The Trebelzue Gate

by Anna Fitzwilliam

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say angry as such …’

  ‘Wouldn’t you sir? We’ve been told you threatened her with a restraining order …’

  ‘Look, that was just in the heat of the moment, I wouldn’t actually have done so.’

  ‘And how long did this behaviour of Amanda’s continue?’

  ‘It went on for several months, during the summer. Then she just stopped.’

  ‘What, just like that? Why? - did you agree to start seeing her again?’

  ‘Absolutely not, no. I couldn’t, not after everything that had happened.’

  ‘So, nowadays there’s no Amanda and no Chrissie. Is there a new girlfriend, sir?’

  ‘I’m sorry Chief Inspector, but is this really relevant?’

  ‘It might well be, sir, I don’t know yet. Is there somebody new?’

  ‘Er, there’s nobody serious, no.’

  ‘What does that mean, exactly?’

  ‘It means exactly what I said, that there is no serious relationship in my life at this moment in time.’

  ‘I see. So, there’s nobody serious but there could be somebody casual?’

  He shrugged and sighed, affecting weariness, ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘Someone local?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stood up and crossed to the windows to open the curtains. The material of the curtains was beige, a waffle weave fabric. He turned off the lamps one by one, stooping at the knees of the khaki flying suit to reach downwards.

  ‘Of course,’ said Monica, ‘I suppose it might not be mutual,’

  He resumed his seat ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, a relationship isn’t necessarily casual for both parties is it? This new somebody, this local person, she might in fact be quite serious about you. She could have talked about your arrangement - locally you know - and what with everyone knowing everyone else, Amanda would soon get to hear of it. That could have roused her jealousy so that she started making a nuisance of herself all over again …That’s a plausible theory, surely?’

  ‘Plausible to you, maybe,’

  ‘Why isn’t it plausible to you?’

  ‘Because she wouldn’t talk about it, we need to be discreet – look, the person I’m seeing, she’s married, okay? We are simply two adult people who enjoy each other’s company from time to time, that’s all.’

  ‘Is there any likelihood of her getting a divorce?’

  ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘We might need to speak to her.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  Monica looked up from her notepad and calmly and levelly repeated, ‘We might need to speak to her.’

  He sighed again and shook his head.

  ‘You said earlier that you hadn’t spoken to Amanda for months.’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘So, you haven’t seen her to speak to, but have you seen her out and about? In such a small community, you must have crossed paths somewhere, surely?’

  He hesitated then conceded reluctantly

  ‘Very well, I saw her a couple of weeks ago, I passed her on the road through Trenant Woods. She had pulled into the verge. I wondered if she had broken down, so I stopped.’

  ‘That was very gallant of you,’

  ‘Not especially, she wasn’t dressed for coping with a break down, so I thought I should help.’

  ‘How was she dressed then?’

  ‘She has on this long floaty dress, sort of sheer and white with a hem that went up and down, not the sort of thing for changing a tyre in …’

  ‘And had she broken down?’

  ‘No, she hadn’t in fact.’

  ‘So, what was she doing?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure, picking flowers maybe.’

  ‘Picking flowers?’

  ‘She liked flowers. I bought her a flower press once,’

  ‘What did she say, sir, when you stopped?’

  ‘I can’t really remember.’

  ‘Well, what did you say?’

  ‘I asked her if she needed any help.’

  ‘And she replied - what?’

  ‘All right, if you must know, she was quite rude, she laughed and she said why the hell would I suppose that she needed any help from me.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘I just said okay, and then I drove on.’

  ‘And how did you feel about that?

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Amanda, rejecting your help – throwing it back in your face – and after all that had happened. It must have been a little galling sir, surely?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Are you sure? What do you think, Sergeant Bee? The squadron leader has had quite a time of it with Miss Shute one way and another, then he comes across her looking like some diaphanous wood nymph and very chivalrously he offers his assistance but she throws it back at him - she’s clearly not interested anymore …’

  ‘Must have come as a bit of a shock, I should say M’am,’

  ‘Indeed. So, I’ll ask you once again, Squadron Leader, weren’t you angry with Amanda?’

