by Damien Boyd
‘Which one is it?’ asked Dixon.
‘This one,’ said John, pointing to the first hangar.
Two huge steel doors towered over them, perhaps forty feet high and wider still.
‘We don’t have to open those, do we?’ asked Louise.
‘No,’ replied John, holding up an old key and grinning. ‘There’s a side door.’
It took him several minutes to switch on all the lights and even longer for them to come on, the old strip lights flickering in protest.
‘Follow me.’
They weaved their way through high metal shelving units, all packed to the top with boxes, each labelled and assigned an archive number.
‘What’s all this lot?’ asked Dixon.
‘Can’t tell you,’ replied John. ‘I’d have to kill you.’
Dixon wondered how many times John had used that line. Thousands possibly, but he still appeared to enjoy it all the same.
‘Here it is.’
The shelving on the far side of the hangar opened out to reveal an area the size of at least two tennis courts. There were boats on trailers, motorbikes, two MoD Land Rovers, two skips full of old computers and an old tank.
‘What’s the tank for?’
‘Chemical weapons testing,’ replied John. ‘See if the men inside would survive an attack. It’s an old Scimitar.’
‘Where’s the cabin?’
‘At the back.’
They followed John through the piles of junk to the back of the hangar.
‘It’s basically just a cabin on wheels,’ he continued. ‘I’m not sure what use it’ll be to you.’
‘Is there a light back here?’
‘Somewhere.’
Another set of strip lights flickered into life, revealing a dark green cabin mounted on a trailer. There was a set of steel steps at the back and various boxes on the roof.
‘No windows,’ said Dixon.
‘There are a couple of skylights in the roof.’
‘Can we go in?’
One of the tyres was deflated, giving the cabin a list to one side.
‘There’s not a lot to see, except a few radar screens and desks.’
‘We’ve come this far . . .’
‘And it’s full of shit.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m joking. When it was captured, they found a turd in one of the drawers, or so the story goes.’
Dixon shook his head.
‘Is it locked?’
‘No.’
Dixon walked up the steps at the back and opened the door. He fumbled for a light on the wall, but the switch was dead, so he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
‘It stinks like an old caravan,’ said Louise, standing behind him.
‘It is an old caravan. And so would you if you’d been dumped in a damp warehouse for thirty years.’
Desks had been built in around the walls, with radar screens set into them, four in total, presumably to cover north, south, east and west. A radio set was still there, but everything else had been stripped out, leaving exposed cables and gaping holes in the panelling.
‘I wouldn’t open the drawers if I were you,’ said Dixon.
‘I won’t.’
Dixon heard footsteps on the stairs behind him and turned to see John leaning on the railings.
‘What’s going to happen to it?’
‘Nothing I expect,’ replied John. ‘It’ll probably be here long after I’ve gone. More of an effort to remove it I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, very costly. It’s lined with asbestos. We tried the Imperial War Museum, but they didn’t want it. Neither did the RAF Museum, so it’ll just stay here I expect.’
‘Were there any others?’
‘Three, but they were broken up in the Falklands and shipped back in pieces. They’re long gone now.’
‘Has anyone else been in here recently?’
‘I dunno. Why?’
‘Fingerprints in the dust,’ replied Dixon, pointing at a hole in the panelling.
‘I’ll check,’ said John, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
‘What d’you make of it?’ asked Dixon, turning to Louise.
‘Nothing to be honest.’
‘Me neither.’
‘It was some bloke about a year or so ago,’ said John. ‘Something to do with the asbestos.’
‘I wonder what that was about?’
‘Probably just pricing up its disposal we think. We’ve had several quotes in the past, according to Mr Draper.’
Dixon nodded.
‘I’ve seen enough, thank you.’
‘How far’s Guildford?’ asked Louise once they were back in Dixon’s Land Rover.
‘An hour or so.’
He was on the M3 before he spoke again.
‘What’s the address?’
‘It’s Shalford actually, just outside Guildford on the A281—33 Shillingbourne Road.’
‘Have you got satnav on your phone?’
‘No.’
Dixon reached down behind the passenger seat and handed a map book to Louise.
‘Over to you, Constable.’
Twenty-five minutes later they were parked across the drive of a large semi-detached house. It had stopped snowing just east of Porton Down, although it was cold enough to snow and would no doubt start again before they left.
Dixon looked up at 33 Shillingbourne Road. Lights were on inside, the narrow shafts of light just visible through the jungle in the front garden. The property itself appeared tidy and well maintained. Maybe they just hated gardening.
‘I hope she’s in,’ said Louise.
‘Let’s go and find out.’
Dixon rang the doorbell and waited, peering through the stained glass panels in the large solid oak front door. The rails of a stairlift were fixed to the wall at the bottom of the stairs, but the chair was out of sight, presumably at the top. Apart from that not much was visible in the hall.
‘Yes.’
Dixon looked up to find a woman leaning out of an upstairs window. Sixty-five or so, long hair swept back under a band, cigarette in the corner of her mouth.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Glenda Campbell.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Police.’
