On Edge

On Edge

Mike Crowson

Millicent Hampshire and the Witchmoor Edge CID

Copyright 2000 Mike Crowson

Smashwords Edition 2010

ON EDGE

Chapter 1: Monday 22nd October

The sweat poured off her. Seville was always hot in summer. The street shimmered in the heat, the sunlight streaming almost straight down, cars lining both sides, a few shops closed for siesta, a few cafés and bars emptied by the emergency, TV camera crews at both ends of the street and a tiny robot trundling up to one of the cars, preparing for a controlled explosion.

The three of them: five year old daughter, twenty-four year old mother and fifty year old grandmother, walked along the early afternoon main road. The ground jolted beneath her feet and there was a dull boom.

Que está pasando! the grandmother exclaimed – an exclamation loosely to be translated as ‘What the hell was that?’

It was obviously an explosion and most probably a bomb, for she had heard them before in Northern Ireland, but she didn’t say so.

No se, she muttered.

They rounded the corner: the five year old collected from school less than half an hour before, the mother and the grandmother, into the street where their apartment was, but the way home was blocked.

The street itself was taped off and just behind the tapes were metal barriers behind which stood several policemen. At the far end of the street she could see more tapes and barriers and midway, just opposite the small park and right in front of the Guardia Civil barracks, there was a pall of smoke over the remains of what had once been a vehicle of some sort. Nearer to them there were a couple of army jeeps and some soldiers, obviously bomb squad people. There was also a TV presence – national TV at the nearer end, just behind the jeeps and Canal Sur by the barriers at the far end.

Hola Señora Aguila, one of the policemen said, recognising her. Carlos está allí. And he pointed to where Carlos was standing next to two bomb squad people and another Guardia Civil officer. She waved, but her husband wasn’t looking in her direction.

It was hot and the sweat streamed off her.

¿Me compras un helado, mami? little Ana asked. The child looked very Spanish. Her mother was part Afro-Caribbean and part English, while her policeman father looked typically Spanish himself. She had dark hair, wavy or loosely curly, rather than Afro curls, and she had slender, rather elfin and endearing looks to accompany an intelligent, watchful face.

The child was asking for an ice cream and it was certainly ice cream weather, but she could not tear herself away from the scene, though she could not have explained why.

Lo compro yo, the grandmother offered.

Yes, she could go with her grandmother. Véte con la abuela, she said.

Grandmother and child went back around the corner to buy an ice cream, while she watched in absorbed fascination at the scene. There was something of the psychic or the sensitive in her and possibly her fascination came from foreknowledge, below the level of consciousness, of what was to come. She watched and waited.

It was hot and the sweat streamed off her.

The second bomb may not have been bigger than the first one, but it sounded it. There was a flash of white light and the blast knocked her off her feet. As she fell awkwardly one of the metal barriers crashed to the ground beside her, the main impact as it was thrown through the air just missing her head, but a corner catching her temple as it rolled over, bringing oblivion from the noise and lights. The two jeeps were tossed into the air like toys, the soldiers and policemen were swept aside by the scorching flash of the detonation, like dolls or action men swept aside by a child in a tantrum. ETA was aiming to kill as many police and bomb squad officers as possible. The toll was considerable.

It was hot and the sweat streamed off her.

She struggled to wake within the silence of the hospital, ears ringing still with the echoes of the explosion. She struggled to face up to the final word on what she already knew … that Carlos was dead. She struggled to wake in the silence of her bedroom, separated by hundreds of miles and tens of years from the events of the nightmare. Eventually, Detective Inspector Millicent Hampshire struggled to wakefulness and sat up in bed, sweating but no longer hot.

It was a good many years since she’d last had the dream. Carlos had been killed in the blast and she had gone to pieces. Ana had been brought up in Seville by Carlos’s parents and Millicent had run from her demons, into the army, to the bomb squad and from there to West Yorkshire police.

Inspector Hampshire climbed out of bed and crossed to the bathroom to fetch herself a drink of water. By the time she got back to her bed with a glass, all thought of sleep was gone, so she propped herself on her pillows and sat up for a while, thinking about her dream, her daughter and her latest assignment.

The nightmare was an old one. She’d had it many times during the breakdown that followed the explosion. After she’d told a few half-truths and the odd lie and joined the army it had become less frequent and disappeared altogether with her work in the bomb squad. No, not disappeared. It had been suppressed by activity. She had always been driven by her work and by the forces within her that wanted her to be too busy to remember. What made her such a good detective was partly the dedicated drive to keep herself from thinking of anything but her work and partly the flashes of insight and inspiration, springing from a psychism she was beginning to control, thanks to an enigmatic friend.

The recurrence of the dream was due either to Ana coming to stay shortly, during her interviews for a place at Leeds University, and possibly all the time in term time as a student, if she got a offer, or her present assignment. Possibly a combination of the two was responsible. She thought about the problem again and her interview that afternoon with her immediate boss, Chief Inspector Cooke.

Special Branch have asked to borrow you for a week or two, Cooke had said when she was settled in an armchair in his office. I imagine they looked on the computer for a female detective with security clearance and it came up with your name.

