The Titanic Document

By Alan Veale

It all comes down to who you can trust: the woman who got you sacked – or a killer from the British Government...

•Powerful men kept secret what was really planned for April 1912
•Headlines of the disaster went contrary to expectations
•A mistake so huge it demanded concealment at the highest level

But the details survived through generations, causing panic for today’s politicians.

Peter Gris, Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, also sees his sexual perversions at risk of discovery. His actions to eliminate both threats mean tracking down and destroying historic evidence – and anyone who stands in his way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Veale
• Release date: Mar 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005502461

Alan Veale

I tend to describe myself as "a creative writer". The reason for that is I get bored easily. I write books, yes. But then I also write comedy sketches, and I read books. And, if I feel strongly about something I read - I sometimes write reviews too. After all, if someone goes to the trouble of telling you a story, it's not unreasonable to tell them if you liked it, or not. Feedback helps a writer to learn, to develop their skills, and to gain a following. Yes, especially if those reviews sometimes seem a little harsh!So far, I've written and self-published two novels, a memoir and a travelogue. Along the way I have had feedback that has encouraged me to develop my skills - and while I won't pretend I sell a lot of books, I do enjoy writing. I take my time to make sure that everything I publish meets a high standard. To me, there's no point in churning out substandard dross that fails to get interest by the end of the first chapter. If I want to build up a readership, then I have to work for it. I set a bar for myself that matters, and I won't put my work out there until it meets the same standard of the books I like to buy from other authors.If that's how you see it too, then I hope you will read my stuff. I've also created a website (www.alanveale.com) where you can learn more about me, my published works, kangaroos and tattoos.And you can use it to offer your opinions too!

Book preview

Most know something about the tragic fate of the RMS Titanic, and there are many books that examine her demise in extraordinary detail. This is NOT one of them.

The Titanic Document refers to events both before and after the sinking. In particular it raises parallels between the political influences of 1912, those of 1985 when the wreck was discovered, and those of 2016 when the UK elected to leave the European Union. The focus is therefore on politics as (in my view) politicians were the architects of both incidents.

The fictional element in this story follows the dilemma faced by librarian Billie Vane when Emma Dearing invites him to help research a book. He unwittingly becomes embroiled in a desperate chase to track down a document she inherits from her great-great-grandfather, Mickey Palmer, who worked directly under Lord Pirrie, chairman of the company that built the Titanic (Harland & Wolff). From 1985, the document results in several deaths, most of them under the direct orders of a paedophile Cabinet Minister.

Research for The Titanic Document demanded the examination of documented reports, anecdotes and speculative theories (see Bibliography). Some readers may therefore wonder how much of ‘the facts’ discovered within this book are truly factual. A fuller account of the theory governing Titanic’s fate may be found at the end of the book (see And the Truth is… What?) but to avoid spoilers, here are the basic points:

Firstly, the details described in the prologue about Titanic’s sister ship, Olympic, are entirely accurate. Her unfortunate collision with a naval vessel in 1911 was (in my view) the catalyst for the events that resulted in the loss of Titanic seven months later. Secondly, the collision tests carried out using a simulator referred to in chapter 10 are available to view on YouTube. Thirdly, in chapter 37 I have used a verbatim extract from the British inquiry into the loss of the Titanic. This includes the ‘slip of the tongue’ from Ismay, managing director of the White Star Line, which is an exact quote, and while its inclusion suits the purposes of the story, it should raise a question in the minds of Titanic enthusiasts!

Finally, for those interested in the period of The Troubles from 1985, the presence of the SAS in Portadown (chapter 3) is also historical fact. Many believed the British Government used undercover tactics to infiltrate the various militant factions in Northern Ireland. Margaret Thatcher’s government denied this at the time, but history has subsequently proved otherwise.

As one of the characters relates in this story: ‘Politicians are natural liars. It goes with the job.’

