by David Holman
Stratton gave him a startled look. Suddenly, something that had best remained buried was beginning to become a circus.
Swan read his thoughts. ‘Yes, John. Why shouldn’t Andrew help me with this, and Janet, for that matter?’
Stratton shrugged. ‘Why don’t you pull old Arthur out of retirement and perhaps his wife Annie, could help as well? The more the bloody merrier.’
Swan shook his head. ‘Come, John, there’s no need to get sarcastic. I just think we could have done more, if given the air time on it.’
Stratton sighed. ‘Okay, Alex. Have it your way. I’ll get Hayley to photocopy the records for you, if you feel it will do you any good. If it ever got out this case has been re-opened, the DG will have me hanging headfirst from his office window, you understand?’ Stratton pointed to the ceiling – the head of MI5 had the office above him.
Swan smiled. ‘Don’t worry John, I’ll be discreet as always and only report back to you, directly.’
Stratton decided it was time they changed the subject moving it to the Hennessy case. ‘There’s still no sign of our mysterious South African, or the Libyan for that matter.’
‘What about the NIS? Any news from them yet?’
Stratton explained that the details were sent through to them about an hour ago. He looked at his watch. ‘With an hour difference, we should hopefully get something back by lunchtime.’
Swan already had his theories about this man, thinking he could be involved in an IRA attack on the mainland, and with them calling in outside help, he feared it could be a big one. ‘We know that she was a courier and target surveillance for the Provo’s, the question is who shot her? Have you had the ballistics report yet?’
Stratton shook his head. ‘No, but I can tell you from the bloodbath found in the ladies loo in The Barge Pole, it all looks a bit messy. The police found a dead man with a knife in him who has been identified as a Michael Quinn with a Cricklewood address. He’s also on the security watch list as a suspected IRA assassin. Another known, Shamus O’Keefe was found with three shots, one in the chest, and two to the head, not far from where the police found the girl.
‘A classic double-tap by the sounds of things.’
Stratton just nodded.
‘Looks like Hennessy and the South African could have encountered some trouble.’ Swan suggested.
Stratton reached for his phone to talk to his PA. ‘Hayley can you contact Woolwich, and ask them if they have the ballistics report from the Regent’s Canal shooting?’ He put back the receiver. ‘Forensics found quite a few bullets at the scene, suggesting there could’ve been a shootout. Our mystery South African could be armed. We should have our answer within half an hour- how about some more coffee, Alex?’
There was a knock at the door, and Alan Carter walked in. ‘Sir, this just came in from a Peter Cunningham, in Pretoria.’ Acknowledging Swan, he handed it to his Head of Section.
Stratton’s eyes bulged. ‘Looks like our man has been identified as a Phillip Munroe, former member of the Recces, now a sort of specialist for hire. Expert in explosives, covert surveillance, unarmed combat and firearms.’
‘A real man of action, then.’ Swan quipped.
‘The Recces are a unit full of tough bastards, Alex. They’ve done some nasty work over there lately against the likes of SWAPO and the ANC. They’ve even done some covert work for their Rhodesian cousins as well. They’re also known as the South African Foreign Legion. Even some of ours have joined them in the past.’
Swan raised a brow. ‘So, what’s he now doing with the IRA, unless he could be infiltrating them on some Black Op?’
‘If he was,’ Stratton guffawed, ‘then, I’m sure we would’ve been informed. I wouldn’t think the South Africans would want to paddle around in our cesspool without us knowing about it. Northern Ireland is where we all work together, Alex - You, me, SIS, DET, Special Branch and the RUC, everyone, including any foreign agencies.’
The question remained. Why had Munroe been involved with a known PIA activist?
11
After a drive north of London into leafy Hertfordshire, Swan approached the gateway of a big house named, Happy Landings, near the market town of Tring and parked next to a 1968 silver Bentley on the gravelled drive.
Climbing out of the car, he found himself being greeted by two Basset hounds, their tails wagging excitedly as their large as life owner also approached him.