Why security and what do they want me to do? she asked, and added as an afterthought, And where do they want me to do it?

I think, Cooke had said, it has to do with the Women’s Peace Camp at Menwith Hill. The whole story is in this sealed envelope. He patted a thick manila envelope on his desk. I know only the barest details from the Deputy Commissioner and I had the impression he didn’t know the whole story.

I thought Menwith Hill was a US base now and therefore US soil, Millicent remarked.

Oh, it is, Cooke answered. You’ll have the FBI and probably the CIA to deal with. However, the peace camp is quite firmly on English soil, so what goes on there is the concern of North Yorkshire Police, Special Branch and MI5 in this case as well, I shouldn’t wonder.

Millicent was intrigued. What, as far as you do know, is it all about? she asked.

Cooke hesitated. I only have rumours to go on, he said, but I heard from a colleague in the North Yorkshire Police that there was an explosion under the perimeter fence, in a tunnel the peace campers were building. A big explosion, in which a guard was seriously injured. Cooke looked at her gravely. I wouldn’t have to be very smart to conclude there was a connection between an explosion at a top secret US base, a women’s peace camp and a female detective with security clearance who used to be in the bomb squad.

Millicent thought that her boss was right. You didn’t need to be psychic to spot the connection.

I’m not sure I’m that keen, she said. Where do they expect me to live? Where do I work from? Can I take anyone with me? What …

Cooke held up a hand to stem the flow. Remember that I don’t have much in the way of answers. Try reading the file. I do know that they’ve asked for you for about three weeks and that you’ll be working out of Harrogate, so you could easily drive it from home in under an hour. Your instructions are to report to a Superintendent Douglas Bennett of Special Branch at Harrogate Police Headquarters at nine-thirty to tomorrow. My instructions are to accept a DC on loan from Leeds to make up the numbers and appoint a senior person to run the department while you’re away. That’s the limit of what I know.

Millicent thought it wasn’t much. Talking to the peace camp people would be more in Lucy Turner’s line. Can I take DS Turner? she asked. It’s likely to be very touchy dealing with the women and I think she’d be just right.

Cooke shrugged. I can see she’d be just right in the circumstances but you’ll have ask Superintendent Bennett. Now, he patted the envelope, You’d better take the file and tidy up before you drive to Harrogate tomorrow. I’m going to ask Sergeant Gibbs to run the department in your absence. I’m going to see him in a few minutes, after which you can brief him on anything outstanding.

The manila envelope containing the file was on her bedside cabinet. Still completely sleepless she sighed, picked it up, took out the file and opened it to re-read.

Chapter 2: Tuesday 23rd October (am)

‘Lousy weather for peace camping’, Millicent thought as she drove over the top from Airedale to Wharfdale next morning. Or any other kind of camping.

October was marching towards November, the days were drawing in, low clouds masked the very highest points of the moor and a heavy drizzle soaked everything, including her spirits. In sunshine the moors would have looked purple with the autumn heather: today everything was a shade of misty grey and the grass and bracken at the road edge looked forlorn and bedraggled.

Millicent felt forlorn and bedraggled herself. The Technicolor dream, which had broken into her night, had left her tired and nostalgic and prompted her to play one of the tapes of Andean music that Carlos had loved. To the haunting emptiness of the pan pipes and the lonely sound of the group Inti Illmani she drove down into Wharfdale and onto the main road, against the flow of the heavy traffic headed for Leeds. The melodies seemed to encapsulate the vast distances, the soaring heights and the hidden depths of the mountains themselves. At one point she rewound the tape and played again a sad song called Ojos Azules – Carlos had particularly liked it, though neither she nor Carlos were blue eyed. Today the tune seemed sadder than ever.

She drove alongside the river Wharf, which would have been sparkling and bouncing on a bright day, but looked muted today. She joined the Skipton to Harrogate road at Bolton Abbey, crossed the bridge and began the long climb up Beamsley Beacon and over the top to Harrogate and the edge of Nidderdale. The windscreen wipers clicked away the steady drizzle, the clouds stayed low and all about her was in shades of grey. It would be miserable weather interviewing peace campers, Millicent thought.

The walk into Harrogate Police Headquarters from the car park at the rear was short, so she did not put on her waterproof. The rain was not sufficient to do more than dampen her jacket, though it did nothing for her spirits, and the reception was quick to send her up to a third floor committee room. She knocked at nine twenty-five precisely and entered.

Inside were two men and a woman. One of the men was in Special Branch uniform, showing the rank of Superintendent, and looked old enough to be past retiring age. He was a big man – only a little above average height for a policeman, but well built shading to overweight. He had close cropped, iron-grey hair and blue-grey eyes that were not much softer. His expression, however, was reasonably friendly. He glanced at his wristwatch, saw that she was slightly early and rose to greet her, his austere, lined face breaking into a slight smile.

You are Detective Inspector Hampshire, I take it? the Superintendent said, holding out his hand. I am Superintendent Bennett and this gentleman, he indicated the other man, is Sir James Crawley from the Ministry of Defence.

