by Ken Lussey
‘I’ve never met anyone with his capacity for alcohol, sir,’ said Thompson. ‘And frankly, I don’t think you did get him drunk. He’s naturally boastful and simply saw an opportunity to talk about himself for a while to an attentive and non-judgemental audience.’
‘I don’t know about you chaps, but I think I might have had enough for one night,’ said Bob.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Thompson, stubbing out a cigarette. ‘Perhaps it is time we made tracks. Has your driver been waiting all this time?’
It was Lieutenant Dixon who pointed out that Smith’s toilet break was taking rather a long time. The three of them tried not to look hurried as they headed for the corridor leading to the toilets. They found Geoffrey Smith kissing a young Women’s Royal Naval Service officer against a wall at the far end of the corridor.
Thompson’s voice was quite gentle. ‘Sorry, Geoffrey, but we need to go. Sorry, miss.’
The couple parted with obvious reluctance, the WRNS officer looking embarrassed when she realised they had been interrupted by a senior officer and a naval lieutenant.
As they walked out to the car, Thompson said to Bob, out of Smith’s hearing, ‘I’ve never met anyone with his capacity for women either, sir. The odd thing is that they all seem to chase him rather than vice versa, and it always seems to be the really attractive ones.’
‘Are you jealous, Arthur?’ asked Bob.
‘No sir, but I’m hoping to pick up a few pointers during my time with him. I can’t say it’s worked so far, though.’
Chapter Five
Despite the late finish, Bob was up early the following morning, nursing just the slightest hint of a hangover.
After he had eaten breakfast in the officers’ mess he went up to talk to Smith and Thompson in their room. Now he had a clearer idea what they were doing in Scotland, his main concern, other than physically securing the two men, was to ensure that Thompson couldn’t speak to Monique Dubois on the telephone before Bob did so in person. That meant holding them in a degree of isolation, and he had been able to borrow two members of the RAF Police detachment at RAF Turnhouse to keep the men under what amounted to house arrest in their room. Food, reading matter and a radio would be provided, but a telephone certainly wouldn’t. That freed Lieutenant Dixon to return to the office.
Bob then went to see Wing Commander Bernard Spencer, the officer commanding RAF Turnhouse, to thank him for the loan of the station flight Avro Anson the previous evening and for his wider support. It proved a fruitful meeting with a man who really did seem genuinely relaxed about Bob’s decision to live on the base. They agreed to have dinner together early the following week and parted as friends.
The next appointment in his diary, still at RAF Turnhouse, was one Bob approached with more mixed feelings. He was scheduled to meet a weapons instructor on the station range for training in the use of the small Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol he’d been issued with in London. This had been a cause of some dissent on his part, but his new boss, the head of MI11, Commodore Maurice Cunningham, had ordered him to ensure he was never without the weapon. So, late on Tuesday afternoon, he had gone down to the bowels of a building in Whitehall to be issued what felt like a tiny pistol, plus a shoulder holster that held it perfectly.
When Bob had pointed out that this prevented his uniform jacket fitting properly, he had been sent that same evening to visit a tailor in Savile Row who was retained by MI11, apparently for that purpose. Bob had been measured up for a new uniform while wearing his pistol in its shoulder holster, and on his return next morning found that two complete uniforms had been made for him overnight, even down to rank insignia, pilot’s wings and the correct medal ribbons. Service with a smile, and all at no cost to himself. He had changed into one of the uniforms immediately and arranged for the other to be sent on to him in Scotland, with his old uniform.
The weapons instructor at RAF Turnhouse was a sergeant who whistled when Bob withdrew the Walther from his unbuttoned jacket, as if it were a fabulous piece of jewellery. ‘Now that’s a real beauty. May I take a look, sir?’
‘Of course.’ Bob handed over the pistol. ‘It’s loaded. Sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Michael James, sir.’
