Maralinga (30 page)

Daniel paused. He could not risk telling Elizabeth about the Aboriginal deaths. If by chance Pete's story was true, then in repeating it he would be violating the Official Secrets Act and risking his own court martial.

 

I cannot tell you the specifics of Pete's allegations – for obvious reasons, which you will understand – but shocking though they were, I couldn't bring myself to believe there was any truth in what he said. He was rambling at the time, practically incoherent, behaving like a madman. He actually laughed and boasted that he could ‘cop a bullet through the brain' for what he was telling me. Those were his exact words.

Well, the awful part is, Elizabeth, this is exactly what has happened. Pete has been murdered, shot through the head, supposedly by the jealous husband of a woman with whom he was having an affair. I know that the affair with the woman is true, not something
concocted, and, under normal circumstances, the event, ghastly though it is, would be understandable. Itinerant workers here in the outback – like Harry Lampton, the fettler currently being sought for Pete's murder – are tough, ruthless men. But the coincidence haunts me.

I have decided to make my own enquiries, if only to achieve some peace of mind. I truly do not believe there is a conspiracy, Elizabeth, and, even as I write this, I am starting to feel self-consciously melodramatic. You see what a help you are to me, my darling? In the meantime, however, I cannot help agonising over the awful coincidence of Pete's death. If I can only discover some irrefutable evidence that establishes Harry Lampton as the killer – perhaps a witness amongst the fettlers – then I will rest assured that my fears are as foolish and as groundless as I'm sure they are.

Forgive me, my darling, for pouring all this out to you, but, as I have said, there is no-one in whom I can confide, and it is such a relief for me to be able to write openly of it. I shall sleep more soundly tonight having unburdened myself, I can assure you, although I realise it is probably the ultimate act of selfishness on my part. It is not my intention to worry you, I promise. I will not place myself in any danger and I will not behave rashly. My enquiries will be made with the utmost discretion.

Oh, my dearest Elizabeth, how very much I do miss you, and how very much I do love you.

I remain yours forever and forever and forever, Danny.

 

The following morning, Daniel was at the post office the moment it opened its doors for business. He bought an overseas stamp, popped the letter in the bright red mailbox, and felt happier than he had in days.

Harold Dartleigh's mood remained ebullient as they set off on the long drive back to Maralinga.

‘I feel positively reborn,' he said. ‘I shall return to Ceduna next year when I'm back for the Antler series. The sea air has done me the world of good.'

Last night had also done him good, he thought. There was nothing more satisfying than knowing one could have a woman right under her husband's nose.

‘Oh, what a pity to be left all on one's own,' he'd said, when Vic had insisted upon winding his weary way off to bed. ‘Are you sure I can't tempt you to a final nightcap?'

Vic had read his wife's hesitation. ‘You stay for a drink if you like, love,' he'd said. ‘I'm off to bed, I've had it.'

A complacent man, assured of his wife's fidelity, Harold had thought – always a fatal mistake.

Gloria had stayed.

‘Alone at last,' he'd said jokingly. Or was it a joke? Gloria had laughed, a girlish, breathless laugh, the sort he recognised – middle-aged women always found him irresistible.

Gloria had been his for the taking. He'd known she would be from the moment he'd joined the couple at the table. Except, of course, he hadn't taken her. He never did. He was always faithful to Lavinia. But he did so enjoy the game. Harold was a terrible tease.

‘Goodnight, Gloria,' he'd said forty minutes later. ‘I've enjoyed your company immeasurably.'

Her disappointment had been palpable, and Harold had delighted in the thought that she'd been prepared to cuckold her husband, no doubt for the first time in a twenty-five-year marriage. Such moments were a wonderful boost to one's ego.

‘So you had a decent night's sleep then, Dan?'

‘Yes, sir, I did.'

‘I must say, you look well-rested. The sea air's obviously worked wonders for you too. I thought you seemed a little peaky on the trip down.' Harold's bonhomie knew no bounds.

‘I was rather out of sorts, but I feel very much better, sir, thank you.'

‘Excellent. A bit of a change now and then would do all you lads good, I should think.'