Alan Veale, September 2020

Prologue

The Solent, 20th September 1911

A fresh southerly wind painted silvery-white streaks across the deep blue water. Captain Edward John Smith stood on the port wing of the bridge, impatiently observing the progress of RMS Olympic along the Solent. Technically he was not yet in command of the White Star liner, as this duty was presently in the hands of a Southampton river pilot. It was Captain William George Bowyer’s voice giving orders to the helmsman as the West Bramble buoy slipped past to his left.

‘All engines, full ahead.’

While it was Smith’s fifth outing with Olympic, merchant navy regulations demanded he hand over command to a qualified pilot during the tricky first stages of leaving the Port of Southampton. Bowyer had thirty years’ experience of these waters, and the White Star Line was a regular employer of his services.

Within two minutes they had accelerated from eleven to sixteen knots, and were on course for the more straightforward part of their journey towards the English Channel. Smith grimaced as he jiggled a gold sovereign in his trouser pocket, a familiar gesture for the occasions that demanded he remain a mere spectator. He felt reduced to the same level as the 1,500 passengers on board, a large number of them presently assembling for lunch in the first-class dining rooms. Impatient to resume command, he exited the wheelhouse to the starboard wing and watched the approach of a smaller Royal Navy vessel that appeared to be matching them for speed.

HMS Hawke, about a third the size of the Olympic, was not a handsome ship, and the backward-raked prow distinguished her old-fashioned appearance as she ploughed a parallel course just 200 yards distant. Smith looked on with a mixture of admiration and distaste as the Hawke appeared momentarily the faster, but then the aged warship’s prow slipped back to a point approximately halfway along the liner’s hull. At this proximity he could distinguish the submerged barrel shape of Hawke’s ram projecting forward like the nose of a giant porpoise.

Captain Bowyer joined Smith on the wing of the bridge and followed his gaze towards Hawke. At that moment both men were alarmed to see the warship begin to swing her prow to port, with the armoured ram now pointing directly at them. No words were exchanged even though each recognised the threat for what it was.

The cruiser was losing ground to the accelerating Olympic, and it seemed possible the intention was to pass behind the liner’s stern, but both men knew such a manoeuvre was too dangerous to execute safely so close and at speed. Bowyer ran back into the bridge, ready to give fresh orders to his helmsman.

Smith raised his voice. ‘I don’t believe he will get under our stern, Bowyer.’

The pilot called back over his shoulder. ‘If she is going to strike, sir, let me know in time so I can put the helm over to port. Is she going to strike?’

‘Yes, she is going to strike us in the stern!’

Pandemonium reigned on HMS Hawke: her commander flew down the ladder between the bridge and wheelhouse, desperate to avoid disaster.

‘What are you doing, man? Port, port, hard-a-port! Stop port engine! Full astern starboard!’

‘Helm jammed!’ yelled the quartermaster at the wheel. An officer and a helmsman rushed to his aid as the warship continued its swing towards the liner’s hull. The commander looked up at the vertical mass towering above them and prayed they would find empty water out of nowhere. But the increased strain on the gearing had caused it to lock completely. He barely had time to use the engine room telegraph and order ‘Full astern both’ before the impact.

Inch-thick steel plating on Olympic’s hull was no match for armour-coated concrete; the antiquated ramming device of an elderly naval vessel was about to prove its worth. Nearly 8,000 tonnes of steel drove into the side of Olympic. It was not a deep wound, around eight feet, but the noise was deafening to those inside the warship’s wheelhouse. Fragments of metal, rivets torn from steel plate, and flecks of paint rained down on the Hawke’s deck as the two vessels wrestled briefly together. Olympic was holed both above and below the waterline, while the Royal Navy ship finally wrenched herself free looking like a boxer whose nose had been flattened by a stronger opponent.

Victory for either side was yet to be declared.