Retired Air Commodore, Sir Alistair Higgins, smiled warmly and put out his hand to greet his old friend. ‘Alex, my boy - really great to see you. Lady V and I don’t get many visitors now that the RAF have put me out to pasture.’
Swan shook his hand. ‘Nice to see you, too, Sir Alistair. Sorry it had to be at such short notice.’
Higgins fiddled with his handlebar moustache and ushered the dogs into the house prompting his guest to follow.
Swan had been here many times before, but still allowed his host to lead the way inside.
‘If you’re looking for Lady V, she’s been invited for a luncheon at the local church. It’s just you, me and Fred and Freda’. He gestured to the dogs who had settled into a designated corner of the drawing room. Higgins then walked over to his drinks cabinet. ‘So, what will it be then, Alex? I tend to fix myself a Campari and soda this time of the day.’
Swan nodded accepting the same. They had been friends for almost twenty years. While Head of A Section of MI5, Swan had discovered a certain Finnish clerical worker in Higgins’s department at the Ministry of Defence was not as she appeared. Unfortunately, the high-ranking RAF officer had been sucked into her charms, of which he had had a brief flirtatious interlude, only to find himself having to face some embarrassing questions from his superiors when Swan had exposed her of being a Soviet mole. It was only the interference of Swan, which prevented not only a possible court martial, but also had managed for the then Head of RAF Overseas Operations, to avoid requiring a good divorce lawyer. To this day, his wife, Lady Victoria Higgins, had remained oblivious to the incident. A best-kept secret between Swan and her husband. Higgins was lucky and had only lost his much-treasured post for a sideways move to Head of Home Operations instead. But this his career and his marriage, Higgins had pulled strings to help out Swan in a few of SID’s cases. He had also been best man at his wedding. Now, Swan had come to awkwardly probe his friend, having seen his name on the Butterfly file.
Higgins handed him his glass. ‘Cheers, my boy!’ He then asked Swan about Janet and SID.
‘Janet is well, and still my long-suffering secretary, but the department is coming up for the dreaded Defence Review in a couple of weeks.’
Higgins was more than familiar with those. ‘Oh. I remember my first one in Fifty-Seven. The infamous Sandys white paper. I really had to really campaign to stop the RAF becoming solely dependent on missiles for our air defence, ruffled a few political feathers doing it, as well.’
Swan laughed. ‘I bet you did. So, what about you. How’s retirement?’
‘Well, I have exhausted my modelmaking on aircraft on my flying log, so have been starting a collection on Post War RAF types.’
Swan then gazed down at his friend’s midriff. ‘And, how’s things health-wise?’
Higgins knew his friend was still concerned about him losing his spleen to an assassin’s bullet that had been meant for Swan. ‘Still taking the medication, but no serious problems. He picked up his drink. ‘Grab your Campari, Alex, I have something to show you.’
Higgins had invited Swan to his model room and inside, he took in the display cabinets that lined the walls with scale models of aircraft inside them. He commented on the magnificent array of finely finished pieces. ‘A fine collection, Sir Alistair,’ He stared over at a table where another model kit was in the process of construction in the shadow of a desk lamp. ‘I see you still enjoy building them.’
Higgins smiled. He liked to show them off when given the chance.
Swan put his glass down on a side table. ‘S
ir Alistair, we’ve been friends for a long time, haven’t we?’
Higgins nodded. ‘Quite so, my boy.’
Swan was suddenly finding it difficult to continue. ‘There’s something I’m working on, which you could maybe help me with.’
Higgins was suddenly alert. ‘Of course, dear boy, anything. You know that.’
Swan forced a smile. ‘Then, can you tell me what your part was in Operation Butterfly?’
Higgins felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He stared at Swan, a wild look of surprise in his eyes. ‘How on Earth...?’
Swan interrupted him. ‘John Stratton. I saw your name on the file.’
Higgins sighed. ‘I see. So, I take it Butterfly has been opened up again?’
Swan shook his head. ‘Not officially, no.’ He explained about Barnett’s letter and Higgins suddenly remembered of how the man had been at the airfield. He then thought about the late aircraft designer, enquiring how the funeral went.
