by V M Knox
‘There,’ Clement said, pointing to the steps. With his left index finger on the steps at the end of Watchbell Street, his right finger traced the route of Jane’s anticipated departure. ‘Jane leaves The Standard and walks from the inn towards the Needles Passage then into Wish Street and across the Tillingham River to Winchelsea Road. Phillip is watching from the steps in Watchbell Street. Even in the darkness, with a pair of binoculars and with the moonlight reflecting off the water, there is sufficient light to see her cross the bridge. Especially since Jane’s departure will most likely be at a specific time. But Haswell will not take the steps to the waterfront because of the Home Guard sentry. Once Haswell sees her, he returns to the house at the end of Watchbell Street and takes the underground tunnels to The Mermaid . Then he leaves the inn and walks down to the Strand Quay to cross the Tillingham, the Home Guard sentry now behind him and obscured from sight.’
‘You’re sure about the tunnels?’
Clement nodded, but he was thinking of his mother and all the stories she told him about Rye’s smuggling past.
‘Sergeant, telephone the Captain of the Home Guard and tell him to remove the sentry on duty tonight at the foot of the Watchbell Steps between the hours of midnight and four o’clock tomorrow morning. I do not want another unnecessary death,’ Morris said.
‘Where exactly does this tunnel surface, Clement?’ Johnny asked.
‘Behind a bookcase in one of the bedrooms at The Mermaid. I have seen it. Phillip takes the tunnels from Watchbell Street to The Mermaid, then runs the short distance towards the bridge over the Tillingham. Once across, he joins Jane on the Winchelsea Road.’
‘How do you want to play this, Chief Inspector?’ Johnny asked.
Morris stared at the map. ‘It would be wise to check the steps near Watchbell Street.’
‘The local boys should do it,’ Clement said, interrupting Morris. ‘If Phillip sees any of us, especially me, he could vanish. The local police should station themselves in a house in Watchbell Street with a view of the steps. Once they see Haswell, or any man watching the seafront return to the house with the tunnel, they could telephone you here at the police station. However, the Sergeant and I should position ourselves in another house opposite The Mermaid as soon as we know Jane has left The Standard. We will need as much time as possible to get into position. Sergeant, can you arrange it with a patriotic resident?’
‘Leave that to us,’ the Sergeant said.
Clement continued. ‘Phillip’s departure from Watchbell Street will be but minutes after sighting Jane crossing the bridge. I estimate that the Sergeant and I have about three to five minutes before Phillip emerges in Mermaid Street. Once I identify Phillip and see him leave The Mermaid, the Sergeant and I will return to the police station and you and I, Arthur, will run overland for Winchelsea Beach. Johnny, you should go at midnight. That will give you more than enough time to locate the best and safest course across the beach and cut a section of barbed wire for us. When Arthur and I arrive at the beach, we will locate the ditch adjacent to the cut wire opposite our surveillance post. Then we wait for Jane and Phillip to arrive.’
They stared at the map of the ancient town.
Phillip Haswell flashed into Clement’s mind again. Was the location of Coleshill really what it had all been about? Phillip Haswell had not recently been won over to Nazism by the prospect of a negotiated peace to mitigate grievous times. Phillip and Jane had killed the real Elsie Wainwright in order to contrive and maintain a history for him; a legend, Clement believed was the word they used for such deceptions.
Haswell had been sent in by the Germans years earlier to watch and wait and to provide information that was so valuable that the Nazis would wait a long time to acquire it. The discovery of what really went on at HMS Forward, thanks to Lieutenant Ellis’s misinformation, was still intact, even if the location was known. But the existence of Coleshill and what happened there, especially now with the invasion imminent, was what it really had been about. That was why Phoebe had broken cover.
Chapter 29
Monday 23rd September
‘I’ll go now,’ Johnny said, reaching for his coat. ‘It’s just turned midnight. Once I see the targets, I’ll start the motorcycle. If there is anything unexpected, I’ll flick on the head light.’
Clement shook hands with Johnny.
