Last Op

Chapter 3

Built in 1892, the Atlantic Hotel sat on ten acres of headland, overlooking Newquay Bay, the harbor, Towan Beach, and the rugged Cornish coastline. During World War I, the hotel was transformed into a hospital. After the war, alterations were made and it re-opened as a hotel, having undergone several renovations since.

Grant’s hotel room was small but comfortable, had simple but new furnishings. A single bed, directly opposite the door, was covered with a plain, dark blue quilt. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a green glass reading lamp on it, the kind with a pull-chain. There was just enough room for a white rotary-dial telephone. There was a wing chair next to the window on the opposite side of the bed, offering him a convenient place to hang his slacks and shirt.

After showering and shaving, he put on his dark gray slacks, then a light blue, short sleeve shirt. As he was tucking his shirt into his trousers, he drew back one of the white curtains.

He looked out across the headlands, with a totally unimpeded view of Newquay Bay. Tonight he probably wouldn’t get to see the sunset. He had a feeling his time at the pub would go well beyond that.

He opened the wardrobe and sorted through his clothes, looking for his windbreaker. Sliding it from a hanger, he stopped for a brief moment, realizing there were only civvies hanging inside. There hadn’t been many times when he wasn’t packing a uniform or two. He closed the door, thinking he didn’t miss seeing them.

As he started down the staircase, he glanced at his watch, thinking there was still time to grab a bite before meeting Chaz. He thought he’d try a Cornish pasty. A Cornish pasty was made by filling a circle of thick dough with beef, sliced potatoes, turnips, onions, then folded in half with the edges crimped. It was an easy to carry, hearty meal Cornish tin miners brought to the mines for lunch. The thick crust protected the contents and acted as an insulator.

An hour later, he pushed the heavy glass door open and stood outside the entrance to the brightly lit hotel lobby. As he put on his windbreaker, he breathed in a lungful of clean sea air. Downtown Newquay was less than a third of a mile away, so he decided to walk, avoiding a parking problem.

Within a few minutes he was at Newquay Harbor, as if he’d been drawn to it. Taking a slight detour onto North Quay Hill, he had a good view of the harbor. To the right, at the bottom of South Quay Hill, was the harbormaster’s office. Next door, tucked behind a multi-pane glass door that opened electronically like a garage door, was a large rubber boat. The Newquay lifeboat was the same color orange as a life vest. It rested on a “dolly” to allow swift movement to the water.

The lifeboat was owned by RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) and manned by volunteers. Only the boat coxswain was paid.

The harbor itself wasn’t considered large. There were two breakwaters, the north and south. The north one jutted out from land running parallel with the beach, while the second extended from the beach toward the bay. A narrow entrance to the harbor separated the two.

Inside the harbor were small fishing boats, and several private motor craft, all under thirty feet, but most were either simple motor boats, sailboats or rowboats.

By the time he headed back to the hotel later that evening, street lamps along both breakwaters would light up the entire harbor.

A cloud of thick, choking cigarette smoke filled every square inch of the pub. Patrons lined up three deep along the bar, clamoring to move closer. Raising a hand, they’d shout their order, trying to get one of two bartenders’ attention. Bottles and glass mugs filled with pints of stout were passed clinking from hand to hand, in exchange for pounds and shillings.

Next to a side entrance five men were “shooting” darts. A continuous “thump” sounded as each needle nose dart struck the board. Shouts and moans simultaneously erupted with each hit. Tonight was just a friendly game, a practice game. Tomorrow they’d be playing for a trophy and bragging rights. Yanks against Brits. The competition was fierce.

American military personnel, both Navy and Marines stationed at St. Mawgan, eventually found their way to the pub. Initially, the Brits felt their personal space had been invaded by the foreigners. What began as a mild form of animosity between Brits and Yanks, eventually turned into a special bond between the two.

Grant walked in and stood briefly by the door. Heads turned, seeing a stranger, already assuming he was another Yank.

He looked around the room, trying to spot Davis. As he unzipped his windbreaker, he walked toward the bar. No sign of Davis. He pushed through the crowd and went back near the door, standing by an empty table. Looking back toward the bar, he noticed a variety of coasters on display overhead. Brit and Yank uniform badges were stapled along the overhang.

Davis walked in, running his fingers through his windblown hair. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a light-colored cable knit sweater. “Hey, mate! Been waiting long?” he asked Grant, as he pulled out a chair from under the table.

