Boy soldier bs-1 Read online

  The TDM passed the bus for the final time. Mick and Fran in the Golf had the trigger at the next bus stop.

  'Stand by, stand by. That's Bravo One at the doors. He's at the doors ready to go foxtrot. Indicators on, bus slowing… Stop, stop, stop at Marble Arch. Fran's going foxtrot.'

  Before Danny was even off the bus, Fran was on the pavement ready to take over the follow.

  'Fran has Bravo One foxtrot on the Edgware Road, on the left towards the first junction left. He's checking a street map.'

  Fran was briefly on her own while the others tried to shortcut their way towards Danny. It was a critical phase, but the pavement was busy with pedestrians, meaning Fran could continue for some time without fear of alerting any third party. Then she hit a problem.

  'That's Bravo One approaching first junction left. That's Bravo One gone left. Temporarily unsighted.'

  Fran quickened her pace, hurrying but not running: it was crucial to stay third party aware. But there was no need for her to worry. Just before she turned the corner, Jimmy came on the net.

  'Jimmy has Bravo One. Foxtrot on Seymour Street. He's slowing – looks like he's searching for an address. Wait… wait…'

  Fran turned into Seymour Street and saw the TDM parked towards the end. There was no sign of Jimmy, but Danny was standing outside a building with a glass canopy over the entrance doors.

  'Wait… wait… Bravo One going into building now. Now unsighted.'

  Fran cut in on the net.

  'I'll do a walk past. Wait out.'

  She walked slowly down the street, not stopping as she reached the building, just glancing up at the words written along the side of the canopy. They read: THE VICTORY CLUB.

  7

  The interior of the Victory Club took Danny by surprise. From the outside it looked old and established like most of the other buildings in the street, but once through the automatic double doors he saw that it was all black wood, steel and mirrors. Some trendy designer had been hard at work giving the place a makeover.

  To the left was an open door leading into a canteen-style dining room, where a few old boys were having lunch. They didn't look much like old soldiers to Danny, but then he had no idea what old soldiers were meant to look like.

  Straight ahead was a mirrored reception desk. But between Danny and the desk stood a massive security guy in a black suit. He was checking the names of three other smartly dressed men against a list he held.

  Glancing down at his jeans and leather jacket, Danny wondered if maybe he should have worn a tie. It was too late to worry, and anyway, there was a much bigger problem – his name wasn't on that list. He thought quickly. 'Use your initiative,' that's what they'd told him at the army officers' selection board. He glanced around the entrance hall and spotted an information board detailing the events in the various conference rooms. At the top it read: TRAFALGAR ROOM. ARMY RESETTLEMENT SEMINAR.

  As the three visitors were given the OK to go into the club, Danny strode confidently after them. He didn't even look at the security guard and for a couple of seconds it seemed as though he'd got away with it.

  Then a surprisingly high-pitched voice said, 'Excuse me, can I help you?'

  'I'm here to see my dad,' answered Danny as he turned back, smiling innocently. 'He's on the army resettlement course. Said he'd meet me in the bar at lunch time.'

  'And your name is…?'

  Danny hadn't thought that far, but there was another room mentioned on the information board. It would have to do. 'Carisbrook. Danny Carisbrook.'

  The security guard studied his list. 'No Carisbrook on here. I'm sorry, your dad hasn't signed you in.'

  Danny silently told himself what a dickhead he'd been. He shouldn't have made up a name; he could have just said he was looking for his missing grandfather.

  But his luck was in. The security guard looked up from his list and winked. 'Tell you what, you go through to the bar and when your dad arrives get him to come and sign you in. You see, the thing is, being a military club we have to be very aware of security.'

  'Yeah, I can see that,' answered Danny, trying not to laugh and moving quickly off towards the bar. 'I'll get my dad to come out.'

  The bar room was smart. Gleaming. And virtually deserted, almost as though the club members didn't want to use it for fear of spoiling the newness of the furniture and fittings. The carpet even smelled new.

