Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (2 page)

I sighed, shook my head in dismay, and informed him sarcastically, “I suspect he’s been buried here for years on the strength of being dead, Tommy.”

He tilted back his flat cap to scratch an imaginary itch on his forehead. He shook his head in disbelief and said solemnly, “I wonder who the bugger is?”

“I’d say he was an R.A.F pilot shot down during the war, judging by the flying wings insignia badge on his tunic.”

I thought it wise not to mention the camera or that it was a reconnaissance plane. I had my reasons, and the less others knew, the less chance of yours truly getting into serious trouble with the authorities. And then I noticed a strange trance like look in Tommy’s eyes. He gave me the impression he was at the first stages of having a heart attack. He worried me. I asked him if he was alright. He didn’t answer.

His silence annoyed me as he stood there in deep thought.

“Are you alright?” I snapped.

Finally, in a slow drawl he said, “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what exactly?”

Tommy got a little excited. “That Billy Banter was right after all!”

“Who’s Billy Banter if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Billy! He’s a bit of a strange fellow, a bit slow in the brain. You know backward. I’ve known him since we were kids. Aye, I remember it all now. It was a late summer evening, the sun dropping over the horizon; year of forty three or forty four; during the war. You’d find Billy running through the long grass pretending to be a fighter plane. He spent hours doing it; bags of energy he had. You were knackered just watching him play. Then one day he came up with this incredible tale that he had shot down a plane from the sky and he was sorry for what he’d done. I mean, it wasn’t surprising that nobody took any notice of a nit-wit who hadn’t all the cogs in his brain working correctly. And now…this turns up. It means Billy wasn’t the crackpot we all thought he was, and …well this wreck proves he was right after all. Billy still lives around here. I suppose I should tell him about this but I doubt he’d remember me or the war.”

“It wouldn’t have come to this if someone had believed him at the time. Quicker action could have saved the pilot’s life,” I added accusingly. “Instead the poor bastard perished, trapped in his cockpit. No doubt he suffocated to death buried in soil.”

Tommy hit back. “Bugger off, Shacks! You make it sound so gruesome. We weren’t to know. We were just kids. And there was nothing mentioned that a plane was missing.”

“At least now you can rectify your mistake by calling the local constabulary to get this mess sorted.”

Tommy arched a solitary eyebrow. “What about you? Are you not stopping?”

I was amazed he asked me that considering he knew my reputation first hand. “Frigging hell, I’m out of here! I may have found the wreck but I can’t take any credit. The authorities and I don’t exactly complement each other when it concerns digging up the countryside whether it’s for a dead body or the crown jewels.”

Tommy winked at me. “So you were never here then?”

“That’s right. Besides, why share the honour? Think of the coverage you’ll get. You’ll be hailed a national hero in the papers.”

Tommy’s face gleamed at the thought of fame. “My name will be in the papers?” His smile widened when I nodded it would, and then his smile disappeared and he said with sadness in his voice, “Don’t suppose the bracelet turned up?”

The excitement of my wreck find made me forget about the bracelet, the purpose of my trek to Berkshire in the first place. The bracelet was an inexpensive trinket that belonged to Tommy’s deceased wife, a cherished memento he kept in his jacket pocket even while working in the fields; the silly sod had lost it two weeks previous. I quickly put him out of his misery and produced a clear polythene bag from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

Tommy’s eyes brightened as he examined the soiled contents inside the bag and realized what the bag held. “You found it!”

“Two hours ago, middle field. I thought I’d continue scanning the rest of the fields while I was in the vicinity so I can eliminate it from my map references. Good job too. Or else this poor saviour of our wretched country would have rotted into total oblivion, never to receive an honourable burial.”

Tommy gripped the bracelet tightly. “Well, the pilot will have his military funeral and I’ve got this back. It means a lot to me, you know. You’re a good un’ Shacks.”

“I know, Tommy, but don’t forget; don’t tell anyone I was here,” I reminded him smartly.

