Where Death and Danger Go Page 13

  ‘What are you thinking, Clement?’ Reg signed.

  The dinghy moved slowly past them, the sound of the oars in their rowlocks the only noise. Clement waited until they could no longer hear the oars dipping in and out of the water or the rhythmic sound of the oars rotating in the rowlocks. The dinghy now was but a shadow of black on the flickering river.

  ‘Speculating about the boy,’ Clement whispered. ‘The uncle aside, why are his parents in Portugal?’ He knew his question was rhetorical. ‘Reg, follow the boat. Watch where it goes. Then wait and watch to see who returns and when. Then come to the police station.’

  ‘Got it! Where will you be?’

  ‘Police station.’

  Reg nodded and disappeared into the pre-dawn gloom, the sack slung over his right shoulder.

  Clement hurried away. Morning’s light was beginning to settle and even though still early, he had no wish to encounter any stray Trinity Hall students who may recognise him. He walked along the grassy verge, then crossed the bridge adjacent to Trinity Hall. Hurrying along the narrow dark walkway, he passed the three locked doors from the lane into Gatehouse, his footsteps just audible on the street.

  A crisp breeze slid through the narrow passageways. Grey morning shadows dipped into the lane. He stopped. Was it footsteps? He turned. A man stood in the shadow-filled lane some twenty feet behind and facing him. He remained completely still. Clement waited, his attention on the man. The man was staring at him.

  The blow was heavy. Clement reeled sideways, the shock confounding. He held his hands to his head and blinked, one hand reaching out for the wall to steady himself as he backed away.

  The pain was intense, like an explosion in his brain. The blow had come from behind and now blood was running down the side of his head. He struggled to see. No random attack this, nor common thief. Beside him was a large man dressed in black. Clement struggled to stand upright, to see his attacker. Nothing about the man was familiar. All he could make out was the shape of a large man with a bald head. Clement had no idea who the person was. ‘Who are...?’

  ‘If you call out, you will die. Instantly,’ a male voice said into his ear from behind him. A hood was pulled over Clement’s head.

  Clement struggled but his head was pounding, his brain spinning and his body reeling. Behind him, two strong arms grabbed him, dragging his arms backwards. Someone bound them, then grasping his upper arms, propelled him forward. A strong hand pushed him on, his feet stumbling and tripping as he struggled to remain upright. He blundered into the cold stone wall beside him. Staggering, he lunged forward trying to break free of the formidable grip. But whoever held him captive instantly released his tight hold and Clement fell forward onto the pavement, his head hitting the hard stones. He rolled sideways, a low agonized groan his only response. He felt sick and light-headed. Nausea welled up. He couldn’t see. He felt as though his head had been crushed. Warm blood began to trickle down the side of his face and into his mouth. His head throbbed, his brain ricocheting within his skull. He gasped for air, trying to stop himself from fainting or vomiting. In that instant, the heel of a booted foot came down on his right shin. Even though in intense pain, Clement knew if he moved, his leg would be crushed. He lay still, his breathing exaggerated. He gulped air, desperately trying to stay conscious. A voice whispered into his left ear. It was male with a heavy Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Stand. Quietly. Or you die. Your choice.’

  Clement blinked and sat up. Rolling onto his side, he struggled to stand, his ears straining for anything to help him get his bearings. His attacker’s hands ran over his coat, the hand removing his Welrod then, feeling down his trousered legs, settled on the scabbard of his knife. Clement kicked out. The butt of a weapon crashed down again on his right shoulder and this time he felt searing pain shoot through his neck and arm. He fell backwards onto cold cobblestones, groaning, the pain increasing. His breath now was short and rapid and he believed he was close to death. The man’s boot was on his chest, the pressure strong and determined. Clement knew what it meant. He also knew there were at least two if not three men hovering around him. Despite the pain, and the fluctuating levels of unconsciousness, he remained absolutely still. He felt his muscles relax, accepting that death was only seconds away. One man unstrapped the scabbard of his Fairbairn-Sykes knife and dragged him to his feet. Suspended between two men, they walked him for some time. He tried to remember the direction as they turned first right then left. Then left again. He heard a knock. The man pushed him forward and he stumbled over a doorstep, a door closing behind him.

