Silent Running

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘Another buddy in the army, Tom Hilton.’

  ‘Was he the man who died?’

  ‘Not then, but shortly after on a dive somewhere off the Isle of Wight. The man who died wasn’t army. Sidney Rathbury. He was a chemist or something like that.’

  Marvik took a mental deep breath. Louise Tournbury’s words again reverberated around his head. The sea is a huge dumping ground … people think it doesn’t affect them but it does. It matched with what he knew and what he had just read on the Internet.

  ‘Ken was diving at Hurd Deep, wasn’t he? North-west of the Channel Islands.’ And Marvik knew why.

  ‘Yes.’ Meade eyed him curiously and a little warily.

  ‘The dumping ground for both chemical and conventional munitions after the First and Second World Wars.’ It was no secret.

  Meade nodded.

  ‘Did Ken talk to Ashley about this?’

  Meade hesitated.

  ‘Please, Mr Meade, it’s very important.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And Ashley’s interest wasn’t just Parkinson’s disease and the diving accident in 1997, was it? His interest went back to when the munitions were dumped there but not as far back as the Second World War. More recently than that.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Meade said warily.

  ‘I’m a former marine. I know about ammunition. Ammunition sea dumps can contain TNT, picric acid, hexogen, and octogen – highly explosive substances which will eventually leak and contaminate sea life and the food chain. Some experts say that it will take about five hundred years but who really knows. Shells and ignition systems contain metals that slowly dissolve in sea water and that means they also have an effect on the marine en-vironments. Huge amounts were dumped but the cost of bringing them up and destroying them is so vast as to make it impossible. Were Patrick Rydall, Tom Hilton and Ken involved in dumping the ammunition there?’

  ‘Yes. But it was legal and authorized by the Ministry of Defence,’ Meade said in defence of his late friend.

  Marvik knew that. ‘The dumping of munitions was banned globally under the London Convention of 1972, or rather the dumping of highly toxic radioactive waste was; the disposal at sea of intermediate and low-level waste still continued. It didn’t get completely banned until 1993 although most of it stopped in the mid-1980s. But there was also an emergency dumping at Hurd Deep in 1974, authorized by the Ministry of Defence,’ he said, recalling what he knew and had read in the library. ‘Were the three men on that dumping?’

  ‘Yes. Ken said that he, Paddy and Tom were responsible for making sure the sealed containers were safely ditched. It was munitions and low radioactive material.’

  Or that was what they were told. Suppressing his excitement Marvik continued. ‘Why did Ken and Tom go back in 1997?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

  But Marvik knew why. He studied the old man’s face closely and could see that it was the truth. Had Ken Jamiestone returned to make sure the cargo was safe? Or had he wanted to check that whatever had been dumped was what they’d been told rather than dangerous and highly toxic substances? Was that what he’d told Ashley Palmer?

  Anxiously, Meade said, ‘What was it that was bothering Ken?’

  Did Marvik tell him? Did he fob him off? Meade deserved more than that.

  ‘I’m not an idiot,’ Meade added, seeing Marvik hesitate.

  ‘It might be dangerous to know.’

  ‘You think I worry about that now when I have nothing to lose and when I’ve never worried about it before when I had everything to lose? Danger was my job, just as it was yours. Still is by the looks of it.’

  He was right. But it wouldn’t be for much longer when he took Drayle’s consultancy job. If he was still alive to take it. ‘It could be dangerous for others.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep it to myself.’

  Marvik could see by the steely glint in the elderly man’s eyes that he would. He began to relay what he knew, what he’d read online and what he’d pieced together.

