Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (20 page)

Morgan pulled the cigar from his mouth and twirled it through his fingers. “I believe you have an extraordinary occupation involving metal detecting?”

“Hardly extraordinary,” I said.

“Boring I’d say.”

“You’ve obviously never tried the excursions into the wild side of Blighty.”

“I can’t say I know anyone that does, apart from you, that is.”

“You’d be surprised by the amount of detectorist’s out there who have fun scouring the lands for buried trinkets.”

“You don’t scour the land for fun, Mister Speed.”

“I thought I did.”

“No, Mister Speed. I’ve heard that you’re quite an exceptional finder of things that nobody else could possibly find.”

“I guess I’ve had my fair share of luck in the past.”

“You’re too modest Mister Speed.” He smiled and waved his hand over the landscape. “These surroundings meet your approval, Mister Speed?”

I nodded. “It’s relaxing providing you don’t suffer from hay fever or agoraphobia.”

“Good gracious! It’s a good thing you don’t suffer from either of those, Mister Speed. It would certainly prove a stumbling block on your outdoor pursuits.”

Morgan then changed his approach and his eyes probed deeply into mine. He gave me the impression that he could make a person feel uncomfortable while in his presence. He said, “No disrespect, Mister Speed, but Inspector Hamer thinks we shouldn’t be dealing with crooks who despise paying their taxes, amongst other eventful cases of improbity. Are you a crook, Mister Speed?”

I flashed Hamer a searing glare that made the two-faced coward redden. I calmly said, “We are all entitled to express our opinions of a person we meet for the first time.”

Morgan clamped his cigar in the corner of his mouth. It distorted his speech. “Quite right too, Mister Speed. Well, in my opinion, I don’t think you’re a crook. As a matter of fact we all despise paying our taxes. I admire your stand against fattening the coffers of the Treasury. I too despise the governments continued misuse of the public funds wrenched from our diminishing pay packets. Instead of financing the influx of asylum seekers, and other non-productive morons, they should spend the money on a more proficient professional police force. The Treasury are worst than any crooks, I’d say.”

I stopped him right there. I felt as if he was still accusing me of a financial swindle. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not a crook and I have never seen the inside of a prison where crooks are supposedly confined.”

“What about police cells, Mister Speed?”

“They don’t count. You can be in a drunken mess and still end up in a cell for the night.”

Morgan snatched his cigar from his mouth and blew out a cloud of cigar smoke and said, “As I correctly assessed, Mister Speed, you’re nothing of the kind. Crooks usually do end up in prison.”

I didn’t care for the way he said that, either, but I kept quiet.

Morgan pressed on. “Regardless of your alleged reputation, Mister Speed, I feel confident that you’ll not divulge to anyone that this meeting took place.” He paused. I think he was waiting for my reassurance to keep a secret, but I didn’t give it. He pressed on. “Between you and me and the big blue sky, within the walls and corridors of Whitehall there has been some devilish activity going on.”

“There’s nothing new there then?” I said.

“I’m not referring to the politicians and their unreserved attitude to things, Mister Speed. I’m talking about simple military records kept in the vaults of Whitehall. Military records kept since records began on all fronts of battle through the ages. If a historian wanted certain information in regards to certain military events, then the historian would expect to locate those records within the vaults. I would expect to locate records too. Not so, it seems. What I found was a gaping hole where there should have been an abundance of information. I’m talking about Duxford airfield and the fact that the airfield played an important and active part in World War Two. I therefore would have expected to browse through records filled with literature regarding the events and incidents at Duxford between 1942 and 1944. Only there isn’t any-well-not anymore. How do I know this, you may wonder? I went looking for certain information in relation to the remains of the exhumed pilot we recovered from the Berkshire wreck. The files I was after just weren’t there. We could assume the files were the consequences of bad management. Perhaps misplaced or they’ve even been misfiled; it happens; no one is perfect. Whatever the verdict those files have disappeared. Gone from the vaults I’m sure. Now you might be wondering what the hell does it matter after all these years and who really cares? The past is the past and gone forever.