Part One

1985

Brendan

One

Portadown, Northern Ireland

The killer had a good view of the house, the outline clear against a darkening sky. Set a little back from the road, it seemed to shrink from civilisation, sheltering behind the barrier of a neglected garden. He lay hidden behind a prickly hedgerow on the other side of Loughgall Road, breathing in the musky odour of composted leaves, soil and animal droppings. It was a pungent cushion as familiar as his own bed, and only slightly less comfortable. His target had passed moments before, signalling a left as he pulled the Land Rover up onto the weed-strewn drive—as he’d done on five previous occasions that week.

One word in his headset. ‘Parsifal?’

One response. ‘Clear?’

‘Affirmative.’

The agent raised a pair of night-vision glasses and saw a heavy-set man in uniform climb out of the cab, lock the door and amble up the narrow path to the house. He had no idea what the target had done to deserve his fate. He hadn’t asked, and wouldn’t have received an answer if he had. His instructions demanded the death to be blamed on the Provisional IRA, which was why half a pound of Semtex with a tilt fuse trigger sat snugly in his backpack.

*

At the age of eleven years and two months, Brendan was almost a man. At least that was how he saw it, and now he was at Big School he seized every opportunity to press the point with his mother and younger sisters. Today was no exception.

The argument had started that afternoon on his return home. He’d found himself in trouble for losing three school books, and now his mother faced a bill she didn’t want to pay. Brendan had offered to sort it himself; or rather, he was going to get the money off his Da. The problem was his parents didn’t live together, and Ma was adamant that he wasn’t allowed to make the one-mile journey on his bike to seek the required funds.

Brendan could not even phone his father, who would not return from work until after his bedtime. In the meantime, kid sister Emma had been winding him up in the way that only seven-year-olds can.

‘Brendan’s hit me!’

‘No, I didn’t! She’s lying!’

His mother threw down a tea towel and hurried into the hallway to prevent further arguments from her volatile offspring.

‘You two! Stop that! Brendan, you should know better than to hit a girl, and Emma, leave him alone and go play with your sister.’

‘But—’

‘No buts! Just do it! Have you started your homework yet, Brendan?’

The young man drew himself up to his full height of four feet eight inches and glared at his sister’s back.

‘Told you before. Not got any. I want to go see my Da.’

She took a deep breath.

‘No chance. I’m not having you out on your own on that bike. I’ll speak to him later and sort something. Now come and help in the kitchen.’

Brendan had suffered enough. Once done with domestic duties, he was sent off to bed but instead slipped quietly out the back door. As darkness fell, he made for the shed to retrieve his bicycle.

*

Parsifal reached the Land Rover in the gathering dusk. Anyone observing his approach would have seen a terrorist wearing a trademark black balaclava. In position next to the vehicle, he inched his body into place behind the front offside wheel.

He had between fifteen and twenty minutes before the target returned. Now off-duty, the RUC officer would be changing out of his uniform before taking a short drive into town for a drink or three at one of his regular haunts.

Everything was done by touch. Parsifal closed his eyes, letting the skill gained from practice guide his fingers as he attached the components from his backpack onto a clean portion of metal the size of his palm.

Explosive in place, positioned to impact under the driver’s footwell, the final procedure was to secure the fuse and prime it. A plastic medicine bottle was attached to a small battery and a ball bearing sat beneath a tube containing a tiny amount of mercury. Once the vehicle moved, the little ball would do the same, causing the liquid metal to travel down the tube and complete the electrical circuit. Result: death by mercury. A plastic lug the size of a pea was all that prevented the ball from moving, and Parsifal was now ready to withdraw it.

Keeping his own movements to a minimum in the cramped conditions, he packed away his tools then shuffled out from under the vehicle so that he could still reach the lug at arm’s length. His ears picked up a distant noise, and he tensed his body until he could identify the source. The growl of a powerful engine grew in volume as a motorcycle accelerated up Loughgall Road and sped past. Parsifal relaxed at the passing threat and reached back under the car until he could place his fingers round the lug.

