Code Name: Casket

By David Turri

In March 1940, the division of MI5 tasked with capturing German agents infiltrated into England and turning them back against their Abwehr masters gets its hands on Ray Swindon, London hardman – code-named Casket. Swindon leads his MI5 controllers to two other in-place German agents. For the next several months, the Casket ring feeds a steady stream of misinformation to the Hamburg Stelle. Then, in order to boost Casket's credentials with Hamburg, MI5 mounts a controlled-sabotage operation at a bomber manufacturing plant. It goes wrong; many people are killed. The public of Great Britain demands the capture of the perpetrators. The three spies in the Casket ring are brought from the facility where they have been imprisoned since their capture and sacrificed to conceal the involvement of MI5 operatives in the tragedy. But Casket escapes. In the hunt for him, the scene shifts from Blitz-torn London to the U-boat infested Atlantic, to the Rock of Gibraltar and finally to a bloody climax in the dusty country lanes of the Spanish port of Algeciras.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Turri
• Release date: Apr 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393797388

David Turri

David Turri was born in Liverpool, grew up in Christchurch, New Zealand and spent some years in Barcelona before settling in Kobe, Japan. He has lived in that country now for more than thirty years. He considers himself simply a storyteller and works hard at his craft.　The tales he spins range far and wide. In a nutshell: War, the Battle of Okinawa, Occult, Black Humor, Ghosts, Garden Gnomes, Chinese Opium Trade, Ghosts on the Okinawa battlefield, Intrigue, Spiritual Possession, Espionage, The Yakuza, Séance, the Meiji Era, The Occupation of Japan, Demonic Possession, Drugs, Samurai, Child Trafficking, Bad Jokes, Assassination, Terror in Tokyo, War Crimes, Political Intrigue. 

Book preview

Code Name:

Casket

by

David Turri

Copyright© 2020

David Turri

All rights reserved

Casket

Stephen Shippe stood on cliffs at the northeast tip of Scotland and felt as battered by the elements as King Lear, and as blind. Sea and sky were a roiling soup the colour of diesel oil; rain lashed his cheeks, and gale winds howled in his ears.

He was waiting for a man whom they had christened with the code name CASKET.

He continued to peer out at the black, featureless sea until he was unable any longer to bear the battering and struggled back across the rock-strewn paddock towards the stone cottage.

Its owner, undisturbed by the icy drafts and the banging of the wooden shutters that covered the windows, sat in front of the roaring fireplace, puffing on a pipe.

A local constable kept him company. Once in a while, when the spirit of the wind pounding the walls roused him, the old man launched into a complaint against this invasion of his privacy. But the Londoners understood not a word he said, and the constable soon tired of translating for them.

With an anxious expression on his face, Shippe watched the wireless that crackled like bacon left frying too long in a pan.

Two hours before, Coastal Command’s radar had detected north-west of the Moray Firth the lurking presence of the U-boat that they believed was bringing Casket to their shores. But there was still no word from the watchers on the beach that he had been spotted.

Can he swim, do you think?

Faldo spoke from the shadows; and answered his own question.

I fear the crabs are picking at his bones by now.

To observe Faldo with Shippe was to be reminded of photographs of Churchill and Chamberlain together.

Shippe had Chamberlain’s height and leanness, the same kind of neatly clipped mustache and hollow cheeks that habitually supported a fretful expression. Faldo was as rotund as Churchill, as restless and as intense.

Before the war he had been a university lecturer specializing in Victorian prose and poetry. Shippe was a solicitor.

The wireless came suddenly alive. Shippe loomed above the heads of the three men who were straining to pick words from the static in order to plot coordinates on a map procured from the Ministry of Agriculture.

This task accomplished, one of them asked, Are you game to come down with us, Mr. Shippe, or do you and Mr. Faldo want to wait up here?

We’ll go with you.

Shippe brought up the rear of the party, but soon began to lag behind his fat but highly-energized colleague. The wind carried away his shouts for them to slow their pace, and after a few more stumbling yards he found himself alone with a flock of shivering sheep.