“I care, Mister Speed. In my position I have a moral duty to fill in certain gaps relating to the war, as and when I find them. In the depths of Whitehall I could produce a mountain of documentation that has those huge gaps; that lack the necessary information to know the truth. On this occasion I’m referring to pilots lost in action. What happened to those pilots and was it accidental or an act of war. We can only determine that when the good Lord decides to give up the dead and we’re fortunate to locate them and assess the true situation of how they met their fate. I’m talking about the recovered Spitfire in Berkshire. I’m talking about the pilot whose name was assigned to that Berkshire Spitfire. The pilot’s name was Rowland.”

“The Berkshire wreck has drawn a lot of attention just lately,” I said casually.

“It has indeed, Mister Speed. And the startling events that have arisen in relation to the wreck at Berkshire have forced the MDP to reopen the file on Rowland. We decided to rebuild our intricate jigsaw all over again because some of the pieces don’t fit in the right slots. Add all this with two known assassins from Europe, and the alarm bells began clanging away in my head. I began reinvestigating this war hero, Flying Officer Derek Rowland, whose remains were apparently recovered from the crash site. Digging deep into the archives, interestingly I found that his last recorded flight was in the cockpit of a Spitfire mark one; a wonderful machine so I’m informed. I had the wreckage from Berkshire carefully re-examined and discovered that the similarities ended there. What we had was the wreckage of the Super Marine Spitfire class. The problem with that is Rowland had no recorded flying time in a Super Marine.

“Official military records show that Derek Rowland was stationed along with the Americans at Burtonwood airbase in Warrington, Lancashire. Now according to those military records, no Super-marine Spitfires were ever stationed there. So the intriguing question is how did Rowland get into our wreck in the first place?”

“Perhaps someone made a huge gaff when identifying the pilot,” I said conceitedly.

“A huge clanger it seems, Mister Speed. Along with another problem; the files relating to the crash site may have been fiddled with deliberately with the intention of deflecting the interests of a nosey parker from obtaining the true name of the pilot. I asked myself the question: why should someone want to go to all that trouble to hide the true identity of the body found in the wreck of a World War Two plane?”

“If you’ve dragged me all the way out here to ask if I had anything to do with them, then you’ve wasted both our time,” I said.

“You’d never have passed the threshold of Whitehall to obtain them, Mister Speed. Your recent revival of popularity would ensure automatic expulsion. We have you down on record as a threat to security since you’ve come to our attention.”

“I’ve never regarded myself as a threat to the nation.”

“Well you are, and you wouldn’t get past the boundary line without being shot.”

“Not even if I said please?”

“Not even if you were invisible.”

“You’re quite a callous bunch you Whitehall fellows.”

“No, I’m talking about internal sabotage here. Someone already established inside Whitehall; someone so deep inside Whitehall that they would never be sus pected. It happens on occasions; a world wide epidemic, in fact. And that very same person causing us problems, I’ve decided, is also responsible for the recruiting the likes of Love and Hate to do the conspirators revolting deeds. This brings me to the reason for this meeting, Mister Speed.”

“Don’t look at me! I’ve no idea who’s behind it all.”

“Let’s talk about another immediate problem that concerns us both; the sightings of Damien Love and Theodore Hate, the two murderous cretins who have mysteriously surfaced in London and are posing as MDP. And even more baffling, their interest in a plane wreck and their connection with an entrepreneur by the name of McClusky, who, unfortunately, has been killed after a bloody shootout at his warehouse. So we’re not going to get any explanations from him.”

“You’re going to be busy for a while,” I said.

Hamer chirped in. “Evasive as ever, Speed.”

I stared hard at Hamer and then back at Morgan. “I’ve already explained to Inspector Hamer that I’m the wrong person to be asking for help. Why don’t you liaise with the police involved in the McClusky affair, they might offer some answers.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Mister Speed.”

“I can’t see a problem conversing with them.”

“There’s always a problem, Mister Speed. Our first duty is ministry investigations are conducted privately before even thinking of liaising with other forces. We simply cannot have outside interference on our internal affairs no matter how difficult the task ahead. Yet that doesn’t mean we can’t involve a neutral, an outsider working for us.”

