Tats said, “This photograph was taken at a formal function inside Whitehall in 1979. Chief Superintendent Craven sorted it out for us.” I nodded to the policeman across the room. Tatiana went on, “Chief Superintendent Craven is second from the right, back row. He was an inspector at the time this photograph was taken. At the end of the front row there is a young man, who at the time was working at the Russian Embassy, here in London.”
“Yes,” I said. Vince enlarged part of the picture showing the young man, so that the big close up filled the screen. Tats went over and pulled down a clear over-screen and with a special marker pen drew in a new hairline, added a pair of glasses and darkened the eye sockets.
“OK,” I said. It was Robert Flackyard as a young man. The man sitting next to him was unmistakably Oliver Hawkworth in full military uniform.
* * * DECORATED SOLDIER
FACES COURT MARSHALL
FOR ACTS OF DISHONORABLE CONDUCT
The 1981 press cuttings that Tats had copied from the firm’s extensive tabloid archive database were neatly laid out on my desk. The cuttings accompanied a file on a certain individual whose personal details I wanted to look at more closely. Out of all the information contained in the medical, psychiatric and career records, here it was, the clincher:
George Thomas Ferlind • Male-White-Darkstraighthair
• Complexion-Facialscarringduetochronic teenage acne
• Distinguishingmarks-Smallscararoundleft
ear
• Eyes-Blue.Height-6’0”
• Weight-12stone10lb
• Temperament-Excitable
• IQ-Veryhigh
This was the sinister George Ferdinand. Tats had used her contact at the Ministry of Defence to search for soldiers with a rank of sergeant or above who were serving in the same regiment as Oliver Hawkworth around the years 1979-1982 with names sounding like George Ferdinand. The database had come across one name similar to that of George Ferdinand – George Thomas Ferlind.
So Georgie boy was trained in explosives and was a qualified open water diver, had served in the Falklands, and was accused of and dishonourably discharged for bringing his regiment in to disrepute. So how had he escaped going to prison and a very long sentence? I remembered the story that Rumple had told that evening at the rented house in Dorset, of his exploits in the Falklands and how he was used to handling explosives.
Chapter 28
To wake up to the sound of the sea rolling lethargically onto the beach and the sun streaming through the window is to be in heaven. I lay in that misty half-way place between sleep and consciousness, pulling the cover up to my chin not wanting to advance into the reality of wide-awake. The sound of passing boats and distant voices trickled into my awareness; I heard cars passing on the road outside, the birds singing in the trees and the squawk of cats exchanging blows and fur. I got out of bed, stretching as I walked across the room to throw open the French windows.
The sun beat down onto the wooden balcony. As I stepped outside the seagulls slid down the offshore wind, disappearing momentarily into the water for their breakfast.
Fiona was fixing coffee and toast, holding the front of her loose-fitting silk pyjama top closed. I was particularly pleased that a large proportion of the coffee making was a two handed job. She was five feet ten inches tall and every inch a woman, as the light from the window showed off so effectively.
The death of Charlie McIntyre had put a completely different perspective on the whole assignment. Each day I’d had Fiona take the boat out and dive in a different spot around the local coastline and in completely the opposite direction to where we’d hidden the opium sacks. The sole purpose was to mislead Flackyard, or whoever else might be watching us, as to where the real site might be.
After breakfast, Fiona told me that the air bottles needed recharging but that she would be only a couple of hours, unless she decided to go shopping for a new outfit, of course. “Take as long as you need to,” I said. Miss Price was very pleased.
I walked along the beach, trying to reconcile the facts I had access to with the guesswork I’d made. As I look back on it I had enough information then to tell me what I wanted to know. But at that time I didn’t know what I wanted to know. I was just letting my sense of direction guide me through the maze of motives.
It was quite clear to me that the charismatic Oliver Hawkworth was connected with Flackyard right up to his double chin.
But what was his involvement? George Ferdinand alias George Thomas Ferlind, was a very dangerous individual as well as a highly competent explosive expert and qualified diver. But the strangest thing was that he had served in Hawkworth’s regiment. Who was he working for? Flackyard, as it appeared, or Hawkworth? Harry Caplin had received a ten thousand pound payment from Hawkworth, but why? A house by the water’s edge, Harry Caplin had said, and living in Sandbanks were absolutely perfect for him. I wonder why?
Oliver Hawkworth originally denied all knowledge of the opium packages aboard his boat the Gin Fizz, but that now seemed likely to have been merely a ruse to take the attention off him. Flackyard was quick to tell me about his past, but left out that he had been a diplomatic attaché at the Russian Embassy in London for two years. Was his brief really to study the European markets and report back to Moscow, or had he been involved in more clandestine activities connected to Hawkworth?
Did Hawkworth give the order to bomb LJ’s Range Rover? Had Hawkworth’s past caught up with him? Perhaps he was being blackmailed by Flackyard to participate in his illegal ventures. But why? Every road pointed to Hawkworth, and it was his motives I wanted to take a much closer look at - but time was running out.
I met Fiona at a smart bistro bar in the fashionable part of town.