I collected my equipment, hitched a ride on the tractor back to the farm, threw the gear into the boot of my Mercedes Benz 500K Roadster and headed back to London. My first stop was at a photography shop situated on the corner of Lambeth Road and Kennington Road. Larry ‘the lens’ Lazerow was the proprietor, a good friend of mine. I plonked the camera I’d got from the crash site on the counter with the instruction, “develop that if you can Lens!”, and watched the astonishment creep across his Barbadian face as he studied the mess in front of him.

“But it’s a bundle of rusting crap, Shacks.”

“No, Lens, there’s a roll of film inside that I’m interested in.”

“You expect me to extract it from this lump?”

“I thought you said there’s nothing you couldn’t develop?”

He jabbed his finger at the mess. “This doesn’t count.”

“Don’t give me limp excuses, Lens. Make it quick will you.”

Before he could continue his protest I’d dashed from his shop leaving a trail of words in my wake, “Sorry, Lens. In a rush, important engagement,” and went home expecting the good things to happen in my life.

Since the discovery of the Spitfire wreck I decided to lay low for a while at home. I’m fortunate to have a sizable red bricked detached house, built in the fifties that nestled nicely in the grounds of a large plot. I like to think I live in the posh side of Hammersmith but it’s nowhere near to the standards of
millionaires row
half a mile down the road.

The problem with inflicting self imprisonment is I’ve the tendency to think too much. Events at the farm were beginning to bother me. The reason: I hadn’t heard a frigging thing from the farm concerning the Spitfire wreck since the day I’d left Tommy Bickermass to bask in all the glory. In all honesty I was a little perturbed as to why Tommy hadn’t kept in touch. It wasn’t like him to be so inconsiderate by keeping me in the dark. I could only assume he was being cautious because the investigation team was obviously still busy there at the farm, as they are a very meticulous lot when excavating WWII remains. I was thinking of giving him a call but decided it would be wise to refrain from doing so until I was absolutely sure the investigating team had finished their processing. Not that it mattered because I eventually located Tommy while shuffling through the morning newspaper while having a light breakfast.

Tommy had made it to page four, a quarter sized spread under the heading:

Lost in Action
WWII Hero’s Body Unearthed in Farmer’s Field

Tommy’s short account of how he had found the plane wreck in the first place was brilliant. He’d been clever too, stating that his dog had actually made the initial discovery, which had accounted for the severe disturbance around the wreck. I had to congratulate Tommy on his improvisation and his passing the blame on a creature that couldn’t defend himself. In fact his entire description was a masterful piece of fictitious nonsense, so realistic and believable, that I would have been proud to call it my own.

What surprised me about Tommy was the old sod never gave me the impression that he could be such a lying bastard. Though I shouldn’t judge him too harshly because he had stuck to his word and never once mentioned my presence at the crash site. At least he’d done something in my favour.

I read on because something had caught my attention further down in another paragraph. It had me scratching the invisible itch on the end of my nose. The name of the exhumed pilot nowhere near matched the name I saw on the identity tags that hung around the skeletons neck. The Ministry of Defence had released the name Flying Officer Derek Rowland which was a ridiculously long way from the name
Craven
which I’d seen clearly hanging from the human remains. I knew I hadn’t been mistaken and I certainly didn’t need glasses. It was obvious somebody in the MoD, for whatever reason, had made an outstanding gaff along the process of identification. In simple terms, they’re going to bury the wrong man in the wrong grave and if someone was to highlight their mistake then a lot of people were going to be really pissed off!

I should have got straight on the phone to complain about their incompetence. I would have too, only it would have been pretty stupid of me to arouse suspicion that I’d been present at the crash site. I shrugged. British history was full of mistakes so one more wouldn’t make a frigging difference.

I cleared away the breakfast crockery, which was just as well because the rap on my front door thundered through the hallway like an echo through the dingy vaults of a medieval castle. I wasn’t expecting anyone in particular, as most people I know call me first because they know I’m not readily available. And since I detest cold calling door hopping merchants, I ignored the intrusion rather hoping that whoever it was would go away in defeat.

