Constable Rainey led Sergeant George Fowley to Grant. Fowley looked to be about forty-five years old, with salt and pepper hair, slightly overweight. “You’re the American who works for NIS?” Fowley asked.
“I am, sir. Grant Stevens.” He extended a hand to the sergeant. “Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Three hours ago Mr. Carter’s vehicle was found at one of the china clay pits near St. Austell.” Fowley made a motion with his hand, turning his palm up. “It was upside down, at the bottom of the pit, completely underwater. Mr. Carter’s body was inside. The roof was crushed, wedging him in against the seat. We can only surmise he was unable to extricate himself.”
A red flag went up in Grant’s brain, remembering Henley said Carter worked at the base, an RAF base with nuclear weapons. “I assume you know Mr. Carter worked at St. Mawgan?”
“Yes. We found his identification card in his wallet, but right now we don’t know much more. We’ve sealed off his apartment until our CID (Crime Investigation Department) detectives can get here.”
The local CID covers mid-Cornwall, encompassing Newquay, Truro, Falmouth, and St. Austell. Divided into three BCUs (Basic Command Unit), each one is under the command of a chief superintendent, each sector under a chief inspector.
Fowley asked, “Do you know anything about the clay pits?”
“No, sir,” Grant responded.
“Those pits usually only have activity during daytime hours. We’re questioning why Mr. Carter was there at night and why he had driven to the top.”
“Were there other sets of tire tracks?”
“There are too many trucks and other vehicles that use those access roads. And by the time his vehicle was discovered, I couldn’t even guess how many had passed.”
Grant figured he wouldn’t get much more out of Fowley. “I understand, sir. If you’d like, I can talk with Jack Henley. He’s Carter’s friend. He’s the one wearing black trousers and white turtleneck sweater,” Grant indicated with a slight motion of his head.
Fowley glanced around him, taking a quick look. “If it were anyone else other than an NIS person asking me that, I’d say ‘no.’”
“And if it didn’t involve anyone working at RAF St. Mawgan, I’d agree,” Grant responded. “You do realize I’ll probably be contacting NIS, only because Jack’s stationed on base, and because of his friendship with Carter.”
Fowley’s eyes narrowed. He was no longer sure how to handle the situation, especially with the American now involved. He reasoned he’d done his job by sealing off the apartment and posting a guard. Further investigation would be handled by CID.
Grant added, “If Jack has any information, I’ll be certain to pass it on to you, unless you want to interview him now.”
“We’ll let CID handle it from here on,” Fowley answered.
Grant nodded, then said, “Depending on what NIS wants me to do, I might have to talk with your CID folks.”
Fowley removed a pen and small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket. He flipped open the notebook. “Here’s the number of our local CID office.” He scribbled a number, ripped the paper from the notebook, then handed it to Grant. “Someone at that number will be able to put you in contact with whoever is assigned to the investigation.”
Grant glanced at the paper, folded it, then put it in his jacket pocket. “Thanks. And if you or CID needs to contact me, I’m staying at the Atlantic. If there’s any need to verify my information, I can give you a phone number for NIS.”
Fowley shook his head. “Not necessary for the time being.” He made a note of Grant’s name and hotel, then put the notebook back in his pocket. He extended a hand.
Grant gave it a firm shake, then thanked Fowley. He turned and headed back to Henley and Davis, thinking it best to not reveal all the information given to him, mainly because of Davis being with them.
The police broke up the crowd gathered across the street before getting in their cars. One constable was stationed outside the building. The blue flashing lights were finally turned off, as both cars drove away.
“Well?” Henley asked, with obvious concern and curiosity.
Grant put a hand on Henley’s back, directing him away from the area. He made the decision to not tell Henley about the body, at least not yet. “Not much to tell you, Jack. Someone found your friend’s car at one of the china clay quarries.”
Henley stopped abruptly. “His car? They didn’t find him?”
“They said they found the car, Jack.”
Henley just stared at Grant, not sure if he was being told everything.