‘What you doin’, Da?’

The young voice forced an instinctive reaction. He rolled onto his belly and sprung to his feet. In front of him was a small figure stood next to a bicycle carrying no lights. Parsifal was shocked that someone could have got so close without signalling their approach. The motorcycle. It had drowned out any noise made by the boy’s arrival.

‘You’re not my—’

Brendan's words were cut short as Parsifal grabbed the boy's shoulder, spun him around and clamped his hand against his mouth, with the point of a blade against his neck. There was no time for interrogation as a light pierced the darkness, and both turned to face the doorway.

Inside the house, Patrick Faulkner had changed into civvies. He considered his reflection in the hallway mirror: a man of forty-plus in an open-collared shirt, brown jumper and green corduroy trousers. The face staring roundly back at him was more lined than he cared for, and the hair a little thinner, but he could still hack it with the ladies. He might manage a haircut next week, but right now a certain Maggie Devlin awaited him at O’Hara’s. Faulkner stroked a hand over his newly shaved chin and reached for his keys. For a moment he considered leaving the light on in the hallway. Then again, he might just get lucky. Off went the switch as he stepped into the night.

He took a few paces and then stopped dead, aware of the figures on the other side of the car.

‘What the fuck—’

Even in the dim evening light he could make out the shape of a tall man with pale eyes behind a black balaclava, holding a knife to his son’s throat.

‘Is this yer boy, Mister?’

It was not an authentic local accent, but Faulkner could not have cared less. His attention was fixed on Brendan’s terrified face.

‘Let him go. He’s only a boy. Let him go!’

But the man in black did not oblige. Keeping the knife in clear view, he moved away from the Land Rover with the frightened boy clamped firmly under his left arm.

‘Get in.’

Faulkner blinked. He knew the dangers. The damage done by the Provo’s and the UVF filled much of his weekly report.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Just get in the car. You’re going for a ride.’

Faulkner glared. He had no weapon. He had no choice. Reluctant to take his eyes off either the knife or Brendan’s face, he threw a smile of encouragement at the boy as he approached the driver’s door. As he fumbled with the lock he noticed the discarded bicycle at the side of the drive and quickly processed the scene before him. Realisation dawned, and Faulkner’s blood pressure hit overdrive. Whatever he did now, he must not further endanger the boy’s life.

As soon as his father closed the door, Brendan felt himself pushed forward.

‘Now get in the other side. Move!’

Spurred on by the threat of the blade somewhere behind his skull and desperate to get close to his Da, Brendan scrambled onto the bench seat. He saw his father react in horror as the armed man climbed in next to him, closing the door and bringing the knife back into view.

‘What are you doing?’ croaked Faulkner.

‘Just do it,’ was the reply.

The eyes behind the mask didn’t blink. At his side, pale as death and bathed in clammy perspiration, Brendan screamed a silent last appeal to his Da.

Faulkner fired the ignition and released the brake.

Two

Two months earlier

‘You sure about this, Walter?’

‘Course I’m fucking sure.’ The older man clapped him on the shoulder to strengthen the point. ‘Got to hand it down the generations, like Mickey wanted. You’ll do it right, you being a policeman an’ fond of the Pope. Won’t you? When the time’s right, pass it down to young Brendan, okay?’

Patrick Faulkner still hesitated, staring at the manila envelope in his hands as if it might somehow crumble into dust. ‘Okay. And this is proof the British Government were responsible?’

‘I’d swear it on Marion’s life. Them and that American feller. Read it for yourself but for fuck’s sake be bloody careful. Sensitive as a dose, know what I mean?’

‘Does Marion know about this?’

Walter Palmer blinked, mindful he was talking to a policeman as well as his favourite son-in-law. Best to tell the truth, then… up to a point. ‘She does. Leastways, she knows, but she’s never read any of it. Look, I know she’s my daughter but you know what she’s like. Fuckin’ women never keep their mouths shut, do they? Yak, yakkety yak. And then she used to work for that publishin’ company, didn’t she? Can you imagine what would happen if they got their hands on it? Wipe bloody Portadown off the fuckin’ map!’

