by Matthew Dunn
Knutsen trudged through the snow and looked around. He’d never been anywhere like this. The remoteness of the islands and proximity to the South Pole made him feel exhilarated. He stopped walking and closed his eyes. There were some sounds from the military base, but aside from that all was silent. And this was Stanley – the capital of the islands, with a population of approximately two thousand, on an archipelago that’s total population was three thousand. Sign had told him that beyond Stanley it was commonplace for islanders to live ten or so miles apart from each other. There the silence would be deafening.
Knutsen opened his eyes. Despite the severity of the cold, the air smelled fresh and pure. Tomorrow he’d see the islands in daylight. But for now the former policeman in him tried to get the feel of the place. Was this a zone where a crime would not go unpunished, because everyone knew each other’s business? Or was this a territory where one could easily murder someone, bury the body, and nobody else would be any the wiser? Knutsen wanted to know the answer. He turned and walked back to the barracks. He didn’t know if he’d be able to sleep. But he did know that he’d get hypothermia if he stayed out here too long.
CHAPTER 4
The following morning, Sign and Knutsen were sitting in a jeep that was heading west from Stanley. Richards was in the driving seat. No one else was with them. As they drove through Stanley they passed a small supermarket, post office, iron mongers, petrol station, vehicle repair shop, and two pubs.
Richards pointed at one of the pubs and shouted above the din of the vehicle’s racket and external weather. “That’s where the men drank before they got slaughtered.” He carried on driving along the coastal route out of Stanley.
Richards was in uniform. Sign and Knutsen were in hardy outdoors gear and hiking boots. Snow and wind were striking the vehicle. The temperature was minus ten. The vehicle was shaking and skidding so badly that Sign and Knutsen had to grip their seatbelts to stop their bodies slamming against the doors.
Richards stopped the vehicle. “We’re on foot now. Two hundred yards to the beach. Watch your footing.”
He got out of the vehicle. Sign and Knutsen followed him. The beach was partially clear of snow, due to the sea washing over the rock and sand. But snow and hail was still pouring down, hitting the men’s faces with the ferocity of a swarm of locusts. They
trudged across the beach until Richards stopped and pointed.
“This is where they were washed up. It wasn’t unusual they were so tightly grouped. The tides here can be precise. They were caught in a rip tide and funnelled onto the beach.”
Sign asked, “Was there any possibility they were placed here?”
Richards shook his head. “The post-mortem proved they’d been in the water for many hours. They were bloated; their lungs were full of liquid; their gunshot wounds were quarterized by the cold; they had blows to the body that had come after death – most likely due to hitting rocks on the seabed as they were washed ashore; and most of their limbs were broken from the mile-long journey to the beach. We consulted with our naval friends. They confirmed that on that night a man dumped next to the spy ship would have been brought in to this place. It’s all to do with currents and weather and other stuff I don’t understand. There is no doubt they were dropped in the sea and ended up here.”
Knutsen knelt down and touched the sand. “There is proof positive they died from gunshot wounds?”
“Yes.”
Sign looked out to sea. “And no sight of the spy ship since?”
Richards followed his gaze. “None whatsoever. We’ve tripled our efforts to monitor the archipelago’s coastline. Plus, we’re getting help from the GCHQ post in Ascension. It would be wonderful if the boat came back. The SBS have got ten men doing a three month training exercise in Antarctica. They could be with us very quickly and board the ship. I’ve put them on alert. But I don’t think the boat’s coming back.”
“I know the spy ship’s not coming back.” Sign crouched and placed his hand on the beach. “Who found the bodies?”
“Two local teenagers. They called the police. The police called me.”
“Why?” asked Knutsen.
It was Sign who answered. “Because word had got out that the men were going to do something silly to the spy ship. The police realized they were out of their depth, that this was probably a military and political matter.” He looked up, uncaring that his face was being smothered by snow.
Knutsen stared at him, wondering what was going through the man’s mind. Sign was immobile, seemingly oblivious to those around him and the adverse weather conditions.
He lowered his head and looked at Richards. “We need to see the bodies.”
Richards frowned. “What purpose would that serve? Neither of you are medically trained, and you have excellent post-mortem reports to draw upon.”
“The bodies! Where are they?”
