Sleeping Dogs

By A. W. Lambert

A piece of an aircraft that's lain hidden since the second world war is found in Norfolk woodland. It's find sparks a search; two families, each desperate to discover the fate of relatives believed to have been aboard an aircraft that mysteriously disappeared in 1940. But is this find part of that aircraft and are they being honest about the reason for their search? Theo Stern investigates and finds himself embroiled in a web lies and deceit where, even after seventy years, savage violence and even murder is being committed in an attempt to hide the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090343

Book preview

Dedication

To Nigel and Jean for their kind support and to Val, as always, for her continued unstinting patience and dedication.

Prologue

Norfolk, England

September 23rd 1940

Daylight was fading rapidly and in just a very few moments darkness would be upon them. The initial, uncomfortable bumps decreased as the aircraft gathered speed across the rough grass strip and began to respond to the air pressure beneath its wings. Feeling his charge eager to be free of the earth, the pilot gently eased back on the controls. He smiled confidently as the throbbing Continental A40 flat four engine lifted the little Auster smoothly into the air. Timed to perfection; in just a few minutes it would be completely dark and with any form of lighting totally forbidden, even with his great experience and skill, an attempted take-off would have been foolhardy.

The Norfolk countryside rapidly disappeared into the wartime blackout as the little aircraft climbed steadily, the pilot expertly initiating a gentle turn to the left, his eyes watching the compass heading drift round the instrument dial. Then, the turn complete, he pulled the little Auster into straight and level flight.

Heading two-ninety west, he said crisply.

His words, sharp and metallic through the headphones of the man sitting alongside him, engendered a nervous, uncertain response. Er, yes, okay.

They continued to climb into the clear night sky, the pilot confident their course would be free of any other aircraft. Not so London, away to the south; that would be a completely different scene. Even from here the powerful searchlights could be seen probing skyward, their glowing white fingers searching frantically for targets. Ex-RAF and experienced, he could visualise the scene: ground crews manning their 40mm Bofors anti-aircraft guns anxiously waiting for a ghostly grey image to be picked out of the blackness above, eager to launch their deadly missiles skyward at the exposed raider.

As the Auster continued its climb both men’s eyes probed the black outside; one expertly, necessary, the result of years of experience, the other erratically, wide and terrified of the unknown.

The pilot screwed his head over his left shoulder. London’s taking another hit.

The anxious tremor in the response from his passenger was obvious. Yes, it looks that way.

An old hand who had long since done his bit for king and country, as comfortable in the air as he was on the ground, the man at the controls recognized the tension in his passenger’s words. He smiled in the darkness. Just as well we’re heading west then, he said confidently. Nothing to worry about where we’re going.

I’m so glad.

The pilot double checked the heading then relaxed back into his seat. He was well aware the lethal action taking place well to the south of his position would be focused at a much higher altitude; the German bombers approaching from Europe would be around 16,000 feet and above. His own westerly heading, at a considerably lower altitude, would be taking them away from any danger.

He thought back to the original proposal that had led him here. At first it had seemed an impossible task, a single flight of such duration being way beyond the range of the Auster. But the staggering remuneration had been irresistible and had prompted the installation of a larger than normal long range tank which would enable the trip to be undertaken.

Fifty percent up front, the rest on delivery of his passenger; he was happy with that. An overnight stop and an enjoyable, daylight return flight tomorrow. What could be easier? And that payoff—the phrase money for old rope came to mind.

It was just a fleeting, almost unnoticeable hesitation in the steady, continuous throb of the engine. Almost unnoticeable, that was, to anyone but the trained ear of an experienced pilot. He frowned, his every nerve instantly alert. But, no, once again the engine note was steady. Probably a grain of minute grit in the fuel. Fuel was hard to come by in wartime. You got hold of what you could and never asked where it came from. He turned to his passenger.

You okay, sport?

Yes, I think so. I’ve never flown before and... The series of short stutters from the engine froze the remainder of the sentence on his lips.

The pilot swung his eyes back to the instrument panel at exactly the same time as a frightening bang came from the front of the aircraft. There followed a series of sickening rattles, raw metal against raw metal, then silence.

In that instant, relieved of the torque and propulsive pull of the propeller, the little Auster’s nose dropped and the aircraft jerked alarmingly to one side. The pilot straightened the controls, for a second himself on autopilot, pulling back on the column in an attempt to stop the descent. But with the engine at a standstill and all power lost, he felt the plane wallow dangerously toward a stall. Instantly realising his mistake, he quickly eased forward on the control, coaxing the shallowest glide possible out of the little craft.

