by Matthew Dunn
Sign didn’t answer him fully. “Mr. Oates. I’m dealing with some very deep waters. A man of your intellect can probably estimate just how deep those waters are and why they are dangerous. Can I rely on you to keep our conversation private?”
Oates turned to face him. “I don’t want to know how far this goes.”
“And I’m not going to tell you. But I would ask that you don’t call Hunt and Pope and tell them that I’m driving to see them this morning. To do otherwise would not be in their interest, your interest, or my interest. Between us, we have an island to protect.”
Oates stubbed out his cigarette. “We’re conservationists.” He laughed for a few seconds. “Sure, I won’t call them.”
“Thank you. Does your charity have a website?”
“Of course.”
“I get paid by results. If matters come to a successful conclusion I will transfer ten thousand pounds to your charity and I will express a desire that the funds are funnelled into the research and animal welfare work you’re doing on the west island.” He walked to the door. “Good day to you, sir.”
When Sign was in the car, Knutsen asked, “Where to?”
“We drive west to Hunt’s house, but we don’t stop there. Instead we follow the road north for a few miles. There’ll be a farmstead at the end of the route. Its owner is a man called Harry Pope. I want to talk to him.”
Sixty four minutes later they stopped outside Pope’s property. As well as a cottage, there were outhouses, a barn, and a paddock in the ranch. A Hilux pickup truck was parked outside the cottage. There was the sound of a chainsaw coming from the rear of the complex.
Sign said to Knutsen, “Whatever happens, don’t take your eyes off Pope. And keep your gun close to you at all times.”
Both men exited their jeep. Sign knocked on the door. There was no answer. He waved his hand to gesture to Knutsen that they should walk to the back of the house. They did so. A man was there. He was hunched over a tree trunk that was resting on a saw bench, using a chainsaw to slice chunks off the wood. He was wearing a face mask and goggles. Knutsen stopped in a spot where the man couldn’t see him, ten yards from the saw bench. Sign walked ahead, sticking close to the cottage’s wall, and stopped in a place where he was visible to the man.
Sign smiled and held up his hand. He called out, “Mr. Pope?”
The man turned off his saw and removed his face attire. “Who wants to know?”
Knutsen gripped his handgun, hidden underneath his jacket.
Sign said, “My name is Ben Sign. I work for the military. I wanted to speak to you about one of the islanders. It’s a private matter. But, don’t worry – this doesn’t involve you. May we speak inside?”
The man rested his chainsaw on the bench and loaded the cut wood into a wheelbarrow. He looked annoyed. “What’s this about? I’m busy.”
“I assure you this won’t take up much of your time. Are you Harry Pope?”
“Yep, that’s me.” The man wheeled the barrow to a nearby woodshed. In doing so he caught sight of Knutsen. “Who’s he?”
“That’s Tom Knutsen. He works with me.”
Pope tipped out the logs into the shed and shut the door. “Why’s he flanking me? Is he armed?”
Sign’s smile braoadened. “Heaven forbid, no. We just didn’t want to surprise you. Are the logs for your cottage’s fire?”
“Of course they damn well are,” said Pope as he walked past Sign, removed his gloves, and opened the kitchen door. “Come in, but make it quick. I’ve got a shit ton of jobs to do before the sun goes down.”
Sign and Knutsen followed him in to the house.
Pope put the kettle on, washed his hands, and turned to them. “So, tell me.”
Sign replied, “You obviously know Peter Hunt, just down the road?”
“Yes.” Pope’s expression was suspicious.
“Tom and I work for the Royal Military Police. There’s been an accident involving Mr. Hunt. We’ve been tasked to investigate the incident.”
“Accident? What kind of accident? And why aren’t the local old bill looking in to it?”
Sign took a step closer to him. “It’s a delicate matter. Hunt was shot. We’re exploring the possibility that he was attacked by an Argentinian reconnaissance unit. Possibly they were compromised by Hunt. They shot him and fled. Thus far, this is a military matter, not a civilian police investigation.”
Pope frowned. “Is he alright?”
