The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  “How will they lead us to our target?”

  “They’ll do so because they’ll deploy brutish tactics. They’ll give us a paper trail.”

  “What do you mean?” Knutsen went wide eyed. “You mean they’ll torture or kill people and we wait to see where it leads?! Jesus Christ, Ben!”

  “I don’t want that to happen. I just want them to make a mistake.”

  There was a loud knock on the door. Knutsen answered.

  Colonel Richards was there, accompanied by a police constable. Richards said, “I need you and Sign to come with me. Right now!”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The barmaid in the pub the men drank in on the night of their… drowning.” Richards had to choose his words carefully because a cop was present.

  “Sally?”

  “Yes. Sally. We can’t be exact on timings, but sometime around midnight she and her father drove on the northern coastal road out of Stanley. They lost control of their vehicle and veered off a cliff. They’re dead.”

  Sign was now standing alongside Knutsen and had heard everything Richards said. He placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “We’d best get our boots and jackets on.”

  Forty five minutes later they were on the area of rough land where Sally’s vehicle and come off the road. In front of them was the cliff. On the beach below was the mangled wreck of Sally’s Land Rover. A police officer was down there, searching through the vehicle. The cop who’d attended Sign and Knutsen’s cottage with Richards wandered off while saying he was going to find the path down to the beach so that he could assist his colleague.

  Now that they were alone, Richards could speak freely to Sign and Knutsen. “This looks like an accident. In all probability it was. But, I hate coincidences. Four men who frequented Sally’s pub died. Then Sally dies. What was she doing up here?”

  “What’s north of here?” asked Knutsen.

  “Nothing to speak of. It’s uninhabited. The only reason the coastal road extends beyond this point is to help farmers access their sheep and to help my men set up camp to do their foot patrols. There’s no reason why Sally and her father would be up here at such a late hour.”

  Sign asked, “Who was driving?”

  “Her father. He owns the pub in Stanley. He has no debilitating health conditions and, like all islanders, he knows how to drive in snow.” Richards pointed at the road. “The constabulary has done an accident assessment. The jeep was driving normally on the road; speed in the region of fifty miles per hour. For some reason it lost control, came off the road, drove over the patch of land we’re standing on, and went over the cliff. Seatbelts weren’t on. There are no airbags in the vehicle. Sally and her father died on impact. Their bodies are at the hospital. Sally’s father had a broken neck and broken limbs, as well as lacerations to his torso. Sally also had many lacerations, but she died from massive blows to the head. The lacerations would have come from the shattered windscreen and shards of metal from the doorframes. The blows to the head and neck would have come from the dashboard.” Richards walked right up to Sign. “I know you interviewed Sally. Did you spook her? Maybe she didn’t tell you the whole truth.” He pointed north. “Maybe the fifth man is out there somewhere and she was going to see him. Possibly she was trying to warn him that you two were snooping.”

  Sign nodded. “You could be right. Were there provisions in the car? Food? Blankets? Clothes? Anything that might assist a man on the run?”

  “There was the usual cold weather emergency provisions that islanders carry in their vehicles at this time of year – a tent, spare fuel, sleeping bags, water, tyre chains, torches, oil, tinned rations, a flare gun, et cetera.”

  “Most of which could be useful to a man who is in hiding. Were one or both of them carrying mobile phones?”

  “No.”

  “That’s odd. People driving in these conditions tend to carry phones in case of emergency.” Sign peered over the edge of the cliff. “I presume you found the phones at their house.”

  “They didn’t use mobile phones. We’ve checked. Sally’s father had a radio transmitter that linked him to the police. But on the night of the crash he wasn’t carrying it.”

  Sign nodded. “The accident investigation is in good hands. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  Richards grabbed Sign by his collar. “What you can do is tread more carefully! This accident smacks of distraction. Sally and her father took their eye off the ball while driving. You made them scared. And desperate to help the fifth man.”

  Sign disagreed but didn’t say so. “I’d take your hand off me if I were you.”

  Richards smiled. “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Knutsen is pointing his gun at your head. And trust me – he’ll have no qualms about pulling the trigger.”

  Richards slowly turned. Knutsen was behind him, the muzzle of his handgun inches from Richards’ skull. Richards released Sign. “Maybe I should never have got you two involved in this!”

  “Only you can decide. But, it’s too late now. We’ve been commissioned by the British Ministry of Defence and we’ll see this project through to fruition.” Sign crossed his arms. “What gear was the jeep in when it crashed?”

  “Fourth gear.” Richards was impatient. “It shows they were driving at speed.”

  “Yes.” Sign held out his hand. “I’d like the keys to Sally’s home, and her address.”

  “It’s already been searched! There’s nothing in there that gives any clues as to the whereabouts of the fifth man.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But there’s never any harm in having a fresh pair of eyes and all that. Colonel – the keys and address! And be quick about it! I’ll return the keys to your base once we’re done.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “There’ll be no need. Drop us back at our cottage. We’ll drive to Sally’s house ourselves.”

  Knutsen’s gun was still pointing at Richards’ head.

  Sign nodded at his colleague.

  Knutsen lowered his weapon.

