by John Creasey
‘Did you, indeed?’ Timothy muttered, ‘Did you indeed!’ he repeated, more loudly. ‘Came back from Cannes to enquire, eh?’
‘I didn’t go to Cannes. I felt I couldn’t, so I wired Aunt I’d been delayed.’ She smiled again, then ventured an almost penitent: ‘Tim, I hope I haven’t put my foot in it?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Tim bitterly.
It was an offensive thing to say, particularly for Timothy Arran. What Penelope had no way of knowing was that the only other girl Timothy had cared for at all had been killed, and the memory was not a pleasant one. True, she had been more mixed up in Department Z activities than Penelope, but Tim was bleakly aware that Marlin and his friends were not likely to be respecters of persons or sexes.
Seeing Kerr smile, Penelope bit her lip and coloured.
‘I think,’ she informed Tim icily, ‘I know when I am not wanted.’
She turned sharply away, pushing past Dodo Trale before he could move, and stalked out of the lounge.
‘A bit hot, Tim, wasn’t that?’ drawled Davidson.
‘Supposing it was!’ snapped Arran, already regretting his boorishness and furious with himself for it. ‘Do we want to be saddled with a woman to look after?’
‘Steady, you fellows,’ Bob Kerr intervened, smiling, ‘Sorry and all that—but we’ve a job on hand. I think we’ll take both cars. You two will wait outside the camp—there’s plenty of shelter from the woods there—and Tim and I will see what we can learn, inside. Craigie said the O.C. will be expecting us.’ He was already moving towards the door. ‘We don’t want to lose any time.’
Timothy was the only one to give any further thought to Penelope. The others, keyed up at the promise of action, concerned themselves with thoughts of Pockham Camp alone.
Davidson and Trale took the Frazer Nash, since it would be easier to conceal, and the other pair drove ahead in the Lagonda. At the camp entrance they gave their names to the sentry, and were promptly passed through. Obviously Craigie’s instructions had been received.
Colonel Martinson was a small, pompous man of middle-age, and already that day two very important officials—Sir Kenneth Halloway and Sir James Cathie—had pestered him on a tour of inspection. And his irritation at this further disruption of his daily routine was in no way lessened when Kerr cut short his fussy greetings with an abrupt:
‘You know why we’ve come, sir?’
‘Well, yes, of course—naturally! Enquiries from Whitehall. But if I may be frank, Mr. Kerr, I see no reason why Whitehall should suddenly be so interested in us down here. I’m sure we have never given the slightest cause for complaint...’
Kerr cut him short again:
‘Have you had any trouble, lately?’
The colonel bristled.
‘Just what do you mean by trouble?’
‘Insubordination. Alarmist propaganda. Suspicion of sabotage—anything. The matter’s important, Colonel.’
‘I don’t imagine you would be sent down here without good reason,’ said the colonel, testily. ‘But I can assure you that if there had been anything to report, you would have heard of it.’
‘Nothing out of the way happen this morning?’ Kerr persisted, curt to the point of rudeness.
‘No. Good God, man, what is this? What should have happened?’
‘You’ve had no strangers here, to-day, for instance?’
‘None—none at all. Unless,’ the colonel smiled bleakly, ‘you find anything sinister in the visits of two senior Government officials, or a tobacco company’s salesman.’
‘What time did the salesman come?’ Kerr asked sharply.
‘The salesman? Why, eleven o’clock, as nearly as I can say.’
‘A stocky man, was this? Fleshy, brick-red face, and a moustache?’
Timothy Arran had been watching the colonel’s face during the exchange, and saw him gape now in obvious recognition.
‘Good heavens!’
‘Right?’ said Kerr, and at the other’s nod: ‘Thank you, Colonel Martinson. And now I’ll be glad if you can help me with some other information.’
Martinson could be concise, as he proved in the next three minutes. He seemed to realise suddenly that this was more than just one more sample of Whitehall red tape, and he showed that he had a keen sense of observation.
It seemed the salesman had made several attempts recently to interest the company canteen in a particular brand of cigarette, and the colonel had ordered his canteen sergeant to report next time the man bothered him. He had that morning made it clear that he would not stand for any pestering of his men to purchase specific brands of any goods, and he had not minced his words in the process. The man had first been seen about four days before, and was staying at the Crown Inn, Pockham.