  ‘And I will give you the same answer, Chief Inspector, no, I wasn’t angry. Just because it didn’t work out between us, it doesn’t mean I didn’t have – still do have – a very soft spot for Amanda. To be honest I am devastated by what has happened, completely devastated.’

  Monica stood up abruptly. ‘Well there we are. Thank you, Squadron Leader, that will be all for now. You’re not planning to go away anywhere, are you?’

  ‘With the TACEVAL it’s possible that I may be sent on detachment … the Azores, Sigonella …’

  ‘Right, well I’m sure the Ministry of Defence will be able to track you down for us, should we need you.’

  Sergeant Bee followed her but at the front door she stopped suddenly so that he had to nimbly step backwards to avoid bumping into her. She turned to Graham Jarvis who was fastening the buckles on the briefcase.

  ‘One more thing, Squadron Leader, which way did you drive home last night?’

  ‘Along the coast road, the usual way, why?’

  ‘Did you stop at the crime scene at all sir?

  ‘I didn’t know there’d been a crime, I told you, I’d been on ops all day,’

  ‘So you did sir. Your neighbour that does for you, Mrs Julian, is she likely to be at home?’

  ‘Probably not, she has a little job with Brymon airways departures in the mornings,’

  ‘Really? Well, we’ll try anyway sergeant.’

  They crossed the strip of lawn to the neighbouring house and rang the bell, they waited but nobody answered. The sergeant said ‘Funny, I could have sworn I heard music playing through the wall just now.’

  ‘I am sure I heard it too.’

  They stepped back to look up at the first-floor windows, there was a swift dart of movement as a figure within stepped out of sight.

  ‘Shall I try again?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘No, just put a card through the door, say we’ll be back.’

  In the car the sergeant asked

  ‘Are you thinking that this Mrs Julian might be the somebody else he was keen not to identify?’

  ‘She certainly could be a contender, what with her husband being away and all. But there was also something about the way he spoke of Mrs Gerstmann, a sort of suggestiveness I thought … maybe not, maybe he’s just that kind of man. Also, he’s liar, we know that he did stop at the scene.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking you didn’t like him much, M’am?’

  ‘Not much, no.'

  Maureen Jones stood on a chair with her back to the office, writing on the length of lining paper at Ellery’s direction.

  ‘Chappie on the list here, came on site yesterday with the St Merryn Flat Roofing vehicle, he’s got form, petty larceny, put him on …’

  Unnoticed by Jones, a panda car driver had arrived. Silently he crossed the room and made a gesture as if putting his hand up inside her gaberdine skirt. At t
heir desks the other policemen watched grinning.

  ‘Want sex, do you Maureen?’ he asked gruffly.

  Startled, she turned.

  ‘Want sex?’ he asked again, the men sniggered.

  ‘Piss off Bazeley,’ she replied.

  ‘That’s not very nice is it, I only asked if you wanted sex…’

  She jumped down from the chair, pushing away the hand he had proffered to help.

  ‘You don’t want it, maid, I’ll go away again shall I?’ he held up a large brown envelope, waggling it in front of her face.

  ‘What’s in that?’ she asked.

  ‘Sex offenders - I just said, didn’t I? Your lady guvnor asked for a list of sex offenders hereabouts, I was dropping it off as a favour but seeing as you don’t want it…’

  She snatched the envelope from him.

  The patrol driver and the other men exclaimed in mock consternation.

  ‘Proper little hellcat, this one,’ said Bazeley as Jones took the envelope to her desk.

  The base was strangely quiet and deserted when Monica and Sergeant Bee returned from Trevarrian.

  ‘We’ll stop off at the Education Centre, see if there’s anyone to tell us what Amanda was doing there on Tuesday afternoon,’ she said.

