by J. S. Law
Dan put the bag down quickly and reached for her coat, found the gloves that she had taken from Walker’s house earlier in the day and slipped them on. She was no longer concerned that they were ill fitting and she pulled open the jiffy bag further to look inside. Still inside the bag, stuck to the bubble-wrap lining, was a slip of paper, bloody fingerprints obvious on the white surface.
She placed the jiffy bag down again and rummaged in her holdall for her washbag. In the side pocket she found her tweezers and used them to carefully grip a tiny part of the edge of the paper, pulling it out of the bag. There was only minute resistance as some dried blood struggled to let go of the plastic bubble-wrap. Dan turned it over slowly and looked at the prints before reading the message, written in the same neat handwriting.
On the strength of one link in the cable,
Dependeth the might of the chain.
Who knows when thou may’st be tested?
So live that thou bearest the strain!
Tenacity must break!
Dan read the verse three times; she didn’t recognise it. She slipped off the gloves, grabbed her phone and turned on her personal hotspot, reaching out to place the phone on the windowsill where the mobile signal was strongest. Then she pulled her laptop in front of her and connected it. She typed in the first line of the note.
The first four lines formed a verse of a poem that had been written at the turn of the century by a Royal Navy captain. It was said to be hardly known outside of Englishspeaking naval circles and was called The Laws of the Navy by R.A. Hopwood.
Dan read the information on a few different sites, but they were all similar.
She searched the envelope again, but there was nothing more to find, and then read the final line again, the cadence of her inner narrative governed by the beating of her heart.
Tenacity must break.
Her hands were shaking and she realised her breathing had grown shallow and quick. She stood up, removed the gloves and ran her hands through her hair as she paced, trying to think. It had been years since she had known Whisky Walker and she had barely, in fact never, seen him since she had accepted her commission more than ten years ago. She certainly didn’t know him well enough to recognise his handwriting, but she knew, for whatever reason, that this was genuine, that he had reached out to her, that these lines were for her.
She reached for her phone and began to search through her contacts list for the duty police officer at Devonport. She would need forensics to analyse the envelope and to use it, if possible, to ascertain Walker’s whereabouts and state of mind on the Monday. There would be CCTV footage at the post office and likely on surrounding cameras, depending on how long they held the data. The ‘blood’ would need to be checked too, to confirm what it was and if it did belong to Walker. She would need to see his autopsy to check for the puncture marks, or to understand how the dolphins came to be covered in blood. Then there would be questions from both the naval and civilian police about the poem, what it meant, why it was sent to Dan. The potential for her personal involvement, the fact that she had known Walker previously and was in a photograph with him at his house, coupled with the fact that he had now written to her, sent evidence directly to her, this would certainly rule her out of the case, rule her out of the hunt for the man who inflicted those marks on Cheryl Walker’s back …
She stopped searching and put the phone back down.
The hunger pangs she’d felt earlier were now gone and she dropped the remainder of the cereal bar into the bin, her mouth too dry to chew.
Did he know he was going to die when he sent it? Was this a suicide note? And why send it to her, after all these years? Why go to Tenacity to die – why there?
The coincidences were mounting up, and more and more Tenacity’s dark shape grew in her mind.
Dan knew she was a good investigator. After the Hamilton investigation there had been requests for her to be seconded onto the UK’s National Crime Agency, an opportunity that she would have seized, had her superiors not blocked it in the aftermath of her leaked paper. Could it simply be that Walker had seen her pictures splashed across the national press and decided that she was the one he wanted? But they all wanted her here – Harrow-Brown, the Old Man, and Whisky. All except Roger Blackett, who said he didn’t.
The images from the case files came back to her again, the similarities, the pictures of the backs of two women, feathered with bruising. Those marks were not the precursor to death. They were a warning, a punishment, a visual reminder and a deterrent. They were a sign of domination and humiliation. Those marks were a message to Cheryl Walker, or to someone that loved her, that they were subordinate to a superior power.
Inflicting these marks on the night that Tenacity returned made more sense when you looked at them in that context. The beating was something that could be survived, the marks hidden from all but those closest to you. Had Whisky returned home, he would have found his wife branded with these marks. This would be a clear message, a reminder that he couldn’t be there all the time, that there were others that could be touched, his wife, his children.
‘But why do it and then kill you, Cheryl?’ Dan asked out loud.
Felicity was right that death wasn’t a warning; it was the final sanction. So why commit murder?
Dan sat down and dropped her head into her hands. There were too many questions.
Death brought police and attention, it brought scrutiny and the SIB. These weren’t things you wanted if you were delivering a warning.
Also timing would have to be considered. Submariners were often out of contact with their families and friends for long periods of time. Their programmes changed frequently and without notice, and Dan knew of instances when wives had flown out to foreign ports to meet their men, only to be told on arrival that the submarine wasn’t going to be arriving at all.
