Launch Code

by Michael Ridpath

  The police had told Toby they wanted to interview him right away, but he had been waiting fifteen minutes, time to let the jumble of thoughts and emotions begin to settle.

  His heart was still beating rapidly from adrenaline or shock or both. Toby had never seen a dead body before. Lars’s surprised expression was seared into his brain, as were the two red holes opening up in his chest. Toby knew he would never forget them.

  He wasn’t just shocked, he was sorry. He’d realized that, despite Lars’s dodgy background, he liked him. In fact, he admired him. It was Lars who had decided to risk everything to stop the launch. Lars had been willing to own up falsely to killing Craig, out of loyalty to Bill.

  Shocked, sorry and scared. Someone had nearly killed him less than an hour before. The shot had hit the sand only inches away from his nose. He was lucky to be alive. And unless the police caught the shooter right away, he might have another go at Toby.

  Toby wanted to help the police find the man, whoever he was. He strongly suspected the shooting had something to do with the near-launch on the Hamilton, although he had no idea what. He regretted signing the damned Official Secrets Act. Should he just ignore it?

  And then there was Alice. She was off the hook now. Wasn’t she?

  He had to find a way to tell the police what he knew.

  The door opened and DC Atkinson came in, together with his boss, DI Creswell. They both smiled at him as they took their seats on the other side of the interview table.

  Atkinson started. ‘How are you feeling, Toby? That must have been quite a shock.’

  ‘It was. But I’m OK. Did you catch him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Creswell. ‘But we’re looking for him. We’re fortunate: because we are so close to the royal residence at Sandringham we are well prepared for this kind of thing.’

  ‘Anything you can tell us would be useful,’ Atkinson said. ‘While it’s fresh in your mind.’

  So Toby told them what had happened in as much detail as he could from when he and Lars had left the house. He described what little he had seen of the shooter, and gave them the casing he had found by the green boat. He mentioned the other two cars in the car park and the couple walking down by the sea. Atkinson told him one of the cars, the blue one, belonged to the couple, and they were unlikely suspects: retired, living in a nearby village, originally from Cheshire. Toby was unable to describe the silver hatchback in any detail.

  ‘And what were you and Lars talking about on your walk?’

  Here we go, thought Toby. ‘The murder of Sam Bowen. And what happened on the Alexander Hamilton in 1983.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Atkinson.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Atkinson glanced at his boss, who leaned forward. ‘Toby,’ she said in a quiet, reasonable voice. ‘A man has just been murdered. You were nearly shot as well. We need you to help us.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ said Toby. ‘I really want to help you, but I did sign that piece of paper. I want to talk to that guy from MI5 who came up here yesterday – Prestwitch his name was. You probably spoke to him?’

  ‘We did,’ said Creswell.

  ‘Well get him up here,’ said Toby. ‘I’ll tell him what I know, and he should tell you. I certainly hope he will.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ muttered Atkinson. Creswell looked at him sharply.

  ‘OK. We will arrange that. Was their anything in your conversation that you think wasn’t an official secret?’

  Toby thought back to the discussion. It had pretty much all been related to the Alexander Hamilton. He told them what Lars had said about going for a drive along the coast earlier that day.

  ‘I asked him directly whether he had killed Sam Bowen himself.’

  ‘And what did Lars say?’

  ‘He said he hadn’t. And, for what it’s worth, I believe him. Especially since he is dead now himself.’

  ‘All right,’ said Creswell. ‘Can you tell me why you thought he might have killed Sam Bowen?’

  ‘I had a strong feeling that there was something Lars wasn’t telling me,’ said Toby. ‘I thought it was maybe that. But it wasn’t. It must have been something else. So I asked him whether he knew who had killed Sam.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘That’s when he was shot.’

  Creswell stared at Toby hard, assessing whether to believe him. He genuinely wanted to help her.

  He had an idea.

