Chapter 19
Straker arrived at the building at just after eight thirty. The building was a suitably nondescript tower block, just outside the City of London. He looked at the nameplate on the door. Proudly emblazoned on the polished aluminium plate was the legend:
STRAKER FILM SERVICES
Despite himself, he smiled. The company name had been Henderson's idea. In due course, once the headquarters building was complete under the studios, he and the other SHADO personnel would vacate this building and take up residence there. The London address would not be wasted; The building would be taken over by the newly-inaugurated International Astrophysical Commission, an intergovernmental body, notionally charged with organising international collaboration in space exploration and research. General Henderson, as President already had an office on the top floor, Although it would provide funding for a number of space research projects, the Commission's real function was as the conduit by which SHADO would receive its covert funding.
Straker pushed through the revolving glass doors into the lobby. The receptionist smiled, recognising the important film director. Straker smiled back; she might only be an agency receptionist, totally oblivious of the true nature of the organisation she worked for, but she was still important as part of the essential cover that SHADO would require.
He stepped into the waiting lift and took a deep breath; it took all his willpower to keep from panicking in the confined space. The claustrophobia was a legacy of a childhood accident; taking a shortcut home from school, the young Edward had fallen into a disused well. He'd been found the next day but since then, he hated confined spaces. Ironically, he'd never once suffered the condition during any of the space flights he'd taken part in, despite the capsules being no larger than the well shaft. Indeed, one of his fellow astronauts had commented that he didn't so much climb into the capsule as put it on.
Sighing with relief, he stepped out onto the top floor.
Freeman was already waiting for him; Henderson was expected within the next half hour.
Before interviewing the survivors, Ford and Emcan had decided to explore the remains of the city. The Colonel, ever eager to help the BBC had allowed them the use of a jeep.
Having dashed down a breakfast of Turkish coffee and army rations, they set off.
The ground was so badly fractured that even the Jeep had given up. Ford and Emcan decided to continue on foot. The ground in front of them started to rise. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Every footstep raised clouds of dust. A sudden gust of wind blew grit into Ford's eyes. Rubbing his eyes to try and clear them, Ford stumbled, missed his footing and fell. Emcan desperately grabbed to stop his companion but in vain. Ford finally came to rest, battered and bruised, in a depression in the ground. Gasping for breath, he waited for Emcan to join him. He looked around; there was a strong feeling of familiarity. With a shock of realisation, he realised why; the depression was circular, some twenty feet in diameter but only a few feet deep. The olive grove enclosing it was the reason it had remained undetected. The enclosing vegetation acted as a windbreak. Emcan finally reached the edge of the depression, grasped Ford's outstretched hand, braced himself then pulled.
"What do you make of this?" asked Ford, as he scrambled out. Emcan gazed into the depression: "It's very regular," He observed. He looked more closely. He realised what was missing; where Ford had scrambled out of the hole, there should have been footprints in the dust.
After a moment, he uttered what both men were wondering "Where is all the dust?"
Indeed, the earth in the depression had been compacted as if a large object had rested on it.
Reynolds had found the telephone box without difficulty. Within a minute, the Operator had connected him with the local Police Station and he proceeded to report his grisly find.
"Right sir. An officer will be with you shortly"
"Thank you. You're a star." Replied Reynolds, replacing the receiver. Within twenty minutes, the sound of a bell heralded the arrival of the Police saloon. At the direction of the driver, Reynolds climbed into the back and gave directions. Within minutes, they had arrived at the murder scene. Satisfied that Reynolds was an innocent party, the police dismissed him to return to the campsite
"Shh! What's that?" Ford had stopped, listening
Apart from the soughing of the wind, there was silence. Then they both heard it; a faint crying from general direction of the mosque.
Both men broke into a run.
"How's the training programme shaping up?" Asked Straker.
"We've had a bit of luck, there" replied Freeman. There's a PT instructor, due to retire from the Army in the next week. I interviewed him as part of his Resettlement Programme."
"Is he good"
"The best." Freeman opened his attaché case, took out a single typewritten sheet of paper which he passed across to Straker.
Straker glanced at the summary. "What have you told him about our setup?
"Nothing. He thinks he's going to be working for the film industry. He can take the raw recruits and make super fit athletes from them.
"Good. Then we…" Straker was interrupted by Henderson's arrival. Free of the wheelchair, he walked with the aid of a stick. In time, it was hoped that it, too, could be discarded.
Henderson tossed a newspaper onto Straker's desk:
"Have you seen the papers?"
"Hasn't everybody?" Replied Straker.
