by Mike Ashley
“The media are calling it a national scandal.”
“And that’s exactly what it is, Ken!” said Milton vengefully. “My holiday’s been ruined. Nothing could be more scandalous than that. I had strips torn off me when I left St Ives. You try telling your wife that she’ll have to manage without you while you go off in search of Nelson.”
“I’m not married, sir.”
“Be grateful. At times like this, celibacy is a blessing.”
“I didn’t say I was celibate.”
Kenneth Hurrell grinned. He was a wiry man of medium height with wavy black hair that was the envy of his colleagues. His immaculate suit made Minton’s tweed jacket look positively shabby. The Commander became businesslike. He snapped his fingers.
“How far have you got?”
“This far,” said Hurrell, moving to the large wall map. “The pins indicate the locations of the bombs. Twenty-one in all.”
“Twenty-one! What did they think it was – Bonfire Night?”
“Oh, no. They were very precise about the date.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s October 21st.”
“So?”
“The date of the Battle of Trafalgar.”
“But that was years ago, Ken.”
“A hundred and ninety-five years. October 21st, 1805.”
“Is that relevant?”
“Extremely, sir. Some people obviously have long memories. The pattern of bombing proves that.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “At first, I thought they were just random explosions to create a diversion and move every available officer well away from the vicinity of Nelson’s Column.”
“And they’re not?”
“No,” said Hurrell. “Take this one here, for instance,” he continued, touching one of the pins. “Old Bethnal Green Road. The bomb was very close to Nelson Gardens. Then there’s this one, sir.” He indicated another pin. “On the site of Greenwich Market. Close to Nelson Road.”
“Could just be a coincidence.”
“Not when it happens in every case,” argued Hurrell. “There was a bomb near Nelson Walk in Limehouse, another on Morden Road, close to the Nelson Industrial Estate and a third in Nelson Yard, off Mornington Crescent. So it goes on.”
“What about Oxford Street and Victoria Station?” asked Minton. “I don’t recall any Nelson Roads in those areas.”
“There aren’t any.”
“So the pattern is incomplete.”
“Far from it, Commander. The explosion in Oxford Street was less than forty yards from the ‘Admiral Nelson’ pub. The one in Victoria Station was directly opposite ‘The Trafalgar’. No question about it, I’m afraid. We’re dealing with a case of aggravated revenge.”
“Some militant Frogs?”
“All the signs point that way.”
“So it seems.”
“You can’t fault their timing.”
“Timing?”
“Yes, sir. Until last week, workmen were at the top of the column to give Nelson his habitual clean-up. The thieves didn’t just get away with the most famous statue in London. They waited until all the bird shit had been scraped off it. We’re up against pros.”
“No phone calls from them?”
“Just one, sir. In French.”
“What was the message?”
“Short and sweet. We were ordered to leave him where he is.”
“Who?”
“The Emperor Napoleon.”
“Ruling the roost in Trafalgar Square!” exclaimed Milton with an upsurge of patriotism. “We’ll see about that! Nobody gives me orders, especially in Frogtalk. Come on, Ken. Clap on full sail. We’re going straight over to Trafalgar Square. You can fill me in on the way. Leave him there indeed!” He gave a snort of defiance. “We’ll have the bugger down off that column before he can say ‘Not tonight, Josephine.’”
Napoleon Bonaparte had drawn a vast audience. Though the police had cordoned off Trafalgar Square itself, all the approach roads were heaving with sightseers. Every window which overlooked the column had its own private audience. Television cameras had prime positions and sent their pictures to the watching millions. Driven to the scene of the crime, Dick Milton was furious when he caught sight of a French television crew.
“What are they doing here?” he growled.
“Somebody must have tipped them off,” said Hurrell.
“They’re in on the conspiracy.”
“If that’s what it is, sir.”
When they got out of the car, Milton took his first proper look at the statue which had displaced Nelson. He craned his neck to get a good view, realizing how rarely he even noticed the usual occupant of the fluted Corinthian column. Nelson was such an essential part of the fabric of London that he could be taken for granted. Like St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. In a sense, it was a compliment not to look at him, an acknowledgment of his status and permanence. Only foreign tourists actually stared at the column. Everyone was staring now. The new arrival compelled attention. Napoleon looked bigger, bolder, more authoritative. There was a mutinous rumble among the spectators.
Dick Milton shared their disgust. His faced reddened angrily.
“What, in God’s name, is he doing up there?”
“Making a statement, sir.”
“I’ll make a bloody statement myself in a minute.”
“Not when there are so many microphones about,” warned Hurrell. “We have to be diplomatic. Keep our own opinions private.”
“Well, he’s not keeping his opinion private, is he?” said Milton, looking up at the banner. “VIVE LA FRANCE! That doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”
“No, sir.” Hurrell gave a signal and a detective walked briskly across to them. “Let’s see if we have any more leads. DS Williams was in charge of taking statements from witnesses.”
“Good.” He appraised the newcomer. “Well?”
“They all say the same, sir,” explained Williams, referring to his notebook. “There were over a dozen of them, sleeping here last night or sharing bottles of cheap booze. They saw very little.”
