by Alan G Boyes
“Mmmm. But then she would not have been surprised, would she? When she saw you in the kitchen,” he probed gently but firmly.
Cindy shrugged her shoulders, “I’ve no idea. Is it important?” she asked somewhat impatiently.
Ritson did not answer but instead decided to change tack.
“How are you getting along? Perhaps there are questions you would like to ask me. If I can help I will.” Ritson was anxious to put Cindy at ease. The probing could start again in a minute.
“No, not really. Of course I have hundreds of questions, but none of them matter anymore. Only one is important to me. Why Gordon, why Gordon? He was such a lovely man.” She started to cry.
Ritson offered a handkerchief, but Cindy declined and wiped away her tears with a tissue hastily pulled from a box on the table.
“Thanks, I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“How are you finding life back in Worcestershire? I presume you have some friends you can see? Didn’t you used to live not far away in the Cotswolds?”
For the first time since her return, she momentarily thought of Don and the gun dogs and wondered what they had been up to. The club had not entered her traumatised mind and she resolved to try and summon the courage to make contact again.
“Er, yes, I suppose so, but I haven’t felt up to doing much visiting.” Cindy answered despondently.
“What about your ex-husband, is he still living in Stillwood?”
Cindy replied instantly, “Oh yes. Well, he was the last time we spoke as he hadn’t been able to sell it. Although he has the house there he spends most of his time in London and the South East and only comes to Red Gables on the occasional week-end. He has found someone else and seems very happy. When the news broke about what had happened he was obviously very concerned and supportive, but I haven’t seen or spoken to him recently.”
Ritson pondered carefully about his next question and a silence filled the air for several seconds before he spoke.
“Were you aware that the funds used to finance the kidnap terror plot were deposited and later withdrawn from his bank?”
Cindy’s face fell. “What? Are you saying Alan’s bank was involved?”
Then the realisation hit her – the female terrorist. No wonder she recognised Cindy and that she, Cindy, found her vaguely familiar. It was the same woman who had visited Alan at home the previous year. Cindy was instantly alarmed at where Ritson’s easy style questions were leading. Alan was a lot of things but he was not a terrorist, nor would he ever be involved with terrorism.
“Yes, quite heavily involved. Is it possible you may have met the female, Fadyar, previously? She may have called herself Halima Chalthoum, or possibly Yasmin Hasan.”
Cindy’s heart was thumping. This was dangerous territory. She had lost one person very, very dear to her and she was not going to stand idly by whilst someone with whom she had been in love with in the past was being implicated of aiding the plot. She just knew that Alan was innocent, but also strongly suspected that any admission of a meeting would be really bad for him.
“Goodness no, Chief Superintendent. I am sure I should remember if I had met her and would have recognised her at Mealag if I had. It’s been at least two years since I attended any of the bank’s corporate entertainment things where sometimes wives or partners were invited. I can’t recall her at any of those I did go to and she certainly never came to Red Gables or our flat in London, if that’s what you thinking.”
“Are you quite sure, Mrs Crossland? It is very important.”
“Certain. I would remember. ”
A few minutes later Ritson left. He drove to Red Gables where he knew that Alan Crossland and a smart-looking woman were in residence, having had him tailed when he left his London bank early Friday afternoon. Ritson rang the bell and Crossland answered it.
“My word, it’s you again, Superintendent. What brings you here to my home on a Saturday. It must be important. Come in.”
“If it’s convenient Sir, perhaps we could just stroll around the front lawn. It will not take long.”
“As you wish. I’ll just grab a coat.”
As they started to walk, Ritson explained that he had just finished an interview with Cindy.
“Our enquiries with regard to the bank’s involvement, or more specifically your possible personal involvement, in the terrorist activities that led to the assault on Mealag Lodge are now at an end. That is unofficial. It will be made official in due course but as I was passing I just wanted to tell you face-to-face, and off the record, that you have been a very fortunate man.”
Crossland gulped, not quite knowing what to say.
