Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (31 page)

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me with that one, Mister Speed?” His robotic tinny voice actually sounded squeaky with fright. “What exactly are you getting at?”

“Which part of ‘shoot friend in the back’ are you struggling to understand, so I can clarify it for you?”

“Not one god damned word you’ve said! Do you know what you’re implying?”

“That you shot Craven from the skies.”

“That’s preposterous!”

I placed my cup and saucer down on the table, as I calmly said, “Is it?”

“Most certainly it is, Mister Speed! Why would I want to do such a terrible thing to a wonderful man?”

“I think you’re going to need another shot of whiskey?”

“Am I likely to need another? One’s usually enough.”

I never gave him time to refuse. In quick time I’d rose from my chair, snatched the glass from him, ignored his weak protest, crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured him a hefty whiskey, returned, plonked the glass back into his bony hand, and sat back down waiting for his bullshit excuses I’d given him the extra time to concoct.

“Isn’t this all a little bit dramatic? I’m confused as to what you are insinuating I’ve done that is wrong, Mister Speed?”

“You shot down Craven’s Spitfire from the sky causing him to crash.”

Deveron’s eyes flared. “How dare you even make the suggestion? Good god! I’m a man of integrity and honour. I fought to free the world from the might of Hitler. I put my life on the line countless times in many aerial battles during the war. A Battle of Britain war hero no less. And, may it be heard, my entire existence since the war has been devoted to serving the security of the United Kingdom.”

“Oh I don’t doubt your courage, old man. I’m just curious as to why your Spitfire fired on Craven’s Spitfire.”

“No! No! It’s not true.” He threw his whiskey down his throat, spilling a few drops down the side of his mouth which dripped off his chin.

“It happened all right, while you were engaged in ‘Operation Huggermugger’.”

Deveron cringed. “How…how on earth do you know anything about ‘Huggermugger? That was a war time operation kept secret.”

“I’ve done my research impeccably. Operation Huggermugger involved the hunt for a fictitious Japanese cargo submarine, the I-52. The submarine I-52 number two, that is. Submarine I-52 number one was sunk by the Americans in the Atlantic. Apparently, sub number two was never found; conclusion, it never existed. But Craven found it. His reconnaissance camera snapped the big Jap can. He wanted to tell the world and would have done so if he hadn’t crashed after you shot his plane from the sky.”

Deveron surprised me when he attempted to turn the tables on me. He pointed his crooked forefinger accusingly in my direction. “You-you thief!” he spluttered. “You took the camera from the wreck. Wait a minute! The photographer friend you mentioned. Good god! You’ve had the film developed. You’ve found what I spent a lifetime trying to locate.” His eyeballs nearly squeezed from their sockets in anticipation; actual excitement in his voice and not one bit interested that I’d exposed him as a murderer. “The submarine is here in Ireland; somewhere in the regions of Roaring Water Bay. You’re searching for it? God damn it you are!”

Frigging hell, I could have strangled the sod there and then. “Don’t try to twist way from your guilt, Deveron. You’re a treacherous sod and nothing else. You shot down a British aircraft and you killed a British pilot who put his trust in you to protect him from enemy attacks. And don’t even attempt to deny it because I tracked down a witness to the incident.”

Deveron frowned suspiciously. “There were no witnesses.”

“I found one. The witness I located had an impeccable memory. He even described the action in graphic detail. It was a brutal attack on a defenceless craft and you were the hidden enemy.”

What a frigging arsehole I’d have been if Deveron was to get a look at my star witness, the illiterate Billy Slade, re-enacting what he displayed to me back on the grounds of Three Trees.

In all honesty, I had expected Deveron to crack under the pressure because I knew I had him on that one, but he did the opposite and had another go at me instead. “I find it strange that you failed to disclose your imaginative theory to the proper authorities?”

“It’s what happened and you know it.”

“Am I to be blackmailed, Mister Speed? Money for silence, is that your game?”

Anger had me on the edge of my seat. “You frigging smug bastard, Deveron. Money won’t bring back the lives of innocent people. But don’t fret old man. I’m not here to bring you to justice and I’ve no intentions of being your judge and jury. You’re dying anyway, so you tell me.” I thought I was a bit callous with what I said, but isn’t life a bitch. “I’m here to find out whether you sanctioned the killings of a farmer in Wiltshire and a photographer in London. That’s my goal!”