  ‘In 1997 a report was commissioned by the National Radiological Protection Board to carry out an independent assessment of the waste dumped and whether it posed a danger. I believe that Ken, Tom Hilton or Patrick Rydall got wind of the report or read about it in the media. Or perhaps Sidney Rathbury approached one of them, concerned about what was down there. Not trusting the government backed report to reveal the truth, Rathbury persuaded Tom Hilton and Ken to go with him to check. It wasn’t an official dive because the diving accident is logged by the British Sub-Aqua Club, which only lists recreational dives, and it claims that they were diving to explore the wreck of HMS Affray. The dive went wrong. Sidney Rathbury got into distress, Hilton got him to the surface and then went to help Ken who was trapped, possibly while trying to explore what was inside one of those canisters or containers that were dumped. Anyway the report was published in November 1997; its findings were announced to Parliament. It concluded that the dumping was well within the International Commission on Radiological Protection’s recommended dose limit for members of the public and that the dumping was of no radiological significance. The report also concluded that the majority of the wastes disposed would not present a hazard even if accidentally returned to shore.’

  ‘A whitewash?’

  ‘Possibly.’ And Marvik wondered if Wycombe had been officially consulted as a legal expert to ensure that, whatever language was used in the report, it would bear scrutiny and wouldn’t expose the government or the Ministry of Defence to damaging claims if anyone subsequently discovered otherwise. A conversation between Wycombe and a government official discussing it might have been what Esther overheard and threatened to tell when Wycombe ditched her but Marvik didn’t think it was.

  Meade said, ‘So Ashley Palmer was on to this?’

  ‘Yes. He was a keen marine environmentalist. Maybe he stumbled on it through his work with Chiron and Danavere, which brought him into contact with Ken for the purposes of his research. Ken telling him about his diving accident and background got Palmer curious. Or perhaps Palmer, working on his diving application, was keen to test it out and had researched and read about munitions dumping. He’d have certainly known about it and would have had a keen interest in it from his involvement with MPCU – it’s a marine environmental charity,’ Marvik explained.

  ‘I believe that in the summer, when Ashley was absent from visiting Ken, he returned to the dive location with the same aim as Ken in 1997, to see what was really there. Ashley’s application could not only detect the containers but what was inside them and analyse their contents. After that dive he did some further research and maybe dived again. He came here that Sunday before he disappeared when he had all the evidence and told Ken what he’d found, therefore depressing him. It’s possible that what was ditched wasn’t simply ammunition and radioactive waste but chemical weapons, the leakage of which could have triggered Ken’s Parkinson’s and even possibly Patrick Rydall’s MS.’

  And Ashley Palmer would have decided to expose it.

  Meade said, ‘This toxic cargo could be leaking.’

  ‘Yes and if this is what Palmer unearthed and was about to reveal, someone would make sure he disappeared before being able to do so.’

  ‘Because it proves we were developing chemical warfare?’

  ‘Most people know we were but developing chemicals and dumping something that is extremely harmful is another matter. I think there was someone else with Ken, Patrick and Tom in 1974 on that dumping, who also returned with Ken, Tom and Sidney Rathbury in 1997 and who is responsible for covering up what was really dumped there.’ And perhaps he’d been responsible for sabotaging Sidney Rathbury’s diving regulator and wrecking the dive, and for Tom Hilton’s subsequent diving accident off the Isle of Wight. Hilton might have witnessed something on the dive boat, the pilot tampering with the regulator, that made him suspicious. He had to be eliminated. Ken had been safe though because he was below. Was that person Witley? W
hoever it was, Patrick Rydall on his deathbed had told Blackerman. Esther hadn’t been killed because she knew too much; she had been killed to keep Blackerman silent. Because Rydall had told him something about that dive in 1974 that was too dangerous to know. The dying don’t lie.

  Meade said, ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Tell the right person.’ Except Marvik didn’t know who that was. Blackerman had told someone and that had cost him his freedom. Palmer had also confided what he’d discovered and was now most probably dead. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake.

  Marvik took his farewells, promising to return to tell Meade what happened if he was still around to do so. He hoped it was a promise he could keep.

  As he hurried back to his boat he rang Strathen and brought him up to speed.

  ‘Witley wasn’t in the same regiment as Rydall or Jamiestone and he wasn’t an ammunitions technician so it can’t be him,’ Strathen said. ‘But he could still be involved if he’s in on a fraud and has been threatened with exposure if he doesn’t do as he’s told. Perhaps Palmer confided in him, and Witley ran to whoever is pulling the strings on this. And that could be the intelligence services, acting under orders from a higher authority and we both know of one organization which wouldn’t want this coming out. The Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘A government minister now or back then?’

