Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Spears of Defiance

  An Alex Swan Mystery

  David Holman

  Spears of Defiance - An Alex Swan Mystery

  Digital Edition

  © David Holman 2020

  David Holman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and organisations as well as places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by DH Graphics © 2020

  First published in 2020 by David Holman

  Table of Contents

  Part One – Locust Rain

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part Two - Cascade

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Alex Swan Mystery Novels

  Wings of Death

  Countdown to Terror

  Island of Fear

  For Sam

  Much-loved and sadly missed

  Part One

  Locust Rain

  1

  The 3:15 shuttle service from Salisbury, suddenly came to a scraping stop just outside Axminster.

  The guard who had just pulled the emergency chain, turned to the open briefcase on the seat and the scattered papers around the compartment. At least the door was now sealed again.

  Kneeling on the floor of the carriage, he sifted through a few of them, hoping to find some clue as to who they belonged to. His eyes then fell on one of the documents, widening to the Royal Coat of Arms printed in the top right-hand corner, and just below it in underlined red script, the word, Confidential.

  Scanning through the contents, lines of confusion formed across his forehead as he read a memo of what he now considered contained highly-sensitive information. His mind began to race. What had happened here and where was the owner to all this?

  He suddenly heard the sliding of windows being lowered, the raised voices from other passengers hitting the cold November air. Still clutching the document, he opened the door, jumped down onto the track, and ignoring their cries of enquiry, sprinted up to an equally bewildered driver who had just climbed down from his cab.

  ‘What is it Jimmy?’ In all his years in locomotives, the driver had never had to stop like this before. The guard gave him a glassy stare then viewed again the document in his hands.

  ‘I’m not really sure, Bill.’

  Twenty minutes later, the train had been reversed a few hundred yards back down the line to Axminster Station and station staff began filing passengers out to await a hastily-commissioned special bus service onto Exeter.

  As they shuffled to form a queue at the stop, nobody seemed to notice a man slipping out of the line to walk off in the other direction towards the town centre.

  The train itself was going nowhere until the police arrived. A decision would then have to be made whether to run it back to the nearest siding for forensic investigation.

  Further back down the track at Weycroft, a middle-aged woman was struggling to control her white West Highland terrier pulling ferociously on his lead, during a quick walk along the river in the shadow of a railway bridge.

  Her dog then started to bark. Piercing the early evening birdsong, it pulled its owner towards the water. With her arm beginning to ache, she called for the dog to stop, but in a frenzy to get to the riverbank, the dog continued. This was most peculiar behaviour, she thought. Finally, she had had enough, and crouching down she grabbed at his collar, then watched as it scampered off. It seemed to be focused on something floating in the sheet of green algae. Curious, she joined her pet at the water’s edge and squinting in the fading November light, let out a gasp of horror.

  It was nightfall, by the time the police dive team had climbed back onto the riverbank.

  Detective Inspector Ian Morris affectionately patted the dog tied to the door of an ambulance by its lead, while inside, two paramedics were treating the woman for shock.

  Morris spoke softly to the terrier to reassure him his owner was in good hands. He was then approached by a uniformed constable.

  ‘Sir, the divers have just recovered the body.’

  Morris took his attention off the dog, ‘Thank you, constable, I’ll be right there.’

  At the riverside, the detective leant over the dead man placed on the rubber mat. Examining the facial features, he took in the thinning silver hair and grey eyes of the deceased, estimating he was in his late fifties. The soggy two-piece grey pinstriped suit had been well-tailored, suggested a bespoke example from Savile Row. The man had money, Morris thought. He was obviously a respected professional. He searched for a wallet, but strangely there had not been one or any other trace to this man’s identity.

  The doctor had arrived and Morris withdrew to allow for a full examination. But what now baffled him was why a smartly-dressed man would end up floating face-down in this small river. As he walked back down the towpath to his car, he looked up at the railway bridge, the bright rising moon looming over it like a significant beacon as if hinting a connection to the briefcase found on the train which at this moment, was being checked by his sergeant at Axminster Station. Two mysterious occurrences in one night connected by a railway line. He would be expecting a call from him soon, he was sure of it. There had to be a link to these incidents, but how many people leave an open briefcase, papers scattered everywhere and then take a leap out of a moving train? It just didn’t make any sense!

  Back at his car, Morris received the radio call he had been waiting for and suddenly his curiosity had taken a new turn. He listened attentively as his sergeant’s voice crackled over the radio.

  ‘According to what we’ve found here, Guv, it looks like the briefcase belonged to a Professor Horace Baines, a biochemist, working at the Microbiological Research Establishment, Porton Down.’

  It was following the examination of the documents by his sergeant at the scene which had caused Morris the most alarm, realising due to the nature of this case, this incident would now need some official assistance.

