Field of Fire

by Roderic Jeffries

  Kerr immediately mentioned the light aircraft which might have landed illegal immigrants at Brackenbank Farm. “Who flew in?” he asked.

  “Two blokes, the pilot and a passenger by the name of Grevas.”

  “Any chance of illegal immigrants?”

  “Not when the plane landed here.”

  “The farmer said the identification letters began with F, the plane was red, not very big, and twin-engined.”

  “That much fits, anyway, although it’s a pretty general description.”

  “I’d better have a word with my boss on this one. I’ll ring you back — and many thanks for telling us.”

  Kerr went along to the D.I’s room and found it empty, but as he turned away Fusil came up the back stairs. They went into Fusil’s room and Kerr made his report.

  Fusil picked up his pipe and rubbed the bowl backwards and forwards against the palm of his left hand. “Phone back the airport and find out if they know how long the plane’s liable to be up there. If it’s not due away again today, you can go and make a check.”

  Kerr looked at his watch. “But that’ll mean spending the night up in Axton.”

  “Well?”

  “That would leave Helen having to be on her own . . .”

  Fusil smiled sardonically. “Grab the chance. In a couple of years’ time, you’ll give a lot for the opportunity.”

  *

  The airport, five miles out from the town of Axton, which remained pleasant despite considerable development, was small, with only one concrete runway, a long and rambling one-storey building in which were offices and passengers’ lounge, a collection of wooden huts for departure and arrival lounges, customs and immigration points, one large double-span hangar, and the only elegant building, the control tower. The aircraft Kerr had come to see was parked on grass in the corner of the airfield closest to the road and by a small children’s playground. The head security officer, a retired inspector from the local county police force, walked with Kerr to the plane.

  “The pilot told the immigration officer he was going to an hotel in Axton and that his passenger wouldn’t be returning, so we shouldn’t be interrupted.”

  Kerr studied the aircraft, then checked his notes on the visit to Brackenbank Farm. Fegan’s aircraft had been a red twin-engined, low-wing monoplane, identifying letters starting with F, without fuel pods and with a couple of large windows behind the pilot’s windows. This plane was a red twin-engined, low-wing monoplane, identifying letters starting with F, with fuel pods and four portholes behind the pilot’s windows. Fegan had seen his plane at a distance, but it was difficult to believe that even so he could have mistaken about wing tanks or four portholes as opposed to two windows.

  The security officer said: “D’you reckon it’s the same plane?”

  Kerr shook his head. “I don’t think it can be.”

  “Odd about that marked photo of a field near Fortrow, though?”

  “Yeah. Maybe there are two planes on the run. Let’s have a shufti inside.”

  There were eight seats for passengers inside and it was obvious that a long-legged person would find any journey somewhat uncomfortable.

  “It’s very fully equipped,” said the security officer. “The galley’s over there for a good nosh-up and there’s a large-sized locker for all the duty free liquor. There’s even a Pirelli calendar.”

  Kerr immediately showed interest. “Where’s that, then?”

  “Over there, by the heating-up compartment.”

  Kerr moved over and saw the calendar on a working surface. He picked it up and turned over the pages. One blonde, lying on the sand with the foam-decked sea just caressing her body, held his attention. If only she’d turn just a little more to her right . . .

  “D’you reckon the cameramen die young from frustration?” asked the security officer.

  “Some death!” Kerr sighed. To think they actually got paid for their work. He shut the calendar and dropped it back on to the working surface, though with too much force, because it slithered over the edge and on to the deck. He bent down to pick it up and saw the piece of used chewing-gum.

  *

  Fusil began to pace the floor behind the desk. “It’s so far-fetched, it hurts.”

  Kerr didn’t argue. He’d started off by saying that, by way of apology.

  Fusil stopped and stared down at his desk and the piece of chewing-gum, in the cotton-wool-filled match-box. “How many people in this country chew gum?”

  The question was no more answerable now than it had been when first asked, weeks before.

  “Was the field marked on the aerial photo close to Brackenbank Farm?”

  “Not really. It was nearer the coast and to the west.”

  Fusil sat down. “How d’you see things, then?”

  “I’m certain the two aircraft aren’t the same.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. But why was that field marked on the photo?”

  “Maybe the pilot or owner is going to fly down there to stay.”

  “Fegan said none of the local farmers had an aircraft and I checked that there aren’t any registered private airfields. In any case, if that were so, why hang around Axton where it costs? The pilot said the aircraft would be parked there until Saturday.”

  Fusil picked up the match-box and stared more closely at the chewing-gum, then replaced it. He resumed his pacing of the floor, speaking jerkily as he moved. “What possible connexion could there be between the deaths of Sydmonds and Swaithe and this plane with a marked photo of Fortrow?”

  Kerr remained silent.

  “Surely the chewing-gum has to be coincidence.” He looked up at Kerr. “And yet . . .”

  “And yet, sir?”

  “Take this piece and the other one to our dental advisers and see if one of them can tell us anything.”

