Buried Secrets: The Freeman Files Series: Book 11, Ted Tayler [best books to read for teens .TXT] 📗

“There was an eight-month gap to the next trip, guv,” said Blessing. “The picture of the gang with Table Mountain in the background is dated the twentieth of April. Chuff this time joined Taff, Smudger, and Lofty. No sign of Andy or Gooner, but one of them could have been behind the camera.”

“We can’t put too much emphasis on the time gaps, Blessing,” said Gus, “not at this stage. They could be significant, but Alan would have had two or three holidays per year, and only sent his parents a small selection.”

“True, guv,” said Blessing, “and Alan might not have been the only man with a camera. His friends could have dozens of photos available.”

“Good point,” said Gus. “Luke, forewarn each submariner when you contact them. They need to rescue their photograph albums from the loft.”

“The fourth photo was from Paris, guv,” said Blessing. “Taff was there as usual, with Smudger, Andy, Gooner and Lofty. The photo Alan sent to his parents featured the Eiffel Tower.”

“Remember what Wayne Phillips said, guv?” asked Alex. “Wayne and Anna went to Paris for a romantic weekend. Alan told him he wasn’t interested in the Eiffel Tower; Wayne thought the gang had gone to Paris for the racing out at Longchamps.”

“It dates the photo to the twenty-fifth of October 2001,” said Blessing.

Luke checked on Google.

“That’s around the date when they run the Prix de L’Arc de Triomphe, guv,” he said. “The racecourse is a ten-minute taxi ride from the Eiffel Tower.”

“Where in the world do we go next, Blessing?” asked Gus.

“Waikato, New Zealand, guv,” she replied, “in early February 2003. Taff, Smudger, Lofty, Chuff, and Tarby accompanied Duncan on that trip, plus the photographer.”

“Waikato’s a famous heritage site, guv,” said Lydia. “They’re noted for the volcanic black sand beaches and fine surfing conditions.”

“Everyone deserves a holiday, Lydia,” said Gus. “I’m interested in the gap this time, Blessing. Could the missing Happy Valley photo come somewhere between Paris and Waikato?”

“We have no way of knowing that before we talk to Max Hughes and the others. The gang ended up in Tokyo in September that year, guv,” said Blessing. “Taff, Smudge, Andy, and Chuff joined Alan in the city's heart. That’s the Shibuya Crossing.”

“I hate crowds,” said Gus. “You wouldn’t catch me there in a month of Sundays.”

“The last one comes from Dubai on the twenty-seventh of March in 2004,” said Blessing. “Taff, Smudger, Andy and Lofty appear in front of the camera with Alan. Divya reckoned they were on loungers at a hotel in the Al Jaber complex. It’s probably the Shangri La.”

“Well done, Blessing,” said Gus. “Where do we go from here?”

“Scotland, guv,” said Blessing. “HM Naval Base Clyde—commonly known throughout the Navy as Faslane—it’s the Royal Navy’s major presence in Scotland. The base is home to the Submarine Service's core, including the nation’s nuclear deterrent, and the new generation of hunter-killer submarines. The Royal Naval Armaments Depot at Coulport, eight miles from Faslane, handles the storage, processing, maintenance, and issue of key elements of the UK's Trident Deterrent Missile System. Faslane is the base for three thousand service personnel, eight hundred of their family members and four thousand civilian workers. Freddie Watts, to give him his actual name, would be in his late fifties now. He retired after twenty-eight years’ service. If we wish to speak to him, it will require a trip to the Isle of Man. Freddie Watts runs a pub in Douglas.”

“Are the others still in the Royal Navy?” asked Neil.

“How old are they, anyway?” asked Lydia.

“They’re between forty-seven and fifty years old,” said Blessing. “Four still serve at sea. They are Craig Anderson, Bryan Tarbuck, Rico Menghini and Drew Taggart. Max Hughes and Keith Smith work at Faslane in a training capacity.”

“Well, that’s the first stroke of luck we’ve had on this case,” said Gus. “The two guys who appeared in every photograph are virtually on our doorstep. Supposing the others are still at sea, how would we get hold of them?”

“We can’t call them on the numbers that we have from Alan Duncan’s pocket diary, guv,” said Blessing. “No cell phones allowed on submarines.”

“Right, Luke,” said Gus. “How far have you got with fixing a meeting with Max Hughes?”

“Waiting for a callback, guv. The same goes for Smudger Smith. Do you want me to try the innkeeper on the Isle of Man?”

“Do you honestly think Geoff Mercer will let us go on a day trip in the Irish Sea?” asked Neil.

“Either the ACC wants this case wrapped up, or he doesn’t,” said Gus. “I’ll ask nicely and see what he says. I don’t suppose we can just wander onto the Faslane base. We may need to arrange video calls with the first two men. No doubt they’ll have Naval legal representation present. It could get messy. That Moscow trip concerns me. If Alan Duncan and his pals had a holiday in Dubai at the end of March, how did he wangle a weekend break to Moscow in the second week in May? I thought these submarines stayed deep underwater for up to ninety days.”

“As my mother says, that will come out in the wash, guv,” said Neil. “Alan Duncan’s crewmates will know the full story. Just because they aren’t in those two photos that Blessing has, it doesn’t rule out them being there. We’re looking at a series of snapshots of our victim’s life; not a joined-up feature film.”

“Neil’s right, guv,” said Lydia. “It’s so easy to fabricate a story around the images we have on the whiteboard, but his friends will add context, and perhaps provide extra photographs that blow any conclusions we might draw out of the water.”

“Right,” said Gus. “I’ll contact London Road for permission to speak with the three most significant submariners, Hughes, Smith, and Watts. Blessing,