Last Out From Roaring Water Bay Read online

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  In the context of this story I specified that a Japanese type C-3 cargo submarine, the I-52, was sunk by the Allies in the Atlantic in 1944 while rendezvousing with a German U-boat in the Bay of Biscay. The sinking of the submarine is a true wartime incident that occurred during the Second World War and therefore I cannot claim it as a piece of my creative imagination. As to the events surrounding the fate of I-52, and the role that Allied intelligence played, the Allies believed that the Japanese submarine carried amongst its cargo a quantity of gold bullion destined for the Third Reich to assist Adolf Hitler with the war. It was imperative that the Allies stopped the submarine before the transfer of cargo could be concluded. Whether there was any truth of gold aboard the I-52, all the evidence went down when the submarine was sunk.

  In recent times, the I-52 was the subject of a television documentary featuring a team of American treasure hunters who had pinpointed the wreck site. Where the I-52 lay on the seabed, the submarine could only be reached with the use of submersibles and robotic cameras. The operation ended in disappointment, the team salvaging only tin ingots from the wreck and a few artefacts. There was no sign of the gold. The American salvage team presumed that the gold might never have existed in the first place, and if it had, then the mystery only deepened, probably never to be solved and the gold myth lost forever.

  The incident concerning the I-52 came to my attention much earlier, before the documentary was made. I read of its fate in an English newspaper article. The thought of gold excites people. It makes good reading. It excited me too. The newspaper story had my imagination running wild: what if and decoy occupying my thoughts. Both sent my imagination dizzy. What the wartime incident did provide was the inspiration for me to develop and fantasize an intriguing deceptive plot and the chance to introduce my modern day metal detectorist* and renowned treasure hunter, Shackleton (Shacks) Speed, into the affray. More appealingly, to drench the readers thirst for adventure and my theory of what could have happened to the gold in that eventful year of 1944, so long ago. I often wonder if I am close to the truth of where the gold went during the war and, inadvertently, my story does mirror something that had actually occurred; uncovered a long lost secret perhaps. After all fiction is a dream and sometimes dreams come true. Perhaps my story holds hidden truths too, and out there, waiting to be exposed, there is a hoard of gold to be discovered. Who knows maybe ‘Last out from Roaring Water Bay’ points in that direction?

  Note

  *Metal detectorist is not a phrase printed in the English dictionary that I used. I refer to a metal detectorist as a person who skilfully locates buried treasure solely by the means of a hand held metal detecting device.

  Acknowledgements:

  Snake Jacobs in the USA, for his guidance and unselfish editing on my behalf.

  JOE LANE

  Chapter One

  Fate powers life. It determines timing, the place, the day and the moment of action. It has its advantages. It has its disadvantages. It can be lucky. It can be cruel. Mixed with a pile of trouble it can be frigging dangerous and life threatening and I was somewhere in the middle.

  I’ve never set out to find trouble; it usually finds me instead. I deal with trouble remarkably well, and eventually, I escape smelling of roses instead of human excrement. Certain antagonists had me down as an arrogant, lucky bastard who should be locked up and the key thrown away. Fortunately, I ride my luck well and I wasn’t going to change the way I operated because of a few scares. I always thought I could handle awkward troubles. It seems I was wrong. The trouble hurtling towards me on my blind side, as I shuffled around in the hollow of a shallow gully nestling in the middle of a windswept Berkshire field using my metal detector, was trouble that bordered on destroying my confidence on how life in the fast lane had been good to me.

  It all began inconspicuously enough when the metal detector sent a signal into my headphones indicating a buried object. The erratic bleeping more or less informed me that I’d located something big. What the bleeps didn’t reveal, and something I would never have envisaged, is my next action would ultimately veer me along a road to unforeseen bedlam and the possibility that I would have to kill someone along the way.

  I was too preoccupied listening to the strength of the bleeps to be thinking of such drastic circumstances. I was scanning the ground in front of me, ascertaining the true point of contact as to where I should dig first. Satisfied, I pushed the spade into the soil to mark the spot, put the detector down to one side, slipped the headphones down around my neck and turned over the grassy clump of dirt with high expectancy, only to be disappointed with what I’d unearthed.

  Instead of the anticipated antiquity, I was staring at a length of rotting, dark brown braided electrical flex which wasn’t even worth scrap value. False alarms are common amongst detectorists, but I don’t usually fall into that category. I’m usually a lucky bastard through and through when it comes to finding something worthwhile. Not this time. In sheer frustration that I’d been conned, I pulled hard on the flex to dislodge it from the ground, probably too hard because it gave suddenly and I startled when a fist of skeletal knuckles flew out from the soil and tried to grab me by the throat.

  I was probably overreacting on the ‘grab my throat’ theory but my gut reaction had me rearing away expecting the putrid smell of decaying flesh when in reality there was nothing but the smell of freshly dug peaty soil. I stood there wondering what I should do next, as this was my first grave find. A sensible person would have walked away immediately and contacted the police. Sensible people, on the other hand, make little headway in the pursuit of discovery. I’m different. I like a challenge, and I have an insatiable curiosity to meddle and learn, especially with things buried.

