Against all Odds: The British Empire in World War Two

Which is awesome indeed.

Chapter 367​

16th June 1943


“So, what do you think, boss?” Constable Short (no relation) asked, and DCI Gene Hunt had to stop himself from saying something rather more nasty than the youngster deserved.

“At the moment, nothing at all, Mr. Short.” he said, and turned away from the mangled lumps that had once been a human being.

He had his suspicions, but there was no proof at all just yet. Though Short was smart and had a knack for details, one of the reasons why he had been encouraged to join the police force when an inconsiderate gunner in a Soviet Pe-8 had behaved ungentlemanly and shot Short's Spitfire (and himself) full of holes on his fourth mission over Europe some months back. The loss of two fingers on his right hand and the slightly stiff arm on the same side didn't prevent him from being an excellent policeman, and, thanks to being left-handed, an excellent shot.

In fact, as someone who had risked everything in the service of the Queen, he deserved more civility.

“But on the surface, Mr. Short, it does look a lot like the other two we found.”

“Not only there.” Short said. Hunt turned and saw that Short was inspecting something on a shelf on the other side of the tiny living room. The two of them were the only ones in it at the moment, the doctor was outside preparing the transport of the remains to the mourge, and the few constables that had entered the room were preferring to wait outside.

Hunt refused to contemplate what that said about the two of them and instead stepped over to where Short was.

The item he inspected was a mindbogglingly ugly piece of porcelain, a dark-grey swan or other water-bird. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up and turn the swan around so that Hunt could see the mark that had been painted there with common household ink to the cloth mini-pedestal on which the bird sat.

It was, as usual, finger-painted by a hand wearing gloves, and formed the familiar two lines, each end connected by a line to it's diagonal opposite, making it look like a squashed #8.

“So it's him then.” Hunt said, and turned back to the woman the man they were hunting had brutally murdered. He swallowed the line of naughty words that he wanted to say and instead stepped over to the telephone, the only one of it's kind in the entire street, and had himself connected to the station.

While he waited, he looked over the room, and now that he knew who it was, the similarities were obvious. The lack of obvious traces of a break-in, the way the knife wounds on the body were arranged, and of course the sign. He shuddered, but was torn out of it by the voice of the operator at the station. “Hunt here, love. Get the the Chief, soonest.”




The office was larger than his last one, but then again, he had to share it with four other policemen, all the people the Chief had put on the case of the Seaforth Killer. Hunt hated the name, but it was one the Chief had used, and of course it had stuck.

As had the case, for that matter. He leaned back in his chair and looked past the heads of the others towards map pinned to the noticeboard on the far all. He could see the pins that denoted the places where they had found the victims, but they told him nothing. Often enough there was some sort of pattern with multiples like this one, but these were, literally, all over the damn fecking place.

One in Seaforth, another one behind the Victoria Building at the University, and now the third in Wavertree, in a neighbourhood that was otherwise perfectly normal.

The Victims themselves didn't help either. There was no pattern he could see. A woman of questionable repute, a member of the university's School of Medicine and now a widow who had recently lost her husband in Austria. So far the only thing that connected the victims was that they were dead, killed by the same depraved individual and all with what seemed to be a very similar or even the same blade, with by the measurement could be anything from a 1903-pattern bayonet to some sort of dagger someone had bought in the 1850s in a small metal shop outside Kabul. In short, no help whatever.

The people who had found the first two dead bodies had been checked out. One of them had been a sailor on leave, but his ship had sailed last week to the far east, while the janitor who had found the second body couldn't be the murderer because he for one far too old and had had an alibi for the other two.

Hunt sighed and rose from his chair. He walked over to the map and stared at it as if this would give him a sudden flash of inspiration. There had to be something that connected them, but aside from the usual rumours and dodgy 'it's true, honest, guv!' information from his snitches there was little in the seedier parts of the city that could help him. Ironically, the respectable circles of society had yet to find out what was going on, though that wouldn't last for much longer, but the underworld was abuzz with rumour, so of course was of sod all use in this matter.

