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

race in whatever currency we had in our pockets. Some of us won a few quid, most of us lost. But we drank a few beers, found a restaurant for a late meal, then went to a club to make a night of it.”

“Max said Alan took over the organising of your getaways,” said Gus. “More emphasis went on visiting a racecourse as part of the trip. Was it possible he got into financial trouble, and that prompted the desperate move which Max suggested to you just before you came to see us?”

“Alan wasn’t any better or worse at picking winners than the rest of us. Lenny Lambert got in his ear about certain sure-fire winners out at Longchamp and Alan laid big bets. He won big on the Prix de Diane; the French Oaks they call it, I believe. We heard all about the money Alan won that day. Whether he kept betting larger sums and hit a losing streak, I don’t know. He wasn’t a moody beggar, that’s definite. Alan never let on that things were getting away from him. Alan was a patriot through and through. He would never have sold secrets to the enemy. Look, if he needed ten, or even twenty grand, to get out of a hole, he could have talked to the gang. We might not have been able to rustle up the full amount, but we would have helped out enough to stop a thug knocking seven bells out of him. There has to be another explanation.”

“Max told you about the Russian connection.” said Gus.

“Max is a straight arrow. He knows how serious an accusation like that could be. You might not have wanted him to mention what you talked about between these four walls, but national security is paramount.”

Gus showed Keith Smith the photo of Yuri Kovalev.

“Where was this taken?” Smith asked.

“Moscow Zoo on the afternoon of the eleventh of May in 2004. Kovalev took a photo of Alan outside St Basil’s cathedral earlier that day.”

“I was in Cancun around that time,” said Keith. “I saw Alan in the week before we flew out of Glasgow. I asked him why he wasn’t coming with us. He shrugged and said he had loose ends to tie up before he left Faslane for good.”

“How did you react when he told you he was leaving?” asked Alex.

“We were all surprised,” said Keith. “It takes a special person to become a submariner and stick at it for the full term. Alan had what it takes, but something convinced him he should call it quits. The gambling question that you’ve raised was never an issue as far as we knew. His mental health was still good. We all underwent checks regularly. You don’t want someone to have an episode halfway through a ninety-day trip. Alan was as level-headed the last time I saw him as he was the day we met. I don’t think any of us understood his reasons for leaving, but we were back at sea within a couple of weeks. When we got home, three months later, Alan was gone.”

“As Max Hughes told us - when you’re in…” said Gus.

“Too right,” said Keith Smith. “The next patrol could be your last. You needed to trust the crew around you inside that ship, not reminisce about an old mate on civvy street.”

Gus wondered whether there was anything more CPO Smith could add. The only person who could confirm beyond all reasonable doubt that Alan Duncan had a damaging gambling addiction was Lenny Lambert, whereabouts unknown.

Gus doubted that Freddie Watts would offer much more than an extra dose of disbelief that Alan Duncan could have sold secrets to settle a gambling debt. Was that worth the ferry trip to Douglas?

Keith Smith hurried away to follow up on the possible security issue Max Hughes had handed him.

“We have another long drive ahead of us, guv,” said Alex. “Shall we delay the debrief until we’ve reached the hotel?”

“A good idea, Alex. Why don’t you let me drive on this leg of the journey?”

“Okay, guv,” said Alex. “You can have fun operating the windows. They don’t stick halfway on my car.”

Tuesday, 7th August 2018

“I suppose that eight-hour ferry journey to the Hook of Holland prepared you for this, Alex?” said Gus. “My last sea trip was to the Isle of Wight with Lydia. The sea was like a millpond that day. These waves are making me regret that fried breakfast at the hotel.”

“Not long now, guv,” said Alex. “I called Lydia from the bar last night after you turned in. They made little progress finding Yuri Kovalev’s current occupation. However, Lydia was waiting for a callback from the Hub this morning. Kovalev may be here in the UK.”

“Should we keep an eye out for an old Vauxhall Zafira?” asked Gus.

“I’ll text her and remind them to check the hire companies, guv. You never know. Did you ring DI Ferris last night?”

“First thing I did when I reached our room,” said Gus. “The long day caught up with me sooner than for a young fellow like yourself. I slept like a log.”

“Don’t I know it, guv,” said Alex.

Alex drove them off the ferry and negotiated the streets of Douglas. Freddie Watt’s pub, The Mariner, stood on a hillside two miles out of town. They parked in front of the tired-looking whitewashed building and went inside.

“It’s quiet for August, guv,” said Alex. “I imagined a lot more holidaymakers.”

“There were plenty milling around in the town,” said Gus. “This place is off the beaten tracks and doesn’t have the kerb appeal of those in the tourist hotspot. Perhaps Keith Smith was right, Lofty’s keener on lifting his elbow than serving customers. Where is everyone anyway?”

Gus rapped his knuckles on the counter.

“Wakey, wakey!”

“Hold your horses. I’m coming. What can I get