“Meaning yours truly, me?”

“That’s precisely what I mean, Mister Speed. Now, with regards to your present situation, there has to be a good reason why Love and Hate have paid particular attention to
you!
”

“I was under the impression they wanted to kill me!”

“Yes, yes! I’m well aware of what they intended, but why?” Morgan was getting agitated. He threw his cigar butt into the Serpentine. It hissed loudly as it hit the water. “They’re cold-blooded assassins who follow orders. And if McClusky had hired them, then for what purpose did McClusky want with you?”

I shrugged. “I never got the chance to ask him. His death has complicated matters”

“There’s more disappointing news. I made a few discreet enquires regarding the incident at McClusky’s warehouse. It’s apparent that Love and Hate weren’t among the dead or injured. They’re still out there somewhere.”

“They’re probably running back to that shit hole from whence they came from, now their boss has perished,” I said, confidently.

“I disagree, Mister Speed. I’ve concluded that McClusky didn’t hire their services at all. It’s more the reverse. They were controlling him. If McClusky wanted to be Mister Nasty, I’m sure he would have hired any number of Irish thugs to do his dirty work for him. No, I’m can categorically state that Love and Hate are in the gainful employment from another paymaster; a more sinister and deadly adversary.”

“There’s no point in asking me.” I said.

“It’s you they’re after for whatever reasons, Mister Speed.”

“They’ve made a mistake chasing after me. They’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

“Love and Hate don’t make mistakes.”

“How would you know?”

“We have a wanted file two inches thick on them. We’ve been searching for their whereabouts for years. They murdered a British army officer a few years back. The problem is they’re not as well known here in our country and were more difficult to apprehend. But they’re known by other European police forces. Yes, all those forces have constructive files on Love and Hate but nothing that’s steel-tight for a conviction; they can’t even get them for spitting on the pavement. Now they’re in London, probably sneaked in on false documents. They’ll be very difficult to pinpoint.”

“You should complain to border control for their slackness.”

“We did, Mister Speed. And border control’s incompetence is being dealt with. In the meantime, for what reasons they’re here, it’s essential we find the two scoundrels before they can cause anymore damage, and then we can at least hold them on illegal entry if nothing else. Regrettably, our actions have come a little too late to prevent the tragedies that have occurred so far. And I believe, as you do, Mister Speed, that they
were
responsible for the deaths of a Thomas Bickermass and Larry Lazerow,”

I said, “I only wished others saw it that way.”

“You can’t blame the police for ignoring suspicious circumstances as both incidents. Nothing pointed to anything other than what the Coroners verdict clearly stated: death was caused by misadventure.”

“The police have their heads up their arses,” I said. “They write with blunt pencils because they can’t be bothered to sharpen them. They didn’t want the excessive paperwork involved in a murder enquiry.”

“You sound bitter towards the constabulary, Mister Speed?”

“They failed me.”

“So you’re adamant that the deaths are connected to the Berkshire wreck site?”

“I’ve no idea what they’re connected to. But two people I knew are dead and it stinks of Love and Hate.”

“Then changing the minds of the police will be difficult, Mister Speed.”

I shrugged. “I’d say virtually impossible unless the killers confess their guilt.”

“What did Love and Hate want when they came knocking on your door?”

I wondered when he’d get around to that. I calmly said, “Did Inspector Hamer not fill you in with the dull details? For some reason they thought I’d tampered with the wreck site in Berkshire. The whole world knows that the owner’s dog disturbed the site.”

Morgan gave me a disapproving look. “Be honest, Mister Speed. You’re amongst friends and allies here.”

I tossed my head in the air in disbelief. “Give me a break! I’ve just told you they made a mistake because I wasn’t anywhere near the wreck.”

“Love and Hate obviously made a connection somehow?”

“They probably didn’t understand English. Besides, I hardly think a pile of junk and the bones of a British pilot are worth murdering somebody for.”

“There has to be more to it than rusting junk and dried bones?”