“He
passed all the information about the plot onto his MI5 handler who sits on the
Irish desk Sir. Even showed him the old pistol that he had been given and
stated that about a thousand pounds had been mentioned. We have taken no action
because of her close connections with his Majesty. We can surmise that the
money came from her current lover, who certainly would have cash like that
lying about sir.” The captain wiped his face again and shifted in his seat; his
arse was sweating now on the unyielding leather.
The
big man grunted and blew smoke about; “So there is no real danger to his
majesty?” The captain nodded and almost smiled; “Jerome Bannigan couldn’t hit a
barn door with a cannon and certainly doesn’t have the guts to pull the trigger
sir. He’ll take the money and do a little time as agreed and the evidence will
pile up against her and her handlers. I believe we have - quite cleverly – out
manourvered them on this occasion and public sympathy will swing away from her
and the King will see sense.”
The
big man grunted again; “Good. That whore will ruin the young King and with him,
the British Empire. With the situation in Germany and Italy the world will
desperately need the British Empire until the stupid Americans realise what is
going on and act.” He tapped his cigar on the open window ledge and muttered; “I
can’t believe that he could become so entangled with a woman who is no better
than a street walker. She is cheating on him with three men at the moment –
right under his nose – and her file is thick as the Bible with all her other
conquests. They just have to give the word and she’ll have a terrible and fatal
accident.”
Chris
gripped the wheel and stared at the crowds lining the route and
wondered, who the hell were they? He sat up a little as the King – mounted –
passed by to cheers and applause from the crowds. The new King may have a
reputation for women – other men’s wives normally – just like his grandfather
[Edward VII] but the public loved him. They didn’t have those feelings for his
current mistress though. The foreign tabloid newspapers had exposed her past on
many occasions and it made uncomfortable reading for large sections of the
British public who had access to those newspapers. He sighed and sat back,
glancing at his watch; it was just after midday.
At
first, they thought it was a car backfiring. But the captain – with his
experiences in the Great War - knew they were pistol shots. He and Chris were
out of the car in seconds; the big man remained calmly smoking his cigar. The
place was in utter chaos with police and soldiers trying to keep order and stop
the crowd from lynching the little man in the shabby brown suit there and then.
There
was group of police and officers around the King as he lay sprawled on the warm
tarmac, while a young officer held onto his kicking horse. The noise from the
crowds was deafening and the captain had to shout his orders at the top of his
voice. Chris stared down at the road and could see little splatters of blood.
The King had been shot – twice apparently – and with some accuracy. He could
tell by his Bosses demeanour and almost panic-stricken actions that something
had gone terribly wrong.
The
King was placed into a big black police car which drove off at speed to St.
George’s hospital [that stood opposite Wellington Arch] with armed police
officers standing on the running boards. The bell siren fading into the
distance. An uniform Inspector grabbed captain Golding – he had blood on his
hands – and told him that the suspect had been taken to Hyde Park Police
station and his orders were to clear the crowds quickly as possible.
It
took some minutes to reach their car and Chris was told to drive to Hyde Park
nick immediately. The big man in the back was dropped off outside the park and
eased himself into a blue and white Morris driven by a very pretty young woman
in a lovely little hat. He had said nothing and didn’t even say farewell when he
left their car. Just for a second or two, Chris thought the big man was smiling
as he waddled over to his new ride. Chris pulled up outside the station which
had armed constables swarming all over
it. They walked slowly through the big doors and were shown into the Inspectors
office by a large sergeant who shouted down the corridor to a constable Davis
to fetch the Superintendent as MI5 were now on scene.
Captain
Golding leaned against the wall – opposite the window – in the bare office and
groaned he was white as snow and constantly wiping his face. “What the fuck
just happened?” he asked himself several times and Chris just had to smile at
the captain’s newfound profanity. Chris stood by the desk and fumbled in his
pockets, producing some mint humbugs. His mouth was dry as the Sahara Desert
and he could murder a cold beer; well, several of them if he was honest. The
door was thrown open and the uniform Superintendent strode in; he was not a
happy man. “The bastard admits everything, says it’s for the oppressed peoples
of Northern Island would you believe!” he slumped behind the large desk and
shook his head; “He’s called McMahon and has identity on him, comes from
Liverpool apparently.”
The
captain lowered himself into the only spare chair in the room and gripped his
hat with both hands; “His real name is Jerome Bannigan and he’s known….” He
hesitated and wiped his face again; “He’s known to us….MI5 I mean.” The
superintendent sat back in his chair and just stared at the captain for a good
twenty seconds then ran a hand over his face. He was a shrewd man. “I take it
this wasn’t supposed to happen?” he asked fumbling in his jacket pocket for his
‘Player’s Senior Service’ cigarettes.
