by Mark A Biggs
CHAPTER SIX
Kate and Edward
‘An eighty-seven-year-old couple from Australia, who ran away from their nursing home, caused a multi car pileup in Melbourne on Monday when they walked, with outstretched walking sticks, across a four lane motorway. The couple are believed to be the same people who in 2008 captured the imagination and hearts of the public when, aged 85, they were involved in a serious road accident in Poland while riding a vintage motorbike and sidecar across the Britain and Europe. Police are following reports that they were heading to Melbourne International Airport hoping to fly to Britain. Authorities have grave fears for their safety. According to their nursing home both Max and Olivia have major health issues. A spokesperson from the home said, “They are quite possibly showing the signs of dementia and had mentally slipping back into the past, trying to reach Britain, where they grew up.”
‘If you are coming to Britain I hope you make it,’ concluded the news reader, before moving on to the next item.
‘Olivia,’ I called.
‘What is it Max?’
‘We are on the news. It may be time to consider leaving the hotel.’
‘Do they know we are in Britain?’
‘It’s not been reported but that doesn’t mean the authorities don’t know.’
‘Max, we can’t, the letter from Penny hasn’t arrived. We have to wait, just one or two more days.’
Olivia was right as always; we just needed to be patient. It would not take long for us to be traced to the UK but, until they released our pictures and the surnames we were travelling under, we should remain safe at the Hotel Renaissance. Anyway, it was highly unlikely that the authorities would devote any serious resources to tracking us down. Who would really care about two old farts from Australia? The more I thought about it, the more I thought we should be safe for at least another day or two but then it would be wise to move, with or without Penny’s letter. We could make other arrangements to obtain the letter from the hotel when it arrived.
I spent the early part of the morning, our second full day in Britain, continuing my search for cars on car sales internet sites. Our plan, before leaving Australia was to hire a vehicle, but my current thinking was that it would be safer to buy a car privately. ‘Purchasing a classic car, would in my opinion, appear less suspicious to the seller,’ I told Olivia, who just rolled her eyes.
‘And that’s your story and you’re sticking to it!’ she said, before adding, ‘I expect a leather interior. Red.’
Searching the web, I looked for a Jaguar. A beautiful British racing green Jaguar, 1960s Mark 2, with the 3.8 litre motor and 5 speed gear box, was my preference. I found one in Oxford, only seventy-seven kms away and easy to reach from Heathrow. Making a phone call and then chatting with the owner, I concluded that he was a true car enthusiast. We agreed on an inspection time of 2.00pm the following day with a cash drive away purchase, if I liked the car. It was fortuitous that I had taken a £20,000 cash advance on the Visa card the previous day which did raise some eyebrows at the bank.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. As on the other two days, other than going to the bank and searching for a car, we had done little and mostly remained in our room. We hadn’t even been clothes shopping because the effects of jet lag hung like a heavy fog and refused to lift. Olivia and I were in the midst of discussing a light lunch in the hotel dining room when the phone rang.
‘Mr Breeze, good afternoon sir. This is Reception, we have a priority package from Australia for you.’
‘Excellent. I will be down shortly. We will be checking out tomorrow morning.’
‘Certainty sir.’
After lunch and having securely attached the recently arrived post office box key to my key ring, we passed the afternoon with another extended nap. We both woke shortly before 5.00pm. Ordinarily I would have spent time packing for the trip to Oxford the following day, but, with our luggage still only consisting of toiletries and silky and skimpy things, pre-dinner drinks at the bar seemed a more fulfilling way to spend the next hour or so. Besides, 5:00 to 6:00 pm was Happy Hour.
The bar was busy with people dotted throughout the room. After ordering glasses of chardonnay, we found comfortable chairs with a view of one of the large TV screens which lined a number of the walls of the bar.
‘Olivia, I have an uncomfortable feeling we are being watched.’
‘Max you’re getting more and more paranoid.’