“Just got here,” Grant replied as he shook Davis’ hand. “Glad you could make it. What can I get you from the bar?”

Davis held up a hand. “This one’s on me. What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Grant answered, as he took off his windbreaker, hung it on the back of the chair and sat down.

More patrons arrived. There was practically standing room only. Recorded music, blaring earlier, was drowned out by a continuous babel of loud voices.

Davis pushed his way through the crowd, finally getting close enough to the thirty-foot-long, curved bar. One of the bartender’s, Sam Pearson, spotted him and came over. They chatted briefly, with Davis turning and pointing in Grant’s direction. Davis disappeared behind more patrons crowding around him.

After a few minutes, Grant looked up and saw Davis maneuvering his way through a sea of bodies, finally making his way to the table. He handed Grant a large glass of dark ale.

Davis pushed the chair with his foot then sat. He held up his glass, and Grant tapped his glass against it. “Cheers!” the Englishman smiled.

Grant took a large swig of warm beer, then wiped a finger across his mouth, swiping away foam. As many times as he’s had the warm brew, he still preferred a cold Budweiser.

“Well I’ll be damned!” a voice said loudly from within the crowd.

Grant looked over Davis’ shoulder, seeing someone coming towards him. He recognized the face immediately. “Jack!” he said with a broad smile as he got up. They greeted one another with slaps on the back.

Jack Henley was 5’9”, had short, jet black hair, hazel eyes. From the left corner of his mouth to mid-cheek was a faded scar, the only scar visible as a result of a VC attack on his patrol boat in the Mekong Delta.

Backing away, Grant laughed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing!” Henley replied. “Hey, am I interrupting?” he asked looking at Davis.

“Hell no!” Grant made the introductions. “Chaz, this is Jack Henley. Jack, Chaz Davis.” The two shook hands. “Jack and I were roommates at the Naval Academy.” Grant pulled out another chair. “Come on! Sit! Can I get you something to drink?”

Henley shook his head. “Just ordered. Waitress will be bringing it.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Shit! Can’t believe this. All these years and I run into you in Brit territory.” He shot a look at Davis. “Sorry. I meant English territory.”

Davis laughed. “Not to worry, Yank!”

“So, what brings you here to jolly old England?” Henley asked, reaching for the glass the pretty blond waitress handed him. He took a sip of his gin and tonic.

Grant rested his forearms on the table, sliding his glass back and forth between his palms as he answered, “Took a couple weeks leave. Been doing some diving. Chaz has a dive shop and boat down in Porthgwarra. He’s been my dive buddy.”

“Haven’t done any diving myself,” Henley commented, “but hear Cornwall has some of the best.”

Grant sipped on his beer, then asked, “So, how’s the personal life? Married?”

“Divorced once, then got married again eight months ago. Vicky’s British. She’s from St. Ives.”

“Hey, congratulations!” Grant said, lifting his beer glass. “Here’s to you both!”

“What about you?” Henley asked. “Married? Single? On the ‘hunt’?”

“Married once. Been single since Jenny died.”

“Jesus, Grant. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Davis said quietly, learning a little more about this American, who he already considered to be a friend.

Grant gave a quick nod, then changed the subject. “Now it’s your turn, Jack. Still in?”

“Oh, yeah. Been stationed the past eighteen months at St. Mawgan’s EOD command.”

Grant wasn’t expecting Henley to expound on his current duty. Nothing had to be added considering the secret St. Mawgan held.

Grant nodded. “Hey, listen, if you can get away, why don’t you come diving with us? We’re going out again tomorrow. What do you think, Chaz? Would that be okay?”

“Two Yanks at one time? Might be trouble,” Davis laughed.

Henley shook his head. “Thanks, but tomorrow might not be good.”

“Okay,” Grant said, “there’s still time. I’ll be here several more days.”

Henley pulled the sleeve of his sweater back, looked at his watch, and frowned. “Hmm.”

“Something wrong, Jack?” Grant asked.

“I was expecting a friend of mine. He should’ve been here by now.”

“Need to call him?”

Henley shook his head. “Nah. He lives right down the street. If he’s not here in awhile, I’ll go check his flat. That damn Cooper of his can usually be heard before he even hits downtown!” He took a sip of his drink, then asked Grant, “So, you’re still working for Uncle Sam, too, huh?”

Grant swallowed the last mouthful of beer. “Steady paycheck.”

“Where you stationed?”

“D.C.,” Grant responded, hoping Henley didn’t want any further details, especially while sitting in this crowded pub.

