The Titanic Document

by Alan Veale

  THE

  TITANIC

  DOCUMENT

  ALAN VEALE

  Copyright Alan Veale 2021

  License Statement

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please visit your favourite eBook retailer to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Jack Wedgbury

  For my children Mollie and Matt,

  who understand the immeasurable value

  of being a brother or sister

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  And The Truth Is…

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography

  Also By The Author

  About The Author

  Author’s Note

  Most know something about the tragic fate of the RMS Titanic, and there are many books that examine her demise in extraordinary detail. This is NOT one of them.

  The Titanic Document refers to events both before and after the sinking. In particular it raises parallels between the political influences of 1912, those of 1985 when the wreck was discovered, and those of 2016 when the UK elected to leave the European Union. The focus is therefore on politics as (in my view) politicians were the architects of both incidents.

  The fictional element in this story follows the dilemma faced by librarian Billie Vane when Emma Dearing invites him to help research a book. He unwittingly becomes embroiled in a desperate chase to track down a document she inherits from her great-great-grandfather, Mickey Palmer, who worked directly under Lord Pirrie, chairman of the company that built the Titanic (Harland & Wolff). From 1985, the document results in several deaths, most of them under the direct orders of a paedophile Cabinet Minister.

  Research for The Titanic Document demanded the examination of documented reports, anecdotes and speculative theories (see Bibliography). Some readers may therefore wonder how much of ‘the facts’ discovered within this book are truly factual. A fuller account of the theory governing Titanic’s fate may be found at the end of the book (see And the Truth is… What?) but to avoid spoilers, here are the basic points:

  Firstly, the details described in the prologue about Titanic’s sister ship, Olympic, are entirely accurate. Her unfortunate collision with a naval vessel in 1911 was (in my view) the catalyst for the events that resulted in the loss of Titanic seven months later. Secondly, the collision tests carried out using a simulator referred to in chapter 10 are available to view on YouTube. Thirdly, in chapter 37 I have used a verbatim extract from the British inquiry into the loss of the Titanic. This includes the ‘slip of the tongue’ from Ismay, managing director of the White Star Line, which is an exact quote, and while its inclusion suits the purposes of the story, it should raise a question in the minds of Titanic enthusiasts!

  Finally, for those interested in the period of The Troubles from 1985, the presence of the SAS in Portadown (chapter 3) is also historical fact. Many believed the British Government used undercover tactics to infiltrate the various militant factions in Northern Ireland. Margaret Thatcher’s government denied this at the time, but history has subsequently proved otherwise.

  As one of the characters relates in this story: ‘Politicians are natural liars. It goes with the job.’

  Alan Veale, September 2020

  Prologue

  The Solent, 20th September 1911

  A fresh southerly wind painted silvery-white streaks across the deep blue water. Captain Edward John Smith stood on the port wing of the bridge, impatiently observing the progress of RMS Olympic along the Solent. Technically he was not yet in command of the White Star liner, as this duty was presently in the hands of a Southampton river pilot. It was Captain William George Bowyer’s voice giving orders to the helmsman as the West Bramble buoy slipped past to his left.

  ‘All engines, full ahead.’

  While it was Smith’s fifth outing with Olympic, merchant navy regulations demanded he hand over command to a qualified pilot during the tricky first stages of leaving the Port of Southampton. Bowyer had thirty years’ experience of these waters, and the White Star Line was a regular employer of his services.

  Within two minutes they had accelerated from eleven to sixteen knots, and were on course for the more straightforward part of their journey towards the English Channel. Smith grimaced as he jiggled a gold sovereign in his trouser pocket, a familiar gesture for the occasions that demanded he remain a mere spectator. He felt reduced to the same level as the 1,500 passengers on board, a large number of them presently assembling for lunch in the first-class dining rooms. Impatient to resume command, he exited the wheelhouse to the starboard wing and watched the approach of a smaller Royal Navy vessel that appeared to be matching them for speed.

  HMS Hawke, about a third the size of the Olympic, was not a handsome ship, and the backward-raked prow distinguished her old-fashioned appearance as she ploughed a parallel course just 200 yards distant. Smith looked on with a mixture of admiration and distaste as the Hawke appeared momentarily the faster, but then the aged warship’s prow slipped back to a point approximately halfway along the liner’s hull. At this proximity he could distinguish the submerged barrel shape of Hawke’s ram projecting forward like the nose of a giant porpoise.