Grant asked, “Any idea why he would’ve been there?”
Henley shook his head. “Can’t think of any reason. I don’t think he even knew anyone in St. Austell.”
Grant finally said, “Look, nobody can jump to any conclusions at this point. But right now, there isn’t any definitive answer.” Grant started walking toward the pub, as he asked, “I know you’re a friend of this guy, but how well do you know him?”
“Just what I told you before.”
They finally reached the pub. Grant needed to send Henley and Davis on their way. He had to think things out. “There’s nothing more to do tonight, Jack. Didn’t you say you had to pick up your wife, anyway?”
“Shit! I’d better call her first. Be right back.” He rushed into Sailor’s, looking for a phone.
“So, Grant, looks like you might be busy tomorrow,” Davis said. “Is our day of diving being put on hold?”
Grant looked toward the pub, then back at Davis. “Right now I don’t know what else I can do for him, Chaz, but still think I’d better do a wait and see, if that’s okay with you.”
“Just ring me up when you’re ready to dive again,” Davis replied.
“Will do! I owe you a pint or two!”
Chapter 4
Atlantic Hotel
Newquay
2230 Hours
Mirrors lined a wall behind the lounge bar, each one encased in two inch wide brass frames. Every variety and size bottle of liquor had been placed neatly along a glass shelf running the length of the wall. Behind the bar were taps of beer.
A bartender wiped the surface with a red cloth, removing any trace of water marks or spilt liquor. He looked around the nearly empty room. Most guests preferred exploring pubs downtown. Tonight there were only five people. One couple sat at the far end of the bar, two men at a table closer to the lobby with papers spread on an open briefcase, and one of the guests sat alone. The bartender went back to cleaning bar glasses.
Grant was sitting in front of a large, plate glass window, overlooking Newquay. Street lights lit up the two lane roads traversing the town. Tourists and locals walked along the harbor.
He held a fine china cup filled with black coffee, albeit, weak, non-Navy black coffee, while he tuned out everything and anyone around him. He had a lot to think about, a lot to consider. Even though he didn’t have any specifics, his gut was telling him this incident involving the Brit, Derek Carter, had to do with St. Mawgan. From the little he did know, he couldn’t imagine Jack Henley being involved. Tomorrow he’d drive to the base and call D.C.
“Mr. Stevens?”
Grant leaned toward the small round table and put the china cup in its saucer as he looked up. “Yes?”
The hotel’s desk clerk stood near him. She wore the hotel uniform: blue jacket with a short, tight-fitting beige skirt and black high heels. Her dark brown hair was in sharp contrast to her peaches and cream complexion. A small red bow tied her long hair in a single braid.
Staring into what she could only describe as intense brown eyes, she said, “I have a message for you.” She handed Grant an envelope. “The gentleman who called sounded quite upset, Mr. Stevens.”
Grant took the envelope, not having a good feeling. “Thanks, Miss...Hall, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right. Abigail Hall,” she said, feeling pleased he remembered her name.
“Thanks, Miss Abigai
l Hall. Appreciate you bringing this to me,” he replied with a smile.
“You are most welcome,” she answered. She started walking away, but looked back one more time at the tall, good looking American, whom she noticed two days ago when she returned from holiday. She breathed a small sigh, then continued on through the lounge, going back to the front desk. She failed to see him looking at her for a brief moment, while he slid his finger under the flap of the white envelope.
He removed the note. It read: “Call me. Urgent. Jack.” It had the time of the call and a phone number. He immediately got up, pulled some coins from his pocket, then dropped enough shillings on the table to cover the cost of the coffee. Walking briskly through the lounge, he headed for the staircase, then took the steps two at a time.
Abigail Hall nudged her co-worker, Jane Travis. Both women leaned on the desk, looking toward the staircase, following Grant Stevens with their eyes.
Once he disappeared around the second floor landing, Abigail whispered, “He’s not like any man around here, Jane.”
“Does the word ‘hunk’ come to mind?” Jane Travis giggled.
