He smiled at Stevenson. ‘I know we spoke at the SID Office in Whitehall, last week, but I was wondering, if you could cast your mind back to last Thursday morning. What I would like you to remember, is the two men you saw. Could you be so kind, as to describe them in detail to Mr Whittaker?’
Stevenson took a few breaths and began. ‘When I looked over towards the sound of the shots, the big bloke looked at me…,’
Gable cut in. ‘What was he wearing?’
‘He was wearing a dark jacket and trousers.’
‘And, did you happen to notice the colour of his hair?’
‘Yes, it was short, almost bald, like you see on the news with the new Vietnam recruits, and I would say that it was blonde.’
‘And, what about the other man with him, the one with the gun. What did he look like?’
‘He had longer blonde hair, brushed to the right, a bit like ‘ol Hitler had his. He wore a brown jacket, and lighter trousers, I would say a beige colour.’
‘Excellent. Now, did you manage to hear any of them speak?’
‘No, the shorter man stared straight at me, then raised his pistol. I must admit, I ducked down behind my cab for a few seconds, thinking he was going to fire, then I stood up again and noticed the big bloke holding the other bloke’s arm to stop him. They never spoke. He just shook his head at him, then the man with the gun, kicked at Mr Ruger, who was lying on the ground a couple of times, then they both turned and ran up the gangplank leaving him dying on the mud.’
Gable lit a cigarette. ‘Thanks Eddie. That’s, how you described it, before.’
Whittaker stood up, a thought occurring to him. ‘I wonder if we could use an Identikit, to get some images of these two men? Now, where’s the nearest one, I wonder? I’ll ask around and find out. If we can have some mugshots, we may just have something more to go on.’
Gable saw Stevenson out of the room, and while the identikit was being found, arranged for him to wait and have some tea. He then returned to the interview room. ‘I hope you have a bit more insight into what we’re dealing with now, Fred.’
‘Yes, I have Arthur. A lot more, and I’ve just remembered, they’ve got one of those identikits at Brixton. I’ll give them a ring, and see if we can borrow it for a while.’
t was just over an hour later Whittaker had returned, carrying the Identikit case. Gable and Stevenson were in the station canteen, talking about the docks of the River Thames, when Whittaker had burst in carrying the case. ‘Sorry for the delay gentlemen, I ran into an old colleague. We walked the beat together, before we went plain clothes, and to different divisions.’ He held up a big black case. ‘Anyway, here it is, we’ll set it up in the interview room.’
At Highdown, Black Arrow was being prepared for its next test firing, and a green lorry had been driven out of the hangar. On the trailer, were three white tanks containing the High-Test Peroxide. Slowly, the vehicle moved down to Gantry 2, to deliver the fuel for the rocket.
Two men covered in protective suits were waiting for it to arrive, and scrambled up on to the trailer to hook up the hoses. Other men, also clad in white protective suits, carried the hoses into the efflux chamber, attaching them to the valves on the fuel storage tank. The valves on the tanks were released, and the rocket was now in the stage of being fuelled.
Next to where they were operating, were two portable metal baths; these being put in place as a necessary precaution, should the peroxide mixture spill on to any of the men. The procedure was to push the victim into the water, preventing them from catching fire. This was usually the opportunity to have a practical joke, especially with any new members of the team, but due to the recent tragic events, no-one seemed to be in a joking mood, today. Some of the crew, had even been reluctant to go into the efflux chamber again; the Police tape was now placed across the entrance, indicating it to be a current crime scene. Other members of the crew worked on the gantry itself, checking for signs of cracks in Black Arrow’s casing; they scaled the ladders, slowly moving up and down them. Communication in this process was vital, as they shouted to each other over the hissing sound of the fuel pumps.
After forty-five minutes had passed, the two men waiting on the trailer acknowledged the fuelling had been completed. On seeing the thumbs up from Fuel Supervisor Paul Baxter, they turned off the valves on the tanks. The hoses were then detached and reeled back into the trailer, where they were stored away.
Baxter jumped down from the vehicle and walked over to a telephone, pulled out the receiver, and spoke into it. ‘The rocket is now fuelled. Repeat, the rocket is now fuelled.’ On hearing the confirmation from the Control Room, he replaced the receiver, and closed the box.
The fuelling party stood in a huddled group, commenting on their work, while they waited for the driver to return to take the tanker with the now empty HTP tanks, back to the hangar. Baxter was desperate for a smoke, but he knew it would be highly dangerous to light up a cigarette.
In the Control Room, Ron Hallett, walked along behind the men sitting at the monitoring consoles, and halted behind one of them to stare at a dial. ‘How’s the fuel pump rate?’
The technician flicked his eyes over to check. ‘It’s at maximum, Ron.’
Hallett rubbed his hands contentedly, ‘Jolly good. Now, as soon as the police can finish with their work, we can get on with ours.’
Swan, now dressed in a white protective suit and black Wellington boots, stood at Gantry 2, with a similarly dressed, Inspector Dugdale. Sergeant Morris, had been relieved by his boss, and sent home to catch up on his sleep.
From their viewpoint at the edge of the gantry, the two men watched the proceedings below the cliffs, as a group of ten uniformed constables taken from stations in East Cowes, Newport and Ryde, and wearing white rubber gloves, walked in a line along the beach.
Two of the policeman who had earlier removed their shoes and socks were now wading in up to their knees, in the white foamy water. Four other constables, having also now donned protection suits, walked along the corroding cliff path, beneath the gantry. One looked up, realising that he was now directly beneath the large metallic flume that would shortly be ejecting Black Arrow’s exhausts out over the waters of Scratchell’s Bay.
Dugdale, looked down with anticipation. ‘I am adamant it’s down there somewhere, Alex. It has to be.’
Swan nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right. We’ve practically searched everywhere else for it’
They watched in silence, and after what seemed like an hour, but was only actually nineteen minutes, one of the wading constables, blew his whistle.
The others turned around to see him, as Swan and Dugdale leant over the rail for a better look. The constable put his whistle back into his jacket and shouted. ‘I’ve found something.’ He bent down and placed his hand into the water.
Everyone’s eyes, were now on him, as he pulled out a long object.
From the parapet of grey concrete above the cliff, Dugdale gave an exciting cheer. ‘That’s it, by God, that’s it.’
Swan smiled, watching his colleague shout a praise below, at the smug looking policeman.
The constables waited on the beach for their colleague to walk out of the water; one carrying the officer’s shoes with his socks tucked inside them. When he got to them, they all gave him a congratulatory pat on the back, as he held out the item in his gloved hands for them to view.
Twenty minutes later, Swan and Dugdale stood on opposite sides to each other, scrutinising the coupling brace as it lay on Brian Mitchell’s desk, on top of a polythene evidence bag. The suspected murder weapon, had finally been found. Dugdale placed it into the bag, as Swan wrote Exhibit A, on a brown luggage label.