Wings of Death

by David Holman

  Lake listened as the doctor informed him of his observations of Brinton’s Chief Designer. ‘I will be over in about an hour. Thank you for your call.’ Lake put down the receiver and rubbed his hands in glee; everyone in the office knew that this meant that their chief was about to set upon another case.

  He shouted across the room. ‘I need a uniformed driver to take me to the City General.’

  The young constable approached willingly. ‘I’ll do it, sir.’

  *

  Just over an hour later, Heidi Barnett stared out of the hospital room window. David had fallen asleep in the big, buff coloured leather armchair at the front of the bed. She then watched through the panes of glass as an ambulance moved out from the hospital grounds and turned right into the main road. Her thoughts were of her husband being introduced to her by her late father, and of her wedding, and then, having had just observed the ambulance, the image of that ambulance driver at RAF Pembridge, shaking his head following the plane crash.

  Her eyes then moved to a pristine black Daimler saloon car entering into the car park. She watched it as it moved around into a parking space in front of the west wing of the hospital.

  Now curious, she waited for the occupants to get out, noticing a man in a dark suit emerge from the passenger side, and a police officer from the driver’s door. She had been right. It had been a police car. Then she heard a voice from behind her.

  ‘I can do with a cup of tea pet, any chance?’

  Heidi thought her mind had said those words as she had heard the request countless times, but on hearing movement from the top end of the bed, she turned to see her husband begin to move his head, and leapt with a mixture of relief and joy. ‘Howard! Oh Howard, meinen liebschen.’ She turned to her son still asleep in the large chair. ‘David wake up, your father is awake.’ She kissed her husband on the forehead and David opened his eyes and rose quickly from the chair, gliding towards his father.

  ‘Oh father, I’m so happy to see you.’

  Tears of joy began to well in Barnett’s eyes. ‘David, my boy. My dear boy.’

  *

  Along the corridor, Dr Westerham shook the hand of the big Detective Inspector and showed him to a chair in his office. PC Simon Moon removed his helmet and sat on another chair inside the doorway. ’Thank you for coming so soon, Inspector.’

  Lake smiled. ‘That’s quite all right, it gets me away from the current boredom of the station. Not much on at the moment, is there constable?’

  Moon sighed. ‘Not really, sir.’

  Lake shuffled in his chair. ‘So Doctor, you think that Mr Barnett has been involved in some incident?’

  Westerham nodded, ‘Well Inspector, it really comes from the examinations I have carried out. There is a large welt mark on his neck, which looks as though he was grabbed from behind, and two fingers on his left hand are badly bruised.’

  Lake raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. So how is Mr Barnett now?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t done my next set of rounds yet, so as far I know, he is still in a heavily sedated state.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Lake enquired.

  ‘He’s in a private room in ICU. His family are with him. His wife and young son.’

  Lake turned to the Constable. ‘Perhaps, if we could have a chat with them, they may know of anybody that Mr Barnett would likely to have had a run-in with.’

  Lake arose from the chair and shook the Doctor’s hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Doctor.’ He waited for PC Moon to open the office door, then followed the constable out as the phone on the Doctor’s desk began to ring.

  Lake and Moon were walking towards the staircase, when Westerham shouted from the doorway of his office. ‘Inspector!’

  Lake turned around and allowed the Doctor to lock his office and catch up with him. ‘Just heard some terrific news. Mr Barnett has come round. Looks as though he’s going to be okay. If you follow me gentlemen, we can see him together.’

  *

  The head of MI5’s A Section sat with his team in a room of the main offices of Brinton Aviation. This had been specially set up for the investigation and a good supply of coffee and an assortment of biscuits had been maintained as the investigation team went through the personnel files of Brinton employees. No one had been left out, and each team member was given a specific section to check. The white painted brick walled room was quiet; all that could be heard was the sound of shuffled papers as each file was carefully scrutinised from cover to cover.

  Carter glanced across at his controller, who had his eyes scanning the file contents of Chief Test Pilot Eddie Kershaw. ‘Sir, sorry to interrupt, but I think you should look at this.’