  I didn’t need much encouragement to coax me to continue digging. Ever so carefully I began to clear away the soil from around the hand bones, burrowing deeper into the grassy slope with my short handled miniature spade and ideally suited for delicate work. Within minutes I’d unearthed the skeleton’s skull and left shoulder. I assessed what I’d found, and judging by the deterioration of the leather skullcap, flying jacket and tunic, glare goggles, the oxygen equipment and mouth inflatable life jacket, it was obvious that I’d found the remains of a wartime fighter pilot. Further digging showed the pilot was still harnessed inside the crumbling cockpit, which clearly suggested he never got the chance to escape before the plane crashed.

  I gave a customary military style salute. My, “welcome home, Mister,” was greeted by the unnerving movement of the skeleton’s skull rolling slowly sideways as the supporting soil fell way. Something fell from behind the glare goggles and dangled there. It was the pilot’s identity tags, or at least what was left of them. I leaned over and handled the tags with care while I cleaned the dirt from the
metal with a little spit and finger rubbing, eventually revealing the faint indentations that were still visible. Corrosion had set in but one word showed through faintly, ‘Craven’. I let the tags fall back and stepped away from the remains.

  I didn’t spend too much time pondering on whether Craven was the first or surname name of the pilot because I’d no intention to make this my problem. I wiped my soiled hands across my trousers, took the mobile phone from my jacket pocket and called the owner of the land.

  “Tommy…Yes it’s me, Shacks. Come down to the far field as quickly as you can…Don’t ask questions, mobiles cost money. I’m down in a gully…Where? Look for the cows congregating…No I’m not in any trouble, but hurry anyway because I’ve something to show you.”

  While I was tucking my phone back into my pocket I noticed the flex I’d unearthed was attached to something still gripped in the skeleton’s hand. Now I was well aware of the implications for desecrating a war grave but I’ve little patience of listening to what I can do and what I can’t do, and bearing in mind that nobody was watching, I prised the finger bones apart to recover the device.

  It was a push button mechanism made of Bakelite, its inners seized as I discovered when I tried to press the trigger. It had to have operated something of importance for the pilot to have kept hold of the device and I wanted to know what. I began tracing where the flex went, easing the cable gently from the crumbling soil so as not to snap and lose it, eager to find its origin before Tommy arrived.

  The flex finally disappeared into what I assumed to be a corroding camera casing which dropped away from its attachment when I had moved the soil. In that instance I knew I’d found a WWII photographic reconnaissance plane. I wondered how much money old wartime footage would bring on the open market? With no hesitation I ripped the flex from the camera, crouched down onto one knee, slipped the large rucksack from my shoulder, wrapped the camera in a sheet of polythene and stuffed the camera inside the rucksack quicker than a Harrods shoplifter committing their crime behind a store detective’s back.

  I rose to my feet when I heard the clanging of Tommy’s ancient tractor as it approached the top of the gully. He was on foot when I caught sight of him peering down. He had his dog beside him, Winston, a strange looking beast, a cross between a Labrador and a Staffordshire bull terrier and despite the reputation of a half fighting dog, Tommy insisted Winston was a loveable character and he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’d no reason to disbelieve him. Nonetheless, this was a situation when no dog could be trusted.

  I gestured for Tommy to join me in the gully. I said, “Leave Winston up there. I don’t want the mutt running around the countryside with a bone clamped in his mouth.”

  Tommy was puzzled by what I said. His nose crinkled when he said, “Winston hasn’t got a bone.”

  “He will have if he comes down here.”

  Still puzzled, Tommy finger signalled and told Winston to sit and stay. The dog obeyed. Tommy made his slow descent, his arms spread out for balance, not wanting the indignity of a clumsy slip onto his arse. I was amazed how agile he was for his age.

  Tommy Bickermass had told me he was seventy two years old and the deep facial lines criss-crossing his leathery face verified his age. His day attending the farm began so early that it was rumoured he was solely responsible for waking up the crack of dawn before the cockerel even thought about it. He was dressed in his usual flashy woman pulling attire, a grubby flat cap, green checked tweed jacket covering a black satin waistcoat and a stained shirt. His brown cord trousers he had tucked into a pair of knee cap length Wellington boots that flopped when he walked. The thick curls of hair showing from beneath his hat was a mixture of yellow streaks mingling with grey and white, the yellow strands caused by the application of Grecian 2000, so he assured me.

  When he saw the grisly remains his grey eyes popped out and most noticeably a peculiar shade of white varnished his red mottled complexion. Composing himself with a puff of his cheeks, he said, “Blimey!” then added something really stupid. “Is the bugger dead?”

  I sighed, shook my head in dismay, and informed him sarcastically, “I suspect he’s been buried here for years on the strength of being dead, Tommy.”

  He tilted back his flat cap to scratch an imaginary itch on his forehead. He shook his head in disbelief and said solemnly, “I wonder who the bugger is?”

