by John Dean
‘You can hold our coats’ they heard Hope say in the background.
‘And your handbags,’ said Blizzard.
They heard Hope’s laughter over the airwaves. A few minutes later, the ferry was nudging its way into the terminal and the officers could see that for all its blazing lights, there were very few people on board. After it docked, they watched the small number of pedestrians straggle their way down the gangplank with their bags, then turned their attention to the vehicle bay door that was being slowly lowered. A few cars drove down the ramp and across the quayside followed by a couple of lorries, the second of which caught the officer’s attention immediately. It was a large blue artic with German lettering on its mud-spattered side.
They watched the vehicle slowly rumble its way down the ramp. Gerry Hope had already checked with the captain of the ferry and confirmed that the vehicle had been registered in Hamburg and the detectives watched with interest as it edged out onto the tarmac and started moving towards them. Two of Hope’s officers moved in calmly, one of them holding up a hand and instructing the vehicle to draw to a halt. The detectives could see the man lean out of his cab window and a short conversation ensued, after which he jumped down, revealing himself as a tall, lanky man with straggly brown hair. He was dressed in a red and white checked lumberjack’s shirt, jeans and scuffed brown boots.
‘Recognise him?’ asked Blizzard.
‘Difficult to see from here,’ murmured Colley, screwing up his eyes.
The driver took the customs officers round to the back of the lorry and began to unlock the rear door. All seemed calm. Suddenly, the driver snapped out a hand and caught the customs man full in the face, sending him crashing backwards to sprawl on the tarmac. The lorry driver produced a gun and pointed it at the customs woman, who backed off, holding her hands up.
‘Firearms go, go!’ roared Blizzard into the radio and turned the key in the ignition, slamming the car into gear.
With a squeal of tyres, the car shot from the shadows – other vehicles did the same from the other side of the quayside – and veered across the tarmac to where the lorry driver had leapt back into his cab, brandishing his weapon at the two customs officers and shouting at them to keep back. With a guttural roar, the lorry engine sputtered into life and the artic set off with a clashing of gears, rocking and rolling as the driver jammed his foot down on the accelerator. As Blizzard’s car sped into the lorry’s path, a hand emerged from the cab window and to their horror the detectives could see that the artic driver was pointing the gun in their direction.
‘Get down!’ yelled Blizzard and turned the wheel frantically, sending the car into a wheel-spin as the lorry thundered past them.
Colley was gripping onto the dashboard as the car swerved but Ellis, who was not wearing a seatbelt, was hurled violently sideways, cracking her head against the window and slumping back onto the seat. Blizzard heard her give a grunt of pain but did not have time to react, instead concentrating on zig-zagging behind the lorry that was picking up speed as it thundered towards the terminal entrance, pursued by several other cars. Blizzard revved the engine and with its tyres squealing, brought the car alongside the artic. The driver leaned out and pointed the weapon again. This time, there was a crack and the whine of the bullet as it whistled over their heads and, with a dull smack, embedded itself in a corrugated iron storage shed.
From the entrance of the terminal, a white car appeared, moving at great speed. It juddered to a halt, side-on in the lorry’s path, and two officers in full flak gear leapt out and crouched behind the opened front doors, training their weapons on the approaching artic. For a second it appeared as if the lorry would slam into the police car then it veered off to the right, clipping a line of rubbish bins and sending them scattering across the tarmac. In the careering car ten metres behind, the detectives could see that the lorry driver was desperately battling to regain control of the articulated vehicle but, as he steered it once more towards the terminal exit, more armed officers appeared in his path. A single shot from a police weapon rang out, shattering the windscreen and the lorry veered wildly, the driver slumped across the steering wheel. The squealing artic ploughed into the grassy bank just beneath the car park, sending plumes of soil billowing into the air. For a second or two, it teetered on two wheels then all four wheels returned to earth with a crash. The vehicle shook violently and it was over.
Officers were converging from all sides, some in cars, some running, all coming to a halt as the firearms team edged closer, weapons at the ready. One of the team held up a hand to keep the others back while a colleague ripped open the cab door and trained his gun on the driver.
