Hallett, the chief engineer at the site, was a larger than life, jovial looking man in charge of test operations, working hard over the past few years, to create a good team of highly skilled British, French and German scientists and engineers. His long, greying black hair and full beard made him look more like a pirate than a VIP at the head of Britain’s space rocket programme. Despite this rugged appearance, his passion was Morris Dancing, belonging to a troupe back on the mainland.
An easterly wind shot across them, as it breezed in from the sea, and Hallett looked up at the white rocket set, into the launch gantry; its nose pointing towards a point in the cloudless sky. He watched attentively, as fuelling supervisor, Paul Baxter, checked the large hoses at the base of the gantry, then approached and spoke to him in his familiar Wiltshire brogue. ‘How’s the new exhaust manifold bearing up, Paul?’
Baxter stood up wiping his hands on his overall. ‘It’s a lot better now, Ron. We seem to have overcome the leak problem, and the last fire chamber test was a success.’
Hallett nodded in appreciation. ‘Outstanding, Mr Baxter. It’s about time we had some good news for a change. I need to produce a progress report to the Ministry, and this problem will be at the top of the agenda. It doesn’t really help that Brian isn’t back from London yet. If he was here, it would save me having to keep coming out and checking the progression, allowing me to get on with the sodding paperwork.’
Brian Mitchell was the Site Manager and Chief Firing Officer, but as he was the last of the Highdown personnel to see Karl Ruger alive, had been detained by the police in London for questioning.
Hallett looked out to sea, and then glanced up into the early afternoon clear-blue sky. ‘Still, Kevin, if the weather is this good on launch day, we should have a spectacular sight. Pity though, it will be on the other side of the world.’
Powell agreed and satisfied with the progress, the two men then walked down the hill and into the Administration Block.
Inside the building, Powell walked towards his office and Hallett was interrupted by his secretary, Loretta Wilkins. ‘Sir, you had a call from an Inspector Lovett, at Scotland Yard. He would like to ask you some questions about poor Mr Ruger.’ She displayed a hint of sadness on her otherwise attractive face.
Still showing elation from the tests, Hallett suddenly changed, his mood mirroring that of his secretary.
‘Ah yes, very well, can you get him back on the phone please, Lorrie? I will take the call in my office.’
Wilkins acknowledged her boss’s request, studying him as he marched into the office at the end of the corridor.
Inside, the phone on his desk rang. The voice at the other end affirmed. ‘Mr Hallett, sorry to disturb you, sir, I just need to talk to you regarding the late Mr Ruger. I was wondering, if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions.’
Hallett braced himself. ‘Not at all Inspector. What can I do for you?’
Inspector Lovett was a small man, but packed a powerful punch. Nicknamed ‘Staffy’ by the squad after the combination of the small, aggressive, dog breed and Lovett’s distinctive Welsh roots, he had been head of the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard, for the last three years. He cleared his throat and spoke into the receiver. ‘Okay, I was hoping that you would be able to tell me why Ruger, happened to be in Battersea? I am aware of the space conference at the Science Museum, but seem to be at a loss, why he ended up where he did.’
Hallett thought for a minute. ‘At the conference, I asked him if he had been to London before. He replied that he hadn’t, but he did say that he had an old wartime friend, who had settled there. He also said, he was going to try and visit him before returning back here.’
Lovett nodded. ‘I see. Well, when you last saw him, how was he? Did he seem okay to you?’
Hallett smiled. ‘Karl was always very enthusiastic about our project, and was quite excited, when he was asked about it by the journalists at the conference. Something he said, made me laugh.’
Lovett enquired. ‘Oh, what was that?’
‘He said, that Black Arrow may not be the Apollo, but it will perform just as well as a Saturn Five, which seemed to have really got the backs up of the NASA representatives at the event.’
Lovett wrote some notes onto a writing pad, on his desk. ‘So, what happened after the conference?’
Hallett recollected his thoughts. ‘I went and met my wife. She was shopping in Knightsbridge and Karl and Brian Mitchell went back to their hotel for dinner.’
Hallett realised that he was beginning to feel upset. ‘That was actually the last time I saw poor Karl alive.’
‘Indeed, Mr Hallett, I’m truly sorry. By the way, Mr Mitchell has been most helpful to us here, and you will be pleased to know that you can have him back now. In fact, he should make the last ferry from Southampton.’
To be sure of this, Lovett quickly checked his watch, confirming again.
Hallett suddenly perked up. ‘That is good news. I’ll send for a driver to pick him up. Is there anything else Inspector?’
Lovett shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Hallett.’
‘So, have you anything to go on, as to why he was murdered, Inspector? Something from his past perhaps?’
‘Not really; there are a few leads and I suppose that once we get the ballistics report from the lab, we should at least be able to identify the murder weapon. A special investigation team from the MOD, has been assigned to the case, and is looking into it, right now. Anyway, Mr Hallett, thanks once again for your help.’
‘Not at all Inspector, if there is anything else I can help you with or these MOD chaps, please feel free to contact me.’ Hallett put down the receiver, walked out of the office, and along the corridor. He stopped to look at the clock above his secretary’s head. ‘Mr Mitchell will be arriving on the four-pm ferry from Southampton, Lorrie. Please can you send a car to collect him for me?’
Loretta Wilkins nodded checking her watch. ‘Of course, sir.’
Chapter 6
The following morning, Alex Swan swung his green 1965 Triumph TR 4A, through the main gates of The Furrows, stopping before the yellow and black striped barrier, adjacent to the guardroom. A tall military policeman stepped out, walked to the driver’s door and placed his hand on the black vinyl roof. Swan wound down the window and showed his pass.
Situated between the borders Kent and Sussex, the large guest house had formerly been a stately home, and during World War 2, commissioned as a training establishment for agents of the Special Operations Executive. Being not far from Chartwell, the country home of Sir Winston Churchill, he had become a frequent visitor, especially when the newly recruited agents were about to be dispatched for their first missions. After the war, and due to its location to London, the War Ministry had made a compulsory purchase on the estate, turning it into a leisure facility for officers of the three services. The surrounding grounds, were completely equipped for clay pigeon shooting, archery, and trout fishing, whereas the 17th Century Georgian mansion itself, boasted a billiard room, gymnasium and in an attached annex, a full-length swimming pool. The latest addition, was a covered bowling hall with plush smooth green carpet. Completing the luxurious ensemble, was a bar, lounge area and a restaurant with a myriad of experienced chefs, serving the finest international cuisine. For accommodation, the mansion also had twenty guest suites. What was not so noticeable at the site, was the array of security precautions, which included strategically placed alarm sensors and anti-bugging devices. Located behind the mansion, was a small barrack block, housing a small company of military policemen, with attached kennels housing six three-year old Alsatians. The ten-foot perimeter fence, was electrified, and there were also fixed camera ports installed at intervals, monitored on a 24-hour basis, in the guardroom at the main entrance.