And then Brigden saw the blue notebook lying on the table. ‘That logbook!’ he said. He picked it up and looked inside. ‘This is the logbook your friend stole from my desk.’ He put it in the large inside pocket of his waterproof jacket.
So Brigden had very quickly found what he’d come for. But he still needed to know what had been going on, and how much of a threat there was to the big plan. He stared hard at Adam.
‘What the hell did low-life thieves like you and Jefferson want with this logbook?’ he demanded.
Adam couldn’t think of the wisest thing to say. So he said nothing.
Garrett hit him again. ‘Answer the officer!’ he barked.
By now, Adam had worked out that the best thing would be to feign ignorance of the notebook’s contents. It was a long shot, but Brigden and his men might just take the notebook and go. And the decoded version was in the envelope hidden under Hoskins’ handkerchief.
Adam sighed, as if finally forced to tell the truth. ‘I found it in Jefferson’s room at the Cavendish,’ he said. ‘It seemed to be in some kind of code, so I thought it might be important. I always reckoned Jefferson had some money hidden away, and I thought there might be clues in the notebook.’
‘So what’s it doing here?’ rasped Brigden.
‘I brought it to work, to see if anyone had any ideas.’
‘And had they?’
‘No. It’s all gobbledygook.’
Brigden peered into Adam’s eyes. For a moment, it seemed that he might be deceived. But then, as he looked away, his glance took in the handwritten sheets on the desk – Adam’s flawed pages which Newman had discarded, pages with names and addresses on them.
‘You bloody liar!’ he rasped. ‘You’re not as thick as you look!
You know what this is all about, don’t you? Someone’s been decoding the logbook!’ Brigden scooped up the loose sheets and stuffed them into his pocket. His mind was racing. Straker’s message, passed on through intermediaries, had been urgent but limited: simply that the logbook was at the Research Centre on Southend Pier, that Webber was on his way to retrieve it, and that he must be stopped at all costs. Now Brigden had to consider the implications.
‘Who are all these people?’ he demanded. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘They work here,’ said Adam. ‘We’re all engaged in marine research.’
‘Like hell they are!’ said Garrett. He pointed at Superintendent Barron. ‘That bugger’s a copper! I’ve seen him on the job!’
‘Kindly stop using objectionable language!’ snapped Edith Bird.
Brigden ignored her. Now he sensed the full picture.
‘So that’s it!’ he roared. ‘You’re working for British Intelligence, aren’t you? All of you! Capitalist scum! And you think you can stop the revolution! Well, you’re wrong!’ He spoke curtly to his men. ‘They’ll all have to go. I’ll take Webber and the policeman. Garrett, you take the other two men.’ He nodded to Mick Chase, Garrett’s friend. ‘You take the woman.’
Chase, the late recruit, was shaken. In truth, he wasn’t an ideal conscript for this job. A career criminal, his line was theft and burglary, with a little Grievous Bodily Harm thrown in when necessary. Although in the pub he bragged of ruthless violence, he’d actually never been involved in murder. And he had a morbid fear of hanging.
He spoke nervously. ‘Just a minute, guv. You got the book and that. Do we really need to top them?’
‘Don’t argue with me, man!’ shouted Brigden. ‘They know all the plans, and they’ve still got time to wreck them! Now get on with it!’ He raised his own gun and pointed it at the young man’s head.
Like Adam earlier, Hoskins knew it was now or never. And, once again, a rearrangement of furniture seemed the best answer. He’d positioned himself so that his raised left hand was near the light switch. And the daylight had finally gone. He flicked the switch off and shouted, ‘Everyone down on the floor!’
As he went down, Hoskins pushed over the table, making a barrier between his group and the intruders.
Brigden and his men fired into the darkness as the table hit their legs, and all the shots missed, except one. Adam, still stiff with pain, had been slow to move, and one of Garrett’s bullets hit him in the chest. He sank to the floor with a groan.
‘Wait!’ shouted Brigden. ‘Switch the light on! And keep calm! We’re the ones with the guns! Hold your fire till we can see them!’
