Frankie's Letter (28 page)

Standing in the silent factory yard, Anthony looked at the innocent gap in the wall. Kevin had told him to imagine and he could imagine only too well.

There would be pomp and ceremony and happy faces as the workers looked at the King and Queen. The women – he knew there were many women in the factory – would be admiring the Queen's dress and enjoying the band, glad to have this little holiday, excited to see their Queen and King. Maybe there'd be children in the crowd waving pocket-money penny flags and cheering. Outside the factory, in those mean little houses, the day would seem brighter and life that bit better because of what was happening in those few square yards so near at hand. And then . . .

He
had
to disable the bomb. ‘It is impressive,' he said. ‘Yes, you are right. You can strike where we cannot. You are sure the bomb is well-hidden? I would like to see it for myself.'

‘No problem about that, Mr Jones,' said Kevin. He looked at his watch. ‘It's twenty-five to six. I've got time to show you the bomb, then we'd better get going before anyone arrives. And after that, we'll get as far away from Marriotvale as we can.'

He led him back down the yard, through the wicket gate and into the warehouse once more, threading his way confidently through the tall corridors of crates. ‘It's at the side of the warehouse,' he explained, coming to a stop before a five-box high stack of crates that ran the length of the wall. ‘Now you tell me if you can see anything suspicious.'

Anthony looked. He couldn't.

‘And yet it's in there.' He would have said more, but, very faintly from outside, came the thrum of an engine. He looked up sharply. ‘What's that? It sounds like a motorbike. Wait here, Mr Jones.'

Kevin ran out of the warehouse. It was the opportunity Anthony had been waiting for. The cable was buried, he knew that, but somewhere, surely, the ground would be disturbed. The crates stood away from the wall on pallets. He squeezed into the narrow dark gap between the crates and the side of the warehouse. Bent double, he ran his hands along the earth, trying to find a space where the ground had been disturbed. Dimly he registered that the motorbike had roared up the yard outside but ignored it in his frantic search.

The minutes ticked away. There! He'd found it! Anthony felt dizzy with relief. He took out his pocket knife and scrabbled in the earth. He heard footsteps behind him but carried on. He was too close to give up now. His hand was on the cable – and a gun barrel dug into the back of his neck.

‘Drop the knife, Mr Jones.' It was Kevin.

Anthony froze but didn't obey. Then he was sent sprawling by a kick from Kevin's heavy boots.

‘Get up and come outside. Walk backwards towards me. Yes, that's right. We've got a bit of catching up to do, Mr Jones. Hands up!'

Anthony wearily wiped the grit from his face, stood up and raised his hands. His knife gleamed on the dirt in front of him but he daren't go for it. Dead, he was no use to anyone. Alive, he might – just might – have a chance.

Once out of the narrow passageway, Kevin waved him back out of the warehouse into the yard. ‘Walk to the dais,' he said grimly. ‘Don't try anything.'

By the dais was a motorbike, its rider clad in leather coat, helmet and goggles. ‘One of our friends arrived, Mr Jones,' continued Kevin. ‘He had something very interesting to say about that U-boat you arrived on last night. Apparently it was captured by the British, which leaves me asking an obvious question. Who the hell are you?'

Anthony didn't answer. There didn't seem much point.

As they approached the motorbike, the rider dismounted and raised his goggles. It was Bertram Farlow.

Anthony stared at him. Bertram Farlow? As he thought of how Sir Charles trusted him, of the information Farlow must have given the enemy, he felt sick.

‘Do you know who this is?' demanded Kevin.

Farlow nodded with grim satisfaction. His air of beneficence, like an unworldly vicar or a philosophical cabinet minister, had completely vanished. ‘You've caught the big one.' He looked at Anthony with pure hatred. ‘This is Anthony Brooke.' He ground out the name.

Kevin gave a strangled hiss.

‘Why are you doing this?' asked Anthony, stunned. ‘Why, Farlow?'

Kevin answered for him. ‘Money. That's it, isn't it, Farlow?'

‘And power,' said Farlow softly. ‘You don't know about that, do you, Brooke? You don't know what it's like to be cheated of your rightful place. You've always had it easy. You despised me, didn't you? I didn't go to the right school. I didn't have the right relations. I've been kept down all my life and at long last I've got the chance to get back.'

