Sorry I forgot to give feedback.
Kurt_Steiner Well, there has yet to be a proper battle Fleet vs Fleet.
Griffin.Gen At least they know that the RN is willing to risk it's carriers.
Raaritsgozilla More on that soon.
Chapter 211
23rd March 1942
A pub in Liverpool, just after closing time
DI Hunt was happy that his good friend still allowed him and the blokes from the station to use the pub after hours for 'private gatherings' and right now Hunt and Jackson were sitting there over a glass of very rare pre-war Whiskey that the owner kept hidden away for special guests and occasions, and when they had arrived there an hour earlier the look on their faces had told him that they needed a stiff one, even though it was only eleven in the morning.
“Almost a month, and NOTHING!” Hunt yelled and slammed his fist on the table with enough force to send everything on it rattling.
“Nothing but that spent .303, Boss.”
Hunt snorted and downed the rest of his drink.
“Death by Squaddie sounds a bit strange in the report though, and a bit too easy to boot.”
But it was all they had. The second murder scene had been searched for anything that even looked like a clue, but the only thing that they had found was a spent .303 casing that was definitely Army issue, and nothing else at all. Since the bodies lacked fingers identification by fingerprint was impossible and what else was there? A week spent going through Army records had brought up nothing that they could use. Small Arms ammo disappeared all the time. Troops lost them at the range and failed to report it, cases split open and not all of the rounds were collected, the point being that the casing could have come from anywhere.
“But boss, I still think that we are onto something there. And save a miraculous break it's the only thing we have.”
“True enough. And that is why we will go over everything again.”
Jackson suppressed a groan. “But Boss, we've been through all that a thousand times already.”
“Again true, but never at the same time. If this was really the same sick bastard who did both of them, there have to be things overlapping in other ways than in what condition the bodies were found, and that might give us what we need.”
Hunt rose to his feet and looked at Jackson.
“Now quit whining old boy and follow me.”
Soon enough they were sitting on the small Office again and had both sets of the files in front of them, going through them bit by bit for the umpteenth time that month. Both Victims had been found in relatively good neighbourhoods where mostly middle-class residents lived, and both had been in their lodgings for not too long. Both had had false papers that had gone nowhere when followed up on, in both cases Hunt himself had done the checks and called around, but had only heard that these people did not exist, hence the troubles with identification. It was a wonder that they had been able to even match them to these fake papers to the mutilated faces.
At this point Hunt had an idea. He quickly had Jackson continue what he was doing, grabbed his coat and waltzed out the door without seeing the DCI coming in.
“Where is he going?”
“He didn't tell me, Chief.”
The DCI looked at Jackson with a face that betrayed emotion.
“They found one more they think might be the work of your murderer, and this one is in a really bad state.”
“Just how bad, Chief?”
“Really, really bad.”
Hunt meanwhile was walking through the shadier parts of Liverpool with no definitive destination in mind. He always kept tabs on his contacts, but with the war and the constant influx of men going through the city in all directions some always gave him the slip. The person he was looking for now could be in any number of places, all he knew was that he hadn't been called up, because he was not only missing a foot but with fifty-six too old anyway.
“Bloody hell Jameson, where are you?” Hunt said to himself as he was leaving a shady back-street pub that said Jameson normally frequented. Hunt was well known in certain circles of the city and the people in question knew that he was a fair man, so he didn't think that they had lied to him when they had said that Jameson hadn't been in in at least a week. No, they also didn't know where he was. Hunt had thrown some money on the table, let the patrons of the pub stand where they were and had stepped outside again. He walked about half a mile down the street and then sat down on the stairs of a 'closed for the duration' shop that apparently used to sell furniture and other things imported from southern Germany. The destroyed shopwindow was evidence that someone didn't like even that, but Hunt had no mind for that. He thought long and hard over where Jameson could be. The old crook rarely disappeared like that, and even then he could be tracked down by those that knew him well, to which Hunt counted himself.
Then suddenly Hunt had a brainwave and rose to his feet. He knew now where Jameson was, or rather where he most likely was. He began to run for the nearest tube station and spent the next half hour under the city. When he ascended again he immediately made his way to towards the harbour area of the city where many of those who wanted not to be seen or noticed crawled under and hid amongst the sailors and throngs of people that were always there and went through. Usually when on the streets in this area he could easily mingle with the crowds, but Liverpool was easily the most important embarkation port in the entire United Kingdom for all of the fronts, and both the troops coming from as far as India for special training[1] and those going out went mostly through this city. That made for an utter mess, and it was of course quite possible that the murderer was now deployed somewhere on sitting in a freighter on his way to India. He refused to consider that and walked purposefully towards his destination.
