Buried Secrets

by Ted Tayler

  “Oddjob?” asked Gus. “His name didn’t get mentioned by Alan’s parents.”

  “He was usually tied up with something else. Lenny Lambert was his name. I haven’t seen him in ages. He was older than us, even Lofty, so he would have retired soon after Alan quit.”

  “He wasn’t in the photo which suggests he was behind the camera,” said Alex.

  “Lenny wasn’t keen on having his photo taken,” said Max. “He was a bit of a porker.”

  “Did Alan organise the trips after that?” asked Gus.

  “He did, yeah,” said Max. “Odd because he was happy to go along with the crowd. Alan never pushed himself forward to organise anything, or get involved in any committees or societies onshore at Faslane, or when we were at sea. If that’s what you meant about a personality change, I guess it was a departure from the way he usually behaved.”

  “The next trip was in the autumn of 2001 to Paris, when they stage the big race out at Longchamp,” said Gus. “Did Lenny Lambert travel with you on that trip?”

  “He backed the winner, Sakhee, ridden by Frankie Dettori. The rest of us came nowhere.”

  “Was horse racing something of a passion for several of you?” asked Gus.

  “Not really,” said Max. “It was a passion for Lenny Lambert, of course. That’s how he got his nickname. Lenny was the go-to man for the odds on any of the big races. He’d been following the horses since he left school. Lenny knew what was going to shorten on the day, and vice versa. When you spend weeks at sea, it brightens your day if you can get a bet on the Grand National or the Derby. I could take it or leave it.”

  “What about Alan Duncan?” asked Gus.

  “Hard to tell with Alan,” said Max. “He gave little away about anything.”

  “We’ve heard that from almost everyone who knew him from 2004 onwards,” said Gus.

  “There’s a pattern developing here, guv,” said Alex. “Cape Town and Paris sound innocent enough tourist spots, but the visits coincided with race meetings. Some internationally famous, and others that were run-of-the-mill. In June 2002, the gang visited Hong Kong.”

  “Lots of interesting places to visit there, Max,” said Gus. “Bob Duncan remembers a photo with several of you wearing gaudy Hawaiian shirts. Alan removed that photo from the house for a reason. Someone took a photo of you out at Happy Valley.”

  “Blimey, that was a laugh. I can’t remember who decided on fancy dress. I’m glad I never kept a copy. Embarrassing.”

  “Lenny Lambert was in that photo,” said Gus.

  “He was, Lenny was next to me,” said Max.

  “Who went behind the camera?” asked Alex.

  “Drew Taggart. It had to be. He was wearing one of those shirts that day too.”

  “Out of interest, why did you call him Chuff?” asked Alex.

  “He was a trainspotter when he was a kid.”

  “There’s no point telling Lydia and the other youngsters,” Gus told Alex.

  Max laughed. He knew what Gus meant.

  “I used to go to Barry Island when I was a boy. There was a steam train graveyard there. Hundreds of engines all waiting to get scrapped. You have to be a certain age to remember the engine sound before everything went to diesel and electric. No magic in them these days is there?”

  “That’s progress for you,” said Gus. “Alex is right. After Alan assumed responsibility for your trips, a racetrack was always close to the principal centre you visited. The Te Rapa course is near Hamilton in New Zealand, which you visited in February 2003.”

  “I went surfing with Chuff and Lofty the day the others went to the races,” said Max. “That was one of the few trips where Bryan Tarbuck joined us.”

  “We’re speaking to Keith Smith later, as I’m sure you’re aware,” said Gus. “Tomorrow, we’ll catch up with Freddie Watts on the Isle of Man. Have you kept in touch with the others?”

  “After we stopped working together on Gold Watch, we went our separate ways. Lofty retired, Smudger stayed here with me winding down to retirement. Contact has been less and less with people like Tarby, Taggart and the rest.”

  “Did Alan Duncan fall out with any of the men who went on these trips?” asked Gus.

  “Never,” said Max shaking his head. “If our skipper thought there was friction between anyone in his crew, their feet wouldn’t have touched. You can’t take deep-seated grievances underwater for seventy to ninety days. I guarantee there was no animosity between anyone that went away for a holiday that I went on. I would have reported it as soon as I returned to base. We all would.”