“Well, thank you – I think. I appreciate you telling me, but at no time was I involved.”
“Sir, I never thought you were knowingly active in funding terrorism, but in my opinion your less than scrupulous actions made it possible to conceal the financing for the attack. Had you been totally truthful at the outset with me our enquiries may have not have been delayed, and it is just possible the terrible business of what happened in Scotland might have been averted. I cannot prove that of course, but I believe it. I also believe you and Mrs Crossland met the female ringleader here at your home or nearby, but you deny it. It is obvious from my enquiries into the plot that Fadyar Masri, or Halima Chalthoum as she was known to you, did know Mrs Crossland as she recognised her and called her by name as the attack unfolded. Despite her grief, Mrs Crossland is a very astute woman and I think – no, I’m certain – that to protect you she is also denying prior knowledge of the terrorist. I can do no more, but I do wish to warn you Mr Crossland. Either get out of banking or stick to the rules. This particular plot has cost a great many lives, probably as far back as your friend Styles. That should remain on your conscience.”
Alan was shaken but mightily relieved. He had been desperately worried for the last two months that Cindy might incriminate him ever since he learned Donaldson had failed. He had no worries now, though he was already realising how hard it was to live racked with the guilt of his own murderous and ill-conceived plot against Cindy.
“Thank you Superintendent, I appreciate all that you say. By the way, did you ever get to the bottom of what Donaldson was doing up there?” Crossland asked innocently.
“He had been following Mrs Crossland around for months, both before but particularly after you dismissed him. We know that much. We are also sure he knew nothing about the visiting American. It seems as though he was fanatically obsessive about your ex-wife and it was just pure coincidence that he was there at the time of the kidnap plot. I have no doubt the unexpected presence of the beautiful Mrs Assiter further inflamed him.”
“Cindy was always concerned about him, saying he gave her the creeps and was over familiar, but to my deep regret, I rather dismissed what she was saying as fanciful. If only I had taken more notice and got rid of him earlier.” Crossland reflected.
“He was clearly a dangerous psychopath and must have harboured his sexual fantasies regarding your wife for years, really off his head in my view. To get to Mrs Crossland and Mrs Assiter we believe he murdered at least two police officers. Anyway he suffered a horrible, lingering death. I don’t know if you have been told, but he took hours to slowly drown in a peat bog. Serve the bastard right.” Ritson gave an unusual off-guarded reply.
“At last, something we agree on!” Crossland exclaimed as Ritson turned and walked away to his car.
Alan Crossland went inside and picked up the telephone. “Thank you, Cindy. Thank you.”
He then wrote his resignation letter and personally handed it to the chairman on Monday morning. He left the Hannet-Mar International Bank six months later with a tax paid net severance payment in excess of a million pounds and an inflation-proofed final salary pension of around half a million pounds a year. Chloe was finally persuaded to leave her teaching job and they spent the next two years travelling the world together.
86
Mealag Lodge had been b
oarded and shut since Gordon’s death, but the MacLeans still lived in their bungalow and the estate still functioned. Gordon’s solicitors had indicated to them that that they would be well provided for when the will was finally proved and the estate was properly safeguarded to ensure its continuance. Much to Cindy’s surprise, she had received a phone call saying she would become a very wealthy woman. She hadn’t appreciated just how meticulous a man Gordon was until the solicitors contacted her, and it was a surprise that Gordon should have altered his will when he had known Cindy for only a short while. It was only later when speaking with Dean that she learned of Gordon’s intention to propose to her. Although overjoyed at what Assiter had said, his comment had really upset Cindy. It reminded her of what might have been; what she had hoped and wished for. God, how she missed Gordon. Even now, months later, she could almost imagine he was still there in the room with her, talking together, laughing, kissing. Christmas was nearing and all around her people were getting ready for the festive season. It was the most poignant reminder of the excitement, joy and love she and Gordon had shared twelve months previously, when they talked of a fantastic life together. Now, she was unable to foresee her future, and desperately unhappy. She realised she had to visit the dam and Mealag once more, one last time – she had outstanding business there. She owed it to Gordon, to herself and the MacLeans. It was the only way she would obtain closure.
