Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (3 page)

I went on with my defence and said, “Have you considered vandalism by juveniles? You can always find them hanging around graveyards, smoking, drinking and acting tough.”

Filbert seethed. “I’m not referring to just any graveyard, Mister Speed. It concerns the recently discovered Spitfire in the Berkshire countryside.”

I frowned first and then pretended to understand his meaning. “Is that the plane splashed across the morning papers? I’ve just finished reading the story when you decided to disturb my peace. I can’t see how I can help you with that.”

“It’s surprising how you can help us, Mister Speed.”

My mind was ticking over fast.
Frigging hell, Tommy, just how deep have you got me in?
“In what way can I help?”

Filbert struck for my jugular. “The ministry don’t appreciate the interference of non-commissioned aviation archaeologists vandalizing war crash sites and stealing war memorabilia.”

I pretended to be surprised. “No I don’t think they would.”

“Then you’d better return the piece of wreck you’ve taken from the crash site.”

It was difficult to keep a straight face with such directness.

“Hold on there! Try impressing me with a better accusation.”

Filbert’s eyeball wobbled again, as it seemed to do when he was agitated. “What you removed from the crash site contravenes the War Graves Act. It’s a crime which will send you to prison, if you don’t cooperate.”

My brow furrowed. “How about clarifying what I supposed to have moved?”

Filbert smirked. “Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, Mister Speed. Perhaps I should highlight the situation more clearly. Then there’ll be no misunderstanding.”

“Feel free to proceed,” I added.

You’ve
stolen
a vital piece of equipment from the crash site. We want it back!”

I had to accept that he wasn’t in anyway going to be dissuaded by my plea of innocence. But in such tight situations it’s always important to remain calm and to use the well rehearsed ploy to always act thick in circumstances where accusations can get you into a lot of trouble. I’m rather proud of my thespian aptitude. “What stolen equipment is that, considering I wasn’t even there?”

“You’re a fluent liar, Mister Speed!”

“It happens to be the truth.”

Filbert sneered. “Don’t insult our intelligence, Mister Speed. It didn’t take much probing to under stand that we’re dealing with unscrupulous scum whose intention is to scavenge off the dead. Locating petty grave robbers like you hardly tests the versatility of our department.”

“Steady on!” I snapped. “I invited you into my home in good faith. Not to be accused of something that doesn’t concern me in the slightest. I was going to offer you refreshments but you can forget it!”

Filbert bared his teeth. “We’re not here to socialize, Speed-,” he’d soon dropped the niceties of Mister- “we’re here to get our property back. Cooperate and we’ll drop any impending charges of theft.”

“There’s nothing to drop. I’ve taken nothing. Who told you I was there?”

“Your name was mentioned.”

“Who’s my accuser?”

“That’s strictly confidential.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re pestering the wrong Shackleton Speed.”

Filbert smiled sinisterly. “I don’t think so. The Shackleton Speed we require is a metallurgist.”

I wondered how the hell he knew that. I shrugged. “So I’ve a qualification. Been checking on me?”

Filbert had more. “Renowned for plundering the land for lost treasure with a metal detector.”

“It’s a hobby enjoyed by thousands of others.”

“Who happens to own a Mercedes Benz 500K Roadster?”

“So I have one in the garage.”

“It was seen in Berkshire,” he snapped.

“There’s more than one on the road,” I countered.

I couldn’t help but shrivel inside knowing Tommy’s narration had been far more detailed than I’d anticipated. He could have warned me. Yet it changed nothing. It was pointless for me to admit my guilt now as it would only get me in deeper bother, so I decided to allow them to do the speculating and I’d continue the denials. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’d have to dig my way out of shit to save myself.

Much to my annoyance, Scar-face began mooching around the study desk and shelves. He probably felt he had to do something constructive instead of standing there with his finger up his arse. He further angered me when he began touching the items on the study desk, his greasy hands picking up a picture frame of my late parents for closer inspection and the unceremonious way he roughly replaced it. With the tip of his forefinger he flicked loose papers and envelopes giving me the impression he was memorizing all that caught his eye.

I said meaningfully. “Break anything and I’ll frigging sue your department!”