“You know boss,” Short's voice came out of the blue suddenly, “there is one thing that bothers me about the last one.”

“Christ, Short! Do that again and I might accidentally give your dentist some work!” Hunt said, and tried to calm his heart down, “But now that that's out of the picture, what is it that's bothering your delicate sensibilities this time?”

“When the first victim was found we thought it was one of her... customers, right? Because there was no sign of a break-in.”

Hunt looked at Short but then realized what he was on about.

“Hell's teeth, Short. You might be right. It's bloody damn unlikely that the widow knew the other one, or that they moved in the same circles, socially that is.”

He didn't say it, but of course someone would soon like into he last victim's social life to make sure that they weren't chasing a wild goose, as the Americans said. Of course there was literally a bloody shed-ton of professions and people that might get someone respectable and not-so-respectable to open their doors for them. They needed more to go on, but at least it was more than they had right now.

Hunt wasn't looking forward to spending the next week going through filing cabinets that had last been de-dusted when Queen Victoria had been alive, but such was a policeman's lot.

“I've already started to jot down a list of likely occupations, boss.” Short supplied helpfully, “but it's going to be a long one.”

“Good show anyway, Short” replied the Boss, “but I fear we'll probably find a few more dead bodies before something gives.”

The younger man said nothing to that, but Hunt knew that he probably thought the same thing. Clearly, this was one of the times when he hated the work he was doing. But complaining was change it. All they could do was to keep calm and carry on.

He was about to suggest that they go down to the BR and get something that a charitable gentleman might call food, but then one of the telephones rang. The four men in the room besides him looked up from whatever they were doing and stared at him as he hopped over to where the telephone was standing on the table they all sat around.

Only one side of the conversation could be heard, but even so they surmised from what Hunt said that he was far from happy about what the chief was telling him. When the conversation ended, he said, without putting the phone down: “The clock is ticking. The caps at the house just had to stop some damn rag's henchman from getting in.”

He dailed for the operator and had himself connected to archives.

“Hunt here, love. Would you be so kind and sent us up everything in the way of attacks and other assorted acts with knives in and around the city in the last, say... three months?”

The rest of the room waited, though most of them had an idea where the boss was going.

“Of course I know that this is a bloody mountain of files! We're not living in some bloody damn English county after all. No one is ever murdered there, and certainly not with a knife!”

He slammed the phone down after a few more moments and then turned to the room.

“Well chaps, it seems someone down there needs some help carrying boxes.” he said, and motioned to the door with his head. “Now get cracking. Once you have them, go through them and sort them by date, and if someone was killed or not.”

Short was the last out of the door and he paused, anticipating his DCI's orders.

“You and I, my old china, will instead go and talk to the actual owner of the last one's house. The Chief pulled a few strings and got us the name of the property holder a bit sooner than is usual right now. She was alone and as far as we can tell hasn't seen anyone for at least a week.”

Short understood now. “Ahh, and so you have a hunch you're chasing after, and to do that you need to speak to the landlord.”

“Indeed I do. However the lazy so-called civil servants at the office concerned already left for tea about half an hour ago and we would have had to wait until tomorrow.”

“Which is something you hate doing.”

“Which is something I hate doing.” Hunt confirmed with a grin. “It seems you have some brains after all.”


“Well, Mrs Short's little lad has learned something before being posted to this magnificent centre of police work.”

“Oh shut up.” Hunt said, still grinning.


tbc


Not entirely sure about this plotline, but I think I can make it interesting enough, and yes, it will tie into the war.

Sorry for the long absence again, but RL called.

Now, Kurt, no it's not Jack the Ripper. IIRC by that time he was already in America or the Soviet Union before leaving for Alpha Centauri and later encountering the Enterprise. And yes, there is a Star Trek Episode where they do that.

Well, that match did serve to produce some giggles...

