‘We’ll need to wait for the results of the new satellite that should start sending information back next week,’ Slater explained.
‘If it was left to us then we would have nailed him by now,’ said a disgruntled Ben Sligo.
Ben Sligo worked for Z3Q9; a Cyber Intelligence Department based in Maryland in the US and had been assigned to trace some mysterious radio transmissions. He and Ian Slater, a specialist technician with British Intelligence Services, had been working together for nearly two months. They had been concentrating their investigation on a small area of Exmoor and after spending many uncomfortable nights on the moor had discovered that the intelligence folks had got it all wrong and they had been in the wrong place.
Sligo fidgeted in his seat at the rear of the specially modified vehicle. ‘Why do you Brits make everything so small?’
Ian Slater laughed, ‘We design them for normal sized people?’
‘What are you suggesting, buddy? Are you saying that I’m not normal?’ Sligo didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Now my brother, Clint, isn’t what you’d call normal, weighing in at 25 stone plus and six seven without his shoes on.’
Slater was almost a foot shorter that Ben Sligo and not much more than half his weight, making them an odd pairing when they were seen together.
Sligo wiped the tomato ketchup from his mouth with a tissue and reached into the bag of cookies.
‘If nothing useful is picked up by the new surveillance satellite, then I hope my boss can convince your folks that we need to raid the houses close to where you think the signals are coming from.’
Slater smiled at the thought. ‘What did you have in mind, big man, a full swat team raid? You could easily land a helicopter in that field at the end of the street.’
Slater’s joking sarcasm was lost on Sligo.
‘Now that’s worth thinking about. We would probably need to use two whirly birds for a full squat raid. And another couple to provide searchlight capability in case those blighters made a run for it.’
Slater smiled when he asked, ‘Have you ever considered going into politics, Ben. I would have thought that you would go far, you being an all American boy.’
‘Funny you say that, Slatey, because I think it’s time we started kicking butt in some parts of the world. I don’t mean you folks of course. It wouldn’t be worth wasting a missile on this cute little island of yours.’ Sligo nearly choked on the giant sized cookie as he laughed.
‘So, is there any news on the new family at number thirty three?’ Slater asked.
‘The intell folks haven’t finished checking, but it looks hopeful. It seems that the new owner is a commie sympathiser from a place called Liverpool. Where is that?
Once again Sligo was showing how little he knew about the country and so Slater explained where it was.
‘That far away, I didn’t think your country was so big? Well it isn’t, but you know what I mean. The intell guys also told me that this place Liverpool is full of commie lovers and most of them are union militants. The pig man, Tranter, was one of them and he organised a strike at a car factory not long before it closed down and so I guess it was mission accomplished for him.’
‘I thought you were pals with the Soviets now that the cold war has ended,’ Slater remarked.
‘Who said it has ended? Just because they’ve seen how good our way of life is and opened a few McDonalds in Moscow doesn’t mean they’ve really changed.’
‘So, you really believe that the newcomer is the man you’re after, even though the transmissions were taking place before he arrived?’
Sligo gave one of his puzzled looks and said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but the guy next door is clean according the report from your folks who gained access to his house, posing as gas boiler repair men. It seems he’s an awkward cus, but so is my daddy and he’s no spy.’
‘What about those spy pictures showing a woman wearing a bikini being seen sitting to him in his back garden? We haven’t seen any sign of anyone other than the odd feller with the long nose and his batty old mother riding her bike.’
‘The agents did have a snoop around the house when they were supposed to be checking the radiators, but they didn’t find any bikini or younger woman’s clothes. Although they did find a bottle of perfume that wouldn’t normally be used by an old lady and they figured the son must have bought it by mistake.’
Slater shook his head and said, ‘There’s something about that old lady that just isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘You’re off beam, buddy and I’d bet my last beef burger on it being the Tranter dude in number thirty three. Apparently his brother was also a union agitator when he worked as a stevedore. I guess this place Liverpool must be on the coast.’
Slater still had his doubts if there was anything sinister about the strange transmissions. Hog’s End Lane was hardly his idea of a haven for Soviet, Chinese or any other spies. Sligo had let little details slip during their surveillance and it seemed that some geeky kid in an American special service department with a brain, probably three times the size of Sligo’s, believed the transmission were coded. He had managed to decode the odd reference to super computers and military hardware that were not known to the Western Powers.
Slater had his own theory about the source of these transmissions, but didn’t see any point in putting an end to the cushy number he had. Sligo could be a pain, but he could also be amusing and he was also being well paid, thanks to the Americans. Slater was actually a great admirer of the Americans, particularly their bravery when it came to putting their service personnel into action in various parts of the world. It wasn’t all about heavy handed use of fighter planes, drones and missiles. It was also about human sacrifice that resulted in the loss of many brave young men because of America’s commitment to world peace when some other nations made excuses for not giving their support and stayed at home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jason Patmore pushed the fourth slice of toast into his mouth and flicked his tongue out like a lizard to lick the jam from around his lips.
‘You can certainly shift the food, boy,’ said Jason’s dad, Eric, as he took the last sausage off the plate.
