Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  Frantically he rummaged through drawers and any other areas that could be utilised for storing or hiding paperwork. It wasn’t long before his fears were confirmed.

  It isn't here.

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Seb’s heart skipped a beat. God knows how this scene would look to anyone lacking the rest of the story. He had to get out and fast.

  But how?

  There was no time. Without thinking he slipped inside the wardrobe and prayed to god the visitor would leave. From inside the furniture all sounds were muffled, but he heard a solitary word.

  ‘Housekeeping.’

  At this point Seb was undertaking a mixture of muted cursing and pleading. He braced himself against the back of the wardrobe for support and incidentally brushed against one of Sir Gerald’s tweed jackets.

  There was something in the pocket. Carefully Seb slipped his hand inside and removed a crumpled piece of what he believed to be notepaper. Without thinking he pushed the item into his own pocket and continued to listen intently.

  The maid seemed persistent. Once more she stated her presence, before – to his horror – Seb heard the handle of the door being lowered into position.

  As expected there was an initial silence as she entered the room and then it happened.

  The scream was as chilling a scream as Seb had heard in many a year. He had to fight against every nerve end not to react.

  His only hope now was that the housekeeper would seek assistance from someone in her attempts to raise the alarm.

  Not many people choose to keep a dead person company, regardless of the circumstances and this was what Seb hoped for.

  His luck was in. He heard hurried steps past the wardrobe and out of the room. Now was his chance.

  There was no time for finesse. Seb burst out of the wardrobe and the two mahogany doors swung open with significant force. He was just about to bolt through the door when he bethought himself.

  The medication.

  Odds on Sir Gerald had been poisoned. It was after all the continental way of killing someone quietly. If push came to shove and he needed proof, perhaps a trace element may remain. He grabbed the bottle and shoved it deep down inside his trouser pocket.

  The fire escape proved to be his saviour as the stairs were only a few yards down the corridor. He descended the flights two steps at a time.

  ***

  Had they been double-crossed? Was this the act of a potential buyer? Was the killer still close by?

  All of these questions demanded answers and Seb stood no chance of unearthing them at this moment in time. The key was to remain calm and avoid attracting unwanted attention.

  In his possession he held everything he needed to make a quick exit and stay out of sight. Blending in and disappearing wasn’t a problem. Understanding what had just happened certainly would be.

  As he meandered through the streets of St Helier, he had already started to manoeuvre pieces of the metaphorical jigsaw around his mind. This conundrum was no different to any other; like any interlocking puzzle, you always start with the corners.

  Ed had once told him that the only logical place to start an investigation was with the tangible evidence. Facts cannot lie. You could be as fanciful as you liked when it came to theories or gut feelings, but nine times out of ten the only place they lead you is up the garden path. So what did he already know?

  As insignificant or as patchy as it seemed, Seb knew this was the best place to start. He recalled his colleague’s story and although he wished he had said more about the buyers, he at least had a starting point.

  Suddenly the publicist within him took hold and he longed to take notes. Seb mused the way he could repress his desires as much as he liked, but eventually they would always seek him out.

  Frantically he searched himself for a pen and something to scribble his notions upon. The wrinkled paper was soft to the touch. He had completely forgotten cramming it in his trouser pocket not twenty minutes earlier.

  An electrical impulse jumped across a synapse and in the blink of an eye his fingers were grasping for the shred of paper like those of a greedy child in a sweet shop.

  Was it too much to ask that this scrap of notepaper provide an answer?

  The way things stood he would have taken the slightest fragment of a clue. For a moment he dare not look at the familiar handwriting emblazoned upon the white surface. The fear of the unknown and that of disappointment were momentarily too much to bear.

  Slowly his eyes began to focus and despite his trembling hand the words became clearer. He had just begun to translate the first section when he felt the impact.

  Positioned as if in prayer, Seb spun around in an attempt to see who or what had struck him. The aging cyclist’s expression was that of repentance, but this held little importance with him.

  His one and only clue was being carried down the street on the breeze of the English Channel!

  Any attempts to regain the scrap of paper would have been futile. Seb knew this. Slowly he picked himself up from the cobbles, dusting himself off as he rose.

  The old man appeared to be in a state of shock. Either that or he was simply lost for words. An apology would have been a start.

