Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (6 page)

He looked disappointed with me. “Mister Speed, please. Surely you’re not implying the MDP had something to do with both deaths?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

“Good heavens, Mister Speed! Why should that be?” The slight conviction in his tone suggested he could be taking me seriously, but I was only kidding myself.

“How the frigging hell should I know why!” I barked. “That’s what I believe.”

Steven smirked. “It’s hardly in the best interest of the MDP to exterminate people because of an old fighter plane being exhumed. This country wants to recover all its dead heroes not get rid of new ones. Being paranoid isn’t going to solve very much. Life is full of unlucky people making fatal mistakes which end in tragedy.”

“I’m not being paranoid.” I protested. “I suppose the two MDP officers that came pestering me at my home was a figment of my imagination, especially when they accused me of vandalizing the wreck.” I could have shrivelled up like a prune at that moment knowing what I said. I quickly added, “Even though I wasn’t even at the crash site.”

He was onto my gaff in an instance. “You
weren’t
?”

“No I wasn’t. And I’ve no idea why they thought that I was there.”

Stevens scratched the end of his nose with the pen. “Do you have any names for these MDP officers?”

“I caught only the one name; an Inspector Filbert.”

I assumed I’d triggered something important because the Detective suddenly rose from his chair and said, “Excuse me for a moment.” And he promptly left the room as if he was in a hurry.

Twenty minutes the slimy Peeler kept me waiting. Being isolated in a police station within four tight walls, no windows, and a whining wall-fan that irritated me to the point of insanity, can be tediously daunting at the best of times. The wait certainly tested my patience because I found myself drumming my fingertips hard upon the table with no true rhythmical beat but I did manage a brief shufti at his notes he’d left on the table. There was nothing in the notes that I didn’t know already.

When he finally returned he was carrying a thick brown, A4 cardboard folder which he slapped onto the table with the deliberate intention of sending a gust of wind flying into my face to wake me from my boredom. He also had an accusing stare when he sat down.

I leaned forward and said, enthusiastically, “Got something already?”

The detective’s slow and deliberate action had me retracting in my chair. He said, “I’ve been in contact with the MDP. They state, categorically, that there are no impending investigations regarding the crash site in question. They assure me all normal procedures have been carried out and completed. The pilot’s body was exhumed in readiness for a military funeral. The crash site has been logged and is now a protected area. As for a Inspector Filbert, you might be interested to know, he retired from the ministry ten years ago and would have gladly made the journey to see you if he’d been able to get out of his wheelchair. So I’m afraid whoever came knocking on your door, Mister Speed, it certainly had nothing to do with the MDP. Perhaps you’ve been infuriating someone else?”

I had no reason to doubt the information Steven’s had received from the MDP concerning Filbert. And it was plainly obvious that cold callers such as those two creeps who had come thumping on my front door were hardly going to leave behind their true calling cards. I decided in my best interest not to press on about them. Instead I watched with intrigue as Stevens opened the folder he had brought into the room and began to flick through individual pages with eye-popping reactions of what appeared to be photo-copied script. I could tell by the sudden gleam in his eye that he had found something incriminating against me.

Finally, he said, “I’ve acquired this special piece of information from the police computer that should interest you, Mister Speed.”

More like he’s been checking up on me,
I thought. “Have you really!” I said.

“My-my-you have been extremely busy over the past few years. Eleven court appearances in front of the judge concerning non-declaration of treasure trove.”

I struck back sharply. “It should also mention that I was acquitted eleven times?” I said, defensively.

His brow scrunched with my untimely interruption. “
And,
neither has your exploits escaped the attention of Interpol. It seems that you have been plying your infamous trade among the scallywags in the black market labyrinths of Amsterdam, Brussels, Hamburg, and other various seedy parts of Europe as far as Turkey. Yes, Mister Speed, this suggests to me you’ve been a very
busy
man on the wrong side of the law.”

