by Peter Damon
“Small fry,” Heather told him with a shake of her head. “I want to know where this Annex is, and why Mr Bennett needs a ride to it.”
“We’ve also hit a Wolf Cry,” her DC told her.
“Really? On whom?” she asked.
Wolf Cry’s were the vernacular in Cambridge CID for when a query is raised against a name, and instead of getting the usual reply that lists all the individual’s details, including any criminal record, date of birth and last known address, a new form appears requiring the enquirer provide full details about why the enquiry is being made. In Heather’s experience it occurs either when someone is already being watched because of some other offence, or because they’ve undertaken work on behalf of the British Intelligence Services. That included Witness Protection Programs.
“Would you believe Michael Bennett,” he chuckled.
Heather looked towards the ceiling and sighed, wondering which category Michael was in.
+++++++++++++++++
Michael had borrowed his dark suit from Gary, the editor at the Cambridge Chronicle, having got rid of his last one immediately after Wendy’s funeral. He felt awkward and out of place as he gathered with the other guests outside the church before the service, nodding sombrely to each other and saying little.
He helped lift and carry the professor’s casket, blinking back tears of remorse. Wandering how many cameras were focused on him helped relieve some of the pain, and he was deaf to most of the service.
Sir Richard gave the elegy, and had some anecdotes of the Rolle’s that Michael hadn’t known. Then they were taking the two coffins out again, following the reverend’s slow steps to a secluded plot in the corner of the old graveyard where it was shady and quiet.
Michael felt relieved when it was over and he could move away from the graves. He had survived another funeral of those close to him. A small part of him felt relief at not having broken down during the service, as he had when Wendy had died, but all of the rest of him felt only an emptiness in his gut. Knowing from experience that alcohol wouldn’t provide a remedy didn’t stop him from wanting to try. Perhaps he just needed to try harder.
“Michael,” Sir Richard addressed him, guiding him still further off to one side. “It won’t be long now, will it?” he asked.
“No,” Michael agreed. “Just days.”
“Good. I know this is hardly the place and the time, but I may not see you again, and I wanted to make sure you understand; you’re the senior Cambridge University man on board.”
Michael blinked and shook his head clear. “Pardon?” he asked.
“You’re the most senior person on this project, on the ship. Of course, we can’t call you a Master or President or Principle until the University sit and vote on these things, but until then, we wanted to make sure you understood, you act on the behalf of Cambridge University and our intent is to elect you as the head of Rolle College.
“Congratulations Michael,” Sir Richard told him, reaching down to lift Michael’s numb hand into his own.
+++++++++++++++++
It was time to act, Stan Charway decided. He phoned for support, and then left the office to amble along St Andrews Street, past Emmanuel College before enjoying a pleasant walk through Parker’s Piece, a large square piece of parkland next-door to Cambridge University Cricket ground. The police station was across the road, a large oblong building with no architectural merit.
His people were already there when he arrived, tumbling out of the back of two minivans to nod at him.
“You have the paperwork?” Stan asked the large and muscled man who approached him.
He nodded and gave Stan the top copy.
Always meticulous, Stan checked that the document had been completed correctly, and properly authorised before he continued.
“Alright then gentlemen;” he called. “Let’s raid the Cambridge Constabulary!” he chuckled, and led the way into the building.
There is a way to doing such things, and even though the opportunities are few and far between, Stan prided himself on how smoothly he could take over an office. While his men were still calming the Chief Constable and his management team, he walked purposefully into the first floor offices with a handful of his men and, holding his credential high, loudly asked for DI Wilson.
She sheepishly put her head around her door and Stan smiled as he ordered all but her from the room.
“We need to talk,” he told her, giving her the warrant document to read.
“So the article was right. British Intelligence is in Cambridge,” she concluded aloud, passing him back his warrant.
“Quite so,” he agreed. “I am engaged in finding the people responsible for the recent launching of items into Low Earth Orbit using a new and unknown means of propulsion,” he explained. “My main purpose is twofold; to recover such technology, and ensure it doesn’t get into foreign hands.”
“I don’t know what you are on about,” she told him, shaking her head even as thoughts of Professor Rolle, his wife, and the break-in at Cavendish Laboratory sprung to mind.
“No?” he asked. He sat on the edge of one of the desks. “I think you do, and I think you have the pieces of the puzzle that I don’t have,” he explained.
Heather laughed. “And I still don’t know what you are on about,” she told him.
“Perhaps I should start with the dates on which we now know small devices were launched into space from the UK. November 26th, December 20th and February 15th,” Stan began.
“Really. Wasn’t there a largely discredited newspaper article that suggested such a thing?” she asked.
Stan nodded. “The Cambridge Chronicle on April 10th. Where Michael Bennett works, and he admitted allowing the story to be published by a colleague.”
“Mm, he may have just picked up rumours from the students he lives with,” she pointed out. “Have you interviewed them?”
Stanley winced and shook his head. “The Howard boys are in Japan somewhere and can’t be found, and the other two have just gone on a trip to Belgium,” he confessed. “They DJ apparently.”
