Authors: Pauline Rowson
I glanced back over my shoulder as I reached the main road. There was no one following me.
The next time the attack on me might be fatal.
Either that, or the police would come to ask me questions. Miss Rogers would confirm she had given me Rutland’s name and address, the three men in the boatyard I asked directions from would confirm I was seeking Rutland and that, with Ben’s murder, would give them enough to detain me.
If I explained, surely they would believe me?
Would they though? Even if they believed me, and they knew me to be innocent, someone more powerful didn’t want me on the loose sniffing around and discovering a secret so big that it had already resulted in the deaths of three men, four, if you counted Jack. I had no alibi, a possible motive and suspicious behaviour. My heart was heavy as I climbed on board my boat. Danger was closing in on me. My enquiries were going nowhere.
‘For Christ sake, Jack,’ I cried, ‘Give me a break, a sign, anything. I have to get to the truth and soon before it disappears for ever.’
I found a bottle of whisky and the hot liquid slid down my throat, warming me.
When would Rutland’s body be discovered?
Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? I might have believed next week or next month if it wasn’t for the fact I was convinced someone wanted to frame me for his murder just as they had tried to frame me for Ben’s. An anonymous telephone call to the police would be all that it would take.
The police would need to examine the body and then question people and that all took time. They would test for DNA on Rutland’s body – it wouldn’t match mine – but I might have left a trace of DNA by simply being on the boat, and I would certainly have left my fingerprints. The police would match these with the ones they’d already taken from me after Ben’s murder and bingo!
I guessed I had a couple of day’s grace, maybe even a few,
if
I was very lucky. In that time I had to get to the truth. But with Rutland dead how could I?
I stretched out on the bunk and let my mind trawl back through the events of the last couple of weeks. I came to no new conclusions, so I thought back to before Jack was killed. Had there been anything that he’d done or said to me that could give me any clues? Apart from that last vague conversation, when he had told me he was being followed, there was nothing. I thought about the message on the postcard. Whoever had taken the postcard hadn’t erased the message from my mind:
Look after ‘Rosie’ for me, Adam. You’re an accomplished
artist and a good friend. Happy Sailing!
Best Jack
4 July 1994
Jack’s message had led me to the Gideons New Testament and Psalms and to a possible fire on 4th July 1994, which Sam Frensham had recalled but Greys hadn’t documented. Could Sam have been mistaken? No. I thought it far more likely that Rutland, and possibly Honeyman, had hushed it up because whatever had been on fire on board their ship had contained something hazardous.
Happy Sailing!
‘Here’s to you Jack. I shall think of you every time I sail in her.’ I lifted my whisky to toast him when I paused.
Happy Sailing!
Why had Jack given the word ‘sailing’ a capital S and an exclamation mark…This had been Jack’s boat.
Had he…Suddenly my heart was pounding.
Could Jack have possibly got on board? Had Jack kept or found a spare key? Had he left a message for me here? Had he hidden his computer disks and diary on
Tide Mark
?
I leapt up and with the water slapping against the sides of the yacht, hardly daring to hope, I began my search.
I found the computer disk stowed away inside the sail cover under one of the bunks. There was no label on it, but I didn’t need any label to know what it might contain.
I powered up my laptop, thanking the heavens that I had brought it with me. I inserted the disk.
The rain was hammering on the boat and the wind howling around it. My pulse was racing.
Was I at last about to get to the truth?
It was written as a diary. With my quickening heartbeat I began to read Jack’s account of his investigations.
31 October
It’s too much of a coincidence that Vic, Scott, Duggie, Tony and now me should all contract cancer; it must have been from a job we’d all been on. Before we had the new flash hoods our ears had been exposed to fire. It was the only way we could tell how hot the fire was and if we should get out whilst we still could. Those hoods were abolished late in 1994, so the fire that has caused our cancer must have been before that – but how long before it?
There were more entries as Jack doggedly traced fires involving chemicals, and eliminated them matching the incident with the manning reports.
I skipped through the entries until 7th November.
Eureka! There it was.
