Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (19 page)

“It’s something you shouldn’t forget.”

“What right have you to be angry just because you’ve got a bad tailor?”

I almost laughed myself with the thought of my excursions into madness. “Well let me see now; con sidering I’ve been shot at: physically abused: mentally tortured: been used as a pin cushion: shagged: ridiculed: kicked: thumped: dumped, and not necessarily in that order, to make matters worst, I come home to find you enjoying the comforts of my graft and drinking my cans of hard earned cold beer. Yes, you might say I’m in an angry mood. But please don’t concern yourself on my behalf.” I pointed to the pile of beer cans he had stacked on the coffee table, and said sarcastically, as I reached for one, “Do you mind?”

He shrugged. “Help yourself.”

I pulled the ring pull, sucking the bubbled gases escaping from the hole. The beer was warm. It told me Hamer had been here for a while.

Hamer eased his legs from the sofa and sat upright. He’d thought of something unbelievable. “Hang on a minute! You went to McClusky’s warehouse-didn’t you?”

I wiped my wet lips on the back of my hand. “You’re speculating, Hamer.”

“There’s been a report of a major explosion there, in fact not that long ago.”

“Is that so? How would you know what happened at McClusky’s if you’ve been here waiting for me?”

He tapped his jacket breast pocket. “My mobile has all the facilities for up-to-date news and police information direct to my screen; the cleverness of modern electronics.”

“Then why are you still here pestering me? I thought you’d be over there reminding McClusky and his two goons, Love and Hate, of their constitutional rights that they’re not entitled to in a month of Sundays.”

Hamer expressed his shock. “Love and Hate! They were there?”

“Shooting the frigging place to pieces, no less.”

“They did that to your clothes?”

“No. That’s another disappointing story which I’m not prepared to discuss.”

“How did you escape from the bastards this time?”

“I ran like the frigging clappers!”

“Then we’ve missed them.”

“Not if you hurry. They were busy battling it out with a group of Irish terrorists.”

Hamer expressed his concern. “The IRA? INLA? Who?”

I shrugged. “I’ve no frigging idea who they represented,” and then I drank some more warm beer.

“This is going to be a job for Scotland Yard’s Anti-Terrorist Squad.”

“I might be wrong, but I got the impression this McClusky fellow had pissed them off and the terrorists were after an instant refund,” I said, wiping a beer drip from my chin. “Why don’t you go and find out and do us both a favour.”

“It’ll be too late now. I should think erratic gunfire would have already attracted the local blue-bodies; they’ll be swarming all over the warehouse picking up what’s left of the pieces. The MDP are not ready to get involved with the constabulary just yet or Scotland Yard. They’d ask too many awkward questions as to why we’re investigating known and wanted criminals without informing them. No. We’ll leave them to clean up the mess. They’ll conclude that it’s gang warfare among the Irish contingencies. So we’d better leave it at that for the time being; not unless you want to get involved in the proceedings?”

I’d no intentions of spitting into a hot frying pan and having it spit back. “No point. I’d just deny I was there.”

“Did you see what happened to Love and Hate?”

The shake of my head disappointed Hamer. “You must be joking! I kept my frigging head down when the shooting began, and then I got out of there fast.”

I decided against divulging bragging rights of my first kill.

Hamer was thoughtful. “That’s not good,” he said, dejectedly. “They’ve mastered the art of escapism down to a fine line. Hell! They could be anywhere now.”

“I could have hung around and asked which hotel they were staying in?”

“You’re not funny, Speed. Besides, you should be taking this with a bit more seriousness. You’re part of the set up whether you like it or not.”

I drank what was left of my beer, crushed the can and tossed it into a waste bin sited near the stone fireplace.

“Well, Speed. How about giving me an accurate rundown of tonight’s events?”

“What so you can gloat on my misfortune?”

“It might help me on my assignment.”

“Well it won’t.”

“I need to know so I can establish where we go from here.”

“Your next move is going home.”

“You have an uncanny knack of upsetting guests, Speed.”

“What is it you want at this ungodly hour, anyway?”

“I have two issues I want to take up with you.”

“You only have two, and so early in the morning. This is definitely a police tactic; catch the unsuspecting recipient when he’s half asleep.”

