Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Barnes suddenly had a thought. ‘What about when the train was reversed back to Axminster? Everyone had to continue the journey by bus, so unless our suspect also jumped off, they would’ve still been somewhere on the train. When I spoke to the guard, he said about twenty or so passengers had got off. One of them could be who we’re looking for.’

  Morris nodded. He turned to Gable. ‘Any ideas on why Baines would have a fight on a train, Andrew?’

  ‘Well, his background may give us a clue. Knowing he was a biochemist at Porton Down, suggests to me a connection to his work. That’s the first port of call, Alex would suggest we follow up. So, until we can discuss this in the office tomorrow, there’s nothing more we can pursue on this.’

  Morris agreed. The connection was whatever the victim’s role was at Porton Down. ‘Okay, I’ll get you a copy of this report and continue our investigations at this end. Maybe, if the suspect was among the passengers, they may not have boarded the Exeter bus at Axminster Station and walked down into the town instead. I’ll get some officers down there to make some enquiries. Perhaps the pubs might be a good bet? I happen to know the landlord in the George Hotel. I can ask him if he knows anything.’

  Gable agreed this would be a good line of enquiry. ‘Okay, gents. I better get off to Salisbury to have a poke around Baines’s flat.’ He shook hands. ‘Nice meeting you both. We’ll be in touch.’

  While on the train to Salisbury, Gable peered out of the window as he went passed the scene of the incident. He then started to think about it with a few questions as he sat in a similar compartment to the one Baines and his mystery attacker had been in. He felt in his deep raincoat pocket for the novel he was half way through, but decided instead of continuing with it, exciting as it was, he would spend most of the journey back to Salisbury going over his notes, and as further thoughts came into his head, he scribbled down new ones.

  At Baines’s flat in Salt Lane, he was confronted by a police constable standing outside the property, then recognised a man with short grey hair, wearing a dark raincoat.

  Alan Carter was from Thames House. They shook hands and Carter led him down the steps into the basement flat.

  Gable looked around the room. Other police officers were looking through drawers and sifting through bookshelves. Noticing the fragile ornaments, He hoped they would be careful handling them. He turned to Carter. ‘So, what have you found so far?’

  ‘To be honest, Andrew, not much. Only he was very into Japanese culture by the looks of things.’

  Carter looked back at the porcelain figures of samurai warriors, books on Japan, and behind him on the wall, a map of Honshu Island. ‘We’ve boxed up some papers, so I’ll take them back to Thames House and get my team to examine them.’ He surveyed the room as if for a final time. ‘But that’s about it. Feel free to look around for yourself, if you like,’ he concluded.

  Gable walked into the one other room, looked at the bed and bedside cabinet. He then walked over to the wardrobe and stared at the clothes, a few tweed jackets, two suits, some shirts and ties, and on the floor were two pairs of shoes. He turned back to Carter. ‘You’ve been through these, I take it?’

  Carter nodded. ‘We have.’ He pointed to the suitcase on top, ‘and this as well. As you can see, this is all there is. Looks like Baines chose to live lightly.’

  Gable sighed. He’d hoped to have found something, some clue as to why an ordinary man, who loved his work and enjoyed Japanese culture, should end up floating face down in a river in Devon.

  On the train back to Waterloo, he went over the events of the day. It had a been a long one with not much to show for it. By the time he had walked through the mainline station to catch his connection to Paddock Wood in Kent, followed by the Medway Valley shuttle train to his home village of Yalding, he had another question to answer. What had been the cause of this scuffle?

  *

  Inside St Mary's church in Maryport, people were gathering for the service, and as Albioni's Adagio, played out on the organ, Janet Swan and Arthur Gable took their seats.

  Opposite them, Howard Barnett' s widow, Heidi sat with her son, David and his wife.