‘See you on the beach, Clement, Chief Inspector. Oh! And Clement, sometimes things don’t go as expected. Just be prepared. Always best.’
Clement smiled. He understood such missions almost never went according to plan. But he took Johnny’s remarks in the manner in which he believed they had been intended - as reassurance. Johnny left the room, his footsteps diminishing along the corridor. Clement flicked a glance at Arthur Morris who was checking his police-issue service revolver. Morris placed extra ammunition in his pocket. Clement knew the weapon would be next to useless, but he couldn’t say as much.
He closed his eyes, his mind was on Mary; on happier days when he knew where his wife was and what she was doing. He also thought of his men. At least he knew where they were. Having Reg and his ability with the rifle with them would have been useful. Clement leaned back in the chair and silently repeated his favourite line from Henry V.
The resourceful Sergeant had found two Home Guard uniforms for him and Morris. While the cloth was rough, it was incredibly warm and Clement thought it fitted better than his own. By the time he and Morris returned to the interview room wearing the uniforms, the Sergeant had replaced the pot of tea.
Clement sipped the warm drink. What he really needed was sleep. He couldn’t. Not yet. When it was over he would sleep like a baby. He wondered whether it would be in this life or the next.
He turned his mind to the weapons Johnny had brought. Clement stood and pulled them out of the pack, lining them up along the table. The Sten was closest to his hand. He felt the familiar coolness of the barrel, then attached the magazine of ammunition. His preparation was routine. He didn’t expect trouble. Not this time. The initial sortie was for reconnaissance only. Despite this, he would not go unprepared. He heard Major Bannon’s voice telling them that preparation and adaptability are the keys to a successful mission. Keys. His mind drifted to Inspector Russell’s car keys and what Morris has said about them. Finding the five pound notes on Jane or Phillip implicated them, but the car keys with the Celtic cross would see them hang, if they were not already dead by morning.
Clement wriggled his foot, the feel of the Fairbairn Sykes knife strapped to his inner left leg digging into his calf. He ran his gaze over the remaining weapons. He intended to take three grenades and four more magazines of ammunition when they went to Winchelsea Beach. His eye rested on the trip wires, and explosives. But there was no time for laying explosives, besides there were enough already on the beach. He glanced at the knuckle duster, stiletto and garrotte. The knuckle duster could be useful but the others he decided to leave behind. Stealth might have been possible if the beach was sand, but it was impossible to disguise running footsteps on shingle. The small, rounded stones had a way of subsiding and slipping beneath one’s feet. As a child he had loved both the feel and the sound of the crunching, sliding stones. But now their sound meant death. Frontal attack was the only way, and that required as much bravado as it did bullets.
He checked his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since Johnny had left the police station. Clement guessed it would be another hour and a half before they received word that Jane had left The Standard.
As the temperature dropped, Morris went to lie down in one of the cells. The wait was tedious. It made one sleepy yet heightened the nerves. Despite Clement’s body yearning for the panacea of sleep, adrenaline kept him awake. He hoped it would last for a few hours yet. Swinging his feet onto a chair, he leaned back and pulling his uniform jacket around him, closed his eyes.
The telephone rang.
From further along the corridor, Clement could hear the Sergeant’s even, determined
footsteps.
‘Jane has left The Standard,’ the Sergeant said, entering the office.
Morris joined him. Clement glanced at the clock on the wall. Two o’clock. Reaching for the Sten gun, he checked it one more time then fitted the silencer.
Clement smiled at Morris; a man he had come to respect and admire. ‘Be ready to leave the moment we return, Arthur.’
Morris nodded. ‘I’ll be ready. And Clement, good luck.’
Running along the corridor with the Sergeant, they opened the door and stepped into the street. Cinque Port Street was deserted. A cool wind slapped their faces as they ran into Market Road. Crossing High Street, they ran up West Street, their distorted shadows leaping over the cobblestones in the moonlight like the departed spirits of the smugglers’ gangs. Clement knew their footsteps were echoing off the buildings, but there was little he could do about it.