Crawley also stood. He was tall and seemed somehow to‘ unfold’ his body, drawing himself to his full height, which must have been well over six feet. He was lean and smooth and somehow ‘public school’ and looked about fifty-five, give or take. He was dressed as one might expect a senior civil servant to dress – black jacket, striped trousers and a regimental tie. He reached out and shook hands with Millicent.

‘Ministry of Defence my eye,’ Hampshire thought. ‘I bet he’s MI5.’

Pleased to meet you, she said aloud, shaking his hand.

And the young lady, Bennett continued, Is PC Wilcox.

The woman was around thirty and wearing a Special Branch uniform. She had a notepad in front of her, from which she looked up in acknowledgment.

Good morning, ma’am, was all she said

PC Wilcox, Bennett continued. Perhaps you would fetch the coffee and biscuits and we can begin the briefing.

Wilcox stood up, saying, Very good, sir. and went out of the room.

Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Bennett said, and the two men settled back round the table. Millicent joined them, putting a notebook and the file from her manila envelope in front of her.

You have read the information supplied? Bennett began, indicating the file. Millicent nodded.

And do you have any questions about the assignment.

There’s nothing directly about the assignment, Millicent said, And no mention of who’s running the investigation.

You’ll have day to day charge of the investigation, Bennett said, much to Millicent’s surprise. You’ll be free to follow your own theories. I’m nominally in charge in order to keep the Americans happy. Happier, anyway. He glanced at Crawley who smiled ever so slightly.

My colleague doesn’t think they’re very happy about things at all, Bennett said. Of course, thinking that I have responsibility will also keep them off your back a little. You’ll also have very considerable resources – both scientific and other, at your disposal.

At that point PC Wilcox re-entered with a tray of cups and saucers and a plate of assorted biscuits and a glass of milk.

Your milk, sir. Wilcox said, passing the glass to Crawley and placing cups and saucers before the rest of them.

Sugar, sir? She offered the bowl to Bennett first and then Millicent. Ma’am?

Bennett passed the plate of biscuits to Crawley and then helped himself before passing the plate to Millicent. She noted a definite hierarchy, with Sir James at the top and PC Wilcox at the bottom. She studied Sir James discreetly. ‘He’s the one really in charge,’ Millicent thought

To business, said Superintendent Bennett, with another glance at Crawley. I think we should begin by explaining why the Americans are so worried. Of course, they have never been happy about the peace camp and public protest against the upgrading of facilities, for the anti-ballistic missile network.

Millicent knew well enough that the US abandoning the ICBM Treaty was not popular in Europe generally and was not universally well liked in the UK. There was a feeling, quite widespread during the cold war, that places like Menwith Hill and the Fylingdales Moor base further east would make Britain a target. It was a view with which she had some sympathy, though Britain would probably be a target anyway for political reasons. Now that the cold war was over it was a thinly disguised concern about Iran and other possible rogue states on the part of the Americans was at the root of their revised policies – and Britain was even more the enemy now! Wisely she said nothing, but nodded in acknowledgement rather than support of the facts.

The peace camp people were digging a tunnel under the perimeter fence – presumably they meant to break in, but for what purpose is not clear. Four nights ago there was large and serious explosion in the tunnel. By an unfortunate mischance a military guard from British Military police and a member of the US Army were quite seriously injured. The Americans are convinced that the peace camp people did it – it was, after all, their tunnel! We, and he glanced at Crawley, are not so sure.

For a start there was a length of tunnel beyond the explosion. That would suggest that the tunnel was built for other purposes and it’s a lot of wasted work if they simply changed their minds. More conclusively and much more interestingly we uncovered a puzzle when we had the residue of the blast analysed. The explosive used was RDX.

Millicent knew that this was a pretty powerful high explosive used in a number of US military weapons – land mines and some kinds of shell for instance. Where the hell did they get that stuff? she wondered out loud. The American military don’t just leave it lying around.

Very good, Superintendent Bennett approved. You see the interesting problem. It’s complicated by the fact that you get an identical reading from the residues of a Chinese and a North Korean explosive.

The use of this explosive is a recent innovation by the Chinese, Crawley said. I think we would be safe in assuming that the Chinese espionage network is better than the Americans think it is.

The Americans have made up their minds that the peace campers have Chinese or North Korean contacts, Superintendent Bennett continued. My colleague doesn’t agree.

Not entirely, Crawley agreed. We have been keeping tabs on the camp followers. We know quite a lot about them and there are no obvious connections with foreign embassies of any sort.

Your assignment is to find out where the RDX came from and to find the link if there is one, Bennett said. The camp is all female, some of them are anti-male and all of them are suspicious of the police, which is why we chose a female detective. The fact that you are ethnic minority yourself may help.

Millicent thought the moment was right. I’d like to enlist the help of one my department, she said. Detective Sergeant Lucy Turner is very good at getting statements from females – both victims and suspects. She’s in a lesbian relationship herself, not that it matters to me, but it gives her level sympathy that’s most unusual and she uses it with skill. It sounds as if skills like that would be more than useful here.

Bennett looked towards Crawley who just nodded. All right, the Superintendent said, "If you give us the details we’ll arrange it. Of course we’ll have to run a quick check on her background and see her for ourselves,