Deveron was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“You’re perspiring, Deveron. I didn’t think it was that warm in this room.”

“To be accused of enticing murder does inevitably raise one’s blood pressure.”

“Or more like you’re finding it difficult to come clean.”

Deveron sighed heavily and put his glass down. His head dropped into his hands, his fingertips sinking into the sagging skin on his thin face. He raised his head slowly and his watery eyes stared into mine.

“It’s no use me pretending nothing happened, Mister Speed. If I’m to die, I want to die in peace and with a clear conscience. I suppose the time for confession is now appropriate. But please believe me when I say I had nothing to do with the murder of your friends. I never ordered anyone to commit a crime of murder against anybody and that includes the farmer and photographer. The first time I heard your name mentioned was three days ago. I acted quickly. I just couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by; the plane’s discovery; the intrepid discoverer in arms reach. I had to have them”

I relented. “Okay, maybe you didn’t have my friends murdered. But there’s still the matter of Craven which you can’t escape from so easily.”

“This will be kept between us whatever I tell you?”

“I didn’t bring a voice recorder if that’s what you’re asking..”

Deveron swallowed excess saliva. “I suppose for you to fully understand my actions I’d better start from my humble beginnings as a young teenage tearaway.” He cleared his dry throat with a rattled cough. “Dublin was an impoverished place in the thirties. You’d to scratch for every penny possible; tighten your trouser belt to beat the hunger. I looked for a solution instead; a solution that would drag me from the gutters of human poverty. I found it in the brutal ranks of the IRA. I was a raw recruit with high ambitions and I was easily absorbed into the fascinating world of violence. Yes, Mister Speed, I too became a terrorist and without bragging I became an experienced campaigner with a list of atrocities behind me. It got me recognition within the ranks of the IRA. I wanted to stand high amongst the Irish people in the same way Michael Collins raised to infamous notoriety. I dreamed of being the hero. Desperate for the adulation and to have my fellow freedom fighters worship my achievement.”

“It’s all very poetic, Deveron. But you’re forgetting that Michael Collins was executed for his troubles in 1922. Not the infamous notoriety I’d have craved.”

“Nevertheless, Mister Speed, I’d already begun my ascent to power, only for it to be spoilt by the interference of the war. From there I had two choices: sit back all snug and safe just because Eire had declared neutrality or take up arms against the Germans on the assumption that Hitler would imminently threaten Irish shores anyway. Rather pointless Irish factions fighting the British to have a free Ireland, only for the Germans to suffocate us with fascism. I made my choice and with great reluctance I decided to join the fight against the Nazis. Naturally with fighting British ground troops for two years I declined the chance of joining the British army as a foot soldier. I signed the dotted line, took my shilling and joined the R.A.F. I’d plenty of flying time under my belt. My uncle taught me to fly in a First World War Bi-plane and the RAF was desperate for pilots with flying skills.”

Deveron was beginning to bore me senseless. I needed to move things along. “I’m not interested how you sneaked your way into the air force. I want to know what happened on the day Craven went missing.”

“You’re not exactly renowned for a man of patience, are you, Mister Speed?”

“I know a professor who has the same opinion as you. His criticism I don’t mind taking; yours is on the verge of making me erupt violently. So I’d appreciate if you got on with the tale!”

Deveron disapproved with my attitude with the shake of his head “Such deep ingrained hostility you have, Mister Speed. I have to confess you’re making me a little uncomfortable.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Does that make you feel better? Now what happened with Craven?”

He coughed twice. It annoyed me. If he’d have coughed a third time my fist would have followed his tongue back down his throat. “It was a routine reconnaissance flight to search for a Japanese submarine supposedly operating off the shores of England. It was difficult to absorb such a tale during briefing; a Japanese sub near our shores would never have occurred. All the pilots were of the same conclusion. That it was a clever piece of propaganda by the Japanese and Germans, especially when there were whispers of the submarine carrying gold. Orders were orders and you have to follow them. Craven flew his reconnaissance Spitfire and since there was still the threat of a marauding German Messerschmitt operating in the skies, I was his wing protection escort.