  “Did you visit Moscow when Alan was still serving in the Navy?” asked Gus.

  “You are joking,” said Max. “Never in a million years.”

  “Alan went there in May 2004, a few weeks before he left the service. Do you remember what you were doing then?”

  “I was in Cancun, enjoying a boozy holiday with Lofty, Smudger and Rico Menghini. We got an extra spot of leave after colliding with a trawler in the Irish Sea. Who went with Alan? I heard nothing about that trip.”

  “We believe he travelled alone,” said Alex.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Max.

  “There’s nothing to suggest Alan might have sold secrets to the Russians,” said Gus. “What else could have encouraged him to travel alone to Moscow?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Max. “Alan wasn’t capable of doing something like that, anyway. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gus, “but if you consider the personality change and the trips to tourist cities where a racecourse was close by, what might that suggest do you think?”

  “You’re assuming Alan was gambling heavier than we knew and got in trouble.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Alex.

  “Who might know the answer?” asked Gus.

  “Lenny Lambert would know,” said Max. “There are dodgy people on the fringes of that racing world, Mr Freeman. If Alan owed money to a bookie on the High Street, that’s one thing, but if he was borrowing from a shady bloke Lenny knew, that could explain why he got killed.”

  “I would agree with you if we hadn’t identified a suspect,” said Gus. “Several people in the village where Alan lived saw a man called Yuri Kovalev. One person saw Kovalev arguing with Alan less than thirty minutes before he died. The Russian connection, that’s the sticking point. We believe the man Alan met in Moscow is the man who strangled him four years later.”

  Gus slid the two photos in front of Max Hughes.

  “Alan Duncan, you know, and the other man is Kovalev. Have you seen him before?”

  “I haven’t, Mr Freeman. Look, if you think Alan’s relationship with this man linked to spying I need to report it at once, despite the time that’s passed.”

  “If Alan had gambling debts and wanted to get himself out of trouble, what did he have access to that was worth a considerable sum?”

  “We all had access to valuable information, but that didn’t mean we ever thought about acting on it,” said Max. “Smudger would know more about this than me. We’ve moved on since 2004, Mr Freeman. It would be difficult to know whether the Russians learned something from Alan that we didn’t want them to know.”

  “I imagine the undersea manoeuvres are a game of cat-and-mouse similar to what’s occurring with cybersecurity personnel of both sides on the surface or in space?” said Alex.

  “That’s all above my pay grade,” said Max.

  “Thanks for your help, Max,” said Gus shaking the officer’s hand. “We’ll let you get back to your trainees. Get the security people to send in Chief Petty Officer Smith if he’s ready.”

  “I wish I could be more help,” said Max. “None of this sounds like the Alan Duncan that I knew for twelve years. It’s a mystery.”

  Max Hughes left the room and minutes later they were joined by CPO Keith Smith.

  “Hello there,” said Smith. “What’s all this nonsense about Alan Duncan? I spoke to Bob on the
phone yesterday afternoon. Alan was a mate. Now Max Hughes felt it necessary to flag up a potential security breach the second he left this room. That’s part of my role here. We’re talking of something that may or may not have happened fourteen years ago. We detect Russian vessels, including subs, near the base all the time. They lurk in UK waters hoping they’ll identify the acoustic signature of our nuclear-armed submarines. If they succeeded, they could track and potentially sink them before they launched their missiles. The cheeky beggars had a submarine stood off Faslane in 2010 waiting for one of our Vanguards to leave port for its three-month patrol. Recorded incidents are on the increase, but the idea Alan could have offered the Russians something valuable takes some swallowing.”

  “Why?” asked Gus.

  “If the Russians knew everything they wanted to know they wouldn’t need to keep hanging around outside our front door, would they?”

  “Fair point,” said Gus.

  Gus and Alex took Keith Smith through the same procedure as Max Hughes. Smudger confirmed the initial trips had been Max’s idea.

  “Was there ever a trip that you didn’t attend?” asked Gus.