He felt his passenger turn toward him. Oh my God, what has happened?

Major failure, the pilot’s voice hissed over the headsets. Looks like everything’s out.

But how? I mean what do we do? Are we, er...Are we okay? The man’s voice was only just audible, the stuttered words sticking in an instantly tinder dry throat.

The pilot, his experienced hands delicately controlling the aircraft, gaining them as much time in the air as possible, ignored the question. He knew the situation was dire. There had been a catastrophic engine failure. They were heading in only one direction and that was down. And, no, they were most definitely not okay.

Automatic survival actions and long since practiced emergency drills came into play as the pilot assessed the situation. The Auster was able to stay in the air at an incredibly low speed, but that only meant a delay in the inevitable. The little plane was doomed and its two occupants with it, unless... During his initial attempt to stabilise the aircraft he'd lost his heading and now, with the compass spinning erratically, he couldn’t be sure of his position. That, though, was not a problem; he was over home ground—Norfolk and lots of open fields.

He could see absolutely nothing below and knew only that he had to keep the aircraft turning in the gentlest of circles and as level as he was able. Then, if he was lucky enough to belly flop onto open ground, they might just stand a minute chance of survival. He knew in his experienced heart there were far too many ifs in his strategy, but miracles happened. Had he not already survived the first conflict and more recently still another crash that could have killed him? Now, if that same luck was to stay with him, if by the grace of God there just happened to be an open field in the blackness below...

Concentrating hard on controlling his doomed aircraft he waited for the inevitable, at the same time trying to shut out the jibbering, terrified sounds coming from the man sitting alongside him.

One

Norfolk, England

June 1st 2010

It was after nine-thirty and Cherry Hooker heard the footfalls on the stairs outside before the door was pushed open and he strode into the office. He had a broad grin on his face and she saw immediately why.

I wondered why you were late.

Theo Stern did a pirouette. What d’you think?

It’s a haircut.

I know it’s a flippin’ haircut, but what d’you think?

I think Annie must have had a go at you.

Wrong, he said, knowing she was referring to the recent, renewed closeness he and his estranged wife, Annie, were experiencing.

But you don’t do haircuts.

I know I don’t, not normally, but you have to admit, it was time. It was, too. The heavy, grey thatch he always carried, contrary to normal circumstances, seemed to get thicker with age.

Well of course it was time, she humphed. It was time six months ago, but you didn’t do anything about it then.

Look, Hooker, don’t get stroppy with me; just tell me what you think.

She grinned. I’ve already said it’s a haircut. What more d’you want me to say?

I want to know if it’s a good one.

Cherry frowned. Well, yeah, it’s okay, but why...? She stopped, all at once understanding. Oh, I get it. You’ve been to the new barbers on the high street, haven’t you?

That’s right, but...

And you got the woman, didn’t you?

Yeah, but that has nothing to do with anything.

Rubbish, of course it does, she goaded. You’ve never had your hair cut by a woman, have you?

No, but...

Not macho enough, right? I mean a woman could never cut a bloke’s hair like another bloke, could she? Especially not for the great Theodore Stern, late of the London Metropolitan Police Force, now famous private eye.

Okay, okay, don’t rub it in, he said, grinning sheepishly. Just tell me if it’s all right.

Turn round again.

He did as he was told.

D’you know what? It’s probably the best haircut you’ve ever had.

He shook his head and sighed, slouching toward his own office. Get the coffee, woman. And don’t forget the biscuits.

Yes, sir, right away, sir, immediately, sir.

They had assumed their usual first thing in the morning positions: Stern leaning back in the old, complaining chair, his heels resting on the edge of the desk and Cherry sitting in the chair opposite, her legs curled beneath her. Both cradled the obligatory mugs of morning coffee.

Good weekend? Yesterday, Monday, had been a Bank Holiday and Stern had spent the whole day working on his beloved Hyundai coupé. Having walked to the hairdresser then on to the office this morning, he'd left the car, gleaming, in the lock-up.

Yes, good, Cherry responded with a smile. Sunday we had a day out on the Broads.

Stern remembered Cherry had mentioned days out on the Norfolk Broads more than once recently. Getting to be a habit.

Yes, I know. We love it. Thinking of buying our own little cruiser.

It’s an expensive pastime.

Not for Rob. He would do ninety percent of the work himself. He could probably get us a good deal, too.