Hamer ignored my moaning. “First of all, I couldn’t find any encouraging documentation relating to an ‘Operation Huggermugger’. It better not be something you made up?”

I wondered if Josh Bane had perhaps made a mistake with his recollection of events on the day Craven’s Spitfire went missing. “You did check that the mission was conducted from Duxford airfield?”

“I’m not a fool, Speed. Damn fucking right I checked. I double-checked and nothing even remotely relates to ‘Huggermugger’.”

“There’s the possibility the mission went under a different name, maybe in order to fool German spy rings. You did check all the war archives thoroughly?”

Hamer smiled thinly, “Those under the letter H I did.”

“You need to check deeper. Maybe expand your search.”

“Do you realize the archives down at Whitehall have tons of documentation hiding away in deep vaults? I could spend my life searching and Morgan might not appreciate me wasting my time.”

“Your approach to work is a little disappointing.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you know about “Operation Huggermugger’?”

“I don’t know anything worthwhile.”

“Where did you get the information from in the first place?”

“I read about it somewhere.”

Hamer frowned. “Where exactly did you read it?”

“I’ve forgotten where.”

“Don’t you be holding back on me, Speed?”

I smiled impishly. “And the other issue?”

“Ah-well now this is the real laughable bit. My superior wants to meet the indelible, super sleuth, Shackleton Speed, with the assumption he can personally convince you to work alongside us. Really pathetic, don’t you agree? I can’t convince you so why does a professional pen-pusher think he can do better than me in trying to turn a stray boy into a useful commodity.”

I stopped him right there. “I’ve no intention of entering any government building to be interrogated, whether it is done over a cup of tea, or by cruelty.”

“Scared we’ll never let you out?”

“It’s a phobia I have. I prefer open spaces with plenty of witnesses.”

“Well don’t fret, Speed. We’ll find a suitable place so the hairs on the back of your neck don’t stand up.”

“Who’s this superior of yours anyway?”

“Commander Harris Morgan. He’s okay; a little bit of a pompous git but he knows the right people and has a certain whack if we require the assistance of the Metropolitan Police or any other force we need to call upon. He knows enough high ranking principles to pull the right strings.”

“He sounds like a dependable chap.”

“He wants to meet you.”

“What can I possibly offer him?”

Hamer shook his head. I think he was disappointed with me. “Stop the innocent act for fucks sake. This is me you’re talking to, not some idiot. It concerns the plane. It concerns Love and Hate. It concerns you! We need you on our side if we’re to go after Love and Hate and whoever controls them.”

“There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t know already.”

By Hamer’s expression I knew he wasn’t going to leave me alone. “Come off it! Are you not a little intrigued to hear what he has to say? Just meet the fellow. What harm can it do?”

I thought it through. Hamer was right. I’d nothing to lose by meeting this Morgan fellow. Who knows, he might relay some information that would be useful to me. It would mean defying my strict rules of non-engagement with authoritarians, not unless I’d been arrested and then I wouldn’t have had any choice. I had to think positively about my present situation. The dangers were still out there. And Love and Hate were still a threat. If I’m to stay in one piece then the more back-up force behind me the longer I’d stay alive. And it has always been my intention to live to a ripe old age.

Meeting Morgan made sense.

“It might be interesting,” I said finally.

Hamer jerked back in pretence shock. “Fucking hell, are you feeling alright? You’re actually considering accepting something constructive from me?”

“I accepted breakfast.”

“That was different. I was paying for the damn meal.”

“No, the taxpayer was paying for the meal… expenses, remember Hamer? Tell Commander Morgan I’ll listen but that’s all I’m prepared to do for the moment. Now I need a shower and sleep.”

I turned to leave the lounge and over my shoulder, I said, “Finish your beer, Hamer. And on your way out shut the door properly. I don’t want another burglar or vagabond thinking my home is an open invitation to the unworthy.”

I climb the stairs wearily and thoughtfully, wondering if I’d done the right thing in accepting the meeting with Morgan. I considered it was and if I wanted to change my mind I was probably a little too late, as I imagine, even at this early hour, Hamer would be on his mobile sending a message.