The front page was predicting war within days, detailing the latest claim and counterclaim as the two opposing superpowers rattled their sabres and waged their propaganda battle.
"What does it have to do with us?" asked Freeman.
"On the face of it, nothing," Replied Henderson but there was an unidentified contact picked up by one of the Soviet tracking stations – an interception flight disappeared."
"A UFO?" asked Straker.
"Possibly"
"The Soviets claim to have shot the intruder down" Replied Straker.
"The news agency put out that statement to keep the hawks in the Kremlin happy" Replied Henderson. "The truth is, they're scared. Deep down, they know the Americans are innocent but they are afraid of losing face"
"A fear that could lead to war" observed Freeman.
"Indeed. That's why Commander Straker has to go to Moscow."
The crying was much louder now. It had taken Ford and Emcan over twenty minutes to scramble over the rubble to reach the remains of the walled garden that had enclosed the mosque. The mosque itself had been flattened, like a child's sandcastle that had been stamped on.
The crying seemed to be coming from the far corner of the garden; the upper part of the wall had collapsed.. The two men scrabbled at the debris. Eventually, they managed to expose a cavity formed by the broken section of wall.
Emcan called out, to be greeted by a stream of excited Turkish.
"It's the wife of the local doctor," Emcan explained. "They were just about to enter the mosque for morning prayers when the earthquake hit."
"Let's get them out of there"
Apart from a broken leg, the woman seemed to be in reasonably good health. Her husband had not been so lucky; his head lolled backwards, neck broken by the falling debris. Death had been instantaneous.
"We're going to have to carry her." Said Ford. "Can you explain to her what we're doing?"
Having gained permission, each man stooped, took an arm and draped it over a shoulder before standing, lifting the woman clear of the ground. Slowly they made their way towards the jeep. Several times, the men had stumbled on the uneven terrain, nearly dropping the woman. Finally, they all sank to the ground, exhausted.
Hargreaves put down his mug and sighed as a fresh pile of files was dumped into his 'IN' tray. He found it difficult to believe that he'd actually spent more than five minutes at home during the past week, let alone actually slept there.
Just as he reached for the topmost file, the telephone on his desk rang.
"Hargreaves…"
He listened intently as the report came in from the forest.
"Right. Tell them not to touch anything until I get there."
Grabbling his jacket, he sprinted from the room, his coffee forgotten.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the trio reached the field hospital. The woman, whose name was Samina, was handed into the care of the receiving staff. Emcan had fielded the multitude of questions.
A medical orderly cleaned and re-dressed Ford's hand; the rescue had left the original dressing in tatters.
Finally, Ford was shown to a waiting area where Emcan obtained tea, black and sweet in true Turkish style.
As he sipped his tea, Ford looked around him. From what had been a city of eighty thousand people, there were few survivors. Then he remembered why he was there. "I think we should interview some of the survivors", Ford informed Emcan. "See if we can get a few eyewitness statements."
"I agree." Replied Emcan, "I'll see what I can arrange with the Colonel in charge."
The Colonel had been busy, but his Adjutant had arranged for a number of the wounded to be interviewed. As he guided Ford and Emcan around the hospital, a scream rent the air. "I don't worry about the screamers, " He said, in reply to Ford's raised eyebrow. "They are not as badly injured as the silent ones."
They moved around the wards; Ford interviewing survivors, Emcan translating where the interviewee spoke no English. Ford was just about to close his notebook, when he spotted a child, sitting alone on a bed. Closer inspection revealed her to be a girl, aged about six. One arm was in a sling. With her free hand she held a pencil with which she was drawing in a battered schoolbook.
"She was pulled from the rubble of the family home – the only survivor. She understands but has not spoken." Explained the Colonel. Suddenly aware of the attention, she looked up. In her surprise, she dropped the book. It skittered across the floor, coming to a stop at Ford's feet. He picked it up and froze.
Ford showed the book to Emcan and pointed to the drawing. "Ask her where she saw this"
Puzzled, Emcan knelt down so his face was level with hers and asked the question. The girl remained silent. Then, slowly, the uninjured arm pointed at the ceiling. A tear rolled from one deep brown eye. Then she started to sob.
The drawing was crude but recognizable; a dish, with half an egg on top, with two little stick figures, their heads enclosed in bubbles. The little girl had seen a UFO.
Despite the traffic, Hargreaves arrived at the crime scene in just under an hour to find a scene of activity; Uniformed Branch had set up a cordon and a Scene of Crime Officer was hard at work dusting the van for fingerprints. An Ambulance was parked nearby; its crew taking advantage of the impromptu tea break, sipping tea from the Thermos flask they always kept in the cab.