Heather nodded, aware of the connection through her contact at the Town Hall where the boys had obtained their vehicle licence.
“Have you come across anyone or any group going to Japan recently?” he asked, still clutching at that particular straw.
“Japan?” she asked, recalling something about a rugby team.
She moved to her office to check on the notes she had made. “Could just be a coincidence,” she pointed out, unwilling to please the man, “but fifteen Essex gypsies flew out to Japan on the 18th as part of a rugby team doing a tour down there,” she told him.
“Would they be colleagues of one Frankie Hill?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s how I learnt of it,” she admitted. “Essex CID was keeping a discrete watch on them and tagged their passports as they boarded the flight.”
“So you were already watching Frankie Hill,” he inferred.
Heather nodded and took a deep breath, beginning to dislike where this was leading her. “Frankie was caught on CCTV visiting Professor Rolle’s cottage on the night of his murder,” she explained.
“You think him involved?” Stan asked.
“Who, Frankie?” Heather asked, and snorted in ridicule. “Not his style, nothing like it,” she told the hunched man.
“Which could make him a co-conspirator with the late professor, and Bennett has been visiting Frankie,” he murmured. “So we have links between Rolle, Bennett, Hill, a likely link to the German lift, and something in Japan that we don’t know about,” he murmured, excitement coursing through him. “Can you find out how many Cambridge students are out of the country at the moment?” he asked, knowing she could.
“Just those who have gone to Japan, surely?” she asked, making her way to her terminal.
He shook his head. “Would you have flown direct to Japan if you were up to something?” he asked.
Heather reddened and began her enq
uiry. “What’s the link to Germany?” she asked out of interest.
“John Dalton, killed at Frankfurt airport on the morning of May 20th. He and Bennett were close friends,” he told her.
“You’re now seconded to my department, although only your commanding officer will know of it. To all intent and purposes, you will continue in your role and your investigation, but from now on, we’ll meet at the end of each day to allow you to brief me on developments,” he told her.
“Yes, Sir,” she said, as if she had a choice in the matter.
“Top priority is to stop anyone else from leaving the country, in particular, going to Japan,” he told her.
“What’s so special about Japan?” she asked.
“I think Rolle or his students have come up with a cheap method of putting things into space. Bonn was a test, or a show, yes, a show,” Stan said, thinking on his feet. “Russians meet with Bennett, Americans meet with the Vice Chancellor. Rolle meet with the Chinese and it goes sour. Japan has won the bidding game, and so now Bennett and his team will make Japan a superpower by giving them the technology to put things into space too,” he explained.
Heather wanted to blow a raspberry but thought it best to remain silent. As if Michael would ever sell Britain to an outside power. The very idea was preposterous, but she’d let this man find that out for himself.
June 8th
Heather discovered over 1,000 students were out of the country. She passed the job of tabulating them to Detective Constable Loughton while shaking her head at the enormity of the task. She, in turn, had a police car pull Frankie in for questioning.
The man was clearly unfazed by being arrested and put into one of their interview rooms. She guessed he’d seen plenty in his time, but nonetheless left him seated in one for an hour before going down to smile a cold welcome.
“They didn’t tell me they have female DI’s here, otherwise I would have done something to get me brought in sooner,” he told her with a smile.
She ignored the banter and showed him the picture of him at Rolle’s door. “Do you deny it was you?” she asked.
“No, that was me,” he agreed.
“And what were you doing there?” she asked.
“I heard he might have some scrap following the break-in at that place down the road; that laboratory,” he explained.
“Do you always dress up when asking for scrap?” she asked.
“I do, actually,” he told her. “No one wants to be associated with gypsies nowadays.”
“Anyone verify your story?” she asked.
“None that would suit you,” he told her sullenly.
“What about this man?” she asked, showing him the picture of him meeting Michael Bennett.
“My, you have been busy,” he chuckled. “Some journalist or other, wanting to write about what gypsies are doing out of their cages,” he snapped.
“That’s why you give him a brand new car?” she asked, showing him the picture of Michael driving away behind the wheel of a black Range Rover.
“It does no harm to keep the press on your side,” he told her. “You probably know all about that,” he suggested, his features remaining still.
“That’s a top-of-the-range Range Rover,” she told him. “Bit expensive isn’t it, just to keep one journalist in your pocket,” she suggested.
Frankie shrugged. “Unlike the police, I don’t know what the going rate is,” he told her. “I got it cheap having been in a head-on collision with a wall. It looks far more expensive than it is. Lot like a lot of women I know,” he quipped, looking at her with cold eyes.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she told him, and left the room. She walked over to the Duty Sergeant’s desk and signed her name against Hill’s entry in the book. “Keep him for the permitted time and then let him go please,” she told him.
+++++++++++++++++
Michael had trouble concentrating. He desperately wanted to get in touch with Cheryl Hall, and yet he knew she was the last person that he could contact. She was on her own now, and either things went as planned, or they collapsed about their ears. There wasn’t going to be a middle ground.