I heard the front door slam. Hamer had gone. And then I heard the patter of Winston’s feet climbing the stairway. Alone again I eased my battered body under the shower spray, shut my eyes, and let the water power against my face. I thought about the man I’d killed, as spontaneous as it was. I couldn’t picture his face just a set of opened eyes staring into space. I realized how easy it is to squeeze the trigger when your own life is threatened; too frigging easy for my liking. My actions were self defence so what had I to worry about. Frigging hell! I’d a lot to be worried about. I was a murderer! I was no better than Love or Hate.

My head dropped dejectedly. I stared at the water swirling down the shower drain hole, wondering if a warrant for my arrest was being drawn up at this very moment. Would the witnesses to my actions at McClusky’s warehouse, being criminals themselves, dare to step forward and point the accusing finger of guilt directly at my face? I brightened. Would they frigging hell as like! They’d have dispersed just as fast as I did. End of story. End of worry.

Thinking of criminals, the girl terrorist came to mind. I could picture her face quite clearly. I didn’t recall seeing her again once the battle started. I did wonder, briefly, if she’d got out of the warehouse alive. Strangely, I rather hoped the bitch had escaped the pitched battle.

The explosive shootout at McClusky’s dominated the news headlines both on the TV and the radio broadcasts on every station. I listened to the dramatic events on the car radio; a battle between two Irish gangs at London Docks, the eventual outcome given by Scotland Yard. There’d been no names released of the casualties. Blah-blah-blah, it went on. The problem was none of the story resembled anything I was involved in. The truth had been so far stretched that it was ready to split wide open. The blame for the misinterpretation of events lay with the conflicting statements given by the two dock security guards who had ran past me that evening while I was escaping, who funnily enough, had seen a hell of a lot considering their sleepy confinement inside the security hut. There was one part of their story that was coherent with the truth. They’d witnessed an armed scarecrow running away from the premises. That joint statement alone should have convinced the investigating police team that the two guards had been drinking and taking drugs while on the job.

I’d received a phone call from Hamer later that morning to confirm the arranged appointment with his superior, Harris Morgan for the following afternoon, at one O clock. I agreed. Best to get this over with quickly so I could press on with other lines of investigation; yes I was back to the detective role. I’d no other avenue to follow but my own.

I stopped off on the way to meet Harris Morgan. I called in at the Imperial College in South Kensington. I’d no appointment just a purpose. I left a large brown envelope at the reception for the immediate attention of a Professor Cyril Squires. I collected a can of Coke from the reception drinks machine and drank it on my journey to Hyde Park and the Italian Gardens, the prearranged place for our meeting. At least the sun was shining if nothing else.

I spotted Hamer before he spotted me. He was in deep discussion with a tall, lean chap with flaming red hair who was chomping on a fat cigar while he listened to whatever Hamer was telling him. They ceased talking when they caught sight of me in the distance. I must admit I was a little tense as I approached them. There was no friendly wave from either man, just two stern expressions watching my every movement. By the time I’d reached their position, the tension inside me had gone. I was rock solid and ready for anything they threw at me.

The stranger’s hand reached out to shake mine and with his cigar still clamped between his teeth, he said: “Commander Harris Morgan,” he said sharp and precise. “I appreciate your attendance at short notice, Mister Speed.”

“Hello Commander,” I said with a slight smile to make it look as if I was happy to be shaking his hand. While doing so, I made a quick assessment of Harris Morgan as a person. He had enough wrinkles about his face to suggest he was in his middle or late fifties and he either suffered heavily from stress or was a heavy drinker. He had a vice like grip, deliberately imposed, I thought, to show me I wasn’t dealing with a powder puff desk clerk but a man whose career strengths had powered him to the position he now held. I could only admire him for that. He was clean shaven with a strong smell of an aftershave which I couldn’t put a name to, but I thought it smelled cheap.

I broke off the hand shake, noticing that what he lacked in lavishing expense on aftershave, he more than made up for it with expensive clothes. He was wearing a light-weight, dark suit, immaculately tailored no doubt by one of the best makers in London. His white shirt was silk and his tie matched perfectly. I’d noticed his shiny black leather shoes when I’d first approached them, deciding that if the opportunity arose, it was possible to see up a woman’s skirt if the shoe were to be positioned in the right place. Not that I thought he was that type of person.