The smarmy bastard, I thought. So I dug a few English antiquities from the ground and sold them on in Europe. What’s the big fuss? It’s not my fault the highest bidder happens to be in Amsterdam or Brussels or Hamburg. It was time to defend myself before he got too carried away.

I said, “You’ll find all the allegations are untrue. Is there a point to all this? Only I thought the reason for coming here today was to discuss Larry Lazerow’s demise. Not if I’ve been a naughty boy in the past!”

“Most definitely there’s a point, Mister Speed,” his tone was sharper now, “It’s a warning really, to stay away from the crash site.”

“There’s no law against looking,” I said stubbornly.

“I was referring to the use of a metal detector. Because if I get word from the Berkshire constabulary that anything has gone missing, I’ll make sure the next conviction against you will stick forever. Is that clear?”

I stood up and looked him straight in the eye with the strong urge to tell the sad bastard he was a week too late, but I resisted the temptation. “I guess you’ve finished with me over the photography shop?”

“I don’t think I’ll be bothering you again on the matter.”

I headed for the door hastily only for the Detective to stop me in my tracks.

“There is another issue that you should be aware of, Mister Speed.”

I didn’t bother to turn and face him; I already knew what was coming. Over my shoulder I said, “Yes!”

“It’s advisable that you refrain from spreading rumours concerning your inappropriate theories, especially to the newspapers, until after the Coroners verdict has been announced. Remember, Mister Lazerow died as a consequence of his own misfortune and nothing else. We’ve concluded a thorough investigation and we’re confident of our findings. Is that understood?”

I said nothing in return and was halfway through the door when he added: “Please convey my condolences to Mister Lazerow’s family. Good day, Mister Speed.”

I left sharply before I said something I would never regret and probably end up in gaol for the night.

I left the police station in a state of frustration. It was maddening to think that I’d gone there with the good intentions of persuading the investigation team that they had a murder enquiry on their hands and instead they turned the whole episode into an inquisition against me. Back in the Roadster my anger blurred my concentration. In a better frame of mind I might have noticed the black saloon slipping in behind the Roadster sooner than I did.

When I finally noticed I was being tailed, it wasn’t difficult to guess the occupants of the vehicle behind me and I wouldn’t be far wrong in assuming that the two vultures I’d previously encountered were circling their intended prey. I prepared myself mentally, my sweaty palm hovering over the gear lever for a racing gear change in case of a sudden attack. They weren’t going to catch me out as easily as they caught Larry or Tommy. With every manoeuvre I made, I double-checked the rear view mirror, mainly to confirm by sight if it was the two bogus MDP officials. But in a blink of the eye I’d lost them. I’d turned around a corner and the car didn’t follow. I was alone again and my panic subsided.

I detest being labelled ‘paranoid’, as detective Stevens had suggested. Paranoid people require treatment for their mental state and I wasn’t ready for the asylum just yet. There were questions buzzing around inside my head that required an answer and I was determined to get them regardless of whose nose I got up. For me now, I would have to rethink my strategy because I suddenly realized that I wasn’t going to get any help from anybody who represented the badge of a Peeler.

I declined the opportunity to attend the inquest on Lens’s death and have my say. There was no point? My presence at the official hearing would have had no bearing whatsoever on the eventual outcome, well not without the hard evidence that a murder had been committed. Accidental death was firmly planted in the minds of everyone concerned and any interference from me would change nothing other than to infuriate those officials in attendance at the Coroner’s court.

I had to start thinking about myself and my own safety. Naturally I was pensive as to why I walked this crazy wretched earth still in one piece and why they hadn’t made a positive attempt to silence me for good. Surely I was on their list for extermination just as Tommy and Lens were. I could only assume that they hadn’t finished with me. Knowing that, the sensible solution would have been for me to go into hiding. Loose myself amid other tourists in some over-crowded resort far away. Frigging hell I was fooling myself! That was the easy way out. I wanted to kick arse. I wanted to avenge Lens’s death. But my most disturbing thoughts centred on how far I would be willing to go to achieve my revenge.