"So," he asked the Sergeant in charge. "What can you tell me?"
The Policeman consulted his notebook; "Member of the public telephoned in to report a dead body. By the looks of things, the body's been there some time. The civilian's camping nearby, if you want a word."
"Camping?"
"Yes sir, he's a Scoutmaster. He and his troop are up for a few days' camping"
"O.K, Thanks"
Turnbull pushed open the door, stepped into the pub and looked around. A short walk from Embankment Tube station, 'The Clarence' was a traditional London pub, dark beams with sawdust on the floor. Apart from a few Civil Servants enjoying a late lunchtime drink and perhaps a sandwich, the pub was nearly empty. He ordered a pint and a cooked lunch from the barman then took a seat in an unattended booth, towards the rear of the bar.
Although Ford interviewed another half-dozen people, his heart was no longer in it; his mind was racing with the implications of everything he'd seen.
He kept remembering his dream and the words of the seismologist; "No ordinary 'quake…"
"Can you get me to a phone?" asked Ford. "I need to report in."
"I'll see what I can do" replied Emcan
Lunch finished, Turnbull glanced at his watch: the mysterious caller was over half an hour late. He looked around him; the Civil Servants were long gone and apart from a figure in a booth near the door, face obscured by an early edition of the Evening News, he was the only customer.
Evidently, this Jackson had nothing better to do than waste his time.
His hand touched the door handle.
"Leaving so soon, Mr Turnbull?" The voice was smooth and heavily accented with a cat-like purr
The speaker carefully closed the paper, folded it and laid it on the table in front of him.
"Jackson?" Turnbull sat in the booth, facing the stranger
The stranger seemed confused. "Jackson…Ah yes, yes. He brightened, all confusion gone.
Turnbull's eyes narrowed a fraction. Jackson noticed but said nothing
"I'm a busy man Mr Jackson…
"Doctor"
"I'm sorry, Doctor Jackson.
Jackson inclined his head in acknowledgement.
"You said on the phone that it was important that I know that one of my staff had missed an appointment." Turnbull continued. "Doesn't that breach your duty of Doctor-Patient confidentiality?"
"Normally, yes, " agreed Jackson "But under the circumstances…"
"What circumstances?"
"You have to realize that Mr Ford is very ill," Jackson continued.
"How ill? If a member of my staff is infectious, I need to take action"
"I am sorry, I did not make myself clear, Mr Ford is not physically ill. Has he exhibited any unusual behaviour recently? Any particular obsessions?
Turnbull had to think for a few moments. Ford had always been driven but then…
"Now you come to mention it…" Turnbull hesitated
"Go on." Prompted Jackson.
"No, it's just too silly."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"It's just…Keith has this idea that we're being threatened by aliens from space."
"Ah, it is as I feared," Replied Jackson. "The condition has worsened. "
Hargreaves strolled over to the van. Mercifully, the corpse had been covered with a sheet.
He introduced himself to the Scene Of Crime Officer who had just finished fingerprinting the rear doors.
"So what can you tell me about the body?"
"White male, age between forty and fifty. Bruising around the neck, congested skin around the face and the pink tinge to his teeth suggests he was strangled"
"Prints?"
"Nothing usable. Sorry."
"Anything else?"
"Look at this:"
The SOCO grabbed a handful of hair and tugged this way and that. The head moved freely.
"Broken neck?"
"Yep."
"Bruising?"
"If you mean from a blunt instrument, No, just finger marks"
"So whoever did this possessed the strength to not only strangle his victim but crush his neck for good measure."
"That's about the size of it. I've bagged up his possessions, such as they are".
"Right, so what can you tell me about the van?"
The civilian examined his notes "Ford Transit, registered in London four years ago. The tax is just about to expire There's a good set of prints on the doors, presumably the driver's with two other types on the passengers' side. I was just about to look in the back"
"Well, let's get cracking"
The rear doors of the van were locked but soon yielded to the tyre wrench that Hargreaves kept in the boot of his car.
Hargreaves had seen many things during his long career in CID but even his blood ran cold at the sight that met his eyes; handcuffs, ropes and a number of other items, none of which a decent, law-abiding citizen should have been transporting around the country.
"Catalogue it. Catalogue it all." Ordered Hargreaves, climbing out of the van.
He moved round to where the corpse lay, squatted down and pulled the blanket from what remained of the face.
For a moment he gazed into the now eyeless sockets.
"Gotcha!" he muttered.
Even though 'Bill' had evaded the law, somehow Justice had been delivered - The Suffolk Strangler's reign of terror was over.