“They must have, man!”
“There was a total blackout, Commander.”
“Winos are nocturnal. They can see in the dark.”
“Not when they’re pissed out of their minds,” said Hurrell before turning back to Williams. “Sorry, Jim. Do go on.”
The Detective Sergeant nodded and ran a tongue nervously across his lips. Knowing all about Dick Milton’s hot temper, he had no wish to be on the receiving end of it. He consulted his notebook.
“They saw little but heard a lot,” he resumed. “The one thing they all agree on is the balloon. Not a hot-air balloon. The other kind. You know, like a Zeppelin.”
“A dirigible,” said Milton.
“They all called it a balloon.”
“Technically, it’s an airship. What else did they hear?”
“A strange noise.”
“Noise?”
“A sort of loud grinding,” said Williams, stooping to pick up a handful of chippings. “Stonecutter, I reckon. You see, sir? These are pieces of Craigleith stone from the statue of Nelson. My theory is that they had to cut through its base before they could detach it from the column and carry it away.”
“By the dirigible?”
“How else?”
“But it must have been a hell of a weight.
“Several tons, sir.”
“How tall was the statue?”
“Seventeen feet,” said Williams. “And the column is a hundred and forty-five. Devonshire granite from Foggin Tor. It supports a bronze capital cast from old guns from Woolwich Arsenal.”
“You’ve done your homework. Good man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A hot air balloon couldn’t have winched it up,” said Hurrell, “but a large airship might have. Several sightings of a flying object were reported. People couldn’t pick it out clearly but they thought the
y saw something dangling from it. They didn’t realize that it was a priceless chunk of English history.”
“No,” grumbled Milton. “Anything else, Williams?”
The detective rattled off the other information he had gleaned before being sent back to interrogate the witnesses for a second time. They were a motley crew: tramps, winos and homeless students. There was one old woman among them, singing hymns at the top of her voice. Milton ran a jaundiced eye over them. None would be at all reliable in a witness box. He turned to face Hurrell.
“This was a well-planned operation, Ken.”
“Yes, sir. Involving several people.”
“Do we know any French extremists capable of this?”
“Not really, sir,” said the other, “though I was surprised to find out just how many different political groups there are. Apart from the usual anarchists, nihilists and assorted nutcases, that is. There’s a Pro-Euro Ginger Group, a Friends of General de Gaulle Society, a Jacobin Club, a League of French Imperialists, a Marquis de Sade Brotherhood and heaven knows what else. I’m told there are some pretty dodgy characters in the Gerard Depardieu Fan Club as well. France is steeped in revolution. It’s in their blood. When something rouses them, they act. One thing is certain about this lot.”
“What’s that?”
“They mean business.”
“Yes, they stole one of our great national heroes,” said Milton bitterly. “And what they they give us in return? Those tasteless Golden Delicious apples and seventeen feet of Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Amazing, really. You’ve got to admire them.”
The Commander was appalled. “Admire those thieving Frogs!”
“They whisked Nelson off into the sky.”
“They did more than that, Ken. Apart from insulting a naval man by flying him out, they achieved an even greater feat.” He glanced up at the statue. “They stuck that monstrosity up there at the same time. How? One dirigible, two national heroes. How on earth did they remove one and replace him with another in such a short space of time?”
“The blackout lasted for a few hours.”
“That means they were working in the dark.”
“Maybe they had a second dirigible.”
“None of the winos mentioned it and they’re used to seeing double.”
“I don’t think we can trust their word,” said Hurrell with a sad smile. “They were either too drunk to notice much or too frightened to remember what they did see and hear. The other reports are the ones to trust. Something moving silently across the sky with an object dangling from it. There were a number of sightings.”
“It must have made two journeys,” decided Milton. “Nelson was spirited away to a nearby hiding place then Napoleon was brought back in his stead.” He took out his mobile phone. “Let’s knock old Nappy off his perch, anyway. Who were those people who cleaned the statue recently?”
“Gostelow and Crabtree.”
“Sounds like a firm of corrupt solicitors.”
“Are there any other kind?”
They traded a professional laugh. Hurrell gave him the phone number and the Commander dialled it. After barking a few orders, the latter switched off his mobile and put it in his pocket.
“They’re on their way.”
“How will they get up there?”
“Scaffolding.”
“Then what?”
“Well,” said Milton firmly, “the first thing they can do is to get that VIVE LA FRANCE banner down. It’s making my stomach heave.” He looked across at the massed ranks of cameramen and journalists. “I suppose that I ought to throw them a bone. Give them the idea that we have everything under control. Ho, ho! You wait here, Ken. I’ll go and make a non-committal statement to the media or they’ll be hounding us all day.” He gazed up at Napoleon again. “By the way, what’s French for ‘We’re coming to get you, you mad bastard’?”
Emblazoned with the name of “Gostelow and Crabtree”, the lorry arrived within half-an-hour. In the rear was a large tarpaulin and an endless number of scaffolding poles. The lorry was closely followed by a huge mobile crane. Fresh interest was stirred up in the crowd and the cameras recorded every moment for the television audience. While waiting for the men to arrive, Commander Milton had pacified the media, given his statement, and spoken to some of the denizens of Trafalgar Square to hear first-hand their reminiscences of a night to remember. Two of them came out of their drunken stupor to claim that they had seen a balloon in the sky with something dangling from it.