  “I’d say he was an R.A.F pilot shot down during the war, judging by the flying wings insignia badge on his tunic.”

  I thought it wise not to mention the camera or that it was a reconnaissance plane. I had my reasons, and the less others knew, the less chance of yours truly getting into serious trouble with the authorities. And then I noticed a strange trance like look in Tommy’s eyes. He gave me the impression he was at the first stages of having a heart attack. He worried me. I asked him if he was alright. He didn’t answer.

  His silence annoyed me as he stood there in deep thought.

  “Are you alright?” I snapped.

  Finally, in a slow drawl he said, “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what exactly?”

  Tommy got a little excited. “That Billy Banter was right after all!”

  “Who’s Billy Banter if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Billy! He’s a bit of a strange fellow, a bit slow in the brain. You know backward. I’ve known him since we were kids. Aye, I remember it all now. It was a late summer evening, the sun dropping over the horizon; year of forty three or forty four; during the war. You’d find Billy running through the long grass pretending to be a fighter plane. He spent hours doing it; bags of energy he had. You were knackered just watching him play. Then one day he came up with this incredible tale that he had shot down a plane from the sky and he was sorry for what he’d done. I mean, it wasn’t surprising that nobody took any notice of a nit-wit who hadn’t all the cogs in his brain working correctly. And now…this turns up. It means Billy wasn’t the crackpot we all thought he was, and …well this wreck proves he was right after all. Billy still lives around here. I suppose I should tell him about this but I doubt he’d remember me or the war.”

  “It wouldn’t have come to this if someone had believed him at the time. Quicker action could have saved the pilot’s life,” I added accusingly. “Instead the poor bastard perished, trapped in his cockpit. No doubt he suffocated to death buried in soil.”

  Tommy hit back. “Bugger off, Shacks! You make it sound so gruesome. We weren’t to know. We were just kids. And there was nothing mentioned that a plane was missing.”

  “At least now you can rectify your mistake by calling the local constabulary to get this mess sorted.”

  Tommy arched a solitary eyebrow. “What about you? Are you not stopping?”

  I was amazed he asked me that considering he knew my reputation first hand. “Frigging hell, I’m out of here! I may have found the wreck but I can’t take any credit. The authorities and I don’t exactly complement each other when it concerns digging up the countryside whether it’s for a dead body or the crown jewels.”

  Tommy winked at me. “So you were never here then?”

  “That’s right. Besides, why share the honour? Think of the coverage you’ll get. You’ll be hailed a national hero in the papers.”

  Tommy’s face gleamed at the thought of fame. “My name will be in the papers?” His smile widened when I nodded it would, and then his smile disappeared and he said with sadness in his voice, “Don’t suppose the bracelet turned up?”

  The excitement of my wreck find made me forget about the bracelet, the purpose of my trek to Berkshire in the first place. The bracelet was an inexpensive trinket that belonged to Tommy’s deceased wife, a cherished memento he kept in his jacket pocket even while working in the fields; the silly sod had lost it two weeks previous. I quickly put him out of his misery and produced a clear polythene bag from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  Tommy’s eyes brightened as he examined the soiled contents inside the bag and
realized what the bag held. “You found it!”

  “Two hours ago, middle field. I thought I’d continue scanning the rest of the fields while I was in the vicinity so I can eliminate it from my map references. Good job too. Or else this poor saviour of our wretched country would have rotted into total oblivion, never to receive an honourable burial.”

  Tommy gripped the bracelet tightly. “Well, the pilot will have his military funeral and I’ve got this back. It means a lot to me, you know. You’re a good un’ Shacks.”

  “I know, Tommy, but don’t forget; don’t tell anyone I was here,” I reminded him smartly.

  I collected my equipment, hitched a ride on the tractor back to the farm, threw the gear into the boot of my Mercedes Benz 500K Roadster and headed back to London. My first stop was at a photography shop situated on the corner of Lambeth Road and Kennington Road. Larry ‘the lens’ Lazerow was the proprietor, a good friend of mine. I plonked the camera I’d got from the crash site on the counter with the instruction, “develop that if you can Lens!”, and watched the astonishment creep across his Barbadian face as he studied the mess in front of him.

  “But it’s a bundle of rusting crap, Shacks.”

  “No, Lens, there’s a roll of film inside that I’m interested in.”

  “You expect me to extract it from this lump?”

  “I thought you said there’s nothing you couldn’t develop?”

  He jabbed his finger at the mess. “This doesn’t count.”

  “Don’t give me limp excuses, Lens. Make it quick will you.”

  Before he could continue his protest I’d dashed from his shop leaving a trail of words in my wake, “Sorry, Lens. In a rush, important engagement,” and went home expecting the good things to happen in my life.

  Chapter Two

  Since the discovery of the Spitfire wreck I decided to lay low for a while at home. I’m fortunate to have a sizable red bricked detached house, built in the fifties that nestled nicely in the grounds of a large plot. I like to think I live in the posh side of Hammersmith but it’s nowhere near to the standards of millionaires row half a mile down the road.