‘Someone call an ambulance!’ he shouted.
Other firearm officers edged round to the back of the lorry. A dazed Fee Ellis staggered out of the car and joined the other officers, leaning on Colley’s arm as she tried desperately to regain her bearings. One of the firearms officers tentatively lowered the rear door of the artic. As his torch beam illuminated the inside, everyone could see, badly shaken after the collision, a dozen or so men cowering behind fruit crates. They were holding their hands up but the cautious firearms officers kept their weapons trained on them as they were led out one by one. Searches revealed none of the stowaways had weapons and the firearms inspector nodded at Ronald.
‘All yours, gents,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Barry,’ said the superintendent.
‘Well done, Fee, top notch tip-off,’ said Colley, slapping her on the back.
‘Ow,’ she said.
‘You OK?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Yes, just give me a moment or two,’ she said.
Followed by Blizzard and Hope, the superintendent approached the group of men who were now standing next to the battered lorry, shivering in the chill night air and eying the police nervously. As the officers surveyed the North Africans, all of whom were desperately thin and dressed in T-shirts and jeans, Blizzard noticed to his amazement that one was different. Standing apart from the main group, he was an elderly white man, dressed in a black jumper and brown trousers, and altogether more composed than his wide-eyed travelling companions. Before Blizzard had time to consider the point further, one of the younger stowaways stepped forward, produced a scrap of paper from his breast pocket, glanced down then looked at Arthur Ronald.
‘Mr Garree Horton?’ he asked hopefully in broken English.
Chapter ten
‘I am delighted you have agreed to talk to us,’ said John Blizzard. ‘You are the first person we have met who knows what Horst Knoefler is like.’
‘Was like,’ corrected Edward Cranmer. ‘I have not seen him for the best part of seventy years.’
It was the morning after the events at the terminal and, although Abbey Road Police had been swarming with police and customs officers since early on, none of the apprehended men had said anything. Having gratefully left Ronald to deal with the aftermath, Blizzard and Colley were sitting in a neat little living room in one of the terraced houses a matter of minutes from the city centre. The house was situated just off a main road but although outside there was the usual noise and clatter of life, car engines revving, horns honking and buses groaning, the room was quiet, the only noise the gentle hiss of the gas fire and the ticking of a small clock on the mantelpiece.
House-owner Edward Cranmer sat on the pale blue sofa, composed, calm, hands held together on his lap, and waiting for the next comment from the chief inspector. Blizzard was intrigued by him; up until now, Horst Knoefler had been an ephemeral person, a skeleton in a mortuary, a fleeting name scrawled on a prison camp register. Cranmer could, as it were, put flesh on the bones and cast some light on the life of the man whose killer the detectives sought. And, boy, how they needed some light. So far, it had felt like picking their way through pitch darkness.
Cranmer was a thin, lanky man who exuded a sense of fitness despite his advanced years. Like his house, he was neat and tidy. His thinning white hair was combed acr
oss his head, the strands, not one of which was out of place, allowing the detectives glimpses of mottling on the top of the skull, and he had shaved fastidiously, as he did every day, his slightly pointed chin smooth and stubble-free. The room mirrored his pride in appearance. The small table in the window was polished and shiny, the flowers fresh and watered, the standard lamp in the corner topped with a dust-free shade, the two armchairs and the sofa vigorously brushed. Blizzard sat in one of the armchairs, Colley in another, and perched on the sofa, next to Cranmer, was Elspeth Roberts, looking as nervous as ever. She had insisted that Cranmer call the police and the detectives were struck by the way she kept cropping up in their inquiries.
There was another man in the room. Leaning against the wall by the door and saying nothing, Tommy Cranmer, the old man’s grandson, was a tall, muscular, well-built individual with strong features and a slightly stub nose. Ex-Army, perhaps, mused Colley. And a bodybuilder, maybe. Or, more likely given the misshapen nose and his blue and yellow hooped shirt, a rugby player like the sergeant. Front row, mused the sergeant, none of them had straight noses.