Of course, I forgot. Stern recalled Rob, the man in Cherry’s life. Norfolk born and bred. Professionally trained boat builder and engineer. The relationship now approaching two years and Cherry as happy as he’d ever seen her. No mention of wedding bells yet, though, and Stern never pushed the point. Considering her past, Cherry would need to be absolutely sure before she took the plunge. That’s if she ever did. He took a mouthful of coffee. Okay, so what have we got?

Cherry put the mug on the desk and flicked open her pad. As she did so, they heard the door of the outer office open. She dropped the pad on the desk. I’ll get it. A few minutes later she was back. Two guys wanting to speak to you, she said. Seems they have a problem and you’ve been recommended.

Did they say what it was about?

Cherry shook her head. I asked, but they said it was complicated. Rather speak to you first hand.

Stern dragged the old chair up to the desk, nodding at the single chair opposite. Bring in the spare, will you?

He guessed the older of the two to be around the eighty mark. He was portly, with thinning, grey hair and dark eyes set in heavy features. He wore a dark, business-like suit over a pristine white shirt and an immaculately tied dark blue tie. The other man was dapper and energetic looking, probably in his fifties. He was wearing a smart fawn suit over a beige shirt and brown tie. There was, Stern thought, a definite resemblance to the older man. They refused Cherry’s offer of coffee and settled themselves in the two chairs opposite Stern.

Mr. Stern, the older man immediately took the lead. I appreciate you seeing us at such short notice. My name is Levin, Jacob Levin and this is my son, Mark. The name may be familiar to you?

In the pause that followed, Stern leaned forward, elbows on the desk, mind searching for some moments before the name finally registered. Property?

The older man smiled. Yes. Levin Property Development. I am the president and Mark here is the chief executive.

Stern tried to recall what he could about the Levin organisation. A long established Jewish family-controlled business based in North London. Not huge, but highly successful, concentrating on the upper end of the property market only, the moneyed end. His memory was triggered by his involvement in a particular incident in the late eighties, a case of suspected fraud within the management structure. Nothing was ever proven and eventually the case was dropped. But Stern well remembered how the family had closed ranks to snuff out the accusations. He’d suspected at the time the problem had been dealt with internally. I remember, probably in the eighties, I did have some involvement.

Jacob Levin smiled, dark probing eyes holding Stern’s. Yes, I recall the case. You were a detective inspector then, I believe.

You have a good memory.

My father’s memory is the envy of the family, Mark Levin interjected. If it happened within his lifetime, he will remember it. It was recognising your name that brought us here today.

Remarkable, Stern said.

Jacob Levin shook his head. A gift maybe. Some say a blessing, others a curse. Particularly when there are things you would prefer to forget.

Stern relaxed back in the old chair. So gentlemen, what can I do for you?

My son and I are staying at the Marsham Arms Coaching Inn, just this side of Norwich, Jacob Levin said. Do you know it?

Yes I do. It’s on the Holt road.

Yes that’s it. An excellent place. They’re looking after us very well and I’m pleased because I could be there for a while.

You have business in the area?

Yes, you could say that, but not property business and that’s where you come in. If you are prepared to help us, of course.

Sounds intriguing.

It is, but my fear is it may well be out of your normal line of business. You see, Mr. Stern, we want you to find an aeroplane for us.

Two

Y ou did say an aeroplane ? There had been several seconds of stunned silence.

Jacob Levin gave a tight smile. Yes, that’s right.

I think maybe you should explain.

Of course, I’ll tell you what I can. However, what we do know is limited.

Stern pulled the note pad lying on the desk toward him. It was an instinctive reaction, carried out without prior thought; sometimes, as in this case, used to gain thinking time. He certainly had no intention of using it right now.

You’re right; this is out of my line, he said finally. I’m a people’s man, Mr. Levin, I don’t go chasing after aeroplanes.

Yes, I do understand and I appreciate your position. But maybe if you could just let me explain further, you may reconsider. The old man thought for a second, his eyes narrowing. Of course with regard to your fee, we would be prepared to pay whatever you felt was appropriate.

And a considerable bonus for success, Mark Levin interjected.

Stern studied the two men coldly for several seconds. He’d experienced it before—rich people who thought money could buy anything and anyone. Gentlemen, I review every case purely on its merits, he said, his words measured. "If for any reason I believe it not appropriate to accept a case, I will not do so. He paused momentarily. Regardless of how much money is thrown at me."

Mark Levin glanced toward his father. Mistake.

Yes, I fear so, the older man agreed. He turned back to Stern. My apologies, Mr. Stern. I’m afraid, in our position, it’s a trap easily fallen into."

Stern held the old man’s eyes. Not everyone has a price, you know.