The colonel rubbed snow off his face. “King Edward VII Memorial Hospital, in Stanley. It was where the post-mortems were conducted. Their families want the bodies released in the next day or two. Wilson and Green are to be buried at sea. Their families and friends think that’s fitting given they spent most of their working days at sea.” Richards smiled. “Let’s hope they’re not washed ashore again. Taylor and Jackson are to be buried in the cemetery.”
“Then we have not a moment to lose.” Sign walked toward the jeep.
As they drove to Stanley, Richards said, ““I’ve secured you a two bedroom cottage. It’s twelve miles south west of Stanley, near Bluff Cove. It has Wi-Fi, a log burner, you might have occasional problems with mobile reception though there is a landline, and overall it’s a perfectly serviceable property. I picked it because it not only has road access to Stanley, but also the other parts of the islands.”
“Where the fifth man may be hiding,” said Knutsen.
“Precisely.” The colonel drove into Stanley. “You’ll have a four wheel drive at your disposal. As you requested, it has no military markings. Petrol is available at the RAF base or at the garage in Stanley – nowhere else, though people help each other out on the islands so if you get stuck a farmer will always donate some fuel. Trouble is, you might be twenty miles away from the nearest farmer if you’re driving west. Keep on top of your fuel. And today one of you needs to go the grocery store in Stanley and pick up enough provisions for a week. Don’t assume shops are open in Stanley every day. In conditions like this, they close if they can’t get their deliveries. Always remember that you have Mount Pleasant as a bolt hole, if things go wrong.” The colonel stopped his vehicle outside the hospital. “I don’t know if either of you are familiar with this type of climate. It can kill you quicker than a man can make a decision.” He looked at the men and smiled. “It’s not all bad. Bluff Cove is spectacular. It’s where the penguins congregate.”
They exited the vehicle and walked in to the hospital.
Ten minutes’ later they were in a sterile room containing slabs and freezers with bodies inside.
Richards introduced Sign and Knutsen to the only other person in the room – a female. “This is Dr. Carter. She trained and worked in London, and subsequently worked in Mumbai, Washington DC, and Melbourne. But she’s an islander and the temptation to return to her roots was ultimately too great.”
“My mother had stage four cancer. I wanted to be with her before the end.” Carter had an icy demeanour and tone of voice. On the slabs were four bodies, covered with sheets. She pulled off each sheet. Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson were there. “They were fit men. No signs of any pre-existing underlying illnesses. Toxicology reports show they were ten times over the limit, but the reports won’t be wholly accurate because they’d been dead for at least twenty four hours before I set to work on them.”
Sign and Knutsen stood next to Wilson’s body.
Sign asked, “Can you be certain they died from gunshot wounds? Is it possible they drowned and were then shot?”
The doctor answered, “An intere
sting question.”
Richards interjected. “Why would the Argentinians shoot them if they were already dead?”
“To provoke us.” Sign leaned forward to get a closer view of Wilson’s wounds.
The doctor said, “There is no doubt they were killed by bullets. I extracted the bullets and gave them to Colonel Richards. I believe they are now with ballistics experts in England. I can give you chapter and verse on how I know they died from bullets, and that any subsequent non-bullet wounds or water in the lungs came after death. But it’s all in the post-mortem reports.” She looked at Richards. “If you need a second opinion, you’ll need to fly someone in asap.”
It was Sign who answered. “That won’t be necessary.” He examined the other bodies before returning to Wilson. “He was the skipper of his boat. He was at the helm. He took a bullet to his arm and another to his chest. He turned to flee. That’s when he was shot in the back of the head.”
Carter was impressed. “You’ve seen gunshot wounds before.”
Sign ignored the compliment. “Taylor, Green, and Jackson were killed while facing their assailants. They were brave men.”
“Or drunken fools.” Colonel Richards frowned. “I still don’t understand why the bodies were thrown into the sea. The captain of the spy ship would have known that the tides were such that night that the dead men would be washed ashore.”
