The Trebelzue Gate

by Anna Fitzwilliam

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘I don’t know, up to a point maybe, it all seemed to subside. This was last year… more recently, again I don’t know, but I’m sure there was someone – there was always someone with Amanda, but she was keeping it completely quiet, which wasn’t like her. Maybe she had just grown up at last.’

  ‘The young man she was engaged to, is he still at the station?’

  ‘I don’t think so, as far as I know he was posted to RAF Lyneham. He might be back again, but he was just an ordinary guy, decent, you know?’

  ‘And after the affair with the pilot, you said Amanda was threatening things, what sort of things?’

  ‘She threatened to kill herself more than once, and she’d get really drunk and say she didn’t want to wake up. She said she knew where to get the pills for the job. Also, she would say that she wanted something awful to happen to his new girlfriend - but I don’t honestly believe that she would have done her any harm … I don’t know. Once when she was drunk she told me she was going to get herself pregnant by anyone, she didn’t care who, and tell Graham that it was his baby … She also said that she was going to ruin his career, some crazy scheme to tell the newspapers that he was operating as a spy ... Also, I think she may have done some damage to his car, scratched it down the side with keys, and she used to go and throw things at his house during the night. She used to make nuisance phone calls too… I suppose it can’t hurt her now, can it, me telling you all this?’

  ‘Not now, Miss Shute, no. We just need you to give us as much detail as you can. Did she always confide in you?’

  ‘Not always, at least not when things were going her own way. If she came into Truro we would go out for a coffee and she might mention odd things, but that was all. But then, when Graham Jarvis finished with her, she wanted to talk to me all the time – she kept ringing me up and crying down the phone. Once she turned up at our house at two in the morning, Pat was fuming.’

  ‘And where do you live, Miss Shute?’

  ‘Grampound Road, Pat and I live next door to his shop.’

  ‘And Graham Jarvis, do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Out at Trevarrian I think, it’s on the sea side of the air field,’ she paused, ‘I suppose that’s quite near to where she was found, isn’t it?’

  They did not need to answer because Alexa’s attention moved towards the shop window. Out in the alleyway a tall thin man with curly grey hair stood peering in at them. At his side stood an Irish wolfhound, huge and patient in its shaggy weariness.

  ‘Pat’s here,’ said Alexa.

  Sergeant Bee unlocked the door and Pat stepped inside. He wore faded blue jeans and a worn leather bomber jacket. The wolfhound kept close beside him.

  ‘What’s happened, Babe? They gave me a message at the sale room,’

  ‘It’s Amanda,’

  ‘What’s she done now?’

  ‘Nothing, she’s not done anything. She’s dead,’ but Pat could not hear her last two words because Alexa had begun to sob again.

  He turned to Sergeant Bee. Monica said ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Amanda Shute was found dead this morning. We are from Devon and Cornwall Police, I am Chief Inspector Guard, this is Detective Sergeant Bee, Mr …?’

  ‘Henestan,’ he replied as he went to embrace Alexa. The leather of the bomber jacket was cracked and crazed and infused with the smell of cigarette smoke.

  ‘I’m sorry, Babe,’ he said as she clung to him, ‘I’m so sorry,’

  Into the worn leather jacket she said ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Babe.’

  Monica said, ‘We’ll leave it at that for now, Miss Shute, you’ve been very helpful, thank you. This is my card, if there’s anything you’d like to talk about,’

  Alexa nodded but she did not look out from Pat’s embrace. Monica placed the card on the counter. As they left the shop she and the sergeant both smiled at the wolfhound. The dog, waiting poised and still with eyes fixed upon its master, paid them no attention.

  They returned to Trebelzue. Lengths of tape, tied to the wire fencing and looped through steel anchor stakes, formed a cordon around the place where Amanda Shute had lain. Beyond the gateway a single airman stood on guard duty as though the taped space were an invisible cenotaph. A patrol car remained on the verge. The driver had relaxed, he leant with one shirt sleeved arm on the open window, staring out to sea. At Monica’s approach he brought in his arm and sat up straight.