His thoughts also returned to Heather Wilson. Detective Inspector Heather Wilson. He had to remember her role, but it was difficult. Unless he was particularly busy, his mind seemed inclined to remember her, back when they had been students together, and more recently, across police tape.
In the middle of his day, he found himself close to the police station and called in on a whim, asking for Heather. He waited in the reception area until a police constable approached him and asked Michael to accompany him, taking him to one of the small interview rooms where he was offered a cup of tea and then told to wait, the door closing on him.
While outwardly calm, Michael found his heart beginning to hammer as he wondered what the police might have found out, and whether the little stooped man from British Intelligence had come out of hiding and enrolled the police into his web. If that were the case, then it might already be too late for them. He played with alternatives in his mind, thinking them up and blowing them away, stopping when it began depressing him. He alternated between wanting a drink and a crossword and trying not to think at all.
Heather entered and smiled as she sat down across from him. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she told him pleasantly.
“A bit formal this, isn’t it?” he asked. “I only wanted to find out what progress you’ve made on the Herbert and Claire Rolle murder cases,” he told her, trying his best to put on a smile.
“The investigation is still on-going,” she explained. As well he knew, she thought.
“Well, that was about it,” he told her with a shrug.
“Why are you flagged on the police database?” she asked suddenly.
Michael blinked as he fought to keep up with her. “No idea,” he shrugged.
“You’re either already under investigation by another police force, or you’ve got a history that’s private; very private,” she told him. “Which?” she demanded.
Michael sighed, his eyes glancing towards the recording system and CCTC camera to check they were off before he spoke again. “I spent five years undercover with British Intelligence,” he admitted.
Now it was Heather’s turn to deflate. “Shit Michael,” she said, stunned. “Where?”
He shook his head. “Need to know only, Heather. I really can’t tell you,” he told her, hoping his eyes conveyed how deeply that hurt him.
“Do you know a Mister Charway?” she asked him.
Michael nodded. “Yes, I know Stanley. Only well enough to talk to though, and only at his insistence,” he admitted.
She nodded and licked her lips. “He has it in for you Michael,” she murmured. “You should choose your friends more carefully,” she told him.
She stood and stepped towards the door only to stop as Michael gave a sudden start.
“I was wondering,” he asked. “Would you be free for dinner? I mean, I’d understand if there was someone else,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.
“No,” Heather answered quickly, colouring slightly as she realised she’d answered too quickly. “I mean, I’m free tonight, if you wanted.”
“Fine. Tonight,” Michael agreed, a weight lifting from his shoulders.
Heather knocked on the door to have it opened for her. “We’ll let your offices know when there are further developments, Mr Bennett,” she said loudly.
Michael left the police station and began walking into town, his mind full of what he’d need to do next, his back itching under the scrutiny of many eyes.
+++++++++++++++++
Detective Constable Pat Loughton could see his career finally taking off as the bent form of Mr Charway nodded his understanding and very attentively sat on the chair in front of the DC’s desk.
“So, having drawn off all the non-UK students, and any students who are reading non-allied subjects, such as English, History, etc, then I was left with 250 students who have gone
abroad since the beginning of May,” Pat explained, and pushed the screen round so Charway would see it too.
“Very clever DC Loughton. Was there more?” Stan Charway asked.
“Sure was,” Pat said, and grinned excitedly as he showed the man his next query. “I asked for only post-grads, or final year students. Only 20 left,” he pointed out.
“And which of those have links to Rolle?” Charway asked as he began taking a greater interest in the screen.
“Well, I looked for links to Rolle, but also to the two post-grads who had flown out to Japan earlier. That’s how I got hold of Matt Park and Jake Collier who are both currently in Belgium in their travelling disco van. They live in the same building as the Howard twins, as does Bennett,” Pat mentioned.
“Yes, now you mention it, I recall that,” the man from British Intelligence said.
“Well, I also found Gary Clarke, a friend of the Professor’s and the Chair of the CUSF; he flew off to Australia on June 2nd to see family. I should mention Leanne Adler too. She’s been working in the Frank Hill warehouse and has just recently flown out to Taiwan on holiday.
“What about this Allan Blake who left on May 25th,” Charway asked, tapping the name on the screen.
“Could be,” Pat shrugged. “But I don’t see any links, and he’s not gone to South East Asia, but to Sham el Sheikh in Egypt for a diving holiday.”
“So we’ve got the possibility that, along with the twins and 15 rugby players from Essex, we have two more students currently in Japan, eh?” Charway said, leaning back in the chair with great satisfaction.
“Yes Sir,” Pat agreed.
+++++++++++++++++
“Will someone go and see what that bloody noise is about?” shouted the Duty Sergeant at the Cambridge police station as, later that afternoon, a car alarm began to sound just a short distance down Parkside, the road that fronted the police station. The noise had been constant for at least thirty minutes and was beginning to grate on his nerves.
A policewoman was sent off to investigate and returned with the alarm still sounding, and out of breath. “Sarge, we need a team to look at this,” she told him hurriedly.