“Yes. Yes it does,” Abigail replied with a wink. The bell on the counter sounded. Both women returned to helping customers.
Once in his room, Grant took off his windbreaker, and threw it on the foot of the bed. He picked up the receiver and dialed Henley’s number.
One ring and Henley answered. “Hello.”
“Jack, it’s Grant. What’s...?”
“I got a letter. It’s from Derek.”
“Derek?” Grant asked, obviously surprised. He sat on the edge of the bed.
“It was posted day before yesterday.”
“Oh, Christ!” Grant said softly under his breath. It was the day before the body was found. “You wanna tell me what he had to say, Jack?”
“First, I want you to answer something, Grant. I want you to be straight with me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Henley’s questions came fast and furious. “Is Derek dead? Is that what the cops told you? Is that why they were at his flat?”
“Jack, the cops said they were going to turn the investigation over to their CID. They’re...”
“Gimme a goddamn answer, Grant!”
Grant realized Henley wasn’t just concerned about what happened to Carter. Something in the letter was scaring the shit out of him. “Listen, Jack. You need to calm the hell down. You hear me?”
Henley took a deep breath. “I hear you.”
“Okay. Now, are you alone?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Vicky’s in the bedroom.” He turned, seeing the bedroom door was still closed, with a light shining from underneath.
“Jack, keep that letter in a safe place. Don’t let anyone see it, don’t discuss it, not even with your wife. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly. Now you answer me. Derek’s dead, isn’t he?” Just by Grant remaining silent, Henley knew. “Oh, fuck!”
“Look, Jack, I think it’d be best if we waited till tomorrow to talk. I’ll meet you on base, your office, 0700. Bring the letter.”
“Who do you work for, Grant? What the hell are you doin’ here?”
“See you at 0700, Jack.”
Chapter 5
Newquay
Day 2
0600 Hours
A heavy fog enveloped the entire southwestern coastline. Newquay was “socked in” with visibility barely fifteen feet.
Grant walked out of the hotel, zipped up his windbreaker, then centered his baseball cap squarely on his head. He dug the car keys from a pocket in his Levis, wondering whether driving in this “pea soup” was smart, especially with him not being that familiar with Newquay roads.
The fog was thicker and wetter than he’d even seen in Frisco. But he’d made his decision to leave the hotel early, no matter what. He had to get to the base, to the EOD command, before his meeting with Henley. Talking with Adler was his first priority.
He started for the parking lot, squinting, trying to see through the fog, looking for the MG. He finally spotted the sports car. As he slid behind the wheel, he reminded himself that all he had to do was stay on the left side of the road and follow the white line. His temples were already throbbing.
There were two ways to get to St. Mawgan. The road to the back gate followed the cliffs running parallel to Newquay Bay and is normally a ten minute drive. No doubt it would take longer this morning.
The road to the main gate was about a mile further inland, adding on a couple of miles. Today, both routes were hazardous. He made his decision when he got to Porth Beach, and took Narrowcliff Road. More cars were on the road than he expected, most heading toward town. He figured they were used to it.
Twenty minutes later, he drove up to the guard’s station at the back gate. Two more vehicles pulled behind him. He held out his ID for the RAF guard, who saluted then passed him through.
With windshield wipers sweeping back and forth, he continued along the base road, seeing a fuzzy set of headlights in his rearview mirror.
The drive to the one-story concrete building housing the U.S. Navy’s EOD and security teams was slow-going. The MG’s low beams were unable to penetrate the thick fog. Suddenly, a sign for the compound appeared out of nowhere. He made a sharp right turn into the parking area, downshifted, then slowly pulled the MG next to a green Austin Mini 600. A blue Chevy Impala with Missouri license plates was on the other side of the Mini. On the south side of the building, barely visible, were two tractors with backhoes, then a jeep, a flatbed truck, and a gray van.
Shutting off the engine, he took his keys, got out and closed the car door. The fog was still thick. Somewhere, not far from where he was standing, there was a runway, but he sure as hell couldn’t see it.