  There was no sound, except the shuffling of feet. The surface under his tread seemed smoother but he knew he wasn’t inside a building. Then another door and again he was pushed forward. Now he felt soft ground beneath his feet, a lawn or garden perhaps. They pushed him on. They crossed a path of no more than six feet in width before the ground felt soft again. Then some steps. He counted five. His footsteps seemed to echo and he surmised he was in a closed corridor of some kind. Then another door.

  ‘He was wearing these,’ the Scot said.

  ‘Interesting. Take him downstairs,’ an educated voice said.

  Clement knew he had not heard the voice before. It was an older man’s voice, cultured and commanding.

  ‘Lock the door. He’s of no harm to us now.’

  A man grasped Clement’s arm and pushed him along a stone-floored corridor. The air was cool. A damp subterranean smell wafted up, the aroma a mix of mould and perpetual dampness. He stood completely still and braced himself for whatever his captor had in mind for him. As the door behind slammed shut, a hand pulled the hood from his head.

  Darkness. His head was pounding and he could no longer feel his right shoulder but his numb hands were free. Feeling for the wall beside him, he inched his foot forward and felt the edge of a step. Gradually he descended ten steps, hoping that his eyes would soon become accustomed to the gloom. Minutes passed but there was no light. Running his hand down a stone wall, he slid down the rough surface and sat on the damp floor. Breathing deeply he struggled to suppress the pain. He needed to think. He closed his eyes and took long regulated breaths. How had they known where he was?

  Chapter 14

  Clement lay on the damp floor. All he wanted was sleep. It was the body’s response to trauma but while his body needed the panacea of unconsciousness, his mind struggled to understand what had happened. Had he and Reg been followed? Despite Morris putting it about that he had been detained for the murder of Bill Hayward, someone knew otherwise. Clement reached for his handkerchief and, spitting into it, dabbed his brow. He licked his dry lips and tasted blood. It had congealed down the side of his face and he could feel that his left eye was cut above his eyebrow. It was beginning to swell and would be badly bruised. By tomorrow it would be so swollen he may not be able to see. At least, he told himself, he was alive. He moved his right arm. While a searing pain shot through his muscles, he knew nothing was broken. He sat up. Then standing, he inched his way along the wall, feeling every surface. Shelves lined two of the four walls and he guessed he was in a cellar or coal store. He prayed for a coal chute of some kind but he felt nothing other than the cold, hard stone walls. He closed his eyes and thought back, trying to remember how he’d come to this cellar. What he did know was that he couldn’t be too far from where he’d been attacked in Trinity Lane. Inching his way along the fourth wall, he found the steps again. Climbing them he tried the door.

  It was locked.

  There was no escape. Either they intended him to die there or he would be moved at some time. Descending the steps, he inched his way around the room again, then slid onto the floor and sat opposite the steps in the dark.

  His mind went in and out of lucidity. ‘Start at the beginning,’ he said aloud, trying to concentrate. There had been a third person present the night Josef Jakobs had landed. Someone important. Important enough for Jakobs to have been callously sacrificed, and for the unidentified man in Mor
ris’s mortuary to have been shot at point-blank range. Was Bill Hayward another? Then there was Michael Hasluck. Other than providing tangible proof of a connection between himself and Morris, why had the lad been abducted? Clement shivered. He felt the weight of guilt and fear for the boy’s welfare. If it hadn’t been for young Hasluck’s chance encounter with Armstrong and the Lagonda, Clement would still be unaware of the dark-haired man’s existence. He visualised the tall man in the dinghy, trying to recall if there was anything familiar about him. He hadn’t seen the man’s face so, whilst it seemed likely, he had no way of telling if it was the Abwehr man or someone else entirely.

  Clement swallowed hard. Innocent people entangled by fate. Wickedness. Clement felt himself frown. He flinched and put his hand to his face as the raw shooting pain flashed down his cheek and neck. That word; wickedness. Michael Hasluck had used it. He’d said Armstrong went to a school that sounded like wickedness. Clement sat up. The clothes in the boot of the car. The map of Hampshire. ‘Not wickedness. Wykehamist,’ he said aloud. Somehow his discovery helped alleviate his exploding headache and he found himself smiling.