Milton went across to introduce himself and Kenneth Hurrell to the newcomers. They treated him with muted respect.
“Who’s in charge?” he asked.
“I am,” said a hefty man in his thirties.
“Who are you? Gostelow or Crabtree?”
“Neither, sir. Mr Gostelow died years ago.”
“What about Crabtree?”
“On holiday.”
“Lucky devil! So was I until this little caper.”
“My name’s Pete Sylvester,” said the foreman, extending a gnarled hand. “I was in charge of cleaning Nelson, so I have a real stake in getting him back. You grow to like a man when you’ve been chiselling away at him for as long as we did.”
“I thought you just gave him a wash and brush-up.”
“I wish it was that easy, sir. But we’re not just cleaners. We’re trained sculptors. We actually have to re-carve bits from time to time. Freshen up the contours. It’s skilled work. We’ve sculpted bits of half the churches in London before now.”
“What about taking a statue down?”
“That’s more difficult.”
“But you have done it before?”
“A few times. We’ll manage somehow. Leave it to us.”
Peter Sylvester’s craggy face split into a grin. He had a reassuring jauntiness about him. While he was chatting to the detectives, his men were already starting to build the scaffold around the column. In the background, another crew was assembling the crane.
“Listen, Pete,” said Hurrell familiarly, “when you were working on the Admiral, did you see anything?”
“We saw everything, mate. Best view in London.”
“I meant, did you see anything unusual?”
“Unusual?”
“People taking a close interest in what you were doing.”
“There were dozens of those. Real nuisance at times.”
“Were any of them French?” asked Milton.
“Yeah, couple of girls. They took our picture.”
“Nobody else?”
“Not that I recall. When you climb all the way up there, you can’t chat to anyone down here. Some people watched us for hours. We felt a bit like performing monkeys.”
“Did anyone else come up after you?”
“Oh, no! We wouldn’t stand for that.”
“What happened overnight?” wondered Hurrell. “Presumably, the scaffolding was left in place. Did you ever arrive in the morning and get the feeling that someone had been up there?” Sylvester shook his head. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because we had a nightwatchman on duty. If you don’t guard them, scaffolding poles have a nasty habit of walking off in the dark. Besides,” said the other, “we didn’t want idiots climbing all over the column. It’s bad enough when they get on the lions’ backs. Admiral Nelson deserves to be protected.”
Pete Sylvester was a man who clearly liked his work but he was unable to help them with their enquiries. When they released him, he went off to supervize the erection of the scaffolding. It was a long but methodical process. The column was slowly encased in an aluminium square which rose steadily upwards. Hurrell was impressed.
“It must have taken much longer with timber,” he observed.
“Timber?” echoed Milton.
“Yes, sir. When they first put up the column, a hundred and fifty years ago, they used wooden scaffolding. The statue itself was raised in 1843 by means of a winch. It must have been a wond
erful sight.”
“Someone else has been doing his homework, I see.”
“I like to be thorough.”
“It’s the only way, Ken.”
Pete Sylvester eventually drifted back across to them.
“I’d suggest that you clear the square completely,” he said. “I’m fairly sure we won’t drop him but it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s a long way to fall.”
Milton gave a command and everyone was moved away.
“When you get him down,” he said, “our forensic boys will want to give him the once-over. Only not here in the glare of publicity.”
“We’ll take him back to the warehouse, sir. More private there.”
“Good.”
“One favour.”
“What’s that?”
“Could you keep the press off our backs? We don’t want them clambering all over our lorry to get exclusive pictures.”
“They won’t get a chance, Mr Sylvester.”
“Thanks.”
When the scaffolding finally reached the capital, Sylvester swarmed up it so that he had the privilege of tearing down the banner. To the cheers of the crowd, he hurled it to the ground. A policeman retrieved it then scurried back out of the way. Dick Milton and Kenneth Hurrell watched with admiration from the safety of the steps of the National Gallery. Pete Sylvester was efficient. Using a small pickaxe, he chipped away at what appeared to be fresh concrete at the base of the statue, then exchanged the implement for a stonecutter. Its whine soon rang across the square and the noise intensified as it cut into solid stone.
One eye on developments, Milton gave his orders.
“Check out all of these fringe groups,” he said.
“Even the loony ones, sir?”
“Especially those. Leave no stone unturned, Ken. If someone so much as asked for Eric Cantona’s autograph, I want him checked out for Gallic sympathies. We’re supposed to be fellow-Europeans now but that message obviously hasn’t got through to the Froggy mentality. Out there somewhere is a sawn-off Napoleon with delusions of grandeur.”
“We’ll find him, sir.”
“And soon.”
Hurrell was about to depart when his colleague’s mobile phone rang. The Commander snatched it from his pocket and turned it on.
“Yes?”
“Commander Milton?” said a heavily-accented voice.