The attacker had to be sure that Walker would actually see the warning. The attack would have less effect if he didn’t feel the full impact of what had been done to Cheryl. That was why it had to be then. That was why it had to be that first night back while Whisky Walker was made Duty, unable to return home for one last night while the message was being delivered.
Dan looked up as she thought about all she knew and all she still didn’t. She thought about what Gemma Rockwell had said, the piece of hose that was used to whip the sailor earlier in the day, and the letter from Whisky Walker. Then another thought occurred to her. Another reason why the attack had to happen on that first night back, because the person committing the attack, or the person ordering it, also had no access to communications, or perhaps to Cheryl Walker, because they were also on board Tenacity.
The feeling of suspicion and dread towards Tenacity was impossible to ignore.
She’d had this feeling before, that all wasn’t as it seemed, the same feeling that only she had had when faced with Hamilton. Then, she’d also had hunches and evidence that she couldn’t or wouldn’t share, but then she’d also chosen not to trust those around her.
She thought about Felicity Green. She may not be able to share the evidence with Felicity, not yet, but if she could meet with her tomorrow and convince her that the police needed to turn their attention towards the submarine, then Dan could continue to be involved in the investigation, could be there when Cheryl’s attacker was brought to justice.
She looked at her phone again and picked it up. She texted the number that Felicity had called her from and asked what times might suit for a meeting the following day; Dan was now available as early as Felicity was able. Then she slipped the phone into her pocket and picked up her car keys. There was a supermarket a few miles away. She could buy some bags to preserve the evidence for the time being, then keep it safe in her cabin until she was ready to hand it over.
The phone beeped – a reply from Felicity Green – she was available from three o’clock the following afternoon. Dan acknowledged the text, suggested meeting at the Walker house again, and pocketed it.
As Dan pulled her door closed behind her, she knew that the step she was taking, the line that she was crossing in withholding this material, could likely end her career, but only if she was wrong.
Chapter 11
Saturday Morning – 27th September 2014
The knock at the door was almost certainly John and she shouted that she would be ready in a minute and would meet him out front.
She towelled her hair dry and was just picking up her toothbrush when her door was battered by a salvo of short raps, more urgent than before.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’ His voice sounded urgent. ‘We need to talk, now.’
She wrapped her towel around her, tucking it tight under one arm, and cursed herself for not bothering to bring a robe. She walked to the door, stopping for only the slightest moment to look in the mirror, before she unlocked it and pulled it open just a crack.
‘I said I’d be down in a minute.’
He looked at her. ‘Tenacity’s under sailing orders; the boys were recalled last night. They’re packing up and securing for sea. She sails on the next tide.’
‘How could you not have known, John?’
He was walking beside her as they marched briskly down the main drag towards the submarine berths.
Dan felt as though she had to jog to stay in front, as he strode along taking two long paces to every three of hers.
‘How could I have known?’ he asked.
They flashed their IDs and Dan tried to quickly pass through the exclusion zone checkpoint.
John touched her arm and she spun to face him.
‘Relax. It’ll happen quicker if you follow the procedure,’ he said, his arms raised in defence. ‘Ma’am like jam,’ he added, but Dan was too worked up to smile.
The process of signing in seemed to take an age as Dan impatiently signed the paperwork and the attendant took his sweet time to issue them with some dosimetry.
As soon as they were through, Dan started towards the gangway. The Upper Deck Trot, with his provost armband, was the same one that she had seen on duty yesterday. Dan paced across the gangway, stopping only for a split second to salute before she stepped over the brow. As she placed a foot on the rough black surface of Tenacity’s casing, the Upper Deck Trot stepped into her path.
He saluted, but didn’t move. ‘Can I ask you where you’re going, please, ma’am?’
Dan looked past him. ‘The submarine,’ she said, letting sarcasm slip into her voice.
The trot’s face remained unchanged. ‘Can I ask whereabouts, and to see whom, please, ma’am?’
‘I need to speak with your Commanding Officer.’
The trot turned to another rating, the armed ‘gun trot’, who was standing a few yards away watching closely, his rifle, usually loaded with a magazine of at least twenty rounds, cradled in his arms.
‘Keep an eye, Soapy,’ said the trot, and walked over towards the main access hatch.
The whole area was bare now; the bulletproof Trot-Box must have been craned off earlier in the day and Dan, looking around as she waited, spotted it stored away just outside the exclusion zone.
The trot picked up a temporary phone that was lying on the casing and dialled. He spoke for a few moments and then hung up the phone and walked back. ‘Sorry, ma’am, boat’s under sailing orders and the Old Man is in a navigation briefing. He won’t be out for a while. Says he’ll try his best to see you when he gets out, but doesn’t know how long that’ll be.’
‘I need to see him now,’ said Dan. ‘Call him back and tell him that the SIB are here to speak with him.’
‘That’s just not possible, ma’am.’
‘Step aside,’ she leaned in and looked at the trot’s name-badge. ‘Able Seaman Grant.’
Dan produced her warrant card and held it up for the Able Seaman to look at.