‘The devil he is!’ Kerr grabbed the telephone and snapped as the switchboard answered: ‘Dover Police!’
They were on the line at once, and he said quickly: ‘Kerr, from Whitehall, speaking. You’ve had word, I think? Good. I’d like you, please, to send a dozen men at once to the Crown Hotel, Pockham. Plainclothes, if you can manage. I’ll be there. How long do you think it would take?’
‘About an hour,’ said a businesslike Inspector, who clearly knew that Special Branch requests could rarely afford delay.
‘Try to make it sooner,’ Kerr urged. ‘Goodbye!’
He was smiling as he replaced the receiver, his earlier tension quite gone.
‘Sorry to be so abrupt, Colonel, but this matter is urgent. That man might be very dangerous. Will you be so good as to ask your men to keep a look-out—and, if they do sight him, put him under arrest until the police arrive?’
The message that had arrived only twenty minutes before these two men had read: ‘Offer Kerr every possible assistance,’ and was approved by initials that brooked no denial.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Martinson. ‘Be glad if we can help, Mr. Kerr.’
‘Good man.’ Kerr was moving towards the door as he spoke. ‘Come on, Tim. I’ll look in again, sir, or telephone you.’
Wally Davidson and Dodo Trale saw the Lagonda coming and drove to meet it. Kerr slowed down to bellow, ‘The village!’ and then trod hard on the accelerator.
Davidson grinned and said: ‘He’s the goods, all right!’ then turned the Frazer Nash to follow.
Kerr slowed down again as he entered the High Street of Pockham; a fast-moving car, pulling up sharply outside the Crown Inn, would naturally alert anyone connected with the florid-faced man, who might be there.
The landlord of the old pub was slow of action and slower still of speech.
‘Anyone staying here, sir?’
Kerr waited edgily as the innkeeper paused to think.
‘Why, yes, sir,’ he finally answered. ‘Reckon you might say as there’s several. There’s Mr. Kirby, been here these ten years------’
‘Someone who came recently?’ Kerr prompted.
‘Ah, that’d be Mr. Kelly, sir. Funny, having two names with a “K”, I says to...’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Why, no, sir. He left about midday, I reckon.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Timothy Arran, breaking his silence.
‘Why, sir, was it import...?’ began the man. ‘Well, I’ll be danged!’
For Kerr had paused only to leave two half-crowns on the bar, and both he and Tim were out of the door in a flash.
‘Well?’ Tim queried, outside.
‘I don’t like the look of it.’ Kerr climbed into the Lagonda and beckoned to Davidson. ‘If this Kelly’s gone, he’s either finished his job or been scared off. I can’t imagine Martinson scaring anyone off, so I repeat: it looks nasty. Davidson—hang around, will you? I’ll phone a message to the George, or come back for you. Meantime, tackle our landlord and see what you can find about his Mr. Kelly.’
‘Done,’ said Wally. Adding, in a murmur that was lost in the hum of the Lagonda’s engine as Kerr started back for the camp: ‘I say it again—the goods!’
Kerr went as fast as possible, on the narrow roads.
‘I’m worried, Tim,’ he admitted. ‘I wish I’d stayed a bit longer with the colonel. He’ll be pleased to see me!’
It was not Kerr’s fault that he had no opportunity of putting that prophecy to the test. He blamed himself, but no-one else did. It just happened.
They were in sight of the base when they saw the first huge plume of smoke. Kerr jammed on the brakes, a sixth sense telling him what to expect, and Timothy’s face turned white. For in front of their eyes, one of the main storage tanks burst upwards and outwards. A tremendous cloud of black smoke billowed into the air, and through it, yellow tongues of flame were clearly visible. They saw one soldier a hundred yards from the tank blown off his feet and carried fifty yards away, where he dropped and lay still. Two tin buildings were whirled into the air and fell in sections, clattering and banging, while the rumbling explosion was repeated again and again as the other tanks went up.
