Chapter 23
As he sat at his desk, Ron Hallett shook his head at the man from SID. ‘Jean Lempiere, a saboteur? I can’t believe it. I thought you were convinced it was Gruber?’
Swan held up Lempiere’s file. ‘I made an enquiry into his war record, turns out, his father was executed by the French Resistance, as a collaborator. Jean, being the genius, he was with propulsion systems, not only worked for the Germans, but following his father’s death, willingly became a key member of Klaus Kemmler’s, V-2 team at Le Coupele, the secret rocket facility, just outside Calais, at St Omer. I have also discovered, this man mentioned, by Lempiere, a man called, Gunther Fleischer, was the commander at the base.
It took another hour after Dugdale telephoned for a police launch to come around the headland from East Cowes to retrieve the body. Swan and Dugdale observed the proceedings, as the men lifted the body out of the water, on to the boat. Dugdale shrugged, gazing at the retreating police boat. ‘So, where do you go from here then, Alex?’
‘Back to London to investigate our mysterious, Herr Fleischer.’
Dugdale looked at his watch. ‘Well, looks like you’ll have to spend another night on the island, my friend. The last ferry leaves Yarmouth, in ten minutes.
Swan smiled. ‘Funny enough Lionel, I was anticipating that. So, can you recommend a good B&B?’
As the early evening sun began to set over the Highdown site, Swan shook Hallett’s hand and turned to Dugdale and Morris. ‘It’s been really great working with you, gentlemen.’
Dugdale smiled. ‘Likewise, Alex, and if you ever get bored of your job in Whitehall, there’ll always be a place for you, at Newport CID. As you can see, we get plenty of action on the island.’
Swan sniggered at Dugdale’s humorous quip, and climbed into his car. ‘I take it, the guards up there, are aware the lockdown is now over? I don’t want them shooting at me.’
Dugdale acknowledged the SID man. ‘Don’t worry, Alex, they have been informed. Anyway, we’re following you straight out, and you can let us direct you to your B&B.
Swan put up his hand, gesturing his thanks and farewell. At the gate, he showed his credentials to the guard and waited for the gate to be opened. He allowed Dugdale’s blue Police Rover to pass him, put his car into gear, and followed it along the headland access road, running almost parallel to the island’s coastline.
In the Rover, Dugdale drove, while Morris sat next to him; both were silent, lost in their own personal thoughts of the last few days.
Morris looked out to the sea. He was thinking of how even after twenty-five years, a bunch of Nazis, could be able to cause such a disruption to technological progress.
His boss looked in the rear-view mirror at the grill of Swan’s sports car and smiled to himself. What an interesting man this, Alex Swan was, he thought.
The next morning, Swan having left the guesthouse, to be on the earliest ferry from Yarmouth, waited in his car in the queue of vehicles, ready to board the MV Freshwater.
Parked behind him, was a delivery truck; its driver joyfully banging his hands on the wheel to The Boxer, the new follow up song to Mrs Robinson, by American pop duo Simon & Garfunkel playing loudly on his cab radio.
Behind him, were two more vehicles, one of which was the black Ford Consul, hosting Fleischer’s killers. Trost looked out the side window at a light blue Morris Minor and smiled at the female driver, who wore a peach coloured sleeveless dress. She turned her head and gave him a coy smile in return, then executing a perfect gearshift, pulled across in front of them.
‘Pretty,’ said his colleague in German, also admiring the girl.
The ramp of the ferry was lowered in readiness for the vehicles to be loaded, the ferryman starting to wave them on. One by one, the engines turned over, starting their purring, as the vehicles’ occupants pushed down on their accelerators.
Swan sat patiently, as a Volkswagen campervan eased forward in front of him, then with the sound of the 4 stroke 1.6 litre engine, reverberating, he moved forward, attracting the attention of the girl in the Morris Minor. She looked ahead to her right and smiled in admiration, wondering if the driver was as handsome as the car, he was driving.
Swan drove onto the ferry and positioned himself behind the camper van. The delivery truck, behind him followed, and after the other two cars had boarded, the ferryman walked out in front of the Consul and put up his hand, while his colleague counted the vehicles, already on the boat.
The man on the boat, then raised his hand. ‘That’s it for this one, Jeff.’
The ferryman walked around to the driver’s side, as Baumann wound down his window. ‘Sorry sir, we’re full on this one. The next one is due in forty minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Baumann, in a slightly irritated tone.
The two members of staff, raised the ramp and secured the ferry’s gates, and waved an ‘all clear’ to a member of the crew standing on the deck, who pulled out a phone receiver from a wall panel to inform the ferry’s captain, waiting on the bridge.
Baumann watched angrily, as the two ferry handlers walked onto the boat’s platform.
Andreas Trost, ignored his bigger colleague. He was too busy looking at the green sports car parked on the boat, noting that it matched the one, that Fleischer had mentioned.
In the ferry, Swan switched off the Triumph’s engine and climbed out. Retrieving a packet of cigarettes, he was just about to light one, when a slender bare arm, with a thick white plastic bracelet around the wrist, reached over his left shoulder, brandishing a slim line silver lighter with an inviting flame.
‘Nice car,’ said an enthusiastic soft, female voice. ‘I much prefer the old shape TR 4, to the new TR 6,’ she added.
Swan turned, surprised at what he just heard; he smiled at the girl, taking in her peach dress. ‘Thank you, for both the light, and the nice compliment for my car. You obviously have a keen interest?’
The girl opened her mouth to answer him, but there was a sudden blast on the ferry’s horn, and the rumble of its engines were felt under their feet. They both gave an embarrassed laugh, waiting for the shrill of the horn to die, to introduce themselves. ‘I’m Alex, Alex Swan.’
‘Jilly, Jilly Franks,’ said the girl, mimicking his address, with a beaming smile on her face. They shook hands, then together, as the boat began to move, stared silently through the haziness of the morning sea fog, at the slightly abstract mainland coast. Swan then observed the sun, as it sat like a white ball, glowing through the mist. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.’
Jilly Franks, smiled. ‘Yes, it does.’
Swan turned to her. ‘So, what brought you to the Isle of Wight, Jilly?’
The girl suddenly appeared sheepish. ‘My husband, actually. He’s in Albany Prison. He got fifteen years for armed robbery.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘So, where does your interest in Triumph sports cars, come from?’
Jilly Franks raised a hand to brush her blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘Fast cars, have been in my family for years. My dad was hoping to be a Grand Prix driver.’ She sighed. ‘But, that wasn’t to be.’
‘And why was that?’
‘Because, he got ten years as a getaway driver, instead. He’s in the Scrubs.’
Swan laughed. ‘So, both your father, and your husband, are doing time?’
Jilly smiled. ‘Yes, and so would I be, if I had been caught at the bank with my husband.’ She paused. ‘You see, I was his getaway driver.’ She then suddenly put her fingers to her mouth. ‘Oh my god, you’re not a copper, are you?’