After removing the magazine and checking there wasn’t a round in the breech, Sergeant James turned the pistol over in his hands, looking at it from every angle. ‘I’m sure you know already, sir, but it’s a Walther PPK. Think what you like of the Germans, they certainly know how to engineer something like this. The name PPK is an abbreviation of the German term “Polizeipistole Kriminalmodell”, or “Police Pistol Detective Model”. It’s an ideal concealed weapon as it’s physically small and relatively light. This one, like most PPKs, is designed to use the standard .32 automatic cartridge, also known as the 7.65 mm Browning cartridge, so you’ll never have any difficulty getting hold of ammunition for it. The magazine will take seven rounds, plus one in the chamber, though you should never use that option in normal operation. Far more people have been accidentally shot through forgetting there’s a round in the chamber than have ever been shot by an enemy as a result of the moment it takes to pull back and release the slide to chamber the first round. At the back of the weapon there is an indicator to show that the chamber is loaded, but it’s fairly subtle.’
The sergeant demonstrated how to load and unload the magazine, and how to use the slide to place a cartridge in the chamber, ready to fire. ‘When you’ve got more time, sir, we can run through how to strip the pistol down and reassemble it, but I understand that for today you mainly want a chance to get a feel for how it performs when you fire it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Bob.
By the end of the session Bob had proved himself to be a reasonable shot, once he’d got the hang of holding the pistol in two hands and bracing himself against it. He still didn’t think he’d ever get to share Sergeant James’ sheer enthusiasm for the Walther PPK.
Craigiehall was a fine country house built for the Earl of Annandale in the closing years of the 1600s. It was later extended several times, most significantly in the 1820s. The house stood close to the north bank of the River Almond not far from the western edge of Edinburgh.
This placed it very close to Cramond, where Bob’s parents had moved from another part of the city when he was ten. At that time the grand house had been empty and abandoned, and Bob, like many local children, had enjoyed exploring the extensive grounds. When Bob was about fourteen the house was renovated and reoccupied, and forays into the grounds had to be undertaken with much more discretion. His parents had told him when Craigiehall was converted into a hotel in 1933, and a year or two before the war he’d stayed there once with a young lady he’d met through the Auxiliary Air Force. He’d chosen the location mainly because he’d wanted to know what the interior of the house was like, but found the two night stay extremely uncomfortable, worrying that a fellow guest or member of staff might recognise him and tell his parents that he’d been in the area without calling in on them.
Bob smiled wryly at the memory as he stopped the staff car and showed his pass to the guard at the main gate, who stood back and saluted. Craigiehall had been requisitioned by the army at the start of the war, and the main house had been joined by assorted Nissen huts and wooden buildings. Bob drove himself around to the grand entrance to the house itself. Much of the main house was used as a headquarters by Royal Artillery and anti-aircraft artillery units whose operational elements were scattered along both banks of the Firth of Forth and on islands in the river. Bob’s predecessor had been an army colonel and had negotiated the use by MI11 of a series of first floor rooms in the extension added to the original house in the 1820s. It was early days yet, but Bob’s initial impression had been that the accommodation worked reasonably well, and as he’d told Group Captain More at Leuchars, the location suited him perfectly.
Bob had discovered the extent of
his empire on Monday. As well as his secretary, Mrs Joyce Stuart, who he shared with his deputy, Major Walter Miller, he had inherited three teams, each comprising an officer and a senior non-commissioned officer. Each team was staffed from one of the three armed services. The teams spent part of their time making visits to military establishments around Scotland and northern England to test and report on security. They also had a role undertaking investigative work into incidents such as the one that had occurred at RAF Leuchars. Anything that might compromise military security was fair game, but it was already obvious to Bob that he didn’t have the resources to mount thorough or large-scale investigations, and equally clear to him that there were conflicting demands on his teams’ time that he suspected meant that neither of their main roles could be carried out as well as was desirable.