  “You make it sound like I was always on holiday,” laughed Keith. “We grabbed every opportunity for an experience light years away from our life at sea. Marriage never appealed to me. I enjoyed the sightseeing, the camaraderie. It will leave a massive hole in my life when I reach fifty-five, and I have to retire.”

  “I know how that feels,” said Gus. “I was fortunate that there was still a role I could fill that kept me in touch with everything familiar. I guess that will be more difficult for a submariner. What about the choice that Freddie Watts, Lofty, made? Could you see yourself as mine host in a pub somewhere?”

  “Lofty enjoyed a drink,” said Keith. “I can’t see him making much money at that game. The temptation to consume the profits would be too great. I could always take it or leave it. A pub that concentrated on good grub might be more up my street if I was that way inclined. No, I’ll probably move abroad, play golf somewhere warm. A lot of open countryside around, that’s what attracts me. I’ve had my fill of confined spaces.”

  “When you had a day at the races, did you sense Alan was betting more heavily than the rest of you?” asked Alex.

  “Not at first,” said Keith. “You know what it’s like, all mates together. We bet five or ten quid on every race in whatever currency we had in our pockets. Some of us won a few quid, most of us lost. But we drank a few beers, found a restaurant for a late meal, then went to a club to make a night of it.”

  “Max said Alan took over the organising of your getaways,” said Gus. “More emphasis went on visiting a racecourse as part of the trip. Was it possible he got into financial trouble, and that prompted the desperate move which Max suggested to you just before you came to see us?”

  “Alan wasn’t any better or worse at picking winners than the rest of us. Lenny Lambert got in his ear about certain sure-fire winners out at Longchamp and Alan laid big bets. He won big on the Prix de Diane; the French Oaks they call it, I believe. We heard all about the money Alan won that day. Whether he kept betting larger sums and hit a losing streak, I don’t know. He wasn’t a moody beggar, that’s definite. Alan never let on that things were getting away from him. Alan was a patriot through and through. He would never have sold secrets to the enemy. Look, if he needed ten, or even twenty grand, to get out of a hole, he could have talked to the gang. We might not have been able to rustle up the full amount, but we would have helped out enough to stop a thug knocking seven bells out of him. There has to be another explanation.”

  “Max told you about the Russian connection.” said Gus.

  “Max is a straight arrow. He knows how serious an accusation like that could be. You might not have wanted him to mention what you talked about between these four walls, but national security is paramount.”

  Gus showed Keith Smith the photo of Yuri Kovalev.

  “Where was this taken?” Smith asked.

  “Moscow Zoo on the afternoon of the eleventh of May in 2004. Kovalev took a photo of Alan outside St Basil’s cathedral earlier that day.”

  “I was in Cancun around that time,” said Keith. “I saw Alan in the week before we flew out of Glasgow. I asked him why he wasn’t coming with us. He shrugged and said he had loose ends to tie up before he left Faslane for good.”

  “How did you react when he told you he was leaving?” asked Alex.

  “We were all surprised,” said Keith. “It takes a special person to become a submariner and stick at it for the full term. Alan had what it takes, but something convinced him he should call it quits. The gambling question that you’ve raised was never an issue as far as we knew. His mental health was still good. We all underwent checks regularly. You don’t want someone to have an episode halfway through a ninety-day trip. Alan was as level-headed the last time I saw him as he was the day we met. I don’t think any of us understood his reasons for leaving, but we were back at sea within a couple of weeks. When we got home, three months later, Alan was gone.”

  “As Max Hughes told us - when you’re in…” said Gus.

  “Too right,” said Keith Smith. “The next patrol could be your last. You needed to trust the crew around you inside that ship, not reminisce about an old mate on civvy street.”

  Gus wondered whether there was anything more CPO Smith could add. The only person who could confirm beyond all reasonable doubt that Alan Duncan had a damaging gambling addiction was Lenny Lambert, whereabouts unknown.

  Gus doubted that Freddie Watts would offer much more than an extra dose of disbelief that Alan Duncan could have sold secrets to settle a gambling debt. Was that worth the ferry trip to Douglas?

  Keith Smith hurried away to follow up on the possible security issue Max Hughes had handed him.