‘What’s he done now?’
‘Mrs Cam—’
‘I’ll come down,’ she said, slamming the window.
‘One day somebody’s going to be pleased to see us,’ said Louise.
‘I doubt that.’
It took several minutes for the stairlift to bring Mrs Campbell down the stairs.
‘How do I know you’re police?’ she asked, her face pressed to the stained glass.
Dixon pushed their warrant cards through the letterbox. She bent down, picked them up and then opened the front door.
‘What’s who done now?’ asked Dixon.
‘My stepson,’ replied Mrs Campbell. ‘Useless loafer. He’s supposed to do the garden for a start.’
‘Are you married?’
‘My husband’s dead, and he left me with Sam. Comes and goes as he pleases, when he needs money usually.’ She handed back the warrant cards.
‘What can I do for you then if it’s not about Sam?’
‘Can we come in?’
‘Er, yes.’
They followed her into the lounge. ‘Just shift that lot on to the floor,’ she said, gesturing to the cats asleep on the sofa.
Dixon watched her slump down into the armchair.
‘Multiple sclerosis, Inspector. I have the occasional medicinal joint, but you’ve not come all the way from Somerset for that, have you?’
‘No.’
‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘We wanted to talk to you about your brother.’
Mrs Campbell closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Then she struggled to her feet and shuffled across to the mantelpiece. She smiled at a photograph as she picked it up an
d passed it to Dixon.
‘Adrian. He died for Queen and country. This is the last picture of him, taken just before they left for the Falklands.’
Dixon looked at the picture of a man perhaps his age, maybe a year or two older, sitting astride a motorcycle on a seafront somewhere.
‘It’s his birthday today,’ she said, her eyes welling up with tears.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Campbell? Constable Willmott can . . .’
‘No, I’m fine. What d’you want?’
‘D’you have a photograph of him we can keep?’
‘Take that one. I’ve got another copy. Just leave me the frame.’
‘How much d’you know about what happened on the night of the battle?’ asked Dixon, handing the photograph to Louise.
‘Everything. I know everything.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Look, what’s this about?’
‘We’re investigating the death of Captain Alan Fletcher.’
‘Him? He’s dead?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Good.’
‘He was murdered, Mrs Campbell.’
‘Who did it?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
‘Well, when you do, thank them for me, will you?’ She lit a cigarette.
‘What happened on the night of the battle?’
‘The marines were pinned down, so Adrian went for reinforcements and bumped into Fletcher. The bastard tried to say Adrian was a deserter, and they took away his VC.’ Mrs Campbell’s cheeks were flushed, and she spoke as she exhaled the smoke. ‘He should’ve won the VC.’
Dixon watched the ash fall off the end of her cigarette on to the carpet.
‘Who told you this?’
‘I went down to Bickleigh for the parade when they got back, and I was told it by men who were there. I met the padre who knelt over him when he was dying. And the men he saved. They all said he should’ve got the VC.’
‘And before that?’
‘We just got a telegram and then a visit from some liaison person, that’s all. They knew nothing.’
‘Do you still keep in touch with any of his fellow marines?’
‘No. I get the occasional invitation to parades and memorials and things like that, but I never go. I can’t travel.’
‘Have you still got the telegram?’
‘My mother burnt it.’
‘Were you ever given any official explanation of what happened in the battle and why he wasn’t awarded the VC?’
‘No. He just wasn’t. I wrote a few times, but they never gave a reason. I was just fobbed off.’
‘Was Adrian married?’
‘No.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Not at the time. He had one up until just before they left, but she dumped him and went back to Canada.’
‘Can you remember her name?’
‘Ginette Lundy. That’s “gin” as in gin and tonic.’
‘Did he have any children?’
‘No.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘Both died in the nineties.’
‘Any other brothers or sisters?’
‘Just me,’ replied Mrs Campbell. ‘Just me to keep his memory alive.’
They had been in the Land Rover for nearly half an hour before Louise broke the silence.
‘You didn’t tell her the truth,’ she said as Dixon drove down the slip road on to the westbound M3.
‘It’s not my place to do it. And besides, how do we know what’s true and what’s not?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘All we’ve heard so far is the Welsh Guards’ version of events, and as we know, there are three sides to every story.’
‘Three?’
‘The two sides and then the truth, which is usually somewhere in the middle.’
Louise smiled.
‘She may have convinced herself her brother was wronged all those years ago,’ continued Dixon. ‘People have an amazing ability to block out what they don’t want to hear.’
‘You can’t blame her.’
‘I don’t. Or maybe she really was told that by the marines. One thing’s for sure: I intend to find out.’
Dixon dropped Louise back at her car at Express Park just after 7 p.m. and was relieved to find Jane’s had gone. He took his phone out of his pocket and sent her a text.
where r u? Nx
The reply came as he was heading north on the M5.
red cow Jx
Dixon smiled. It had been a long day, most of it spent behind the wheel of his Land Rover, and he wasn’t convinced it had been that productive. But he could think of no better way to end it than with his feet up in the pub.