“Nice duty!”

Grant laughed. “Better than a boat!” Then he stood, holding his beer mug toward the two men. “Anybody need a refill?”

“Not for me,” Henley answered, holding up his half full glass. “I’m gonna have to leave soon. Told Vicky I’d pick her up at her brother’s house in St. Columb Major.”

Davis threw the last mouthful of stout down his throat, handing the mug to Grant. “Don’t want to get too ‘tanked’ up, but I’ll have one more!”

While Grant went to the bar, Henley looked at his watch again. He was worried. He finished his drink, then carried on a brief conversation with Davis.

Grant made it through the crowd without spilling beer or Coke. He handed Davis the beer then sat down. “So, did I miss anything?” He looked at Henley. “You still worried about your friend?”

“Shouldn’t be, but it’s not like him.”

“We can go with you to check his apartment, right, Chaz?”

“Sure. I can always get another pint!” He took another large gulp, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Finishing their drinks, the three men left the pub then walked down Fore Street toward the clothing shop, passing gift shops, a greengrocer and beach rental gear. The greasy smell of fried fish and chips hung in the air.

“So, how do you know this friend?” Grant asked, putting on his windbreaker.

“Actually, we met at Sailor’s playing darts. And because of him I’ve gotten into the racing scene. Derek’s a real car nut. He loves racing that Cooper of his. We’ve been to road rallies, but most of the time we’ll take the car out on some of the quiet Cornish back roads, away from cops!” he laughed. “The old runway at St. Eval is a great place to spin the wheels. He’s been to our house for dinner, but mostly we just hang out.”

“Does he work here in Newquay?”

“Yeah. He’s one of the custodians at the base.”

They were within two blocks of their destination when there was the sound of police car sirens in the distance. They all turned, seeing headlights and blue flashing lights coming into view as two cars sped down Fore Street, passed them, then screeched to a stop in front of the clothing store.

“Oh, shit!” Henley spat out, breaking into a run, with Grant and Davis not far behind.

Car doors slammed. Two constables ran to a door next to the clothing store that led to the upstairs flat. Two other constables took positions on either side of the door. One of them broke it down, then both rushed up the stairwell.

“Jack!” Grant yelled, catching up to his friend, grabbing his arm. “Hold on!” Both men nearly lost their balance as they stopped just short of the store. “Take it easy!”

Henley caught his breath. “Okay. Okay.”

Grant turned to Davis. “Chaz, think you can find out what the hell’s going on?”

Davis nodded, then walked slowly toward the two officers standing guard, with his hands in full view, showing he wasn’t armed. He said something, then turned and pointed toward Henley and Grant. Both constables shook their heads.

Davis came back and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, mates, but I couldn’t get a bloody word out of them.”

Grant looked up at the apartment windows, seeing lights. Should he let the police know he worked for NIS? Would it get him anywhere? Maybe since Jack knows this Derek, he’d have a chance at information.

“What the hell,” he mumbled. He turned toward Henley. “Jack, stay here.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Just stay here. You, too, Chaz, okay?” Davis nodded with a questioning expression.

Grant walked toward the two police constables, keeping his back to his friends. “Excuse me, sirs,” he said, while he slowly reached for his wallet in his back pocket, opened it, and displayed his ID card. “I’m Grant Stevens. I work for the Naval Investigative Service in Washington, D.C. One of the gentlemen behind me is an American stationed at St. Mawgan. He’s a friend of mine and of the man who lives up there,” he pointed. “Can you give me any information on what’s happening?”

Constable Clive Rainey spoke. “I’ll have to speak with my sergeant. Wait here, please.” He left.

More curious onlookers started gathering across the street, talking among themselves, pointing to the police and the flat. Blue lights on the police cars kept flashing.

Grant tucked his wallet in his back pocket, then gave a quick glance toward Henley and Davis. He turned away and looked up at the flat, finally hearing footsteps clomping down the stairs.

Constable Rainey led Sergeant George Fowley to Grant. Fowley looked to be about forty-five years old, with salt and pepper hair, slightly overweight. “You’re the American who works for NIS?” Fowley asked.

“I am, sir. Grant Stevens.” He extended a hand to the sergeant. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

“Three hours ago Mr. Carter’s vehicle was found at one of the china clay pits near St. Austell.” Fowley made a motion with his hand, turning his palm up. “It was upside down, at the bottom of the pit, completely underwater. Mr. Carter’s body was inside. The roof was crushed, wedging him in against the seat. We can only surmise he was unable to extricate himself.”

