“Steady” called Jochen and Kurt maintained his dive towards the engine as the driver and the fireman on the footplate looked at the approaching plane with foreboding and a fear of impending doom.
“Now: bomb released” called Jochen, but it wasn’t.
Jochen banged the release lever as hard as he could several times with his clenched fist in a fit of frustration. Finally, the bomb left the shelter of the plane as though reluctant to leave a secure home. Kurt was just starting to level out to climb again as the bomb dropped towards the train. The delay caused it to miss its intended target of the locomotive and smash through the wooden roof of the third carriage. It exploded with a deafening noise which turned into a massive fireball sending flames and smoke barrelling through the carriage. The immediate destruction ripped the carriage from the tracks and it seemed to slew slowly away from the rails dragging the fourth carriage with it.
Jean, who like most on the train had no idea of the impending doom about to strike, had been looking out of the window. She was blown right through it as both Archie and George were lifted from their seats and smashed around like peas in a pod before coming to rest in a crumpled heap on the floor. One of the cases that had been pitched about the compartment from the luggage rack was on fire and was close to the two bodies. The other items from the racks were scattered about and were in a volatile condition. Some of the fabric in the seats was smouldering and looking like it would fully ignite at any moment. Wooden slats in the carriage roof and sides were ablaze. A light breeze was fanning the flames, and the danger of the compartment bursting into an outright inferno was great. The majority of the carriage itself had been destroyed by the initial blast and the ensuing fire appeared to be destroying the rest.
Neither Kurt nor Jochen minded where the bomb had landed; they were just relieved that it had gone and they were relatively safe. Kurt swung the plane round and started to climb back towards the sanctity of the clouds not realising they had been spotted by two of the fighters who were now screaming after them. They soon knew when bullets and tracer rounds whistled past them getting closer and closer to the port wing. Kurt dodged and weaved and as he finally made the cloud turned hard to starboard and forced the plane to go as fast as was possible in the hope of escaping his dogged pursuers. Both the pilots of the Hurricanes realised he had an advantage in escaping now he had some of nature’s camouflage but they weren’t going to give up straight away.
Climbing through the clouds to emerge into clear blue sky and bright sunlight, the Hurricanes’ pilots started a fast and frantic search for any tell-tale signs of the lone plane. Each aware they had to land urgently for fuel and to re-arm. Both were aware they had probably missed their one chance of downing the lone German aircraft.
Kurt knew he had to stay in the clouds and believed the Hurricanes would be circling above somewhere like predatory hawks searching for prey. He expected them to be looking in some form of pattern towards the coast which would be the logical route back to France. He had not stayed alive by doing the obvious and headed towards Chichester which would take him close by Tangmere. No one, he concluded would expect a lone German plane to fly past there, and he was right. Within 5 minutes he’d passed Tangmere and believed he could now afford to turn on a heading for France without being seen by the two Hurricanes. Both were actually now on the ground being hastily refuelled and re-armed. Slowly he brought the plane onto the correct course for home still keeping as best he could within the confines of the fluffy white clouds that had been his saviour. Jochen trusted Kurt and had hardly said a word but when they saw the coast of France, he could contain his glee no longer at surviving once more. Navigating straight back to the airfield he jumped down from the plane on landing and insisted on shaking Kurt’s hand and promised him the best bottle of Champagne he could find in the local village.
7
Friday 4th April 1941
It didn’t take long for help to start arriving at the train as the attack had been seen and reported by the pilots of the Hurricanes and a few witnesses on the ground. Dead passengers were lying where they fell, and some walking wounded were close by the train wandering about in a dazed state before being led to safer terrain by those not affected. Jean was lying on the ground some 15 yards from the train’s burning third carriage with her small bag still clutched firmly in her tiny hands. The window she had gone through had been blown out by the blast a millisecond before her, and she had only superficial cuts to show for her unexpected and unorthodox means of departure from the compartment. Her internal organs had taken a shuddering jolt as well, and although shaken about, had not suffered any serious damage: but hitting the tree which she now lay beneath, had knocked her unconscious. She was not going to be seen for some time by the rescuers as the long couch grass that adorned the side of the tracks and around the tree concealed her tiny inert body.
There were small fires still burning in the remnants of the third carriage and the breeze had wafted embers onto the fourth carriage which was beginning to smoulder. Passengers from the last carriage had all escaped with minor bruises and had each thanked God in their various ways. Rescuers and the local fire brigade had arrived and were already attempting to put the pockets of fire out as bodies were pulled unceremoniously from the carriage and laid beside the stricken train. Dignity for the dead had to wait, speed was essential at that time, as some of the embers were starting to spread to the tinder dry grass next to the track. The locomotive had been uncoupled by the relieved driver and fireman from the footplate and moved further up the track out of harm’s way in accordance with policy as locomotives were in short supply and had to be saved if at all possible.