‘You're nothing,' said Anthony. ‘You're just an errand boy.'

Farlow's eyes gleamed in fury. ‘Nothing? You're wrong, Brooke. I knew exactly where our friends over the water could find Cavanaugh.
And
I found you. You're a bloody spy and you're going to suffer.'

‘Never mind that,' interrupted Kevin. ‘We'll deal with him later, Farlow. You can see him off, if you like.'

Farlow smiled slowly. ‘I'll enjoy that,' he said softly. ‘You'll learn what power I've got. You won't die quickly, Brooke.'

‘Later, Farlow,' said Kevin impatiently. ‘You'll have your chance later. You say they're going to evacuate the area?'

Anthony sprang.

The move was so unexpected, it sent Farlow sprawling off his bike. The heavy machine fell on them as Kevin fired a stream of bullets from the automatic.

Bullets thudded into the petrol tank. Petrol jetted out, then the tank exploded in a deafening whoosh of flame and chunks of flying metal.

Anthony felt Farlow's fist slam into the side of his head, then Farlow's neck jerked back and his body went limp. One of Kevin's bullets had gone home. Anthony rolled to one side as Kevin leapt through the curtain of flames and pointed his gun. Bullets tore into the earth followed by a series of useless clicks. The gun was empty. Kevin flung away the gun and hurled himself forward towards the gap in the bricks.

‘Don't be a fool!' yelled Anthony. ‘You'll kill us all!' His head still singing with Farlow's blow, Anthony lunged after him, catching his legs.

Kevin kicked out, sending Anthony twisting to one side, but Anthony hung on grimly, desperately trying to stop him reaching the detonator.

Kevin clawed his way across the wooden floor of the dais and kicked out once more. This time, his heavy boot caught Anthony on the chin, sending him reeling away.

With a scream of triumph, Kevin staggered the last couple of feet. There was a fusillade of sharp cracks and he gazed down in absolute shock at the blood on his chest. With his last ounce of strength he reached forward, clutching at the gap in the wall as he fell. Anthony flinched away as Kevin thudded down on the detonators.

Nothing happened.

It suddenly seemed very, very quiet. The motorbike still burned in an acrid, evil-smelling cloud of black smoke. Beside it, lay Farlow's twisted body and, on the dais, sprawled Kevin, his eyes open wide in death, staring at the hand draped across the concrete crust of the detonators.

‘Brooke!' He looked up as his name was called. From one of the upstairs open windows of the factory, Sir Charles leaned out and waved. ‘I'll be down in a minute.'

Anthony slumped onto the dais and waited. Sir Charles, accompanied by an infantry captain, came out into the yard at the head of a party of soldiers, complete with rifles. ‘Brilliant work, Brooke,' he said, enthusiastically shaking Anthony's hand.

Anthony wearily stood up and ran a hand round his tender jaw, sore from the kick he'd received. ‘Who killed him?' he asked, looking at Kevin's body.

The captain stepped forward. ‘We all shot at him, sir. I suppose we're all responsible.'

Anthony nodded. ‘He's probably better off dead. There's another man back at the house. You'd better arrest him.'

‘We've done that,' said Sir Charles. ‘As soon as we saw you and your pal safely in the factory yard, we collected Master Joseph. He's wanted for a string of murders in Ireland.'

Anthony sat back against the wooden support of the dais. ‘I thought we'd had it at the end,' he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I know we had a plan, but I didn't know it had come off.'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘You needn't have worried. We were watching the whole time. We saw you point out where the cable and the detonator were hidden and, as soon as you and your Irish friend went back into the warehouse, Captain Black here saw to it, didn't you, Captain?'

‘I worked as fast as I could,' said Black. ‘You led us to the spot and then gave us enough time to cut the bomb cable.'

‘I wish I'd known,' said Anthony, nursing his chin. ‘I knew you were somewhere around, but I didn't know where you were or if you'd managed to disable the device. Then when Farlow turned up . . .'

‘That was a complete shock,' said Sir Charles. He looked down at the dead man broodingly. ‘I wish we'd managed to take him alive.'

‘Kevin killed him,' said Anthony.