There was also a general office with two typists who doubled as filing clerks, and two drivers who doubled as field security police. The office had two cars, one of which Bob had used to commute to work in that morning, in addition to the car allocated to each team. Bob had yet to find out how the structure really worked in practice. He had introduced himself to most of the team on Monday and felt he could put names to faces for all those he’d met. But in terms of really getting to know what people did and what their hopes and ambitions were, he had achieved next to nothing.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Mrs Stuart as Bob entered her office, which lay between his and Major Miller’s. ‘As you know, you are due for lunch at Edinburgh Castle at 1 p.m., and Major Miller would like a word if possible. Something about champagne on an expenses claim from Lieutenant Dixon.’
Mrs Stuart was a stereotypically Edinburgh lady in her fifties and seemed to be a model of efficiency. Bob wondered how he would shape up in her eyes as a new boss. By all accounts his predecessor had been something of an old school infantry officer, who had done very well in the Great War but was not renowned for his imagination or flexibility. ‘Thank you, Mrs Stuart,’ replied Bob. ‘Is the major in his office?’ It occurred to Bob that his predecessor and Major Miller must have got on like a house on fire, albeit a genteel and tightly controlled house on fire. He reminded himself that it couldn’t be easy for Miller to have someone so different in background and outlook running the place, and that he should avoid forming judgements about the man too quickly.
‘He is around, sir, but there’s something else you should be aware of. I had MI5 on the phone a little earlier. A lady called Madame Dubois is due to arrive at RAF Turnhouse in just under half an hour from now. I understand you are expecting her? And by the way, sir, I am happy to answer to “Joyce”.’
‘Thank you, Joyce,’ said Bob. ‘I rather assumed that Madame Dubois would be arriving by train sometime later this afternoon. No matter. I should be able to meet her at Turnhouse and still get to the castle in plenty of time.’ Bob wondered if he should offer up his own first name in the interests of informality but decided that might be a step too far for Mrs Stuart in Bob’s first week in the office.
‘Yes, Group Captain. You need to remember that Lieutenant General Gordon is a stickler for punctuality.’
Bob smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Joyce, I’ll not let the side down. Could you offer my apologies to Major Miller and tell him that so long as Lieutenant Dixon isn’t claiming for more than five, or perhaps it was six, bottles of champagne and four meals, then it’s a legitimate expense. We were trying to loosen the tongues of a couple of our friends from MI5 at Port Edgar last night.’
Mrs Stuart returned the smile, ‘I’ll do that, Group Captain.’
‘Where is everyone else?’
‘Flight Lieutenant Buchan and Sergeant Bennett are on their way back from RAF Leuchars. Lieutenant Dixon and Petty Officer MacDonald are undertaking a routine security check on the naval dockyard at Rosyth. And Captain Bell and Sergeant Potter drove up yesterday to Lochaber to investigate a suspicious death at the Commando Basic Training Centre at Achnacarry Castle north of Fort William. They cleared their involvement with Major Miller. I believe it’s of interest to us because the dead man is Belgian and there’s a possibility of other nationalities being involved, including some Germans who are being trained there at the moment.’
‘We train Germans at the Commando Basic Training Centre?’
‘Apparently so, sir.’
‘Well you learn something every day. Thanks Joyce. I’d better be going.’
Bob had collected Smith and Thompson from the officers’ mess at RAF Turnhouse before being driven to where he had been told the Avro Anson due in from RAF Northolt near London would park.
He instructed the two men to stay in the car with the driver as he watched the aircraft come to a halt. It was raining again. When the two engines fell silent, Bob walked over to the side of the aircraft and opened the cabin door.
Monique Dubois was a dark-haired woman who was, Bob knew, 30 years old. In fact, she was just seven months younger than he was himself. She was classically beautiful in an attractively flawed sort of way. But there were times when, especially if she was caught unawares, her eyes could take on a slightly haunted look. Bob knew enough of her story to understand why that was.
The two greeted in the Gallic fashion.
‘I got the impression you were coming up by train,’ said Bob.