Jason laughed, ‘Listen who’s talking, scoffing all those sausages and a can of beans to go with those eggs.’
Eric took the last slice of toast and used it to mop up the remains of the fried eggs and beans, folded the slice of toast and then rammed it into his mouth.
‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,’ Eric advised his son. ‘That’s what my old grandma used to say. Always make sure that you go to work with a good breakfast inside you.’
Shirley Patmore sniggered as she came in from the kitchen, ‘But you aren’t working today. I’m the one that should be having the breakfast.’
In contrast to her husband, Shirley was thin, bordering on the gaunt and was rarely seen not wearing a flowery pinny. She was forever grumbling, but she waited on Eric and her son as though they were royalty and her only pleasure was a weekly trip to play Bingo that was held in the town’s former cinema.
‘A traffic warden is never really off duty, Shirley. I won that prize of a day off which means I can go and watch Jason play football, but if I see any illegal parking then I’ll nab them because it’s my duty. I can spot an offender as they walk away from their car and I suppose it’s a special gift that I have and not something you can be taught.’
‘Have you packed my football boots, Mum?’ Jason asked as he used the end of the tablecloth to wipe the jam from his fingers.
‘Of course I have, sweetie pie and you’ve got some little treats in case you get hungry.’
The ‘little treats’ included two packets of crisps and a large supply of chocolate and sweets.
* * *
Kevin had been chuffed when Pat Rosser had given him permission to watch Jamie play in the trial for the district football team on his way to deliver some pigs to a market about ten miles away from
Steaderton. Now he was surveying the water logged pitch, the result of an early morning downpour and wondering if the game would go ahead.
Kevin was standing amongst the small group of parents on the touchline when he saw Eric Patmore wearing his traffic warden’s uniform striding towards them.
‘Heh,up. It looks as though we’re standing in a no parking zone,’ Kevin said and nodded in the direction of Patmore. The men in the group looked around and smiled.
‘It’s Ticket Happy Patmore, said one of the parents, ‘He’ll be here to watch Jason, but if he can issue anyone with a ticket then he’ll do it.’
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Patmore said in a formal, rather than friendly manner.
‘Mornin, matey,’ replied Kevin doing his impersonation of a local accent.
Patmore took up position a few yards away from the main group of parents and stood upright with his hands clasped behind his back like an officer surveying his troops.
‘I didn’t know whether to salute him or not,’ Kevin joked with the dad standing next to him who remarked, ‘Did you see the shine on his boots? They’re like glass.’
The game was soon under way and it wasn’t long before the boys were covered in mud.
When Jason made his third crunching tackle, Kevin, winced and then said in a loud voice, ‘That fat lad doesn’t take any prisoners.’
Jason’s dad took a quick glance in Kevin’s direction, but didn’t comment
The game was about to be restarted after a goal had been scored when some of the boy’s started laughing as they pointed behind where the parents stood. Kevin inwardly groaned as he realised the cause of their amusement when he saw the five pigs heading towards him.
‘It looks like we’ve got some more spectators,’ said Sam Gibbs whose son was playing in goal for Jamie’s team and asked, ‘I wonder where they’ve come from?’
‘They’re with me,’ Kevin admitted and then realised what he’d said, ‘I mean they belong to me. I’m taking them to market after the game, so I’d better try and round them up and put them back in the trailer.’
‘We’ll give you a hand,’ Sam Gibbs offered and a few of the other dads came forward to help.
Kevin thanked his volunteer helpers and asked them to try and direct the pigs back towards the car park.
Patmore remained stony-faced and had not joined those who were trying to usher the pigs away from the pitch. He hadn’t changed his pose and was looking towards the pitch when the largest of the pigs charged into the back of his legs, sending him crashing to the muddy ground. Patmore's attempts to stand up were hampered by the pig that had straddled itself across his legs and was licking one of his boots.
‘Get it off me,’ Patmore demanded as Kevin approached.
‘Sorry, mate, but I think she likes you,’ Kevin joked.
‘Get it off me,’ Patmore repeated his demand, but this time he was even more desperate for his embarrassment to be over.
‘I’m just thinking what’s the best way to help you is. Irene can get a bit vicious if she’s not handled with care. I need something to tie around her neck so I can lead her away and if I could borrow your belt I think that would do the trick.’
‘Do whatever you have to, but get this thing off me, now,’ Patmore roared.
Kevin removed the thick leather belt from Patmore’s waist and looped it around the pig’s neck. The young footballers laughed as Kevin led Irene away with the other pigs following behind, reminding some of the Pied Piper story that they had read. Jamie was embarrassed, but didn’t deny it when one of the boys asked Jamie if it was his dad leading the pig. Jason was furious at what had happened to his dad and glowered at Jamie as the laughter increased when Eric Patmore stood up and his trousers fell down, revealing his polka dot underpants.
‘I’m going to break your legs when we change sides, Tranter,’ Jason threatened.
Jamie was pleased with the way he had been playing, but he wasn’t looking forward to facing Blobby for the remainder of the game when they would be on opposing sides.
