The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  Sign chuckled. “No. I’m tickling the possibilities of the truth. The fifth man was not like Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson. He wasn’t the kind of man to prop up a bar every night with his pals, while bantering about this woman and that and who he wanted to fight. He’s thoughtful. He’s a loner. Most likely he’s perpetually paranoid. That would explain why he ran from the crime scene and has gone to ground. He’s the type of man who thinks everyone is out to get him. But, he will have a connection to Wilson and the others.”

  “Maybe they had something on him.” Knutsen started driving. “It’s possible they blackmailed him to give them his guns and join them on the ship.”

  “No. That doesn’t wash. Remember – loner, survivalist, paranoid, immaculate military weapons. He gave them his guns and went with them that night because he wanted to take the fight to the enemy. Alas, the poor fellow was not up to the task when hellfire unleashed. But his heart was in the right place. You must remember that the islanders live in constant fear that their land will be invaded and rebranded Islas Malvinas. Sometimes the islanders get to breaking point. The fifth man could never be blackmailed by Wilson or anyone else. Figuratively, he had his back to the wall with a gun in his hand. I think Wilson or one of the others went to him that night and explained the situation. The fifth man finally saw a means to hit back at his paranoia about Argentina. He supplied his troops with good war guns and he went to battle. It was a battle too far. Fight or flight. The fifth man chose flight.” Sign smiled. “But, I concede that everything I’ve just said may be utter balderdash.”

  “It makes perfect sense. The fifth man was scared. And when it came to it he was a coward. Men like that treasure guns. He’s a good guy who just wants to be left alone.”

  “Correct. Give me five minutes with him and I’d talk to him about a different way of life. It would work. He’d finally be happy.” Sign looked at his map. “Seven hundred yards, take a left, slight incline.”

  They stopped outside a house that looked similar to Carl’s place; ditto there was a nearby barn and a garage. Knutsen knocked on the door. No answer. They tried the barn and the garage. Both were locked. Knutsen tried the house again, but still there was no answer.

  Sign withdrew a pair of binoculars from his jacket and scoured the hills around the farmstead. “There. On the escarpment. I’d say about five hundred yards away. It will be Nick. It looks like he’s making repairs to some kind of shed on the hill. It must be where he stores food for his cattle. We’ll meet him there. Watch your footing.”

  “Baby heads,” stated Knutsen.

  “Yes. Baby heads. Also bogs and the possibility of unexploded landmines.”

  They trudged uphill. Snowfall remained heavy and due to the amount of snow on the ground it was impossible to see any dangers under foot. Twice Knutsen lost his footing and Sign had to grab his jacket to prevent him going face down onto the grounds. They were breathing heavily as they neared the shed.

  The man looked at them, looked right, and ran, shouting, “You fucking bastard!”

  Knutsen whipped out his gun.

  Sign placed his hand over the muzzle. “Calm, my friend. All is not what it seems. Look what he’s running to.”

  Nick stopped and picked up a sheep. He walked back to the shed and put it inside. Sign and Knutsen approached him. Sign asked, “Nick?”

  Nick was leaning against the shed, exhausted. “Yeah. That’s what my friends call me. Who are you?”

  Sign delivered their cover story, the reason they were visiting the islands and added, “We’ve spoken to Sally and Carl this morning. They both advised us to speak to you.”

  Nick was still sucking in air. He slapped the shed. “I got all of my sheep into the barn, except this fucker. Couldn’t find her. Bastard. But she ain’t going anywhere now until the snow melts.” He stood upright, his breathing now normal. “I’m not having this conversation out here. We’ll freeze our tits off. I’ll be making a brew in the house. Join me if you want. Don’t if you don’t want.”

  Sign and Knutsen turned with the intention of walking back to the house.

  But Nick said, “Not on foot. Too dodgy. You can hitch a ride with me. They followed him to the other side of the shed. Parked there was a large quad bike with a plinth on the back. He pointed at the plinth.. “Sit there. I’ll just be a minute.” He entered the shed and re-emerged carrying the sheep. “You’re going to have to earn your brew by helping me get this fucker down to the barn.” He placed the sheep on Sign and Knutsen’s lap. “Grip her hard, stroke her face, and don’t take any shit from her. She’s strong and can be a right cunt.” He carefully drove them into the valley, placed the sheep into the barn containing the rest of his flock, and drove them to his house. When they were all inside, Nick put on the kettle and removed his oilskin jacket. “Sit in the lounge.” He made a fire, returned to the kitchen, then brought out three mugs of tea on a tray containing a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes. “The milk’s goat’s milk. Blokes like you will either like it or hate it.”