Most of the passengers from the first two carriages who were not in shock, went to the aid of their fellow travellers in the third coach. It was a plump woman of about fifty years who looked like nothing would faze her, who went to sit under a tree to recover from her ministrations to the injured. She had been travelling in a first class compartment with her husband in the carriage directly behind the locomotive and was extremely thankful that it was not their carriage that had been hit.
She found Jean. She could not imagine why the little girl was there so far away from the train. Looking down at her, Winifred saw that the small child’s eyes were wide open and staring, but they had no life to them. She bent closer. The little girl’s hands twitched and tightened around the small bag that she was clutching to her chest.
“Hello. Who are you?” said Winifred in her matronly voice.
Jean just stared back, unblinking, and then began to shake slowly at first and then more violently. Winifred called to her husband who had just administered the last rites to some of the passengers on the ground by the train to bring a blanket quickly. Joseph knew that if his wife needed a blanket quickly there was a good reason. He looked round and saw a dark overcoat lying by the burnt and blackened door to the compartment next to where the mortally injured lay. Snatching it up in his large shovel type hands he rushed to his wife’s side and saw Jean lying in the grass shaking violently. Winifred took the coat and started to wrap the small child in it as shock took a tougher grip on Jean. She began to softly wail, and then it turned to a high-pitched scream, and then to dry sobs. Winifred knew that shock could kill; she cuddled Jean and made as many reassuring noises as she could, hoping that the small child in her arms would not become another victim of the reluctant bomb.
8
1986 Angola
“We’ll draw straws.” Jackson surveyed the twenty-three dirty, grim faces that were all focused on him. “It’s the fairest way” he added as if to explain his logic.
They all acquiesced and accepted his decision. He was right not to pick one. There had been twenty-five of them originally, but two had been lost in an ambush. To a man, they trusted him. He was Major Jackson to them, but had never been promoted past Captain. His men were from all parts of the United Kingdom and had all seen some action whilst in the employ of her Majesty’s forces. They had
been brought together some eighteen months previously by another man they believed they could trust. All assumed that what they had been asked to do had the sanction of her Majesty’s Government. It had originally, although only by a handful of senior Government Ministers, and not one had ever committed anything to paper.
Something had now changed. There hadn’t been a supply drop for three weeks. The rebels had known precisely where they were going to be. Two of their number were dead and they were lucky it hadn’t been more. By sheer good fortune they had fought their way out of the ambush only because the rebels were disorganised and poorly led. Now they knew that they had been abandoned and someone was plotting against them. At least two hundred rebels had come together and were a day behind them, and now they had some good Cuban trained leaders. Even the booby traps that Jackson’s men were leaving were being crashed through by the rebel column, killing a few at a time but not depleting their number or slowing them down sufficiently.
Jackson knew it was just a matter of time before the fire fight would ensue. Both he and his men appreciated they were completely outnumbered but were by no means dispirited. They had reached the summit of a hill where they would have a slight advantage. The rebels didn’t seem to care if they died as long as they could destroy the British mercenaries and capture the Angolan Prime Minister and it made them all the more dangerous. Major Jackson believed that his men had a good chance due to their weaponry, skill and more to the point, professionalism.
“OK Piper. You’ve won. Get the man and go.”
No one griped. It had been fair. They all returned to their positions and prepared for battle each in their own way. A couple even offered up a small prayer. Most settled down for a rest or had a bite to eat. Their weapons were primed and ready. It was going to be hard but they all believed they would prevail. The rebels knew where Jackson and his men were thanks to information being fed to them from London. They would wait an extra day for further reinforcements before surrounding the hill and mounting their attack. It was a day too late.
“Get him to the safe house and then get back to London. Find out what bastard has betrayed us and if you can, kill him. If you can’t, find this copper,” and he handed a piece of paper to Piper with a name on it, “and give him my name. We were at school together. He is the only person I trust right now. Be careful Paddy. Don’t trust anyone else. Especially those slippery eels in the Foreign Office”
“It will take me sometime to reach Zimbabwe Major. I’ll contact you from there.”
“I hope so. You’ve got everyone’s ring and coded details just in case.”
“It’s been a privilege to serve with you.”
“Get going Paddy. We should be able to hold them off long enough to give you a couple of days start.”
9
Monday 20th December 2010
“Hello Trevor.”
“Is that you Graham?”
“Yes. Long time since we spoke.”
“Must be getting on for a year now.”
“What are you up to lately?”
“Usual. Couple of murders keeping me busy and a nasty little corruption enquiry. You?”
“Still deputy to the Commissioner and pushing paper from one side of my desk to the other.”
“How’s your handicap coming on?”
“That’s what I was phoning about. You still a member at Goodwood?”
“Certainly am. When you thinking of?”
“Tomorrow? The weather’s meant to be fine.”
“I’m going to be busy in the afternoon. How about an 8.30 tee off?”
“You’re on. See you then.”
The click of the phone disconnecting seemed to echo round the office like a revolver being cocked. Prodow looked at it as he gently placed it back on its cradle. He scrutinised it as if expecting it to suddenly disclose some useful information.