The journey to Scotland was so unpleasant and heartbreaking she failed to notice the scenery in the early winter sun. The tops of the hills were showing the first heavy snows of winter and the brackens were still retaining their pigments of burnt gold, brown and red. It was probably the most colourful of all seasons in the Highlands but she drove on without a glance. She had reached and passed Corach when her frayed nerves shuddered involuntarily as the dam came into view. All her previous experiences came flooding back, but one particularly was etched on her mind, that first morning Gordon met her. She stopped on the rough ground next to the switchgear building and cried for several minutes.
She had not contacted the MacLeans, deliberately, as she was not sure she wanted to meet anyone but she had written them a letter which she posted en route. She needed time alone, here at the dam and around Mealag. She put on a thick waxed jacket to keep out the chill air and the drizzle away, and walked across the dam wall. In her hand she held a tiny engraved brass urn, and at the gate where Gordon had so often waited she knelt down and laid it on the damp grass. From her pocket she produced a small trowel and, with tears running down her cheeks, she buried the casket. She stood up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and walked to the shore, picking up a collection of large stones to place upon the sepulture. She did this several times until she had erected a small cairn.
She stood over it and whispered, “Goodbye my love, my Gordon. Thank you for the dream. I will always love you.”
She stood for a few more minutes reflecting on the joys they had shared together and started to cry again. She wandered along the shore, past the peat bog where Donaldson had drowned, and stood on the jetty looking at the empty Mealag Lodge and the deserted chalets. The silence overwhelmed her. She turned, retraced her steps, climbed back over the gate and walked slowly over the dam wall. At the car, she raised the tail gate and put on her gum boots. She climbed the hill where Dean and Gordon had been attacked and passed the grilled entrance to the tunnel where the assailants had hidden, a shiny new padlock securing the same rusting chain. There was no reminder of the four murders that took place here, no markings to indicate the grenade attack, and Cindy did not stop. She climbed onwards and reached the surge shaft protected by the forty-six feet diameter circular fence of nearly three hundred close spaced steel stakes, each one having a sharpened trisection at its top. She stood at the railings and looked into the vastness of the expansion chamber. The autumn rains had swelled the level of the loch and deep below her she could clearly see the rushing water as it sped across the surge shaft and into the start of the high pressure tunnel. Cindy took off her thick jacket and placed it over several of the protective stakes. Holding onto the horizontal bars that held the stanchions in place, she levered herself up and over and stood on the narrow concrete apron inside the barrier. She closed her eyes and stepped forward.
87
It is normal procedure after the activation of the command centres, indeed any large police or prison operation, to hold an initial debrief as soon as practicable afterwards. Everyone, from secretaries in the command office to the Bronze commander himself, has to give their initial thoughts, reactions and comments on the day. The truth is sought and constructive criticism, even if it is about a colleague or superior, is encouraged. These early recollections are followed up later, in depth, but statements made whilst events are still vivid in the mind tend to reveal the most important aspects and are a vital component of any post-operation analysis. Those who took part, whether at the frontline or not, would be tired but none complained. Those who were still on active deployment, at the scene for instance, would have their initial debriefing as soon as they were off-duty. Debriefing is part of the job, however painful some of the facts to emerge might be, and this debriefing was not going to be pleasant for anyone. It never is when fatalities have occurred. Gold and Silver Command went through the same process of winding down, and also their own debriefing. In due course all the debriefing reports would be merged and cross-referenced with an in-depth, subsequent, debrief. An exhaustive set of further questions is asked about the interfaces between the command structures to ensure that they always operate smoothly and effectively. Finally, after several weeks or even months, the full internal report will be made available to the Home Secretary and COBR, and if necessary further detailed reviews will take place involving all the principal agencies in order to determine and implement improvements.