  Gable looked at the order of service booklet he had been given on entering the 15th century building. The photograph of the deceased on the front page, showed him posed in front of what was said to be his best aircraft design, a masterpiece of engineering known as the Rapier, however in the public eye, she had been always referred to as the Silver Angel. Designed to meet a military requirement for a supersonic strike platform capable of flying at low-level. All had gone well with the initial phase of the project, but following an incident which had begun with the tragic death of Barnett' s young apprentice, the aircraft was eventually cancelled in favour of an American design. Then having run into development problems, this too had been cancelled leaving the RAF having to take the Royal Navy's Buccaneer as their designated strike aircraft until the arrival of the Tri-European, Tornado, due to enter service next year.

  Gable stared at the proud face. He had warmed to this man the moment he had met him. He also knew the actual truth about what had happened to the Rapier, having worked with Alex Swan to reveal a deadly conspiracy centred around the aircraft project.

  Janet Swan looked at her watch. Her husband had assured her he would be here for the service, and as more people gathered, including some of Barnett' s old colleagues from Brinton Aviation, she started to become anxious.

  Noticing her anxiety, Gable took her black-gloved hand to reassure her. ‘Don't worry my dear, Alex will be here before the service starts, you'll see.’

  The congregation stood for the arrival of the vicar and his entourage of white robed altar boys and Janet bowed her head as they walked slowly passed her. She bit her lip. Her husband would now be late.

  The boys had reached the altar and were now taking their seats Then, the ceremonial gold-embroidered cassock worn by the vicar, brushed her leg. Suddenly, she then sighed with relief on seeing who had trailed him down the aisle.

  ‘There's nothing like a bit of Albioni, to start the proceedings,’ Swan whispered into her ear as he filed into the pew, nudging in next to her.

  Janet gripped his hand giving him a big smile as he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  Later, after his father had been laid to rest in the church grounds, David Barnett stood by the graveside shaking the hands of mourners offering their condolences. Alex Swan, his wife and Arthur Gable, approached him to join them. The last time Swan had seen him, he was an eleven-year old boy. ‘David, you may not remember me, I’m Alex Swan. Wonderful service, your father was a good friend.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Alex, thank you for coming. You are coming back to the house, aren’t you?’

  Swan nodded. ‘Of course, we are.’ They moved aside to allow more people to offer their condolences, but Swan suddenly felt his arm being gripped. It was David, again.

  ‘Sorry Alex, I wonder if I could have a word later, in private, like? It’s about father.’

  Swan paused. What could this be about? He gave him a friendly smile. ‘Of course, David.’

  Inside the Barnett’s house at Ellenborough, David had mingled with his mother around the guests, talking about his father.

  Heidi was passing around a tray of smoke salmon canapes when she noticed Alex Swan. She would never forget the last time she had seen him for the rest of her life. It was in London on the day of the Daily Mail Air Race, and they both knew had she not have been wearing that hat, Swan would not be standing in front of her now.

  He kissed her cheek. ‘How are you, Heidi?’

  Heidi was pleased to see him. ‘Thank you for coming, Alex.’ They both paused for a few moments as if sharing the same thoughts, then Swan introduced her to his wife and old colleague.

  David then approached them. ‘Excuse me, mother. Would you mind if I take Alex away for a few moments?’

  Swan thought he could do with a cigarette, suggesting they go outside. They left to
gether leaving Janet and Arthur to continue talking to Heidi.

  Outside the house, Swan lit his cigarette and offered one to David Barnett who raised a hand to decline.

  ‘Given up, Alex. Cathy says it’s a bad influence on the kids.’ He referred to his wife who explaining he had met her at his workplace. David had followed his father into the aviation industry and now worked down at Hatfield in Hertfordshire as an Airframes Engineer for the Airbus consortium. Cathy had been a PA to his boss, Sir Kenneth Ranson. Now, she was a housewife and mother of two six-year-old twin girls, Ellen and Rosie. She had decided they were still too young to be at their grandfather’s funeral, so were being looked after by neighbours who also had children their age.

  Swan blew some smoke and turned to his host. They chatted about how well the funeral had gone, commenting on some of the speeches. Swan then noticed the troubled look on the face of his host. ‘So, what’s this all about, David?’

