Alex Swan Mystery Box Set Read online

  THE ALEX SWAN MYSTERIES

  David Holman

  © David Holman 2019

  David Holman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  WINGS OF DEATH

  COUNTDOWN TO TERROR

  ISLAND OF FEAR

  WINGS OF DEATH

  To my dear wife Kirstie and my beautiful daughters,

  Victoria, Emily and Bethany- Anne.

  For the things we have already achieved together

  and for those that we are yet to achieve.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Alex Swan lit another cigarette perusing the contents of the file for a final time. The conclusion to this case had been a simple one; the troubled soldier was dead, having shot himself, than go through the long drawn out ritual of a court martial, followed by a possible death sentence. Although capital punishment had been abolished in civilian terms since August last year, he knew the military would take a different view. Maybe it was for the best, Swan thought. At least the others on the killer’s list would now be safe, for what was seen as revenge attacks for what the soldier had experienced during his tour in Aden. He had gone AWOL to go on his search for what in his troubled mind, were sympathisers of the Yemeni insurgence group, the NLF.

  He closed the file and looked at his watch, his colleague Arthur Gable would be almost home by now, having left early to hit the A13 Commercial Road in time to get to East Ham, for a nice dinner cooked by his wife Annie.

  Swan thought it was also high time that he headed home, although he didn’t have that far to travel to his basement flat in Bayswater. There was an invitation of drinks with some of his former Security Service pals, but the comforting prospect of a glass of a good single malt and a best selling novel written by a former colleague, now turned best-selling spy fiction author, seemed a better option.

  Placing the file into the cabinet, the former Head of A Section, MI5 stared into the disorganised mess. Since forming the Services Investigations Department, he had hoped that the MOD would have given him a secretary.

  Following the election of the new Labour government, cuts were being made everywhere, and that meant Swan and Gable had to be content with having to carry out their own administrative tasks in the SID office.

  At Leconfield House, Swan had had the efficiency of his old PA meaning that everything was where he could find it, straight away. She had practically organised his life, not that there was much of one. Outside the clandestine workplace of the Crown’s secret protectors, there was of course the odd dinner date. But in Swan’s line of work, he had to be cautious even in his choice of female companion, he wasn’t happening to be sharing a beef bourgeon with someone whom the next day, could be sharing beluga caviar with their Soviet handler. The Cold War in London was a dangerous game played between lions and bears, with the odd bald eagle occasionally added at half-time.

  He closed the drawer and looked out at the glitzy evening lights of the South Bank, flickering on the black water of the Thames, while 330 miles north, in an aircraft factory in Cumbria, a security guard was just finishing his rounds, when he had made a sinister discovery.

  *

  Almost three hours ago, security guard Jack Hollingsworth had stopped reading and hastily rammed his copy of the Cumberland News under the reception desk. At Brinton Aviation Ltd this was almost what is known in the working world as knocking off time, and as a security guard, prepared himself for the onslaught of bodies that would hand in keys and grab for their cards to clock off from their shifts. The blast of the klaxon sounded, indicating the end of the shift and Jack listened for the impending sound of the pounding feet and smell of cigarette smoke from the workforce soon to pour through the double doors from the assembly and maintenance hangars, on their way out to transport buses, bicycles and for the management, the company cars in the car park.

  Forty minutes later, he had seen the last of the day shift place their clock card into the machine and checked his watch. It was 6.00 pm. Hollingsworth knew by the empty key hooks on the wall, that a few people would still be in their offices. There was one particular hook that he could personally guarantee would not have the keys on it until usually around ten o’clock in the evening. On some nights, he had not been collecting these keys until gone midnight, and there were even a few occasions when he had not received them at all. These keys belonged to the green room inside Hangar 2, and the current occupants of this room were the American officials assigned to a new reconnaissance drone project known as Python Hawk.

  Hollingsworth didn’t really like Americans much. He had every right to have this particular distaste for Britain’s friends across the pond, as his personal hatred was the very reason why for the last twenty-one years, he had been walking with a slight limp. A fateful night, which would forever be embedded in his memory. During the last year of the war in Europe, as an MP based at a bomber station in Sussex, he had pursued a young American rear gunner, more commonly known as a ‘Tail-End Charlie’. Afterwards, the man had got himself drunk, picked a fight with an RAF mechanic over the performance of the British Lancasters compared to the American B-24 Liberators based at the airfield, and then stolen a bicycle to head out for the dispersal area. What Hollingsworth or his colleague Tony Savage did not expect, was Harry Pinner was in possession of his regulation sidearm and on approaching him, opened fire on their open top jeep killing Savage instantly with two rounds to his chest. Hollingsworth had then jumped out of the swerving vehicle as a round had hit his knee. Using the jeep as cover, the MP had drawn his own weapon and was about to return fire, when Pinner had shouted ‘This is for you, Mary Lou!’ Hollingsworth had heard one more shot, the one that had gone through the back of the airman’s brain. It was later discovered that his sweetheart back in his home town of Kissimmee in Florida, had called off their intended wedding and had gone off with an arch high school rival who ran the local garage. Unknown to her the day she had sent this ‘Dear John’ was that the cost of her postage stamp to England, would also be the price for two lives. Hollingsworth had then spent the next four weeks in hospital. The bullet that hit him, had shattered the lower part of his patella, leaving him to walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Since then, there had been days, especially during the winter months, when the pain would be quite severe causing him great discomfort. He had also cursed the time spent in hospital as this had prevented him from attending Savage’s funeral.