I began to devise a plan of where I should start. Since I’m no super sleuth I considered hiring a private detective but I didn’t want the responsibility of another death on my hands regardless of how professional the person was at their job. Besides, when it came to chasing answers, I’d spent a good part of my life in the pursuit of lost treasure and I’d gained considerable notoriety when outwitting the Treasure Valuation Committee, all of which puts me in a position of not being a complete novice after all. I could be tough and vicious if I needed to be and with no remorse whatsoever.

I knew my situation wasn’t favourable. I would be a one man army with no fire-arms experience and up against...what was I up against? Two vicious, nameless men insisting I hand over a battered camera, for starters. That frigging camera! I cursed.

Something pinged in my brain. I suddenly remembered what Lens had told me over the phone. Without even doing anything outrageous I already had my start; the camera! I went to retrieve the mail I’d thrown unceremoniously into the waste-bin by the study door and sifted through the pile. I could tell Lens’s handwriting straight away when I selected the A5 size brown envelope, ripped open the seal and studied the contents. I was looking at four black and white photographs of poor quality and water-marked badly around the edges. Each photograph showed the same surfaced submarine, but at slightly different angles, with what appeared to be a plume of smoke coming from its stern. I got the impression the craft was sinking by the angle of the submarine riding in the water.

I went down into the privacy of my cellar studio, the place where I clean all the artefacts I’ve unearthed in the past. I put each photograph in turn onto the enlargement projector and examined them in more detail. The submarine was positioned approximately half a mile off a rocky shoreline but I’d no idea where other than it being a European shoreline. On the submarine’s conning tower I could barely make out the symbol of the Rising Sun and the faint lettering I-52. I was looking at a Japanese submarine which was clearly in dire trouble. But I was thinking deeper. Wondering why a Japanese submarine should have attracted the attention of a British recon naissance craft instead of a battle cruiser. It all seemed a bit strange especially when the Japanese did their fighting in and around Asia. And then I remembered there were liaisons between the German U-boats and Japanese submarines in order to transfer vital supplies. But those transfers were usually conducted out in the Atlantic or in or around the security of German held territories.

I could have continued searching forever for the right answers. Whatever the photographs were trying to tell me I couldn’t make head or tail of it, yet these photos were redeemed to be worth the lives of two men. I placed the pictures in the wall safe where nothing less than a nuclear bomb would extract them.

*

The following day I was back in Berkshire for Tommy Bickermass’s funeral. There’s a saying:
you suddenly realize you’re getting old by the number of funerals you attend
, and I suppose my sudden increase of two dead friends rather made my thirty-five years feel more like seventy-five. I’m not a religious man by any means nor do I disrespect another person’s faith. I believe in fate and luck and it’s served me well so far in life.

I stayed away from the church service only attending the burial itself. The whole occasion was a quiet funeral for a nice quiet man who lived for nothing more than the chance to make an honest crumb. I felt as if I had let him down in a lot of departments.

I never mentioned to any of the congregation about my suspicions of how Tommy died. Perhaps I should have but I didn’t, mainly because they were upset enough. If I’d begun spreading dodgy presumptions amongst family and friends, and they turned out to be untrue, I could imagine my arrival in these parts again would be repelled by the barrel of a twelve bore shotgun or a pitchfork shoved up my backside.

It was at the defining moment when the priest mentioned
dust to dust
that I heard Tommy’s dog, Winston, pining for his master. I glanced down at the poor beast noticing that Winston had received a nasty looking wound above his left eye. I waited until after the service before I asked Tommy’s daughter, Debbie, how Winston had acquired his wound.

“Nobody seems to know,” she said sombrely, her eyes red, still the odd floating tear ready to seep and trickle down her cheek. “The poor dog was cowering in the barn covered in dried blood the day after my…father was found…” She wiped away a tear. “The vet had to put six stitches in a deep cut.”

I gave the dog a sympathetic pat. “Look, I know this isn’t the right time to be asking but have you ever heard of a chap named Billy Banter? It’s a name I recall Tommy-sorry-your father-mentioning after the discovery of the plane wreck.”