  “I’ll take my tea black,” said Knutsen.

  “Goat’s milk! Wonderful!”, said Sign as he added a dash to his tea. Sign was partially lactose intolerant. Goat’s milk was the last thing on earth he’d want to consume.

  Nick sat down and gulped his tea. “So, your scientists playing cops, right?”

  Knutsen laughed. “We’re not playing cops. The police and coastal services know how Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson died. They drowned. It was an accident. But, we’re experts in all matters maritime. In particular, we specialise in the Antarctic and its surrounding waters. Our client – the law firm my colleague mentioned – engaged us because it wants to draw upon our expertise to see if there was anything that helped facilitate the accident – an unusual rip tide, a freak wave, a swell, other potential factors.”

  “Or whether it was just four pissed blokes who shouldn’t have been out at that time of night in that weather.” Nick drained the rest of his tea and held his hands near the fire. “They were on a mission to get really drunk that night. I’d lay money that they took beer with them on the boat, maybe spirits too. I don’t know much about our coastline but I do know it can get shitty at this time of year. If those idiots were out on deck, swigging their beers, all it would have taken is for a wave to tip them over the side of Wilson’s tin-pot piece of junk. And then they’d have stood no chance. A mile out, I’ve heard. An Olympic swimmer wouldn’t have been able to make it to shore. He’d have died from the cold. Wilson and his drunken pals, probably dressed in cold weather gear, wouldn’t have got more than a few yards. And they would be hypothermic. No chance they’d have been able to get back on the boat. I’ve seen Wilson’s trawler. There’s no ladders or ropes on the hull. If the boat tips you into the water, you’re fucked.”

  Sign said, “Your hypothesis sounds completely laudable. We wonder, however, whether there were extraneous factors that may have prompted the accident. Human factors that caused Wilson to go against his instincts and change course, thereby putting the boat at risk of the sea and the weather.”

  Nick smiled. “You mean like another boat blocking its way or driving right at it?” Nick looked serious. “We’ve had an Argie boat patrolling our waters these last few months. It’s gone now. Last time it was spotted was on the night of the drownings. Maybe it was involved, maybe its disappearance was a coincidence, or maybe it wasn’t involved but witnessed the drownings and its crew freaked out and left. Who knows?”

  Sign asked, “Did you know the deceased well?”

  Nick shrugged and said nonchalantly, “I saw them a lot in the pub, but never drank with them. Rob Taylor helped me a few times with repairs on my farm. But he wasn’t a mate. I paid him for his work. Mike Jackson helped put out a fire on my land after four dumb-witted squaddies stopped on a march and lit a calor gas to make a brew. They set the heath on fire. But Jackson was just doing his job as a fireman. Aside from that, I had little dealings with them. Jackson was a par
t-time fireman. His main job was operating the lighthouse. Wilson and Green were fisherman. Lighthouses and fishing are of no interest to me apart from what catches are brought in. On a Friday I like to buy a nice piece of cod from the store in Stanley. We were blokes who drank in the same boozer. Nothing more to it than that.”

  “Carl said the same. And yet you are friends with Carl and drink with him.” Sign leaned forward. “I wonder what differentiates Carl from Wilson and his friends.”

  Nick looked nonplussed as he said, “Carl’s my dad. My brother’s going to help run his farm. The old man’s getting a bit creaky.”

  “Of course he’s your father. I knew that the moment I saw you. It’s very kind of you to share a pint or two with your dad after a hard day’s work. He will be most appreciative. But, mapping the family connections of the Falklands is not why we’re here. We have a lead. There was a fifth man on board Wilson’s vessel that night. He escaped. We’d dearly like to talk to the chap. He’s a witness.”

  Nick frowned. “A fifth man? Are you sure?”