Garrett tried to recall where the light switch was and then, as he lurched forward with a groping hand, he stumbled against the crouching Barron, who’d taken his gun from its shoulder-holster. Garrett swore loudly and Barron, recognizing his voice, fired upwards twice, killing him instantly. The man fell sideways against the workbench, knocking the Bunsen burner to the floor.
The noise of gunfire in the confined space was deafening, and Mick Chase felt he’d rather be elsewhere. He turned and dashed out through the door and across the pier-head platform towards the escape ladder. Now Brigden knew the odds had changed. He was on his own, and up against armed men. If they shot him, they could reclaim the vital logbook and the decoded pages. And he needed to stay alive for the day of action. It was time for retreat.
He fired another shot in the general direction of the foe, leaving three bullets in his gun. Then he spun round and fled through the still-open door and across the planking.
‘Look after Adam!’ Hoskins bellowed at Leo Newman and Dr Bird. Then he and Barron struggled to their feet, picked their way past Garrett’s body and the upturned furniture, and emerged onto the deck.
The navy had fixed hooded working-lights to the perimeter of the pier and, by their pale light, the two men could just make out the figure of Brigden ahead of them. They set off in pursuit.
Suddenly, there were more voices everywhere. The sound of shots had brought startled people out of their offices and workshops. And then up went the cry most dreaded in a wooden structure: ‘Fire!’
The fallen Bunsen burner had ignited the waste-paper basket, and the flames quickly spread to the plywood partitions.
Edith Bird ran to the door of the cabin and shouted, ‘Help! There are wounded men in here!’ Two workers in overalls ran to assist. Behind them, the duty fire crew were being called into action.
The fugitives had a good start on their pursuers and the deck had been clear when Chase and Brigden ran across it. Moments later, Hoskins and Barron were impeded by staff emerging from their workplaces.
So Chase was out of sight, and Brigden had half a minute to spare when he reached the top of the ladder. He swung his burly frame out onto the top rung, and began to climb down.
‘Bring the boat close!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. He wasn’t surprised when he heard no answering cry. He hadn’t expected one and, anyway, the mighty roar of the sea and the wind would surely swallow any response from the boat. Brigden was concentrating on placing his descending feet squarely but speedily on the wet and rusty metal steps. But then, as he neared the foot of the ladder, he heard the sound of the boat’s engine receding.
The shooting and the shouting had suggested to Henshaw that things had gone wrong. And when Chase appeared at the top of the ladder screaming, ‘We’ve got to get out! They’ve got guns!’, he’d decided that prompt action was called for. He was grateful for the warning but had felt no obligation to stay and thank the messenger. He’d revved up the engine and headed west. So the boat had been yards away when Chase made his despairing leap and landed in the water, bitterly regretting that he’d never learnt to swim.
Moving fast, the boat was almost out of sight when Brigden reached the bottom of the ladder and looked around him. Chase had already disappeared in the surging sea. The only things that met Brigden’s startled eyes were angry waves and flying spray.
Thirty yards below the safe, wide public arena at the sea-end of Southend Pier, there’s a lower platform, a criss-cross of metal struts which, at low and middle tides, is used by adventurous anglers to get closer to t
heir prey. It’s covered by a foot of water at high tide or in bad weather, so the base of its uprights and the iron grid of the floor are festooned with seaweed and barnacles.
At this stage, the sea was just starting to bubble up through the grilles which formed the base of the structure: soon the whole surface would be awash. A dismal place indeed but it was the only refuge open to the desperate Brigden. He swung out from the ladder and in towards the platform. He had to jump the last yard and landed awkwardly on the slippery floor, crashing his shoulder against an upright. The razor-sharp barnacles tore his sleeve and the flesh beneath.
Cursing, he steadied himself and moved into the inner regions of the lower pier, thinking hard. With the boat gone, he had few options. Surrender was impossible: he’d hang for murder. There were two imperatives. He must survive, to play his part in the coup. And he must prevent the enemy regaining the logbook.