  ‘There is one thing I can tell you,’ he said. ‘Lars told Justin that it was him who killed Craig on the submarine.’

  Creswell raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re probably wondering why I can tell you that when I said I wouldn’t divulge any secrets about what happened on the Hamilton?’

  Creswell nodded slowly. ‘But don’t let us stop you.’

  Toby considered his next statement carefully before he spoke. ‘Lars’s claim doesn’t fall under that.’

  ‘How can that be?’ said Atkinson.

  Inspector Creswell gave Toby a small smile of understanding. ‘Because it didn’t happen. Lars didn’t actually kill Lieutenant Naylor, so it’s not Classified information.’

  Toby kept his face expressionless. She was on the right track.

  ‘Sorry I can’t say more,’ he said. ‘But I would like to help. Once I can talk to MI5.’

  ‘OK,’ said Creswell. She terminated the interview. ‘We’ll get you back to Barnholt now. We’ll leave an armed police guard there overnight, but I hope we’ll catch this guy before too long. I’m sure we will want to speak to you again tomorrow, and we will get Mr Prestwitch or one of his colleagues here as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Toby. ‘Have you released Alice?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the inspector, friendliness replaced by caution.

  ‘Why not? She can’t possibly have shot Lars.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she didn’t murder Sam Bowen. We still have a few more hours to decide whether to charge her.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Toby said, anger rising.

  Something close to sympathy crept into the inspector’s expression. ‘Look at it from our point of view. She was the last person to see Sam Bowen alive, either just before or when he was killed. She has given us no explanation of what she discussed with him, or even where she was beyond her initial lie about going to the supermarket in Lynn. Neither she, nor you, nor Bill Guth have told us what it is about events on the Alexander Hamilton that might have caused her to meet Sam Bowen or possibly kill him. Alice has to be our top suspect. I know she’s your wife, but you must see that.’

  ‘But she didn’t kill him!’ Toby protested.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Creswell kindly. ‘You go back to Barnholt now, and leave it to us and Alice and her lawyer to sort out, eh? You’ve had a rough afternoon.’

  Anger flared, but was soon doused by a wave of exhaustion. The inspector was right; Toby should leave it to Lisa Beckwith to look after Alice. Maybe when he spoke to MI5 things would be clearer. He was tired. He needed to get back to Pear Tree Cottage.

  Bill was waiting for him at the police station, looking anxious, as well he might.

  ‘How are you doing, Toby?’

  ‘In the car,’ said Toby between gritted teeth.

  It was dark outside as they made their way to the nearby car park where Bill had left his Range Rover.

  ‘Bill. What the hell is going on?’ Toby said, once he was inside.

  ‘I don’t know any more than you,’ said Bill. ‘My friend has been killed and my daughter is a murder suspect.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Toby. ‘And some poor historian has been murdered as well. And don’t try to pretend that it doesn’t have something to do with that missile launch and Craig’s death, because obviously it must do. Just tell me what.’

  ‘Hey, I told you all I knew this afternoon,’ said Bill, as he guided the Range Rover through the streets of King’s Lynn. ‘You didn’t give any of that
to the police, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Toby. ‘But why do you care? Isn’t it more important that we get Alice out of jail and find the maniac who shot Lars? And, by the way, tried to shoot me and will probably shoot you.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Toby, I have no idea why any of this is happening!’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe you.’

  They drove back to Barnholt in silence, Toby letting his fury boil. He wasn’t sure how much of his anger was justified and how much was a reaction to almost getting killed, but, frankly, he didn’t care.

  Megan was waiting for them, her eyes red behind her glasses. Toby was surprised, as was Bill, when she threw her arms around him as he walked in the door. She held him tight for a few seconds. Then she pulled away.

  ‘Poor Lars,’ she said.

  Yes. Poor Lars.

  ‘Are you going to tell his family?’ Toby asked Bill.

  ‘Yes. His mother has dementia and is in a home in Wisconsin, but I know he had a brother. I’d better see if I can track him down.’

