Out Of The Shadows

By Nigel Grundey

Faced with bomb outrages, a mounting death toll, plus impatient politicians and media, this team of investigating detectives are up against it. There is information aplenty, though none of it points to a motive, or obvious killers. Worse, other agencies seem to be working against them; more so, when their focus turns to Germany and long forgotten events during World War Two, the Cold War, let alone the present day. Months of work reveals there are a few main players; but, are these men still all potential victims, or, is one of them the murderer?       

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nigel Grundey
• Release date: Mar 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201551018

Book preview

Prologue

Germany, February, 1945

The first hours of this St Valentine’s Day saw a lone, but grossly overloaded lorry, trundling east along the deserted autobahn, creaking and groaning as it went. Up front, the three men packed inside its cab stared fixedly through the windscreen at two small beams of yellow light; all that guided them through the darkness. They and their uniforms were stained with the results of recent military action; while the dull, hollow eyes and grey faces, etched with lines of fatigue, revealed the horrors they had endured.

Never ending gusts of wind brought snow flurries with them, which were also playing tricks on their minds, leading to some anxious moments; especially for the driver. He was also beginning to doubt a decision made earlier in the day.

The men had hardly spoken since darkness fell, such was their concentration; but, at around two o’clock, the inevitable happened. Their vehicle’s engine spluttered and died, leaving the driver to pull over and apply the handbrake.

Okay, that’s it, he reported, yawning as he switched off the ignition. This is as far as we go. What now?

Give me a moment; let’s have a look at the map, answered the passenger dressed in a S.S. officer’s greatcoat.

Right, we will try this place, training his torch so the other two men could see the spot he was indicating. After some deliberation they indicated approval of his choice. Unfortunately, some persuasion may be needed; where did we put the hat?

The second passenger handed it over after both of them clambered down from the cab. They gasped as the full force of an icy blast hit them; the wind having them run for the shelter of some bushes.

For God’s sake man, hurry up! they shouted at the reluctant driver, when readying to leave. Come on, you know the last part of our plan must be completed before dawn.

When all three were together again, they trudged off across snow covered fields, hoping to find some help.

The gnarled old labourer was annoyed, muttering constantly to himself; why was it he who had to get up and go outside in such filthy weather, just because someone forgot to shut a gate. Holding it closed he used a length of twine to secure the catch, hoping this would stop the incessant banging which had kept him awake.

Making his way back in the lee of a farmhouse, he saw three figures appear out of the snow flurries; beginning to tremble uncontrollably on recognising their leader as a S.S. Officer.

Holy Christ, what are those bastards doing here? he asked himself, turning back and slipping carefully into a nearby hay barn; climbing to the loft and finding a place from which to observe events.

The three soldiers went to Herr Waldmann’s house and banged on the door; though, when it was answered, a short, friendly conversation took place. It led to the rest of the inhabitants of this hamlet being woken and assembled outside; to be directed towards the autobahn. This had the old man confused, but also worried for their safety.

Not daring to leave his safe haven till daylight; he was very surprised when three hours later, everyone returned. They appeared tired, but unharmed; though when questioned, refused to discuss what had transpired. All they would reveal was that the officer seemed smitten by Frau Stern’s younger sister, a pretty, but cheeky young lady in his opinion.

Three months on, the old man was involved in an altercation with some Russian soldiers and shot dead. This minor incident in the last days of World War Two, never warranted any official inquiry, thereby being quickly forgotten; but not by those held at gunpoint and forced to bury him.

CHAPTER ONE

London, March, 1992

Apacked commuter train swayed as it rattled round a sharp bend in the track, causing one inattentive passenger to bump into a lady sat next to him. He flicked the hair from his forehead and gave a quick, mumbled apology; the piercing brown eyes returning to stare distractedly out of the carriage window.

Unfazed by this, the lady glanced at the tall, thin, studious looking figure, otherwise average in every way, dressed in the standard dark suit and tie. Yet another bored, London office worker, was her considered guess; one of suburbia’s millions returning home to his family, after a day’s work.

Well, Detective Chief Inspector Vivian Wear was indeed on his way home, but the reason for the distraction lay all about him. There was no way he could avoid seeing those screaming newspaper headlines concerning recent atrocities. The hue and cry over these bomb outrages had been growing over the last week, with a frenzied media baying for the perpetrators of the ‘terrorist’ attacks be brought to justice.