  Captain Bowyer joined Smith on the wing of the bridge and followed his gaze towards Hawke. At that moment both men were alarmed to see the warship begin to swing her prow to port, with the armoured ram now pointing directly at them. No words were exchanged even though each recognised the threat for what it was.

  The cruiser was losing ground to the accelerating Olympic, and it seemed possible the intention was to pass behind the liner’s stern, but both men knew such a manoeuvre was too dangerous to execute safely so close and at speed. Bowyer ran back into the bridge, ready to give fresh orders to his helmsman.

  Smith raised his voice. ‘I don’t believe he will get under our stern, Bowyer.’

  The pilot called back over his shoulder. ‘If she is going to strike, sir, let me know in time so I can put the helm over to port. Is she going to strike?’

  ‘Yes, she is going to strike us in the stern!’

&
nbsp; Pandemonium reigned on HMS Hawke: her commander flew down the ladder between the bridge and wheelhouse, desperate to avoid disaster.

  ‘What are you doing, man? Port, port, hard-a-port! Stop port engine! Full astern starboard!’

  ‘Helm jammed!’ yelled the quartermaster at the wheel. An officer and a helmsman rushed to his aid as the warship continued its swing towards the liner’s hull. The commander looked up at the vertical mass towering above them and prayed they would find empty water out of nowhere. But the increased strain on the gearing had caused it to lock completely. He barely had time to use the engine room telegraph and order ‘Full astern both’ before the impact.

  Inch-thick steel plating on Olympic’s hull was no match for armour-coated concrete; the antiquated ramming device of an elderly naval vessel was about to prove its worth. Nearly 8,000 tonnes of steel drove into the side of Olympic. It was not a deep wound, around eight feet, but the noise was deafening to those inside the warship’s wheelhouse. Fragments of metal, rivets torn from steel plate, and flecks of paint rained down on the Hawke’s deck as the two vessels wrestled briefly together. Olympic was holed both above and below the waterline, while the Royal Navy ship finally wrenched herself free looking like a boxer whose nose had been flattened by a stronger opponent.

  Victory for either side was yet to be declared.

  Part One

  1985

  Brendan

  One

  Portadown, Northern Ireland

  The killer had a good view of the house, the outline clear against a darkening sky. Set a little back from the road, it seemed to shrink from civilisation, sheltering behind the barrier of a neglected garden. He lay hidden behind a prickly hedgerow on the other side of Loughgall Road, breathing in the musky odour of composted leaves, soil and animal droppings. It was a pungent cushion as familiar as his own bed, and only slightly less comfortable. His target had passed moments before, signalling a left as he pulled the Land Rover up onto the weed-strewn drive—as he’d done on five previous occasions that week.

  One word in his headset. ‘Parsifal?’

  One response. ‘Clear?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  The agent raised a pair of night-vision glasses and saw a heavy-set man in uniform climb out of the cab, lock the door and amble up the narrow path to the house. He had no idea what the target had done to deserve his fate. He hadn’t asked, and wouldn’t have received an answer if he had. His instructions demanded the death to be blamed on the Provisional IRA, which was why half a pound of Semtex with a tilt fuse trigger sat snugly in his backpack.

  *

  At the age of eleven years and two months, Brendan was almost a man. At least that was how he saw it, and now he was at Big School he seized every opportunity to press the point with his mother and younger sisters. Today was no exception.

  The argument had started that afternoon on his return home. He’d found himself in trouble for losing three school books, and now his mother faced a bill she didn’t want to pay. Brendan had offered to sort it himself; or rather, he was going to get the money off his Da. The problem was his parents didn’t live together, and Ma was adamant that he wasn’t allowed to make the one-mile journey on his bike to seek the required funds.

  Brendan could not even phone his father, who would not return from work until after his bedtime. In the meantime, kid sister Emma had been winding him up in the way that only seven-year-olds can.

  ‘Brendan’s hit me!’

  ‘No, I didn’t! She’s lying!’

  His mother threw down a tea towel and hurried into the hallway to prevent further arguments from her volatile offspring.

  ‘You two! Stop that! Brendan, you should know better than to hit a girl, and Emma, leave him alone and go play with your sister.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts! Just do it! Have you started your homework yet, Brendan?’

  The young man drew himself up to his full height of four feet eight inches and glared at his sister’s back.

  ‘Told you before. Not got any. I want to go see my Da.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘No chance. I’m not having you out on your own on that bike. I’ll speak to him later and sort something. Now come and help in the kitchen.’

  Brendan had suffered enough. Once done with domestic duties, he was sent off to bed but instead slipped quietly out the back door. As darkness fell, he made for the shed to retrieve his bicycle.

