Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(77)
FORTY-SEVEN
Jessop slammed his glass down hard on the desk, whisky splashing over the wreckage of his telephone.
‘Once again your imputations are both monstrous and insulting, DS Berlin. I take offence not only on my own behalf, but also on behalf of the many defence personnel and civil servants I work with, men who are dedicated to –’
‘Save it, Jessop, I’m really not in the mood.’ Berlin’s voice was soft but there was a hard note in it that stopped the doctor. And when he remained silent, Berlin said, ‘You already know from the records about my problems after the war, but did you know that my bomber exploded at twenty thousand feet, killing my entire crew?’
‘There was a notation to that effect.’
Berlin watched Jessop regret the words almost as soon as they were out of his mouth – not because Berlin had reacted physically, but because of a sudden change in the atmosphere in the room, something like a chill.
‘That “notation” you mentioned was in reality six brave young men blown to atoms in the blink of an eye.’ This time Jessop was smart enough to stay quiet.
‘I never knew at the time if what happened was due to flak or maybe a night fighter, because none of my crew called out a warning. But I found out years after the war that the Luftwaffe had started putting these upward-firing cannons on their night fighters, something called Schrage Musik. So instead of risking getting shot up in a head or tail attack, their pilots could just sneak up underneath a bomber in the dark and blast away.’
‘I really don’t see –’
Berlin cut him off again. ‘Just shut up and listen for once. The Yank bombers had ball turrets underneath, in the belly, so the lucky buggers could keep an eye out, but in the Lancs and the other RAF heavies we didn’t have those, not after we switched over to night bombing. Bomber Command had to know what was going on, from all the bombers that managed to make it home with cannon-shell holes in the underside, but they did nothing. My guess is they probably figured it was cheaper to sacrifice a few Lancasters and Halifaxes and their crews than to fit a belly turret and add another crewman – that would lessen the range and the bomb load. So I’d rather you didn’t talk to me about dedicated civil servants and defence personnel, and the decisions they make.’
‘The war is long over, DS Berlin. Mistakes were made, I’m sure, but in the end decisions must always be –’’
Berlin wagged a finger.
‘With regard to the atomic accident in question, you posit an interesting theory, DS Berlin, but it is one that borders on the unbelievable; indeed, it goes well beyond that border. Do you seriously expect people to believe that Her Majesty’s government would be party to something like that? Intentionally putting the lives and wellbeing of the citizens of a Commonwealth country at risk? Have you stopped to wonder how your own government could allow it?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m guessing – and I hope to God it’s true – that the people in your government somehow neglected to mention that particular part of the plan to the people in ours.’
Jessop didn’t speak.
‘Last time I came out here you tried to sell me a story about well-meaning people trying to turn an unfortunate and unforeseen accident to our advantage, trying to find a way to make some good out of it. But then I find out you arrived here last Christmas, and were standing by with your team and facilities all set up and ready to go when that unforeseen “accident” happened. And as for putting people at risk, you made it sound like strontium-90 was nothing to fret about, no more harmful than DDT or one of those fuel additives they put in petrol.’
‘I believe I simply pointed out that the danger was minor, and that the need for secrecy was in order to ensure there was no panic.’
‘That’s very interesting. If there’s any panic happening right now it would seem to be from your end. There was a farm just down the road a few days ago, and overnight it’s become an empty paddock. And there’s a group of people who had some connection to this business who have now become fatalities.’
Jessop’s eyes flicked quickly towards the locked outer door. There was no sign of help from that direction.
‘This conspiracy tale of yours is becoming more and more fanciful by the moment, DS Berlin. And is even more deranged than it is fanciful. It sounds, in fact, like the ravings of a man who has finally succumbed to the pressures of his job and his wartime service. A man who has returned to his postwar drug and alcohol addiction. Or perhaps a man who in a violent, psychotic rage has committed a double murder and is trying to cover it up.’
Jessop took a folder from the top drawer of his desk and slid it towards Berlin. The folder held a single glossy black and white photograph. It was the image of Chapman that had appeared in the paper but in a wider shot, uncropped. It must have been taken through the window of a flat across the street, through the briefly opened curtains, and it clearly showed Berlin behind Chapman.
‘So there you stand, OS Berlin, directly behind a man who only minutes later will be brutally murdered. A picture is worth a thousand words, as they say, and fortunately we also have the ability to control exactly those thousand words, should they eventuate. And your earlier admonition not withstanding, I am working for a greater good.’
‘Jesus, I meet some real pricks in my line of work, Jessop, but you really take the cake.’