  Behind the bar itself, an operation was being carried out with military precision. The barman was polishing glasses, patiently putting a shine on each one and then adding it to a row on the bartop. They made a perfect line, like they were on parade, a credit to the proud barman, who sighed loudly and deliberately as Danny approached. The boy was interrupting important work. 'Can't serve you.'

  'Eh?'

  'Not unless you're accompanied by a member.'

  'But I don't want a drink,' said Danny.

  Another glass was added to the row and its position was adjusted slightly. 'That's what we do here. Serve drinks. Wines, beers, spirits, even soft drinks. That's why I'm here.' He picked up another glass.

  Danny sighed. 'I'm looking for someone, trying to find him.'

  'Member, is he?'

  'I don't think so. But he might have been.'

  The barman reluctantly stopped polishing and put down the glass, realizing that Danny wasn't going to go away until his questions were answered. 'Name?'

  'Watts. Fergus Watts.'

  The stare was hard and suspicious. 'And you are?'

  'I'm his grandson, Danny. And I need to find him, it's really urgent.'

  The hard features softened. 'I'm Harry,' said the barman with a nod and a smile. His face became a mask of concentration as he scrolled through his mental filing cabinet of familiar and half-forgotten names. 'Fergus Watts… Fergus Watts.' Eventually he shook his head. 'Doesn't mean anything to me, and I know them all here.'

  Danny reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, took out the photograph and handed it over. 'My granddad's the one in the middle. It's an old photo but he can't have changed that much.'

  Harry studied the faded photograph and then turned it over and saw the writing on the back. He laughed. 'Two and six. Half a crown, we called it. Those were the days.'

  'But those other numbers,' said Danny quickly, not wanting to be drawn into a long conversation about the good old days, 'the ones after his name – what do they mean?'

  'Probably his last four,' answered Harry with a shrug.

  'Last four? Last four what?'

  Harry smiled indulgently. 'Everyone gets an eight-digit number in the army. There might have been a few Wattses in his unit so they just wrote the last four with the name. Last four avoids confusion, specially in the Welsh regiments with all those Joneses and Davises. No one ever forgets their number.'

  He beckoned Danny a little closer and continued, 'Between you and me, I use my last four on my cash card. It's easy to get confused at my age so-'

  'But do you know him?' interrupted Danny. Getting a simple answer to a simple question wasn't proving an easy task.

  Harry looked at the photo again. 'I'm sorry, son, I don't. And I can tell you for a fact that he's never been in here because I go back longer than anyone. They reckon I'm part of the furniture, and I'm talking about the old furniture, not this new fancy stuff.'

  It had all been a complete waste of time and the only lead had led absolutely nowhere. Danny took back the photograph and started to put it into his pocket.

  Harry picked up his tea cloth. 'You need to have a word with Big Kev.'

  'Who?'

  'The tallest bloke in the photo, the one on the right. He's a lot younger there but I'd know Big Kev anywhere.'

  Danny stared at the photograph again. He'd never taken the slightest interest in the two young men standing on either side of his grandfather. Not until now.

  'That's Kev Newman,' said Harry, picking up a glass and beginning his polishing again. 'He'll be in tomorrow. There's a funeral for an ex
-Regiment man and the wake's here afterwards. And Big Kev never misses a piss-up.'

  8

  Most days, business was over at Frankie's burger bar by mid afternoon. The white vans were heading back to their depots and the last of the reps had called in for a mug of tea and a chat. Turning off the hot water, cleaning the griddles, washing up and locking up didn't take very long.

  Frankie could drive home in less than twenty minutes. But Frankie never went straight home. His anti-surveillance drill meant a long and complicated journey.

  He unlocked the driver's door of his dark blue Fiesta, took a last look in both directions, climbed into the car and started the engine. The car was old and boring but in good nick, and that was just how Frankie wanted it. He never took unnecessary risks or drew attention to himself. Being stopped by the police for a routine check was taking an unnecessary risk, so the tyres on the Fiesta were legal, the lights worked, the tax disc was on display and the MOT was up to date.

