But the serious stuff was very well done. The sleek black Mercedes threaded its way over the cobblestone road, stopped and an older man in his late fifties climbed out. The tall upright figure walked up a flight of steps and disappeared into the darkness of the mausoleum.
Another shot, same man, medium close-up moving across camera. He turned towards the camera. Our photographer had probably complained that he was blocking the view, for Robert Flackyard walked a little more quickly out of frame. There were fifteen minutes of film centred on Flackyard. He was the same imperious figure of a man who had given me an envelope full of counterfeit currency on a night that seemed so long ago. Without warning the screen went blank.
The two policemen got to their feet, but Tatiana asked them to stay a moment longer to see something else. A still picture flashed on the screen. It was a black and white snapshot. A group of men all dressed in city suits were sat and standing face on to the camera, heads erect, arms folded.
Tats said, “This photograph was taken at a formal function inside Whitehall in 1979. Chief Superintendent Craven sorted it out for us.” I nodded to the policeman across the room. Tatiana went on, “Chief Superintendent Craven is second from the right, back row. He was an inspector at the time this photograph was taken. At the end of the front row there is a young man, who at the time was working at the Russian Embassy, here in London.” “Yes,” I said.
Vince enlarged part of the picture showing the young man, so that the big close up filled the screen. Tats went over and pulled down a clear over-screen and with a special marker pen drew in a new hairline, added a pair of glasses and darkened the eye sockets.
“OK,” I said. It was Robert Flackyard as a young man. The man sitting next to him was unmistakably Oliver Hawkworth in full military uniform.
DECORATED SOLDIER
FACES COURT MARSHALL
FOR ACTS OF DISHONORABLE CONDUCT
The 1981 press cuttings that Tats had copied from the firm’s extensive tabloid archive database were neatly laid out on my desk. The cuttings accompanied a file on a certain individual whose personal details I wanted to look at more closely. Out of all the information contained in the medical, psychiatric and career records, here it was, the clincher:
George Thomas Ferlind
• Male — White — Dark straight hair
• Complexion — Facial scarring due to chronic teenage acne
• Distinguishing marks — Small scar around left ear
• Eyes — Blue. Height — 6’ 0”
• Weight — 12 stone 10lb
• Temperament — Excitable
• IQ — Very high
This was the sinister George Ferdinand. Tats had used her contact at the Ministry of Defence to search for soldiers with a rank of sergeant or above who were serving in the same regiment as Oliver Hawkworth around the years 1979–1982 with names sounding like George Ferdinand. The database had come across one name similar to that of George Ferdinand — George Thomas Ferlind.
So Georgie boy was trained in explosives and was a qualified open water diver, had served in the Falklands, and was accused of and dishonourably discharged for bringing his regiment in to disrepute. So how had he escaped going to prison and a very long sentence? I remembered the story that Rumple had told that evening at the rented house in Dorset, of his exploits in the Falklands and how he was used to handling explosives.
Chapter 28
To wake up to the sound of the sea rolling lethargically onto the beach and the sun streaming through the window is to be in heaven. I lay in that misty half-way place between sleep and consciousness, pulling the cover up to my chin not wanting to advance into the reality of wide-awake. The sound of passing boats and distant voices trickled into my awareness; I heard cars passing on the road outside, the birds singing in the trees and the squawk of cats exchanging blows and fur. I got out of bed, stretching as I walked across the room to throw open the French windows.
The sun beat down onto the wooden balcony. As I stepped outside the seagulls slid down the offshore wind, disappearing momentarily into the water for their breakfast.
Fiona was fixing coffee and toast, holding the front of her loose-fitting silk pyjama top closed. I was particularly pleased that a large proportion of the coffee making was a two handed job. She was five feet ten inches tall and every inch a woman, as the light from the window showed off so effectively.
The death of Charlie McIntyre had put a completely different perspective on the whole assignment. Each day I’d had Fiona take the boat out and dive in a different spot around the local coastline and in completely the opposite direction to where we’d hidden the opium sacks. The sole purpose was to mislead Flackyard, or whoever else might be watching us, as to where the real site might be.
After breakfast, Fiona told me that the air bottles needed recharging but that she would be only a couple of hours, unless she decided to go shopping for a new outfit, of course. “Take as long as you need to,” I said. Miss Price was very pleased.
I walked along the beach, trying to reconcile the facts I had access to with the guesswork I’d made. As I look back on it I had enough information then to tell me what I wanted to know. But at that time I didn’t know what I wanted to know. I was just letting my sense of direction guide me through the maze of motives.
It was quite clear to me that the charismatic Oliver Hawkworth was connected with Flackyard right up to his double chin.
But what was his involvement? George Ferdinand alias George Thomas Ferlind, was a very dangerous individual as well as a highly competent explosive expert and qualified diver. But the strangest thing was that he had served in Hawkworth’s regiment. Who was he working for? Flackyard, as it appeared, or Hawkworth? Harry Caplin had received a ten thousand pound payment from Hawkworth, but why? A house by the water’s edge, Harry Caplin had said, and living in Sandbanks were absolutely perfect for him. I wonder why?
Oliver Hawkworth originally denied all knowledge of the opium packages aboard his boat the Gin Fizz, but that now seemed likely to have been merely a ruse to take the attention off him. Flackyard was quick to tell me about his past, but left out that he had been a diplomatic attaché at the Russian Embassy in London for two years. Was his brief really to study the European markets and report back to Moscow, or had he been involved in more clandestine activities connected to Hawkworth?
Did Hawkworth give the order to bomb LJ’s Range Rover? Had Hawkworth’s past caught up with him? Perhaps he was being blackmailed by Flackyard to participate in his illegal ventures. But why? Every road pointed to Hawkworth, and it was his motives I wanted to take a much closer look at — but time was running out.
I met Fiona at a smart bistro bar in the fashionable part of town.
The main bar area with high ceilings, and contemporary décor, gave this former bank building an air of cool sophistication. The late morning sun cascaded through the long windows, and men and women dressed for the office were standing at the bar chatting over a lunchtime drink, and taking in the easy-relaxed atmosphere.
We sat for a while longer drinking coffee, discussing the developments of my trip back to London and up to the Scottish Highlands to see Angus. Over a sandwich Fiona informed me that on at least two occasions while diving, she had spotted the same powerboat stalking her. It was always the same person watching, but far enough away for Fiona not get sight of who it could be.