I’ve finally managed to trace the fire. It has to be this one. We all attended it. It was a small fire on board the
Mary Jane
; she was tied up in port. It was 4 July 1994. The incident report was filed by Des Brookfield.
It figured. Brookfield had done well for himself over the years, big house, expensive motor yacht, exotic holidays abroad and kids in private education. Perhaps he didn’t know the full extent of what had been on that ship but he had been paid to keep silent.
His mouth is full of …deceit and
fraud, he murder the innocent.
This was who Jack meant. Brookfield had lied about those fire reports being sent away for computerisation. I couldn’t believe that Brookfield had killed Jack; he must have told the killer that Jack had swapped duty with Ian. Perhaps Brookfield had even commanded Ian to swap. I read on.
The Third Officer was on watch, he was the only person onboard at the time and he called us out, but by the time we got there he’d almost extinguished the fire. The ship’s captain was Frank Rutland and the chief officer Albert Honeyman.
I skimmed down the rest of Jack’s diary until I reached the following entry.
There was nothing to indicate that there was any hazardous cargo on board, in fact there was no cargo, not in the hold at least. The fire had been below in a packing case. But what was in that case? There was nothing to warn us that its contents might be lethal. But it must have been.
It has to be that fire, nothing else matches up. I need to talk to Honeyman and I’ve traced him to the Stella Hardlay Nursing Home, quite by accident. I was on secondment to Havant when we had a call-out. Someone was stuck in the lift and there was Honeyman. He didn’t want to say anything at first but I pushed him, it didn’t take much. Perhaps he wanted to end his days with a clear conscience? He told me he’d always had his suspicions over what they had been carrying especially when the third officer had died of cancer not long after the fire.
I read on as Jack documented that Honeyman believed they were carrying illegal cargo on each trip but didn’t think it was his business to raise it with the captain. All he knew was that it didn’t go through any forwarding agency and wasn’t packaged like the rest of the cargo, in a container.
It came on board separately, ready packed, and Rutland always oversaw its lading.
Jack managed to track down Rutland on 1st December.
Called on Rutland. He lives onboard his boat on Hayling. I could see as soon as I arrived that he knew why I’d come. He said he wondered how long it would take for someone to find out. He confirmed that he had been well paid to carry the small cargo on each trip. Someone would arrange to take it off when the ship docked at Calais. All Rutland had to do was transport it no questions asked. Shortly after the fire, the cargo stopped coming aboard. I asked Rutland who had paid him, he said he didn’t know. He was lying. I asked where the cargo had come from but all he would say was a laboratory on Salisbury Plain. It made me think of the RAF base there, but when I asked Rutland he would neither confirm nor deny it. Will call on them tomorrow. I’m almost there, near the truth. I’m being followed though and I am sure that my telephone has been tapped.
I will store this on disk and leave it on my old boat.
Jack’s next message drew me up with a sharp intake of breath.
Adam, if you’re reading this now then I’m probably dead. I’ve written you a coded message, on a postcard, which I shall post tomorrow. I know you don’t like puzzles but I have every confidence you’ll work it out. I’m sorry to have burdened you with this, but there is no one else I can trust. I’ve enjoyed every minute of our friendship and I know I can rely on you to take care of my darling Rosie. How much you tell her about this I will leave to you. Here’s hoping you get to the truth and expose the bastard who is behind this. If you don’t, and you stumble on this disk in months, or even years to come, then please don’t feel guilty. Maybe it is for the best.
Good luck mate, and I hope I won’t be seeing you soon.
The next day Jack was dead. My eyes were stinging and my heart felt so heavy that I could barely breathe. I picked up the whisky bottle and took a long pull at it. I waited for the firewater to kick-start my heart.
I read everything through again before switching off the computer and stowing the disk back where I had found it. Now I find the laboratory. But how? Perhaps it didn’t exist anymore. Rutland had told Jack that the cargo had stopped coming on board soon after the fire, maybe the laboratory had closed down.
If it was at the Royal Air Force base and the laboratory had been connected with defence then it will be protected under the Official Secrets Act. That made some sense of all the killings.
