• Abstract and Figures
• Public Full-text

The Greystone Legacy (copyright 2020 All Rights Reserved – Protected with www.ProtectMyWork.com Ref No. 8945260120S035) 1. September 7th 2015 The ordinarily tranquil West Sussex countryside was experiencing a vicious spell of thunder and lightning while the clouds belted across the sky as if being chased by an invisible assailant. In `the depths of a dark forest grove somewhere in Southern England a dilapidated wreck of an old wooden shack creaked and strained as it battled against the ferocious elements. As the biting wind, more typical of late November, whistled through the holes and cracks in the decayed, rotten beechwood, the door gently swung methodically on its hinges, like an old worn-out metronome. The young teenage runaway sheltered inside, his teeth chattering in the cold while his over-active mind played the cruellest hallucinatory tricks upon him. Inside the sparse, poorly equipped hut, a single candle plucked with haste from a drawer struggled to stay alight, resisting with courage the efforts of the roaring gale outside to extinguish it. Each waving, bending shadow of the surrounding fir-trees conjured up the most fearful monster caricatures in the lonely youth’s mind as they cascaded across the wall of this unlikely source of refuge. Before long, however, these frightening images were paling into insignificance as the eerie glow of a flaming cylindrical object lit up the sky above, plummeting towards the darkened outline of the distant hill from whence came the sound of a huge impact and deafening explosion. The boy screamed in unrestrained terror. The unremitting beatings administered by his Father over the last month and now this terrifying ordeal had finally stretched his nerves to the limit and he fell to the ground a writhing, quivering wreck. * The dawning of a new day brought a thorough transformation to the chaos of the previous night. Although there was still a notable chill in the air, typical for that time of year, the sun was unusually bright and the low-lying mist which had been a constant feature of the South Downs the previous three mornings, had completely dissipated, to be replaced by a crisp, clear view of the surrounding countryside. The scene could almost be described as peaceful if it were not for the feverish activity of the local police and a not-so-local investigator who had arrived in the early hours at the height of the storm. The rotating blue lights of a Police Land Rover now marked the spot of the previous night’s explosion and a tall, bearded gentleman in a long fawn-coloured raincoat scavenged around the area like a hungry rat, while a couple of policemen in more conventional uniform huddled together nearby, passing a flask of hot tea between them. Their faces reflected an air of resignation that there wasn’t much they could do and ‘they might as well leave the detailed forensics to the expert over there.’ The ‘expert’ was Paul Greyshott – a well-established Detective Superintendent in the Sussex Police Force, aged Fifty-Six. He had experienced a number of similar cases over the years and knew what he could expect within 1 The Greystone Legacy (copyright 2020 All Rights Reserved – Protected with www.ProtectMyWork.com Ref No. 8945260120S035) the next few minutes if his memory served him right. Soon enough it happened. As he bent down to take a closer look at some burned vegetation, the detective felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face one of his junior constables who pointed out the recent arrival of some large black rectangular vehicles, the type of which he had previously seen only twice before. Several heavily-clad, pink-suited individuals had already clambered down their steep sides to the ground. They were surveying the surroundings and upon spying the detective and his token entourage, began craning their necks to see more clearly who had infiltrated their space. “They want to see you sir- the skinny feller over there and the girl with him.” Greyshott strolled over to the two gayly coloured but stern-looking people, holding his hand out politely, ready for formal introductions. “Paul Greyshott, Horsham CID. Pleased to………” “We know who you are” the thin, gaunt man rudely interrupted as he thrust a black identity card with a silver outline in Greyshott’s face. The Detective squirmed involuntarily as if a reflex action was reminding him that he had seen this card before and it invariably spelt trouble. Stuttering, he replied “So – so – I guess that means you’ll be taking it from here?” “Yes, Detective Superintendent Greyshott. Two of our Security Officers will escort you and your colleagues away from the area. We’re in the process of sealing it off.” “No need” he replied. “I understand the situation.” He thought back to the two previous occasions