  “The British military are cooperating with our investigation. They had thermal imagery of Wilson’s vessel before the snow blizzard cut out all visuals of the boat.”

  “Maybe the man also drowned.”

  “It’s possible, although Wilson’s vessel’s escape dingy was found two miles on shore from Stanley. And it was dragged over the beach and hidden in bracken. It would have been impossible for the sea, regardless of conditions, to have positioned the dingy in such a way. Do you have any idea who the fifth man may be?”

  “Was it you?” asked Knutsen.

  Sign immediately said, “Forgive my friend’s direct approach. We are merely here to ask for any insight you may have.”

  Nick looked angry, but Sign’s interjection softened his demeanour. “I don’t do sea. I fucking hate the stuff. You can put me on a plane or a tractor or a bus, but never put me on a boat. You’d see the contents of my guts if you did.” He stared at the fire. “A fifth man? That would be unusual. Eddie, Rob, Billy, and Mike kept themselves to themselves. They were close knit. Didn’t need anyone else.”

  “What about a man who could supply guns – military guns. You know they went out that night to confront the Argentinian vessel. They got help from the fifth man. I think he gave them weapons that he’d stored since the war.”

  Nick looked genuinely confused. “Military guns? I mean, it’s possible, but everyone I know has no need for that stuff. Most of us in the sticks have a shotgun or two. But that’s about it. We’re farmers. I was too young at the time to remember this but my dad told me that it took an age to get rid of all the shit that was left here after the war. What I do remember is that years later we were still finding shit – landmines, machine gun belts of bullets, grenades, guns, ration packs, army ruck sacks, artillery shells, you name it. The army helped us whenever we found something. It wanted the islands as clean as we did. They were worried about accidents to their men, islanders, and to our cattle. Do you reckon it might be a serving squaddie who went with them on the boat? Maybe he gave them the guns?”

  “No. The handguns on board Wilson’s vessel were Browning 9mm. They are still used in the British army but are being phased out. And I know for certain that there are no Brownings in the military base on the islands. The assault rifle on the boat was an SLR. That gun has long ago been decommissioned. It is highly improbable that a serving soldier would have access to these weapons. The person we’re looking for is an islander.” Sign looked around. “Do you live here alone?”

  “Yes. I had a girlfriend who moved in for a month. But she was from Stanley. She told me she felt too isolated out here. She moved out last year. So, it’s just me and my bloody sheep.”

  Knutsen laughed.

  Sign said, “It’s possible we’re looking for someone who lives on his own in a place like this; maybe further west; possibly even on the west island. If anything occurs to you, would you be so kind as to give us a call?” He handed Nick a slip of paper containing the Mount Pleasant phone number. “We’re not here to cause any problems. On the contrary and as we told your father, we’re here to help.”

  Nick took the paper and placed it in a pocket. “Nothing springs to mind. But I can put the word out.”

  “I’d be eternally grateful if you didn’t. The fifth man is obviously scared. We need him to feel safe. Word might get to him. Then, he might run.”

  Nick nodded. “If he gives you evidence that the Argie boat was somehow involved that night, what will you do with the evidence?”

  “It will be escalated up the food chain – the commander of the military base, the governor of the islands, the British chief of defence staff, foreign secretary, and ultimately the British prime minister. They will decide what to do. Rest assured, if an Argentinian vessel was in any way involved in the death of four British citizens – whether by accident or by a provocative manoeuvre –action will be taken.”

  Nick stood. “I’ve got to feed my sheep. You might be on a wild goose chase. I still think this might be four pissed blokes falling off the side of their boat after a wave hit them, or something.”

  Sign replied, “You may be right, sir. Or you may be wrong. Please do call us if you think of anything that could bring this case to a close.”

  Outside, Sign and Knutsen watched Nick go into the barn.

  Knutsen was frustrated as he said, “We’re getting nowhere!”

  “Keep calm, dear chap. Turn your thinking on its head. Every time we come up against a roadblock, it enables us to further narrow our search.”

  Knutsen replied with sarcasm. “How very glass half full of you.” He got into the jeep. When Sign was sitting in the passenger seat, Knutsen said, “Look. Maybe Nick’s right; that this is a wild goose chase. It’s possible that Green supplied the guns. He’s an ex-soldier. He could have had access to military weapons.”