He floundered on, and managed to extricate himself somehow from the cliff. But there were no reflections of their flashlight beams across the clouds; nor could he hear any sound of human voices over the howl of the gale. He began to walk in an aimless manner and soon became completely lost.

After some time, he came out at a country lane along which he tramped, through the mud and the darkness, until he reached the village, where he recognized their own cars parked outside the police station.

Inside, Faldo and the constable were warming themselves at a stove.

Good Lord, Shippe, what happened to you? One minute you’re behind me, the next you vanished.

Did you get Casket?

They found only his dinghy, half-a-mile up the coast. They’re searching back inland now. Get here by the fire before you catch your death.

Rainwater dripped into a shimmering pool around his feet, and his overcoat felt heavier than a suit of armour as he peeled it off.

The telephone rang.

When the constable answered it, Faldo and Shippe could hear a woman’s hysterical voice at the other end of the line.

Calm down, that’s a good old girl.

He covered the receiver.

It’s Miss Mason on Brookdale Farm. She says there’s someone hanging round near her stables.

He returned the receiver to his ear. A frown creased his face.

Get a grip on yourself, now. Don’t go doing a thing like that.

But his warning came too late. Miss Mason was no longer at the other end of the telephone.

Doing a thing like what? asked Faldo.

Shooting him.

The retort of a shotgun came echoing out of the receiver.

Faldo groaned, Oh, God, and Shippe sank onto a stool.

She came back on the phone, and the constable brightened, saying to them, Piece of luck. She missed. Now he’s approaching the house, knocking at the door.

He strained to catch her excited words.

What, dear? Well, I don’t think he’s being quite honest with you.

What is he saying? Shippe demanded.

He claims to be a commercial traveler. His car’s broken down. He wants her to let him inside.

The constable paused.

Oh dear.

The two harassed men asked in unison:

"What?"

She’s set the dogs on him.

Does she live far from here?

Twenty minutes by car.

At the Londoners’ frantic urging, the constable kept his foot to the accelerator, and after a hair-raising drive through the black night, they reached the farm to find all the lights on the property blazing.

The dogs had the intruder trapped inside a shed at the end of a line of stables. When Miss Mason called them off, Shippe approached it and identified himself. The door was unbolted, and he shone the flashlight inside.

The man they had been expecting stood in a bedraggled raincoat beside a suitcase that was wrapped in waterproof packing.

He was in his late thirties; tall, lean, handsome in a dangerous way. His complexion was pale, his eyes green and very still. In the side of his unshaven jaw, there was a knife nick that had never fully healed. His black hair was cut short-back-and-sides, parted severely on the left and greased down with so much Brylcreem that not even the turbulent Scottish weather had been able to upset it.

Shippe thought that he would not have looked out of place propping up a bar in a Soho club or touting at a racetrack. He extended his hand.

Welcome back to England.

ONE

Brixton, four years earlier

1

Down a road off Coldharbour Lane in Brixton there was a pub called The Majestic. On a wet night in 1936, two police officers were studying it as they sheltering from the drizzle under the awning of a butcher’s shop.

That pub’s their office, Detective-Sergeant Muldoon said. Their home, basically. They might as well not have bothered getting married and having kids and buying bloody houses because they hardly ever go back to them. The whole gang’s inside there right now.

But it’s closed. All the lights are off.

That’s very observant of you, young man. I can see right off that Ealing’s loss is Brixton’s gain.

Tanner had just been transferred, and Muldoon was taking him on an off-duty educational tour.

It’s the Guv’nor’s brother’s birthday. They’ve planned a surprise party for him. Here they come.

Two men sauntered down the pavement in the rain and stopped at the darkened doors of The Majestic.

One was tall and bald. The overcoat he had on was not expensive and faded at the elbows from over-long use. On his feet were a pair of heavy boots, similarly worn out after many years of comfortable use.

The other was short, with stumpy legs and a head of unruly brown hair. He wore a stylish suit that was made unstylish by his stomach bulging out from it.

Finding the doors locked, he shook and banged them before finally giving them a kick.