  ‘Any developments?’

  ‘Scene of crime have just finished, M’am, and we’ve had a message through from them in there’ he nodded towards the airfield, ‘… would you like to go and discuss arrangements with OC Admin?’

  ‘I’m sure we would,’

  She turned to the airman on guard,

  ‘I don’t suppose we can we come on site through the gate?’

  He frowned under the rim of his uniform beret. The beret moved slightly, showing that the tight dark binding at its edge had impressed his forehead with its mark.

  ‘Sorry madam, I can’t let you pass, not without a chitty.’

  ‘And where would I get a chitty from?’

  ‘OC Admin, madam,’

  She smiled, ‘OC Admin, of course, I should have known. Very well, we’ll go around by the roads.’

  On the perimeter trackway beyond the airman a muddy green painted lorry was crawling along, its engine labouring. They drew level with the lorry and saw that a group of US Marines were standing in the back, lounging behind the rolled-up canvas flaps. Each marine held a rifle.

  ‘God help us,’ said Monica, ‘they look like a lot of hillbillies out hunting in the backwoods. I hope none of those boys is trigger happy. Tell me, why exactly are the Americans here? I could hazard a guess of course but I’d be interested to know what we are told officially.’

  ‘Well, there’s three lots of them – the US Marine Corps, a small detachment from the US Air Force, and the US Navy. Their site in there is known as USNAWF, that is the United States Naval Aviation Weapons Facility. Until about eighteen month ago they didn’t tell us any of this. Then there was the incident with the WAAF, the one you’ve been reading about, really nasty attack it was. A mate of mine from Plymouth was part of the investigating team. The main suspect was an American marine, the WAAF was able to give a very clear description of him. There was other evidence too, earlier that evening he’d been chucked out of the Sailors Arms in Newquay for making a nuisance of himself with a girl. It should have been a straightforward case, everybody knew it was him, but the Marines’ commander, he kept being obstructive over interviewing the suspect.’

  ‘But you had a good case?’

  ‘It was damn near watertight, but just as they were about to go and make the arrest a signal comes down from the American Embassy, insisting on a further delay, some point of law they’d brought up. The investigating team had to sit round all afternoon twiddling their thumbs and then finally, when they were allowed into the compound, they were told the man they wanted to question had been shipped out to the Philippines and that was that.’

  ‘What do we think are the chances that he’s back?’

  ‘I can’t see it, myself. They’re a law unto themselves, the Yanks, but I don’t think they’d risk a scandal like that twice over. There was a hell of a lot of bad feeling at the time; accidentally on purpose the story was let out and someone got in touch with the local MP and the newspapers. After that the Americans went on a charm offensive. Along with the RAF, they organised this meet and greet day out at the Headland Hotel. The chief constable came and there were representatives from all the county emergency services, the MP, councillors and the local press and all. The public relations officer for the Americans gave us a talk saying how their presence was vital to our joint national interest and how they all looked forward to future cooperation, then someone from the MoD got up and talked about the special relationship. There were a couple of in jokes about some golf tournament they hold every year and then they gave us a b
uffet lunch and we all came away again none the wiser. Conventional wisdom is that the USNAWF lot are storing nuclear bombs, B57s, up here – for the Nimrods to carry if the balloon goes up, and they have to have the US Marines here to guard the B57s. Rumour also has it that the place we’re about to pass on our right …’ They both looked towards a neat timber clad building in the corner of a field. It might have been a sports pavilion or an Outward Bound centre, but the field was enclosed by wire fencing some twenty feet high and at intervals cameras and searchlights were mounted, ‘… is where the US Air Force will be able to stay in touch with Air Force One. Apparently, if and when war is declared, Air Force One takes off and keeps the president airborne. There’s a chain of air traffic control points all around the world designed to stay in touch with him.’

  ‘One can’t help wondering how long he will have to stay up in the air. Anyway, as soon as I’ve looked over the case, we will need to go and talk to whoever’s in overall charge of the Americans.’