  Richards sighed. He gave Sign the keys and the address. “Look – there are accidents on the islands. It comes with the territory. But, right now it’s a sensitive time. The islanders have lost four of their sons. Now they’ve lost one of their daughters. In the space of a week. I’m here to not only protect the islands from an Argentinian invasion; I’m also here to keep the peace. Tread lightly.” He turned to Knutsen. “And if you ever pull a gun on me again I’ll walk through you and make sure you disappear. Do you understand me, soldier?”

  Knutsen held his ground and smiled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, sir.”

  “Good.” Richards’ anger receded. “There’s someone you should talk to. His name’s Terry Maloney. He lives near Goose Green. Call my secretary and she’ll give you the exact address. He runs a gun range. Sometimes we let our soldiers do target practice on the range.”

  Knutsen asked, “Does he have military weapons? Specifically SLRs and Brownings?”

  Richards shook his head. “Islanders are not permitted to have military weapons of any sort. Maloney’s no exception. But, he is a gun enthusiast. If someone is illegally in possession of trophies from the war, maybe he knows who that person is.”

  “Maybe Maloney is the fifth man.” Knutsen placed his gun under his belt.

  “Impossible. Maloney has one hand after he had to have the other amputated a few years ago. He was firing one of my men’s assault rifles on the range, under supervision. He got carried away and momentarily ignored instructions. The rifle discharged and mashed his hand. There’s no way he could have rowed to shore from Wilson’s boat. Plus, he’s seventy years old. He doesn’t strike me as someone willing or able to get on a boat at midnight with four drunken sailors.”

  Sign made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Why didn’t you tell us about Maloney before?”

  “Because I didn’t know about him until 0400hrs this morning. Turns out my troop commanders knew ab
out him and secretly used his range. They knew I’d never allowed that breach of protocol. But I overheard two of my sergeants talking about him and moaning that they couldn’t wait to get back on patrol and fire off some rounds on Maloney’s range. I spoke to the sergeants and they confessed that they’d been out to Goose Green regularly. I told them they could face disciplinary charges for not only using the range, but also for falsifying records of ammunition taken out on patrol and ammunition accounted for when they return. We’re supposed to know the number of every single military bullet in our base. Any discrepancies have to be investigated. Alas, I’m a busy man. I defer that responsibility to my troop commanders.”

  Sign was deep in thought. “Don’t discipline your sergeants. Just give them a stern telling off. We don’t want Maloney to be at the forefront of their minds.”

  When they were back at the Bluff Cove cottage and Richards was gone, Sign said to Knutsen, “Don’t worry about Richards. He’s juggling balls. I don’t blame him for being tense. Come on, let’s go.”

  They drove to Sally’s house. Once inside, Knutsen said, “I’ll start searching the place.”

  “Not yet,” said Sign. “Follow me.” He went upstairs and looked at Sally’s bedroom. He entered her father’s room and looked around. The bed hadn’t been slept in. He looked at the adjacent computer desk. The laptop looked like it was switched off. He moved the computers mouse. The screen lit up and required a password to activate the desktop. The laptop hadn’t been shut down; it had gone into sleep mode due to hours of inactivity. He examined the chair in front of the desk, rocking it back and forth. The wood creaked with each movement; its legs were a fraction loose. He got prone on the floor and examined the carpet. He got to his feet and walked downstairs. Knutsen followed him into the lounge. The small smart TV was on standby mode. Sign picked up the controller and pressed the enter button. The TV activated and showed the YouTube home page, with subcategories. He spun around and looked at the chair where Sally had been murdered. He sat on it, intertwined his fingers and closed his eyes. Knutsen knew him well enough to leave him in peace when he became like this. Knutsen began an expert search of the house, opening drawers and cabinets in the kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms, looking under beds and behind pictures, lifting furniture, examining paperwork in the father’s desk, and doing many other things. He was looking for any clue as to why Sally and her father would have driven away from their home at such a late hour. He found nothing of interest. Ignoring Sign, he searched the lounge. Once again, he saw nothing unusual.

  He said to Sign, “This has been a waste of time.”

  Sign opened his eyes. “Not exactly. We must leave. We need to visit Terry Maloney. But first we must drop Sally’s house keys off at RAF Mount Pleasant. We don’t want to infuriate Richards further by not adhering to our word to him.”

  Javier Rojo pulled his car up outside Terry Maloney’s cottage. Surrounding the property was a rolling landscape. In spring and summer, heather, waterlogged gullies, and rocks would have been visible in the rugged countryside. Now, as far as the eye could see, a blanket of snow covered everything. Maloney’s place was two miles west of Stanley. It was a location where a man could find peace and solitude.