  Stratton looked up from the file. ‘This is the file of that technician you wanted me to look at: Leonev Kostowyz. I’ve just looked at his background history, and it states here that before the war his father was a propulsion engineer with the company PZL in Poland, and then when the Nazis invaded, was rounded up and taken to work at Peenemunde. He was killed in a Lancaster raid on the complex in September 1944. I have been making some enquiries into the engineers at Peenemunde, and asked Maurice Hanwell back at HQ to do some digging for me. It seems that the intelligence reports from the records of the Armia Krajowa, the old Polish resistance, that were given to us last year by the Yanks, have mentioned some Polish workers being found by the Soviets and taken when they liberated the rocket complex. They name one of them as an Alexander Kostowyz.’

  Stratton closed the Chief Test Pilot’s file in front of him. ‘I think we better bring Mister Kostowyz in for some questioning. Well done, Alan. Damn good work.’ Stratton turned to Dennis Martin, sitting to the right of him. ‘Dennis, what time am I to see these American chaps?’

  Martin checked his watch. ‘In about an hour, sir. Unfortunately you won’t be seeing the head honcho, as he has been called down to the US European Tactical Group HQ at RAF Stansfield for a urgent meeting. The guy you’re going to speak with is his deputy, a Mr Brannigan.’

  Stratton rose disappointedly from his chair. ‘That will have to do I suppose. Thank you, Dennis.’ He addressed them all. ‘Well Gentlemen, I think that it’s now time for a spot of lunch.’

  *

  Later in the day at RAF Stansfield, Frank Maitland spoke into the receiver and praised his Texan colleague. He had listened to how the meeting with the MI5 agents had gone and was pleased that Brannigan had managed to pacify them enough to send them away happy. ‘That’s good work Jake. That should keep MI5 off of our backs. I guess that we can now move to Phase Two. See to it buddy, and I’ll see ya this evening.’ Maitland put down the phone and stared at the man sitting opposite him, dressed in an expensive two piece grey suit wearing a pair of highly polished loafers. ‘Bingo, that was Brannigan, he did well with this Stratton guy in his meeting, and it seems that MI5 have taken the bait.

  The man brushed hair out of his eyes and smiled. ‘That’s good news, Frank. What about Howard Barnett? Do you think we still have a problem there?’

  Maitland stood up and looked out the window onto the parade square. ‘As far as I know, he’s still in a coma. Hopefully he stays that way until the Rapier is cancelled. Then, if he does wake up, any accusations he makes will just look like he’s bitter that our bird has replaced his.’

  The man rose from his chair. ‘Okay Frank, I better be getting back to London. The Secretary is due to land this afternoon. Good work so far Frank, and it looks like you’ve given The Lance a great victory on this my friend. Your ancestors would have been proud of you. You truly are a great patriot.’ The man shook Maitland’s hand and they placed their knuckles together, allowing their matching rings to touch. ‘Allegiance to the end Frank,’ he chanted.

  ‘Allegiance to the end,’ Maitland replied.

  Chapter 14

  Howard Barnett sat up in the hospital bed, his wife holding his hand. His son David was sitting on a chair next to his mother. ‘You have been asleep for nearly nineteen hours, my darling,’ said Heidi, squee
zing Barnett’s hand and then bringing it up to her face to kiss it.

  Barnett sighed. ‘Is that so, pet. The last thing I remember was looking up at the clouds and seeing the Rapier streaking out of them.’

  David held up the model and simulated what his father had just told them. ‘Like this father?’

  ‘Aye lad, just like that.’ Barnett reached out a hand, gesturing to his son to hand him the model and David placed it in the palm of his father’s hand. Barnett held it in front of his face and smiled.

  Heidi also smiled, then took on a more serious posture. ‘Howard, the police are here. I saw them get out of their car earlier. The doctor has found a mark on your neck. Do you remember how it came to be there?’

  Barnett put down the model and felt across his neck with his fingers. ‘Aye, I know right enough lass, but I won’t be talking to police about it though. There’s only one man I need to get in contact with about this.’ He began to swing his legs out of the hospital bed and as he did this, the door opened and Dr Westerham walked in, followed by Inspector Lake. Bringing up the rear was PC Moon. ‘And where does Mr Barnett think he is going?’ Westerham enquired.