The ploy never worked. The knocker was determined to grab my attention and a piece of my mind. At least I could disregard it was the police hammering on my door because they would have broken in forcibly; it wouldn’t be the first time. I ran my fingers through my hair like a comb in a touch of vanity, and then marched down the hallway in a huff. I dragged open the door to remonstrate against the intrusion and was immediately struck dumb by the almost indescribable appearance of the two callers. They were ugly beyond ugly is the only way I could describe them: tall, slim men, dressed in smart dark silk suits who gave me the impression that they liked to scare people for a living. From their slicked back black hair, down to their highly polished shoes, both men had strikingly similar features. They could have easily been mistaken for brothers but they weren’t. The slightly taller of the two, I noticed, had a jagged scar running up each side of his nose, as if some cannibalistic madman had tried to permanently detach it from his face with a blunt knife. The same man had also received an injury to his left hand, quite recently too, judging by the cleanliness of the bandage hiding the problem.

At a guess, I’d have put their ages in their early forties. Both remarkably had a similar shoulder deformity, a severe stoop developed by poor posture, probably while sitting hunched at a desk in a cold office with no central heating. Both had beady, dark eyes that stared unblinkingly. Their aquiline noses angled down above funny shaped mouths and their protruding thyroid cartilages gave the illusion of them having bent necks. If they were perched on the branch of a leafless tree on the African plains, they would quite easily pass as a pair of black African vultures waiting patiently for their next meal to die.

I wasn’t about to die of fright and since I lack respect for people who supposedly represent authority, which I suspected they were in some category, I said snappily. “Whatever you’re selling I don’t want it. So fuck off!”

They’d obviously experienced obstinate shits like me before because they never flinched with my abrupt attitude. The scar-less one, stood to the left side of me, flipped open a warrant card and shoved it in front of my face and said just as quickly, “Inspector Filbert, Ministry of Defence Police.”

I was a little worried but I wasn’t impressed.

“You’re Mister Shackleton Speed?” He wasn’t politely asking, he was telling me in anticipation of my instant denial.

I never got chance to examine his credentials properly because he whipped the card back into his pocket. I didn’t protest. I was too busy thinking aloud. And there could have been a number of reasons why the MDP should be stood on my doorstep. I could only think of one; a particular field in Berkshire and a certain farmer with bragging rights.

I didn’t panic. I could have been wrong in my assumption. Mainly to distract them from their intended purpose, I said, “I’m a little too old to join the Forces. If it’s recruitments you’re after why don’t you try further down the road, plenty of rich younger fodder there? Number seventy three, but don’t bother knocking on the door, they’ll be pie-eyed with expensive recreational drugs.”

Two frighteningly aggressive expressions shot back at me. They shuffled forward in a way I considered a threat to my safety. I stood my ground as any true gladiator would.

Filbert’s left eyeball seemed to wobble slightly when he spoke. “We’re not recruiting, Mister Speed. We’re here on a more serious matter.”

I deliberately arched my eyebrows in surprise. “Has something happened?”

“It’s a criminal matter; the desecration of a war grave.”

Here we go!
I thought and stabbed myself in the chest with my forefinger and pretended to be shocked. “You’re accusing me of playing with the dead?”

Filbert smiled thinly. “You’re very humorous, Mister Speed. Perhaps we should go inside to discuss things or would you prefer if we took a trip down to the local police station where you’ll be questioned under caution?”

And a camera observing, no doubt,
I thought tirelessly.

I didn’t fancy the police station for a number of reasons, but I needed to know what they had on me before I decided on my next plan of action. I needed to know if Tommy Bickermass had accidentally dropped me deep in the shit; a slip of his tongue perhaps. It’s easily done without thinking and when you’re excited.

I let them in, closed the front door and ushered them into my study. I didn’t offer them either a seat or refreshments; the quicker we got this over with, the better.

I remained standing too and looked Filbert straight in the eye. I said, “As I told you, I’m not ghoulish enough to visit graveyards.”

I had a funny feeling the crafty bastards were recording the conversation, as I noted a slight bulge in Scar-face’s breast pocket, where I presumed the voice recorder was hidden to catch my confession.