The next update is two-thirds written, but I saw some stuff online that has me worried and angry at the same time.

Blame the Scottish National Party....

Should they leave, I will find it next to impossible to motivate myself writing this, as much as that will pain me....

Hey, you get to avoid lots of bad rep because of TTL's Troubles being far less bad and get street cred for killing Nazis too!

That would be monumentally stupid to do for Dev, as TTL he's at war with the Corporal. Mind you, TTL's Ireland will see a lot less "ENGLAND BAD, HULK SMASH TWELVE COUNTIES!" stuff.

Also, the below is a little something I just made for the wiki.





Think fans of this and the 'original' 1958 version ("Sink the Hood!") are about as rabid towards each other as Wrath of Khan/Undiscovered Country adherents. Both great.

After the god-awful 1995 re-make of the Empire's favourite Naval flick (think Pearl Harbour-love-story levels of awfulness), TLBC has done much to re-vitalize the War Film genre, with the long-delayed Dambusters remake scheduled for release in 2014 and "Market Garden" later this year.

The film is also famous for having most internal scenes set on the Hood shot on location aboard the venerable ship, with actual Navy ratings from the ships then at Scapa Flow acting as extras in some shots.

I stand by what I said on the outcome of the referendum, but until and unless that particular horror scenario comes to pass, I intend to continue. Though Highland Regiments and the like will feature less.

EDIT: So, what on the two spoilers in that infobox?

He wrote the music. It started out as a way to pay the bills, since that band he was in never quite worked out TTL... Influential as they may have been to some forms of music, they never hit the big time. By now he's TTL's John Williams for all intents and purposes.

Chapter 368​

Late afternoon, 16th June 1943


Hunt had taken a car out of the motor pool at the station and the two policemen were now on their way to an address that was in one of the better parts of town, but not quite so well-off that they would have had to go there hat in hand and formally request an audience. Not that there were many of those in Liverpool to begin with, but it made things easier.

The both of them doubted that it would yield much, but as Hunt had said on the drive through town, it was the only thing they could do until the chaps in the office had started weeding out the obviously wrong candidates until there was time to look at them more closely.

Short on the other hand had earned some additional credentials by going over the witness reports from the neighbours, but by the time they stopped in front of the owner's rather larger abode, he had yet to find anything substantial. Though the both of them felt certain that something would give. “After all,” Hunt said, “there is no perfect crime.”

And with that he halted the car in front of what seemed to be an excellent replica of a late-Tudor mansion, though of a somewhat smaller scale than usual and they got out.

The property was surrounded by the hedges common in this sort of quarter, and the small gate which allowed visitors entry was framed by a narrow arch that held some sort of climbing plant.

Hunt was the first through, and once he stepped onto the light-gravel path, he could see what had to be the most perfect lawn in England. The only thing that marred the picture was the twisted pine tree that seemed to be about a century old and looked as if it had been hit by a lightning in the not too distant past, probably in that prodigious storm last winter.

He shrugged and walked the last few steps towards the door where Short was already waiting.

“Let's get this done.”

Four short knocks followed.

A voice answered almost immediately, probably belonging to an elderly man.

“Yes, who is it?”

“It's the Police, Sir. We would like to ask you a few questions, if me may. It is rather important.”

They heard no answer, but instead the door opened a bit, and an elderly man was peeking through. When he saw two respectably dressed Gentlemen, one showing his ID card without being asked, he opened it fully.

Only then could Hunt see that the man was as old as his own father, but in far better shape. Somewhat smaller in stature than himself, he nevertheless carried himself in a way that made it obvious he had once been in the military, quite aside from the scars he had on the left cheek of his face.


Introductions were exchanged and he invited the two policemen in and led them through the narrow corridors.