  Barnett reached into his jacket and handed him a brown envelope. ‘Father wanted me to give you this, Alex. It was one of the last things he asked me to do. He had asked mother to invite you to his funeral and said, make sure Alex gets this, whatever you do. Even when his lungs finally gave out, I knew he was relying on me.’

  Swan looked at the envelope. ‘May I?’

  Barnett nodded. ‘Yes, of course. It’s what Dad wanted.’

  Swan took it from his hand and opened it. A handwritten letter was inside and unfolding it, he read the contents to himself.

  Dear Alex,

  Since the Rapier affair, you have remained a good friend and even shared in one of your escapades with the incident at St Pancras. Thank god for Heidi’s stupid hat. Swan smiled admiringly at the typical quip, then continued. If you are reading this, then you know my emphysema has got the better of me and I have since journeyed to that great aircraft design office in the sky. I write this to you as you are the only person I could trust with this information.

  What I am about to reveal to you is something that has remained a dark state secret known as Operation Butterfly. On the 18th March 1977, I was doing some work at Brough near Hull working as a consultant on the Rolls Royce Spey engines. That morning, I was at the test airfield at Holme on Spalding Moor waiting for a Buccaneer to arrive by road for its first flight test following the strengthening of a wing spar. We had received confirmation it had left Brough and was on its way. I was to oversee some last-minute diagnostics before it was cleared for flying, only it did not arrive. Your guess is as good mine what happened to it, Alex. The thing is, everything was covered up. According to the MOD, the incident had not occurred, even though MI5 had become involved and a committee was set up to investigate. To coin a phrase from a famous wartime film, One of our aircraft is missing! Somehow, it was stolen on route to the airfield. Vanished into thin air. I am hoping you can get to the bottom of it. At the time, a local reporter Ron Jackson of the Hull Daily Mail, somehow got hold of the story. Maybe, he can still be of some help to you. I fear that whatever happened to the aircraft, it was stolen for a reason, bearing in mind its capabilities and in the wrong hands, Lord knows what could happen, especially in this day and age. It has been wonderful having you as a friend, Alex and I wish you and Janet a long and happy life together.

  HB

  Swan read it twice more before folding it and placing it away inside his jacket. Barnett approached him. ‘Is it serious, Alex?’ ‘You haven’t read it then?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Barnett shook his head. ‘When my father gave it to me, he asked me to promise not to. The bloody thing has been burning a big hole on my conscience ever since.’

  Swan smiled patting Barnett’s arm, trying his best not to show the concern he was feeling right now. As Barnett led him back inside, he shook his head in disbelief. How come he hadn’t heard of Operation Butterfly before today? As he walked with him to re-join the other mourners in the house, his mind started racing on how a big warplane like the Buccaneer, could as in the words of his old friend, vanish into thin air? Walking up to his wife and his former SID colleague, he couldn’t get Howard Barnett’s letter out of his mind. A cover-up. Yes. He could clearly see that to lose something such as this would be embarrassing, but even so, this Operation Butterfly, would’ve been the sort of thing to cross the SID desk. With the investigation into the dead biochemist and now this, he sensed Monday was going to be an interesting day.

  4

  The dinner at Arthur and Annie Gable’s house in the East End of London had been as excellent as usual. Arthur’s wife, Annie had served a home-made steak and kidney pie to her mother’s old recipe, followed by a plum duff pudding which also had come from the old flower-patterned notebook which Annie kept to hand on the shelf of a dresser in the kitchen.

  Janet Swan preferred home-cooking to eating out in restaurants and had helped herself to a second helping of the meat and vegetable dish.

  Her husband was more than familiar with Annie Gable’s cuisine, having heard about it from Arthur over the years they had worked together.

  After dinner, Annie took Janet into the living room, while Arthur took his former SID chief upstairs to his study. Swan chuckled when he was informed it used to be his new associate’s bedroom.

  All through dinner, Gable had felt that something was not quite right with his old chief and thought that getting him alone could help get to the bottom of it.