“Once again – provocation.” Sign stood upright. “He or she wanted the bodies to be found by you. The captain was smart. He realised the enormity of the event but he also realised the opportunity the situation presented to Argentina. This was a shot across the bow, but it wasn’t an act of war unless there was proof. He may or may not have been aware of the drone surveillance, but being an expert in long range spying I suspect he knew that the blizzard was shielding coverage of the incident. So, it was a win-win outcome for the spy boat. Provoke the islanders and Britain, vanish, and the task of the spy craft is complete. And I’d hazard a guess that the crew of the spy boat couldn’t wait to get back to Argentina, having completed their thus far mundane task with a bang. Argentinian intelligence services would have embraced them. The killings weren’t scripted by the intelligence services there. But in that brief explosive encounter, the spy ship had achieved considerably more than months of the ship slogging around the islands.” Sign went to Richards and whispered out of the doctor’s earshot. “The fifth man is the fly in the ointment. The Argentinians thought they’d got away with the perfect set of murders. But they only saw the fifth man when it was too late. The fifth man was on a dingy, heading for shore. He was too far away. The skipper of the spy ship couldn’t risk pursuit, so close to Stanley. This is the loose end the Argentinians will wish to burn.”
The colonel nodded. “And they know that there are two possibilities. First, the fifth man came forward to local authorities, told us that he and his pals tried to commit murder, and supplied us with the evidence we need to go to war. Or, second, that he was petrified he’d be thrown in jail so went to ground. They’ll suspect he’s laying low. They think he’s not come forward.”
“I agree. But they won’t risk the possibility that he may have a change of heart. And they’ll know you will have brought in specialists to hunt him down.”
“Which is why you didn’t want to stay in Mount Pleasant?”
Sign nodded. “Knutsen and I have to be off the radar.” Sign spun around and said in a loud voice, “Doctor – thank you so much for allowing us to intrude on your excellent medical facility. I can see that no stone has been unturned in the examination of these unfortunate souls. I believe that funeral logistics are being attended to. We will bother you no more and will allow you to complete your case. Good day to you madam.”
Sign strode out of the room.
CHAPTER 5
Knutsen turned off the jeep’s engine and looked at Sign. “Are we sure about this? It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere!”
“Language, young man. It will suit our purpose.” Sign got out of the vehicle and approached the door to the cottage that Richards had secured them. It was an isolated property, a crumbling disused stone sheep pen was twenty yards from the house, all around it was rolling heathland, the sea was thirty yards away, below an escarpment, and there was not another dwelling in sight. There was no evidence of animal life. The snow had forced all fauna into their nests or burrows.
Knutsen joined Sign at the front door.
“It’s locked,” said Sign.
“I know. Richards said there’s a key in the combination lock next to the door. Shit, shit, shit! He gave me the combination but I can’t remember it. All I remember is it’s four digits.”
“Call him.”
Knutsen tried. No reception. “Now what do we do?”
Sign stood in front of the lock. “We improvise and use our imagination. Ninety eighty two – the year of the war.” He tapped the numbers in to the keyboard. “No. Sixteen ninety – the year that English captain John Strong is officially recorded as discovering the islands. No. Eighteen thirty three – the year Britain reasserted its rule over the islands after French, Spanish, and Argentine settlements on the islands. No.” Sign was getting frustrated. “Two thousand and thirteen – the year the islanders held a referendum on sovereignty and overwhelmingly voted to remain British.” The number didn’t work. “Damn it!”
Knutsen tried not to laugh as he took Sign’s place in front of the keypad. “Let’s see if this works.” He typed in zero zero zero zero. The safe unlocked. Knutsen giggled. “I can’t believe I forgot that code.”
“Forgot indeed. Very funny, Mr. Knutsen!”
They entered the cottage. Its thick stone walls protected them from much of the sound of wind and precipitation outside, but it also insulated the cold. Sign prepared the wood burner while Knutsen opened curtains and followed the absent owner’s written instructions to turn on the water supply and electricity. Knutsen checked the telephone landline – it was working. But, Richards was right – there was no mobile reception here. Once the fire was lit and the cottage’s essential services were up and running, Knutsen and Sign examined the property.
Sign said, “Kitchen – electric hob, not ideal. I prefer gas. Knives are cheap junk and blunt. But there is a steel. I will sharpen them. Pots and pans are as bad as can be; none of them non-stick. But there is a slow cooker. I can improvise with that. Plates – fine. Cups – fine. Glasses – fine. Drawers - stocked with utensils and towels. Okay, I can work with this. Let’s go upstairs.”