Darkest Hour (10 page)

'I don't think we should poke around in the stores
yet, though.'

'No. Too many people about. Have a look tonight,
maybe. Didn't you say we're on airfield duty later?'

'I did. All right - we'll do that. I'll put money on
there being something in that storeroom that shouldn't be.'

'Like stolen fuel?'

'Yes, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Like stolen fuel.'

Tanner found the store easily enough. It was a
creosoted wooden structure with a corrugated-iron roof, tacked onto the end of
a longer brick-built workshop. There were no windows, only a door that was
double- padlocked. He wondered whether Sykes would have the means to break the
lock - but that was expecting a lot. A small distance away, towards the pilots'
accommodation blocks, a Bofors light anti-aircraft crew were manning their gun,
but otherwise no one was about, and certainly no one answering CQS Slater's
description. A truck rumbled onto the road that bisected the airfield, crunched
through its gears and continued on its way. In the distance he heard someone
yelling orders. A wasp buzzed near his face and, startled, he swished it away.

He walked round the building, the sun warm on his
face. Damn it, he wanted to know what Slater and Blackstone had inside.
Ammunition boxes principally, uniform, equipment spares, and what else?
Tonight
, he told himself. He and Sykes would have to get
in somehow.

When he returned to the hut there was no sign of
Sykes, but several of the others were now awake and playing cards.

'Mr Peploe was looking for you, Sarge,' said
McAllister, his hand in front of his face.

'When?'

'Ten minutes back. Said he'll be in the office block.'

Tanner headed out again, across the parade-ground and
into the now familiar building, and soon found Peploe's office, a small room
that the lieutenant shared with the two other platoon commanders. Peploe was
the only one there; the door was open and Tanner saw him leaning over his desk,
his head resting in a hand. His brow knotted, he was apparently in deep
thought. He didn't notice his sergeant. 'You wanted me, sir?'

Peploe looked up. 'Ah, Tanner, there you are. Come
in.' He pushed back his chair, stood up and went to shut the door. 'Have a
seat.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Tanner, sitting on a rickety
folding chair. 'Did you see Torwinski?'

'Yes - he's all right. Well, physically at any rate.
He's been placed under arrest and there's a - what did you call them? A Snowdrop
standing by his bed.'

Tanner shook his head. 'At least he should be safe.'

'Well, yes, there is that. He was due to be discharged
about now, handed over to the civilian police and taken to the station in
Ramsgate.' Peploe sighed. Suddenly he looked very young. Tanner supposed he
must be in his early twenties. 'I'm afraid it's all a bit bleak,' Peploe continued.
'They found documents this morning in the men's hut. Details of deliveries,
that sort of thing. The OC told me that, as far as he's concerned, it's an open
and shut case. And that, I'm afraid, has come from the RAFP and the police
inspector working on the case. I protested, of course, but it seems no one's
interested in hearing an alternative version of events. I mean, I can see it
from Captain Barclay's point of view - he's got other things on his mind, like
our departure for France, and he's obviously relieved to have had the whole
matter taken out of his hands. But I would have thought the police might be a
bit more open-minded. It's wrong, Tanner, very wrong.'

'Has anyone spoken with the other Poles? Who's in
charge of them?'

'There's a Polish colonel and, yes, they have.
According to the OC, they're being very co-operative. I went down there to see
the colonel myself a short while ago and they're obviously a bit upset, but
they seem to have accepted the official line without question.'

Tanner sat in silence, wondering whether to tell the
lieutenant about Slater and the stores.
No. Best not.
Instead
he said, 'Is there any news on when we'll be off, sir?'

'Could be any moment. And then we'll have to leave
this sorry business unresolved. I don't mind telling you, Tanner, I still feel
pretty bloody shocked about what's happened and, frankly, helpless to do
anything about it. Whether the CSM had anything to do with it, I'm not sure,
but the thought of a murderer getting away with it and for him possibly to be
part of our company when it goes to France . .. Well, I can't say it thrills
me.'