The main bar area with high ceilings, and contemporary décor, gave this former bank building an air of cool sophistication. The late morning sun cascaded through the long windows, and men and women dressed for the office were standing at the bar chatting over a lunchtime drink, and taking in the easy-relaxed atmosphere.
We sat for a while longer drinking coffee, discussing the developments of my trip back to London and up to the Scottish Highlands to see Angus. Over a sandwich Fiona informed me that on at least two occasions while diving, she had spotted the same powerboat stalking her. It was always the same person watching, but far enough away for Fiona not get sight of who it could be.
Outside the air was warm compared to the coolness of the solid stone building that we had just left. Fiona was going to see if she could dig up any further information on George Ferdinand. She was meeting the young girl who had been so talkative before, when she was working as a hostess in one of Flackyard’s seedy clubs. Shortly after her last chat with Fiona, she had been dismissed for talking too much, and was now between jobs. Keen to tell all about Georgie boy - for the right price?
That evening, the thought of another takeaway meal was too much, so we went to a popular restaurant in Lilliput for dinner. The small intimate dining room was full to capacity with people enjoying light conversation, locally caught fish dishes and excellent house wines. The meal was cooked to perfection and the drink had a relaxing quality. So by 11.30 p.m. I was starting to feel sleepy with the effect of the wine. But then Fiona suggested a swim in the heated salt-water pool back at the house.
The water was kept at a constant temperature and moonlight shone through the clear glass roof, trickling across the water like cream in black coffee. Jazz music scalded the soft night air; Fiona’s hair shone in the light and her body was phosphorescent in the clear black water. She swam near to where I was sitting on the side, and playfully splashed me before swimming off again.
“Do you ever wish that things could be different?” Fiona asked thoughtfully.
“Sometimes. Why, have you got man problems?” I replied.
“How intuitive of you. Would you believe that even in the 21st century, women still want love affairs to go on forever and ever
. Why aren’t we clever enough just to enjoy it on a day-to-day basis?”
“Love is merely a state of mind,” I said using one of LJ’s little sayings.
There was a note of cynicism in Fiona’s voice. “What absolute male rubbish, it has to be more than that,” she said. “Sometimes two people see each other just for an instant, perhaps walking along a pavement, and there’s a rapport. It’s not sex, it’s not love, it’s a sort of unexplainable magical fourth dimension of living. You’ve never seen this person before, you’ll never see them again; you don’t even intend to try because it doesn’t really matter.”
“Everything that is good, I mean, that is profound and understanding in the two of you, becomes reality at that precise moment.”
“My grandmother gave me two pieces of advice when I was a boy,” I said.
“Don’t ever jump off a high building without a parachute or go out with a woman who keeps a diary. You are definitely starting to sound like a diary-keeper. It’s time I went to bed.” I said, getting up and pulling on a towelling robe around me.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” said Fiona.
My Omega watch showed two o’clock. “Why are you really so interested in Robert Flackyard - is it the opium?” Fiona asked. I must have stopped in my tracks, for she added, “If it’s one of those big boy’s secret, and I’m not allowed to know. well then, you really don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I didn’t rise to her baiting, but went and sat down on one of the wicker chairs at the poolside.
“What is it that you’re supposed to be doing down here now? Why are you still here, Jake? You know as well as I do that if Oliver Hawkworth is found to be involved with Flackyard there will be a cover up by the Government.”
“Especially if it were likely to bring any adverse publicity or disgrace on them.”
“Who is it that you are so interested in, Jake? Why do get the feeling that you’ve got a hidden agenda”
“You sound like you have a theory,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re lost, I think you’re pursuing yourself,” she said.
She waited for a comment, but I made none.
“Are you Jake?” she persisted.
I said, “Things have happened during this assignment that have made me take a very close look at myself and what I do. The first rule in this game is to always look at the facts as laid out before you. But, for this assignment, I’m going to make an exception to that rule. I’m going to go with my gut instincts, they’re usually right and have saved my life numerous times.”
“Well you’d better count me in on that, Jake Dillon, because I’m not going to let you have all the fun alone.”
“Look,” I said. “Can’t you see it, haven’t you grasped it yet, that everyone is alone? We’re born alone, live alone, die alone, do every fucking thing alone.”
“Forgive me, but even making love is simply a way for two people to pretend they aren’t alone. But they are. People in this business are even more so alone, and aching with a whole perverse bundle of insecurities and un-tellable truths turning over and over in their heads. You’re groping around in the dark trying to find your way through the bureaucratic maze with a hundred people shouting different directions at you. So you grope on; grabbing handfuls of whatever comes within reach and occasionally you actually get your hands dirty. You are alone and so am I. You’ve got to get used to it or you’ll wind up telling people that your husband doesn’t understand you.”
“I’m still single – remember,” said Fiona. “I can tell you, darling, there will be a whole lot of men very miserable on the day that I get married.”
“Really, you’re so modest,” I said. “Exactly how many men are you going to marry?” She glared up at me and then immediately changed the subject to Harry Caplin and his youthful spirit and wonderful larger then life personality.