  ‘Are you fit to ride that?' Seb enquired in what could only be described as a disgruntled but genuinely curious manner.

  After a considerable pause for thought, the bearded biker proffered a response.

  ‘Of course I am. If folk walk out into the road without looking, I can't be held responsible.’

  Cheeky old sod.

  Seb had an idea. He needed directions and in his eyes, this charming old boy now owed him a favour.

  ‘I do apologise, but I’m a bit lost you see.’

  If anyone epitomised the stereotypical fisherman, this was the chap. Once brown, the old man’s overalls were now a delightful wash of colour. Undertones of claret and umber adorned the fabric and complemented the green waders perfectly.

  ‘I suppose I could help you on your way, but don't be long...’ he blinked before continuing with his train of thought ‘turbots don’t catch themselves you know.’

  Seb wished he could say that the wonders of Turbot trawling interested him, but unfortunately there were other, more pressing matters on his mind.

  ‘Thank you. I’m looking for number five, Springbank Avenue.’

  The old man pondered the question and adopted the typical, 'giving directions' pose while straddling his trusty mode of transport. This involved placing one hand on the back of his neck whilst pointing with the other.

  After much confusion and a string of directions as long as the twine implemented in his fishing nets, the old sailor cycled off into the distance. Apparently the house he sought was a good tenminute walk from Seb’s current location.

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but unfortunately his options were few and far between. To the best of his knowledge, Caitlin was still in the UK and her parents were holidaying in the south of France, so what harm could an emergency stop at the Legard residence do?

  Seb had taken the necessary precautions -- making every attempt to avoid being followed. He was almost certain his route had gone undetected and if the unscheduled visit wasn’t essential, he swore to himself that the threshold would not have been crossed.

  The only clothes he had at his disposal were the ones he stood up in and Seb seriously questioned the plausibility of his new identity whilst wearing a suit. The French passport he intended to put to work did after all depict the life of an odd-job man.

  He was to take on the character of the fictional Jean-Christophe Grenier. His occupation was listed as labourer and this suited Seb fine. Vagueness was good when it came to maintaining a false identity.

  The pseudonym would serve its purpose, but Seb had no intention of hanging onto the identity longer than was absolutely necessary. At a rough estimate, he gave himself a day’s grace before ‘the Ministry' became aware of the incident on the island.

  He would
be all right, provided he could get to Paris. The capital offered sanctuary to Seb and more importantly, would afford him a safe place to gather his thoughts.

  Approaching the house from the rear, Seb scanned the garden for something blunt and heavy. His aim was to wrap the object in a handkerchief and silently smash a small pane of glass.

  Obviously he wanted to create as little damage as possible – Kate would kill him if she ever found out – but more to the point he needed to maintain a level of silence. Within seconds his five foot eleven frame was inside the property and experiencing a close encounter with an ill-placed dog basket.

  Thankfully the family pet had also made the journey to Marseille and Seb simply kicked the basket aside. That was when he saw it. Not only had he broken into the house, he had unearthed yet another crime scene.

  The view in front of him was an unpleasant one, but one he could not help analysing. Knowing a fair amount about the victims meant his profile was somewhat obscured, but regardless of this, the plot portrayed here was one of little substance.

  It appeared that Marseille was missing two guests. Mr. Legard swayed gently in front of Seb, having seemingly murdered his wife and proceeded to take his own life. The fifty-something male could be found suspended from the ceiling, while Mrs Legard turned a once white rug a deeper shade of crimson.

  If it hadn’t been for the earlier events of the day, perhaps Seb could be made to believe his eyes. As things stood however, he did not buy the story for a second.

  Concluding that there was little to be done for the unsuspecting couple now, Seb made the executive decision to continue with his plan. He would gather anything he needed for the journey ahead and flee the scene unscathed.

  ***

  Leaving the island quickly proved difficult, but after a brief spell aboard a trawler and an extortionate amount of money changing hands, Seb was unceremoniously deposited on French soil.

  Time to disappear amongst the locals.

  The old fortified town of St. Malo was nice enough, but Seb knew he had to make tracks. Tyre tracks with a bit of luck.

  He was pretty sure that one of the nearby truckers would give him a lift in the general direction and after his previous financial dealings, he hoped his witty conversation would serve as payment enough.