Fanner looked away. Uncomfortable memories were
returning, memories from his childhood - or, rather, the end of his childhood.
But that was very different
, he thought. He frowned.
'Don't worry, sir. I'm sure the truth will out.'

'Do you believe that, Sergeant?'

'Yes, sir,' said Tanner. 'I do.'

It was around ten p.m. on Friday, 10 May, and Tanner
and Sykes had kept their plans to themselves. The rest of the platoon were on
airfield duty, which meant having sentries posted at the watch office, the fuel
stores and the main office building, and manning the gates at the entrance to
the airfield. Tanner had done several rounds, checking his men, but as dusk
gave way to night, he called Sykes away from the watch office and together they
crossed the southern end of the Northern Grass towards the company stores.

Rather than walking there directly, though, they
doubled back, weaving a route through the rows of wooden huts until they
emerged behind the building beside two accommodation huts that were visibly
empty. Waiting in the shadows at the end of the last hut, Sykes felt in his
pocket and pulled out a set of Bren-gun reamers. 'These should do the trick,'
he whispered. 'Listen, Sarge, don't take this the wrong way, but I think it's
better if I go there alone.'

'I don't - someone needs to watch your back.'

'Yes, Sarge, and no offence but you're quite a bit
bigger than me and with two there's more to see than one. Let me sneak over
there on my own, unlock the door and have a squint inside. If there's anything
worth seein' and the coast's still clear, you come on over.'

Tanner thought about it. 'All right, Stan. Just be
quick, all right?'

'A couple of minutes.' Sykes scampered lightly across
the short distance to the stores and disappeared into the shadows.

Tanner strained his eyes but couldn't see him, then
glanced to either side. Nothing. It was quiet. The sliver of moon was behind
him, casting long shadows.
Good.
At least the door to the
stores would be in shadow too.

Then something made him start. A kind of rustle, from
the left-hand side of the hut. Tanner pressed himself to the end wall, and
turned his head in the direction from where the sound had come. His heart
thumped, but as the seconds passed and he heard no more, he began to relax. A
rat or something, he told himself, even the breeze.

There it was again. Tanner strained his ears until a
sixth sense made him turn. A dark shape and then, too late, he saw the
silhouette of a rifle butt—

Sykes reached the door of the stores, paused and
looked round. A couple of hundred yards away he could just distinguish the outline
of the Bofors but he was sure he had been neither seen nor heard, especially
from that distance. It was dark in the shadow of the building, but once he had
found the first padlock he no longer needed his eyes. Picking a lock was about
listening and feeling, not seeing. He selected a reamer but it was too big so
he tried the smallest.
That's more like it.
Gently
probing with the narrow metal pin, he felt for the mechanism. He crouched down,
ear next to the padlock, turned the reamer and heard the locking mechanism
spring open. With his hand already round the padlock, he slid it from the bolt.
One down.

The second was even easier. It had, he reckoned, taken
him about twenty seconds to undo both. Not bad, he told himself, especially
considering he hadn't picked a lock in years. He drew back the bolt and
prepared to open the door, praying its hinges wouldn't squeak.

Slowly Sykes pulled it ajar and slipped inside. He
pushed it to and got out his torch. He made sure the blackout was across the
lens, then switched it on and opened the filter until he had a sliver of light.

The store was filled with rows of wooden shelving from
floor to ceiling and smelled of dust, canvas, oil - and, yes, petrol.
Immediately ahead he saw boxes of .303 ammunition, No. 36 grenades and Bren
magazines stacked together. Slowly he walked past two more rows of shelving,
turned down the third, and immediately smelled fuel. But there was nothing - no
barrels, no four- gallon tins. For a moment, he paused, then squatted down and
noticed circles in the dust, one of which had stained the floor. Circles caused
by fuel barrels.