  On either side of the main camp road several areas of turf had been delineated with white tape which might have been gauze bandaging. At intervals along the tape were strung pieces of card marked ‘Slit trench’.

  A flight of seven concrete steps edged by a wooden handrail led up to the Education Centre. A piece of plywood was propped across the entrance, on it someone had written ‘Sandbagged’. An airman stood beside it.

  They held out warrant cards and the mustard yellow station passes.

  ‘We need to talk to someone about the courses that are run here, may we go inside?’ Monica asked.

  ‘I doubt it Madam, this building received a direct hit twenty minutes ago. The umpires have just gone in.’

  ‘Umpires?’

  ‘Yes Madam, the TACEVAL umpires,’

  A man emerged from the doorway. He was tall and barrel chested, the size of his chest was accentuated by the tightness of his khaki uniform jersey. On the shoulders of the jersey were the insignia of the RAF Regiment Flight and stripes for the rank of squadron leader. His voice was loud and deep and commanding.

  ‘What’s going on here, LAC Clark?’

  ‘Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, sir, would like to see the librarian,’

  ‘Would they indeed. Well Clark, we’ve got three corpses and two personnel about to bleed to death in there and no sign of the ruddy ambulance. If I were you, I’d get myself inside and start ripping up a few tourniquets pretty damn quick.’

  ‘Yes sir,’

  Frowning angrily, the umpire watched the airman’s progress into the building. Then his expression relaxed and he smiled as he advanced to Monica, holding out his hand which she found to be unexpectedly small and soft.

  ‘Squadron Leader George van Reindorp, RAF Regiment. Of course, what poor Clark there doesn’t yet know is that my driver, Corporal Glover, is still inside, waiting to spring a nasty surprise on him. Sorry about all this, Chief Inspector, but it’s all part of the show, you know, we have to play the game.’

  ‘It’s quite a game, too, from what I’ve seen so far.’

  ‘Yes, well, it has its moments.’

  He turned his back on the building to lean on the wooden handrail and contemplate the empty road.

  ‘In six months’ time I’ll be done with it all. Early retirement. Believe it or not, I shall be growing lavender in Norfolk. My wife promises me I shan’t be entirely sorry to leave it all behind… Anyway, what can I do for you, the MoD tells me that you have a game of your own on, and an all too real one at that.’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  Suddenly a Land Rover painted with a large red cross came hurtling down the hill, its canvas roof and wheel flaps lifting in the slipstream. The rubber of the vehicle’s tyres seared on the asphalt as it was slammed to a stop. George van Reindorp drew himself up to his full height on the steps.

  ‘About bloody time too, medics,’ he bellowed ‘’hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  Two medical orderlies manhandled stretchers into the building. As they entered, a young man in camouflage clothing materialised from the side of the porch.

  ‘Ah, Glover, all done?’

  ‘All done, sir,’ replied the corporal. Monica heard the London accent and saw the knowing sardonicism in the young man’s expression. His was, she thought, a city face, a face for a Dickens character.

  ‘Very good corporal, on to the next one then.’

  ‘Sir,’ he said and lightly he vaulted down the entire flight of concrete steps and made off across the grass, keeping close into the shadow of the green huts, a padfoot footpad. Watching him go, the squadron leader said

  ‘Man’s an absolute menace, diabolical. I’m damned glad he’s on my side, I can tell you. Now, give us a couple of minutes and then, with the exception of your civilian librarian, they’ll all be marked as dead. Automatic fail of course.’

  As they stood waiting another man in camouflage clothing bearing the RAF Regiment Flight insignia appeared, wordlessly he fixed an orange paper notice to the entrance door. The notice read

  ‘Flash signal, SEduC received a direct hit and was subject to insurgent sabotage, all personnel eliminated. No further active participation in TACEVAL.’

  Soon afterwards a dejected group of men emerged. They were followed by the squadron leader. He told the last man in the line that he had been about as much use as a pox doctor’s clerk.

