Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  Reluctantly he grasped for the letter, extending his brawny arm out and between the minefields of soiled coffee cups. He couldn’t help thinking how strange it was to feel dread and excitement simultaneously. Perhaps it was just another of his quirks? Yet more additions to the traits of Detective Inspector Irwin.

  Heaven knows his team already looked upon him as a bit of an oddball and his link with the man behind this very correspondence did nothing to aid his cause. It would appear that established members of a police

  force frown upon the use of external advisors -- especially those in a journalistic capacity.

  It wasn’t like that with Seb though. He wasn’t there as a journalist-- merely a tourist and friend. Granted he was an overly inquisitive pain in the arse kind of tourist, but a tourist all the same.

  No, Ed wouldn’t have it said. This was one of the increasingly rare instances within his humdrum life that he trusted his gut instinct and it told him that the Seb he knew was a good man.

  A few tell-tale signs alerted Ed to the origins of the package. The first of which was something he failed to comprehend.

  Irwin could appreciate the logic to a certain extent, but the behaviour remained a little eccentric to say the least. He was pretty sure a psychologist would have plenty to say about Seb’s approach to the mailing system.

  His fingers fumbled with the switch on the desk lamp, whilst his gaze remained fixed on the outer envelope. After a few seconds he had located the button and the desk was illuminated in an orange glow.

  The office was a mess. Neither he nor his longstanding colleague Tim had a particular interest in housework and budget cuts had long-since seen the demise of the cleaning lady.

  Twenty-five years of age and he couldn’t even tidy his own office. No wonder she had left him. With every

  day that passed, Ed was consumed a little more. Not by self-pity, but by loathing.

  He hated himself for what he had become. He despised his every action. The epochs of time between minor victories were ever increasing. Sometimes it could be days before his weary head would emerge from the murky depths of a Whiskey bottle.

  It was also amusing that on one given day a minor victory – as he liked to refer to them – might constitute the cracking of a case, but another could simply be staying sober and witnessing another glorious sunrise.

  In one swift movement two coffee cups and a hole puncher were brushed aside.

  Upon tilting the package, the inner envelope slid out from its cocoon as gracefully as a ballerina and landed in the now vacant space on Ed’s desk.

  As if undeterred the secondary envelope stared up at Ed, stating its recipient’s address and giving little else away. Scooping it up he slowly placed an index finger under the lip and began to force it away from his body. The seal was broken.

  Surprisingly out came a single sheet of note paper. Ed settled back into his chair and began to read.

  ***

  Upon absorbing the final line of the letter he pushed the page to one side.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the typewritten characters he had just deciphered. Seb needed his help, but he wasn’t at all sure he could provide it.

  In return for his assistance, Seb had promised the detective a solution to the unsolved murders. The scoundrel had not forgotten the case after almost a year. He had obviously figured something out or remembered a piece of evidence -- something which now became significant.

  The lure of closing the file and bringing someone to justice was too good to resist. Maybe if he could put the case of the serial killer behind him, he could get to work on banishing his own demons.

  He may even win back the affections of his estranged wife.

  To the best of his knowledge she had remained unattached since their break up.

  No, Ed simply had to agree to the arrangement. One thing did trouble him though and that was how an incompetent, alcoholic inspector could possibly help in a troubled Europe?

  Nevertheless the instructions were clear. He was to meet his old friend at a bar in Paris. Seb had informed the D.I. of the situation over there and somehow provided him with all the necessary paperwork.

  He would simply have to overlook a blatant case of forgery on this occasion, considering the documents at play incriminated himself as much as anyone else.

  Time to dust off the French, Eddy old boy.

  He would need to make arrangements with the chief inspector, although it shouldn’t cause too much of a

  problem. He already knew of his superior’s distain for him and he had after all built up several weeks’ worth of vacation.

  It's surprising how quickly free time can build up when the only thing you live for is the job…

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Out Of The Shadows ~ Autumn, 1942

  There was someone or something behind him, of this Seb was certain. He could hear the assailant’s footsteps breaking the surface of the water through which he had just waded.

  It was interesting to note, however that his stalker took pains to muffle the sound. Unfortunately, water is an unforgiving medium when considering inaudible movement and the prey was now in the know.

