Jack Higgins - The Killing Ground

“A pint wouldn’t be a burden. That all right with you, Annie?”

“Shame on you, Seth Harker, you’re an old cadger.”

She pulled the pint and Bolton paid her and took the glasses over.“All right if I join you?”

“Why not?”

“Good health.” Bolton drank some of his beer. “Do they cause a problem, bird-watchers, on this Zion Marsh?”

“National Trust, that. No, they’re a harmless lot and it’s good for the economy. These days, any kind of tourist is welcome. Creates jobs for people, There’s the caravan site, bed-and-breakfasts.”

“All from birds.”

Harker chuckled. “That’s a fact, when you think about it.”

“I passed a stately home when I was approaching the village. I checked in my book and it said visitors weren’t allowed. Zion House it was?”

“Oh, you can’t go there. Owned by the government and has been as long as I can remember. I wasn’t allowed to go into the military in the Second World War, farming, you see, reserved occupation, so I was here right through.” He nodded his head. “All sorts of dodgy things went on at Zion House, planes in and out from the runway, a lot of it at night. All highly secret.”

“Is that so?”

Seth Harker nodded. “The thing is, the Ministry of Defence still runs it like that. High security, guards in blue uniforms.”

“Jobs for the villagers?”

“Oh, no, the guards are all outsiders. The housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, lives in, and she’s got three young women on staff who help with the catering and other duties. Looking after guests really. Kitty, Ida and Vera. Nice girls, but not from around here. They keep themselves to themselves.”

“You said guests. That could mean some kind of hotel?”

“Where the guests never show themselves?” Harker cackled. “And don’t visit in the village.”

“Yes, but you must see them arrive? They must visit the pub?”

The bar had emptied and Annie was in the back. Seth Harker was reasonably drunk by now. “Ah, but they always come in by airplane. There’s a concrete runway by the house. That was the way it was in the big war and still the way it is today.” His glass was empty and he looked at Bolton’s. “You’re not drinking.”

“Well, you know how it is. I’ve got the car, the driving to think of if I carry on back to London. You know what the police are like these days.”

“Pity to waste it.” Bolton pushed it across and the old man drank deeply. “My cottage is on a small rise overlooking things. Fern End it’s called. You get a good view of the runway from there. I’ve watched people come and go for years. I’ve got a pair of old binoculars. There was a plane in at round about half-eleven this morning. It dropped off two women and a girl and three men. They were picked up by Captain Bosey, head of security, and taken up to the house.” He patted the side of his nose with a finger. “Not much I don’t know, I think I could do with the necessary.”

He took Bolton’s arm to stand and was surprisingly steady as he crossed the bar and went into the lavatory. Annie came in from the back. “Has he been a nuisance?”

“Certainly not, he’s a real character. Is he fit to get home? He told me about his cottage.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. If he wants a snooze, he can use the room in the back. When he does that, some villager will give him a lift. Can I get you anything else?”

“I’ll be fine, actually. I’ll be off, I think.”

“Well, if you decide to stay, we do have four rooms for the night and there’s always the caravan site. I own that as well.”

She went into the back again and Seth Harker returned. “Ah, going, are you?” He eased himself down.

“I must.”

Harker really did have drink taken. “What we were talking about, security. All balls really. There’s always a way. Take Zion House, walls, electric wiring, cameras. All for nothing if you could go under.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“In 1943 during the war, there was only a grass runway and small planes used it on a nightly basis for flights to France. Bad weather of any kind, rain, flooding from the marsh, sometimes made it unusable. So they dug a tunnel that started in the wood, continued it under the wall into the garden.”

“What was the idea?”

“A network of clay piping under the grass from the runway that would drain into the tunnel. By putting the other end in the garden, they had the idea of linking it up with ordinary drains from the house.”

“Who told you about this?”

“RAF lads based at Zion House and they also had some Royal engineers. It was done on the quiet, and then some RAF group captain inspected it and said it was a lousy idea and ordered them to just concrete the runway, so planes could land even if it had water on it.”

“And the tunnel and drainpipes?”

“They ordered a stop to that work, blocked off the end in the wood with a big manhole cover and used grass turfs to cover it. It’s a creepy sort of place. There’s a granite pillar there with some lettering that doesn’t make sense. Rubbed away with time.”

“Did you ever take a look?”

Harker smiled. “ ’Course I did, over fifty years ago a bit after the war. It was there all right. Iron rungs to help you down and you had to paddle in water then. God knows what it would be like now.”

“And the garden end?”

“There was another manhole cover there, too, which I couldn’t budge. So what they covered it with, I’ve no idea. I never went down there again, but I always thought it a bit of a laugh over the years with all their security improvements.”

“And nobody knew about it?”

“It was the war, you see, top secret stamped on everything. Who on earth cared when it was done and who on earth would care after so many years? Any mention of it was lost in RAF files years ago.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Bolton got up again and held out his hand. “You are a fascinating man, Seth.”

“And what would your name be, boy?”

“Bolton-Sam Bolton.”

There was a kind of knowing look on Harker’s face, a touch of cunning. “I hope you got what you came for?”

“I met you, didn’t I?”

He went out, and behind him Annie came in with a long tray of glasses and put them on the bar. “He’s gone, has he? What a nice young man.”

“A good listener,” Seth said. “I’ll have another pint.”

BOLTON FOLLOWED THE ROAD past Zion House, noting the electronic gates at the entrance, and saw a uniformed security guard outside his hut smoking a cigarette. He carried on past, came to a large signboard saying zion marshes and wildfowl protection area. national trust. Beyond it was the car park, the wood parallel to the wall of the house at that point and stretching toward the marsh and the runway.

Late in the afternoon of a gloomy day, the car park was empty and it started to rain, but that suited him. He hurriedly raised the roof of the Audi, opened the back, found the tool kit and pulled out the steel tire lever.

The rain increased as he walked along the edge of the wood, paused to look at the concrete runway. At that point you could see over the wall onto the garden, the terrace at the back of the house with binoculars, of course, through the electric fencing with the warning notices telling the public to keep out. He turned and walked into the wood at what seemed to be the point the old man had meant. And it was there, the granite stone, just as he had been told, slightly tilted to one side.

The grass was long all around. He started prodding into it with the tire lever, bending over, moving backward, reaching to the left and then the right, persevering as the rain increased, and then it came, the clang of metal on metal.