‘I decided to take a leaf out of your book, Bob. You are right, you know, this is the only way to travel. Besides, I wanted to get things back on track here as quickly as possible.’
‘Look, should we take a walk?’ said Bob. ‘This umbrella should keep the rain off.’
They strolled slowly over towards the nearest hangar.
‘The gold braid suits you Bob,’ said Monique, indicating his peaked cap.
‘I get the sense that you’ve been promoted, too?’ asked Bob.
‘Yes, I’m perhaps not quite as small a cog in the wheel as I was last month. Do I take it that we are standing out here in the rain because you’ve got Arthur Thompson and Geoffrey Smith in the car?’
‘Yes,’ said Bob. ‘There’s something you should know about that. I took them out for a few drinks last night with one of my colleagues and gained a reasonable idea of Geoffrey Smith’s life story, and who he really is. I also have some idea of what they were doing at Hillington yesterday.’
Bob had expected an angry response, but Monique smiled. ‘Of course you did, Bob. In your shoes I’d have done the same. Though, and please don’t take this unkindly, I think I might have found easier ways of getting him to tell his story than by feeding him alcohol.’
‘Tell that to the WRNS officer who had him locked in an amorous clinch at HMS Lochinvar late last night,’ said Bob with a grin. ‘Mr Smith does seem to be a man with some very well-defined appetites.’
‘I take it that Arthur Thompson was not happy about Geoffrey Smith revealing all to you?’
‘No. Thompson did a pretty good job at deflecting us, but in the end, Smith simply wanted to boast about himself.’
‘Yes, he’s quite a character. Look, Bob, can you release them to me? There are things I need to do over in Glasgow this afternoon, and the sooner we set off the better.’
‘Hang on a minute. We’ve got an agreement,’ said Bob. ‘I hand your two men over to you, and in return you bring me up to speed on what’s going on.’
‘I could argue that you already know all you need to know, Bob,’ said Monique. ‘And I could argue that you broke the terms of our agreement when you decided to open up Geoffrey Smith yourself. But don’t worry, a deal is a deal. I need to be in Scotland for the next couple of days, and tonight I’m staying at the North British Hotel on Princes Street, next to Waverley Station. I’ve booked a private dining room for this evening and would be grateful if you could join me for dinner. How does seven-thirty for eight sound?’
Bob watched the Avro Anson taxi out towards the runway. He looked at his watch, remembering his promise to Joyce
Stuart, and turned to walk swiftly through the rain towards the car.
‘Hello, driver. I could do with getting to Edinburgh Castle as quickly as you can.’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bob, ‘I don’t recall you being in the office when I was introduced to people on Monday. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’
‘I’m Private Jenkins, sir, sometimes called Owen, but usually just known as “Taffy”.’ The man’s accent was a pretty good indication of why he had been given that nickname.
‘It was you we kept up to an ungodly hour last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. But the car’s a comfortable enough place to wait, so long as you remember your greatcoat. And the entertainment value of what was going on outside the officers’ wardroom was high. It was enough to make me think I was in the wrong service and should have joined the navy. I dread to think what your predecessor, Colonel Duncan, would have made of it.’
Bob thought it might have been a Frenchman who had originally observed that ‘no man is a hero to his valet’ some centuries earlier. He couldn’t help thinking the modern equivalent would refer to the man’s driver rather than his valet, and silently vowed to bear that in mind.
Edinburgh Castle had been a fixture in the visual backdrop to Bob’s childhood and youth. Standing on the summit of an ancient plug of volcanic rock towering 260ft above the city it dominated, it was visible for tens of miles in every direction. No fairy-tale castle, this was the real thing, an uncompromisingly defensive structure that seemed to grow organically out of the living rock beneath it.
Continuously adapted to meet the military needs of the day, the castle had changed significantly over the centuries. Bob knew from school history lessons that over those same centuries its strength had been tested many times, successfully or unsuccessfully, by siege or by stealth.