  *

  Almost twenty-one years later, this late January evening was one of those severe wintery times. He rose from his chair, grimacing as the sharp pain shot through him then straightening himself, grabbed his torch and clipboard in readiness for his first site check. The bi-hourly routine took him to the offices of the main building, then across the apron to the hangars.

  Exiting through a side door, he faced the first
of the three large hangars. Known more familiarly as ‘The Magic Box’; Hangar 1, was where it all happened, where all of Brinton’s winged creations were brought to life, from the drawing boards in the Chief Engineer’s office perched on the overhanging mezzanine, to the assembly floor with the strategically placed support jigs; these particular jigs had been recently constructed to a significant specification, because supported on them, was the Brinton’s latest design.

  To meet Air Ministry requirement OR559 for a high speed low level attack and reconnaissance aircraft, Brinton Aviation had been awarded the contract to build this machine. However, following political constraints regarding budgeting, the recently elected government had decided to amalgamate Brinton with two other aircraft manufacturers to jointly produce the project.

  The directors at Brinton had campaigned against this, as it would mean a reduction in their own workforce, but despite taking this to the cabinet table of the newly elected British Government, it had been concluded that the amalgamation decision was set in stone. With what seemed a threat, the Ministry of Supply had bestowed Brinton with a somewhat threatening ultimatum: ‘amalgamate, or cease to be.’ A consolation from this was that the Cumbrian based plant would be the chosen location for the final assembly of the project. They would build the fuselage, engines and wings and the avionics would be produced by the other companies respectively.

  The design was based around the BR- 101, a concept which had already been on the Brinton Aviation drawing board as their proposal to meet the requirement. Design teams from the other manufacturers had worked with the team at Brinton, and the assembly workforce had been hand-picked from all three companies. The maiden flight of the first prototype aircraft had taken place last November and was now on Flight 10 at RAF Pembridge, the RAF’s proving ground for all new potential service aircraft.

  Being a bit of an aviation buff himself, Hollingsworth had badgered Chief Engineer Howard Barnett for one of the specially commissioned promotional desktop scale models of the aircraft, which to Mrs Kay Hollingsworth’s annoyance was currently perched in the centre of their mantelpiece at home and for fear of damaging it during her cleaning sprees, always avoided it, when attacking the area with the feather duster

  Hollingsworth limped his way through the side door of the darkened hangar and shone his torch around the vast interior. He could walk over to the back to switch on the main lights, but as his leg was beginning to play up tonight, had decided to do a quick routine walk along the paths of yellow safety lines that snaked around the airframe assembly jigs; this would be enough for this evening.

  He moved his light onto the workbenches, where neatly placed tools stood on the racks behind them like a regiment on parade. One of the other duties of night security officers, was to conduct a fire picket, ensuring equipment, such as oxyacetylene torches and gas bottles had been completely shut off.

  Satisfied, he slowly walked over to the middle of the hangar where his beam fell onto the second BR- 101 prototype. She was almost fully completed, all set for her ‘Roll Out- Day’, at the end of the month. Following this, there would be rigorous tests for her two engines before her first test flight. Directly behind her, sat three partly assembled airframes. These were the third, fourth and fifth prototypes.

  Hollingsworth moved around P-2 as it was known amongst the workforce, admiring the sleek and slender shape of the fuselage. His torch beam reflected like the sun off her polished metallic finish. Suddenly he slipped, momentarily losing his footing. The impact from this shot up his leg, aggravating his old war injury enough to silently curse the technicians who had failed to cover over this particular oil leak with sand before finishing their shift for the day. He vowed to write a report of the incident, and if needed, would present his shoe as evidence of this negligence.

  Outraged, he lifted his foot and placed his fingers on the liquid as it dripped from the heel. Shining the torch to view the oil on his fingertips, he noticed that it had an opaque, deep reddish hue to it. Thoughts of his dead colleague and the US airman on that fateful night in the war flashed back to him. His eyes followed his torch beam to the floor, and he gasped in horror. It was not lubrication oil; the security guard had stepped into a pool of blood.