The debriefing of the command and operational personnel had highlighted several major weaknesses in the initial investigations, liaison and the cross-discipline sharing of information plus serious errors in tactical and deployment when bringing the kidnap to an end. All would be actioned; lessons learnt; and the new measures incorporated into the next revised procedural manual. Computer access codes were overhauled and updated. Sharing of information was deemed essential. No one was disciplined; no one was commended. The twenty-four hour TV news stations had exhausted the story within two days and then it was supplanted in their bulletins with news of major floods and landslides in China that had caused significant devastation and loss of life. The serious Sunday papers examined and scrutinised such facts as they had gleaned or had been made available to them, but they too ceased making any further investigations after a couple of weeks. Unsurprisingly, the tabloids had sensationalised the success of the police in defusing the bomb inside the abandoned Land Rover and several alleged eyewitnesses filled more column inches with stories of their lucky escape. The factual aspects of the plot itself were only barely mentioned and nothing of Cindy’s and Paulette’s ordeal with Donaldson became public. Several years later, due to other factors, the various Scottish constabularies were amalgamated into one unitary force – Police Scotland – though still retaining regional commanders, one of which has responsibility for the Highlands.
GCHQ had spent hours trolling through all the data available to it and after several weeks had found what they were looking for, a lead as to who leaked the holiday plans of the US Secretary of State. Any euphoria was short lived. Sadly for the British, it was not the Americans who slipped up. GCHQ had traced past intercept messages made from a mobile phone user in the Islington area of London to a known organisation long suspected of terrorist sympathies. The information was relayed to the ATU who made the subsequent investigations and enquiries that ultimately led to Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Ritson to be given the job of interviewing Stephen Baker, the boyfriend of Peter Knowles. Baker confessed almost immediately.
It transpired that a couple of years previously he had embarked on a sordid assignat
ion on Hampstead Heath with a young Middle-Eastern teenage boy. Baker became obsessed with the lad and a steamy relationship ensued with both going back to the flat owned by the teenager’s wealthy absentee parents. Unknown to Baker, he had been specifically targeted due to his close relationship with Peter Knowles, and when intimate photographs of him and the boy were pushed under the windscreen wipers of his car one day he realised he was in serious trouble. His blackmailers pressured him to obtain information about the British Government’s foreign policy towards Middle-Eastern affairs but Baker knew of none, Peter Knowles never revealing state secrets. Baker had to resort to paying the blackmailers considerable sums of cash. Deeply worried and ever more in debt, Baker had reached desperation point when one day Knowles and he were discussing who to invite to their next party.
“We must of course get Cindy along, she simply makes the whole thing go with such a swing. I suppose we shall also have to invite her rather boring husband.” Baker remarked to Knowles.
Without a moment’s thought, Knowles replied, “Oh, of course you don’t know do you? Well, I think our lovely Cindy is being a rather naughty little girl. I met her the other week and she confirmed to me that she is madly in love with… guess who? My dear, none other than that dishy Gordon Truscott, you know the bachelor millionaire who lives in Scotland.”
“Well, shall we invite Cindy and Truscott to our little do in September? It could be fun if she brings her handsome new man!” Baker mischievously laughed.
“Oh they won’t be able to. What a pity. Dean Assiter has already agreed to holiday with them in September. Aren’t you just so thrilled for her, Stephen? Truscott must be so much better than the banker.”
It was Baker’s opportunity to get back the negatives of the photos and be rid of the blackmailers, and he took it. It was easy for him to ascertain the precise dates. Assiter’s public movements were published well in advance and he therefore knew he would be in the UK on official business until September 11th. It was pretty certain where he would be on the 12th and he had to attend a Presidential Address in Washington on the 25th. Baker fully cooperated with Ritson. He supplied the police with all the names, addresses and phone numbers of those he knew. Peter Knowles retired early without receiving the MBE that was customary for his civil service Foreign Office rank. Baker spent several years in jail, but those whom he had implicated had fled the country.