Later, once the old man had left, Faulkner spread the fragile pages over the table and did his best to make sense of the whole thing. Forensics had never been his specialty, but he looked at the evidence in front of him and tried to form a reasonable conclusion. This was old stuff, going back to 1911. Familiar names: Pirrie, Ismay, Morgan, even Churchill. The Titanic, and all those who died. Did any of it matter now?

His father-in-law’s family had kept the documents for over seventy years. Now Walter had chosen him to keep them safe until the next generation were ready to take up the baton. For what purpose? Surely such sensitive material could be put to better use in difficult times?

Family ties. Faulkner remembered Walter’s wider circle of relatives held another connection that could prove useful. His thoughts took another direction, and he reached for pen and paper to jot down some ideas.

*

Weeks later, in a flat in Westminster, a young boy found little pleasure in a childhood game.

‘You’re cold, Timothy! But you do have a shapely backside. Try nearer the window.’

The recommendation came with an appreciative chuckle as a thirteen-year-old boy sat on his heels turning his head in search of a stronger light. It amused the man to watch as his new playmate searched to his right, the material in the blindfold just thin enough to lead him on. The boy adjusted his position slightly before crawling forward a few more inches.

‘Warmer!’

The boy sensed something solid in his path a moment before he hit it. The result was a slight bump to his head.

‘Shit!’

Laughter behind. ‘Oh, Timmy, Timmy! You don’t know how warm you are, you really don’t. Are you not enjoying Hunt the Thimble?’

The boy rubbed his head and bit his lip. The truthful answer would have been ‘no’. Apart from the embarrassment of banging into furniture while blindfolded, he was also feeling sore from an earlier encounter. Shuffling around like this on all fours while stark naked was not his idea of fun. But he felt sure it was better to please the man than to make him angry. He tried crawling in a new direction.

‘Cold! No, Timothy. To your right. To your right! WHAT?’

This last was not directed at the boy. A male secretary stood uncomfortably at the Cabinet Minister’s elbow, studiously averting his eyes from the playful scene initiated by his employer.

‘Telephone, sir. PM’s office.’

A call from the Prime Minister on a Sunday afternoon was highly unusual, but could not be ignored, so he closed the door on his new playmate. The left hand was one world; the right hand another, and it was in that direction he must now follow. The amusement he had christened ‘Timothy’ would keep for a few minutes.

Picking up the handset in his office, he took a deep breath before announcing himself: ‘Peter Gris speaking. What’s up, Jaeger?’

‘She wants to see you,’ came the clipped but fruity tones of Antony Jaeger. ‘Bit of a panic on affecting your new playground, old chap. I trust you weren’t into anything too... distracting?’

The recently appointed Secretary of State for Northern Ireland sighed in exasperation. Wearing only a bathrobe and slippers, he’d hoped the interruption would be brief. ‘Nothing I can’t put aside for an old friend. How serious are we talking? Is it the old enemy?’

‘Not this time,’ said Jaeger. ‘But I get the impression she needs a blue-eyed boy who can’t say no.’

Don’t we all? thought Gris. He put aside the memory of Timothy’s backside and pressed the PM’s secretary for more information. ‘And how soon is this particular blue-eyed minister required to attend?’

‘Yesterday would be good.’

‘Christ, this must be worth a good bung. You do realise I’m knee-deep in all of Douglas’s reports from before the recess?’

A fruity chuckle came over the line. ‘Peter, Peter… please don’t shoot the messenger! But speaking of bungs, I have it on good authority a certain Right Honourable Gentleman is standing there with a silver thimble up his arse.’