As they approached Mermaid Street, Clement began to tip-toe along the cobbles. Slowing at the corner, he ran his fingers along the Sten and slipped the catch. Peering around the edge of the corner building, he saw that Mermaid Street was deserted. Rounding the corner, he leaned against the walls and stared down the descending, narrow street, his eye scanning and checking every window and doorway in the darkness. He edged forward and glanced upwards. The roof line of the houses was visible against the moonlit sky. But the light did not penetrate into the narrow streets. In the darkness, human forms blended into night air. His ears strained for any sounds of movement.
Beckoning behind him to the Sergeant, Clement hunched low and they ran along the cobbles to the door step of a house diagonally opposite The Mermaid Inn. Clement kept his Sten gun close to his chest, his finger poised on the trigger. Glancing around, the Sergeant tapped on the door. A man of advanced years opened it and Clement and the Sergeant slipped inside. It had taken them three minutes to reach the house.
‘Thank you for helping us tonight,’ Clement said. He didn’t know the couple’s names, but he could see their wide-eyed enthusiasm. The old man pointed to the stairs and they ran up to the bedroom at the front of the house that overlooked the street. A minute later the telephone rang and he heard the old man answer. Clement squatted by the window and waited.
‘The man has left Watchbell Steps,’ the resident said, entering the room.
Clement nodded.
The man left. Staying by the window seat, Clement opened the window and leaned his head out, his gaze on the front door of The Mermaid. The street below was deserted and still. He checked his watch. In the dim light, the street below exuded its sinister past. Silent - macabre even - in the black-blue light. He gripped his Sten, recalling the terrifying tales his mother had told him when just a boy of the infamous Hawkhurst gang who tortured and murdered anyone who dared oppose their smuggling activities. The Mermaid, even then, had been the chosen haunt of criminals. He saw the inn’s door open.
Two figures stepped out into the street, their boots tapping on the cobblestones, a wisp of condensed air escaping from their warm mouths.
Clement stared at the dark shapes.
‘Is that him?’ the Sergeant whispered.
Clement leaned further forward, his torso out the window. Staring at the backs of the two men wrapped in coats with hats pulled down over their heads, he fixed his gaze on their silhouettes. He had not expected two men. He squinted, his eyes straining for any sign of recognition. Were they innocent people walking the streets? But who walked streets during wartime at two o’clock in the morning? Clement stared again at the darkened shapes as they walked away from the inn and down the street towards the waterfront, their shadows elongating as they went, the moonlight picking up their presence.
Clement continued to stare. Time was passing. He needed to make his decision. He squinted at the forms, his concentration absolute. The figures were almost at the junction of Mermaid Street and The Mint. He visualized the day of the strafing run, when he had watched Phillip Haswell run towards the village green. Were these the same narrow shoulders? Clement shifted his stare to the other man. This man had a slight but noticeable limp and although he wore a heavy coat, Clement knew, by the man’s large frame, he was not Phillip Haswell. But there was something else. Something odd about the way the men walked. Clement frowned. Were they too close? He couldn’t see the thinner man’s arms. He rubbed at the crease in his forehead. ‘That’s him!’ he said but he felt something was not right. He stood and without waiting for the Sergeant, ran from the room and descended the stairs. Opening the front door of the obliging resident, Clement stood in the doorway and checked the street. The two men had disappeared from Mermaid Street and were now somewhere close to the waterfront and out of his sight. Turning right, he ran to the top of the street and sprinted towards Cinque Ports Street. Three minutes later he ran into the police station. Morris looked up as he entered the room.
‘There are two men!’ Clement said.
‘Two?!’
He nodded. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked Morris while grabbing the weapons lined up along the table.
‘Yes.’
Almost without thinking, Clement slipped the knuckle duster, three grenades and four magazines of ammunition into the webbing around his waist, and strapped a pouch containing the binoculars to his right thigh. Glancing at Morris, Clement held the Sten in front of him, and they hurried from the police station into the night.
