Gary told him about his early-morning tip-off, and Charles said he would go straight to the Dockyard and call on his usual contacts to see what might be going on. If it is a foreign sailor at the police station, he conjectured, it might just be connected with the Russian visitors. In any case, he wanted to get a photo or two of the Russian ships to illustrate the story he was writing for Friday’s edition.
Meanwhile, Gary set off for his regular morning visit to the police station to take a look at the occurrences log for the past 24 hours with the duty sergeant. As usual, there were a couple of arrests of drunken sailors, a domestic row out in the suburbs and a fairly serious road accident – two injuries. All seemed normal – except that as he walked outside, his eagle eye spotted an unfamiliar black 4 x 4 vehicle in the car park at the front of the building with a London registration. It also had a more-sophisticated-than-usual radio antenna.
Gary returned to the police sergeant’s desk and enquired, casually, “Has the Chief Constable got a smart new vehicle, then?”
“No idea, pal,” replied the sergeant. “Saw it myself when I came in this morning, and CID told me it was a bit hush-hush – can’t say any more.”
Gary’s journalistic instincts immediately sensed something a bit fishy. As he went back through the car park, he surreptitiously took a quick picture of the black car on his mobile phone and then drove back to the newspaper office deep in thought. Who drives a vehicle like that? Must be something or someone special? And if that foreign naval type came from the Dockyard, he could have something to do with the Russian ships. Ah yes, Russians – that could be a story…?
Back in the newsroom, he was just doing some online research about the Russian navy when Charles called him from the Dockyard.
“Something is going on here,” he said. “They are not saying anything in the information office about the Russian ships except that they are scheduled to leave at the weekend. But when I was taking my pictures, one of the Dockyard foremen working nearby told me that soon after the ships docked yesterday, he saw a strange car pull up at the dockside and one of the men in the car took photographs as one of the Russian officers came down the gangway and met a woman who appeared to be waiting for him.”
“Did he say what sort of car?”
“I’m not far away,” said Charles. “I’ll go back and ask him – hold on.”
Gary overheard the conversation. “Yeah. I think it was a big black job,” said a third voice. “It was one of those four-wheel drives – don’t see many of those around here.”
Gary interrupted. “Charles, ask him what happened next and if he saw where the couple went?”
“I was quite a long way away”, came the reply. “But the officer and the woman walked off into the Dockyard and I think one of the men from the car was following them.”
Back in the newsroom, Gary and Charles put their heads together and spent the next hour calling their various police and naval contacts to see if there were any more clues. The next clue came when a friend of Charles’, who worked as transport manager in the Dockyard offices, told him that there was certainly some unusual activity going on. A couple of senior officers had arrived in the past half hour for an unscheduled meeting “upstairs with the bosses”. The office gossip was that they were making enquiries about one of the women in the communications department who had not arrived for work as usual, and they had asked several of her colleagues in the offices if they knew how to contact her.
“What’s her name?” asked Charles.
“Give me five minutes. I think I know who to ask. I’ll go somewhere quiet and call you back soonest,” came the reply.
The call came just a few minutes later. “Apparently, they’re looking for someone called Marina Peters – she lives in Southsea Terrace.”
Charles and Gary decided that it was time to brief their editor, Matthew Sampson. He was upstairs, sitting behind his traditional walnut desk, reading the morning papers, as they knocked on the door and went into his office. They soon got his full attention as they each outlined what they knew at this stage, and he advised them to be cautious; there were not many facts to go on yet, he pointed out. He, too, could smell a rat as they began to put the pieces together, but he also knew his responsibilities if an emerging news story involved the police, the Navy, the Russians and a mysterious black car from London.
“Let me make a few calls,” he said. “And you can send one of the young reporters over to Southsea Terrace to find out anything he can about Miss Peters; don’t tell him why – he can make up an excuse.”
The editor’s first call was to the Portsmouth Police Chief Constable, Terence Hardy – they were on good terms and had belonged to the same local golf club for years. He had the Chief’s direct line phone number, and it had been their understanding that they could always exchange information in confidence.
“Sorry to bother you, Terence,” he began. “It’s not about my nomination to the golf club committee this time. It’s about a story my guys have got wind of today. Something about a foreign naval officer brought in for questioning… and they think it may have something to do with the Russian ships in the Dockyard. Should I be interested?”
“Can’t say a thing, Matthew – you know I would if I could, but there are other parties involved, and I hope you will tell your guys to leave it alone at the moment. I will give you a call as soon as I know more. Okay?”
“Yes, understood. I’ll stay in touch.”
The editor could read between the lines. There was clearly something going on, and he suspected that if Russians were involved, it might have some national security angle which he would need to handle very carefully. Next, he called the office of the Royal Navy Commodore in the Dockyard and asked to speak to the number two man, Commander Robert Gaffney, who had been serving there for quite a few years and was experienced in dealing with the Press on confidential naval matters; he was also well known in Portsmouth dining circles. But he was not available, even for his friend Matthew, and neither was anyone else. “Try again later in the day,” was the unusual response from a junior officer. Matthew was not often rebuffed by his personal network.
Meanwhile, the young reporter had returned from the flat in Southsea Terrace with the news that Miss Peters had not been seen there since the previous day – but he went on to tell Gary that he had spoken to one of the elderly residents who told him that she had been surprised to be woken up by a police car arriving early that morning. She had then seen two police officers come into the building, and somehow they had entered Marina’s flat and spent about half an hour inside before leaving with several boxes.
And that was not all, the reporter added. She also said there had been “something funny” going on late the previous evening and she had heard comings and goings and had looked out and seen a police car there as well. The neighbour was understandably very concerned and had been trying without success to contact the only friend of Marina’s she knew; she gave the Herald reporter the name and phone number of one Betty McGuire.
Gary returned upstairs again and reported these latest developments to the editor. They called Charles into the office again for another review of the situation. The Herald had had a fine reputation as an evening newspaper for many years, but because of commercial pressures, it was no longer published daily. Since it was now Thursday morning and the next edition of the weekly paper would be put together that day for publication on Friday, they had limited time to think.
They pondered and decided that Gary should next try to find this Betty McGuire while Charles kept an eye on the Dockyard and his naval contacts, and they would meet again mid-afternoon to hopefully finalise the story for that week’s edition.