  Morris cradled the radio mike and turning to the constable, offered him a cigarette. The uniformed policeman thanked him with an intriguing look on his face. He had overheard the radio call.

  ‘That didn’t sound to good, sir.’

  Morris shook his head. ‘No, Constable,’ he sighed, ‘it’s all a bit peculiar if you ask me.’ He let out a breath, exhaling the smoke from his lungs. ‘We’re out of our depth here, that’s for sure. There is someone I know who may be able to help us out though
. I’ll speak to the Super, when we get back, see if we can get some outside help with this.’

  At that moment, memories of working with Alex Swan of the Services Investigations Department came flooding back. Morris had been a Detective Sergeant at the time on the Isle of Wight and Swan was heading up an investigation into the suspicious death of a rocket engineer at the Highdown test site.

  The constable stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You mean having to call in Special Branch, sir?’

  Morris shook his head. ‘I was more thinking about calling in SID.’

  In Axminster, a stocky man with short blonde hair walked into a telephone box and dialled a memorised number. His call was soon answered and speaking in his native South African brogue, informed of his location and then listened as he was instructed to wait to be picked up. He put down the receiver and felt through his jacket. The package was safe, but he still couldn’t believe what had happened. As he exited the phone box, a marked police car flashed by. He suddenly felt his dry throat. Yes, that is just what I need right now, he thought, and headed across the road into the George Hotel for some well-earned liquid refreshment.

  Two beers later, he looked at his watch, walked back outside and into a waiting white Ford Capri. The driver turned to him, watching him clip in his seatbelt.

  ‘How did it go? Any problems?’

  The South African stared at the hotel’s lights through the windscreen, noticing a member of the catering staff in chef’s whites and chequered trousers silhouetted against the wall of the building, smoking a cigarette. ‘I’d rather not talk about it, man. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.’ said Phillip Munroe.

  ‘So, Mallinson’s not going to be too pleased then?’ The driver’s sarcastic comment dissolved without an answer and turning back to his driving, he steered the car out of the hotel car park onto the main road and sped off into the night.

  Later in the evening, in a flat in Bayswater in London, Janet Swan passed the receiver to her husband.

  Alex Swan listened as John Stratton, Head of A Section at MI5 informed him of the incident in Devon. ‘So, do we know who he is?’ Swan asked, referring to the man found in the river. He wrote down the details on a pad next to the phone. ‘Okay John. I will take myself there first thing tomorrow and meet with the police. Do you happen to know the name of the investigating officer?’ Swan’s eyes lit up in recognition as Stratton informed him Detective Inspector, Ian Morris, had personally asked for his help. He reminded the MI5 man, Morris had worked with him at Highdown during the Onyx Cross case. Promising to keep Stratton informed, he then replaced the receiver.

  Janet looked at her husband. She knew that it was serious. The only time Stratton called him at home was usually when it was. ‘What is it Alex?’

  Swan briefly explained the incident. His wife worked with him at the SID office in Wellesley Mews, Whitehall since their marriage; she was more than prepared for these sudden occurring incidences. Before joining her husband, she too had been at MI5.

  ‘I have to go down to Devon in the morning,’ he informed.

  Janet’s eyes bulged. ‘But you’ll miss HB’s funeral,’ she reproached.

  Swan shook his head. ‘Damn, that can’t happen.’ He cursed at the seriousness of the call that had allowed his thoughts to be distracted from tomorrow’s event. He couldn’t miss HB’s, real name, Howard Barnett’s funeral. He started to think about the retired aircraft designer and the assignment to investigate the death of a young apprentice up at the aircraft factory in Cumbria. They had remained friends ever since and news of HB’s fatal heart attack had been a shock.

  He glanced back at his wife with a sudden thought. ‘Although, the funeral is not until 3pm. I have an idea. If you travel up as planned with Arthur in the morning, Andrew can take over from me in Honiton and hopefully, I can catch a connection from Oxford to the mainline, and get to Maryport in time. Just assure Heidi and HB’s son, David, I will definitely be there.’

  Janet was satisfied with this. Turning on her heel, she marched into the kitchen leaving her husband to contact his SID colleague, Andrew Gable.

  2

  At Honiton Police Station, Alex Swan yawned as he stared at the board displaying photographs of the victim. He had been lucky to catch what was commonly known as the ‘milk train’, the first Inter-City service of the morning from Waterloo and arrived in Honiton at just before 7am.

  He turned to Morris, who was nursing a lukewarm cup of tea.

  ‘Just like old times isn’t it, Alex?’

  Swan smiled. ‘Yes, pretty much Ian, except we don’t have a space rocket outside the window to admire.’

  Morris thought back to their time together on the Isle of Wight. It seemed it was eons ago now. ‘So, did you manage to track down the leader of this Onyx Cross outfit in the end?’