“Did you know that Harry has an enormous cellar under his house?” Fiona said, as she stepped out of the pool picked up a large white towel and wrapped it around herself. “It was the other day while you were in London, he’d asked me over for drinks and was definitely trying to get me drunk.”
“Anyway, after we’d polished off the second bottle of bubbly he excused himself to go and get another from the cellar. Call it curiosity or perhaps professional interest, but I decided to have a snoop around. Do you remember the oak panelling in the hallway?”
“Vaguely,” I said.
“Well, there’s a secret door that leads down to the cellar. Harry had left it slightly ajar. I’d got half way down the stone steps, when he turned the corner at the bottom and spotted me. He was furious when he found me there, he made a real fuss about the steps being slippery and how dangerous they were and that the cellar was off limits to everyone including Sofia his housekeeper.”
Fiona ran her long fingers through her hair in an attempt to untangle it, and while she was doing this, I contemplated what she had just told me; on the beach the sea kicked the shore in delinquent spite.
“So did you get a look at this cellar, was it well stocked?” I said.
“To be honest, Jake, from where I was standing on the steps, I couldn’t really see much, except for a small window and arched doorway at the end of the room. If my sense of direction is correct, though, this was almost certainly on the seaward side of the house. But the weirdest thing though was the overwhelming smell of vinegar down there. It was so strong it almost choked me.”
‘The problem is the vast quantities of acetic acid that you have to get rid of…’
I thought about it momentarily. Then I said, “Get dressed; we’re going to take a look at Harry’s enormous cellar right now.”
Fiona wasn’t keen to go but we went.
Chapter 29
We discarded the notion of getting to Harry Caplin’s house on foot, because even at two o’clock in the morning there was the likelihood that we would be seen. Using the small inflatable dinghy from the boathouse, we paddled, kayak style, pulling on the plastic oars, cutting silently through the black water.
Darkness, along with the neighbouring jetties and moorings kept us concealed along the way and as we got closer to the rambling Gothic-style property, its sheer walls of granite looming above us through a shroud of sea mist. Gargoyles, looked down from their high perches in snarling condemnation at anyone entering their domain.
We left the small boat secured to Harry’s jetty and covered the distance across the garden to the back of the garage block, staying low, our feet sinking into the freshly dug earth of the flower border. We moved around to the side of the single storey building, and crouched down to take in our surroundings.
A light was on below us at the cellar window and the sound of water gulping down a drain was loud in the night. Around us colourful hydrangea bushes lined the walls, and from the lit window came the sound of Sinatra.
I dropped down onto weather worn flagstones outside the cellar window.
I raised my head slowly above the sill. I saw the brightly-lit area at the bottom of the stone steps, which at first sight looked like any other room for storing wine. Except that tonight, the rows of racking, heavily laden with bottles, had been moved back on rollers out of the way and were now stacked against the end wall. This secret part of the room was large and well equipped with machinery and laboratory benches. A draught of hot air was coming from the heater fans.
Nearer to me an electric vacuum pump was pounding gently. Harry Caplin walked across the room; his black T-shirt was stained down the front. The smell of acetic acid was almost overwhelming.
I felt Fiona’s hand on my back as she looked over my shoulder, and could hear her swallow hard to avoid throwing up on the acrid fumes. Harry went across to the small electric pulverizer and pulled the switch. The music was washed away on a tide of noise from the little electric motor. The cellar had obviously been very well sound proofed and Harry was oblivious to the din coming from the machines and pum
p. Outside, the sound of the sea slapping against the jetty wall and the wind was all that could be heard.
This was definitely a small morphine-processing lab: the vacuum pump, pulverizer, drying area, everything to turn morphine into heroin before it was distributed to the dealers. Harry Caplin I thought; a retired American wine distributor living his dream by the sea in England. More like creating a nightmare. He was almost certainly the go-between through which supplies travelled and were then processed. I leaned through the open window, raised my 10mm Glock automatic, and aimed with care. The small weapon spat through its silenced barrel. The only sound was the gun coughing. On impact the bullet tore open the compact disc player on a shelf above Harry’s head, sending fragments of plaster and sharp plastic everywhere.
Harry cowered down by the side of the bench that he had been working at, raising his arms to protect his head. Disoriented by what had just happened he stood up very cautiously, a Walther PPK pistol in his right hand.
“Switch off the pump and the pulverizer and drop the weapon, Harry, or I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” I said. For a moment he stared at me, then he did so and silence descended on the room. He placed the pistol on the bench.
“Now, Harry, walk slowly towards the door and open it.”
“You must be outta…” His voice trailed off as I cocked the Glock.
“Don’t say a word,” I said. “I haven’t forgotten that you were partly responsible for the death of Charlie McIntyre.” Harry was about to speak, but decided not to. He came over to the arched door and slipped the bolts. I motioned to Fiona to go to the door, but she was already one step ahead of me and was there, gun in hand.
“OK, Harry, now back away from the door. There’s a good chap. Just stay where you are, and I promise not to blow holes into you or any of your very expensive equipment…”
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 16