  ‘Ministers come and go. I was thinking of someone more permanent. A civil servant.’

  Marvik was with him. ‘Sir Edgar Rebury.’

  ‘Yes. He was Permanent Secretary for Defence in 1997 and … hang on, I’m just looking him up. He was a junior civil servant in 1974 at the Ministry of Defence. He was not only the first Chairman of DRTI in 2000 and stayed there until 2010, but he’s also a patron of ALPS.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Marvik exclaimed. ‘That’s who both Blackerman and Palmer confided in. Palmer wouldn’t normally have had access to such a powerful man but as a patron of the charity he’d have been able to approach him believing he could trust him.’

  ‘Yeah, and Rebury told MI5.’

  ‘But is this so vital that they’d need to clean it up?’

  ‘Possibly, and Crowder could be making sure it is cleaned up with no loose ends left lying around.’

  ‘But why kill DI Duncan Ross? OK, so he could have threatened to admit that he’d withheld or doctored evidence in connection with Esther’s murder but I can’t see the intelligence services waiting this long to dispose of him. And there must have been another man on that dive boat at Hurd Deep, someone who was also involved in dumping that stuff in 1974. Perhaps Sir Edgar Rebury will tell me if I’m persuasive enough.’ Marvik realized he didn’t even know what Rebury looked like. ‘Is there a photograph of him?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll send it over along with the one of Witley.’

  ‘Where can I find Rebury?’

  ‘Southampton.’

  ‘That close!’ Marvik said, surprised, as he turned into the marina.

  ‘According to the ALPS website he’s attending a fund-raising bash at the De Vere Hotel, along with a number of other luminaries.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Art, be careful.’

  But the time for caution had passed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  How to persuade Rebury to talk, however, was another matter. Marvik pondered this as he cast off and made his way out of the marina. If it came to it he would have to use force. Charlotte’s life could still depend on it. How long would it take him to get to Southampton by boat? Too long. Perhaps he should have hired a taxi. Would Rebury have protection? If so Marvik would deal with it. Who was working with Rebury on this? Could it be Witley?

  Perhaps Helen and Shaun would find something in Grainger’s meagre belongings that would tell them. Perhaps the police, searching Ross’s house, would discover something that would make them reopen the case and set Blackerman free. But no one wanted that murder in 1997 reopened. Rebury would use his influence to make sure it never was. Marvik had to make sure of the opposite.

  His mobile phone pinged and he retrieved it from his jacket pocket to see that Strathen had sent him over two photographs. One of Sir Edgar Rebury, stout with dark hair framing a jowly face in his mid-sixties, and the other photograph, Strathen said, was Roger Witley. In the dim light from the helm Marvik’s heart skipped a beat as he stared down at the rounded face and stocky build of a man in his mid-fifties. It was the same man he’d seen with Nick Drayle on Thursday, the day he’d dropped Charlotte off at the Town Quay. With his mind racing he rang Strathen but there was no answer. He rang the Chesters.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Amy Chester informed him. ‘He left about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘To go with Helen to Bognor Regis?’ That didn’t explain why he wasn’t taking calls on his mobile though. Perhaps he couldn’t get a signal.

  ‘No, Colin’s taken Helen.’

  Marvik felt a coldness in his stomach at what her words might imply. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, but he said that if you called, you’ll know where.’

  He did. Southampton.

  Marvik glanced anxiously at the clock at the helm. It would take Strathen about an hour to reach Southampton by car. It would take him two hours, or rather another ninety minutes if the weather held, because he’d already been travelling for half an hour. He increased his speed. He could make good time out at sea, but motoring into Southampton he’d have to slow down and abide by the speed limits. Whichever way he looked at it Strathen would get to Rebury before him. Would that matter? Strathen would get the name of Rebury’s accomplice from him and he’d call it through. Or would he? Not if Strathen thought he had a point to prove to himself. That he was still up to the job. He’d go after the killer himself and alone.