Special Branch would be keen to hush it up.
Could Simon’s contacts at the Royal Society of Chemistry help? It was a thought and one which led me to think of Faye and Simon together. I took a risk and called Faye but she didn’t answer. I left a message on her answer machine saying I would be away painting for a few days. My next call was to Simon but he wasn’t answering either. I didn’t leave a message.
Neither did I call Jody, though I wanted to.
Tomorrow I would tackle Brookfield.
‘Adam!’ Brookfield opened the door of his detached house. He glanced at his watch. I was damned if I was going to apologise for disturbing him at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.
‘A fire on board a ship on 4th July 1994, you filed the incident report,’ I said tersely. I had hardly slept. I didn’t have much time to get to the truth and I didn’t like Brookfield.
Brookfield looked taken aback. ‘Why do you want to know about that?’
‘What was in that packing case, Des?’
‘I can’t remember every fire.’
‘I think you’ll remember this one. Who told you to say the incident report was missing?’
Brookfield looked genuinely puzzled. ‘No one.
They’ve been sent –’
‘For computerisation.’ I studied Brookfield’s face and could see that he was telling the truth.
Was I wrong? Was Brookfield innocent?
His
mouth is full of …deceit and fraud.
‘Why did you tell Ian to swap duty with Jack?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You were on the station that morning.’
‘I didn’t even speak to Ian or Jack. Look, what is all this?’ Brookfield glanced nervously over his shoulder.
‘Who did you tell their tallies had been switched over?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Adam, what are you talking about?’
‘Who is it, Des?’ A woman’s voice called out.
‘Just someone from the fire station,’ Brookfield lied, stepping into the large front garden and closing the door to behind him.
I said, ‘I’m talking about a fire on board a ship that has cost the lives of five fire fighters, not to mention two old men and possibly Ian. I think it’s about time you told the truth about the
Mary
Jane
.’ At last I’d scored a direct hit. Brookfield’s face paled.
He began walking away from the house towards the street where I had parked my bike.
He ran a hand through his thick dark hair and shifted nervously. ‘I do remember the fire now but only because Mary Jane was my grandmother’s name. I don’t know what you mean about it causing deaths.’
‘What happened at that fire?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
‘But you filed the report.’
‘I did but I didn’t go to it. I took a leave date. I didn’t have any owing so I bought one off Colin Woodhall; I paid him to cover for me. I didn’t want anyone to know I wasn’t on duty.’
I could guess why. Brookfield had always had a reputation as a lady’s man. He had been with a woman, conducting one of his affairs.
Brookfield said, ‘Colin gave me the details and wrote the report and I signed it.’
I had been wrong. Brookfield wasn’t involved.
‘And he didn’t hint there was anything unusual about the fire?’
‘As far as he was concerned it was just a small and very straightforward fire.’
It seemed there was nothing more I could get from Brookfield.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Brookfield called out, as I walked away.
‘Forget I asked. And I’ll forget you signed that incident report.’
I climbed on to my bike. Brookfield couldn’t lead me to that laboratory which meant I’d have to ask Simon. Who he didn’t know involved in research wasn’t worth knowing. I quickly risked checking my messages. There was nothing from Faye. I hadn’t really expected anything and I wasn’t going to phone home in case my phone was tapped.
I swung the bike out of the small cul de sac on to the road that led across the top of Portsdown Hill. Below me, to my left the city of Portsmouth and Hayling Island lay spread out in the grey morning light. My mobile rang. I had forgotten to switch it off. I pulled into the viewing spot and picnic area. There were two other cars parked but no occupants. Behind me the burger van was closed.
It was Jody.
‘I’ve got some news for you,’ she said, slightly breathlessly.
‘Jody, I told you not to ask around.’
‘I know but this is important. I know the name of the ship that was on fire. One of the pilots recalled it.’
‘He’s got a good memory,’ I said, surprised.
‘I mentioned to him about William Bransbury, the Minister, being at the port and that’s how he recalled it. The ship was called the
Mary Jane
.’