That fat little turd is the brother. And what you see is a perfect illustration of the Guv’nor’s secret anguish. He’s not a well man. He has the Cancer. He’s strong, but he’ll lose the battle soon enough. And when that happens Brother Frank will take over the gang.

Someone unlocked the doors, and the Guv’nor pushed Frank through the doorway into the darkness. For a minute there was silence, and then laughter and clapping exploded. The front lights came on again, the muffled sounds of a crowd singing Happy Birthday reached the two policemen.

"Frank runs a scrap metal yard. The Guv’nor owns a plumbing supplies business. That’s how he started out, as a plumber. But he’s also the behind-the-scenes operator of a house-moving company. Not in Brixton; nobody anymore wants to move into Brixton. But many people want to move into, for example, Kensington.

The moving firm is registered to the Guv’nor’s married sister, and her husband runs the day-to-day operations. The office is located in Chelsea. Among the moving crews are several men handpicked by the Guv’nor for their talents as burglars. During the moving in, they check out the place. A few days later, they go back and break in.

He put a cigarette between his lips and lit a match to it.

"Burglary accounts for a big percentage of earnings. They take cash, jewelry and furs and fence the latter two items. The Guv’nor runs gambling dens here in Brixton, and also two loan-sharking firms at the service of the gamblers who lose too much in those dens.

He extorts a percentage of monthly earning from every legitimate club, dance hall, pub and restaurant within a ten-block radius of where we are standing. His gang has a stake at all of the horse racing tracks, protecting their client bookies.

He flicked the match into the rain.

And, of course, there’s prostitution. They’re involved in the white-slave trade, working with a gang in France that kidnaps women. Some of them are already practicing prostitutes, others are waitresses or factory workers; some are runaways. The Guv’nor has an arrangement with the captain of an old freighter. The women are smuggled aboard, disembarked in Plymouth and transported to London by lorry. And they work in the gang’s brothels.

He pointed down the road.

Here comes Ray.

A tall, firmly-built figure approached, walking slowly, keeping to the far darkest edge of the already dark pavement. They watched him go into the pub.

Ray Swindon is the number three man in the gang, after Frank. His specialty is smash-and-grab, mostly jewelry, watches and furs. Swindon never had a father he knew. The Guv’nor is the closest thing he has to a Dad. But Brother Frank doesn’t like the relationship between them. Swindon’s got a brain in his head. Frank’s only got a lot of empty space up there.

He stepped out from under the awning.

Come on.

Where?

Let’s go and say Happy Birthday to Frank.

Go inside the pub, sir?

"First rule, never let them frighten you. Second rule, if you are frightened, never ever let them see it."

2

The lounge bar was crowded with wives and girlfriends and mothers and granddads. Little children were racing round the floor.

The younger members of the gang were congregated at one big table under a cloud of cigarette smoke. The older men had ranged themselves along the bar.

Ray Swindon was at the far end, with some space between himself and the rest.

Frank stood in place of honour, his mouth still ringed with cream from his birthday cake. The Guv’nor was behind the bar mixing drinks for the ladies.

The merry chatter died when Detective-Sergeant Muldoon sauntered in, with Tanner, walking with a faltering step, at his back.

I just dropped in to wish Frank a happy birthday, won’t be staying but a second.

Have a drink, anyway, the Guv’nor offered.

If you twist my arm.

White Horse all right?

With a touch of water. Same for him.

The Guv’nor put the drinks on the bar top. Tanner’s hand trembled when he picked his glass up. Muldoon saluted Frank with his own.

Happy Birthday. How old?

Thirty-seven.

You don’t look a day over forty-five.

Laughter exploded at this cheeky insult, and Frank’s grin went up almost to his ears. Tanner glanced down the bar at Swindon. He was hunched up over his drink, with smoke from the cigarette between his fingers wafting up around his face.

How’s the wife? the Guv’nor asked Muldoon.

Fair to middling.

How’s the boy?

Don’t get me going about that boy. He’s as thick as two planks.

Thicker than his dad?

Not that thick. But he’s still young. He’ll get there in a few years.

And who’s this?

New bloke just got transferred from Ealing.

Ealing? Lovely place. I know it well. There are some very nice houses up Ealing way.