That afternoon, Wear had been summoned before his Deputy Chief Constable, to be informed he would take charge of two murder investigations.

So, with all hopes of bringing his present inquiry to a successful conclusion dashed; he was left wondering why, let alone who, picked him for this high profile case. It may have been because of past successes; though most of his convictions were due to dogged determination and consideration of every little detail, not inspired detective work. While justifiably proud of his stint in the Middle East and secretly pleased by the reputation of being a safe pair of hands, that was the past; moreover, an inner voice told him to be wary, this inquiry was patently going to be anything but straightforward.

Not only that, the media spotlight would now be focused on him and the team’s efforts, with their every move observed and questioned, on a daily basis; not something to look forward to!

Reading through the available information, Wear understood why senior ranks from the counties involved were dismayed by the transfer to London; even if the reasons were blatantly obvious. While admitting privately to be out of their depth when it came to such atrocities, having had little or no experience of ‘terrorist’ attacks; they also lacked the resources and manpower to cope with the situation. However, it was the tabloid accusations of incompetence that stung the most. So, with little progress achieved, Scotland Yard had been forced to take control; primarily to counter growing political interference.

‘This inquiry needs to be brought to a swift conclusion,’ was the clarion call from all sides; though Wear was determined it would be carried out using his tried and tested methods.

Returning to the office, a sizeable number of files were unceremoniously dumped on his desk, having him look up and see an immaculately dressed and groomed young man.

And you are? he said abruptly, forestalling any introduction.

Detective Sergeant Rupert Bond, Sir, sent here from Yorkshire to assist with the investigation, said the George Clooney lookalike.

‘Dear Lord, some very nasty deaths have occurred in different parts of the country, let’s hope this ‘film star’ is up to the job!’

Okay, yours was the first bombing, yes? he didn’t wait for an answer, continuing. You had better sit down and tell me all about it.

Well, Sir, Bond began, it happened at around eleven in the evening, exactly three weeks ago.

CHAPTER TWO

Yorkshire, February, 1992

The weather was in an exceptionally foul mood that evening, having gale force winds and sleet scything down between ridges of bare, featureless hills, onto the valley below. This area of blighted moorland did have a ribbon of tarmac winding through the scrub; a lonely road to travel for it was rarely used, even by local residents.

Unconcerned by all this, a single figure dressed in black, head bowed to avoid the stinging blows, strode resolutely along the narrow road. An exposed, white-knuckled hand gripped the shoulder strap of a large, leather satchel slung over his right shoulder.

This lone trek was interrupted by the arrival of a small car, driven with the bravado only someone young would risk.

Good grief! remarked the driver, upon seeing a figure in the glare of his headlights. It’s a bloody monk, what the hell is he doing out in this godforsaken place?

Craig, stop! pleaded the concerned young lady in the passenger seat, as their car swept past him. We must offer him a lift; it’s only common decency in these conditions.

As the car slithered to a halt, she wound down the side window, waiting for him to reach them; gasping with horror at the bedraggled holy man when he appeared beside them.

Grey hair lay plastered to the scalp as he wiped the water from his face, the hood and shoulders of his black habit already soaked through. The girl’s look changed to incredulity upon seeing sandals on his bare feet; did he not feel the cold and wet?

Can we give you a lift, err, Father? she stammered.

Brother Michael, actually, he replied smiling, his steamy breath filling the air. Bless you my children, but you have come too late; my journey is nearly over. Now, just drive home safely and God be with you.

But you are soaked through and cold, the girl insisted. Please let us take you to your destination.

The big man above will look after his faithful servant, he countered, fingering a wooden cross hanging from the string around his neck. Now be gone, before you catch cold.

The monk resumed his lonely hike, leaving a concerned girl to stare out of the car’s rear window as it drove away; steadfastly looking back until he disappeared from view.

Not ten minutes later, an upmarket four-wheel-drive vehicle made its way cautiously along that same stretch of road, slowing down more when coming across a solitary figure walking along it. The driver’s window purred down, as it drew level with the hooded person; only for a revolver to suddenly appear, aimed inside the vehicle. Several gunshots rang out, followed by the vehicle veering off into the ditch, stuttering to a halt when hitting one large, but hidden rock.