He saw two possibilities. At worst, he could take to the water. But the sea was cold and rough, and land was a mile away. It would be better if he could eliminate his pursuers. Then he could go back up the ladder and down the pier, unobserved in the darkness and confusion.
He was suddenly aware of a hubbub on the upper deck, and saw flames through cracks in the planking high above him. So the pier was on fire! That should help him. People would be too busy fighting the fire to bother about Brigden. Only those at the research centre were likely to come after him: Webber was dead or crippled, the couple in white overalls seemed non-combatant. That left the policeman and one other man: two opponents, and he had three bullets left.
Brigden knew his best shot at the policeman would come when the man reached the foot of the ladder and had to perform the same tricky manoeuvre that he himself had done. He’d have to pause and then swivel his body, presenting a good target. Brigden waited patiently, half-hidden behind a stanchion.
The whole scene was becoming like a medieval painting of hell: the petrified forest of slimy green pillars now glowing with angry red light from the flames overhead. In the fierce wind, the fire was surging rapidly through the ancient tarred timbers, the salt spitting and spluttering in protest. Bits of blazing debris were starting to fall with a hiss into the water around Brigden’s feet.
Then the moment arrived. Barron stood at the bottom of the ladder, conveniently silhouetted against a slight residual glow in the western sky. He began to pivot in towards the platform. Brigden took careful aim and fired.
As he did so, Barron’s right foot skidded on the last rung of the ladder and he plunged sideways. Brigden’s bullet passed above his head, and harmlessly on into the night. The policeman fell halfway into the water, drenching his body from the waist down. But he kept his gun dry and fired back. The noise echoed shrilly through the cast-iron underworld, and Barron’s bullet expired against an upright that was cushioned with seaweed.
With surprising agility, the bulky officer hauled his body clear of the waves and flattened himself on the watery platform, soaking wet, but no longer an easy target. Then he crawled forward to the cover of a broad pillar, before getting up and setting out to stalk Brigden. Now the two men fought a battle of wits, moving between pillars, always seeking cover. Each was saving his bullets till he got a clear view of the other. Then, suddenly, came Brigden’s chance.
As Barron moved swiftly between two pillars, a piece of burning timber fell from the upper deck and hit his back, knocking him over and briefly illuminating the scene. His gun went sliding across the floor.
Brigden could scarcely believe his luck. One of his remaining bullets would despatch the helpless policeman. After that, he could re-arm himself with the other man’s gun. He walked to the defenceless man and took careful aim.
And then his own gun fell from his hand, as the weighted end of Hoskins’ umbrella smashed down on his wrist. Appearing now from the shadows, Hoskins had come down by an easier route. Separated from Barron in the hurly-burly on the upper deck, he had used a stairway on the eastern side of the pier-head, which he knew of from earlier visits. This time his blade had remained sheathed. He wanted this villain alive for interrogation.
As Brigden staggered backwards, clutching his shattered forearm, Barron rolled free from the fallen timber, retrieved his gun and pointed it at Brigden.
‘All right, Bob, don’t shoot!’ Hoskins shouted. ‘I need a chat with this cove!’
But Brigden had other ideas. His only remaining purpose now was to prevent the enemy from getting the logbook back. He wrenched it from his pocket with his undamaged hand and hurled it into the sea. The wind carried it several yards before a wave caught it and it was submerged. Hoskins moved forward to grab Brigden, who formed the wild notion that the man was about to dive and try to rescue the prize. He pushed Hoskins away, reclaimed his own gun, and managed to fire a random shot with his left hand. Hitting one of the pillars above the seaweed level, the bullet ricocheted across to another before falling to the floor.
The shot Barron fired was more accurate. It thudded into Brigden’s heart, knocking him backwards. For a moment the man tottered, and then he toppled off the platform into the sea.
Hoskins was not pleased. ‘You silly idiot!’ he cried. ‘I told you not to fire!’
‘I wasn’t taking any risks,’ said Barron. ‘I knew a man in Stepney who could shoot with either hand.’ He dragged himself to his feet. ‘So we’ve lost that bloody notebook after all,’ he observed. ‘Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter. We’ve got the decoded version.’