  On the drive towards Rochford, Frankie stuck to the speed limits, regularly checking his mirrors and taking a mental note of the make and colour of the vehicles following. Three miles from the town he pulled into a lay-by and pretended to look for something in the foot well. With no junctions for a quick turn-off, the following vehicles were committed to passing. Frankie clocked them all as they went by.

  Back on the road he drove twice around the roundabout just outside the town, looking at the road signs as if he were confused. The roundabout was an obvious changeover place for a surveillance team, the ideal spot for one vehicle to peel off so that another could take over the follow. The double turn around the roundabout gave Frankie another chance to check on following vehicles.

  He drove into a new residential area of flats and houses behind the town centre. The network of quiet streets gave him a wide choice of overnight parking places. He chose a different one every evening. He parked up, got out of the car and walked quickly across the road and through an alleyway towards the shops.

  Frankie knew the surveillance game only too well. The most difficult time for a team is going foxtrot, so the quicker he got out of sight the harder it was to get the trigger on him. He moved as swiftly as he could but remained third party aware, never looking back to see what was happening behind.

  Hiding his limp completely was impossible, and the faster he walked the more apparent it became. He'd been stuck with it ever since the bodged operation in Colombia. It was with him for life and a real bonus for any watching surveillance team. A VDM that helped pick out Frankie in a crowd.

  He went into a shop and bought an evening newspaper. Standing in the queue to pay, he glanced out through the windows, looking for even the smallest sign that he was being followed. Signs like someone hovering for a moment too long by the doorway or apparently talking to themselves when walking by – a basic error. Surveillance operators are trained in not moving their lips when talking on the radio net.

  Frankie saw nothing suspicious, but that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't being followed. It could mean that the team was good.

  He left the shop and crossed the small town square. He went through another alleyway into a small car park, pulling from his jacket a green nylon waterproof and a rolled-up flat cap. His ancient, three-gear bicycle was locked to a railing. He quickly unlocked the bike, put on the waterproof and flat cap and cycled away.

  It was a long ride home, but Frankie was used to it.

  The bustling modern commuter towns of east Essex gradually give way to a flat, marshy landscape, where ancient villages like Canewdon, Paglesham and Creeksea could still almost be a million miles from the twenty-first century.

  The cottage was in remote farmland, off a quiet B-road and down a long muddy track. Around it were small patches of woodland and further out were the marshes and then the river Crouch.

  Frankie reached the track and stopped to check that no vehicles had made any ground sign in the mud. It was clean of tyre marks.

  He walked down the track, pushing the bike by the saddle. Halfway down and off to one side stood an old, disused chicken coop. Underneath it, attached to a wire, was a mini Maglite torch. The front glass had been covered with tape so that when the torch was on it showed just a pinprick of light. Frankie checked under the coop. There was no beam of light, which meant that the motion detectors in and around the house had not been tripped during the day. If they had, Frankie would simply have turned round and never come back. The only rule was survival.

  Walking towards the cottage, he made sure he tripped the four further concealed detectors. Their wiring was dug into the mud and their monitors were hidden in the branches of stunted and wind-blown trees lining the track. They were at shoulder height – that way they couldn't be tripped by a fox or a dog.

  The detectors were connected to normal domestic security lights placed along the track and around the house. Normal, but specially customized by Frankie. They were covered with layers of infra-red filter paper, meaning that if they were activated there would be no flood of white light. Instead, IR security cameras hidden beneath the lights would relay pictures back to the small bank of TV monitors inside the house.

  The house was like a fortress. Fortress Frankie. Everything used in its defence had been bought at either the local B amp;Q store or an electrical repairs shop and then been adapted by Frankie for his special requirements. He had security down to a fine art.