Once in the main living room they declined refreshments and seated in the comfortable chairs, it was clear that James Ryan had served the Empire for decades, as the walls were lined with memorabilia. Hunt knew that Ryan was old enough to have done so for Queen Victoria. Not the Crimean War of course, but certainly... the thought trailed off when he saw several bayonets of varying length hanging on the wall. Seeing that he was studying a few of them, Ryan remarked:

“Those I picked up in the last Boer War with the 2nd Norfolk... We used it a lot there.”

Hunt tore his eyes away from it and shook his head.

“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Hunt?”

Hunt re-arranged his thoughts.

“Well, there has been a murder at one of your properties, and we would like to know of you could tell us anything about the tenant at...” He paused, and read the address off a piece of paper he had taken from his pocket.

Ryan frowned, trying to recall who this particular house had been rented out to, hoping that it was one he could do without, especially now that a crime had been committed there. However, he owned more than a dozen smaller and mid-sized properties in and around Liverpool, so instead he rung for his butler, formerly his servant and close friend when he had commanded the Regiment.

“Alfred, could you bring me the property records for the city please?”

Less than two minutes later he had laid the thick folders out on the tea table and trailed his finger down the lists.


“Ah yes, this particular tenant was one of the best, always paid her rent on time and only had fair complaints.”

“Complaints?” Hunt asked, doing the talking while Short concentrated on keeping an eye on Ryan.

“Nothing major. A few leaking water pipes in the bath and last winter the hailstorm broke a window. An afternoon each, as it were.”

Hunt scribbled all this down on in his notebook, and he already had some idea that they wouldn't get all that far here.

“And more recently?” he asked, “has there been anything? However insignificant it may seem?”

Ryan knew that the women had lived without many, if any, social contacts, so he did his best to try and remember.

“I have been over there with Alfred, a week ago. There had been some problems. Someone had tried to force the rear door leading to the garden. It was damaged, along with one of the windows.”

Hunt glanced over at Short and saw that the younger man was frowning. However that was something he'd ask about later.

“Something stolen?”

Ryan shook his head. “Not that I am aware of.”

“Peculiar.” Hunt said even as he wrote everything down.

The elder in the room nodded and communicated his agreement.”

“One last question, Sir. The tenant never travelled? Left a forwarding address by any chance?”

“Alas, no. If she did, it wasn't left with me.”

Hunt suppressed a sigh. It had been an extraordinarily long shot anyway, but one he'd been forced to take, because so far the interview hadn't yielded much.

Glancing over at his partner again, he saw Short raising his left eyebrow in a gesture Hunt would soon come to associate with both 'there is more here' and 'I'm not buying it', though in this case it was the former. Hunt knew that sometimes instincts needed to be followed up on, but here there was nothing much more to do.

“Very well then Mr. Ryan. We thank you for being so considerate.”

Ryan smiled and waved the thanks away. “No worries, Inspector. We all have our do our bit in this war.”



On the way back to the station Short impatiently tapped the upholstery with right middle finger, and Hunt, who had the same bad habit when he was impatient, didn't ask. Though apparently he was doing so very loudly, because suddenly Short spoke.

“When we were back there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb, “I suddenly remembered something. It was what Ryan said that made me do so, and I'm not certain that I'm right, so I would dearly love to refresh my memory.”

Hunt said nothing and instead concentrated on steering the car through the streets of Liverpool.

Back at the station, Short immediately excused himself and disappeared towards the office, while Hunt parked the car and decided to have the second of the two a day he allowed himself. The blackout was still some ways away, so he didn't step inside for it, instead he stood aside the main entrance and watched the traffic flow by as fast as it could with wartime petrol rationing.

He had about two of cigarette before the filter when Short's voice suddenly intruded on him.

“I was right. I've been checking the other files and in each case there was a failed attempt to break in at some place in their dwelling as little as the night before.”

Now that was something.

“Attempted?” Hunt asked.

“Attempted.” Short replied with a nodd, “but then again, someone with the correct skillset could easily make it look like he only tried to get in.”

“Especially if it's someone who isn't quite good enough.”

tbc