Swan suddenly realised they were trailing off topic. ‘We really need to talk about the enquiry, Sir Alistair.’
Higgins nodded. ‘Yes, yes of course, dear boy.’ He pulled a chair out from under his work desk and sat down as Swan remained standing. ‘Well, I was asked by Stratton to join the enquiry due to my knowledge of the aircraft. I wasn’t much help, just explored the possibilities of how this plane would be used if it had been stolen, for a particular reason.’ Higgins went on to explain how he presented his data on the specifications and payload capabilities of the Buccaneer. ‘The Buccaneer is a big aircraft, Alex. I’ll show you something.’
Swan observed his friend move across the room to one of the display cabinets, then reached in and pull out one of the models. He showed it to him. It was almost a foot long. ‘This is a Buccaneer, Alex.’
Swan nodded in recognition to the images he had seen in the file. He took it into his hands and examined it carefully, especially noting the high tail section and how long the wingspan was.
Higgins went over to another cabinet and pulled out another model, which Swan recognised instantly. ‘Good grief - that’s the Rapier!’
Higgins smiled. ‘Thought that might send you down Memory Lane, Alex.’
Swan surveyed the large delta-winged silver aircraft that had been dubbed the Silver Angel by the press and designed by Howard Barnett. He smiled his appreciation. ‘Indeed, Sir Alistair.’
Swan got to know the aircraft well while on the Silver Angel case, investigating the death of a promising young aircraft designer who had been Howard Barnett’s protégé. Studying it, he compared it to the Buccaneer model he was still holding. Having seen the Rapier up close, he could now realise how big the full-size Buccaneer was. His eyes fell back on the model of the Rapier. ‘What might have been, eh, Sir Alistair?’
Higgins agreed, still bitter to the way how the whole Rapier project had been cancelled by the British government.
Swan suddenly had a thought. He looked again at the Buccaneer model. ‘I was wondering how something this big could get whisked away on the back of a lorry, so to speak?’
Higgins shrugged. ‘Not an easy thing to do. I heard at the enquiry the RAF Police went over the area with a fine-tooth comb, but there was no sign of the Buccaneer, the tow truck, which was a converted bus, or the two motorcycle outriders anywhere.’ He gestured to Swan to hand back the model. ‘To answer your question, a possibility I also presented to the enquiry was that as the aircraft was originally designed for carrier stowage, wings fold upwards so shortening the wingspan by about eighteen feet.’
‘Enough to say to be transported through the North Humberside landscape?’
Higgins nodded. ‘Absolutely, Alex. Trouble is the height. It would be pretty damn difficult to hide a package like that on a trailer; even with the wings folded or detached.’
Swan tried to envision how the aircraft would look on the back of a flatbed lorry. It would have to be long enough to cater for the bulky aircraft, something similar to what is used to transport a tank and surely something this size would have been noticed on the road. ‘Stratton believes it somehow left the country, possibly shipped out somewhere. I have Andrew working on that now. He’s up at the docks in Hull checking against shipping records around the time of the aircraft’s disappearance.’
Higgins nodded. ‘Well, let’s hope he manages to come up with something, anything which could mean the covered-up embarrassment Butterfly has caused this government, can be cleared up.’
He suddenly had a bitter taste in his mouth. Just like Stratton, he had hoped never to hear of this again. He picked up Swan’s drink and handed it to him. ‘Now, what say we have our drinks and drive down to the village for a spot of lunch?’
Outside, Swan went to walk over to his car when he was suddenly called back by Higgins.
‘Thought I might treat you to a ride in my car down to the village, Alex.’
Swan looked at the silver Bentley, but Higgins caught his eye. ‘No, Alex. I was referring to the one in the garage.’
Swan watched as his friend unlocked the big doors to reveal the grill of a vintage sports car, a 1947 MG Roadster in racing green. He let out a gasp. ‘I see you still have her then.’ He was familiar with the car, as there had been many times at their leisure weekends at a place known as The Furrows, Higgins had driven down to the establishment situated on the Kent and East Sussex border from London. Swan had admired it then and to see it still in immaculate condition, and the thought of driving in it, thrilled him immensely.