I gave a despondent sigh and took a sip of wine, which I swilled in my mouth, savouring the flavour before swallowing. As I leaned back into the chair a feeling of dread swept across me as the teletext which scrolls across the bottom of the TV screen announcing news highlights read, ‘Special report in the 6.00pm News on the missing Australian nursing home residents who are on the run in the UK.’
‘Excuse me, Olivia and Max.’
Olivia and I looked up to see a smartly dressed young man, aged somewhere in his early thirties.
‘My name is Edward Phoenix; I am the afternoon manager of the hotel.’
He paused but we said nothing.
‘I followed your story after the motorbike accident in 2008. I remember wanting to be like you when I was your age.’
‘I am terribly sorry Edward, we know of the story of course and Olivia and I do share the same Christian names, but we are not those people. Unfortunately you are mistaken.’
‘That may be so sir but you may want to know that we have just received a call from the police asking if Olivia and Max Breeze are guests at our hotel. They know you are travelling under false names, as do we all; it was on the news earlier. The police are on their way here; now! If you wish to leave, my wife Kate, who also works here, is waiting for you at the rear.’
‘Young man, we have changed our minds; you clearly have a very good memory, unlike my husband who can’t even remember who we are. Lead the way,’ said Olivia, grabbing our walking sticks and thrusting mine into my hand. I needed it to help me stand.
Edward started towards the front reception but stopped abruptly and turned before saying, ‘This way.’
As we pushed through the swing doors leading to the kitchen, I looked back over my shoulder to see a uniformed and, in all likelihood, plain clothes police officers walking towards the reception desk. I also noticed the man, whom I thought had been watching us, leave the bar.
‘See that door at the far end of the kitchen? Go through and follow the corridor to the end. It will lead you to the delivery area. Kate will be waiting for you there. I must return to my office so nothing looks suspicious,’ said Edward. ‘I will see you later tonight.’
I raised an eyebrow and looked back at Edward.
‘You will be staying with us tonight. Unless you have a better plan?’ he added in an enquiring tone. He did not wait for a reply before hurrying away.
We made our way down the corridor and into the loading and staff parking area. Waiting for us was a young woman in her early thirties. She was tall and slender with magnificent jet black hair and a calming smile.
‘Hello Olivia and Max, I’m Kate. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. This way.’
Without speaking further, Kate led us to her SUV, which was a blessing. SUVs are easy to get in and out of with seats at bum height. Oldies like us can just swing in. I sat in the front and Olivia in the rear.
Traffic was heavy as we swung left onto Bath Road, then north on the M25 and then the M40 heading towards Oxford.
None of us spoke as we drove. After fifteen, or maybe twenty minutes, I broke the silence and said, ‘Kate, It’s quite possible we will be followed.’
‘I thought we might be. I am planning to make a detour by swinging onto some country lanes. That will tell us if somebody is following.’
Kate turned left off the M40 and on to the A40 and then left past a pub with a sign saying the “Cricketers Arms”.
‘Is there anybody following us?’ I asked.
‘Not as far as I can tell,’ repl
ied Kate.
She made a series of turns before crossing the A40 again and then joined Bayswater Road. We were all, once again, silent until I said, ‘Kate, don’t get me wrong, we are very grateful of your help, but why are you helping us? And you said, in the car park, “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.” It sounded as if you know us.’
‘I feel as if I do. I will tell you our story over dinner, when Edward arrives home.’
A feeling of panic swelled in my stomach. Had we left the post office box key back in our room? Anxiously, I grabbed for my pocket. My keys were there and with them the post office box key.
Kate looked across and said, ‘Are you okay Max?’
‘Yes, everything is fine.’
Kate told us that Edward and she lived in Horton-cum-Studley, a country hamlet about 10 km north east of Oxford. Horton-cum-Studley was a quaint English village consisting of a parish church, St Barnabas and a pub. Arriving, I took careful note of the directions, watching the street names as we turned into Oakley Road and then swung into the driveway to a house completely obscured from the road by trees.
