The Lucifer Network (20 page)

‘Hope you get your break. And if you do, pass the luck our way. We've got a man on our books who could do with some.'

SAM HEADED UP
the Glasgow road, fortified by a bacon sandwich consumed on the ferry back to the mainland. There was a little under an hour to go before his appointment with Ted Salmon, the man who'd served on HMS
Retribution
with his father. This morning his priority was to try to prove the innocence of a long-dead sailor. In the days to come, it was his own name he would have to clear.

He turned left onto the Erskine suspension bridge that arched across the Clyde, driving like an automaton. He wanted to complete his business in Scotland and get back to London to fight his corner with his bosses. Waddell had been unavailable when he'd rung from the ferry and had yet to respond to the message he'd left. The distancing process had already begun, it seemed.

On the north bank of the Clyde, the road wound west through Dumbarton, following the line of the Firth. After a few miles a sign proclaimed the outskirts of Helensburgh, ‘Birthplace of John Logie Baird, the inventor of television'. The town was at the mouth of the Gare Loch down which HMS
Retribution
used to pass on her way to the Atlantic from Faslane. To the
right of the road, soulless, grey estates erupted like fungus from the hillside, built cheaply to house the workforce needed when the Navy located its new nuclear deterrent in Scotland thirty years ago.

Beyond these purpose-built slums lay the old Victorian town, an elegant resort of wide streets and weathered stone, whose sea front was dominated by a funfair, a swimming pool and a car park. Sam pulled in. He would need directions to find the address where Ted Salmon lived.

He got out and crossed the promenade to the shops opposite. Amongst them was a café. The decoration inside was eclectic: Edwardian brass, sixties kilims on the walls, and in a corner beneath garish computer game posters, two PCs with a board attached saying ‘Internet connection £2.50 per half hour.'

‘Get much call for that here?' Sam asked the shaven-headed young man behind the counter. He had a small gold ring through one nostril of his bulbous nose.

‘Weekends mostly. Students out from Glasgow. What can I get you?'

‘A cup of tea, please.'

‘Assam, Darjeeling or Earl Grey?'

‘PG Tips if you have it.'

Without batting an eyelid the man produced a box from beneath the counter.

Sam took his mug to a table by the window and looked out towards the sea. He watched the sky darken and let a shower pass before finishing his drink and asking the café owner for directions.

Back in his car, he headed away from the sea, into a grid of streets lined by grassy verges and hawthorn trees. Bungalows gave way to comfortable mansions which became grander as the road climbed the hill. He turned right into a side street and found Ted Salmon's home
easily, a grey stone cottage in a pretty garden, separated from its neighbours by high laurel hedges.

When he rang the bell, it chimed somewhere far back in the recesses of the house. The front door was metal-framed with dappled glass. Through it he heard the sound of someone tidying things in the kitchen. He waited, but when no one came he pressed the bell again. It took a third attempt before he saw movement behind the glass and the door was opened.

‘Yes?'

Sad, grey eyes were set in a lined face crowned with untidy white hair. The man was fiddling with a hearing aid, trying to settle it in his ear.

‘Ted Salmon?' Sam asked.

‘Why, yes.' The eyes widened as if recognising someone from the past. ‘You must be Trevor Packer's boy.'

‘That's right. The name's Sam.'

‘Bless us! You're the spitting image.'

Salmon was a small man who spoke with a south of England accent that could have been Devon.

‘Come on in. Last time I saw you was at your father's funeral. You were in short trousers.'

‘Well, yes. I suppose I would have been.'

‘Not much fun, funerals, are they?' They were standing squeezed together in the small hall, Salmon peering intently up at his visitor.

‘One of the worst days of my life,' Sam confirmed.

‘Cremated my wife last week.' Ted Salmon said it matter-of-factly, but couldn't disguise the downturn at the corners of his mouth.

‘I'm so sorry,' said Sam. ‘This isn't the best time to call, then.'

‘That's all right. It's nice to have company. Come on in to the front room.' He led the way. ‘I'm afraid I've reached the stage of life where too many of the people
I've known have gone. Shouldn't complain, I s'pose. Lucky to have known them. And meself, I've had a good life.' He turned to face Sam, extending his hands in an awkward gesture of welcome. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea? I was just about to have one.'