He heard voices coming from inside the building, with a light showing from a window next to the door. As he started toward the building, a beat-up Jeep Wagoneer, with a muffler just as beat up, pulled into a parking space.
Grant turned and walked toward the car as Chief Larry Becker was getting out. He was wearing a long sleeve green fatigue shirt and fatigue pants. A “barrack’s” cover (hat) hid most of his bald head.
“Can I help you?” Becker asked as he slammed the car door, twirling the key ring on his index finger.
Grant spotted a rank identification on the hat. “Hope so, Chief,” he said, reaching for his wallet. He flipped it open, showing his ID. “I’m Captain Stevens.”
“Good to meet you, sir,” the burley chief said with a welcoming smile. He extended a hand to Grant, while silently questioning Grant’s presence at the compound, especially since he was wearing civvies. “Are you here on official business, sir?”
“I’ve been on leave, Chief. I ran into Jack Henley briefly last night and told him I’d meet him here this morning. I thought maybe I could get a tour.” He looked overhead. “May not be such a good idea today, though, huh?”
“Give it time, sir. Maybe by this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow,” Becker laughed. He looked around the parking lot. “Guess the commander’s not here yet. I don’t see his car, sir.” He walked ahead of Grant, opening the door. “Go ’head in. Make yourself comfortable, sir.”
Two petty officers were sitting near a desk. Petty Officer First Class Barry Thoms was sucking on a Coke, while Petty Officer First Class Marty Weaver had coffee.
Becker made introductions. “Barry, Marty, this is Captain Stevens.”
Immediately standing, the two gave a slight nod of their heads. “Morning, sir.”
“Morning,” Grant replied, removing his ball cap. “As you were, gentlemen.”
“Would you like coffee, sir?” Becker asked as he removed his hat, hanging it on one of six coat hooks lined up next to a metal file cabinet.
“Sounds real good, Chief. Black.”
Becker looked at Weaver, tilting his head in the direction of the coffeepot. Weaver went for the coffee.
Looking beyond Becker, Grant noticed a bra
ss nameplate on an inner door: Commander Jack Henley. He glanced at his watch. There wasn’t much time to call Adler before his meeting with Henley. “Chief, before I meet with the commander at 0700, I’ve gotta make a call to the States.”
“Not a problem, sir. Follow me.”
Grant unzipped his jacket, as he was handed a white mug of hot coffee. “Thanks, Petty Officer.”
Becker stood by Henley’s office door. “Uh, sir, would you mind if I make sure the office is...?”
“Go ahead, Chief. Understand,” Grant replied, knowing Becker wanted to ensure nothing of importance was in plain sight. Maybe Grant was a captain and NIS, but today, he was just a visitor.
Becker ducked behind the door, flipped on a light switch, then gave the desk and room a quick sweep with his eyes. He motioned for Grant. “Okay, sir.”
Grant walked into a small office, immediately smelling the stale odor of cigarettes. Except for a florescent overhead light, the only other light came from a single window. A typical military, gray metal desk and black swivel chair were positioned behind it, and two straight-back wooden chairs were in front.
Becker went behind the desk and opened the blinds, then asked, “Anything else, sir?”
“No thanks, Chief.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir.” Grant nodded, then Becker immediately left the room.
Grant sat on the corner of the desk and put his coffee cup on a green blotter marked up with stains, numbers, and doodles. He turned the rotary dial phone around, picked up the receiver, dialed a code, then a number. As the phone rang, he took a sip of coffee...good, potent, melt-your-spoon, Navy-style coffee.
After the fourth ring, he heard the familiar voice. “Adler.”
“Hey, Joe!”
“Skipper?”
“Yeah. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Not at the moment,” Adler laughed, as he reached around the corner and closed the bedroom door. He turned on a light. “Why the hell are you calling? You’re still on leave, aren’t you?” Before Grant responded, he said, “Uh-oh. What the hell’s goin’ on?”
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