  A quarter of a mile further along the road a pale blue signboard decorated with squadron crests directed them into a narrow, curving lane. On either side the verges frothed with cow parsley. Butterflies, yellow and white, dipped and flittered among the flower heads. A flurry of small brown birds rose above a field gate. The gate was fastened with orange binder twine, beyond it a hay baler stood waiting to be harnessed to a tractor.

  ‘This all seems very rural and peaceful,’ she said

  ‘You’ve not been up here before? Any second now …’

  They reached the final curve of the lane and the view was suddenly and dramatically transformed. The vast scale of the air station was spread out before them like a plotting table. To the left of the main gate barrier and sentry box there was the long low guard room with barred windows, beyond it was a bright red sign for the NAAFI supermarket. Behind the NAAFI, newer, brick-built accommodation blocks rose above the dark green war time SECO huts. To their right, across an undulating stretch of close-cut turf, was a bank of wire cage enclosures for the RAF Police dogs. Two Alsatians were bounding up and down in adjoining runs, each dog barking loudly and marking its neighbour’s movements as though in a mirror dance.

  Monica wound down the window to show her identification to the sentry and he handed them station passes, small oblongs of yellow card.

  ‘These are our chitties are they?’ Monica asked.

  ‘Yes M’am, they’re expecting you at SHQ, straight up the hill on the left, by the flagpole.’

  ‘It looks as if they’re pretty self-sufficient here,’ Monica said as they drove on.

  ‘They’ve got it all,’ said Sergeant Bee ‘Hospital, church, bank, barber’s shop, supermarket, the three big mess buildings, each with a bar and what have you …’

  ‘Have you been up here before?’

  ‘A couple of times, for the job, and I try to get to the air show, they hold one every year. You’ll get a view of the hangars in a minute, all along the runway edge at the top of the hill. Then over that way there’s the workshops and the MT yard and the flight simulator, everything they need is here on site.’

  Peter Goodchild was waiting for them in the foyer of the headquarters building.

  ‘OC Admin’s expecting us,’ he said, ‘Follow me.’

  A despondent messenger in a brown raincoat was pushing a metal trolley of post along the corridor from the Registry, one wheel squeaked as he passed.

  ‘You need a bit of oil on that, Grokey,’

  ‘I keep asking,’ the messenger replied.

  Peter Goodchild knocked cursorily on an office door as he opened it

  ‘Come in, come in won’t you,’

  Smiling in greeting, a balding man with round flower blue eyes stood up from the desk. His manner was relaxed and friendly, a slight paunch showed under the ribbed uniform jersey.

  ‘Bill Gentleman, Squadron Leader, good of you to come in. You must be DCI Guard? Please, sit down.’

  The chair seats were covered in an air force blue rexine. A WAAF corporal brought in a tray of coffee. Peter Goodchild handed around cups,

  ‘Biscuits too, if you like,’ he said, swooping a white plate among them.

  The squadron leader said ‘I knew a chap called Guard once. Long time ago mind you, during the war. Garth, his name was, Garth Guard, we used to call him Gee Gee.’

  Monica smiled as she set her coffee cup onto its saucer.

  ‘That would have been my husband. He was in Naval Intelligence.’

  ‘You don’t say! I’d only just joined up … I was a rear end Charlie on the old 138 SOE, we flew Sterlings out of RAF Tempsford. We did some drops with him over France. God, they were brave, the ones we dropped in … Well, it’s a small world … and you’re living down here now, are you?

  ‘I am, but not Garth I’m afraid. He’s not been well. He’s in a nursing home.’

  He frowned, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry. They were real heroes to me, those agents … course, I was only eighteen …’

  They drank the coffee. Beyond the door the wheel of the messenger’s trolley sounded as it passed on its return journey. Bill Gentleman put his cup on the tray.

  ‘Well now, to the dreadful business in hand. I know the family well of course; Charles Shute was stationed here in the sixties and Marilyn has stayed very much involved. Tragic, absolutely tragic. Is there anything further on what happened? Peter here says it didn’t look to have been a car accident.’

  ‘No, it’s early days but we are treating the death as suspicious. As yet, we don’t know whether she died at the scene or whether her body was taken there later.’