  “No. He was a Royal Engineer commando, stationed here between 2009 and 2011. For the same reasons I articulated to Nick, Green was too young to have access to Falklands War British guns.”

  “Maybe he found them on one of his patrols. Kept them as souvenirs.”

  “Highly improbable. And you’re forgetting about the fifth man. He was there on that night for a reason.”

  “Maybe there is no fifth man!” Knutsen started the engine.

  Sign placed his hand on Knutsen’s forearm. “Hold your nerve and hang tight onto your faculties. There is no doubt there was a fifth man – the drone footage Richards showed us; the dingy on the beach; guns on board Wilson’s vessel that honest fishermen, farmers, and lighthouse keepers would have no means to ordinarily access. We are painting a picture of the fifth man. And like the slow darkroom exposure of a photograph, we are gradually getting a clearer image of our petrified witness.”

  Knutsen gunned the engine and drove. “Where to?”

  “It’s getting late. It’s not recommended to be out on the roads after dark. Let’s head back to the Bluff Cove cottage.”

  An hour later they arrived at the cottage. Knutsen stoked the log burner and bathed and changed clothes. Sign made a casserole, put it in the oven, parboiled some potatoes and beans, and set the potatoes aside for roasting thirty minutes prior to eating, and the beans aside for a three minute flash in a pan with a little water and butter when needed. When Knutsen was out of the bathroom, Sign too washed himself and changed out of his sodden clothes. Both men loaded their snow-caked garments into the washing machine. Later, the clothes would dry on a rack in front of the log burner.

  After eating and cleaning dishes, Sign and Knutsen sat in armchairs in front of the fire. Both had a brandy. Lamps were on, but no overhead lights because they were too fierce. Sign and Knutsen liked the ambience of subtle lighting. The cottage was warm, despite high winds and snow battering the exterior of the property. It was now dark. If either man had stepped outside, they wouldn’t be able to see anything but black. The glorious stars frequently visible in the southern hemisph
ere were shielded tonight by the snow clouds.

  Sign opened the log burner and placed a piece of wood inside. He looked at Knutsen. “Sir, you got a little riled today.”

  “Riled?”

  “Well, you nearly shot a man who was trying to rescue a sheep. And later you thought our investigation might be a waste of time. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to spot your current state of mind.”

  Knutsen bowed his head. “This island stuff is not something I’m used to. And the bloody snow – I used to love the stuff. But here it’s ridiculous. No matter what we wear it’s fucking freezing. And the people here all claim they know each other, but when push comes to shove it seems they don’t. I’m a fish out of water.”

  “Mr. Knutsen. You were once the most highly decorated undercover police officer in the Metropolitan Police. You infiltrated highly volatile places that others couldn’t.”

  “That was London and parts of Europe. Not places like this.”

  Sign had to gee Knutsen up. “You’ve been cold before, yes?”

  “Many times – on London streets playacting a homeless man, chasing a criminal in a sewer in winter, doing all night surveillance on roof tops, so many other experiences.”

  “And you’ve dealt with the complexities of the human condition – whether criminal or otherwise. I’d hazard a guess that when you infiltrated the gangs in London, sometimes people were not as they seemed. You’d meet diabolical men. But you were also confronted with compassion and uncertainty. Some of the gang men were good. You didn’t want to arrest them or shoot them.”

  “Yes.”

  Sign leaned forward and tapped his glass against Knutsen’s glass. “Mr. Knutsen, men like you and I are not fish out of water. Instead, we’re fish who deliberately swim in the wrong waters. Imagine the Falklands as Great Britain in winter. It has an epicentre – in this case Stanley – and it has countryside on its borders – in this case the hills and mountains of the east and west islands. The people here don’t know us and are suspicious. You experienced suspicion when infiltrating the criminal underworld in London. We are unravelling a complicated knot. It takes patience. And you’ve had an exemplary career requiring patience. I heard from your previous commissioner that you had to bide your time for fourteen undercover months to simply get the mobile phone number of a major criminal.” Sign sipped his brandy while keeping his eyes on Knutsen. “Never underestimate yourself again. You know this kind of territory. You know this type of people. Remember who you are. And remember what you’ve achieved in dreadful environments.”