  Swan tapped his nose. ‘Sorry, Ian – I’m afraid that’s classified.’

  The other police officers present in the incident room could only speculate what the two men were talking about.

  Swan focussed. ‘So, what do we have so far?’

  Taking him through the details on the board, Morris spent the next ten minutes explaining them. ‘It was when my colleague discovered the sensitive nature of the documents and the fact, we had a dead man from Porton Down, I thought I should involve you. So, I spoke to my Super, he agreed and got in touch with the security services.’

  Swan lit a cigarette. ‘Okay, let’s take a look at the documents and go from there.’

  Morris led him through to another room where the briefcase had been placed on a table.

  ‘The forensic team have finished with it for the time being, so they gave it back to us.’

  Swan blew out some smoke. ‘Did they find anything of interest?’

  ‘Apparently not, Alex. Looks as though our suspect was either wearing gloves, or the victim handled the case and retrieved the documents under some sort of duress throughout.’

  ‘A struggle then? Baines reluctant to give up the case without a fight?’ Swan opened the briefcase. Inside it, the remaining documents had been stacked. He sifted through them. Underneath was a paperback copy of James Clavell’s first novel Shogun. He lifted it out and thumbed through it. At the back, blank pages had handwritten translations of some of the Japanese text and language used throughout the book. ‘Quite a methodical man, was our Professor Baines. Still, I’m not sure why he wrote these two words down a few times, when all the other words here are only written once. And, why just these words without the Japanese next to it, like all the others?’ He stared for a few minutes at the two words written in ink at the bottom of the page. ‘Are you a reader, Ian?’

  Morris also glanced at the book. ‘I’m more of a Craig Thomas and Joseph Wambaugh man, myself, I’m afraid, Alex. Perhaps Charlie can help us, DS Charlie Barnes, I saw him reading that book once. I’ll ask him, when he gets in later.’

  Swan studied two of the words which had been written. ‘Locust Rain,’ he whispered to himself, placing the book onto the table. He looked at the remaining contents of the case: a green Tupperware sandwich box, a copy of yesterday’s Evening Standard and a silver Parker biro. ‘Well, just as you said, not much to go on. Apart from the documents, which I will go and have a look at now, everything else seems to be just the usual contents for your average train commuter.’

  ‘How about another cup of tea, Alex?’ Morris gestured.

  Swan checked the wall clock above the white board. ‘Just a quick one please, Ian.’

  Half an hour later, a tall man with short dark hair and wearing a beige Mackintosh strolled into the room.

  Swan smiled. ‘Andrew. Thank God.’ He looked up the clock again. ‘I really ought to be going, if I’m to get my connection in time.’

  He introduced Andrew Gable to Morris and the other members of his team. ‘Right, well that’s me done for now chaps, my SID colleague, Andrew Gable, will be taking over.’

  Gable shook hands with the officers. ‘Nice to meet you, gents. �
�Andrew Gable had been working with Swan for the past five years, having taken over from his father, Arthur Gable, who after a long career as a detective at Scotland Yard, had joined SID from the start in 1961. He had also previously been a member of the Force, having been a detective with the Kent County Constabulary.

  Swan found that the younger Gable had taken up the mantle from his father easily, and now the former MI5 Head of Section was only two years off his sixtieth birthday, was also relieved to have some energic assistance. Over the years following Arthur’s retirement, they had found themselves in situations when even Swan himself had felt out of his depth, and it was not only Andrew’s tenacity and energy, but also his logical thinking which had got them out of near fatal scrapes with some of their cases, especially when in pursuit of known terrorists. A certain hijacking incident three years ago would forever be in their memory. Swan knew he could rely on him. The younger member of the Gable family was a useful man to have around.

  He turned to Swan. ‘It’s okay, Alex – You better shoot off. It’s a bloody long way up to Cumbria.’

  Swan smiled as he held up the documents found inside the case. ‘Looks like I have my reading material for the journey. I’ll be in touch. See you tomorrow, Andrew.’ He turned to Morris. ‘Well, it’s been nice to see you again, Ian. By the way, I forgot to mention it, how’s Lionel these days?’ Swan referred to the old Detective Inspector from the Highdown incident.

  ‘Lionel’s retired now, Alex. He and his wife, Alice, have a nice house overlooking the sea at Shanklin.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Nice part of the island,’ he commented.

  Morris shook Swan’s hand and Swan was about to leave when another policeman in plain clothes entered the room.

  Morris acknowledged his sergeant. ‘Ah, what a stroke of luck. Charlie, this is Mr Swan, who I told you about. Alex, this is DS Barnes.’ He turned to him. ‘Charlie, be a good man and run him to the station for me?’