“Yes, yes. He’ll need a week or so in hospital, but it’s nothing serious. He’s conscious and is recovering. We’ve interviewed him but unfortunately he didn’t know who his assailants were. But, we know they were Argentinian. The bullet extracted from his chest was Argentinian. We wondered if you’d seen any unusual activity on your stretch of the coast? Perhaps four men; a boat?”
Pope relaxed. “Can’t say I have, but then again would I spot them if they were nearby? I don’t know anything about military stuff, but I’m guessing blokes rocking up here in the middle of the night, or whenever, must be Special Forces or something. Why would they be doing a reconnaissance of the coast?”
“To examine potential beach heads for a sea-born assault by thousands of troops. It’s a tricky business. They’d have been taking samples of the sand on the beach, checking water levels in the coast, seeing whether armoured vehicles would become bogged down when they drove off landing craft, and many other things.” Sign walked out of the kitchen. “Let’s sit in the lounge. It will be far more comfortable.”
“It’s messy in there. Don’t…”
“Nonsense.” Sign stood in the centre of the lounge, looked around, and called out, “Mr. Knutsen!”
Knutsen put his pistol against Pope’s head. “Get in there. Don’t try anything. I’m good at this stuff.” He pushed Pope into the room.
Sign said, “Sit in that chair and put your hands on your forehead. Don’t do anything silly. My colleague is an excellent shot.”
Pope did as he was told. “What the fuck’s going on?!”
Sign remained standing. “That rifle leaning in the corner of this room is an FLFAL 50.61. The FAL was originally designed in Belgium, but it was subsequently manufactured in Argentina and used in the Falklands War. It is a highly effective assault rifle. It is illegal for a civilian to possess one.”
Pope glanced at the gun. “It… it doesn’t work. It’s just an antique. My dad found it after the war.”
Sign picked up the weapon and examined its workings. “It’s been regularly cleaned; there are bullets in the magazine; a sight has been attached; modern shock absorbers have been fitted onto the stock. This gun is most certainly on active duty.” He placed the gun down. “You used this weapon to kill Peter Hunt.”
“What?!”
“It’s okay. We don’t need amateur dramatics.” Sign sat down. Knutsen remained standing, his pistol pointing at Pope’s head. Sign said, “Let me tell you what you already know. In the late seventies and early eighties, your father worked in the east island. The war happened in ninety eighty two. It was brief and chaotic. Guns, bullets, landmines, and other munitions were left on battlefields. Your father fancied himself as a trophy hunter. He picked up guns and bullets – British and Argentinian – and brought them back here. I don’t know whether he did that during the war or after. Either way he’d collected himself an arsenal. It wasn’t unusual. The war was brutally short. Most British forces buggered off after their victory. Largely, it was left to islanders to clean up the mess. I’m sure some of them kept trophies as well. From time to time we all bend rules. But your father’s trophies must have been fascinating to you. You were only a young kid at the time of the war. When your parents recently passed away you wanted to use the weapons. You enrolled your friend Peter Hunt, because he had access to Terry Maloney’s shooting range in Goose Green. You and Hunt would spend quality time there, firing at targets. It was illegal but it didn’t warrant anything more than a slap on the wrist by police.”
Pope�
��s eyes were venomous. “Fuck you!”