He arrived ten minutes later to find Jane sitting by the fire, staring at the envelope on the table in front of her. It was still sealed. Monty was asleep on the floor as usual.
‘What time did you get home?’ asked Dixon.
‘Five. Mark said you were out, so I left early.’
‘I’ll take Monty with me tomorrow now it’s getting a bit milder.’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Jane.
‘The snow’s melting. How was the SCU?’
‘I’ll get used to it.’
‘Don’t try. Learn to live with it, but don’t get used to it.’
‘Maybe.’
Dixon knew better than to press the point.
‘Not opened the envelope yet I see.’
‘No.’
‘How about some food and another drink then?’
Chapter Twelve
‘Well?’
Dixon had been up since 5 a.m., and what little sleep he had got had been broken by a hypo that had sent him scurrying down to the kitchen in search of sugar. Biscuits and a banana usually did the trick. And it would remind him to check his blood sugar levels before he went to bed. Still, at least he always got plenty of warning when his blood sugar was dropping too low. Unlike some.
Now he was standing by a workstation in the CID area at Express Park stifling a yawn.
‘The service records are on the way, Sir,’ replied Harding. ‘They kicked up a bit about releasing them all, but I sorted it out.’
‘Well done.’
‘And here’s the old CO’s name and address,’ said Pearce, handing Dixon a piece of paper. ‘There’s a phone number too.’
‘The girlfriend’s name was Ginette Lundy, Mark. “Gin” as in gin and tonic. She went home to Canada, so see what you can do.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Louise, you follow up the Royal Engineers. You know what we’re after.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Louise, nodding.
‘I’m off to . . .’ Dixon looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Dartmouth.’
Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Wood OBE MC RM Retired was standing in a first floor window watching Dixon park in the drive below. It was a large detached and timber clad property on Above Town, Dartmouth overlooking the quay, a grandstand view, which explained the huge windows and double balcony.
Dixon climbed out of his Land Rover and looked up just in time to see Wood turn away from the window. No need to knock on the door.
‘Good trip down?’
‘Yes, Sir, thank you,’ replied Dixon.
Wood had opened the front door and was leaning on the frame watching as Dixon peered in the back window of his Land Rover. Dixon reckoned he was almost eighty, and yet his hair was black. Dyed, surely. And he winced at the slightest movement in his left leg.
‘What’ve you got in the back there?’ asked Wood.
‘My dog.’
‘I would say bring him in, but I’m not sure our cats would appreciate it.’
‘That’s fine, Sir. He’s asleep.’
‘What is he?’
‘A Staffie,’ replied Dixon.
‘I’d have another, only I’m too old now, and this damn hip slows me down. Still, I’m having it done next month, so we’ll see.�
��
‘Maybe something a bit smaller?’
‘Good idea,’ replied Wood. ‘Come in. We’re upstairs. Bedrooms only on the ground floor.’
‘Do you need to see my ID?’ Dixon was fumbling in his pocket for his warrant card.
‘Oh, don’t bother with that.’
Dixon followed Wood up the stairs and into the lounge.
‘Shouldn’t you be using a walking stick, Sir?’
‘Over my dead body, young man,’ replied Wood, grinning.
Dixon walked over and stood in the window.
‘What’s that place over there?’
‘Kingswear,’ replied Wood. ‘You can get over on the ferry; then you come in the back end of Torbay.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘I would suggest we sit out on the balcony, but it’s a bit nippy today.’
‘It is.’
‘Well, what can I do for you?’ asked Wood. ‘You mentioned the death of a Falklands veteran.’
‘Yes, Sir. A Welsh Guards officer by the name of Alan Fletcher.’
Wood folded his arms and sat back in his chair, looking down at the floor.
‘He’s dead, is he?’
‘Yes, Sir. He was murdered.’
‘Well, I’m not sure how I can help.’
‘He was found in an old World War Two pillbox on the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal.’ Dixon was staring at Wood as he spoke. ‘And etched into the brickwork, along with the other graffiti, was a name and a date: “A Kandes 11/6/82”.’
Wood smiled and shook his head.
Dixon waited.
‘He was a good marine. A fine marine,’ said Wood. ‘Volunteered to go, you know. He was right at the end of his twenty-two years and could’ve stayed behind. Have you seen his sister?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘How is she?’
‘She has MS, but seems to get by.’
‘Tell her to contact the benevolent fund if she needs anything, will you?’
‘I’ll pass that on, Sir.’
Wood was struggling to lift himself out of his chair, leaning on the arm.
‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Dixon.
‘Pour me a Scotch, will you?’ replied Wood, gesturing to a bottle on the sideboard. ‘And help yourself while you’re about it.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Dixon watched Wood in a gilt mirror on the wall above the sideboard while he poured the drinks. A large one for Wood and a small one for himself.
