Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  The inspector was becoming agitated. He was perplexed as to why he was being given a lesson in modern military history when he simply wished to arrest a soldier and interview him about a murder.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the inspector said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve come here regarding a major murder inquiry. I need to talk to Mr Draxfield. Can you help us or not?’

  I added: ‘My colleague doesn’t mean to be impolite, Mr Wilberforce. It’s just we don’t quite understand why you’re telling us all this.’ At that moment, a smartly-dressed young woman entered with a silver tray containing three cups of coffee and a silver sugar bowl.

  Mr Wilberforce appeared to be a patient, sympathetic man. He handed round the elegant China cups and offered sugar to us.

  ‘I quite understand your impatience, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘If you’ll bear with me a moment longer, everything’ll become clear. In the past few weeks, we’ve received disturbing information indicating the jihadist group ISIS, the so-called Islamic State, may be moving to the Tora Bora mountains in eastern Afghanistan to establish a branch of their global terrorist network there.

  ‘Until now, Taliban forces have been dominant in this region. But there are signs the leaders of ISIS are vying for control of this area, which includes vast cave complexes. They aim to set up a major new global terrorism centre in this inaccessible location. But what chills the bones, gentlemen, is they’ve been devising powerful new weapons that pose a threat to the West and they plan to store them there. It’s vital for our defence we combat these efforts. Gentlemen, I know you’ve both signed the Official Secrets Act, so I trust I can speak to you in confidence about this?’ The pair of us nodded.

  ‘Our way of life’s taken centuries to create,’ Mr Wilberforce continued. ‘But evil forces are at work which could destroy it in a matter of a few years. We’ve established a special campaign, named Operation Benedict after the patron saint of cavers. It consists of an elite squad of British and American men and women with unique skills.

  ‘Rocksnake as a person has a unique combination of talents. He’s a survival expert and an explosives genius as well as being a proficient soldier. But it’s his skills as a talented caver and experienced mountaineer that make him such a key member of this team. What’s more, he knows this region like a mother knows her child. He played a key role in bombing the mountain hideout of one of Osama bin Laden’s chiefs of staff when he was twenty-five.

  ‘So you see, gentlemen, he’s been seconded from the Royal Engineers to Operation Benedict. His presence is urgently required to help flush the enemy out of the nooks and crannies of Tora Bora and eliminate them.’

  The inspector interrupted to say: ‘It all sounds like the SAS.’

  Mr Wilberforce replied: ‘We’ve some reciprocity with them. However, we tend to be involved in more long-term operations. The SAS are the celebrities. They’re like the fire brigade of covert military operations. They get in and then get out. Our people tend to focus on special projects behind the scenes.’

  He suddenly turned towards me.

  ‘Chief Superintendent, I’ve noticed you’ve been writing away furiously.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m just taking a few notes to aid my memory for later.’

  ‘OK. That’s fine, provided, of course, it’s solely for police purposes.’

  ‘This isn’t getting me any closer to interviewing my murder suspect,’ the inspector complained. Then came a bombshell announcement from our host.

  ‘Rocksnake is not in the country at the moment,’ Mr Wilberforce revealed.

  ‘What? He’s left England already?’

  ‘Yes, inspector. When your colleague Graham Kirwan called at the barracks in Catterick on Friday, he was already on his way to the airport. As we speak, he’s in the Middle East.’

  The inspector flew into a rage on hearing this. He took to his feet and began pacing up and down the carpet.

  ‘My murder suspect was in Yorkshire on Friday,’ he fumed. ‘He should’ve been handed over to my man for questioning. Instead, the Army let him jump on a bloody plane!’

  ‘Calm down, Russell!’ I said loudly.

  ‘With respect, sir, no, I won’t calm down. The British Army are impeding an official police murder investigation!’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘I can sympathise. I really can. But Operation Benedict’s essential for the survival of the Western world as we know it. Gentlemen, the future of our whole civilisation’s at stake. You want me to put that at risk for the sake of a twopenny-halfpenny murder of which this man may or may not be guilty?’

  The inspector, to my mind, became rather confrontational. He placed both his hands upon the desk and glared at Mr Wilberforce.

  ‘I’m a police officer anxious to seek justice for the widow of this man who was maliciously killed. His widow’s aged just thirty-two. She’s been left with no income, no means of supporting herself. She’s got two little boys - who are aged twelve and ten. What am I to tell her? “We’ve a good idea who slaughtered your husband, but the man’s gone off caving in the Middle East and we’re not allowed to chat to him about it?”’

  Mr Wilberforce leaned back in his chair in a bid to avoid my colleague’s angry stare.

  ‘I can sympathise. I really can. The whole thing’s really bad timing,’ he said.

  The inspector had not finished. He said: ‘I’m fighting to see premeditated murder’s adequately punished and the young widow, Gemma Sharp, and her two young children receive the justice they deserve - the British justice they’ve been led to expect. The British justice that’s such a crucial part of the Western democracy and civilisation you’re so eager to preserve.’