*

A little less than an hour later, Peter Gris was shown into an office slightly smaller than his own within the matrix of rooms that formed 10 Downing Street. The Prime Minister remained seated at her desk and pointed deliberately at the chair to her left. That was a good sign. The new Northern Ireland Secretary knew he was not in any trouble, or he would have been directed to the one facing her.

‘Peter, good of you to come.’

His lips forced a tight smile. ‘My pleasure, ma’am. How can I help?’

‘I won’t keep you any longer than necessary. Peter, are you aware of any history for a chap called Patrick Faulkner with the RUC?’

It meant nothing to him, and he said so.

‘He’s trouble,’ she announced. ‘Or at least he has been. I want you to ensure he doesn’t make any more for us. Have a look at these.’

The folder she passed to him held few pages, and he scanned the contents as quickly as possible. The first item was a letter from Faulkner, purporting to be a senior officer with the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The initial paragraph indicated that the addressee, ‘Gerry’, worked for a newspaper in Northern Ireland. On the face of it, Faulkner was offering to sell material for a story that could damage the British Government, including the reputation of the late Winston Churchill. He claimed to hold evidence that the government of 1912 had actively colluded in covering up the facts surrounding the fate of RMS Titanic. More alarming in Gris’s eyes was a claim to have information regarding the sexual habits of at least one senior name in the present government.

The Prime Minister spoke again. ‘We were lucky. The package was intercepted before it reached the news desk.’ Gris looked up while trying to mask a flurry of panic. ‘Peter, I’m treating this seriously for two reasons. Faulkner has historical family connections to workers at Harland & Wolff. It seems there is a very real risk in that quarter.’

Gris nodded. The Belfast shipbuilders had been nationalised less than ten years earlier, which put the threat squarely in his own patch. ‘These photocopies of old letters?’

‘Possibly forged, but in the wrong hands they could be interpreted as compromising relationships between Churchill, who was then President of the Board of Trade, and Lord Pirrie who was—’

‘Chairman of Harland & Wolff.’

‘Correct. You will also be aware the wreck has been discovered?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The second reason is that an American scientist has just found the Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic. It seems likely that is what prompted the timing of this letter. Look at what he says about Ismay.’

Gris was grateful not to have to admit the news of Titanic’s reappearance had eluded him. He turned over two pages and found a letter referring specifically to J. Bruce Ismay, managing director of the White Star Line which owned the notorious ship. The contents made uncomfortable reading.

He felt lightheaded as he thought about the paperwork on his own desk intended to cement an Anglo-Irish Agreement in only a few weeks’ time. One person’s greed could blow it all apart.

‘Is this for real? Did the Government have something to do with the sinking?’

‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘There’s no evidence at all. But the last thing we need is for anyone to believe there is. The allegations against Churchill’s memory are absurd. I want this whole thing stamped on at once. Faulkner is now your problem.’

‘He’s a rogue officer, then? You’ve had him checked out?’

She nodded. ‘He’s an inspector, but it seems he’s also a sympathiser with militants. I want him removed, and I want a guarantee of silence. Do you think you can do that, Peter? Discreetly, of course.’

Gris ran a hand through his mane of hair while considering multiple options at speed. One part of his deviant mind had already reached a potentially favourable outcome.

‘I think I can say you have my guarantee, Prime Minister.’

Three

The Land Rover reversed onto the road without incident.

‘Head for Loughgall.’

They turned to the right, Brendan remembering to breathe again, caught between threat and salvation. His initial panic subsiding enough to remember that was where his Da worked. The RUC barracks were in Loughgall. Was there a chance of rescue there? He knew about the service pistol hidden under the seat, but what chance was there of using it? All he could do was watch his father slowly moving up the gears, trusting that something would happen to get them out of this mess.

‘Now take a left.’

They had only gone a few hundred metres. Turning left would mean heading south on a narrower road towards the border with the Republic. Bandit country. Faulkner took the corner slow, desperately trying to think what lay ahead. Next to him Brendan was aware of three things: on his left was a man with a knife, on