“During our flight my Spitfire developed engine trouble, miss-firing. It slowed me down. As for Craven he didn’t hang around just for me to limp along. He was off like a rampaging bull with wings. Anyone with a decent enough engine would have had trouble flying alongside his craft, his Spitfire being lighter because a reconnaissance craft required speed and agility and all nonessential equipment was stripped out for more speed. The RAF turned the damned Spitfire into a shell; a flying coffin. It needed a courageous man to fly such a machine over occupied territory. Some pilots failed to return. Craven always did. He seemed invincible. His exceptional flying skills always guided him through the barrage of hostilities.”

“You sound as if you were bitter towards him?”

“I admit I was jealous of his popularity, Mister Speed.”

“So you killed him?”

“It wasn’t premeditated.”

“It certainly wasn’t an accident.”

“If you allow me to explain a little more, you may come to understand my fall from grace, Mister Speed.”

I expressed his continuation with a slight wave of my hand. “Please do, Deveron. This should be interesting.”

“As I was saying, I’d lost contact with Craven because of his Maverick flying. We had no air-wave communication between us, Craven’s communication equipment having been removed to lighten his Spitfire. When I finally located him, he was on his way back to the airfield, all smiles, giving me the thumbs up. I realized then that he’d located the submarine, actually seen the damn contraption and he’d captured it all on film. We’d developed hand signals to communicate between ourselves and Craven verified my assumption and signalled that the submarine had been crippled and was sinking. He just didn’t say where it lay or what had caused the submarine to start sinking.

“At that moment something inside me snapped. Craven was ahead of my wing. All of a sudden I found myself in a different world; in a different time warp. All I saw in front of my gun sights was enemy aircraft carrying important information that I wanted. I suddenly hated Craven for being the hero he would be once he returned to Duxford. My thoughts switched to the counties of Ireland and the freedom my brothers in arms yearned for. I was thinking of another war and not the one we were presently engaged in. My mind had wandered back to Ireland. I thought of the gold bullion aboard the Japanese submarine and how it could be used to ensure our battle to free Ireland from British occupation once the war had finished.”

“You couldn’t possibly have known then that British soldiers would have been redeployed back in Ireland after the war.”

“It doesn’t matter what I thought at the time. It happened. In that moment of sheer madness my mind was possessed with sheer hatred. Right there in front of me was my dream of greatness and I had to stop it reaching enemy hands. I opened both guns on Craven’s Spitfire. I couldn’t stop myself. I remember being mesmerised by the perfect line of tracers as the bullets rattled out in cohesion. (By his expression I guessed Deveron was reliving the moment.) I hit Craven’s plane with everything I had. I watched his Spitfire go into a dive; watched him struggle to control his plane, a wisp of black smoke trailing behind him. I’d intended to follow his plane down to pinpoint the crash site, and then land, so I could retrieve the cameras from Craven’s plane. Alas fate played its part. My Spit’s engine began playing up again. I had to deviate and quickly find somewhere suitable to land safely should the engine fail. It was pointless me crashing too. By the time my engine had recovered its capabilities, Craven had disappeared from sight. I searched for the crash site but with the night closing in fast, I had to abandon the search. The rest is history and I’ve wasted a lifetime searching for him since.”

Deveron hung his head in shame.

I had the same amount of pity for Deveron as I would have had for a wasp that had just stung me; I’d have flattened the insect, ripped its wings off and thrown it into the nearest spider’s web. I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. I said, harshly. “People had crazy ideas during the war but yours was the bottom of the shit pile, Deveron.”

“I know that, Mister Speed. If I could have been spared a second chance to relive the moment I might have gone in a different direction. But it happened. I can’t change that now. Yet there is one important point I wish to state here and now though it probably sounds rather trivial. In my capacity as a high ranking officer in the British military, I never once passed on information to the IRA, or any other terrorist group that could have jeopardized the lives of any man, woman or child or military personal. I could have quite easily done the deed but I refrained from doing so with good reason. I soon heard about the influx of over ambitious Irish warlords who decided that terrorism was a very lucrative business: extortion, robberies, prostitution. Feuding factions fought over control of the cities; not surprising since there were no peace keeping forces controlling the streets. No, Mister Speed, I wasn’t going to feed gangsters with information so they could enhance their wealth by resorting to kidnap and blackmail and the unnecessary murder of good Irish people.”