  He reached the cottage. All seemed in order: the garden gate was still closed. He ran one hand down to a point just below the latch and felt the tip of the match head he had wedged there while closing the gate that morning. No one had opened the gate. No one had reason to: Frankie never got any mail.

  He took the bike inside, locked the front door, and went into every room, checking that nothing had been disturbed.

  Most of the rooms had bare, original floorboards or old carpet, but in the kitchen Frankie had fitted a cheap vinyl covering in an imitation marble tile pattern. In front of the sink unit a thick rug was super-glued to the vinyl. Frankie grabbed one edge of the rug with both hands and pulled, lifting the rug, the covering and the hidden trapdoor beneath.

  The rotting wooden steps disappeared into darkness. A torch lay on the first step. Frankie switched it on and descended into the cellar. It was damp and musty, and because of the closeness to the river, a few millimetres of water covered the floor even in the summer months. But apart from the isolated location of the cottage, the cellar had been its major attraction.

  Against one wall was a stack of wooden boxes. Frankie moved them to one side and shone a torch into a small hole halfway up the wall. The piercing beam picked out the coffin-sized cave a metre and a half into the tunnel. In it was a bin liner full of clothes, tinned food and most of Frankie's savings. Beyond the cave, the narrow tunnel stretched away into darkness for nearly twenty metres. At the far end, a camouflaged escape hatch went up to ground level in the tree line to the right of the cottage. If ever the house came under attack Frankie's best chance of survival would be concealment. The cave was one of his hides; there were two more out in the woodlands.

  He went back up to the ground floor and looked at the TV monitors to make sure the detectors had tripped on the way in. The reassuring green glow of the muddy track from the IR cameras told him all was well.

  That was it. Drill over. Frankie could relax, as much as he ever relaxed. He would make himself a meal and then settle down to another night in front of the telly.

  9

  'Your granddad was a good bloke.'

  'Was?'

  Kev Newman shrugged, took a long drink from his pint of bitter and sat back in his chair. It seemed to have difficulty in containing him. 'Figure of speech.'

  It was easy to see why he was known as Big Kev. He was massive. He'd looked tall in the photograph but in the years since then he'd bulked up in a big way. Now muscle was gradually turning to fat, but with hands like shovels, Kev still looked like the wrong man to pick an argument with.

&
nbsp; The Victory Club was heaving, very different from Danny's first visit. The 'old and bold', the name given to ex-SAS men, had turned out in their droves to give their mate a good send-off. Ties were loosened, jackets were draped over the backs of chairs, the beer was flowing and the room was alive with animated conversation and laughter. The funeral was over and the wake was well and truly underway.

  Getting into the Victory had been easier for Danny second time around. He'd arranged for Harry the barman to sign him in under the name of Carisbrook and it had been no problem, specially as he was more suitably dressed in jacket and tie.

  He spotted Kev Newman as soon as he walked in with a bunch of his mates. Big Kev wasn't easy to miss. The group got in their first round of drinks, and as they made their way towards a corner table, Kev was waylaid by another veteran. Danny waited until Kev was alone and then moved in and introduced himself.

  If the big man was surprised he didn't show it. He looked at Danny and nodded, as if seeing the similarities between grandson and grandfather. Then he shook hands, almost crushing Danny's fingers in his giant fist, and invited him to join the group at the table. When they pulled up their chairs Kev simply said to the others, 'This is Danny.' Nothing more.

  Since then they'd been talking quietly, sitting slightly apart from the rest. But the conversation wasn't getting very far. Danny leaned in closer to Big Kev. 'Do you know where my granddad is?'

  The answer came immediately. 'Haven't a clue.'

  'But you were his friend.'

  'Best mates. That photo you've got was taken before we even made it into the Regiment. We went all the way together, joined up at the same time and then-'

  Whatever Kev was about to say went unspoken as he stood up, almost spilling his beer in the process. As Danny looked on, bewildered, the other veterans stood up too. Then he saw why.