Daniel wondered how twelve hours or more of heavy-duty driving over rough terrain could be termed ‘a bit of a change', but he wasn't about to argue. Harold Dartleigh was, after all, quite right. The trip to Ceduna had done him the world of good.

Harold peered regretfully back at the last glimpse of coastline. ‘It must be hard for you boys sometimes,' he said. The sea disappeared from sight and he turned to stare down the endless dusty highway. ‘Very hard, being stranded out here in the middle of nowhere without family and without women. Lonely, I should think.'

Daniel couldn't really dispute the fact. It
was
lonely. Particularly now that Pete had gone – he hadn't realised how much he'd come to rely on Pete's company. But he felt somehow bound to give a positive reply.

‘Oh, I don't know, sir, we have a lot of laughs. There's plenty of camaraderie amongst the men –'

‘Bollocks! Camaraderie, my arse!'

Harold Dartleigh's reaction was so completely unexpected Daniel wasn't sure how to respond.

‘There should be a great deal
more
camaraderie, boy.' As Harold warmed to his theme, it was plain he expected no response. ‘The army is successfully demoralising the men, in my opinion. The need-to-know policy's been taken to such extremes it's denying the freedom of friendship.'

Harold was actually referring to William Penney's policy rather than the army's. Penney's insistence that the men be kept in ignorance irritated Harold intensely. There were times when even
he
was denied information, and all because of Penney's ridiculous obsession with his own power. Thank God he'd placed Gideon undercover, Harold thought, and thank God he'd cultivated the odious Melvyn Crowley. William Penney, in his megalomania, would close the doors even on MI6 if he could. Damn the man's hide.

‘Men need to let off steam, Dan.' Harold looked out at the desolation surrounding them – in only minutes, it seemed the desert had swallowed them up. ‘Particularly in a depressing hellhole like Maralinga.'

Harold Dartleigh's views surprised Daniel. He'd have thought the need-to-know regulations would be right on target for MI6.

‘Well, don't you agree, lad?' Harold was inviting comment now – he was in the mood for conversation. ‘The camaraderie of men is of the utmost importance in a place like Maralinga, wouldn't you say?'

‘Yes, indeed I would, sir.'

‘So why the reticence? Come along, Dan, let's have your say. I feel like a chat.'

‘I suppose I'm just a little surprised, sir. Given your position, I'd have thought you'd consider security in every form to be of the utmost importance.'

‘Oh, I do, my boy, I do, believe me. But Maralinga's security lies in its isolation. The remoteness of its location makes it a veritable fortress. And do you know the next most important security factor to be taken into consideration after the choice of location?' Harold paused, and Daniel wondered whether it was a trick question. But it wasn't. ‘The loyalty of one's team, Dan.' Harold triumphantly answered himself. ‘And do you know what breeds loyalty?'

This time Daniel took a punt. ‘The camaraderie of men, sir?'

‘Exactly!' Harold clapped his hands and Daniel felt as if he'd just gone to the top of the class. ‘Loyalty and comradeship should be encouraged at all times, particularly under conditions such as those at Maralinga.'

Harold was very much enjoying his own argument. He really should be running Maralinga himself, he thought – Sir William Penney and the military were both employing the wrong tactics.

‘To nurture ignorance is to invite inefficiency,' he proclaimed. ‘And to breed fear, as the army has done, is counterproductive on every level.'

To breed fear, as the army has done.
The words struck an immediate chord with Daniel. Could Harold Dartleigh be indirectly referring to the army's threat of court martial? The man seemed very passionate in his views, and if soldiers
had
been threatened with court martial then the deputy director of MI6 would be bound to know of it.

‘What's the matter, Dan?' The boy had been paying rapt attention, but he'd suddenly drifted off as he had during the drive south. Harold was in such a good mood that, rather than finding the fact irritating, he felt a touch of concern. ‘You've gone very quiet, lad. What's up?'

‘I'm so sorry, sir, I do beg your pardon. I didn't mean –'

‘You've been preoccupied lately. Come on, boy, spill the beans. What's weighing on your mind?' Harold was imbued with a rush of avuncular affection. If young Dan had a problem, he'd like to help. Perhaps the lad was being bullied, or perhaps some senior officer was making his life hell.