  Monica and Sergeant Bee went into the quiet and empty corridor. On either side there were classrooms equipped with banks of Formica topped tables and blackboards and slide projectors. At the end of the corridor was a library. At the issue desk sat a man in his sixties with thick grey hair slicked back with Brylcreem. He wore a snuff coloured cardigan with suede panels and a green woven tie.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Behind the lenses of wire framed spectacles his eyes were protuberant.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Monica as they showed their warrant cards. ‘We would like some information about the educational courses here, Mr …?’

  ‘Roberts, Stan Roberts,’

  From a Tannoy loudspeaker mounted on the wall came the sound of a breath indrawn and then a young woman’s voice, urgent and melodramatic.

  ‘Warning code red, warning code red, reference 66.40, repeat reference 66.40, warning code red, warning code red.’

  Stan Roberts regarded the loudspeaker with an expression of lugubrious expectation until it fell silent again.

  ‘Aye, aye, that’s it, they’ll be trying to breach Nimrod Line Flight. The cunning so-and-sos. Ops Room shouldn’t have put a WAAF on the PA though, a woman’s voice doesn’t have the authority, it’s too high.’

  Monica had moved to the first row of bookshelves and was reading the spines.

  ‘It seems to be quite lively out there,’ said Sergeant Bee.

  ‘Oh aye, they get up to all sorts, the RAF Regiment do, when they’re staging one of these exercises. Dirty tricks brigade. The thing is, they never have to play fair, see. I was in the job myself, warrant officer supply, till I retired. I’ve seen it all before, some of it the genuine article too.’

  He paused for a moment and then adjusted his spectacles and opened the drawer of a card index.

  ‘Right, what is it you need to know?’

  ‘Tuesday evenings, what courses are on then?’

  ‘At the present juncture we’re running three – MT Fitters Part One, photography beginners and improvers, and Russian.’

  ‘And are these classes open to civilians?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. But service families, and civilian employees, they can apply for permission to join some of the Education Centre classes. Are you interested in the young lady I think you’re interested in?’

  The sergeant smiled, ‘P
robably sir,’

  ‘Right, well she used to come up for the Russian.’

  Monica turned back from the shelves ‘Russian?’

  ‘Aye.’ He extracted a card, laid it on the desk and pointed to one of the listed names.

  ‘Here she is. The class is run by Captain Simon Nyland. He’s Army, on an inter service exchange, come to us from Osnabrück.’

  Monica was looking at the number of names on the lined card ‘It seems to be a well-attended class. Why is it run here, Mr Roberts?’

  ‘I shouldn’t like to say, Madam. Some people just like to broaden their horizons I suppose. School taught me all I ever needed to know, but still.’

  ‘How long had Miss Shute been attending the class?’

  ‘Looks as if she joined part way through last term, in November.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be allowed for service personnel, no,’

  ‘And where can we find Captain Nyland today?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Madam. To be honest with you, I don’t know what he does most days. He may be fully involved in this exercise, or he may not. He’s not one to give anyone a steer, the captain. You might wish to ask over at the officer’s mess, the batmen that look after the accommodation huts, they might know more about his movements.’

  Leaving the education centre they crossed the empty main camp road and walked towards the mess building. It was a low modern structure fronted by landscaped gardens. As they approached they saw two men in camouflage clothing crouching low down behind the fuchsia hedge which surrounded the lawn. One man broke briefly into a light, spring-heeled run. It was a stylistic motion carefully considered and rehearsed, Monica thought, as a ballet dancer might portray a scurrying animal. The other man turned around, his face was painted with dark streaks.

  ‘Black and White Minstrel Show,’ said Sergeant Bee almost inaudibly, he held up his warrant card. The man shook his head vehemently, the emphatic expression in his eyes was accentuated almost to the comedic by the charcoal shaded skin, then he raised an arm to make urgent, vigorous signs for them to leave.

  ‘Another time, perhaps,’ said Monica.

  They returned to the SECO hut and in the main office Monica added the name of Simon Nyland to the lining paper sheet.