Sir Charles sighed. ‘That's fitting, I suppose.' He looked at Anthony. ‘Come on, Brooke. I suppose you'd better go back to hospital to have your jaw looked at.'

‘Damn hospital,' said Anthony with a grin. ‘I spent long enough there yesterday. I know it's early, but I want a large whisky and soda.'

A
nthony finished his whisky and soda. ‘By jingo, I needed that,' he said in satisfaction. They were in Sir Charles's room in Cockspur Street, and never had whisky tasted so good or the green leather armchair been so welcoming. He stretched out his legs comfortably and took a cigarette from the silver box on the table. ‘Well,' he said, cocking an eyebrow at Sir Charles. ‘What did the Home Secretary have to say?'

It was nine o'clock in the morning and Sir Charles had returned from an interview with a hugely relieved politician, an eminent soldier and the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard.

‘He was very complimentary,' said Sir Charles. ‘We've been asked to give his sincere thanks to everyone involved, which means, old man, Captain Black and his men, the Scotland Yard people who organized the evacuation which, thank God, never happened, but principally, and richly deserved, you.'

Anthony grinned lazily. ‘Just for once, I feel inclined to take the praise. I hope you came in for some as well.'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘I did. However, neither of us can afford to sit back on our laurels just yet. We've got a job to do.'

‘Blimey, the man's a slave-driver,' said Anthony with a groan. ‘What have you got in mind?'

‘Finding James Smith.'

Anthony pulled a face. ‘Yes, I suppose we've got to.'

Sir Charles sat down in the winged armchair and stuck his feet up on the low table. ‘I was thinking,' he said, ‘what information Bertram Farlow could have passed on. You're sure, aren't you, that James Smith was at Veronica O'Bryan's inquest?'

‘As certain as I can be. I suppose I've got Farlow to thank for that.'

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘That's just it. I was the only one in the department who knew you'd be at the inquest, and I certainly didn't tell Farlow.'

‘Couldn't he have guessed?' asked Anthony.

Sir Charles swirled the whisky round in his glass. ‘That's just it, damnit. He might have, but I don't see how.' He looked at Anthony, his face twisted. ‘You see where that gets us?'

Anthony paused. ‘Starhanger?'

‘Exactly. The Starhanger people knew you found the body and would be called to the inquest. There was virtually no coverage in the press – Sherston saw to that – and of the other people involved, such as the Moultons and the local constabulary, I suppose they could have said something out of turn, but I doubt it. All the attention was on Tara O'Bryan. For Farlow or anyone else to find out from them, they'd have to know enough to ask the right questions, and I don't think they did.' Sir Charles put down his glass and frowned in perplexity. ‘I'm not happy about Starhanger and I'm very unhappy about James Smith. Have you considered how he must feel about you, Brooke?'

‘I don't suppose I'm on his Christmas card list, if that's what you mean,' said Anthony with a grin.

Sir Charles smiled fleetingly. ‘I think it's more profound than that. You've crossed him at every turn. You brought us the notebook and stopped the bomb, turning what should have been one of the biggest blows of the war into a damp squib.' He frowned at his whisky. ‘Add to that the loss of a U-boat and crew and I'd say you've made James Smith's life nearly unbearable. I think he must hate you.'

‘Hate me?' repeated Anthony startled. ‘That's putting it strong.'

‘Is it? I think Smith has one chance to re-establish himself. And that's by producing the diamonds and you.' Sir Charles looked up thoughtfully. ‘I'm afraid, old friend, as long as James Smith is at large, you're in very real danger.'

Anthony raised his glass ironically. ‘Cheers. What do you suggest I do?'

‘Remember he's dangerous,' said Sir Charles seriously. ‘We
have
to find James Smith, Brooke.'

Anthony stubbed out his cigarette. ‘How? The police are looking for him, but there's damn all to go on.'

Sir Charles got up and restlessly walked round the room. He paused by the desk, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. ‘That's the problem. I can't see the police are ever going to find him.' He hitched himself onto the desk and looked at Anthony. ‘Instead of us trying to find him, I think we have to get him to find us. After all,' he added, ‘we've got something he wants.'

Anthony knew the answer but he asked the question anyway. ‘And that is?'

Sir Charles grimaced. ‘You.'