‘Well . . . that'd be great. Thanks.'

‘NATO standard?'

‘Without sugar, thanks.'

Salmon urged him to take a seat then disappeared to the kitchen. The sitting room felt curiously unlived-in. Lace antimacassars on the chair backs, a glass-fronted cupboard full of plaques from the ships the former CPO had served in and a collection of family photos in silver frames.

‘Was it sudden with your wife, Mr Salmon?' Sam asked sympathetically. He'd stood up as the old man re-entered the room with a tray and two mugs.

‘Kidney disease. Been shaky for years. Two weeks ago she never woke up one morning. Good way to go, I suppose.'

‘How are you managing?'

‘Oh not so bad. I've got a son and a daughter who live nearby. And I keep myself busy with the garden.'

‘I could see that. It's immaculate.'

‘Tidy, certainly. You learn to be as a submariner.' His brow furrowed as he tried to recall something. ‘You had a sister, didn't you?'

‘That's right. She's married with two daughters.'

‘And your mum?'

‘Died five years ago.'

‘Did she really?' His eyes widened as if wondering whether everyone he'd ever known would be dead before him.

‘I wanted to ask you about my father, Mr Salmon,' Sam began, not wanting to stay longer than he had to.

‘So they said on the phone.'

‘How well did you know him?'

‘Pretty well, pretty well. We'd done a lot of postings together. The first was on HMS
Andrew.
Remember her?'

‘My father probably mentioned the name, but I've forgotten.'

‘Last submarine in the Royal Navy to have a deck gun. And the first to snort her way across the Atlantic – submerged all the way. That was back in '53. Your dad and I were on board for that one. She was a famous boat, the
Andrew.
'

‘And you served together again on
Retribution.
'

‘And on a couple of other boats in between. What're you after? Researching his life story?'

‘Sort of. Things have been happening that made me realise I never really knew him.'

Salmon shrugged. ‘Not surprising. You was only eleven when he died.'

‘I knew him as a dad, but not as a man, you could say.' Sam let his words sink in. ‘Can I be blunt?'

‘Course you can. Blunt as you like. Not easy to shock a Navy man.'

Sam took a deep breath. ‘I'm trying to find out whether my father betrayed his country, Mr Salmon.'

The old sailor spilt his tea on his trousers. ‘Blimey!' He put the mug down and took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop himself up. ‘That's a question and a half. What's brought this on?'

‘An allegation's been made that he passed secret material to the Russians while he served on HMS
Retribution.
'

Salmon gaped in astonishment.

‘Never! I can't believe that. We was all in it together. Trev wouldn't have put his mates' lives at risk. Who's been telling you this nonsense?'

‘The Russians.'

Salmon was flabbergasted. ‘The Russians say he spied for them?'

‘Yes.'

The old man puffed out his cheeks. ‘I'm stunned. Don't know what to say. If it's true, then I never had a clue. But I can't believe it.'

‘How much did you know about his life outside the submarine service?' Sam asked.

‘Oh . . . some,' he replied warily. ‘You know. You chat a bit when you're away on patrol.'

‘Did he seem short of money?'

‘No more than the rest of us.'

‘Did he talk to you about his girlfriends?'

Salmon lifted one eyebrow. Then he puffed out his cheeks. ‘Oh you knows about that, does you?'

‘My mother used to slag him off for womanising.'

Salmon gave a wry smile. ‘He was the sort of bloke we all used to envy. Know what I mean?'

‘Not entirely.'

Salmon looked uncomfortable. ‘Don't think I should be saying this. Sort of speaking ill of the dead, like. And you being his son and all.'

‘Please be frank, Mr Salmon. Totally frank. There's a very big issue at play here and I need to know the truth about him.'

Salmon blinked. ‘Yes, well . . . What I meant by us envying him was that he was the type who could spot a woman in a crowd of strangers, point her out to his mates and tell 'em he was going to have her.' He looked up to check Sam was coping with his bluntness.