Scar-face directed a searing glare at me. In a deep drawl he said, “I suggest you start giving the right answers or else you might not be around to enjoy your luxuries.”

I took his remark as being physically threatening and I suppose it could have been quite frightening to a weaker minded person. But I don’t scare easily whether the threats are violent or verbal. I snubbed my nose up at him in defiance and said, “If you want to carry on wiping your grubby hands on my belongings I suggest you show me a search warrant!?” Which I knew never existed in a month of Sundays. So I added cockily, “
You
don’t have one?”

Scar-face’s complexion turned purple with rage. Within a few minutes of our paths crossing I’d managed to make his guts ache. I thrived on those sorts of annoyances. Yet as I observed his transition from a mild mannered official to a snarling beast, I began to have my doubts about his authenticity as a ministry official. I’d never seen a person of authority deliver the face of a deranged madman as he did. I kept my eyes firmly on him or at least I thought I had until I realized much later what the crafty bastard had done.

As for the present situation, it was plainly obvious that they lied better than I did because there was one outstanding flaw in their story. Tommy never saw me take anything from the wreck and neither did I tell him I had. I believed they were guessing that anything was taken at all. Now was probably the right time to find out before I decided to eject them out of my home.

I said, “Even though I wasn’t where you say I was, what is it that I’ve allegedly stolen?”

Filbert sneered. “You’ve a bad memory. Try the reconnaissance camera.”

“Oh I see…Now let me get this straight. A plane crashes from a great height and probably disintegrated on impact, and after all these years you still expect to pick up all the pieces?” I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s possible. Do you?”

I still couldn’t sway Filbert. “You must think we’re gullible, Speed. You dug it from the wreck. You stole it!”

I’d no intention of falling into any verbal trap. “Look! I suggest you go and ask the dog involved because the papers said the dog found the wreck. You can’t go around blaming innocent people because you’re incapable of finding whatever you’ve lost. Now if you’re absolutely convinced there is something out there to be found, then I’ll lend you my metal detector if you can’t afford one. For the right price you could even hire me to find it for you. But I don’t come cheap!”

“Cut the crap, Speed, and hand over the camera,” Filbert seethed.

“I seem to be having trouble convincing you of my innocence.”

“It’s your last chance!”

I knew at that precise moment that they’d nothing to connect me directly to Berkshire. I decided to call their bluff. Stone faced, I said, “If I’m under suspicion then arrest me now because I’m beginning to get bored with your wild accusations.” I paused for an answer. “So what is it to be, handcuffs or are you two going to hold hands and skip off back to Whitehall?”

I expected a backlash and Scar face didn’t disappoint. He snarled, baring a dentist’s paradise of profitable work to be done, chipped and horribly stained teeth. “Your arrogance can get you seriously hurt, Speed.”

I was ready to grapple with him if necessary.

Filbert stepped between us, a thin smile on his face. I suppose I should be thankful for his intervention as it certainly prevented a lot of damage to my furniture. He said, “Fortunately for you, Speed, we have far more important matters that require our immediate attention. Don’t assume this is the end. Next time the search warrant will be intact and pinned to your forehead for closer inspection.”

I’d no need to direct them out of my home with the assistance of my faithful defensive baton that I keep in a handy position just behind the study door. They left hurriedly, without even a glance over their shoulders. Their rushed exit had me puzzled. I watched their retreat and final departure with added interest. They climbed into a black saloon, which was parked half on the pavement in front of my driveway to prevent any escape by a vehicle, and then accelerated away like boy-racers.

I’d no doubts that I would see them again. Not that I wanted to, but it seemed inevitable. I closed the door and secured the bolt in place just in case they returned unannounced and tried to force their way inside. I went and made a pot of tea, thoughtful of my initial experience with the men from the MDP. There were a number of questions bouncing inside my head.

I sipped my tea at the kitchen table thinking of what excuse I could concoct if the MDP returned with reinforcements and with a warrant for my arrest. There weren’t many excuses I could think of at that moment other than a straightforward denial. And then again what proof had they? Nothing substantial I was guessing. I’d no need to worry and, strangely, I didn’t think there would be any problems now they had gone. And if they did persist on pestering me over the subject, then I’d have them on a charge of harassment. I should have felt a little better knowing the law would be on my side for a change but I’d a funny feeling that I wasn’t the only person they’d been harassing.