  ‘Glass of wine?’ said Megan, once her father had left the kitchen.

  ‘Go on,’ said Toby. Sweet tea could only achieve so much.

  Megan poured two glasses of red and they sat down at the kitchen table opposite each other.

  ‘It was terrible to hear about Lars,’ said Megan. She hesitated and looked Toby in the eye. ‘But I was so scared that you had nearly been killed.’

  She held out her hand. He gave her his and she squeezed it. She didn’t let it go.

  Toby found her touch comforting. There was something strangely solid and reliable about his scatty sister-in-law.

  ‘Are they releasing Alice?’ Megan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Toby. ‘They are going to decide whether to charge her tonight.’

  ‘But how can they think she killed Sam Bowen after what happened to Lars this afternoon?’

  Toby shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I told them to get MI5 up here so I can talk to them. About what your father told us.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ Megan said.

  ‘I think so. It seemed to me like a way around the Official Secrets problem. MI5 can help the police.’

  ‘Only if they want to,’ said Megan.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Megan sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘We know that the US Navy wanted to cover things up. We know that this Admiral Robinson guy has recruited MI5 to help them cover things up. And now Lars has been killed.’

  ‘Are you suggesting MI5 did that?’

  ‘Or the CIA. Or the FBI. I don’t know. I am suggesting that they might not want the Norfolk police to discover what really happened.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Toby. ‘But I’m kind of committed now.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ said Megan. ‘Please.’

  ‘OK,’ said Toby. ‘But now I’m not sure what being careful means.’

  They heard a car pulling up outside and blue lights danced over the kitchen wall. Toby looked out of the kitchen window and saw two cars parked on the lane beyond the garden wall: a police vehicle and DC Atkinson’s silver Fiesta. He opened the front door to a pair of armed police officers, who instructed him to draw all the curtains in the house, and not to leave unless absolutely necessary, and then only after informing them. They would keep an eye on the house overnight.

  Behind the uniformed policemen stood Atkinson and a fellow detective. While Megan showed them Lars’s room in the next-door cottage, Toby went around the house drawing the curtains. They were already closed in Bill’s tiny study: Bill was on the phone, looking sombre.

  Back in the kitchen, Megan opened a couple of cartons of pea and ham soup for the three of them for supper, and warmed them up.

  Toby laid the table, and poured them both some more wine.

  ‘I’m glad the cops are here,’ said Megan. ‘Because whoever killed Lars is still out there. And you realize he might be after you?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Toby. ‘Lars knew something and I don’t. My guess is I was just shot at as an afterthought.’ Yet he had been wondering whether he had been a target in addition to Lars, for some reason he had no way of knowing. He hoped that with the police after him, the shooter would either lie low or leave the county, but he couldn’t be sure of that.

  Lars’s killer could be out there in the marshes at that very moment. Toby took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Did you hear what Dad said about the FBI investigating Mom?’ Megan said.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘I wonder what that was about?’

  ‘He said they thought she was a peacenik.’

  Megan smiled. ‘She was certainly that. I used to wonder how someone who was so strongly anti-nuclear weapons married an officer on a nuclear submarine. Now I guess I know. They must have gotten back together afterward.’

  ‘I asked Lars about that. About the FBI and that woman, Pat Greenberg?’

  ‘Greenwald, I think.’

  ‘All right. Greenwald.’

  ‘And what did Lars say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Toby. ‘I think I had just about persuaded him to talk, and then he was shot.’

  Megan paused, thinking. ‘Didn’t Sam Bowen ask Dad about a Pat Greenwald?’

  ‘That’s right! Your dad said he had never spoken to her.’

  ‘But she was a friend of Mom’s. A peace activist.’

  Megan ladled the soup into bowls and called out to her father upstairs.

  He had managed to track down Lars’s brother’s number in Milwaukee and broken the news to him. The brother had promised to tell their mother, although he doubted she would remember it. And then he would have to tell her again. And again.