  Up ahead Seb could make out a concrete structure. It appeared to be an inlet pipe to the sewer and would provide excellent cover coupled with the opportunity he needed to get the upper hand.

  At that moment he was taken by complete surprise, when what he believed to be a threat transformed into something completely different.

  The silence was broken once again but this time it was the sound of a voice.

  'I do not wish to harm you my friend,’ came the remark in an unmistakable rural Russian dialect.

  Seb was still wary. Rule one; distract your opponent. By engaging this potentially hazardous individual in conversation, Seb hoped to gain a psychological edge.

  'How can I trust you?' Seb retorted from behind the concrete pipe.

  There was a small pause before another softly spoken reply echoed its way down the tunnel.

  'I saw what happened outside the factory. I just wish to talk with you.’

  He knew it was reckless. He could feel every impulse screaming at him to flee the scene, but ultimately Seb knew he could use the help.

  Having tucked his survival knife back into its holder, he slowly emerged from his hiding place. Standing approximately twenty yards further down the tunnel he could make out the silhouette of a man, rifle slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ the stranger began, ‘I am Maxim Beruzitsky.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you Max. What can I do for you?' Seb enquired with a tilt of the head.

  It was only now, standing face to face with the man, that Seb noticed how big he was. The way shafts of light entered and dispersed along the length of the tunnel, he was quite literally standing in his new acquaintance’s shadow.

  Max broke into a wry smile before continuing.

  ‘Your Russian is very good, but you still forgot to tell me your name.’

  ‘Just call me Seb.’ he replied flatly.

  Looking him up and down the giant nodded, ‘Seb it is. Names are of little use out here anyway.’

  Over the course of this short exchange, Seb had already established the best escape route, along with the most appropriate way to immobilise the alleged friend standing across from him.

  ‘Do you know of anywhere we could continue this conversation Max? I’m not sure this is the safest place.’

  They waded in silence. The only disturbance emanated from the water below. As the murky liquid sloshed with every stride taken, Seb struggled to maintain his concentration. The sound of the water was becoming almost hypnotic.

  Max appeared to know the network of tunnels rather well and he could only assume that his newfound comrade also favoured an underground route when travelling. Seb found it strange that – when threatened – the natural tendency of the human race was to seek shelter in the depths.

  Either time had passed quickly or the d
estination was close at hand.

  The smell hit you first. Not an uninviting smell by any means, just one of a lived-in nature. There was definitely a tinge of root vegetable in the air and this alongside the unavoidable aroma of damp reminded Seb of his Grandfather’s allotment.

  Max knocked on the door, which in itself was fabricated from what looked like the side of a farmer’s cart.

  ‘Who goes there?' came the voice from within.

  ‘It is me, Maxim. Let us in Vlad.’

  What followed could only be described as the scraping of metal on concrete and the scream of distressed hinges being forced against their will. On the other side of the barricade Seb was hit by a torrent of stale but welcomingly warm air.

  His guess proved to be correct. Crossing the threshold he caught a glimpse of the metal object used as a doorstop. It was in fact an anti-tank defence, long since bent out of shape. What had once resembled an oversized Jacque had been reduced to an unidentifiable lump of iron.

  Suddenly Seb’s train of thought was derailed as the gatekeeper spoke.

  ‘Who is your friend?' he questioned whilst casting an eye of suspicion up and down the smaller of the two visitors.

  ‘He is a good man Vlad. He saved many of our brothers today.’

  Slowly the information registered with the wary soldier and Max’s credibility was not questioned.

  They had progressed no more than a few metres when Max began to speak.

  ‘This is one of the safest places in Russia my friend. Many of my people seek refuge down here after their homes were destroyed.’

  Seb took stock of his surroundings as Max spoke. Only now could he appreciate the extent to which the Russian civilians had suffered.

  With a simple but pained nod of the head Seb asked Maxim to lead the way.

  A couple of minutes later they found themselves at the door to a small room. It was hardly a hotel, but it was where Max lived and as such he would respect the humble surroundings.