For all his formidable appearance, Tommy seemed affable enough. Although it was not his house, he welcomed the detectives and busied himself in the kitchen, making tea that was served in green flower-patterned tea-cups and bringing in a plate of biscuits.
‘I am not sure I can be of much assistance to you,’ said the elder Cranmer.
‘You may know something that we don’t,’ said Blizzard. ‘Frankly, that would not be difficult. Horst Knoefler is a real mystery man.’
‘That’s what I told him,’ said Elspeth Roberts.
‘How do you two know each other?’ asked Colley, looking at her.
‘I suddenly remembered that we talked right at the start of our excavations,’ she said.
Blizzard raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘I wanted to see what the old place looked like after all these years,’ explained Edward, his voice firm and confident, belying his years. ‘It was not possible to visit before. In fact, I tried once a couple of years ago but the farmer told me to go away. A somewhat coarse man. Threatened to shoot me if I did not get off his land.’
‘Sounds just like Henderson Ramage,’ grunted Blizzard.
‘That was the name,’ said the old man. ‘Anyway, when I read in the paper that the archaeologists had moved in, I asked if I could go with them one day.’
He smiled at Elspeth Roberts. ‘They were kind enough to let me do so.’
‘But why would you want to?’ asked Blizzard.
‘I learned a couple of years ago that I have heart problems, Chief Inspector,’ said Cranmer. ‘My doctor believes I may not last much longer and there are some things I want to do before I die.’
‘But why the camp, of all places?’
‘There is something about it, Chief Inspector,’ said Cranmer. ‘Such an atmospheric place. It draws you back. It has a sense of so many memories, don’t you think?’
‘It does indeed,’ said Blizzard.
‘And some of those memories are mine,’ added the old man.
‘You were a guard at the camp, I think?’ asked Blizzard.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘How come you ended up there?’
‘I started off the war in the Hafton Regiment. Such a sad day when they disbanded it a few years ago.’
‘So, what happened?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘It was such a long time ago,’ said Cranmer, his eyes adopting a far-away expression. ‘Such a long time and yet it is as if it happened only yesterday. I do not know if you are aware of this but The Haftons were one of the first British regiments ashore on D-Day. At Juno.’
Juno. One word, so many memories. Cranmer paused for a moment, transported back to the chaotic scenes on the beach, hearing again the explosions, the incessant rattle of machine guns and the cries of fallen comrades ringing in his ears, and seeing the scenes of carnage re-enacted in front of his eyes as if they were a film, a film which had been replayed time and time again in his quiet moments down the years.
‘Terrible. Truly terrible,’ he whispered at length. He shook his head and looking at the detectives with dark eyes. ‘Such carnage. You can have no idea what it was like. No one can imagine it unless they were there.’
The detectives waited in respectful silence and after a few seconds, Cranmer recovered himself and continued with his story.
‘My war did not last long after the landings,’ he said. ‘I was wounded near Caen.’
And he was back in the theatre of war again. The Allies were pushing inland through France after the successful D-Day landings and the German Army was starting to fall back. For the first time, the men of the Hafton Regiment could sense victory as they began the race for Berlin. Perhaps such a euphoric feeling after so many years of despair bred complacency in the small group of infantrymen advancing down a country lane a few miles from the city of Caen, rifles cradled in their arms. Whatever the reason, within a few chaotic moments, four of them lay dead.
It was a bright sunlight morning, the kind of morning when it was a joy to be alive, particularly after the slaughter on Juno Beach a few days before. Sensing no danger, they were chatting, cracking jokes, not hiding their presence. Perhaps they let their guard down and missed something, perhaps they were just unlucky. Whatever the reason, a rustling in nearby trees and a voice changed everything. An order. Barked. Harsh. The rat-rat-rat of the machine gun, spraying death along the lane, cutting down the men as they ran desperately for cover behind the nearby wall. Regrouping, a brief fire-fight, then the loud explosion as a grenade landed in the Germans’ machine gun nest. Fire, body parts, screams. Then silence and the surviving British soldiers advancing slowly along the lane, guns at the ready, peering nervously through the wafting smoke and seeing the ripped and twisted bodies of the Germans. All dead. Young men just like themselves. A few more widows, a few more orphans.