  ‘Inspector Woods, there’ll be no British justice without Operation Benedict. No British Parliament, no British monarchy, no British anything. This operation simply has to succeed. There’s no question about it. We need Rocksnake to perform his tasks as only he knows how. Our freedom and our whole way of life won’t survive unless his skills allow him and his colleagues to do their job unimpeded.

  ‘After our operation is completed, however, the situation will be different. When he returns from this sensitive mission, you can slap him in your cell, interrogate him all you like and haul him up before a judge. If and when he returns to Britain, you of course will be free to question him. But I’m afraid not until then.’

  ‘That’s a helluva lot of good,’ the inspector sneered. ‘So justice must be put on hold - for weeks, for months! Who knows, for years! Don’t the Sharp family have the right to some form of closure?’

  I intervened at this point. ‘Russell, you must calm down. Mr Wilberforce has tried to explain the situation as best he can. You must try and control your temper.’

  ‘I should ask for one small favour,’ said Mr Wilberforce, turning his attention to me. ‘I understand you’ve got some of Rocksnake’s personal possessions. Of course, I realise some of them need to be retained by the police for evidential purposes. However, his Army letters and some ID were, it seems, removed from a house where he was staying. If we could have these returned to his barracks in Catterick, this would be much appreciated.’

  The inspector had heard enough. He informed me afterwards, as far as he was concerned, our host’s attitude smacked of audacity. Not only were the Army obstructing his investigation. They were seeking the return of the suspect’s property.

  ‘I think it’s time to leave, John,’ he said. ‘I can’t see we’re going to achieve anything here.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ I said. ‘We feel frustrated, but I think we’ve got to accept the suspect’s abroad and cannot be contacted in any case. Thank you for your time, Mr Wilberforce.’

  Our host accompanied us back to the lift, but the inspector refused to shake the old man’s hand. ‘This won’t be the end of the matte
r,’ my colleague declared.

  ‘Everything I’ve discussed with you is, of course, confidential, gentlemen,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘I trust it’ll remain that way.’

  ‘You have my word,’ I said as our meeting with Mr Wilberforce came to an end. I confirmed that the information would be restricted and released only on a need-to-know basis. J.D. Packha m, Chief Superintendent.

  After we had both finished reading the report, I handed it back to the sergeant.

  ‘So it looks as if you’ve got to play a waiting game,’ I told him. ‘Sadly, there’s nothing you can do - short of sending a team of officers into that hostile region with a map, a compass and a pair of handcuffs.’

  ‘And what would be the point of that?’ the sergeant replied. ‘It would be like digging for a lone turnip in a minefield. You’re right. It’s a waiting game. But make no mistake, he’ll turn up one day and he’ll be brought to justice.’

  Anne intervened to say: ‘I’m glad the police are thinking of letting Gemma Sharp see this report and know about the efforts that have been made to trace this man. She’s finding it very hard to cope.’

  The sergeant placed the report back inside his briefcase and stood up, as though he was preparing to leave.

  ‘There’s one more thing I need to tell you,’ he said. ‘When the two officers returned to police headquarters, the first thing the inspector did was to inform me that Draxfield was, regrettably, on a clandestine mission overseas. He said : “He’s in a remote area and can’t be reached.” He was so angry that, at this moment, he didn’t reveal any of the confidential information received from the mysterious Mr Wilberforce.

  ‘But, as part of my inquiries, I had need to speak to Draxfield’s parents. So later in the day I asked if the inspector could assist me in any way by obtaining information about them. The inspector duly called the Ministry of Defence.

  ‘“Could I speak to your Mr Wilberforce, please?” he asked. The female operator replied: “I’m afraid I’ve no one of that name here. Would you like to go through to the Reaper Force?”

  ‘The inspector told her: “No, it’s definitely Wilberforce, Operation Benedict,” and the girl goes: “No, sir, sorry. I’ve never heard of him or Operation Benedict. Would you like to go through to inquiries?” You can imagine how totally bewildered he must’ve felt. He could hardly speak. He just said: “No, it’s OK” and put the phone down.

  ‘And then last night he made another startling discovery. He was browsing the internet and spotted an online report about the Whitehall building in which he and the chief superintendent had travelled in the lift four floors down. It was stated, officially, the building had only three levels in the basement.’

  EPILOGUE

  Nine months have now passed since those memorable events in our lives. Much has happened over that time.

  Yusuf, still gaunt and frail, was finally released from detention on condition he resided with Anne and me at the cottage. He has to report regularly to an immigration centre as his application to stay is still being considered by the Home Office. He is also having to wear an electronic tag. Anne was deliriously happy at this outcome, although we discovered he will be unable to work officially until his status is finally established.

  I am not sure how Janice Carslake achieved this. She is the kind of lawyer who succeeds while most others fail. She had argued it would breach his human rights if he were to be sent back to Eritrea as his life would be at risk.

  He is safe -- at least for the moment -- from Sam Tedros, who is currently serving a five-year prison sentence after being convicted of various crimes.