  “We have another long drive ahead of us, guv,” said Alex. “Shall we delay the debrief until we’ve reached the hotel?”

  “A good idea, Alex. Why don’t you let me drive on this leg of the journey?”

  “Okay, guv,” said Alex. “You can have fun operating the windows. They don’t stick halfway on my car.”

  Tuesday, 7th August 2018

  “I suppose that eight-hour ferry journey to the Hook of Holland prepared you for this, Alex?” said Gus. “My last sea trip was to the Isle of Wight with Lydia. The sea was like a millpond that day. These waves are making me regret that fried breakfast at the hotel.”

  “Not long now, guv,” said Alex. “I called Lydia from the bar last night after you turned in. They made little progress finding Yuri Kovalev’s current occupation. However, Lydia was waiting for a callback from the Hub this morning. Kovalev may be here in the UK.”

  “Should we keep an eye out for an old Vauxhall Zafira?” asked Gus.

  “I’ll text her and remind them to check the hire companies, guv. You never know. Did you ring DI Ferris last night?”

  “First thing I did when I reached our room,” said Gus. “The long day caught up with me sooner than for a young fellow like yourself. I slept like a log.”

  “Don’t I know it, guv,” said Alex.

  Alex drove them off the ferry and negotiated the streets of Douglas. Freddie Watt’s pub, The Mariner, stood on a hillside two miles out of town. They parked in front of the tired-looking whitewashed building and went inside.

  “It’s quiet for August, guv,” said Alex. “I imagined a lot more holidaymakers.”

  “There were plenty milling around in the town,” said Gus. “This place is off the beaten tracks and doesn’t have the kerb appeal of those in the tourist hotspot. Perhaps Keith Smith was right, Lofty’s keener on lifting his elbow than serving customers. Where is everyone anyway?”

  Gus rapped his knuckles on the counter.

  “Wakey, wakey!”

  “Hold your horses. I’m coming. What can I get you?”

  “I’m DS Hardy from Wiltshire Police,” said Alex. “Mr Watts, is expecting us. Mr Freeman an
d I have come to interview him. Can we speak to him, please?”

  “Freddie Watts, yeah, that’s me. It was about Alan Duncan, wasn’t it?”

  “Close the door, Alex,” said Gus. “We don’t want any customers coming in while we speak to Mr Lambert.”

  The man on the other side of the bar seemed to crumble in front of his eyes. Gus beckoned to Lenny Lambert, inviting him to sit at a table near the window.

  Alex studied the man sat opposite and compared him to Watts's photos from almost fifteen years ago. Gus was right. This wasn’t Freddie. Alan Duncan had removed the only picture of Lambert, The one from Happy Valley. Bob and Elizabeth Duncan could give a brief description but nothing definite. When he and Gus spoke to Max Hughes and Keith Smith, Lenny Lambert’s name came up quite often, but apart from Max saying Lenny was a porker, nobody produced a photograph.

  “I think you had better explain,” said Gus.

  “Freddie spoke to me about his plans after he retired,” said Lambert. “He’d had his eyes on this place for years. Freddie’s parents brought him to the island when he was a kid. When he went for his annual medical three months before he retired, the medics told him he had cancer. They told him he had a year, tops. Physically, we had both changed over the years. He was still four inches taller than me, but I went on a diet and lost four stones. I needed to for my health. The older we got, the fewer the differences between us. I stayed close to him towards the end at the hospice and told him about my problem. We hatched a plan between us.”

  “You became Freddie Watts after he died,” said Gus, “and moved here to take over the pub he’d always wanted.”

  “I didn’t need a passport,” said Lambert. “I was surprised by how simple it was in the end.”

  “Well, you were hardly going to make waves once you got here, were you?” said Gus. “The whole point was to hide away like Alan Duncan. It’s quiet here. I don’t imagine you advertise this place.”

  “So, what was the problem that you shared with Freddie Watts?” asked Alex.

  “Come on, Alex, keep up,” said Gus. “Lenny and Alan placed large bets on racecourses around the world. Nobody beats the bookies all the time. You got into debt with the wrong people, didn’t you, Lenny?”