Daniel wondered whether he dared test for a reaction, and, as he carefully broached his subject, he studied Harold Dartleigh from the corner of his eye, searching for a giveaway sign.

‘A close friend of mine died recently, sir. I'm afraid I've found it rather upsetting.'

‘Yes, well, death tends to upset us all, doesn't it.' Harold's interest waned dramatically and he looked out the window. How disappointing, he thought.

Undeterred, Daniel continued. ‘His name was Pete Mitchell. He was my roommate at the barracks.'

‘Ah, Pete Mitchell …' Harold's interest was immediately rekindled and his eyes lit up. ‘The liaison chappie responsible for the Aboriginal business. Yes, yes.'

Daniel's breath caught in his throat. He felt himself physically gasp. Surely Harold Dartleigh couldn't mean the Aboriginal deaths. He'd hoped to garner some hint about the veracity of Pete's story, but he was shocked to hear the subject referred to so openly.

‘What Aboriginal business would that be, sir?' he asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible and his eyes focused on the road.

‘You know … locating them … seeing them off the land …' Harold gave an airy wave of his hand; he really had no idea what an Aboriginal liaison officer did. ‘All that sort of thing.'

Realising that Dartleigh had been speaking in generalities, Daniel nodded a little too readily and a little too eagerly. ‘Yes, sir, that's right,' he said, ‘that was Pete's job.' He was praying fervently that his reaction had gone unnoticed.

It hadn't. Very little escaped Harold Dartleigh. So the boy knew about the native deaths, he thought. How very interesting. He hadn't known himself until Melvyn Crowley had told him. Of course, Melvyn considered the natives' deaths a major breakthrough, but then Melvyn was a ghoul. A very handy man to have on side though, Harold told himself. If it weren't for Melvyn, he would be unaware of the army's threat of court martial. Gideon, for all his contacts, had heard nothing – the men were plainly too frightened to talk. Just as well Melvyn, with his ear firmly pasted to the laboratory door, had overheard every word. He'd come up with a full report too, including an account of all those present. Good old Melvyn, Harold thought – he was indeed indebted to the man. Personally, he couldn't give a tinker's toss about the natives, nor about the army's threat of court martial, which he supposed was necessary under the circumstances, but he did so detest being left in the dark.

‘A terrible business,' he said, ‘quite, quite terrible.'

‘What's that, sir?' Daniel was nervous. Harold Dartleigh's mood had become contemplative and it worried him. He wasn't at all sure what to expect.

‘Your friend's murder, of course.'

Harold had no intention of putting young Dan on the spot. Pete Mitchell had obviously told the boy about the dead natives – rather inconsiderate, he thought, feeding the lad information that could lead to his court martial.

‘I didn't know you and Pete Mitchell had been roommates, Dan. No wonder you're upset,' he said sympathetically. ‘A gruesome affair, most unpleasant all round.'

‘You know about Pete's death then, sir?'

‘Of course I do. I know everything about it – the whole of Maralinga does.'

Surely the boy must be aware of the book Gideon Melbray was running, Harold thought. The capture of Pete Mitchell's killer was the hottest bet in town. But possibly, in the interests of good taste, the men had kept Gideon's book a secret from young Dan.

‘I believe the killer's a chap from Watson,' he said. ‘A fettler by the name of Harry Lampton.' He'd put ten pounds on Harry Lampton turning up in Kalgoorlie – a gold-mining town had seemed a good choice to Harold.

‘Well, yes, sir, Harry Lampton's the chief suspect.'

Harold's senses were instantly on the alert. There was something in the way young Dan had said that, he thought. But he kept his response casual.

‘You have your doubts, eh, Dan?'

‘About what, sir?'

‘You think it might not be the fettler?'

‘Oh, no, sir, I didn't say that.' Daniel was flustered in his reply. ‘I mean, everything points to Harry Lampton of course …'

‘Yes, but naturally you'd want to be
sure,
wouldn't you?'

Harold's finely tuned antennae had come into play. He was sifting through every single nuance of every single word they'd spoken, and things were adding up. He didn't need to confront the boy.
Who do you think it was, Dan?
There was no necessity for such interrogation. He knew exactly who Dan thought it was.