  The boat rocked and bucked in the waves. Marvik opened up the throttle and sped along the Solent. There was little time to lose. He skirted around a giant container ship and eventually he was heading into Thorn Channel and Calshot Reach towards Southampton but here he had to slow down and keep to the speed restrictions. It felt as though he was travelling backwards.

  He consulted his watch as he eased into Ocean Village Marina, anxious and impatient to get to the hotel. Strathen hadn’t called in so perhaps he hadn’t located Rebury. Perhaps Rebury hadn’t shown up at the charity bash: with a chill of dread Marvik wondered if Rebury had already been dealt with. He could tell all. He was a risk. Perhaps that’s what Strathen had realized and had hastened there to protect him. But why not tell him? Marvik wondered with trepidation.

  He switched off the engine and reached under the helm. Then, after locking the boat, within minutes he was running through the modern complex and along the main road past the buildings that had once been the offices of the major shipping companies, and the entrance to the port, not daring to think that Strathen had also been dealt with. It was just after eleven. The charity dinner and dance would be in full swing.

  At last he reached the hotel, pushed back the glass doors and stepped into the chrome and tiled lobby. He drew a few apprehensive looks. Not that he cared about those. Quickly, consulting the function room boards, he found the location of the charity dinner dance and made for it. The room was crowded, hot and noisy. About a hundred people in evening dress were seated at tables or were on the dance floor. At the top of the room was a long table for the VIPs, he assumed, and there were two spaces on it, one of which had to be Rebury’s. He made towards it when an elegantly dressed woman in her late-forties intersected him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked pleasantly but warily.

  ‘I’m looking for Sir Edgar Rebury, it’s important I talk to him.’

  ‘He had to take an urgent call.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes ago.’

  Could Strathen have called him? Perhaps from the lobby of the hotel. But there had been no sign of Rebury or Strathen in the hotel lobby.

  He thanked her and hurried out. He
was too late. They had already left. But hastily he checked the restaurant and bar, not expecting to find them and he didn’t. He crossed to the reception desk and asked for Rebury’s room number, confident that when he visited it Rebury wouldn’t be there. But Rebury wasn’t booked in. Marvik left anxious and puzzled. He stood in the rain, contemplating his next move, eyeing the expensive motors in the car park. Then his gaze alighted on a vehicle in the far right-hand corner, a Bentley Mulsanne with a personalized registration number, and his heart quickened. If he wasn’t mistaken it belonged to Edgar Rebury.

  He raced towards it noting the two men inside. He could tell by their build that neither of them was Shaun. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Rebury had sod all to do with this, or perhaps it wasn’t his car. There was a smaller, stouter man in the passenger seat, whose build matched what he’d seen in the photograph of Rebury and beside him a taller, leaner man in the driver’s seat. His chauffeur or bodyguard. Or perhaps someone from the intelligence services who had already silenced Shaun. Whoever it was Marvik would have to deal with him first. As he drew level the door swung open and Marvik halted, his mind rapidly trying to assimilate what and who he was seeing. He stared at the man in his early-sixties wearing a dinner jacket and felt a mixture of wrath and disappointment as several facts slipped into place.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Art. We didn’t think you were ever going to come.’

  ‘Where’s Shaun?’ Marvik demanded of Nick Drayle, quickly stifling his shock.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. I suggest you get in.’

  He could suggest all he liked; Marvik could get the better of Drayle. He was thirty years younger and far fitter even though the older man kept himself in shape.

  ‘And if I refuse,’ Marvik said, tensing, in readiness for action.

  ‘Then I’ll just have to persuade you.’

  ‘With what?’ But Marvik already knew. This ruthless bastard would use Charlotte’s life as a bargaining tool, if she wasn’t already dead. How could he believe him if he said she wasn’t? But Drayle withdrew a firearm from his jacket pocket, one of many he kept secured on his business premises: guns and ammunition had been his business in the army and were still his business. God, what a fool he’d been. Drayle had the muscle and means to mount a surveillance operation. But Marvik hadn’t known enough about Drayle’s past to put it with Esther Shannon’s murder. Why should he have suspected him? But something Strathen had told him about DRTI resounded in his mind along with some of the other things that had occurred but there wasn’t time to consider that now.