Sign was unperturbed. “Using military-grade guns for target practice is one thing; using guns to kill people is another thing altogether. You entered into a business arrangement with Eddie Wilson, Rob Taylor, Billy Green, and Mike Jackson. You invested, with them, in the purchase of four trawlers, to be based in the east island. But, the business deal went sour. You lost money. That would have hurt. But you kept your mouth shut and did nothing. You were waiting for the right moment. That moment presented itself when Wilson and his pals decided to take on an Argentinian spy ship that had been lurking around the islands. Wilson knew you had British guns. He called you, asking to borrow them. You complied, with the stipulation that you had to be with them on that fateful voyage. Wilson thought nothing of that demand. He assumed that you just wanted to ensure that your guns were kept in good order. But, he didn’t foresee the real reason you had to be on the boat that night. When Wilson and his friends got close to the Argentinian trawler, they opened fire on the vessel with the British guns you’d given them. Most likely it was amateur hour. Wilson and his men were drunk and probably didn’t want to kill anyone. They just wanted the boat to go away. But, things then got serious. You shot Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson, with one of your Argentinian war trophy guns. By this time, the spy ship was sailing fast away, fearing it had been compromised. And no doubt it was damaged by gunfire. You didn’t care. You dumped the bodies in to the sea, left the British guns on board, and took your Argentinian weapon to the emergency dinghy and headed back to shore. It was all a set-up. Everyone in the know would assume that Wilson and his pals had been killed by Argentinians. You knew where that could lead, but you never knew it would lead back to you. And you did all of this because you wanted revenge. Wilson and his friends never paid you back after your silly investment. You wanted them dead. However, there is one thing I’m not entirely sure about – why did Hunt flee his house when Knutsen and I went to see him? And why did you kill him?”
Pope bowed his head. “He… he knew. I told him. He’d leant me the money to invest in Wilson’s project. He hated Wilson and his friends as much as I did.” He looked up and removed his hands from his head.
Knutsen stepped forward, tightly gripping his gun.
Pope smiled. “It’s a tough life out here.” He looked at Knutsen. “Take the shot. Go on. I confess to the murders. Your friend is right about everything. Take the shot.”
Sign said in a firm voice, “That won’t be necessary unless you do anything stupid.” He used his mobile to call RAF Mount Pleasant. “I need to speak to Colonel Richards.”
The switchboard operator told him that Richards had worked a night shift and was currently sleeping.
“Wake him up! Tell him I have the fifth man in custody and he needs to get to the west island right now! This is where he and his men need to land their helicopter.” He gave the operator details of their location.
One hour later, Richards and four men were in Pope’s house. Sign told the colonel what had happened. Pope was placed into hand and ankle cuffs and put on the chopper.
When Richards was alone with Sign in the lounge, he said, “So this was a local murder enquiry all along?”
Sign nodded. “When you first came to see me in London, I wondered if that might be the case. You thought it was the Argentinians who killed the men. But your insight that there was a fifth man on the boat rang alarm bells with me. I wondered if he’d cleverly staged their murders to look like a foreign power had killed them.” He smiled. “When investigating matters like this, sometimes the obvious is not so obvious.”
Richards nodded. “Pope will be kept in a secure wing in Pleasant. He’ll be flown to London on one of my military jets. He’ll stand trial and will get life imprisonment. He’s killed five men. There’ll be no chance of parole.”
“Good.” Sign smiled. “Oh, and talking of killing people, there is a somewhat delicate matter I need to impart to you. The man I shot at Maloney’s place was an Argentinian assassin. He belonged to a four person unit who were here to kill the fifth man. The other three are dead. Their bodies are in the sheep pen at the Bluff Cove cottage. It would be terribly kind of you if you could arrange for the discrete disposal of the bodies.”
Richards’ eyes widened. “An Argentinian assassin unit?! You killed them?! Why didn’t you tell me about them?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with such matters.” Sign checked his watch. “I believe you’ve lifted the ban on flights. Knutsen and I will be on the first flight out tomorrow. Meanwhile, tonight we’re staying in Port Howard. There’s a lovely B&B there. And the owner is a charming host. For dinner she’s going to cook us lobster, fried seaweed, mash potato, and roasted lemons, served with a mustard pickle relish on the side. Hopefully she’ll also throw in a nice bottle of dry white wine to accompany the dish.” He held out his hand. “The case is closed. You owe me and Mr. Knutsen fifty thousand pounds. Goodbye Mr. Richards.”
Richards shook his hand. “Thank you. Thank you both very much. Have a safe journey home.”
As Sign walked out of the house he called out, “And I hope you have a lovely retirement. Avoid military reunions. They are so tiresome.”