During the drive to the village, Swan took in the plush interior, giving an appreciative smile. ‘Can’t believe you kept her all these years.’
Higgins sighed. ‘Yes, but unfortunately I’m selling her. Lady V has her eyes set on a villa in the Algarve.’
Swan shared in his friend’s sadness of having to let the car go. ‘Had any interests so far?’
‘One or two, mostly these collector types. Still, at least I know she’ll be cared for.’
Higgins turned to his passenger. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy taking her on? I know she’s not a Triumph, but I could offer you first refusal, if you’re interested.’
Swan nodded. ‘Well, I could talk to Janet about it, I suppose. And, we are thinking of moving out of London.’
Higgins took his hand off the gearstick and gave Swan a dig in the ribs. ‘Good show, my boy! That’s the spirit.’
Higgins brought the old MG through the stone pillars of the pub car park choosing a spot at the far end, away from the other cars. As they climbed out, he looked at Swan over the black vinyl roof. ‘Tell you what, Alex, my boy? Why don’t I let you drive us back to the house, afterwards? Get the feel of her, what?’
For a brief moment, Swan had the grin of a schoolboy who had just been given the keys to a sweet shop right across his face, but then the thoughts of the impending Defence Review came cascading back. He looked again at the car, realising following this review, if SID was to be decommissioned, he knew at his age, he might well be finding himself on the ex-serviceman‘s scrapheap.
Higgins walked beside him into the pub’s entrance. ‘So where do you go from here with Butterfly, Alex?’
Swan halted. ‘In his letter, HB mentioned a reporter who’d chased up on the story. I think I’ll be paying him a visit to find out what he knows.’
*
In the offices at the Hull Docks, Andrew Gable sat perusing through a red record book dated 1978 and using his finger, scanned the entries and then checked the files of the shipping companies in the list, Janet Swan had collated for him back in London. His target dates were on the day of the Buccaneer’s disappearance and two weeks beyond.
To the staff inside the office, Andrew was on official MOD business to track a possible illegal arms shipment, and in receipt of his SID warrant card, the Records manager had granted him full access, inviting him to feel free to ask anyone for assistance should he need it. Andrew was grateful. He even had been supplied with cups of coffee and biscuits while h
e worked.
Since arriving at the dock in the late morning, he had now searched through and cross-checked a page of entries from the list. It had been an exhausting task and he felt intrusive when asking staff to retrieve the files, despite being invited to do so. His findings now had him looking at an entry for a consignment of farming machinery to the Mozambique port of Beira by the Mallinson Shipping Company. The ship was called the Minerva, and it had sailed with the shipment the day after the incident. Gable pulled the file towards him and scowled through the contents.
A few pages in, was a list of true actual contents of the freight. Among the cargo, were tractors, ploughing and bailing machines and two heavy combined harvesters. It was the last item that really caught his attention. An entry for a large crane. The dimensions of the Coles Hydra Husky mobile crane showed it to be a massive 60 ft long. He noted the make and registration of the vehicle, then asked a member of staff if there was any way he would be able to check this with someone who had worked on the docks at the time, and especially anyone who oversaw this consignment onto the ship. He was soon given the name of a dock supervisor and where he could be contacted. A man who had been in this position for sixteen years and known for having a good memory.
Half an hour later, he introduced himself to Brian Baker, the Albert Dock supervisor. Inside Baker’s office, Gable told him the reason for his visit, again showing his warrant card. ‘If you could possibly be of some help with this, I would much appreciate it.’
Baker sat nursing a tea that he had let go stone cold after having to rush out to deal with a dropped load of sugar beet from a derrick. ‘I promise to be as helpful as I can, Mr Gable.’ Even though he was in familiar surroundings, he suddenly felt like a witness in a police interview room.
Gable gave an appreciative smile. ‘I wonder if you can possibly remember a shipment of farming machinery to a freighter called the Minerva?’ Gable checked his notes. ‘Registered to the Mallinson Shipping Company? It was just over three years ago.’