His name’s Tanner.

You’ll find life a bit rougher down here than in Ealing, Mr. Tanner.

The Guv’nor bent down and lifted a cashbox onto the ledge behind the counter. He opened it, stuffed some money into an envelope and presented the envelope to Tanner.

Welcome to Brixton.

Tanner took it, but held it awkwardly.

We’ll be making tracks, then, Muldoon said.

He pushed Tanner before him out of the bar.

3

It was a few evenings later, a Friday; and the Guv’nor and Frank were leaning against the bar in The Majestic. The Guv’nor was in a somber mood.

What have you got against Ray?

"I don’t like his lip. I don’t like his sarcasm. He don’t have any respect. And when he’s takin’ the piss, he calls me Frankie. Only family calls me that."

The Guv’nor heaved on the smoke of his cigarette like he was retching; clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a coughing fit. He stubbed the cigarette out and swallowed some scotch.

I’m not well, Frankie.

I know you’re not well.

I feel like I got a facking dead dog in my lungs.

Lay off the fags.

I might have to go into the hospital.

Yeah?

Nobody else knows except the wife and her mother. They’re the ones making me go.

Yeah?

Doctor says if I don’t go into hospital, I won’t last a year. But if I go in, the odds are sixty-forty I’ll mend.

Yeah?

Can you change the facking record?

Frank went silent.

I worry about you.

I got my sloppy ways, I suppose. But I never let you down.

You’ll be the Guv’nor till I get out the hospital. You’ll have all the weight I carry on your shoulders.

How long you think you’ll be in there?

How the fack I know that? I’m the patient not the fackin’ doctor. What I am trying to get into your thick skull is that you need Ray.

I got Jimmy and Mick.

"I know you got Jimmy and Mick. You’re the three facking musketeers. You need Ray, too. Because I need him. He’s hard. He doesn’t lose his cool. The young lads look up to him. He’s sharp."

Meaning I’m all the opposite of that, what you just said?

You go off half-cocked all the time. You think with your fackin’ fists. I want you to put your differences with Ray aside till I get out of the hospital. All right?

Talk to Ray, not me.

I will talk to Ray. I’m talking to you first.

And when you talk to him, make it clear to him who’s the Guv’nor when you’re away.

He looked over Frank’s shoulder.

Speak of the Devil and in it fackin’ walks.

The Guv’nor made room for him at the bar.

You look very pleased with yourself, Ray. Like the cat who just ate the family budgie. Pour him a drink, Frankie.

Frank slopped some White Horse into a glass and put it down in front of him.

You ever hear of a company called Royal Endeavour, Ltd? Swindon asked.

No. What is it?

Big manufacturer of bicycle frames. They moved into the motorbike market a couple of years ago. Their 350 and 500cc models are selling big, yeah? They can’t keep up with the demand. They’re hiring new workers all the time. They got more than four hundred now at their plant in Hounslow.

He sipped his drink.

Weekly wages’re delivered from the bank Thursday afternoon, and paid out to the workers on Friday. There’s only one night watchman, yeah?

He took a paper napkin from a Brixton café out of his pocket and handed it to the Guv’nor. A line of numbers was written on it.

What’s this?

The combination of the safe where they keep the wages. Business’s never been so good so management decided to give the workers a bit of a bonus. It’ll be delivered with the wages next Thursday. Like I say, there’s only one night watchman. We frighten him a bit; he won’t give us any trouble. Open the safe, take the cash, lock it again and blow it.

Frank was confused.

"Why do you have to blow open the safe after you get the money? That don’t make a lot of sense to me."

Like he was talking to a five-year-old, the Guv’nor asked, How’d Ray get the combination, Frankie? How does he know about the bonus?

I don’t know.

How else you get the combination to a safe unless someone who knows that combination gives it to you, someone who works in the place where the safe is? Ray’s protecting that inside source by blowing the safe.

You ever blew open a safe before, Ray? Frank asked.

No, but one of my lads has.

Where’d he learn to do that?

In the facking Army, yeah?

A convulsion of coughing gripped the Guv’nor, wracking his chest, tearing