His destination was a rickety old house that was amongst the oldest in the oldest part of Liverpool, in fact it seemed to him that the house was old enough to have seen the beginnings of the Slave trade that had sadly put this city on the map. The street was deserted, but in the middle of the day that was perfectly normal, and when he knocked on the door of the house he wasn't surprised that no one answered. The single-storey house belonged to Jameson's family, at least officially. His mother had died years ago, and his father had dropped off the edge of the earth years ago, and it was unclear wether he was still alive, and Jameson simply had access because no one had so far bothered with the pile of bricks that he called the house. He rarely came here, preferring to use the place as a spot to lay low and Hunt was sure that if he was still in Liverpool, he was here. Just as he began to contemplate yelling or simply kicking down the door he heard a sound inside. Good. So someone was there. Hunt opened his mouth to demand entrance when he heard another noise and this one commanded his attention. It was the screaming of someone in danger, muffled though it most likely was. Hunt drew the Webley Mk.IV he always carried when he went into this part of town and decided that this warrented entrance without warrant. After the door had been persuaded to give way with a hearty kick he slowly made his way to the back of the house where the sounds were still coming from. He had been here before a few times and knew that back there only a small room remained. Upon reaching the door he tested it silently. It was unlocked. He eased it open and what he saw then would have frozen the blood of lesser men. On the right of the room a red-haired man was standing with a knife in his hand over the apparently still living body of Jameson who was the one doing the moaning. Redhead turned to see who had surprised him and launched himself at Hunt who lacked the time to take aim and just pressed the trigger. The heavy gun went off with a deafening roar and the .380 round slammed into the left shoulder of the assailant. The man staggered back and decided that living was better than dying. He simply threw a “Bodalach!” at Hunt and threw himself out of the window before Hunt could fire a second time. Hunt was torn between going after the man and looking after Jameson, but one look at the poor wretch on the floor decide the matter. He sighed, put the weapon back into the right pocket of his long coat and went down on his knees to cut Jameson loose. At first he removed the gag that had prevented the older man to do more than moaning and used it to bandage the deepest would he could see, a cut on the left leg. Jameson spat out some of the fabric and then instantly began to rant.
“Bloody hell, what on earth are you doing here? Gene Hunt if you ever break into my house like this I will call your bloody mates down on you.”
Hunt was about to give a snappy retort when Jameson spoke again.
“But since you saved my life I will forgo that and instead ask what brought you here in the first place.”
Hunt finished cutting the ropes that had been used to bind Jameson and said: “Most likely the same things that brought that chap here. Fake papers.” Jameson was about to protest but Hunt cut him off.
“Don't bother denying mate. You know as well as I do that you are the only one in this whole city who can make papers that passed inspection even by the bloody office that normally makes them. Now I want to know from you where you made them, who you made them for and thirdly, why on earth you thought that this was a good idea. I could charge you with treason under the Emergency Powers (Defence) Act and I am not even Special Branch, so you better talk.”
“The Irishma-”
Jameson was cut off from talking when a shot roared and the bullet pierced his head.
Hunt turned around and pulled out the gun in the same movement but once again the other man was faster and gone just as Hunt pulled the trigger. The bullet harmlessly slammed into the door frame and Hunt cursed himself for not locking it behind himself. He ran after the man this time though, and since the front door was damaged, he had the time to lay a shot, but again he missed. He swore with the vocabulary of the gutters he had grown up in and turned around. He knew that all this banging about would soon bring his colleagues to the scene, so instead of bothering to call them, he began to search the four rooms of the house.
Thirty minutes later he was not only joined by Jackson and knew about the third murder but also had found something that the Paddie had definitely been there to remove, a set of papers that showed him to be Liam Malone, another on for Brian Shanahan out of Belfast, along with a sheet of paper which was a filled out form of one of the many shipping companies that operated here and this was at last something tangible.
It took them hours upon hours to sift through the evidence. Hunt hated theorizing when
not under the influence of caffeine, which was the reason while he was rarely seen without a cup of Tea when at the office. However the day past the two of them had convinced both Hunt and Jackson that something with more kick was needed again, so instead they were sitting at the table in Hunt's Office, knocking back his emergency reserve whilst theorizing on why this all happened. Jackson, having spent some years with the Royal Ulster Constabulary himself when he had been new was convinced that it was plain old Irish terrorism and that the people killed were informants or some other form members that had pissed off their bosses. Hunt meanwhile was convinced that there was something more behind it all. There where enough Irish along the British West Coast to recruit the entire Irish bleeding Republican Army three times over, and that didn't mean that every paddy was one of them. No, his gut instinct told him that something more was going on here and he would do his damndest to find out.
Meanwhile the man Hunt had shot at was sitting in the Offices of a warehouse, cursing the English policeman and his superiors who had given him orders to teach a list of people 'a lesson that would not be forgotten', which in the parlance of his chosen trade meant that he was to kill them in a way that would make people take notice, the right people at least. Just as he had expected the murders had instead drawn the attention of entirely the wrong sort of people. He should have know that using the underworld of the city to carry out his mission would draw the attention of the police, but the lack of cover he had been sent here with made that a non-decision. He should also have known that the sniveling weasel that had made him the papers would run instead of doing what he was paid for, but he was professional enough to know that faulting a man for trying to stay alive was just like blaming the English for being English, no matter the state of war that his masters found themselves in with them. There were eleven more names on his list and now that the police was not only looking for him but also had a good idea what he looked like teaching the lesson to those on the list would be difficult, but he would try. Now who was the next one on the list? Ah yes, Davies.
[Notes: I will develop this plot a bit further for this and at least the next update, because soon there will be lots of combat everywhere, and I don't know when I can come back to this. Also no offence meant to people from actual Liverpool, alas my description is probably utterly inaccurate.]
[1]Mainly the Paras, Mountaineers and Marines and sometimes also Armour.