A red flag went up in Grant’s brain, remembering Henley said Carter worked at the base, an RAF base with nuclear weapons. “I assume you know Mr. Carter worked at St. Mawgan?”

“Yes. We found his identification card in his wallet, but right now we don’t know much more. We’ve sealed off his apartment until our CID (Crime Investigation Department) detectives can get here.”

The local CID covers mid-Cornwall, encompassing Newquay, Truro, Falmouth, and St. Austell. Divided into three BCUs (Basic Command Unit), each one is under the command of a chief superintendent, each sector under a chief inspector.

Fowley asked, “Do you know anything about the clay pits?”

“No, sir,” Grant responded.

“Those pits usually only have activity during daytime hours. We’re questioning why Mr. Carter was there at night and why he had driven to the top.”

“Were there other sets of tire tracks?”

“There are too many trucks and other vehicles that use those access roads. And by the time his vehicle was discovered, I couldn’t even guess how many had passed.”

Grant figured he wouldn’t get much more out of Fowley. “I understand, sir. If you’d like, I can talk with Jack Henley. He’s Carter’s friend. He’s the one wearing black trousers and white turtleneck sweater,” Grant indicated with a slight motion of his head.

Fowley glanced around him, taking a quick look. “If it were anyone else other than an NIS person asking me that, I’d say ‘no.’”

“And if it didn’t involve anyone working at RAF St. Mawgan, I’d agree,” Grant responded. “You do realize I’ll probably be contacting NIS, only because Jack’s stationed on base, and because of his friendship with Carter.”

Fowley’s eyes narrowed. He was no longer sure how to handle the situation, especially with the American now involved. He reasoned he’d done his job by sealing off the apartment and posting a guard. Further investigation would be handled by CID.

Grant added, “If Jack has any information, I’ll be certain to pass it on to you, unless you want to interview him now.”

“We’ll let CID handle it from here on,” Fowley answered.

Grant nodded, then said, “Depending on what NIS wants me to do, I might have to talk with your CID folks.”

Fowley removed a pen and small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket. He flipped open the notebook. “Here’s the number of our local CID office.” He scribbled a number, ripped the paper from the notebook, then handed it to Grant. “Someone at that number will be able to put you in contact with whoever is assigned to the investigation.”

Grant glanced at the paper, folded it, then put it in his jacket pocket. “Thanks. And if you or CID needs to contact me, I’m staying at the Atlantic. If there’s any need to verify my information, I can give you a phone number for NIS.”

Fowley shook his head. “Not necessary for the time being.” He made a note of Grant’s name and hotel, then put the notebook back in his pocket. He extended a hand.

Grant gave it a firm shake, then thanked Fowley. He turned and headed back to Henley and Davis, thinking it best to not reveal all the information given to him, mainly because of Davis being with them.

The police broke up the crowd gathered across the street before getting in their cars. One constable was stationed outside the building. The blue flashing lights were finally turned off, as both cars drove away.

“Well?” Henley asked, with obvious concern and curiosity.

Grant put a hand on Henley’s back, directing him away from the area. He made the decision to not tell Henley about the body, at least not yet. “Not much to tell you, Jack. Someone found your friend’s car at one of the china clay quarries.”

Henley stopped abruptly. “His car? They didn’t find him?”

“They said they found the car, Jack.”

Henley just stared at Grant, not sure if he was being told everything.

Grant asked, “Any idea why he would’ve been there?”

Henley shook his head. “Can’t think of any reason. I don’t think he even knew anyone in St. Austell.”

Grant finally said, “Look, nobody can jump to any conclusions at this point. But right now, there isn’t any definitive answer.” Grant started walking toward the pub, as he asked, “I know you’re a friend of this guy, but how well do you know him?”

“Just what I told you before.”

They finally reached the pub. Grant needed to send Henley and Davis on their way. He had to think things out. “There’s nothing more to do tonight, Jack. Didn’t you say you had to pick up your wife, anyway?”

“Shit! I’d better call her first. Be right back.” He rushed into Sailor’s, looking for a phone.

“So, Grant, looks like you might be busy tomorrow,” Davis said. “Is our day of diving being put on hold?”

Grant looked toward the pub, then back at Davis. “Right now I don’t know what else I can do for him, Chaz, but still think I’d better do a wait and see, if that’s okay with you.”

“Just ring me up when you’re ready to dive again,” Davis replied.

“Will do! I owe you a pint or two!”