The Lagonda was lifted off its wheels a yard into the air. Providence alone, both Kerr and Arran were fully aware, had saved them from disaster. Arran had gripped the sides to keep himself from being flung out, and still held on grimly. Kerr just sat, his hands on the steering-wheel, staring at the terror in front of him.
Hardly a building in sight was left standing, while jagged sections of walls and roofs were still clanging to the ground. The fence was smashed down in a dozen places, and dust and debris were still flying and falling everywhere.
The air was a black pall, now, broken only by those venomous flames which had taken hold more quickly and fiercely than seemed possible. Already, the wind was bringing gusts of heat-laden air towards them, and slowly, as if in a dream, Kerr pushed the gear-lever forward and the Lagonda moved.
He turned the wheel as sharply as he could and increased speed, circling the encampment and what remained of the steel-mesh fence. Arran didn’t try to speak: he had no idea what Kerr was thinking, but was prepared to back him to the last. He himself was appalled by the ferocity of the explosion and the horror of the results.
The heat grew fiercer by the moment and now most of the smoke was high above the storage tanks. Beneath it, the flames were a solid mass of red, reaching out to spread throughout the camp. Timothy groaned as he saw the flicker of smaller fires dotted all about the ground ahead of them, and Kerr nodded tautly.
‘God knows if we can do anything,’ he said. ‘But if you can yank that exting... Good man!’
Timothy glanced from the small extinguisher he already held, to the devouring mass of flames. ‘But hang it...!’ he began, and broke off, coughing, as the wind billowed the smoke about them.
‘I’m not going to try to put it out,’ said Kerr, with grim humour.
They were halfway round the camp before Tim Arran realised what was in his mind. Leeward of the flames, they might be able to get closer to the fire. The air here was clearer and they could see very much further.
Kerr jammed on the brakes.
‘See what you can do,’ he urged ‘Bellow, if you want help!’
And now Timothy understood why the extinguisher was wanted. As he broke into a run, he saw Kerr take another and race towards the roaring flames.
There were about a dozen or more men sprawled about; some of them badly injured, most of them stunned. As the two of them drew nearer the main fire, the smaller blazes were more frequent. Kerr reached a man who lay unconscious with the flames singeing his hair: he used his extinguisher to good effect, moved the man as far as possible in a couple of heaves, and hurried on. Half a dozen times he repeated the move, and so did Timothy. What they saw shocked and sickened them, but at least they both knew they were saving some who must otherwise have perished.
In Robert Kerr’s mind, at every moment, there was bitter reproach. If he had requested Martinson to make a thorough search of the tanks, and their approaches, this thing might have been avoided. In Timothy Arran’s mind there was only wonderment that anyone could move as swiftly and effectively as this new man; any who lived would owe it to Robert Kerr.
Something more was torturing Kerr: a ghastly, haunting uncertainty—worse than anything he had ever experienced.
This thing had happened here, as they had feared it might. But how could he be sure it was not happening in a dozen other places, at this very moment?
8
National calamity
‘Steady on, old man,’ said Wally Davidson, resting a hand on Bob Kerr’s shoulder. ‘You’ll knock yourself up, and that won’t help.’
‘How many helping?’
‘A couple of dozen, I’d say.’
‘Keep going,’ Kerr told him. ‘We need more than that.’
It was half an hour after the explosion, and he had been working as he had never worked before. Davidson and Trale, who had rushed to the camp when they heard the explosion, had found him helping the injured with quiet fury and phenomenal stamina. His hair was singed, his face and hands burned, his coat and trousers torn and frayed. But he clearly meant to go on, and Davidson shrugged his shoulders and weighed in.
Another twenty minutes passed before Kerr stopped. By that time, assistance had arrived from Dover—brought by the first car-load of police coming to fulfil the Superintendent’s promise of support. Several doctors were in attendance, and a dozen ambulances were already on the road to Dover Hospital, filled with men who had suffered dreadful burns or wounds. It was impossible to estimate how many men had been killed: three dozen or more had been pulled from the flames alive. A local journalist, one of the first men on the scene, had worked with the rest until more help had arrived, and then had tried to assess something of the damage.