  Hollingsworth moved the light across the bloody mass, illuminating the lifeless body. Crouching down, he shone the beam into the mashed face of someone he instantly recognised. ‘Mr McGregor!’ he cried. Reaching for the man’s outstretched arm resting half on a clipboard, he lifted the sleeve of the brown work coat to feel his wrist. He couldn’t feel a pulse. Hollingsworth hoisted himself up again, limped painfully to the back of the hangar and reached out for the light switches. As the straws of light across the roof flickered into life, he picked up the receiver of the green telephone on the wall and waited for the operator to come on line. Then, on hearing her requesting voice, he instantly responded to her. ‘I need an ambulance!’

  Chapter 2

  In Whitehall, a double-decked Routemaster bus stopped at the rain swept metallic shelter, and at the back, the conductor bellowed, ‘Horse Guards Parade.’

  The passengers alighted, quickly buttoning up their coats and putting up their umbrellas to confront the early April shower; the rain was getting heavier, splashing on the already saturated pavement.

  Kate Townsley crossed the road at the Cenotaph, and stopping to reach into the pocket of her soaked white plastic trench-coat, pulled out a piece of blue notepaper. As she read the address, raindrops hit the black script, causing the ink to smudge:

  Mr A Swan

  Services Investigations Department

  7 Wellesley Mews

  Whitehall W1

  Holding the notepaper in her black kid-leather gloved hand, she walked down a side street next to the Banqueting House, then into a smaller street that came to a dead end. Climbing the two concrete steps towards a black door, she quickly checked that the small brass plate matched the address on the piece of paper and pressed the bell.

  Within a few seconds, the door opened and a largely built, balding elderly gentlemen in a dark grey pinstripe suit, smiled from the doorstep addressing her with his distinctive, but friendly East London dialect. ‘You must be Miss Townsley?’

  He stared sympathetically at her long wet brunette hair, as it clung to her head; the ends of it resting on the glistening raincoat.

  ‘Mr Swan?’

  The man smiled. ‘I’m Arthur Gable, Mr Swan’s associate. Won’t you come on in my dear, before you catch ya death.’ With an outstretched hand, he gestured to her, standing aside to allow the dripping wet young woman to enter into the lobby.

  She crossed the threshold and walked inside through the hallway, gazing up at the paintings of Napoleonic battle scenes that climbed the walls of the staircase.

  Gable ushered her to the stairs. ‘Please will you follow me, Miss,’ commanded the big man. ‘Mr Swan is upstairs.’

  She followed him to a white glossed door, allowing him to knock. A faint come in was heard from behind it. Gable opened the door and stood aside, letting her into the room, where she was greeted by a tall thin man who had got up from an oak desk. He wore dark suit trousers and matching waistcoat, a white shirt and a green, red striped tie, with the crest of the Royal Corps of Signals embroidered on it.

  ‘Miss Townsley? Alex Swan, pleased to meet you. Do take a seat.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Arthur, please be a good chap and take this young lady’s wet coat.’ He turned to her, asking if she would like some tea.

  Kate Townsley gave an appreciative nod. ‘Yes please, that would be grand after the long journey,’ she replied in her Cumbrian brogue as she removed her coat to reveal a black sweater, grey knee length skirt, ribbed white tights and black leather calf boots. She handed her coat to Gable, who placed it on a wooden coat rack.

  Swan turned again to his colleague. ‘Arthur, would you be so kind, dear fellow and fetch the lady a cup of your finest?’ He sat back down at his desk; a matching suit jacket hung on the back of his c
hair. Kate relaxed herself, taking in the man sitting in front of her, noticing that he was tall, in his late forties, had a clean shaven, thin and gaunt looking face with hazel coloured eyes and a small mole at the side of his nose. Finally, she observed the salt and pepper coloured hair that was completely grey at the temples. This had instantly reminded her of the actor who played Alan Quartermain in King Solomon’s Mines, the first film that she had seen with her family, that had not been a Walt Disney cartoon. Swan gave her a friendly stare, but having already had prior knowledge of her recent bereavement and reason for her visit, he knew that he had to be cautious for fear of upsetting her.

  He decided to start with some small talk. ‘Your journey from Maryport was a pleasant one, I trust?’

  Kate Townsley responded hesitantly, ‘Yes. As it happens, when I got on the train this morning at the station, the sun was shining.’

  Swan interrupted, turning his head to look out of the rain marked window. ‘And by the time you arrived in London, the heavens had opened,’ he remarked.

  Arthur Gable returned. Carrying a tray supporting a silver teapot, three china cups and saucers, a jug of milk and a small bowl of sugar, he served the tea.

  Swan leant back in his desk chair glancing at his guest in front of him. ‘We don’t have a secretary, but Arthur and I take turns at being host with our guests. I am sure we do just as well,’ he quipped. ‘Now, before we start Miss Townsley, I would like to express our deepest condolences to you for the recent tragic circumstances that has led to the passing of your fiancé.’

  Pausing to allow their client to gather her thoughts, Swan turned to his assistant sitting to the left side of the desk. ‘Arthur, I take it you have brought ‘Nobby’ with you?’

  Gable reached into the inside pocket of his double breasted suit jacket and taking out a small black notebook, replied with a smile.