  A huge party was held in Anne’s classroom at the farm in August to mark Yusuf’s twenty-fourth birthday. The event contrasted sharply with the simple celebration Anne and I had organised with cupcakes and beer for his previous birthday when he was new to us and insisted on no fuss. Kristina was among the party guests, although for the moment she has ended her relationship with him. Sue Wickens, Ted Moreton and dozens of Yusuf’s fellow-workers were also present, along with Mrs Carslake, Anne and me.

  Anne made a speech in which she thanked everyone who had supported the campaign to prove Yusuf’s innocence. She invited all those assembled to join in a toast to his future. Secretly, she had told me, after her success in finding the killer of Lucas Sharp, her next quest would be to find Yusuf’s mother and reunite the pair.

  After the partygoers’ clinked their glasses together, a Romanian band began to play traditional folk music in the yard outside - two fiddlers and an accordion player. They were ably supported by Kristina on tambourine.

  I turned towards Anne, who looked alluring in a sleeveless light-blue summer dress. ‘Shall we?’ I said.

  I took her hand. We danced. We swayed. We shook our hips in time to the music as other farmhands followed our lead and took to the tarmac dance floor.

  ‘I really love you, Mrs Shaw,’ I whispered. ‘You’ve been so brilliant.’

  ‘Have I?’ she replied, kissing my right cheek. ‘I don’t suppose I’m too bad for an out-of-work librarian on the wrong side of thirty. You scrub up quite nicely yourself, Mr Shaw - in a good light.’

  But, as the band launched into their second tune, I was shocked to see the guest of honour had slumped to the ground. Sue Wickens and I rushed to Yusuf’s side. Sue, who had been trained in first aid, found Yusuf - who had only returned to live with us a short time earlier -- was conscious, but suffering from a shortness of breath. His skin was cold and he was complaining of chest pains.

  Anne and I drove him to Ashford Hospital, where he was admitted for blood tests. The following day doctors revealed he was suffering from anaemia - a deficiency in the amount of red blood cells in the body. The condition affects the way the blood carries oxygen.

  We tried to explain the illness to the patient when we visited him on his ward the next day.

  ‘You’ve got anaemia,’ I said. ‘It’s usually caused by a lack of iron.’

  ‘What’s wrong with knee?’ he asked.

  ‘No, anaemia. It’s a blood condition,’ I persisted. ‘The doctors say they’ll probably let you go home in a day or two. You need iron supplements.’

  ‘Can you bring Fiesta to me?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Yusuf,’ said Anne. ‘You must know cats can’t be taken into hospitals.’

  ‘I leave! I leave!’ he said.

  ‘You’ll stay right here,’ Anne insisted. ‘We want you to get better as quickly as possible.’

  As we waited outside his ward during one of the doctors’ rounds, I recalled some of the other dramatic events that had occurred.

  Chad Draxfield never returned from Afghanistan. It was reported in the newspapers he was killed in action. A jihadist fighter struck as he explored the Tora Bora caves. There were more than fifty bullets found in his corpse, apparently. His body was brought back to England and he was buried somewhere in Oxfordshire.

  Anne had discovered a close bond existed between him and Neil Bennett. On one occasion, while the pair were potholing in Somerset after some rain, Draxfield nearly drowned when a cascade of water suddenly flooded a narrow passage they were in. Somehow Bennett managed to save his life. After that the soldier became totally devoted to his friend.

  Bennett had become clinically depressed when his marriage collapsed and Lucas Sharp came on the scene. Draxfield could not bear to see his friend so unhappy and vowed to solve what they together called ‘the problem of Lucas Sharp.’

  I had a drink with Graham Kirwan in the Merry Friar the other evening. He told me some time ago, on the advice of his lawyer, Bennett had changed his plea to Not Guilty and his trial is due to begin soon. The Crown Prosecution Service are proceeding with a charge of murder against Bennett. The prosecutors took the view that, while he may not have been present at the murder scene, he gave support to the
main perpetrator and by doing so became liable for the same offence. They are still considering whether to charge Luke Bennett with any offence. Brandon Hill was handed a one hundred-hour community punishment order by a court and fined £1,000 for the illegal sale of fireworks. He has now moved in with Gemma Sharp.

  Graham also mentioned Jane Taylor, who owned Lilac Cottage, had died in hospital after a long illness and an inquest is to be held in a few weeks. I heard rumours she might have been poisoned, but I think this was ill-informed tittle-tattle.

  At the time of writing, Yusuf is still being treated in hospital. We expect him out any time now. He keeps talking about wanting to play with the cat. We are looking forward to having him back at the cottage. He is such a sweet, gentle guy.

  Whenever I visit him in the ward, he immediately says: ‘How’s Fiesta?’ After I have assured him the cat is as mischievous as ever, he asks: ‘Are there still foxgloves growing in the lane?’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My warm thanks go to my friends Richard Brooks and Chris and Roseann Ellis for their review work and advice; to my understanding partner Lin for her help and encouragement; to Simon Dormer for assistance with my website; to Paul Hooper for bringing me up to date with Crown Court procedure; and to Joshua Lau for his immigration advice. A special thanks to my literary agent, James Essinger, for his hard work, patience and support. Lastly, my sincere gratitude to artist Ross Marklew from Pontypridd, South Wales for the illustration which appears on the front cover.

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