Four farmhouses had been wrecked and a dozen occupants more or less badly injured, all within a mile radius of the base. Pockham itself had hardly a pane of glass left, and the innkeeper would return from the camp—where he had hurried to render what aid he could and taken with him two crates of whisky—to rue the broken bottles and the spilt beer and wines.
Over Pockham itself, there was a hush. Even the children stood in clusters, with pale faces and curious, wondering eyes; unable to understand the terror that had come. Throughout the village, there were women who sat dazed with shock or fighting against hysteria as they waited to learn if their men had suffered. And there were sweethearts as well as wives among those who hurried to the camp, dreading the worst yet desperately anxious to know the truth.
And all the time the pall of smoke over the countryside was like a cloud waiting to burst with thunder. For miles around, the oily black smuts covered the land and the trees and the hedges; it was as if that little corner of Kent was in mourning.
There was not much Kerr could do, once the authorities had taken charge. He had learned that Martinson was one of the victims, and was oddly relieved that he had been pleasant towards the man when he had last spoken to him. It was the only spark of cheer he felt for a long while after the explosion, and he could not have explained why it seemed so important.
He surprised the innkeeper by drinking a tumbler of whisky diluted with the merest spot of water, left Davidson and Trale to keep watching the place and, with Timothy, left for London in the Lagonda some two hours after he had arrived. He looked worse than he had after the crash in Grosvenor Place, but although he had allowed a doctor to dab his burned skin with some soothing lotion, he made no effort even to push a comb through his hair. Timothy had essayed a half-hearted toilet, but it was a woeful-looking pair who eventually reached his flat.
Kerr telephoned Craigie immediately.
‘We’re in too much of a mess to come over,’ he explained. ‘We’d be noticed by half Whitehall.’
‘I’ll be right with you,’ said Craigie.
As they waited, Kerr roughed out a written report, adding to it the little Wally Davidson had learned from the innkeeper, Tippett, of the man they sought.
Ostensibly a salesman of cigarettes and cigars, Kelly had stayed at the Crown for ten da
ys. He had visited other villages, as well as the camp, Tippett knew. He had always been pleasant—and free with his money.
There was one other small but significant point; Kelly had had a visitor on two occasions, and Tippett claimed he could be recognised as an American a mile off.
Craigie arrived, heard the story, and understood something of what was going on in the flyer’s mind. Craigie had seen other men look like that when they had failed to stop a killing; either a single murder or a bigger outrage. But the work of the Department made it impossible for his men to be forever without a single slip, and he realised that while they were working so much in the dark it was impossible to prevent things like the Pockham disaster.
‘Don’t let it get you down, Kerr,’ he told him quietly.
‘I won’t,’ said Kerr, but there was horror in his eyes. T—if I’d thought to make a search...’
‘You might have caught Kelly, and if you had it would have been justified,’ Craigie agreed. ‘No man can work miracles, Kerr. Do you think------’ he paused a moment and his eyes held the airman’s—’I enjoy sending my men out to that kind of job? Do you think I don’t feel it, when a man goes out and isn’t heard of again?’
‘No,’ said Kerr, and grimaced his apology. ‘You’re right.’
‘Good,’ Craigie nodded. ‘Now, back to cases. There’s one thing bothering me------’
‘I know—why blow up a little dump like Pockham?’
‘Exactly,’ said Craigie.
‘It would be easier to get at, than a bigger place,’ suggested Timothy Arran slowly. ‘They could get in, there, where they couldn’t anywhere else?’
‘Yes...’ Kerr began. ‘Of course, Martinson had this Kelly there this morning, and the man had plenty of opportunity to drop a time bomb anywhere. Particularly if he’s been round the place often enough to know it. Men at the camp wouldn’t be so careful with a familiar figure, either. But—and it looks as if Kelly is the man who shot Toby—he’s not been staying at the Crown all the time.’
‘It’s not a long journey up to London,’ Craigie pointed out. ‘And he probably wanted to be near the camp until his job there was done. A man living temporarily in the village wouldn’t arouse the same interest as one travelling to and fro. Well, I’ll send the order out to keep eyes open for Kelly, but he’ll have a pretty good idea there’s a reasonably sound description going the rounds, and he’ll be careful. Did he have the moustache, do you know?’