‘Go on.'

‘Well, sure enough he always did have her. I felt sorry for your ma, of course,' he added quickly. ‘She put up with a lot.'

‘So she always said.'

Salmon's eyes twinkled suddenly. ‘I'll tell you a story, Sam. Now this is really telling tales out of school, but if you're after the whole works . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘When we was on
Retribution
your dad made a point of never telling your mum when he expected to be home. I mean the patrol dates were secret anyway, but the point was that Trev wanted a week ashore with some girl or other before he went home to his marital duties, if you know what I mean. Well, one patrol, which had been a particularly arduous one, the Jimmy – the First Lieutenant – he sent off a signal when we was approaching home waters asking that all the wives be told we'd be coming alongside in a couple of days' time. Thought it'd be nice for the blokes to have their loved ones standing on the shore waving as they came in, see? Well . . . When your dad hears about it he goes potty. Threatens to nut the Jimmy. For two days he's wetting hisself in case his local popsie gets wind of the boat coming in and turns up to welcome him too. Turned out all right in the end, mind, because your mum was such a hard case she wouldn't dream of trekking up to Scotland to see the boat in.'

‘And the girlfriend was there?'

‘Don't remember. I had my own fish to fry, if you know what I mean.' At the thought of his recent loss, the sparkle faded from his eyes.

‘D'you remember the name of my father's girl?'

Salmon sucked his teeth. ‘There was a few of them over the years, you know. Some of them was . . .' He wrinkled his nose. ‘Well . . . pretty rough, to be honest with you. Wasn't always too choosy, your dad.'

Sam swallowed. Another slash to the canvas of his icon. ‘Remember
any
names?'

Salmon looked blank, then slowly shook his head. ‘It's
nearly thirty years,' he murmured. Then he looked up again. ‘That spying business – you serious about that?'

‘Yes, unfortunately. The GRU had his name on their books.'

Salmon pushed fingers through his crown of white hair and whistled. ‘You think you know someone and then all of a sudden . . .' He shook his head in dismay.

This was getting nowhere. In the meantime Sam's own fate was being chewed over down in London, without any input from him.

‘Were there any other mates of his who knew him better than you?' Sam asked, desperate not to leave Scotland empty-handed.

‘Possibly. Possibly. But I can't think of one. And a couple of them are dead anyway.'

‘Tell me something else,' Sam asked. ‘What sort of secrets would my father have had access to?'

Salmon pursed his lips. ‘Well, to be honest, most of the chiefs on board wouldn't have had a lot to tell the Russkies. I was on tactical systems and
I
certainly didn't. The secret stuff was all inside the boxes. But your dad now, he was chief signaller. Knew the codes, the signals routines. All the arrangements as to how we'd get our instructions if it came to nuclear war and we had to fire the missiles.'

‘The perfect man for the Russians to target,' said Sam sombrely.

‘Well, yes.'

‘But you never had a clue?'

‘Not a one. On board, your dad was straight down the middle. No side to him. One of us.'

Sam decided he would get nothing more from Salmon. ‘Well, thanks for your time,' he said, putting down the mug and getting to his feet.

‘Off so soon?' Salmon sounded disappointed.

‘Other people to see,' Sam lied.

‘Of course.' Salmon pushed himself upright using the arms of the chair. ‘Nice to have met you anyway.'

When the old man was steady on his feet Sam shook his hand. ‘Could I ask one last favour?'

‘Of course.'

‘Not to speak about this to anyone. Official secrets and all that.'

‘Understood. My lips are sealed.'

At the door they shook hands again. As Sam drove off, he saw Salmon watching from the step.

He drove despondently back to the sea front and parked overlooking the water in order to think. Nothing from Rothesay and now nothing from Salmon. He was at the end of the line. And without evidence to the contrary, the record looked set to stand. His father had made a habit of cheating on his wife, so it was possible he'd cheated on his mates as well.

‘Hell!' He banged his fist on the wheel.

He looked at his watch. A quarter to one. The airport was half an hour away and Waddell's silence was needling him. He needed to be back down in the capital, hammering on doors for a hearing.