His eyes never left hers and he made no attempt to look at the card nor to move aside so that she could pass.
‘I said step aside, AB Grant, last chance.’
The trot smiled. It was a shallow smile and he leaned forward towards Dan, as though he was going to say something very personal. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but what the Old Man says, goes around here,’ he whispered.
Dan paused, thinking and letting her temper subside. ‘What time do you sail?’ she asked.
The trot thought about it and then shrugged. ‘We’re going out on the midday tide, ma’am.’
Dan nodded and turned away. She walked back along the gangway, almost bumping into the Chief Stoker.
He was dressed in the same blue overalls he had been wearing when he had beaten the young sailor with a hose the day before. His sleeves were still rolled up and black marks covered his hands and forearms; his beret was, as seemed the norm for him, rolled up in his pocket instead of neatly on his head where it should have been. He nodded, a slight smirk obvious on his face.
‘Don’t you salute naval officers, chief?’ said John, over Dan’s shoulder.
The Chief Stoker nodded and reached for his beret. He placed it on his head using both hands to smooth it against his close-cropped scalp and then stood bolt upright. He saluted in a crisp manner, snatching his hand up to his temple and holding it there like a lead-forged guardsman until Dan returned his salute. Then he smartly chopped his arm down and remained at attention.
‘Permission to carry on, ma’am?’ he barked like a 1950s sergeant major.
Dan stared at him, never looking away from his narrowed eyes.
‘Carry on, chief,’ she said quietly.
She heard the sniggers and chuckles from behind her as she walked off the gangway, but she didn’t look back.
Passing the exclusion zone boundary, Dan tossed her dosimeter at the sentry and walked out towards the main drag. She had walked for a minute or so when she heard John jog up behind her, the hard rubber soles of his service shoes slapping on the tarmac. She spun to face him.
‘What was that?’ she asked.
‘I’m a Master at Arms, it’s my job.’
‘You didn’t think I could have done it myself if I felt it necessary?’
John looked away and shook his head. ‘Look, I’m sorry that the Royal Navy doesn’t rotate around Lieutenant Danielle Lewis. There’s a structure, a team, and we all play our part in it. What I just did, that’s my part. This whole organisation doesn’t move at your pace and in your direction, doesn’t flex and change to suit your requirements.’
‘What has that got to do with—’
‘It’s got everything to do with everything, and you know it,’ he interrupted her, raising his voice and then quickly looking around to check that no one had heard him. ‘You’re doing it again. Going it alone and pushing everyone out of the way, trying to bend everyone and everything around you to your will. You can’t win that way.’
‘Jesus Christ, John, this isn’t a game. It isn’t about winning anything, this is potentially going to be a murder investigation and you’re saying …’ She hesitated. ‘What? What are you saying?’
He looked back over to the submarine. People were watching them, but no one was close enough to hear, and he turned back slowly to face her.
‘I’m saying that you got away with the Lone Ranger stuff with Hamilton, and I mean got away with it. You barely escaped with your life and everyone hailed you as a success.’ John paused and shook his head, the pace of his outburst slowing down. ‘It wasn’t a success, it was a seat of the pants almost-failure, because you wouldn’t work with others, within the rules, trust others to help you.’
‘You mean I didn’t trust you?’
Their eyes met and they held the look for a long moment.
He shook his head again and she remembered it as another of his consistent little traits, the shaking of the head, meaning a thousand different things, from disbelief, to humour, to annoyance.
‘
Look, John, I made some calls last night and I spoke to the civvy police, to Felicity Green with the National Crime Agency. I’m telling you now, there’s a lot more to this suicide than we can see. The link to the murder of Cheryl Walker is more than just Walker’s grief. I’m certain of it. And as I’m trying to investigate it, I’m being stonewalled.’
‘We need to work together then,’ he said. ‘Not have me standing around watching the Danielle Lewis Show.’
‘Yes, you’re right, and we need to talk to the crew of that bloody submarine,’ she said, turning back to look at it as though she could plan a route to charge on board right now and corral them into an interview room.
‘If what you’re saying’s right, then the old bill would have enough to have the sailing order revoked.’
Dan was shaking her head. ‘No. They’d need a suspect, an individual, more evidence to convince them to concentrate their efforts in that direction. Even if they had a suspect, they’d just pull that guy off the boat and pier-head jump someone new into his place. They need time to investigate this properly and I’m supposed to be meeting Felicity Green later today to discuss it.’
She looked down at her feet, could feel that she was grinding her teeth again as she thought hard. ‘We need to talk to some of the people on that submarine, John.’
‘How are you so certain?’ John seemed to be thinking back, processing what she had said. ‘Who did you talk to at Devon and Cornwall? I know all the coppers there.’
Dan thought quickly, about what she knew and what she wouldn’t tell. ‘I’ll fill you in on all of it as soon as we figure out what we’re going to do,’ she said.
‘Don’t do something stupid, Danny,’ he said, but she was already walking away.