The shooter ran to catch up with it, peering into the interior to check all had been achieved. Opening a shoulder bag, the weapon was exchanged for a small amount of some putty like substance and a small plastic item; both then carefully attached to the vehicle’s chassis, beneath the passenger compartment.

The hooded figure turned away without a second glance, running back to a copse of wind blasted trees, to uncover a motorcycle hidden there. Quickly removing his dripping outer clothing revealed something that had kept him adequately warm and dry, a waterproof suit. Not so the numbed feet, for the soaked footwear was hurriedly removed, dried and thrust into a pair of boots, taken from the bike’s pannier. With his crash helmet in place; a small device was removed from a jacket pocket, its solitary button pressed, illuminating a tiny red light. Satisfied, he unhurriedly put his gloves on, started the bike’s engine and rode off carefully, ready to counter the side winds.

Seconds later, the stalled car was totally destroyed in a flash of blinding, white light; the explosion’s intense heat causing fractured metal to melt, starting a fire. Elsewhere, clouds of steam appeared as hot debris fell on the sodden ground.

The motorcyclist noted the brilliant illumination, but didn’t look back; the bad weather required all his attention to be focused on controlling his machine.

CHAPTER THREE

Yorkshire, March, 1992

J esus, will you look at him, mumbled a balding police Inspector, struggling out of his car into the wind and rain, our Bondie in full cry. While everybody else is reduced to windblown scarecrows, he stands there looking like some bloody film star, not a hair out of place. The man is unreal!

Making his way to the mangled remains of a vehicle lying just off the roadside, he examined them briefly; then turned to gaze at the valley and dark hills before him. Looking up, he stared unseeing as the early morning light fought its way through lessening clouds; for his thoughts were with the victims of this mess.

Detective Sergeant Bond had seen his superior arrive, so after issuing some orders to his team, he approached him holding a twisted piece of aluminium.

Morning, Sir, nasty business this, he began, pointing at the wreckage. God knows what explosive was used, but there must have been a lot of it to cause this much damage.

The Inspector nodded, asking who reported the find.

A Mr Walker, Sir, a local farmer, he was informed. D.C. Thompson has him in the Land Rover over there, taking a statement.

Good, now what have you got there? a finger pointing at the aluminium plate.

We found this registration plate nearby and have traced the vehicle it was fitted to, replied a smiling Bond. A Toyota, owned by Duncan Melville of Corndale; though whether it is the one destroyed in the explosion is, as yet, unconfirmed.

This information received a look of recognition, having the Inspector motion him to continue. He was told that as a precaution, the local constable had been despatched to Melville’s home; only to find a young lady, Miss Andrea Fairclough, about to enter the property. She had been sent there because the founder and managing director of Meltron Security Ltd had failed to turn up for an important meeting at the factory. Attempts to contact him all failed, so senior figures of the company had sent his personal assistant to investigate.

Having keys to the property, they entered by the front door, finding the house in good order; though none of the beds had been slept in. This had Bond realise that both Melville and his wife, Fiona, probably died in the explosion, unless further information proved otherwise.

The Inspector nodded slowly, considering what he had been told; then issued his orders.

Right Bond, you’re coming with me to Corndale, he declared. But, before we go, tell Thompson to widen the search area around that wreck. I want all suspicious objects found to be examined by Forensics; let’s hope they can tell us more about this mess when they’re finished.

Satisfied everything at the crime scene was being dealt with, he and Bond headed for the parked car; stopping briefly to shake his head in disbelief at the burnt out remains. Driving off towards Corndale, he was fully aware they could be retracing the bomber’s steps.

Why would anyone choose this God forsaken spot, especially in winter, just to eliminate someone? asked Bond quietly.

Somebody who wanted to be many miles away before it was discovered, maybe? was the sharp reply. Come on, Bond, think man, think!

CHAPTER FOUR

London, March, 1992

Wear leant back in his chair, considering what he had been told; this didn’t sound like a terrorist action, he decided, so, just who were they up against.

Right Bond, I can’t be bothered to search through all these files, his hands waving at the stack before him, so tell me, what have your team come up with since then?

Sir, he began carefully, discovery of an engine number proved that the vehicle involved was the one owned by Melville; while Forensics confirmed there were definitely two people inside the vehicle. However, even if it has been determined the driver’s side window was open, they cannot say with certainty, whether the victims were alive or dead when the bomb was detonated.

Not a nice thought, Wear intoned, but, what have you found out about them?

