jacot slept much of the way.

  His mind slowly purged itself of the emotions aroused by his first return visit to the Falkland Islands since 1982. So far it had been different from what he expected. To his great relief the dead men he had known who had appeared many times in his dreams over the years did not return to him. Nor was he plagued again by the sound of screaming. It used to come in the night and had pursued him for a long time afterwards, well into his early 40s. Even the guilt he felt seemed benign. He had been struck by the kindness of the Falkland Islanders, still grateful after all these years for their deliverance from a brutal invasion. The recapture of the Falkland Islands had led to the fall of General Galtieri’s Junta. If those awful men in their comic opera uniforms had not so comprehensively bungled what should have been a reasonably easy military task – holding onto the Falklands – they would still be in power today. Jacot shuddered. They had treated their own people with a cruelty and disdain worthy of the Gestapo, throwing some of them alive from aircraft flying far out into the South Atlantic because they might have been socialists or were students who disliked a police state. Jacot looked out of the aircraft window at the vast expanse of cold grey sea thousands of feet below and shuddered again. God knows how they would have treated the Falkland Islanders if the occupation had been allowed to continue. Every sadist in the secret police would have descended on the islands to ensure its loyalty to the “mother country”. As was the habit of the Argentine Junta, no doubt they would have kidnapped babies and children and had them adopted by loyal military families.

  He had also been struck, again, by the sheer, wild beauty of the Falklands. The light and the constant wind were refreshing, cleansing, even for a visitor; although some more permanent inhabitants might find the wind particularly trying in the months of the Austral winter. We should make more, he thought, of the environmental cost of the invasion in particular the disgraceful laying of unrecorded minefields – in direct contravention of the Geneva conventions and normal human decency. He hadn’t read any of the histories of the campaign but a few years before his mother had given him a book of photographs and reminiscences. His favourite account was by a Royal Marine colonel having a cup of tea with his sergeant-major on a hill high above Stanley which they had captured the previous day. Through their binoculars they can see an Argentine working party laying a minefield willy-nilly on the approaches to Port Stanley – without even consulting a map. A few well-placed mortar rounds soon saw them off.

  But most of all and most disturbingly Jacot had been struck by the selfishness of his own reaction. He didn’t mind his burned hands. Although they hurt like hell sometimes they had become a kind of signature accessory and part of his appearance and personality. He didn’t mind the claustrophobia that seemed to have returned with a vengeance as he grew older. Even the deep guilt he felt about his spur of the moment decision to keep his men below for a few more minutes on that fateful day seemed to have lost its gnawing power. But he did mind his lost youth. Aged twenty everything had seemed so simple. It was his lost youth he missed most.

  His mind turned to the task ahead: interviewing Jones 74. He took what was nearly a gulp of Chilean red wine. It would be awkward. He had once known Jones extremely well. There was still a strong bond between them. They were both survivors of the Oliver Cromwell, wounded survivors. Their burns had taken a long time to heal. Severe burns to the hands are particularly difficult for doctors to deal with and painful for the victim as well as causing all kinds of little indignities during the weeks of recovery, offset by plenty of laughter and
black humour on the wards of their hospital. The Celtic Guards casualties showed exemplary invention and imagination in dreaming up almost endless variations of going to the lavatory with no hands jokes. Even on the bleakest days when many of them were slowly being weaned off painkillers it was possible to be rendered speechless, sometimes helpless, with laughter at the latest variation on the well worn theme delivered more often than not in a strong Welsh baritone. The only officer in the ward, Jacot had been astonished at the richness and ribaldry of their imagination. Although generally outclassed, he had occasionally come up with some good lines and was still rather proud of his efforts. John Jones had shared all these things. And yet Jones had lied to him. Worse, it seemed likely that Jones may have murdered General Verney in a delayed revenge for his brother. It was beyond Jacot’s imagination that someone like Jones could murder. He must have seen over the years the hollowing effects of grief on his mother, and the anguish the whole Jones family of Llanbedr had felt over the loss of a much loved younger son. Verney had a family for God’s sake. It was a reversion to savagery akin to the deeply cruel and uncivilised so called “honour” killings of young men and women of immigrant descent that so often these days disfigured the Sunday newspapers.

  Jacot wondered how he had done it. If it hadn’t been for something Jones said in his rooms over champagne he would never have suspected. Jacot was ushered off the plane first, without any need for any landing formalities, to a waiting government car and driver which set off at high speed for Cambridge. The driver assured him that his luggage would follow later.

  XVII

  Cambridge Police Station,

  St Andrew’s Street, Cambridge

  Jones was sitting in an interview room in Cambridge Police station on St Andrew’s Street where he had been held since Jacot’s urgent telephone call from the South Atlantic. He stood up as Jacot came in. He wasn’t dishevelled or chain-smoking or distressed, but immaculately turned out as always and completely calm. Jacot was relieved that, with luck, there would not be need for a scene. They sat down opposite each other at the interview table.

  Jones looked Jacot straight in the eye. ‘I didn’t kill him Colonel.’

  ‘But you certainly blamed him for Bryn’s death, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. If they hadn’t turned that tractor back, or rather made it look as if it had broken down, Bryn would have travelled on it all the way to wherever and he would not have been on that f…..g ship. Stupid f…..g name for a ship anyway the Oliver Cromwell. Maybe none of us would have got on that ship. Who knows? But certainly not our Bryn.’

  Jacot decided to let him go on. Maybe the whole story would come out naturally. If he questioned him now Jones might become wary. As a former special forces soldier Jones would have had some counter-interrogation training.