‘Yes, thank God,’ said Hoskins. And then his mouth went dry. ‘You picked it up, did you?’
‘No,’ said Barron. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘No,’ said Hoskins.
11
IN THE NEWS STUDIO, on the sixth floor of Broadcasting House, Alvar Lidell studied the printed sheets in front of him. The war news was all good: the Allies were advancing everywhere. The last German soldiers had been driven from France, large parts of Belgium and Holland were now liberated, and Germany itself was being invaded by British and American troops from the west, and by the Russian army from the east.
Lidell checked the unfamiliar foreign names in the forthcoming bulletin. After each word that might give trouble, the BBC Pronunciation Unit had written the correct delivery, spelled phonetically in capital letters. Guidance was required mainly with foreign towns and individuals. But occasionally help would be offered with British names, as in the fourth item in today’s news, which he was studying with interest.
‘The main structure of Southend Pier, ravaged by the fire which started on Tuesday night, has now been declared salvageable. Old timbers had continued to smoulder in some inaccessible areas until this morning, according to Southend’s fire chief, Superintendent John Cowper (pronounced COOPER). But these sections have now been cut away, and emergency work has begun to construct temporary facilities for use by the Royal Navy.’
Lidell reflected that he did know how to pronounce Cowper. And, recalling pleasure trips before the war, he hoped they’d remember to restore permanent facilities for use by the public.
Jim Owen, the engineer, was checking all the sound equipment that would carry the newsreader’s voice by landline to the Droitwich transmitter, which would broadcast it to the nation. For millions of listeners at home, the one o’clock news was a focal point in the day. After a moment, Owen was reassured. Everything was working.
He pressed a button to switch on the red light outside the studio that said ‘Live Transmission: No Entry’. There were still eight minutes to go before they went on air, but Owen was a cautious man. He didn’t want messengers barging in at the last moment.
And then an amazing thing happened.
The studio door was thrust open violently, and in came half a dozen men in khaki, carrying guns. Their leader, in an officer’s uniform, walked over to Alvar Lidell and pointed a pistol at his head. ‘The studio is commandeered,’ he said. ‘Move out of this chair.’
Lidell was too astonished to move, but managed to blurt out,
‘What? Who the devil are you?’, before a burly soldier grabbed his arms and pulled him up and out of the way.
Jim Owen reacted quickly, and was reaching for the telephone, when another intruder crashed a rifle butt down on his wrist and dragged him from his seat.
‘Put these two over there,’ barked the officer, ‘and keep them covered.’
Lidell and Owen were hustled into a corner, where a man with a corporal’s stripes waved a Sten-gun at them. Now another soldier entered, escorting a civilian, a broad young man with a flabby face. This man went to Owen’s seat and took charge of the control panel.
Owen recognized him. ‘Good God! Alex Price! What the hell are you doing here?’ Price had been one of his engineer colleagues at the BBC, until his dismissal for drunkenness last year. Ignoring Owen, Price did his own technical check. He was soon satisfied. ‘All set to go,’ he declared.
The officer went to the door and called, ‘We’re ready for transmission, sir!’ Then in came Robert Westley and another man, both in grey suits.
He then led Westley to the chair vacated by Alvar Lidell. His voice was very respectful. ‘This is your mike, sir. Perhaps you’d like to test your voice level for the engineer.’
‘Thank you, Major Fry,’ said Westley.
While the mike test was going on, the BBC men could only watch in outraged bewilderment, Owen wincing with pain and nursing his wrist. Lidell noticed that each intruder wore a bright red band on the sleeve of his khaki battle-dress.
Soon the studio clock showed a minute to one. Westley moved out of his chair and spoke to his companion. ‘Barrett, you’d better sit here first for the introduction.’ Barrett slid into the seat and nodded to the engineer. Then, as the minute hand reached one o’clock precisely, Price pressed the switch for the time signal and, after the familiar six pips, Barrett addressed the microphone. He had been chosen for his voice: clear and authoritative, but not posh.
The Shadow of Treason Page 20