  He shook his head slowly, ‘God, who could do such a thing … and are you thinking it could have happened here on the base, Chief Inspector?

  ‘It’s possible.’

  He looked at Peter Goodchild ‘Right, well that’s the answer we didn’t want to hear, isn’t it, Peter? But still …you’ll have our full cooperation. I understand your chief constable has been talking to the MoD about arrangements, you’ll need an incident room as close to the scene as possible?’

  ‘That would be very useful.’

  ‘We’ll do all we can to help of course. To an extent our hands are tied by having this blasted TACEVAL expected any minute, but the CO’s agreed that we should allot you one of the SECO huts out at Trebelzue. I’ve got some of the boys from Supply Flight down there at this moment, fitting it out. You can be quite self-contained, we’re running phone lines in.’

  ‘That’s very much appreciated. One thing though, this TACEVAL, I understand it affects the entire station, is there any way it can be postponed?’

  Briefly, Bill Gentleman allowed an expression of incredulity to show in his round blue eyes. Peter Goodchild gave a slight cough of a laugh and shunted at the edge of the biscuit plate. Monica held her ground.

  ‘This is a murder investigation. We need to be able to move freely, to talk to people and gather evidence wherever necessary.’

  ‘I understand that, Chief Inspector, believe me, and I sympathise, genuinely I do, but nothing, absolutely nothing, can stop a TACEVAL. It’s not organised at a local level, not even by the Air Force, it comes from NATO command, in Brussels, and it takes precedence over anything and everything – last year we had to postpone Princess Margaret.’

  Monica stood up, Sergeant Bee followed.

  ‘I see. Well thank you for your time, anyway gentlemen.’

  ‘Not at all. Peter’s had some station ground plans run off for you and your offices should be ready any time now. When it does all hit the fan – the TACEVAL and so on - I’ll be in the bunker, so if you need anything, try this extension number.’

  As Peter Goodchild prepared to show them out, Monica turned back

  ‘Just one more thing,’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe there was an incident about eighteen months ago, an attack on a WAAF?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the squadron leader made a stop between the words. Peter Goodchild began
to collect the cups and stack the saucers into a pile. The china was a clear bright white with gilt banding. He picked up the Bourbon biscuit from his own saucer and held it in his mouth as he might hold a ticket when juggling with luggage.

  ‘Can you tell us anything about it?’

  The squadron leader smoothed a hand over his forehead.

  ‘Not much, to be honest. There was a police investigation as you’ll know.’

  ‘There was, but only up to a point, if I understand correctly. However, I am not here to discuss the rights and wrongs of the way the incident was handled, primarily I need to know whether the suspect in question could have been returned to the base here.’

  He shook his head in emphasis ‘Absolutely not. There’d be no chance of that, would there, Peter?’

  The younger man also shook his head and swallowed the last of the Bourbon biscuit. ‘Absolutely not,’ he agreed.

  ‘That’s useful to know, thank you. Although as I said earlier this morning, I shall need to speak to the American contingent, how would I go about that?’

  Peter Goodchild looked enquiringly at the squadron leader ‘Commander Thurn?’

  ‘Walter Thurn, yes - he’s the USNAWF CO - it would have to be, everything needs to go through his office. Peter, write down his PA’s number could you - Lieutenant McLean, Andrew McLean, he’s very helpful.’

  As they were leaving Bill Gentleman said

  ‘Do remember me to your husband, to Garth, won’t you?’

  ‘I will indeed.’

  Driving away down the hill they watched as a group of airmen dragged a wooden construction across the entrance to the flight simulator building. It resembled a huge sawing horse swathed in barbed wire. Outside the officers’ mess banks of sandbags had been piled in front of the plate glass doors.

  Sergeant Bee said

  ‘To be honest, I can’t see it making much difference, any of this, not if there’s a nuclear attack. My cousin, he’s bought one of those shelters, the ones you see advertised in the Sunday papers. I said to him, what’s the point? – there’ll be nothing left when you come out, if you do come out, that is.’