  Kerr collected from the scene-of-crime room the piece of chewing-gum found in Swaithe’s car and then drove in the C.I.D. Hillman to a house in which worked the four partners of a dental practice who helped the police.

  The partner he saw was in his middle fifties, balding, with typical and occupational slight tilt of his head. He called Kerr into the small office beyond the reception desk and there emptied the two pieces of chewing-gum on to a sheet of white paper and examined them closely. After a while, he called one of the receptionists in to fetch him a set of magnifying spectacles.

  Wearing the spectacles, he studied each piece of chewing-gum in turn, carefully twisting it round and constantly altering the angle at which the Angle-poise light struck it. He then held the two pieces, one in each hand, and checked one against the other. “There’s one similar impression,” he said.

  “How similar?”

  “I’m not going to be too dogmatic until I’ve had a longer harder look at them after surgery this evening, but I will say now that there is one tooth impression in each piece showing several points of similarity. It’s probably made by a molar which has suffered considerable filling, then a collapsed wall and filing back and refilling.”

  Kerr spoke excitedly. “What are the odds of definitely matching them?”

  “I doubt that. The best I’ll probably be able to say is that the two impressions were likely to have been made by the same mouth. As you’ll know, one tooth impression can hardly ever make a positive identification.”

  “Even a possible match will be enough to get everyone sweating!” But he still couldn’t see where it was leading.

  *

  The final report from the dentist, which arrived on the Tuesday, hardly differed from his preliminary verbal one to Kerr.

  Fusil read through the typed opinion for a second time and then irritably pushed it to the side of his desk. “It’s the kind of report that causes a sight more trouble than it’s worth,” he said to Kerr. “The most we can do at this stage is to ask the Axton airport authorities to notify us when the plane leaves, for what destination, and who’s aboard.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ker
r waited to see if that was all, left.

  Fusil yawned, stared out of the window for a few moments, reluctantly studied the itinerary for the forthcoming state visit of President Boubou Kano. Eleven-twenty-five in the morning arrival, processional route exactly the same as for Pakac, but security precautions far less. He yawned again. Dalby would be down once more, but even he was not calling for many men to be drafted in from county — and those who were would in the main be concerned with crowd control rather than security, not that the crowds were expected to be at all large.

  At the foot of the itinerary was a typed note telling him that after reading it through he was to telephone the D.C.I. to confirm. Kywood was a great man for confirmations.

  Fusil yawned still harder. They’d been lucky over Dzur’s death. If he hadn’t shot himself . . . Another good thing, the unsolved murders of Parsons and Appleton didn’t seem to be having the repercussions he’d fully expected. The newspapers had forgotten them because of later and more titillating news, Kywood continued to moan but in an ever lower key, and county H.Q. had made no very pointed comments. Perhaps for once taking a realistic attitude. Not that he was yet ready to admit the murders would continue to remain unsolved. No matter Parsons was a villain, he hated the men who’d killed him so vilely and was still sharply determined to grab them if humanly possible.

  There was a knock on the door. A police cadet, nervous because he was new and reputation named the D.I. a right, royal bastard, entered and handed over two crime reports from the duty sergeant.

  Fusil read through the reports. A bungled smash-and-grab raid on a jeweller’s and a knifing down at the docks. No witnesses to the first case, only people who claimed to have heard and seen nothing to the second one. Crime never stopped. Yesterday’s crime became ancient history.

  *

  On Saturday, the twenty-second of April, there was a very heavy shower between six-thirty and seven-fifteen, then the light westerly wind slowly rolled back the clouds and there was warm sunshine. Flags were hoisted at public buildings and from a few of the flats, shops, and offices, and warehouses along the route: the Union Jack and the blue, green, yellow, and red flag of Dejai, which to the profane looked more like a patchwork quilt than a national flag. Over South Gate had been hoisted a ten-foot-long welcoming arch, painted by students from the central art school: in each corner and not visible from the ground was a pornographic scene,

  The police had set up a one-way road system so that half an hour before the procession the route could be closed without causing too much traffic dislocation. The mobile command truck — hired from county at the same daily rate — was parked where it had been eight days before. Inside the truck, the sergeant and the constable worked with a marked lack of interest.

  Kerr left home late, but for once fate was kind and a number 111 bus arrived at the stop only seconds after he did. The driver was evidently in a hurry and when Kerr walked into the station he was almost on time. It made him feel very virtuous.

  Yarrow was already away from the station. Welland arrived a couple of minutes later and immediately began to tell a Rabelaisian story concerning one of his rugger mates who’d been kicked in a delicate part and rushed off to hospital where two blonde nurses attended him. Kerr crossed to his table and saw on it an envelope with Dejain stamps and the legend ‘Ministry of Health’. He hurriedly slit it open and pulled out the letter.

  “Hey,” said Welland, “you aren’t listening and it’s just rising up to the moment critique. He suddenly roared with laughter when he realised how apt were his words.

  Kerr read through the short letter. Reg Swaith had been killed in a car accident, when drunk.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fusil had just returned from giving his daily report to the divisional superintendent — necessarily brief this morning — when Kerr hurried into his office and passed over the letter.