  Seb was not entirely alone on foreign shores. There were a few acquaintances he could call on in times of crisis. Especially journalists. They would prove invaluable at a time like this.

  The journey was not as arduous as he had first envisaged. After spending far too long in the company

  of some allegedly fresh sea bass, Seb would not have been surprised if he had ended up keeping the cargo company.

  On the contrary, the driver was quite the socialist and the conversation flowed freely. It would seem that the rumblings from the Fatherland had caused quite a stir.

  ‘Those German pigs have never been happy since the Great War,’ the driver grumbled.

  In places Seb had to reign in his overactive opinions, deciding that a neutral grunt or nod was more befitting to his newly acquired archetype. Where necessary he did, however probe the unwitting driver for information.

  ‘It is only a matter of time before the newly elected Nazi party extends its reach,' the driver continued. Seb acted dumb.

  'How do you mean?' he enquired. The driver suspected nothing.

  'Let's just say they have been building,' he coughed, 'You didn't think the glorious German race was sat on its hands for the past twenty years did you?'

  His sarcasm was plain for all to see.

  'I see,' Seb replied, remembering his golden rule of animosity: keep the details as sketchy as possible.

  'Yes my friend, they are preparing for something big.’ The working man paused to tap his arm before he continued, 'I can feel it in my bones.’

  'Another war?' Seb exclaimed.

  Suddenly the driver was empowered and his voice boomed within the cab.

  'Of course! What else? Those bastards love conflict, it is in their nature.’

  Seb clutched his attaché case and turned to face the grimy window. Squinting his way through the dirt he could just make out the beautiful French countryside.

  'And you fear for France?' The driver nodded.

  Seb sensed the conversation was over for now. There was an air of awkward silence, to which the driver began to fill with a nervous whistle.

  Seb too was concerned for Europe, but if he was completely honest he could not help worrying about Caitlin.

  If the Germans did march, he was fairly confident it would be further east. From a purely strategic point of view, it would better serve the Reich to establish some easy ground, before advancing on the west.

  He was not a gambling man, but if he was forced to make a wager he would advise the populace of Poland to prepare for imminent invasion.

  Chapter Eight:

  A Special Task ~ Summer 1939

  Hauptsturmführer Hackbeil set a brisk pace as he walked down the corridor. He was well aware of his selection for important, overseas work and welcomed the opportunity to serve the Reich once more.

  He was unaware of the details, but he was sure the role would be a rewarding one. As the officer approached the reception desk the reality of the situation descended upon him without warning.

  He was about to be addressed by one of the Führer’s personal associates. The order was to come from the upper echelons of German parliament.

  Of course he was nervous. Any self-respecting military man would be apprehensive when meeting a superior officer. He only hoped he would make a good impression and be assigned a task, befitting both his enthusiasm and hard-earned experience.

  The receptionist gazed up from the copious amount of files strewn across the veneered desk. Her visitor was a tall man, but one of a wiry disposition.

  ‘Hauptsturmführer Hackbeil to see Obergruppenführer Fleischer,’ he dictated with an intended air of authority.

  ‘Ah yes’ she replied almost automatically, ‘He is expecting you Herr Hackbeil, follow me.’

  As the receptionist rose from her office chair, she gestured with a delicate hand and Herman eagerly followed. He would not be human if he failed to notice her feminine curves and the way her hips swayed as she tottered down the corridor.

  A few moments later they were standing outside a large wooden door and the secretary knocked firmly upon its surface. A flat shout could be heard from inside the room, one that both acknowledged their presence and granted permission to enter at the same time.

  Once inside the room, Herr Hackbeil could hear the steps of the efficient receptionist, as she returned to her desk. He would have continued to think about her, but his concentration was broken by a voice.

  Fleischer was a small, portly man with a rather unconvincing comb-over. An attribute growing in popularity within the establishment but not one Hermann had any intentions of sporting.

  Fleischer was proud of his position and overly keen when it came to welcoming guests and influencing people.

  ‘Ah, Hauptsturmführer Hackbeil. So good that we finally meet; your reputation precedes you.’

  Shaking his superior’s unnaturally sweaty hand, Herman formulated his response. It was to be one of confidence and humility.