The guest room of their house was spacious, for an English residence, most of which are considerably smaller than what we are accustomed to in Australia. Kate kindly lent us a change of clothes. Edward’s shirts and pants fitted me surprisingly well as did Kate’s for Olivia. Buying a new wardrobe was on the list of to do for Friday, after we picked up the Jag. We washed and changed and went downstairs, carefully holding onto the banister. It was 9.00pm before Edward arrived home and, by that time, we were feeling rather peckish. As we were gathering around the table for dinner the phone rang. Kate left the table to answer the phone, which was within hearing distance.
‘Hi Dad,’ said Kate, ‘it’s really great to hear from you but we have some friends over for dinner; can I call you back tomorrow?’
We couldn’t hear his response but gathered from Kate’s conversation that he was intending to visit.
‘I see.’ Then came another lengthy pause as Kate listened before saying, ‘No Dad, I understand; we saw the story about them on the news as well.’ Another pause. ‘You know you are always welcome. When do you hope to be here? Saturday! That will be fantastic, see you then.’
Kate hung up the phone and returned to the table.
‘That was my father. He lives in Lyon in France and is coming over to the UK on Saturday to look for you two,’ said Kate looking at first to Olivia and then at me.
There was a moment of silence, as if Kate was waiting for us to say something. When Olivia and I both kept quiet she continued, ‘I didn’t tell him you were here.’
‘Why is your father interested in us?’ asked Olivia.
‘He drove past you in Poland, when you had the motorbike accident. When he heard the accident reported in the news, he thought it sounded suspicious. Sorry; I neglected to say, he works for Interpol. Anyway, because he works for Interpol, he was able to make some inquiries about your accident. He didn’t know it when he began, but his investigation crossed paths with his father; my grandfather, Jean Axel.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘Jean, Pop, is no longer with us; he passed away some years ago now. He escaped from France during the war and came to Britain in 1940. He joined the Royal Navy and served in Coastal Forces, or so we believed.’
I looked at Olivia, and our eyes met, but I remained silent and waited for Kate to continue.
‘My mum died when I was quite young and, with Dad a policeman, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents and in particular with Pop. Towards the end of his life, after Gran died, he started recalling stories from the war. He talked to both Dad and me about going to Brittany on MTB or in vessels disguised as fishing trawlers. He said he would sometimes go ashore staying in Brittany to help organise escaped prisoners, airmen or important people, to come and go from Britain. I remember thinking that they were truly amazing tales. Once, he even told a story of having to travel to Paris on reconnaissance, hiding from the Gestapo to bring information back to Britain. I still struggled to believe what he and people like him did during the war. I don’t think I would have been that brave.
‘As I got older, I realised what he had to say and what he did, is an important part of his story. It’s also our family history.’ Kate had to pause and I could hear the lump in the throat, as her voice was on the verge of tears. She gave a slight cough before going on.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But like all too many families, it wasn’t until after his death that we decided to write his story. When we started to research his stories, we couldn’t find any mention of him being involved in any secret trips to Brittany. We got a copy of his Military Service records and it recorded him as an ordinary sailor in the Coastal Forces. The boats on which he served may have crossed the channel, but none was recorded as a clandestine vessel. You start having doubts—we wondered for a long time if he had made up the stories, although we could see no reason for him doing so. We were left with all of these questions we wished we had asked while he was alive.
‘One night, when Dad was here and we were talking about Pop, we remembered a name of a person Pop said he used to meet in Brittany, Pierre Gicquel. Dad decided to see if Pierre was still alive and found he was living in Lannili. In 2005, he went to visit Pierre Gicquel with the hope that he may remember Pop. He did. It was through him that we came to understand Pop’s real story and his contribution to the war. I also went to visit him and he was kind and welcoming… and patient, as my French was not as good as it once was.’