  Clement wriggled his left foot, the action unconscious; his Fairbairn-Sykes knife no longer attached to his lower left leg. Then, he remembered Reg’s new device. The Scot had searched for weapons, running his hands over Clement’s torso and arms but the pocket notebook had been overlooked. His fingers felt its smooth metal surface. It’s presence gave him hope.

  Time passed. In the cold hours that followed his cheek had swollen such that his eye felt like a slit in his face and his shoulder ached in the bitter cold of the underground cellar. He forced himself to concentrate, to keep his mind busy recalling everything he had heard and what he knew. But there were so many loose ends. He let his head fall back on the cold wall. The cold. It always triggered his memories of Caithness and he shivered at the recollection. Scotland. He thought of the traitor hanged for treason following his mission to the far northern county. That man had had a Hitler Youth tattoo under his upper right arm. Did that connect him to the dead man currently in Morris’s mortuary? Were there other connections between this mission and his last? Clement stood and marched around the cellar, his mind on the past. He heard his stomach groan. He felt hungry but he guessed eating would be denied him. In the darkness, he found the steps to the door again and sat down on them, his thoughts returning to Caithness. His mind began to list the connections with his current situation to Scotland: his recent attacker with the strong Glaswegian accent, a convicted traitor who’d once lived in Glasgow, the Hitler Youth tattoos on both the traitor and the dead man in Morris’s mortuary, and Old Red Sandstone. Clement drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly then rested his head in his palms and forced himself to think. ‘Glasgow,’ he said aloud. Was the man in Morris’s mortuary Scottish? Or from further north where Old Red Sandstone was quarried: Orkney, or even Shetland or Norway? Clement stared into the darkened space in front of him. He remembered Father Rathbourne’s toast to absent friends and martyrs. Did that include the Caithness traitor? Wrapping his arms around his chest, he took a long deep breath. In the shadow of Thy wings, I will make my refuge, until these calamities are passed, he said aloud, quoting Psalm Fifty-Seven. Then he recalled something he’d earlier dismissed.

  Chapter 15

  Clement stared into the dark empty space. Why had Rudolf Hess flown into Scotland? Clement tried to remember what he’d read in the newspapers. Hess, apparently, had come to negotiate a peace deal believing that certain members of the British aristocracy would support his endeavours. The Duke of Hamilton had been mentioned in the newspapers but his involvement with the Deputy Führer had been denied in the House of Commons, and the duke was currently serving as an Air Commodore with the Royal Air Force. Clement rubbed at his aching forehead. He couldn’t remember if others had been mentioned. Was a misguided belief the only reason Rudolf Hess had come to Britain? Surely the Deputy Führer wouldn’t make such an audacious trip without certainty of his reception? Clement recalled the date; the tenth of May and just less than a month ago. The newspapers had reported Hess had been taken into custody immediately. The duke had denied any collusion with Hess and even Hitler himself had described Hess’s mystery flight as delusional. Clement held his hands around his neck hoping what little heat they provided would soothe the incessant ache. He allowed his head to drop forward, timing his breathing with every wave of persistent pain. Each time he inhaled, the stench of his own urine and centuries of damp filled his nostrils. ‘Endurance is the key,’ he said aloud. He knew it was how his enemy worked; isolation eroded courage, clouded the mind and broke the spirit. They would leave him there just long enough to believe he was defeated. Compliant. Someone would come, eventually, he told himself. Even if only to check if he were dead. He felt sleepy, the adrenaline that had surged previously now left him feeling exhausted. He fought the cold and the pain, regulating his breathing and walking in circles around his cell to keep his body warm and his mind active.

  Facts and suppositions blurred. He had been over it all before. He knew that. It couldn’t all be supposition. He needed something concrete to work on. He searched his memory for something, anything he’d overlooked; a tiny fact, a shred of evidence he’d dismissed as unimportant. Even a different way of thinking about it may give him some insight. But nothing new or different came to mind. Of one thing, however, he was certain; these people were ruthless even to kidnap and cold-blooded murder. He also believed he would not be permitted to live beyond his usefulness. Whatever that was, it explained why he was not already dead. It gave him a glimmer of hope and if they moved him, a chance at escape. The sound of the door above crashed in on his thoughts. Light flooded in and down the staircase. He shielded his eyes.