No, maybe not, and I deserve the rebuke. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Maybe we could start again? Allow me to explain further, then if you decide the case is not for you, we will leave you in peace. He tilted his head, a momentary twinkle in his eye. The fee entirely in your hands.

Stern considered the situation. It was an easy trap for the wealthy to fall into. It was their way and nine times out of every ten, it worked. Who could blame them? Anyway there was something likable about the old guy. He pushed the note pad away and folded his arms on the desk. Okay, fire away.

Thank you. Jacob Levin ran a bony finger thoughtfully across his lips. Firstly, I have to take you back to nineteen forty.

The Battle of Britain, Stern said. Start of the London blitz?

Yes, a truly traumatic time and it’s then the story starts at a small airstrip in North Norfolk.

Where in North Norfolk?

A farmer’s field, as far as we know, situated to the southwest of North Walsham.

Does the farm have a name?

"Not that we know of. Indeed, we don’t even know the precise location of the field; the land has changed some since nineteen forty. For our purpose, however, that matters little. What is important is we know the field was used by a group of flying enthusiasts."

The words ‘needle’ and ‘haystack’ begin to come to mind, Stern said.

Yes, those very same words have been part of the Levin family vocabulary for many years, Jacob Levin agreed. It’s precisely because of what we don’t know we are here talking to you right now.

I understand. Carry on.

It was late September; we believe the twenty-third, nineteen forty, when an aircraft took off from the strip. It was a civilian, privately chartered, Auster aircraft and it was carrying two people. He gave a tight-lipped smile. That’s all we know, because neither the aircraft nor its two occupants were ever seen again.

Now Stern was using the note pad. Two people. He stopped short, the pen hovering. How many does an Auster carry?

Two, the pilot and one other, Mark Levin said. Our sources tell us the Auster was a very small aircraft; one of these light, fabric-covered machines that became so popular at the time. Private enthusiasts loved them because of their ability to operate in limited conditions, short, uneven grass runways in particular.

Ideal for a grass field in Norfolk then, Stern said.

Correct.

Was the aircraft carrying anything other than the two people?

No.

The single word answer had been instant and positive, but the fleeting glance between the two opposite hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Who were these two people?

One was the pilot, of course, Mark Levin continued. The other was Aaron Levin, my father’s uncle, my grandfather’s brother. He is the reason we’re here today.

Let me get this right, Stern said, a deep frown cutting his forehead. This plane disappeared in nineteen-forty and you’re asking me to find it now?

In this particular instance, yes, but you should be aware the family have been searching constantly since the time of the aircraft’s disappearance.

For seventy years?

Yes. We are a very close family, Mr. Stern. Our linage goes back a very long way, every generation faithfully recorded in detail. Since nineteen forty, Uncle Aaron’s fate is the only unknown for generations. Family tradition dictates that, however long it takes, we solve the riddle of his disappearance.

Stern held the old man’s gaze. And the reason for such an extended search really is just to find out what happened to your uncle?

Ever the policeman, Mr. Stern, Jacob Levin said. Your suspicious nature is showing.

Their eyes locked, Stern the first to break contact. Where was the aircraft going?

Mark Levin shook his head. There lies another rub. We have no idea. At the time, they did initiate an extensive search. But it was nineteen forty, bombs were falling and people were dying by the hundreds. Some unfortunate casualties were never ever found, their fate never known. The police force, like every other public service, was stretched to the limit. He raised both hands in a despairing gesture. One man among thousands—what could we expect?

But you’ve already said your family knew Uncle Aaron was not a casualty of the bombing. How did they know that?

In the first instance, they didn’t, Jacob Levin said. When my uncle disappeared, it was felt he could well have been killed that way. But father had to be sure, so he hired a very experienced, retired policeman, a man not unlike yourself, to investigate. How he did it, I don’t know, but it seems the man established that on the day in question, my uncle borrowed a car and drove to Norfolk.

Borrowed a car? In nineteen forty? Stern said. Not easy with petrol rationing and everything else.

Jacob Levin gave a tolerant smile. These things can always be overcome. Even in wartime.

If you’re able to pay, Stern said tightly.

Don’t be annoyed, Mr. Stern. You of all people must know it was ever thus.

Stern grudgingly nodded his acceptance. Okay, so Uncle Aaron drives to Norfolk. What then?

The investigator followed the trail and, after some searching, found the car abandoned in a country lane close to the airstrip. His further investigations revealed a local man, later found to be an ex-RAF pilot, had taken off from the airstrip on the night of the twenty-third of September. He was said to be flying an Auster.

And you believe Uncle Aaron was with him?