  On the way up, Swan had noticed a set of paintings trailing the stairs. The last time he had seen them, was when they used to line the staircase of the SID office. The four prints depicting Napoleonic battle scenes, used to keep Gable amused as each time he looked at them, he would find something in them he had not noticed before.

  On his retirement, Swan had decided he should have them and even now, Gable would still occasionally stop on his own staircase to look for new things about them.

  After leading Swan inside the study, Gable closed the door. ‘Right, Alex. Are you going to tell me why you seemed to be miles away, all through dinner?’

  Swan sighed. ‘Arthur, I still see you haven’t lost any of that invaluable intuition you had, old boy.’

  ‘So, what is it, Alex? To be frank, you seemed in a similar mood on the train journey back from the funeral on Friday.’

  Swan sat down and pulling out the letter, handed it to Gable. ‘It’s from HB, David Barnett gave it to me.’ Swan relaxed himself to allow time for it to be read. Afterwards, Gable looked whiter than the walls of his study.

  He handed it back. ‘Dear God! I can’t believe it. How the hell can a Buccaneer just disappear into thin air?’

  Swan folded the letter and placed it back into his jacket. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Arthur. But it did and it was all hushed up.’

  Gable thought about this for a moment. ‘Surely there would have been a big flap on about it at the time?’

  Swan agreed. ‘I’m sure there would’ve been, old boy. But even so, not a trace of it could be found after it left the factory.’

  ‘Does anyone else know about it?’

  ‘Only those who were part of Operation Butterfly, the committee set up to investigate the incident, which includes John Stratton.’

  Gable gasped. ‘John knew, and he didn’t inform you?’

  Swan nodded. ‘Seems so, I’m thinking of going to see him about it, tomorrow.’

  Gable was suddenly confused. ‘So, what I can’t get my head around, is why weren’t SID brought in to look into this at the time?’

  ‘Apparently, it happened while Andrew and I were in Vienna on a case.’

  Gable nodded. ‘How convenient. Because if you weren’t abroad at the time, SID would’ve been assigned to it. And, they know when you’re given something, there’s no letting go.’

  ‘Precisely, Arthur. It’s just as HB inferred. A national embarrassment!’

  Gable remembered something else which was a national embarrassment, referring to the Great Train Robbery in 1963. Thinking about the event gave him an idea. ‘Do you r
emember, that after a few days, the search for the gang was changed to combing the local area to the heist, which proved to a be good move having found what they did at Leatherslade Farm?’

  Swan was puzzled. ‘So, what are you saying?’

  Gable smiled. ‘What I’m saying, is did this happen when searching for the Buccaneer? Was a search done locally?’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue, old boy. I think I really should ask Stratton if I could have a look at the file on Operation Butterfly, for myself.’

  Gable rose from his chair and opening the drawer of his desk, pulled out a large AA map book. He placed it on the desk and thumbed the pages until he found the area he needed. Swan joined him to look at the Humberside area.

  ‘Here’s Brough, and here is the airfield at Holme on Spalding Moor. I reckon the Buccaneer would take the quickest possible route through these villages.’

  Swan followed Gable’s finger on the map. ‘So, that means there’s all these farms on the way. Some look quite big, according to this. Is it possible the gang who stole it, took it to one of them? There may still be some clues waiting to be discovered?’ Swan began to understand. ‘Just like the train robbers,’ he recalled. ‘You could be onto something here, Arthur. But, until I can find out the details on what action was taken by the local police, we’re very much in the dark.’

  Gable let out a gasp. ‘Christ, Alex, this must have been a huge operation and meticulously planned, making the train robbery look like a bunch of school kids in a sweetshop, in comparison.’ Gable had just remembered something else from the late Howard Barnett’s letter. ‘What about this reporter, Ron Jackson? Do you suppose he knows anything? Being a newshound, he could’ve done some digging. Might be worth meeting up with him.’

  Swan agreed with Gable’s idea, but then considered a possible problem. ‘That’s providing he wasn’t asked to sign the Official Secrets Act.’ He picked up the map book. ‘Mind if I borrow this, old boy? I might be taking a trip up to Humberside at some point.’