  Barnett grinned at him. ‘Oh hello Doctor, I feel fine now, thank you. I was just off to make a phone call.’

  Westerham shook his head, displaying his authority. ‘I do not think so, Mr Barnett. Besides, these gentlemen would like a word with you. I told them that would be okay, as long as I was also present. Should you start to show signs of medical change, I will call an end to them being here.’

  Heidi rose and signaled to her son to leave the room with her.

  Lake watched them leave, then moved around to the far side of the bed and sat in the chair recently vacated by Barnett’s wife. ‘Mr Barnett, good afternoon. My name is Inspector George Lake from Carlisle Police Station, and this is Constable Moon. I’m very pleased to see that you have made a good recovery.’

  ‘Inspector, Constable. What can I do for you gentlemen?’

  Lake took in a breath. ‘It seems from your examinations that you have some bruises on your neck. Tell me, would you happen to know how they got there?’

  Barnett looked Lake in the eyes. ‘I’m afraid that I haven’t the slightest clue Inspector.’

  Lake glanced at Westerham. ‘You’re quite sure on that Mr Barnett?’

  Barnett lied. ‘Got them when I fell down on the heath maybe?’

  Lake decided to end his enquiry. He knew that Barnett was hiding something, but what he didn’t know was why. ‘Okay, perhaps you did. Or perhaps you didn’t.’ He rose from his chair, indicating a nod of his head to PC Moon, who picked up the sign that they were leaving. Lake stopped and turned around to face Barnett. ‘If by any chance you actually recall how you got those injuries, please could you let the doctor know, so he can contact me?’

  Barnett gave a wave of his hand. ‘No problem, Inspector.’

  Westerham watched the policemen leave the room then turned to his patient. ‘Mr Barnett, I have examined those lesions on your neck, and there is no way that you got them from a fall. In fact, it looks more like you have been strangled! And to add to that, I think you also punched someone.’ Agitated with his patient, Westerham turned on his heel and left the room.

  Barnett reached over for the telephone, dialed the exchange and spoke to the female operator. ‘Oh ‘ello lass. Could you connect me with Whitehall 9921 please, love.’

  *

  The following morning Alex Swan turned his little Triumph sports car into Wellesley Mews and noticed a figure standing outside the door of his offices.

  As he approached and parked beside them, he saw that it was Air Commodore Sir Alistair Higgins. ‘Morning, Sir Alistair. This is all a bit of a surprise to see you here.’ He locked the door of the car.

  Higgins stepped forward. ‘Sorry to look like Orson Wells with this charade, but I couldn’t speak to you on the phone, and since the Rapier incident, another telegram would be a bit risky.’

  Swan unlocked the black door to the office. ‘Come to the office and I’ll put the kettle on.’ As they went inside and closed the door, a black Ford Zephyr sat parked across the road with two men inside it.

  The passenger wrote down some notes on a pad. ‘Swan arrived 08.35 am, met with a man in his sixties, looks like a military man,’ said Nick Riley to his colleague sitting in the driver seat.

  ‘I got to agree with ya Nick,’ said the driver. Something’s going down. Best report this to Maitland. There’s a phone booth over there, so go and give him a call.’ Riley climbed out of the car and walked towards the red telephone box.

  Inside the SID office, Swan invited his unexpected guest to sit.

  ‘So, Sir Alistair. What is with the Harry Lime impression so early in the morning?’

  Higgins shrugged. ‘It’s Stratton, Alex. As you know, he was up at Brinton Aviation investigating the sabotage of the second Rapier.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Indeed he was.’

  Higgins pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘During his investigations, he came across a mechanic that was a Polish refugee during the war. After some snooping around, it turns out this chap’s father is working for the Ivans as part of their top secret rocket team.’

  ‘Good grief!’ was all that Swan could say.

  ‘Exactly. He has caught a damn Russian saboteur right in the thick of Britain’s most top secret military aircraft programme.’

  ‘What has Stratton done with him?’ Swan enquired.