He was soon told that Duncan Melville was born and brought up in Leeds, though pressure to earn a living, cut short his grammar school education. National service had him in West Germany, serving with the Royal Signals; where he rose to the rank of Sergeant.

Returning to civilian life, he started up his company soon afterwards; marrying Fiona, the daughter of a local farmer, in nineteen-sixty-five. The fledgling enterprise had him travel a lot, but the sales that effort generated meant his business continued to thrive some twenty-five years later; now manufacturing high-tech electronic security systems. As there were exports to Eastern Europe during the Soviet era, company records were examined, though Melville’s trips there were all well documented. They found no hint of any other ‘business’ being conducted during those times.

By this, I presume you mean intelligence gathering? asked Wear.

Correct sir, was the reply. We had to consider all possibilities.

He acknowledged this and signalled for Bond to continue; learning the family home in Corndale had been thoroughly examined, to learn a sad fact. The Melvilles had a son, Felix, who had died aged twenty-one, the victim of a traffic accident, whilst on holiday in Crete.

Apart from that, neighbours and all company staff were interviewed, revealing that the family was well liked and considered good employers. In fact, they found no one who had a bad word to say about them. However, this may be because their company generated a lot of necessary employment for the area.

Regarding the bomber, everything indicated he had done his homework, probably studying Melville’s movements over a period of time; though bad weather and a little used back road must have presented the ideal situation. Only one piece of evidence emerged from the detailed search carried out after the bombing; tyre marks in a small copse, a mere two hundred metres from the crime scene. They were made by a large, powerful motorcycle, whose rider could have been the perpetrator; though disappointingly, despite appeals, no sightings were reported so far.

A neighbour’s wife reported seeing a tall, young man at the Melville house on the day in question; though her description was incomplete. Further investigation found that a new installer for the local electricity board had been covering the area. Taken in for questioning, this man confirmed he had been to the house just before dark and spoken to a lady there. He recognised Fiona Melville from a photograph the officer showed him, this lady escorting him to where the meter was located. He saw nothing suspicious while changing the equipment, nor before or after visiting the property. Satisfied of his innocence, he was dismissed from the inquiry.

Regarding the explosive, Forensics had to do some research, coming up with a little known variety, developed some years back in the Soviet bloc. As all plastic explosives are banned imports, a quantity was most likely smuggled in via Eastern Europe.

That’s it, Bond? asked a less than impressed Wear, receiving a forced smile and nod in reply. Not much to show for three weeks work, no wonder there’s been complaints.

Anyway, thank you for that, he continued thoughtfully. From here on, I want you to concentrate on the family, including the grandparents if necessary; find out every detail of their lives. There has to be something incriminating in there somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

London, March, 1992

Early next morning , Wear was discussing details of the Yorkshire bombing with an eager and attentive Bond, when a bedraggled young man squelched through his office door.

What on earth happened to you? he asked, while Bond looked on with some distaste.

Sorry, Sir, I decided to come up early this morning, to miss the traffic; but had a puncture somewhere near Basingstoke. Needless to say, with the jack in place under my car, it then decided to rain, the reply coming as his dirty hands were hidden behind his back.

Sod’s law, I’m afraid, remarked Wear, with a straight face. Detective Sergeant Kennet, I presume?

Yes sir, sent up here by the Dorset for...., the voice petered out as he was motioned to be quiet.

For your information, I made a formal request for two officers who were familiar with the bombings, he was informed. Kennet, meet Rupert Bond from the North Yorkshire mob. By the way, do you have a first name?

Kennet is fine by me, Sir, he replied with a smile.

Introductions over, he was directed to the washrooms, where a quick wash and brush up had him more presentable; returning to find the Inspector alone in his office.

Right, Sergeant, you have less than two hours in which to tell me every detail about the bombing in your patch, including what has been discovered since then.

It’s all in one of those files on your desk, sir, complained the aching and tired Kennet, worried he might forget something important.

Granted, but I prefer it from the horse’s mouth, insisted Wear, looking at his watch. Off you go, the clock’s ticking!

CHAPTER SIX

Dorset, March, 1992

An unseasonably warm , early spring day, had brought people to this south coast marina, eager to carry out overdue maintenance on their craft. However, most stopped the urgent toil to look up at a large, luxury motor yacht on the move. As this vessel carefully maneuvered past other moorings and glided quietly towards the sea,