‘I wonder what that was all about?’
10
Monday 10th January 2011
“Yes?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
“What?”
“Our man in the Police is due to retire in a year’s time and at present there are two possible candidates.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“The Minister will be endorsing one called Daines: Graham Daines, should he apply. He’s honest and would be dangerous to your operations. The other is called Harold Jacobs and would slot easily into the operation for the same fee as present.”
“Any others?”
“Not likely.”
“Your suggestion is?”
“It would be useful if Daines could be persuaded not to apply or withdraw if he does.”
“There’s an easier method.”
“Problem with that is, they would have to put a serious investigation team onto it and it might come back to haunt you and then we are all in the shit.”
“I’ll speak to my man and see what we can come up with.”
“I’ll keep you updated with what’s happening this end.”
“Leave Daines to me. I’ll sort it out.”
“Be careful. He’s been a problem before and he has some ‘iffy’ friends.”
11
Sunday 1st May 2011
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh.”
“I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“The agency has been sending me all over the place.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. Probably later this week.”
“I want it done then. The sooner the better.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Have you got the pills?”
“Yes.”
“The last £1000 is waiting for you to do it.”
“Right.”
“You’re not thinking of backing out? Nothing will be attributed to you.”
“There’s no problem. I’ll do it next time I’m there.”
“Good. See you soon. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The red dot in the phone’s display indicating it was busy swiftly faded and died. She snapped the phone shut with a growing anger and stuffed it into her uniform pocket. Upstairs, she examined her made up face and coiffured hair in her medicine cabinet’s mirror. Inside, tucked behind taller items was a small bottle marked ‘Aspirin’. Its actual contents were a mixture of thirty-seven barbiturate and morphine tablets of varying strengths. She had stolen them from her other clients over the preceding months. Now she knew the time had come and she was frightened.
12
Friday 6th May 2011
Sam looked at the headlines on the front page of the local paper. Some dignitary banging on about a road widening scheme that had been mooted for the route between Bognor and Chichester. Campaigners bleating it would cause an eco-problem if it was approved. A report of a charity bus service being set up and begging for funds and the usual small, totally useless black and white photograph of some prisoner who had walked out of Ford open prison and forgotten to go back. Swimmers whingeing that there were jellyfish off the coast and the council should spend thousands clearing them away.
“This paper gets worse week by week. Why the hell do I buy it?”
“You like the local news” was the response from Chris who was busy in the kitchen, “Or that’s what you told me.”
Muttering sarcastically under his breath, “Yeah. Right” he picked up his coffee.
Sam hated the new format that the paper had adopted. It was now a small tabloid style; ‘easier to hold and read’ was how they’d justified changing it from a broadsheet. Opening the paper and trying to drink coffee at the same time still caused problems for Sam. One of the pages dropped a few inches. Putting his coffee on the side table, he shuffled the page back into its precise position and noticed a small paragraph with a heading, ‘Local Man found dead’. In no more than six short lines, Sam learnt that George Armstrong had been found on the floor of his home with a piece
of paper next to him with the word ‘pois’ written on it. Police were apparently treating the death as suspicious.
“My God! Of course it’s bloody suspicious. This is what should be on the front page!”
Chris came into the room with the morning’s mail.
“Any for me?”
“All of it today. Not one catalogue.”
Sam dropped the paper onto the floor as he looked at the post before heading off to work.
13
Friday 3rd June 2011
“Course it was her, bloody obvious really, who else could it be?” said Sam audibly to himself.
The story had appeared each week, getting bigger and bigger and creeping interminably towards the front page. Four weeks on, it had arrived. There it was, now taking up the entire front page in stark, bold, black type with a rider at the bottom stating that the full details were contained within its internal pages. Sam wanted every miniscule, morbid fact and was relishing the prospect. The headline screamed out: ‘Nurse Charged with Murder’. Underneath, it stated that George Armstrong, aged 91, (‘they always give an age’ mused Sam) was found dead at his home in Barnham, West Sussex by his neighbour on the afternoon of Tuesday 3rd May 2011.
Opening the paper, Sam was delighted to see that pages two, three and four appeared to carry the story in all it’s full, frank and lurid detail. Sam knew this was the biggest story the paper had ever had and was the talk of everyone within the west of the county. Settling back in his worn, copious leather armchair with a freshly made mug of coffee from a strange looking machine, with an even stranger name, Sam prepared to devour each gory aspect of the story.
‘George Armstrong, an outstanding pillar of the community and a retired headmaster, who had only last year won the coveted Southern Counties Chess Championships in a thrilling final, was found dead on the floor of his living room. Mr Chaplin, an elderly neighbour who was going for his weekly game of chess with Mr Armstrong, had found him lying on the floor with a diary and a broken pencil by his hand. Scrawled in practically unintelligible writing on the paper was the single word ‘Pois’ and nothing else.’
An Urgent Murder Page 3