  ‘Useless, clever-clever officers poking their noses where they weren’t wanted. Why would you want to make it look as if something had broken down? Why not just let the tractor do its work? I don’t suppose you’ve got any answers have you Colonel? Not that he was the only officer involved was he… sir? And I don’t mean those f…..g muppets who were in charge of us. I wanted to get the men up on the deck, but oh no, you knew better. Five of our platoon dead and I forget how many injured. You know what really gets to me – maybe if I hadn’t been so busy I could have done more for Bryn.’ He held his head in his hands and rocked to and fro on the chair.

  Jacot said nothing.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Fortunes of f…..g war.’ He looked up at Jacot. ‘Colonel, I didn’t kill him. On Bryn’s soul I swear it.’ Jones visibly pulled himself together, the years of military discipline kicking in. He smiled. ‘How did you work out I had met him before?’

  ‘Something you said while we were having our little drink. I asked you if you had met Verney before. Do you remember?’

  Jones looked nonplussed, ‘I didn’t think I had’.

  ‘But you weren’t quite sure, were you? You had been on that rain-soaked hillside that night too. You had chatted to Bryn as he passed by. You were probably standing quite close to Verney. You knew that. It was in your mind when we were talking. That’s why you answered my question with “It was dark” and then you quickly moved onto talking about how good the Bridge of Sorrows looked as it was getting dark.’

  ‘My special duties instructors would not be pleased. Silly detail to slip up on.’

  ‘It wasn’t a slip up 74. It was stupid. You should have told me. For God’s sake man we spent nearly two months in that hospital together.’

  ‘I am profoundly sorry Colonel. I’ve made you look stupid I know. I didn’t want to say anything that might get me into trouble. I’m not just a Fellows’ Butler you know. I read a little. Detective novels and, like many others, I am glued to those easy-to-watch, the murder never takes place on a council estate, things on television. I had motive, means and opportunity for sure – those are the three key things a detective looks for aren’t they? I had a motive big time. Verney turns out to be an actor in the Oliver Cromwell tragedy which nearly did for us all but certainly did for young Bryn.’ He paused and looked away. ‘And Mam. Plenty of means from my special duties background. Lucky the IRA never “sported their oaks” or it would have been difficult to break in to their homes and offices. I didn’t mind the offices so much but their homes – nasty, grotty unhygienic crew for the most part. Opportunity as well. Fellows’ Butlers can go anywhere at any time without anyone getting suspicious. Plenty of time to tidy up afterwards as well.’

  It was becoming rapidly clear to Jacot that he had made a ghastly mistake. In a way he was relieved. On the way back from Chile he had been genuinely upset and unhappy at the prospect of Jones going to prison. A judge and jury would take a very dim view of this kind of killing and Jones would probably have had to do a minimum of twenty years. If he was being honest with himself, he also felt betrayed. How could this man with whom he had gone through so much lie to him? Jacot’s deep sense of loyalty had been deeply offended. Most of all though, Jacot’s moral world had been profoundly disorientated and unsettled. Jones had throughout his career been a model soldier. He had fought the IRA with distinction. More than that, in the hellish inferno of the Oliver Cromwell he had conducted himself with great bravery. Unable in the end to rescue his own brother, he had devoted his considerable leadership abilities and physical strength to rescuing a group of three young guardsmen who attached themselves to him by chance in the thick smoke of the tank deck. Jacot, like many Englishmen of his type, believed physical courage in the face of extreme danger to be the ultimate virtue and that if a man possessed or showed the kind of courage Jones had displayed then he must be virtuous in other important areas of life.

  Jones continued, ‘I did go up to General Verney’s rooms after the feast was over. I don’t know what exactly was in my mind. I certainly did not intend to harm him, maybe confront him. Maybe, I don’t know, make him apologise. Possibly, I wanted to clear my own mind. Listen, Colonel ultimately like you I think I’m a grown-up. Blaming Verney for killing Bryn as a result of his little scam would have been crazy. It was a stupid f…..g way to move the mortars anyway.’

  ‘I am going to get you out of here. No questions asked. And there won’t be a problem with you going back to your old job. Lady Nevinson will square it with the Master. Better say there was some problem that had to be dealt with dating back to “The Troubles” in Ireland. But on one condition – that you give me a detailed account of everything that happened in college during General Verney’s fatal stay. I mean everything that might be of interest to me, even if it casts you in a less than flattering light. You promised to help me last time but when push came to shove you took the easy way out. Most unguards-manlike in my view.’

  Jones looked upset. It was, in its way, quite an insult – a Guards version of “conduct unbecoming” or “lack of moral fibre” and with the same bite. ‘Of course, Colonel.’

  ‘One final point. You were t
rained at vast expense to the British taxpayer in the various esoteric skills and drills required to make an effective special duties soldier, these included extensive training in observation and memory skills. Use them. Let’s use them to find the bastard or bastards who killed General Verney. I’ll take notes and we may need some alcohol along the way.’

  It was a long afternoon in Jacot’s rooms helped along by a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Champagne, in small quantities, of all the ways of drinking alcohol did most to shake up the memory and sharpen the wits. Jones had indeed seen and heard a great deal. Close questioning by Jacot, guilt on the part of Jones and the Veuve Clicquot combined together to build a detailed picture of events on the night of Verney’s death. Jacot took copious notes on his scarlet Cabinet Office iPad. Jones’ account was very much as he had expected. On his way up perhaps to confront Verney he had overheard a heated argument coming from Verney’s room so he stopped in the corridor to listen. The words were there again, ‘Make it look as if the thing has broken down’, repeated several times by both Verney and the man he was arguing with. That the man had an American accent was hardly surprising to Jacot given the direction his investigation was now taking. But he was puzzled by something Jones said. According to his account the American who had been at the dinner became so incensed during the argument that he had an attack of asthma.