‘I see,’ I said, still not wanting to give any information away and how do you think this relates to us?’
‘Dad believes you went to see Pierre Gicquel just before he died. He thought your trip across Europe in 2008 was in some way connected with the Second World War and perhaps his father, my grandfather. If not his father, then what his father believed in. He also thinks, or so he said on the phone, that your escape from the nursing home in Australia to come to the UK, is in some way related. He said you are likely to be in grave danger and he wants to find you.’
Kate stopped speaking and there followed an uncomfortable silence which we did not fill. We waited for her to speak again.
‘Is this about the war?’ she asked, but then said, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask. Would you like some more gravy?’ And then hastily she added, ‘we will help you regardless, won’t we Edward?’
Olivia gave me the look which said we had lived our lives too long in secrets.
I looked at Kate and saw in her our Penny, but I was not sure what or how much I should say. In the end I decided on a simple explanation. ‘We knew Pierre Gicquel. He was a special friend and we were deeply saddened when we learned of his death.’
‘I knew it,’ said Kate excitedly. ‘Dad was right. Did you know Pop?’
I looked over to Oliva again and after a short pause said, ‘Perhaps Olivia and I can take a short stroll in your garden. I know it’s late but I need a little air.’
In truth I wanted time to think and to ask Olivia what she thought. How much should we share? We needed help on this quest and, perhaps, Kate and Edward would be the answer to our prayers.
Edward, like Olivia, looked quite surprised by my statement.
‘Let me get you some coats,’ he offered.
It was dark and cold as we made our way carefully up the garden path and away from the house.
‘What’s on your mind Max?’ said Olivia.
‘Maybe this is the most amazing coincidence, in which case we have been exceedingly lucky, and they happen to be the loveliest couple you could hope to meet. God knows we need help.’ I paused. ‘Or maybe we are being a set up and it’s time to leave. Like right now!’
‘Max, my sense is they are genuine but what’s bothering you?’
‘It’s Penny.’ I looked to Olivia expecting her to be surprised but instead she nodded before I continued.
‘She reminds me so much of Penny that
I want to believe her but I think that might be the trap. Would it be possible to set this and us up so quickly, though?’
‘She reminds me of Penny too and I feel drawn to her and Edward. Our agents at Cliff told us about Inspector Axel, so we know he investigated us. I say let’s go along with them, for now, but cautiously. Tomorrow we can do some snooping and check them out. If she really is the daughter of Inspector Axel then we know what she is saying is true.’
‘Yes, but what do we do about Axel, now we know Interpol is looking for us?’
Having reached the end of the garden, we turned to start the walk back. The house shone like a picture from a sales magazine, its lights penetrating the darkness, silhouetting the house against the black of the night. Then it was gone. Not one light at a time but instantaneously as all of the lights went out. A power outage, I thought, but then, through the dining room window, we saw a flash of light and then another. There was no sound.
Gunfire.
Olivia and I lowered ourselves to the ground and crawled into the garden shrubbery. Finding cover, we watched the house and waited. Every now and then, through the windows, we saw flashes of red as the laser sights scanned and searched the house. We knew Kate and Edward were probably dead and, but for fate, us with them.
With no lights emanating from the house we didn’t see the back door open and two figures emerge into the garden. The first sign was the faintest sound of footsteps, barely audible even in the still night, and then red dots hitting one tree and then darting to another in a systematic arc as the assailants moved closer to our hiding place. I had little doubt that they would be wearing night vision goggles. Our best chance of survival was to remain perfectly still, not moving and hardly daring to breathe. A leaf crunched only inches from my nose and even in the dark, lit only by the overcast night sky, a pair of shoes was clearly visible. The assailant remained motionless for what seemed an eternity, listening for any sign of our presence. Then the toes of the shoes turned and moved slowly and methodically on. I gasped for air, realising that I had been holding my breath. The shoes briefly reappeared before vanishing back into the still of the night.