  Rojo was wearing winter gear and boots. He trudged through snow but didn’t knock on the door. Instead, he walked around the property, and stopped. Facing away from the property, he placed his hands in his pockets and hunched to make it look as if he was cold. In truth, he didn’t feel the chill. He’d operated in far worse climates and was adept at training his mind to zone out from any discomforts afflicting his body. He stared at the gun range. It was one hundred yards away from the house. He walked to the range. Like everything else around here, it was covered with snow. But, based on his knowledge of ranges, and the shapes and other indicators, he could visualise how it looked when clear of snow. There were sandbags at the end of the fifty yard range, low metal fences either side of the four-lane alley, more sandbags at firing stations, a waist-height metal box for spent cartridges, a separate unit for fire extinguishers and other emergency equipment, and two flags – halfway down the range, outside of the fences, that were operated by underground cables attached to switches on a post near the firing stations. A flick of one switch would activate a red flag – visible to shooters and telling them to lower their weapons, activate the safety catches on their guns, and under no circumstances shoot at anything on the range. The other switch would activate a black flag, meaning it was safe to commence target practice. On the range itself were posts that were grounded in troughs that allowed them to be moved to different sections and be fixed in place. Targets would be attached to them when Maloney or others used the range.

  “Can I help you?” a man shouted. He was standing outside of the house, but made no attempt to walk over to Rojo.

  Rojo turned, and walked over to the man. He smiled and said in a South African accent, “I was just admiring your shooting range. I bet you’re looking forward to the snow melting so you can get the range active again.”

  The man looked suspicious. “How can I help you? Not many people come out here.”

  Rojo held out his hand. “Max Bosch. I’ve recently arrived on the islands.”

  The suspicion remained on the man’s face as he shook Rojo’s hand. “Terry Maloney. I own this place and pretty much everything you can see beyond it. How did you know about my range? It’s barely visible in this weather.”

  Rojo shrugged nonchalantly. “Last night I had a drink with some locals in Stanley. They got talking and mentioned your range. I don’t have any business today so I thought I’d take a drive out and do some sightseeing. I was intrigued by your range so thought I’d take a look.” He smiled wider. “When I’m back home in Durban I like to spend a few hours on my nearest shooting range. It helps me destress after long flights.”

  “Are you police? Army?”

  Rojo’s smile remained. “Nothing as glamourous as that. I work for an insurance company. Can I come in? You’d be a lifesaver if you had coffee.” He stamped his feet on the ground. “We don’t get winters like this in SA.”

  Maloney laughed, his suspicious expression no longer evident. “Sure. But, if I were you I’d head straight back to Stanley after you’ve finished your drink. They’ve forecast more heavy snow in an hour or two. You don’t want to get stuck on the Stanley road. Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  In the lounge was an open fire. Maloney placed two logs on the flames and used bellows to blow air into the fire. Once he was satisfied it was roaring nicely, he said, “Bloody heating in this place is faulty. Sometimes it works; other times it doesn’t. If he can get here, I’ve got a man coming out this afternoon to take a look at the gas tank and heating unit. Keep your coat on and take a seat by the fire. How do you take your coffee?”

  “No sugar. Milk if you’ve got it; no milk if you haven’t.” Rojo sat by the fire.

  When he returned with two mugs of coffee in his one hand, Maloney also sat near the fire. His breath steamed as he spoke. “What guns do you use on your range in South Africa?”

  Rojo beamed. “We get access to all sorts of crazy stuff. Assault rifles. Pistols. Machine guns. Crossbows. It’s fun. I must admit I don’t know the make and models of the weapons. The instructors just hand them to us, tell us how to use them, and we shoot at the targets.”

  Maloney smiled. “That does sound like fun.”

  “What do you use on your range?”

  Maloney held up his left arm. “No hand, no shooting. Those days are behind me. Ah, it’s mostly military patrols that use the range. When they’re coming through here I let them camp on my land. They get bored. I let them fire off a few rounds. They like it, and it reminds me of the times when I could fire a weapon.” He drank his coffee. “What’s an insurance guy doing down here?”

  Rojo pretended to look bored. “Just completing paperwork for a claim. I specialise in shipping. There was a vessel here that had an accident. The skipper’s insura
nce with us. I guess he took out the insurance by shopping online for the best deal. He chose us. Doesn’t matter that we’re headquartered in South Africa. Most things are done on the Internet these days. But, there was an accident. When that happens we still need to do things the old fashioned way. My company flew me over to take photos of the boat, speak to the police and coastguard, get them to sign some forms, and then I fly back. It’s all just a formality.”

  “Which boat?”

  “A fishing vessel. Four islanders died while sailing it at night.”

  “Yeah, I know about that. Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson. They drowned, I heard. Weather must have got ‘em.”

  “That’s my assessment. I have to visit their next of kin. I hate that part of my job – you know, meeting people when they’re grieving. The only upside is I’ll be there to get them to complete various documents so they get our insurance pay out. Then I get on the next plane out of here, whenever that will be.”

  “It’ll be no more than a few days. The RAF bods at Mount Pleasant are good at keeping their runway clear of snow, even at this time of year. The only reason planes are grounded is because of high winds. The snow will last for another month or so. But, the winds will die soon.” Maloney stood. “You’d better hit the road. This isn’t a day for sightseeing.”

  Rojo swallowed the rest of his coffee. “You’re right. But, before I go there is something you might be able to help me with.”

  Sign and Knutsen drove out of RAF Mount Pleasant, on route to Maloney’s place, fifty eight miles west of Stanley. Knutsen was driving and had the windscreen wipers on full.