  They sat in silence as they ate their soup. Bill looked strained, as well he might. Toby liked Lars and had witnessed his death close up. But Lars was an old friend of Bill’s: they had been through a lot together.

  ‘Who is Pat Greenwald?’ Toby asked him.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know. The woman the FBI mentioned when they warned you about Donna. You told us this afternoon.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘And Sam Bowen asked you about her. You told him you never met her.’

  Bill nodded.

  ‘Well?’

  Bill was silent.

  ‘Dad?’ It was Megan. ‘You need to stop hiding stuff from us. You need to trust us.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Megan.’

  ‘No, it’s not simple! That’s the point. It’s really complicated. And unless someone takes the initiative to figure out what’s really going on here, Alice will go to jail and Toby will get shot and maybe you will too.’

  Megan’s eyes were alight and her cheeks flushed as she glared at her father.

  ‘I can’t do it, Megan. How many times do I have to tell you, this stuff is secret and it’s secret for a reason? I’ve already told you way more than I should have.’

  ‘But not enough,’ said Megan. She eyed her father. ‘I get that you and Toby can’t tell the British police what you know, but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes there is!’ Bill protested. ‘I trusted you, Megan.’

  ‘No you didn’t! You didn’t trust me enough. Trust me now. Tell me about Pat Greenwald.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Bill’s voice was low, as he stared at his daughter.

  ‘Yes.’ Megan stared back. ‘I will go to the police.’

  Bill looked at his son-in-law and his daughter. And sighed.

  ‘All right. Give me some of that wine.’

  Thirty-Three

  December 1983, North Atlantic

  ‘Gentlemen. Would you mind leaving the XO and me with Bill and Lars?’

  Supper was over, and coffee had been served in the wardroom. It was the first evening Lars and I had been allowed out of the JO Jungle. The Alexander Hamilton had come off strategic alert two weeks early and was heading back to Holy Loch. After some discussion, and
some scrabbling around to rearrange schedules so that another SSBN would be in place to cover for her, COMSUBLANT had decided to bring the Hamilton home. There were things to discuss.

  Now the Hamilton was off strategic alert and would not be ordered to launch her nuclear missiles, the captain had decided he could set us free. Lars and I had been nervous about mixing with our fellow officers after what had happened. Craig was not just my friend, he was popular with the other officers and with the crew. And I had killed him. And Lars had tried to kill the ship’s commanding officer. If a submarine operates much of the time like a large family, then Commander Driscoll was the father. Patricide doesn’t go down well with the siblings.

  It was immediately clear that the half dozen other officers were equally wary about socializing with us. But the captain led by example, welcoming us both vigorously and treating us as if we had merely slipped away from the submarine for a week or so, perhaps on some brief training course, and had now returned. Soon the tension broke into nervous hilarity, almost as if we had all been knocking back a few cocktails before dinner.

  I was grateful. I, too, felt part of the Hamilton family, and I felt vulnerable. I realized I craved acceptance from the rest of the crew.

  ‘It’s good to have you both back in the wardroom,’ said Driscoll once the other officers had left. ‘You will be back on watch from oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning.’

  ‘It’s good to be back here,’ I said. While both the captain and the XO had visited us frequently in our stateroom over the previous week, this was different. This was normality.

  ‘The XO and I have concocted a simple story to explain Weps’s death. We outlined it to the officers and the chiefs this afternoon, and they say the crew will accept it. The whole ship feels grateful that the world hasn’t been obliterated, and that is thanks to you gentlemen.’

  ‘Are you using the accidental fall?’ Lars said. The captain had discussed this with us over the previous couple of days. To move between different levels of the operations compartment, the crew had to climb metal ladders, or to slide down them, holding both railings as they did so. The story was that Craig had somehow caught his foot while doing this, and had knocked himself unconscious. He had come around, but then died several days later.