They ran as far as Wish Street, pausing just before the last building. Leaning against the cold wall, Clement peered around the corner. He scanned the open space between the last building in Wish Street and the Tillingham Bridge, then he concentrated on the opposite side of the river. If he had been Phillip Haswell, he would wait in some obscure hiding place on the other side just to make sure no-one was following, before running along the Winchelsea Road. He scrutinized the low bushes on the other shore for movement.
‘What’s happening?’ Morris whispered.
Clement reached for the binoculars and scanned the opposite shoreline. He saw the huddled forms. Three shapes coalesced into one dark mass, then parted again into three. Standing, the three separated and began to run. Jane was on the far left, the slight shape immediately recognisable. From the running gait of the centre figure Clement recognised Haswell. The other man was hunched and the limp seemed to be more pronounced. He was carrying something. As Clement stared, the moonlight caught the object. A glint of light, just a second in duration but it was enough. The large man held a machine gun. Within seconds the group had disappeared from sight.
Clement signalled Morris. They ran across the bridge. Running through low scrub land, they headed south-east for Winchelsea Beach. Clement’s eyes darted between his feet and the night air in front of him. He could hear Morris’s breathing as they ran. Flaring his nostrils, Clement breathed in the salty air. He had not run along this stretch of land since boyhood, but nothing was different. The short-cuts and tracks to the beach had not changed in forty years.
From the top of the beach head, he and Morris lay belly down in the grass. He fancied he could hear the gulls, but he knew it was his imagination. Reaching for the binoculars again he scanned the barbed wire, looking for the break Johnny had cut through it two hours previously.
‘We need to get closer.’
Clement replaced the binoculars in their pouch and stood. He could see the old, wooden pylons about fifty yards along the beach, black like tall burned tree trunks against the shingles. Hunching, they ran through the long grass towards the ridge opposite the line of pylons. Clement stopped and scanned the beach before he and Morris descended from the scrub land, across the track and onto the ridge overlooking the beach.
Opposite the now de-constructed groyne was a narrow ditch. It had once been used as a drain in the event of an un-usually high tide. He and Morris lay there, their bodies spread on the sloped wall. Clement flattened himself into the ground and, lying on his belly, raised the binoculars to check the length of the barbed wire barricade. He smiled when he saw the break in its
defence. Johnny had cut a gap for them, and had even placed some driftwood over the fallen, razor-sharp wire.
Morris dropped beside him, pressing his back into the ditch. ‘Anything?’
Clement handed the binoculars to him and pointed to where Johnny had cut the wire. ‘Any sign of the submarine?’ Morris asked.
Clement shook his head. He hadn’t expected there to be anything yet, he just wanted to be familiar with the beach and the structures on it. He scanned its deserted length. In the half-light he could see the low waves crashing onto the shingles and creeping up the beach with the tide. Halfway along the beach were the remains of a fishing shed and another series of pylons. He focused the binoculars again on the ones opposite their position. There were the remnants of twelve pylons. He knew, from his boyhood, that each pylon was taller than a man but the horizontal planks that formed the groyne had been removed, just as the Sergeant had said. Five of the pylons stood on the beach out of the water, seven extending into the waves. A boat could tie up to the outer one but there would be little in the way of protection from onshore attack. An individual, however, would be afforded some protection. Clement looked out to sea. The night sky and the sea had merged into one dark mass. Had it not been for the moon’s half-light, he believed they would see nothing. Silver flecks of light played over the water.
Clement checked the time. Two forty-five.
The wind blew in Clement’s face. He should have been feeling nervous, but he was surprised by his sense of calm. He felt alert and alive, almost like a young man again. But above all, he felt in control. Was it just that he was on familiar ground? Perhaps he felt the familiarity of past actions? He had lain in trenches before, his eyes scanning horizons for German raiding parties. Now in the dead of night he searched for German submarine periscopes. Somewhere out there, just beneath the surface was a German U-boat waiting for the allotted time.