he had met up with these guys. “My car’s parked about a quarter of a mile to the south. We’ll be on our way.” The gaunt man jutted out his jaw and bony chin as if preparing to argue but then thinking better of it. “OK Detective, if you and your colleagues could ski tattle right now, we’ll be able to finish our work here without further interruption!” Greyshott marched back to the two uniformed officers, feeling a tad resentful at having been spoken to in such condescending terms. “We’re finished here, fellas – drop me back at the King’s Arms.” As they set off, the detective reclined in the back of the Police Land Rover in silence. “You OK Guv?” enquired the officer in the front passenger seat. “You seem a bit preoccupied.” “Yeah, I’m fine. Just wondering whether I still need to put in a restation.” “Who were those guys anyway?” asked his colleague behind the wheel. “Government business. That’s all I know. I’ve come across them before. Once they flash those black cards, we’re expected to vacate the area immediately and without question, leaving everything to them.” The vehicle’s interior transformed into a haven of deep thought and reflection as they continued on their way. 2 The Greystone Legacy (copyright 2020 All Rights Reserved – Protected with www.ProtectMyWork.com Ref No. 8945260120S035) * The evening was starting to draw in and the perfume of the Sussex countryside at dusk, a mixture of lavender and freshly-mown grass, penetrated the small gap of the open window in Greyshott’s cramped converted loft- space of a room in the King’s Arms Free House. The building was of thatched design with white-washed stone walls rimmed by ancient wooden panels, splitting here and there through a combination of age and the pressure of thick relentless ivy almost completely covering the building’s exterior. Greyshott often stayed here when he needed to gather his thoughts and concentrate on a particular case. Normally the pub provided a quiet and restful environment but tonight there was some kind of function in progress downstairs. The Detective pulled off his thick leather boots and stretched out on the bed, his deeper inner thoughts mingling oddly with the sound of a raucous barmaid’s laughter and the monotonous hum of voices from a full house of local socialites. He knew it was none of his business and would likely cause him no end of grief but, having been of an inquisitive nature from an early age, he knew that it would forever play on his mind if at some future juncture he was unable to discover those tantalising secrets behind the men and women with the black silver-rimmed ID cards and seemingly inappropriately bright uniforms. Greyshott decided he needed to clear his head and wandered down to the bar and towards the entrance door. The raucous barmaid was leaning across the bar towards two local farm hands, both in their early twenties. They, in turn, were performing some type of obscure card trick involving single cards and the narrow gap of the barmaid’s cleavage. An ever-increasing number of the pub’s male patronage were becoming engrossed in this activity, while the landlord behind the bar, who seemed unfamiliar to the detective, was shaking his head in disgust and turning away while drying a couple of pint glasses. Greyshott wandered outside. The departing day was now just a faint glimmer of light in the west and a pair of small Pipistrelle bats darted back and forth while a squadron of hovering gnats buzzed above Greyshott’s head, the occasional one darting down towards his unprotected neck in a frenzy of bloodlust when it sensed he was distracted. The detective reached his car and stood back to admire it. He had very few material possessions but this was his pride and joy – a red Nineteen Seventy-Four BMW. Fighting off the persistent insects with a swipe of his left hand, he felt in his pocket with his right for his keys and then reached forward to unlock the boot and retrieve his briefcase. As he lifted it, he stepped back in surprise as the automatic light came on and there before him, curled up in a foetal-like position was a dirty, dishevelled teenager, shaking from head to toe with a look of terror in his dark sunken eyes and with beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his swollen, beaten face. 3 The Greystone Legacy (copyright 2020 All Rights Reserved – Protected with www.ProtectMyWork.com Ref No. 8945260120S035) 2. September 15th Nineteen Forty 11AM GMT On the newly Nazi-occupied French aerodrome of Chartres a ‘staffel’ of Heinkel Triple Ones stood rumbling with menace on the grass dispersal, each of their roaring Jumo piston engines straining against the weight of their heavy bomb loads, revving up in preparation for take-off and fuelled to the brim for one of the initial blitz attacks on London.

Load more

  44

Copy Link