CHAPTER 14
Two days later, Sign and Knutsen were back in London. Despite having lived and worked in the capital for the majority of his adult life, it was the first time Knutsen noticed how frenetic and crowded the city was. As they sat in a cab, taking them from Paddington Station to West Square, he looked out of the window and thought his senses were going to overload. His eyes were wide as he looked at cars, people walking along streets, shops, buses, government buildings, high rise commercial properties, and boats as they drove over Lambeth Bridge to cross the Thames. His passenger window was open, because London was enduring a heatwave and the cab was stifling. The aperture enabled him to gain a variety of smells as they made their journey – petrol, diesel, food, overheated tarmac, coffee, perfume, and other scents. The noise was incredible – cars, horns, men using equipment on roadworks, helicopters, emergency vehicle sirens, music, voices, and shouting. It felt like the antithesis of the islands. He was relieved when they pulled up in the quiet retreat of the Edwardian and regal West Square. Sign paid the cabby. Both men entered the communal apartment block.
When inside their flat, Sign dumped his luggage on his bed and called out to Knutsen, “One hour for showering and changing. After that, I suggest we take a stroll.”
An hour later, Knutsen emerged into the lounge. Sign was on his laptop, reading an email. He looked at Knutsen. “What on Earth are you wearing?”
Knutsen was in knee-length shorts, a T-shirt that had a picture of a surfboard emblazoned on its front, sandals, and had polarized wrap-around black sunglasses on his forehead. “It’s hot out there.”
By contrast, Sign was wearing immaculately pressed trousers, a striped shirt, and brogues. He’d shaved. Knutsen hadn’t. He looked like a gentleman cricketer, about to partake of cucumber sandwiches and glass of Pimm’s in the VIP stand at Lords. Knutsen looked like he was about to have a bottle of beer with some slacker dudes on a beach in Bali.
Sign said, “We need to adjust to the robust entanglement of our home’s surroundings. We must mingle with the masses and recalibrate our bodies’ tempo. I have the perfect solution. Chop chop. We have a walk to do.”
It was late afternoon when they entered Borough Market. The venue was one of the largest and oldest markets in London, dating back to the twelfth century, and possibly even earlier. It sold fine speciality foods, was overlooked by Southwark Cathedral, and was nearby to the southern end of London Bridge. The sprawling venue was busy, in large part because discerning customers knew that at the end of the day they’d get discounted prices on produce.
Sign placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “Follow me, Mr. Knutsen, and ignore the hustle and bustle. I know exactly where to go to fetch some delicious items for our supper.” He stopped in front of a fruit and veg counter
and addressed a thin man working the stall. “Good day to you Rick. What do you have for me today?”
Rick beamed and said in a London accent, “Mr. Sign. Good to see you sir. It’s been a while. What are you cooking?”
“Most likely fish.”
Rick patted some of the veg. “In that case, take a look at these beauties. Lemons from Spain. They’re in season. Got some lovely parsley if you’re hankering after a nice white sauce. Green beans are from a farmer in Berkshire. He knows his stuff. Spuds are the best I’ve seen in a couple of seasons – you can mash ‘em, boil ‘em, or roast ‘em. And the carrots – blimey, sir. They hold their shape, ain’t too sweet, and can be cooked whole or, as I prefer them, cut into slithers on one of them mandolin things. Just watch your fingers if you use that damn thing though.”
Sign nodded approvingly. “Excellent, Rick. We’ll take them all. Please bag up enough of each to satiate the appetite of two hungry men who’ve had to endure airplane food for the last fourteen hours.” He looked at a basket of chillies. They were different shapes and sizes, some red, others green and yellow. He picked up a red chilli and held it to his nose. “Where did you source these?”
As Rick was placing Sign’s order into brown paper bags, he replied, “There’s a bloke I know. He’s got a loft above his house in North London.” He winked. “He grows all sorts of stuff up there, under lamps. These lovelies will be perfect for a few days. After that they’ll dry out. But, you can still use them when they’re dry.”
“I’ll take a small bag of them. A mix, if you please.”
“Will you be looking to have a pudding? These strawberries are from East Kent. And these are from the Isle of Wight. I can’t split them apart in terms of taste. They’re the best in the world. Nice dollop of cream on them and you’ll be job done.”
“Why not.”
After paying Rick, they walked to one of fifteen fishmonger stalls.