Sod it
, he thought. It was evidence of sorts, but not
enough. Then he went back, turned down the last row and his heart quickened.
Halfway down, a stash of boxes blocked the passageway between the shelves.
Sykes went up to them. They were light cardboard, filled with clothing and
overalls, easily movable. He lifted down the top box, then others until he
could see beyond. He shone his torch. There, double-stacked at the back of the
storeroom, were a dozen barrels of aviation fuel.

He was about to head back to find Tanner when he heard
a noise from the other side of the wall now facing him. Turning off his torch,
he pressed himself against the shelving. A moment later, the door creaked open
and he heard a man gasp. Then something heavy was dropped on the floor.

'There's got to be someone in here,' said a low voice.

Sykes froze. He heard muffled whispers, then a torch
was turned on, throwing shadows. Sykes dared not move.

Footsteps, careful, measured. Two steps, pause, two
steps, pause, each time getting closer.

Now Sykes wished the sergeant was with him. He had no
weapon on him, save his clasp knife. The sergeant had just seconds to rescue
him.
Come on, Sarge. Where the bloody hell are you?

Two more steps, then the man shone his torch straight
into Sykes's eyes, momentarily blinding him.

Blinking, Sykes tried to see who it was but couldn't
tell. All he saw was a dark figure behind the torch beam. He held up a hand to
block the light, but as he did so, the man swung his fist into the side of his
head. The force of the blow knocked Sykes backwards into the stack of clothing
boxes, then onto the floor.

With his eyes closed, he lay as still as he could,
despite the pain. The man took two more steps towards him and kicked him. Then,
satisfied that Sykes was out cold, he turned and went back. More muffled
voices, then the sound of tearing cloth and a fresh smell of fuel.
Jesus, no,
thought Sykes. A match being struck, a brief
pause, then the whoosh of petrol igniting. He heard the door close and the keys
turn in the padlocks.

The stores were darker now, but a faint orange glow
came from near the door. He fumbled for his torch, switched it on and got to
his feet groggily, staggered and half fell, then recovered and hurried back to
the entrance. Flames were already licking up the first row of wooden shelving
and at its foot lay a body - Tanner's.

For a split second, Sykes was paralysed by indecision.
Then he stepped round the flames, shoved Tanner to one side and began
frantically to pull ammunition boxes off the shelves. Already several were
blackening, but he knew that the moment they caught he was dead. When he had
given himself breathing space, he dragged Tanner to the next row and, to his
relief, heard the sergeant groan.

'Sarge!' he said, slapping his face. 'Sarge! Wake up!'
He slapped Tanner again and this time the sergeant opened his eyes.

'Stan?' he mumbled.

'Get up, Sarge! Quick!' He leaned round to check the
flames. They were spreading fast. Soon they would reach other ammunition boxes
and the stacks of grenades. Time was running out rapidly. He sped back to where
the flames were now licking towards the roof and along the shelving. The
storeroom was filling with smoke and he coughed, his chest tightening, his
throat beginning to sear. He quickly tied his handkerchief around his face, held
his breath and grabbed another box of grenades, then stumbled back to Tanner.

Tanner was shaking his head and blinking.

'Sarge!' said Sykes again. 'We've got to get out of
here - quick!'

Tanner spluttered, then seemed to regain his senses.
He looked around, then scrambled to the other end of the stores. 'Stan, bring
your torch,' he called, his voice hoarse.

Sykes did so. The last row was filled with rifles and
a couple of boxed Bren guns.

'Good - no ammo here.' Crouching, Tanner hurried away,
grabbed one of the boxes of grenades and, with trembling fingers, undid the
fastening. 'Thank God,' he said, when he saw that the weapons were not greased
up. 'Quick, open these,' he told Sykes, passing him the tin of igniters in the
centre of the box. Then he took out a grenade, unscrewed the base plug and
grabbed an igniter from the now open tin.