‘We lost four men that day,’ said Cranmer, his voice trembling slightly. ‘Good men.’
He paused for a moment and his grandson walked over and placed an arm around the old man’s shoulder. Colley watched this bull of a man comforting his grandfather with such tenderness. Cranmer patted Tommy’s hand appreciatively, looked up at his grandson and nodded, then returned his gaze to the detectives.
‘I’m sorry,’ the pensioner said, his face clouded, anger replacing sorrow. ‘It’s just that they were friends, Chief Inspector. I went to school with three of them – and I was born on the same day as Reggie Rostron. Our mums were in neighbouring beds down the infirmary.’
Cranmer shook his head.
‘I saw all four of them die that day,’ he said quietly. ‘Absolutely senseless.’
‘And yourself?’ asked Blizzard.
‘I took a bullet,’ said Cranmer, patting his right shoulder and allowing himself a wry smile. ‘Still gives me jip, particularly in winter. Had to give up mountaineering last year. Pity, I’d planned to do K2.’
The detectives smiled at the quip. Tommy chuckled, relieved that his grandfather had regained some of his spirits.
‘Then what happened?’ asked Blizzard.
‘I was taken to the nearest field hospital. They patched me up and shipped me back home to Hafton. Moved back in with my parents, God bless them.’
‘He’s not telling it all,’ said Tommy. ‘Typical Grandad. He got mentioned in dispatches for what he did that day.’
‘Oh, Tommy, it was nothing…’ began the old man.
‘It’s important,’ insisted Tommy and looked at the detectives. ‘I served with the Haftons and I know what Grandad did. It’s in the regimental history. When the German machine gun opened up, one of his men fell, hit in the leg, and Grandad carried him to safety under fire. That’s how he got the bullet in his shoulder. If he had not done what he did, that soldier would have been killed.’
‘Geordie would have done the same for me,’ said the old man, looking down at the floor.
&nbs
p; ‘You should be proud of what you did, Mr Cranmer,’ said Blizzard, the image of the face in the faded black-and-white picture coming to mind again. ‘You should always be proud of it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cranmer, clearly affected by the chief inspector’s words. ‘Thank you.’
‘So how come you ended up at the camp?’ asked Colley.
‘My comrades were dying on the frontline,’ said Cranmer softly. ‘There was no way I could sit back and do nothing. I tried to get back out to France but the doctors said my arm was too badly damaged so I volunteered to be a guard at Hafton POW Camp instead. At least I was doing something useful.’
‘What kind of a place was it?’ asked Blizzard.
‘Like all the others, I suppose,’ said Cranmer. ‘There were about 600 German prisoners there when I started. Most of them were happy their war had ended. They had lost the stomach for a fight, Chief Inspector. They knew the game was up. We could see it in their eyes. If you ask me, I’m not sure a lot of the ones in the camp wanted to fight in the first place. They were quite content to see out the war at Hafton. Well, most of them, anyway.’
‘Most?’ asked Blizzard, recalling the crude image of Hitler that he had seen scrawled on the hut wall.
‘Yes, one or two who still carried the flag. Rabble-rousers, Nazis, still believed that Hitler would triumph.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘It was obvious to everyone but them that the war was over but they just didn’t get the message.’
‘What happened to them?’ asked Colley.
‘They’re not the ones in those graves if that’s what you’re thinking,’ replied Cranmer. ‘We didn’t do that kind of thing.’
‘We know that,’ said Colley. ‘So, what did happen to the awkward prisoners?’
‘They were shipped off to other camps.’
‘There were special high-security camps for their type,’ said Blizzard, recalling his recent reading on the subject. ‘The idea was to keep them away from the rest of the prisoners, stop them fermenting trouble.’