  ‘Well, he’s arrested him, and he’s now in MI5 custody.’

  Swan shook his head. ‘They’ll take him down The Well, poor bastard.’

  ‘The Well?’ Higgins asked in a puzzled manner.

  Swan turned and looked at his friend. ‘Where we take spies for interrogation. It’s a disused siding on the Metropolitan and Circle Lines, located between Regent’s Park and Great Portland Street stations. It was built to act as a relief line, should a train get stuck in that area. There’s a series of small rooms built into the brickwork. MI5 commandeered it during the war, and brought German, Italian and Japanese spies there for questioning. Since then, it has been refurbished with special sound proofing and used for Eastern Block spies and traitors to the crown. The place is deep underground, with only one way in and out. Our people enter it by way of a service lift above ground in Park Crescent. This is just a small circular concrete structure with a blue coloured door. A plaque on the door just says London Underground Maintenance Lift House Number ML3483. Authorized Staff Only. Passengers that pass on their way to and from work between the two stations, may just notice a siding going off to the right, completely oblivious as to where that siding goes, and what is at the end of it.’

  Higgins gasped. ‘My god Alex. I had no idea that places like that existed in this country. If you ask me, it sounds like the sort of thing you would probably find under the Kremlin.’

  Swan tapped his nose. ‘Need to know only old chap, and believe me, you don’t need to know.’

  ‘So what will they do to him down there?’

  Swan handed Higgins a cup of tea and sat down at his desk.

  ‘They’ll give him a beating. Then Stratton will oversee some questioning. Eventually they’ll break him for some information, and then toss what’s left of him into The Scrubs. The poor sod may even hang, but no one would get to know about it. Some have never come out alive. We had a traitor down there once who hanged himself on the flex that supported the big overhead lamp. When one of the agents entered the room in the dark, the first thing they did was turn on the light, to see the man dangling with the current electrocuting his already dead corpse.’

  Higgins shivered and Swan noticed his expression. ‘Espionage is an ugly business, Sir Alistair. It really isn’t endless Vodka Martinis and glamorous foreign women you know.’

  Higgins shook his head. ‘Some nasty times we live in, Alex. Still, at least we got him, so we can put the pieces together and close the case on the attempted sabotage I sup
pose.’

  Swan leant forward in his chair and looked at Higgins. ‘Not quite old chap. I spoke with Howard Barnett yesterday. He’s come out of his coma with no problems, and after what he has told me about what happened to him, it seems that John Stratton has gone and got himself an innocent man.’

  Chapter 15

  Andy Morrison stood at the small porcelain basin, turned on the taps and placed his blood stained hands into the sink, allowing the tepid water to wash the blood off.

  It was not his blood. He watched as the crimson puddle diminished and cascaded down the plughole; the remaining water gradually becoming clear. He always looked forward to this moment, a session with a new client.

  His job was done for now and he had washed his hands on this particular episode. Morrison was an ex-Corporal of No 2 Parachute Regiment.

  *

  In 1962, during his tour in Borneo, his platoon had infiltrated a terrorist hideout, capturing an important group leader. They had held him until the arrival of an intelligence officer so that the man could be interrogated. John Stratton had walked into the hut and demanded the prisoner be handed over. Morrison didn’t like the attitude of this civilian from the Intelligence Unit, and became aggressive towards him. Two men who had accompanied Stratton had taken hold of Morrison, attempting to restrain him. However, using his strength and large muscly build, Morrison had broken free and, losing his temper, had placed an arm around the neck of one of the men and used him to defend himself from the other one, who was brandishing a wooden truncheon. During the struggle, the pressure placed on the man’s neck had been too much, and a few moments later, Morrison had released his grip. The man fell dead to the floor.

  Morrison was arrested and, facing a manslaughter charge, was sent to Changi Prison, awaiting transfer to Colchester, pending trial. Morrison had enjoyed the Army and regretted his actions taken in the height of combat.

  A few days into his internment at the military prison, he was taken to a room and placed in front of someone he instantly recognised. Stratton had stared at him from across the table and had presented him with an alternative to his predicament of facing the hangman’s noose.