The
captain simply nodded. The big policeman lit a cigarette and took a couple of
puffs, flicking the ash onto the bare floor. “Someone is going to hang for
this…” he never finished because the phone was ringing. He lifted the receiver
and spoke into the mouthpiece. He grunted yes, a couple of times and said thank
you, replacing the mouthpiece back onto its hook. He stared at the captain and
drew heavily on his cigarette before tossing it onto the floor and grinding it
with his boot. He spoke very quietly; like he was making an announcement to a
very subdued audience. “The King died at 12.22 this afternoon at St. George’s
hospital. The Duke of York has been summoned and is now King George VI.” He
rose from his chair as did the grim-faced captain. He straightened his jacket
and walked slowly to the door, then turned; “I don’t know about you but I’m
going to have a large whisky and then charge that bastard with murder and
treason.”
He
slammed the door behind him with some force and disgust and the captain sat
back down, head in his hands. Chris stood arms folded for a couple of minutes
then said quietly; “What’s your orders now sir?” He had to repeat himself twice
more before the captain looked up and sighed; “Back to the office Newbury and
indulge in some whisky and burn some papers that will never see the light of
day.” The captain stood and slapped his hat back on, he hesitated as he pulled
open the door; “This will make things a lot easier for everyone concerned.”
Chris followed him out in silence and the pair left the chaos of the police
station and drove back to Whitehall – again in silence.
Chris
sat his desk and glanced across at the captain’s empty desk and wondered where
he was. He shuffled the brown paper files about on his desk with no interest
whatsoever in them. The morning papers were all black edged; proclaiming the
death of King Edward VIII and the accession to the throne of his younger
brother; Bertie who had been Duke of York. He was now King George VI. The
assassin featured prominently in all the stories. A disgruntled Irishman who
would certainly ‘swing’ for the murder of the young King.
The
big door swung open and the several operatives in ‘Red’ Section all stood as
Chris did. It was Colonel Neville Hopper and his assistant Captain Granville
R.N. They walked straight over to Chris and that didn’t make him very happy.
The Colonel was always direct [a strange habit for a spy, Chris always thought]
and he said; “What was Captain Golding doing at Hype Park yesterday young man
and why were you there?” Chris didn’t smile; “I was the captain’s driver sir.
Instructed to drive him and….a guest to the park during the Trooping sir.”
The
Colonel folded his arms and stared hard at young Chris; “Who was the guest
young Mr. Newbury?” Chris shrugged his shoulders; “I don’t know sir; the
captain never introduced us.”
The
two men walked to the big window and had a quiet discussion amongst themselves,
and Chris shuffled the files about and picked one up pretending to read its
contents. He clearly heard “Germans” mentioned and both men left the big
office; telling everyone to get on with their jobs.
“I’d watch your back old chap. Your bloody
boss has gone AWOL.”
Dave Kemp leaned over Chris’s desk, whispering. He glanced about, adding;
“Apparently old Ames was in the communications room and heard one of the girls telling another that captain
Edward Golding had gone; his flat was empty when a couple of operatives turned
up from Special Branch to speak to him. Just done a moonlight flip; left
everything and gone.”
Chris
leaned back in his seat and slowly nodded his thanks. He almost jumped as his
phone rang. He quickly lifted the receiver and listened carefully to the voice
who spoke quietly. He placed the phone down and smiled at Dave. “Thanks Dave,
but I was just the bloody driver and didn’t even know who the fat man in the
back was. Golding constantly called him ‘sir’ so I knew he was someone
important.” He managed a reassuring smile and shuffled the files about again.
Dave just grunted; “I’d still look out my friend. They’ll be looking for
scapegoats here and that’s why Golding has gone. Remember; no-one goes to court
around here. Just for a swim in the Thames wearing concrete swim shorts.” He
tapped the desk and walked off.
The
clocks hands crawled around it face until lunchtime and Chris was first out the
door, grabbing his hat and coat. He headed straight for the Strand and into the
‘Whig & Pen’ pub; a notorious pub that was full of lawyers and journalists.
He purchased a pint of Guinness and some cheese & tomato sandwiches and sat
in a quiet corner watching the door. He had been very careful to ensure he
wasn’t followed and waited. The young woman appeared a couple of minutes later and
every man in the place stared – discretely – at her. She walked straight over
and sat in the empty chair by Chris and smiled. Chris shouted to the barmaid to
bring over a brandy for the lady.
“What
the hell happened Mister Newbury?” was all she said.
"KING EDWARD VIII AND THE MAN IN THE SHABBY BROWN SUIT" CONTINUES IN 'TEMPORAL DETECTIVES' BOOK SERIES 0 [EPISODE 0]
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