Yes. To the day he died, my father believed that to be the case. He maintained the proximity of the abandoned car to the airstrip and the subsequent flight were too close to be a coincidence.

Did the airfield records show an intended destination?

Remember, not an airfield, Mr. Stern. More a grass strip with a couple of sheds and a wind sock. Certainly no records to speak of. The family investigator did locate the pilot’s wife, however. She admitted her husband had been flying the Auster, but she had no idea who he was carrying or where he was going.

What was the pilot’s name?

Stanley Hall.

Stern scribbled the name. Okay, go on.

That’s it. The aircraft was never seen or heard of again. That’s all we know.

Stern laid the pen on the pad. And now, after all this time, you expect me to find it? He shook his head. You have to be kidding me.

The old man gave a tired smile. No, we’re certainly not kidding, Mr. Stern. He looked toward his son and gave a slight nod of his head.

Let me explain, Mark Levin said. It’s true my family have been searching for seventy years and it is understandable why. Countless aircraft were brought down over this country, particularly in the southeast, during the battle of Britain and the blitz that followed. Many have been found and identified, of course, but even now there are still those that remain undiscovered. Over the years, my grandfather and my father and his brother, my uncle Howard who is sadly no longer with us, have researched every crash site found in the eastern counties and beyond. It has been a family mission, Mr. Stern, an obsession even.

Stern studied the two men opposite. Your Uncle Aaron must have been one very important man.

My father has now left his eightieth birthday behind and he won’t mind me telling you he is not a well man, Mark Levin continued, completely ignoring Stern’s comment. He no longer has the energy he once had, but he is determined to continue searching as long as he is able. I, on the other hand, have a business to run. I also believe, after so many years, the search should end, the loss accepted. Let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying goes. However, as long as my father wishes to continue, I will support him.

Tight-lipped, Stern eyed the younger Levin across the desk. All sounds very laudable, but I ask again: how the hell do you expect me to find this aircraft? You’ve been searching for seventy years and you’ve got an awful lot more resource than I’ll ever have. If you can’t find it, how do you expect me to?

Like I said, it’s not such a daunting task, the elder Levin came back. A short time ago, we were told about a rambler who, while walking through Norfolk woodland, came across a metal fragment protruding from the ground. The rambler, who coincidentally also happened to be a vintage aircraft buff, noticed the fragment had markings inscribed on it which he thought he recognised.

Markings?

Yes. Identification numbers or letters, I’m not sure which. The fact is, the rambler took the item home. He researched the inscriptions and discovered his find was indeed part of an aircraft.

Where is this woodland?

Midway between and to the south of the towns of Aylsham and North Walsham. Further, it is private woodland, part of what is called the Maringham estate.

Stern scribbled some more. A private woodland, yet there was a rambler?

Yes, apparently there are one or two paths through the wood which the public are allowed to use. He shrugged, indicating the insignificance of the point, and carried on. Anyway, the rambler later confirmed the fragment as being part of an aircraft. In fact, it was part of an aircraft engine.

And that’s significant, is it? Stern said.

In this case yes, because he identified it as part of a Continental A-40 flat four engine which was installed on the early Auster aircraft.

Oh, I see, and you believe there’s a chance...

I’m afraid to believe anything at the moment, the old man interrupted. Over the years I’ve been in this situation so many times. I have to admit some degree of optimism, though. It is, after all, the closest find we have ever had to the strip where the aircraft took off.

Yes, but there’s nothing to say, just because an engine part was found, there’s an aircraft there, Stern said. And even if there is, and assuming it’s the one you’ve been searching for, what would be left of your uncle after seventy years?

That is a question we will never be able to answer, Mark Levin countered. Unless we find and identify the aircraft, of course.

And that’s where I’m hoping you’ll be able to help, the older Levin interjected. Firstly, you are a highly trained investigator and you also have the benefit of local knowledge. All we ask is that you spend some time researching this particular area. Talk to older residents. Even if those still alive today don’t know of a crash first hand, maybe stories have been passed down by parents or grandparents. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. Anything that could throw light on the possibility this might be what we have been looking for all this time.

Would it not be simpler to go to the local authorities, maybe even the local archaeological groups, initiate a dig maybe? He paused, a thought occurring. Come to think of it, why didn’t the rambler do just that?

The old man glanced quickly at his son, then back to Stern. As soon as we were made aware of his find, we contacted the rambler. The particular part he’d found was, in itself, unimportant and, anyway, at the time the man was content to simply hold it as a trophy. It was his plan to further identify the markings on it before proceeding.

"How did