  Once inside Seb observed the solitary bed, bucket and bookshelf combination. There was a clotted candle as the main source of light, which Max was now trying to light using an inadequate piece of flint.

  ‘Wait,’ Seb intervened.

  Max looked up from his work, but refrained from proffering a response. He simply waited to see what Seb had to say. ‘Here, use this.’

  In one swift movement Seb withdrew the lighter from his pocket and tossed it over to the corner where Max was perched on the edge of the mattress.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as his thumb slid against the metal and spark became flame in the blink of an eye. ‘I have some cigarettes in here somewhere. I was saving them for the right occasion.’

  Seb shook his head. ‘Thanks for the kind offer, but I don’t smoke.’

  Max threw him a puzzled look and the light from the resistant candle cast shadows across his rugged face.

  ‘But you have lighter?'

  Seb smiled his crooked smile – the one she had always liked – before giving his reply.

  ‘True, but I’m just looking after it for a friend.’

  Max nodded. ‘Your friend is lucky. At least he knows it is in safe hands.’

  At that moment the lighter was thrown back to Seb. With minimal effort he extended his left arm and plucked the spinning source of fire from the air.

  ‘The problem is,’ he began. ‘I know I’ll be holding onto it for a long time.’

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Self-Preservation ~ Spring, 1939

  The sound of the artillery, the cold night air and the bitter stench of death surrounded him. The seconds felt like hours, although the young man could not help wishing that was exactly what they were, for time might just spare his life. Time and a little good fortune.

  Suddenly the whistles could be heard on the far side of the line. Soon it would be his turn. The whistle in- between his lips, the last sound many of these boys would hear.

  How could he bring himself to do it?

  His instinct ceased the initiative. One firm, prolonged blast into the merciless metal object. If the whole event had taken more than a minute he would have been amazed.

  Gerald awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his chair. His eyes remained closed as still the memories plagued him.

  An endless recollection of previous atrocities. Just like the common enemies he had fought against all his life,

  his nightmares launched their assault when his senses were at their most vulnerable.

  No matter what the old man tried, he could not seem to shake the past from his subconscious. Deep down Gerald was aware of the situation. There was no denying that he deserved everything his idling mind could throw at him.

  Unable to move, his vocal chords emitted an exasperated sigh. Slowly but surely the feeling came back to the extremities of his limbs. The tingling sensation reminded him of wintry evenings behind the wire and he quickly shook the image from his mind’s eye.

  Those in authority had Gerald pegged as a brave and loyal man. This could not be further from the truth. It did not matter which side held the moral high ground; self-preservation was the name of the game in the old man’s book.

  Suddenly one eye opened, but was soon to be snapped shut again like a hesitant clam.

  Someone had left the light on. Gerald could feel the blood coursing through his veins once more and similarly hear the erratic rhythm of his own heartbeat.

  Unaware of the time, but fully alert to the light leaking from the lamp in the corner, Gerald eased open his eyes. For a moment his surroundings appeared alien, until the events of the previous evening came flooding back to him.

  Troubled by his latest predicament, he had turned -- once more -- to the bottom of a bottle. He was under pressure to generate results.

  An underlying passion stirred within the old soldier. He valued the importance of strategy in everyday life, almost as much as he did on the battlefield. He knew all too well that in order to come out of his current plight on top, he needed to consider every angle.

  After fumbling around in his bureau, Gerald put fountain pen to high-quality paper. There it remained for some time, forming an unsightly blotch on the otherwise carte blanche. The old man studied his reflection in the mirror.

  For Gerald, the reflections bore witness to far more than just a tired, withered old shell. Through his eyes he could see the mistakes he had made and the price he had paid.

  During his time on earth, he had done little for the greater good. His contribution to society and his fellow soldier was minimal at best. His rank betrayed the man he truly was.

  There was no turning back now. He knew what had to be done and the irony of it all was that he had actually grown accustomed to the company of the man at his mercy. He had morals, he was loyal, and he was undoubtedly the man Gerald longed to be.

  Little did he know the potential he held.

  For the attention of the German High Command,

  It is unlikely you know who I am, but I ask for a moment of your valuable time.

  It has come to my attention that the Allied forces have something in their possession. Something which may interest the Reich.