  *

  Parsifal reached the Land Rover in the gathering dusk. Anyone observing his approach would have seen a terrorist wearing a trademark black balaclava. In position next to the vehicle, he inched his body into place behind the front offside wheel.

  He had between fifteen and twenty minutes before the target returned. Now off-duty, the RUC officer would be changing out of his uniform before taking a short drive into town for a drink or three at one of his regular haunts.

  Everything was done by touch. Parsifal closed his eyes, letting the skill gained from practice guide his fingers as he attached the components from his backpack onto a clean portion of metal the size of his palm.

  Explosive in place, positioned to impact under the driver’s footwell, the final procedure was to secure the fuse and prime it. A plastic medicine bottle was attached to a small battery and a ball bearing sat beneath a tube containing a tiny amount of mercury. Once the vehicle moved, the little ball would do the same, causing the liquid metal to travel down the tube and complete the electrical circuit. Result: death by mercury. A plastic lug the size of a pea was all that prevented the ball from moving, and Parsifal was now ready to withdraw it.

  Keeping his own movements to a minimum in the cramped conditions, he packed away his tools then shuffled out from under the vehicle so that he could still reach the lug at arm’s length. His ears picked up a distant noise, and he tensed his body until he could identify the source. The growl of a powerful engine grew in volume as a motorcycle accelerated up Loughgall Road and sped past. Parsifal relaxed at the passing threat and reached back under the car until he could place his fingers round the lug.

  ‘What you doin’, Da?’

  The young voice forced an instinctive reaction. He rolled onto his belly and sprung to his feet. In front of him was a small figure stood next to a bicycle carrying no lights. Parsifal was shocked that someone could have got so close without signalling their approach. The motorcycle. It had drowned out any noise made by the boy’s arrival.

  ‘You’re not my—’

  Brendan's words were cut short as Parsifal grabbed the boy's shoulder, spun him around and clamped his hand against his mouth, with the point of a blade against his neck. There was no time for interrogation as a light pierced the darkness, and both turned to face the doorway.

  Inside the house, Patrick Faulkner had changed into civvies. He considered his reflection in the hallway mirror: a man of forty-plus in an open-collared shirt, brown jumper and green corduroy trousers. The face staring roundly back at him was more lined than he cared for, and the hair a little thinner, but he could still hack it with the ladies. He might manage a haircut next week, but right now a certain Maggie Devlin awaited him at O’Hara’s. Faulkner stroked a hand over his newly shaved chin and reached for his keys. For a moment he considered leaving the light on in the hallway. Then again, he might just get lucky. Off went the switch as he stepped into the night.

  He took a few paces and then stopped dead, aware of the figures on the other side of the car.

  ‘What the fuck—’

  Even in the dim evening light he could make out the shape of a tall man with pale eyes behind a black balaclava, holding a knife to his son’s throat.

  ‘Is this yer boy, Mister?’

  It was not an authentic local accent, but Faulkner could not have cared less. His attention was fixed on Brendan’s terrified face.

  ‘Let him go. He’s only a boy. Let him go!’

  But the man in black did not oblige. Keeping the knife in cl
ear view, he moved away from the Land Rover with the frightened boy clamped firmly under his left arm.

  ‘Get in.’

  Faulkner blinked. He knew the dangers. The damage done by the Provo’s and the UVF filled much of his weekly report.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Just get in the car. You’re going for a ride.’

  Faulkner glared. He had no weapon. He had no choice. Reluctant to take his eyes off either the knife or Brendan’s face, he threw a smile of encouragement at the boy as he approached the driver’s door. As he fumbled with the lock he noticed the discarded bicycle at the side of the drive and quickly processed the scene before him. Realisation dawned, and Faulkner’s blood pressure hit overdrive. Whatever he did now, he must not further endanger the boy’s life.

  As soon as his father closed the door, Brendan felt himself pushed forward.

  ‘Now get in the other side. Move!’

  Spurred on by the threat of the blade somewhere behind his skull and desperate to get close to his Da, Brendan scrambled onto the bench seat. He saw his father react in horror as the armed man climbed in next to him, closing the door and bringing the knife back into view.

  ‘What are you doing?’ croaked Faulkner.

  ‘Just do it,’ was the reply.

  The eyes behind the mask didn’t blink. At his side, pale as death and bathed in clammy perspiration, Brendan screamed a silent last appeal to his Da.

  Faulkner fired the ignition and released the brake.

  Two

  Two months earlier

  ‘You sure about this, Walter?’