  ‘Stand up, Reverend Wisdom. You are leaving us.’

  Clement heard the educated voice and footsteps descend.

  ‘Who are you?’ Clement demanded, shielding his eyes from the glare.

  An older man of considerable stature with a serious face and white hair stood before him, sniffing the pungent air. A slow smile spread over his face but he made no comment. He turned, the light from above suddenly highlighting the man’s facial features. Prominent teeth was evidently a dominant gene in the Armstrong family. Clement guessed he was Hugh’s father, Sir Hector Armstrong.

  ‘You will not be returning, Reverend Wisdom. Myself and others have worked too hard to achieve this. All the players are in place and now it’s just a matter of days.’

  A figure appeared in the doorway above them and Hugh Armstrong ran down the stairs.

  ‘Let me deal with him, Pa.’

  ‘All in good time, Hugh. Bring the other one!’

  Young Armstrong ran up the steps and disappeared through the light-filled doorway.

  ‘Could I have some water and something to eat?’ Clement asked, his gaze fixed on Sir Hector Armstrong.

  ‘Soon. After you, Reverend,’ Armstrong said, indicating the stairs.

  Clement climbed the steps. They led into a darkened covered walkway that connected one building to another. Beyond, in both directions, he saw tended gardens and manicured lawns. On the air, he heard the sound of a bell ringing, short and sharp. A few minutes later another peel, again short and abrupt. Voices now, loud and raucous came from somewhere around him. A few feet away a light, strong and bright, glowed in another corridor. No one walked there. There was an evening light to the air but it wasn’t yet dark. He realised he must have been underground for almost the entire day. At least Morris and Reg would know by now he was missing. Clement prayed they were looking for him.

  ‘So you are young Armstrong’s father, Hector Armstrong?’ Clement said in the hope that someone would see or hear him there.

  ‘Sir Hector, to you. You are going on a journey, Reverend.’ Hector Armstrong turned abruptly, his eyes almost glowering with disdain. ‘For you, it will be a long one. And I can guarantee, they will never discover your body.’

  Clement he
ard the threat, the attempt at intimidation. Whatever Armstrong had in mind for him, his death was a certainty. Footsteps behind him. He turned. A short man, completely bald and with a stern, almost expressionless face stood before him. The man held a dark-coloured cloth in his hands and Clement suspected he was the Scot.

  ‘You said I could have something to eat and drink,’ he said, turning back to Armstrong.

  ‘And I said soon.’

  ‘Is that really necessary now?’ Clement asked, nodding at the hood in the henchman’s grip.

  ‘Yes,’ Hector Armstrong said. ‘I do not intend for you to escape, Reverend. You see, I know of your skills. You killed a brave man, a patriot and another man died because of you. I have kept your weapons as mementoes.’

  Clement swallowed, his mouth dry. The threat was sincere. He stared at Hector Armstrong but didn’t respond. He knew Armstrong’s words were not bluff. But how had Armstrong learned of his current involvement, much less his previous mission to Scotland? Armstrong’s steady gaze had not shifted. Suddenly Clement’s arms were pulled back. He winced as a wave of pain spread over him but his mind was on Armstrong and Caithness. He swallowed several times trying to lubricate his dry mouth.

  The strong arm gripped his wounded shoulder, the hood instantly was over his head. He was pushed along the covered corridor, the sound of his boots creating a slight echo in the covered passage. Above him he heard the voices again, loud. Then sudden quiet. Then the scraping of chairs on wooden floors. College. Mealtime. He knew he wasn’t in Trinity Hall. It had to be Caius. And if Caius mealtimes were the same as Trinity Hall then it was just before half-past seven in the evening.

  A minute later, he felt a cool balmy evening breeze on his skin. A path was beneath his feet but there were no steps. He guessed it was a rear access into Caius. The strong grip pushed him forward until he no longer felt the solid path under his boots. Then the unmistakable crunch of gravel beneath his tread. He heard a sharp metallic click. He took a quick breath in, his heart pounding and swung around. Was he walking to his execution?