  Kerr waited until he’d read the letter, then said: “Three car accidents and each of the drivers drunk. It’s not a coincidence any longer.”

  “Drunken drivers crash every day of the week.”

  “But in this case all three people are directly connected.”

  Fusil went round the desk to the chair. “Edward and Reg Swaithe are obviously directly connected. We’ve never had any real proof that Sydmonds was connected with Edward Swaithe.”

  “He sent a sample of D.G.H. to Sydmonds: I’ve no doubts.”

  Fusil looked up briefly. “Then who am I to disagree? he asked ironically. He tapped the letter. “It’s from the ministry, which suggests some sort of official investigation was made into the accident.”

  “When the police may not have found out anything more definite than we did at Ted Swaithe’s accident.”

  “Because there was nothing definite to find out?”

  “Then why were those two front windows rolled down on a cold, wet night?”

  “He liked cold, wet air.”

  “The chewing-gum in the two cars?”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Coincidence piled on top of coincidence? Three drunk-driving accidents coincidence?”

  “Maybe.”

  “More coincidence that Reg Swaithe was in Dejai and we’ve got the president of Dejai coming here? That Ted Swaithe sent up to Sydmonds a drug destined for Dejai?”

  Fusil fiddled with a pencil, his mind covering ground that was by now so familiar.

  Kerr said suddenly: “I’ve just remembered something. Mrs. Swaithe was talking to me about Reg. She called him a thin-blooded, puritanical sort of a bloke who never drank.”

  Fusil dropped the pencil. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And don’t forget Mrs. Sydmonds swore her husband didn’t drink much.”

  Fusil looked up at the wall clock. “All right. As soon as this goddamn procession is over and done with, we’ll sit down and take a really hard look at all the facts and try to sort them out.” He stood up and was about to hurry out of the room when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. “Yeah . . . A quarter of an hour ago? . . . Beauvais? . . . And you’re quite certain there was no one aboard but the pilot? . . . Thanks a lot.” He replaced the receiver. “The aircraft up at Axton has just taken off.” He slowly sat down on the edge of the desk. “Did you see the aerial photo with the marked field?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fusil looked up at the clock again. “Know something, Kerr? If that plane doesn’t rush things, it could arrive at Tawsey Head at about the time of the procession.”

  “And in it,” said Kerr excitedly, “was a piece of chewing-gum with a very similar tooth imprint to the piece in Swaithe’s car and probably Sydmonds’. If there’s a tie-up . . .”

  “Illegal immigrants?” Fusil shook his head. “Or is it . . .? My God!” He stared at Kerr, his expression one almost of bewilderment. “Suppose we’ve been thinking and acting exactly as we were meant to? Suppose Pakac was never the intended victim, but it was always President Kano . . . Yet why would anyone want to murder the president of a country hardly any of us knew existed before this visit?”

  “But Dzur was after Pakac . . .” began Kerr.

  Fusil slammed his fist down on the desk. “That’s what we were meant to think. And why? Because the moment they heard about our enquiries amongst the Toms and the Ikeys they knew that we knew an assassination attempt was on. So they did everything possible to make us think the attempt was to be against Pakac who was always the more logical victim. They took on a Czech gunman, known to hate the present regime, they stole two rifles and did nothing to conceal the fact these were what they were after, they made what seemed a clumsy attempt to hire a room overlooking the route, making certain that the fourteenth of the month had special significance, they murdered Dzur in circumstances which made it seem his death was an accident that had forced them to abandon their assassination attempt.

  “On our side of the fence, we worked flat out to counter the assassination attempt against Pakac and when nothing happened — explained b
y Dzur’s ‘accident’ — we relaxed and just thanked our lucky stars. But like blind sheep we’ve never stopped to think the attempt might be, always had been, aimed at the Dejain president. And yet . . .” Fusil’s voice quietened. “What motive?”

  Kerr said abruptly. “The package Ted Swaithe sent to Sydmonds. We can be pretty certain it contained a sample of what fell out of the damaged drum — ostensibly D.G.H. But Reg Swaithe had been writing to say that he wasn’t getting as much of the drug as he needed and a woman I talked to at the Harran Group’s factory where they manufactured D.G.H. told me the results of the use of the drug weren’t nearly as good as preliminary tests had suggested. She also said that that one consignment of D.G.H. was worth around a million quid. So suppose someone had been stealing the D.G.H., substituting something in its place, and selling it to other countries? The fact that what arrives in Dejai is largely not D.G.H. would explain the poor results. Reg Swaithe must have had his suspicions and told his brother, who took a sample from the burst drum down at the docks and sent the sample to Sydmonds. Sydmonds said it wasn’t D.G.H. so now they knew a gigantic and cruel fraud was being carried out. Reg Swaithe, an idealist, too enraged at all the suffering this swindle is causing to show any discretion or common sense, accuses someone back in Dejai and gives his proof. Obviously something has to be done right smartly to kill the news, so all these men are murdered in what seem to be accidents.”

  “It fits,” muttered Fusil. “But the people giving the orders must be near the top of the government.”