Late in the afternoon the telephone rang. Before I’d the chance to lift the receiver it had stopped ringing and within seconds my mobile phone rang. My cheery, “hello”, was engulfed by a hype of hysteria that savaged my eardrum.

“He’s dead, Shacks! He’s dead!”

At first I struggled to distinguish the owner of the emotional voice before I clicked. “Tim! Is that you?”

“Who the fuck do you think it is, Shacks?” There was a stifled sob mixed with his anger.

“Tim, calm down. Take a deep breath and tell me again.”

His intake of breath sounded as if he was sucking in air between his teeth. “It’s Uncle Tommy!”

He was referring to Tommy Bickermass, the farmer where the Spitfire was found.

“What about him?” I asked, feeling a sudden cold shiver bumping down my spine.

“He-he’s dead.”

Frigging hell!
I thought. I felt my blood drain from me. My legs weakened as I stood there gripping the phone in shock. And then the invisible hand grabbed hold of my heart and ripped it clean from my chest. My voice stiffened. “Tommy…he’s dead? When was this?”

I heard Tim suck in more breath. “He was found yesterday.”

“What happened?”

“His body was pulled from the slurry tank at the farm.”

I had to think hard about what he had just said, trying to establish a mental picture of the farm. I said, “Let me get this right. Do you mean the large steel tank they fill with cow shit?”

I assumed it was because Tim rambled on, not confirming my curiosity. “The police think it was a terrible accident. Reckoned he must have been stood on the gantry at the top of the tank; probably lost his footing and fell in. Reckoned for an old man it would have been like trying to swim through porridge; the quicksand effect; the more he struggled the more he sank. Christ Shacks! It’s too awful to think about.”

“Tommy drowned in cow shit, is that what you’re saying?” I didn’t mean it to sound corny or in anyway disrespectful of the dead.

“That’s what I’m saying, Shacks.”

“Who found him?”

The farm hand, poor sod.”

“Benny, you mean?”

“Yes Benny. Said he found Tommy’s cap at the foot of the tank ladder when he arrived early at the farm. He checked the top of the tank but there was no sign of Tommy. But he noticed the usually crusted topped slurry had been broken, like cracked ice, as he described it. Said he saw something half submerged and when he hooked it with a pole to find out what it was,”-I heard a faint sniffle-“well he pulled Uncle Tommy out as quick as he could, but...it was all too late.”

“Frigging hell, Benny must have been heartbroken.”

Another sniffle, “He had to be sedated when the paramedics arrived.”

“I’m not surprised. Tommy was like a father to him.”

“Benny had told the police that he was baffled as to how Tommy had climbed onto the tank gantry in the first place.”

“Tommy was scared of heights?”

“No. He suffered from a frozen knee. He couldn’t have climbed the vertical ladder even if he wanted to…well not without a struggle or help.”

“Tommy could have climbed regardless…if he had to?”

“I suppose so. But why should he want to? Benny said he never climbed the ladder at all. That was Benny’s job; always.”

There was obviously a good reason why Tommy had decided to make the effort up onto the gantry, but I’d be guessing wildly for the answer. I said, “What’s happening at the farm now?”

“The police are still investigating.”

“So they’re not certain what happened to Tommy?”

“I’m not sure what they think, Shacks…” I heard Tim sniffle. “It’s wrong…it’s wrong that a good man has to die horribly, alone; no one there to help him.”

I couldn’t have agreed with him more. I could think of a number of people I’d rather see dead than poor Tommy Bickermass. How ironic I thought. The hero splashed across the news one minute, dead the next. There’s no justice in life and fate has such a pathetic way of running its business. As for the appropriate condolences I have to admit I’m useless in such delicate situations.

“Is there anything you want me to do, Tim?”

“No, nothing Shacks. Everything is being done and his immediate family are there now. I rang you because I knew you’d want to know about the tragedy before you heard it elsewhere.”