When Kevin arrived back at the touchline, having secured the pigs in the trailer, the restarted match had been underway for about ten minutes.
‘Sorry about that,’ Kevin apologised again to the assembled parents and handed Eric Patmore the belt he'd borrowed from him. Patmore snatched the belt and glowered at Kevin.
‘Your lad’s just scored,’ said Sam Gibbs. ‘He’s been giving Jason a bit of a hard time.’
As the game progressed Jason was getting angrier and angrier and started barking orders at the rest of his team, hoping to impress the watching selectors. He was in the middle of giving instructions to the two players closest to him when Jamie and some other players started laughing.
Jason’s face was bright red as he cleared his throat and tried once more to bark out his instructions, but the normally gruff voice sounded squeaky and like a baby girl’s voice.
‘Tackle him,’ Jason squeaked repeatedly hoping to stop Jamie getting through on goal.
Jason stopped issuing orders to his team mates, but the change in his voice had upset him and affected his performance, causing him to completely miss kick several times. He did manage to direct a powerful header into the back of the net, but it was at the wrong end of the pitch and the tears streamed down his face as he cried out in his new found baby voice, ‘Mummy, it’s not fair. It wasn’t my fault. There’s something wrong with that ball.’
* * *
As the parents trudged their way back to the car park Kevin told Patmore that he hoped his boy would be all right, but Patmore just increased his pace and strode ahead of them.
By the time Kevin and the others reached the car park they saw Patmore kicking at the clamp that had been placed on the wheel of his car.
‘Oh dear,’ said Sam Gibbs. ‘I thought he would have seen the Staff Only notice.’ The notice was now in clear view, but had been hidden by a branch positioned there by the clamper just before Patmore had arrived.
* * *
A week after the football trial Jamie arrived home clutching the piece of paper that informed him that he had been selected for the District football team. When his dad had finished slapping him on the back to congratulate him he asked Jamie if any other boys had made the squad.
‘Only Lofty Gibbs. He didn’t have a lot to do during the trial, but he’s a great keeper.’
‘What about your mate, Jason?’
‘He’s not on the list and he’s still off school. According to one of his mates the hospital can’t find anything wrong with his voice which went back to normal soon after the match finished.’
‘So, he won’t have to settle for a place in the choir?’ Kevin joked.
‘Dad, that’s cruel,’ Jamie said and he actually felt sorry for Jason.
Jamie had been banned from using his PC for the last few days because he had been spending too much time on it, so he thought he would take advantages of his good news and asked permission to use the PC.
‘Go on then,’ replied Kevin in response to his request. ‘But not for long. Hang on a minute I haven’t told you the news about Auntie Helen.’
Jamie gave an inward groan and asked if she coming to pay a visit.
‘No, she isn’t coming to visit. It seems that your Uncle didn’t get that job he was after, thanks to Auntie Helen. Uncle Alistair telephoned your mum last night to say that Helen hasn’t been well since their visit to that hotel. Apparently she made a real show of herself and insulted the Managing Director while speaking in a really broad Liverpool accent. She called him an ugly little git or something similar and made comments about his wig.’
‘Was she drunk?’ asked Jamie, who wasn’t sorry that his snooty auntie had messed things up.
‘According to Alistair she wasn’t until she started swigging wine straight from the bottle while she was dishing out the insults. The doctor thinks she must have had some kind of a breakdown. Alistair reckons he might have to look for another job, but they are think
ing of, wait for it, emigrating to Australia. So, we’ve had two lots of good news in one day.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The driver of the ice cream van pulled up on the hillside overlooking the Rosser Farm and any thoughts of not attracting attention were shattered when the elderly man knocked on the driver’s door.
‘Ignore the old goat,’ Sligo ordered, from his seat in the control area set up in the back of the specially kitted out Special Intelligence Vehicle 3 (SIV3).
Sligo studied the features of the nuisance on the CCTV screen and his fear that he wouldn’t go away was confirmed when the man rapped again on the side of the vehicle with his walking stick.
‘Don’t you want my business?’ the man shouted.
‘Best open the window and make some excuse,’ rapped Sligo, showing his annoyance that things had got off to a bad start. If his hunch was right about Kevin Tranter then his long search would soon be over and he was certain that promotion would come his way. Now that he was operating without the interference of the cautious Brits he would get his man. Why would a man like Kevin Tranter who had been living in a lively city like Liverpool end up swilling out pigs? No, Tranter was involved in the secret transmissions and he might have moved the operation to the farm.
‘Holy catfish, the old nuisance only wants an ice-cream,’ said Sligo as he listened in on the conversation between the old man and the driver.
‘Sorry, old timer, but it’s my day off and I’ve just come here to chill out while watching the lovely view,’ said Scott Valance in a failed attempt at a Devon accent that was unm
istakably an American drawl.
‘It’s disgraceful, enticing people up here with a false promise of an ice cream. And why are you wearing that white coat if it’s supposed to be your day off? I wouldn’t be surprised if you are some kind of a peeping tom.’
Scott Valance was struggling with an excuse when the old man wondered off muttering something about him being a ‘typical yank’ and threatening to report him to someone named, Constable Woolley.
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