The Devil's Jigsaw: The evils of Satan and the manifestation of sin Read online

  The Devil's Jigsaw

  Nigel Lampard

  A Bardel Publication

  Published by Bardel 2015

  © Nigel Lampard 2010

  First Edition

  The Devil's Jigsaw

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

  The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  Cover designed by Bardel

  Image provided by www.123RF.com

  This story is dedicated to all past members of 3 Base Ammunition Depot (3 BAD 1939 - 1967 and 1979 –1996), 3 Base Ammunition and Petroleum Depot (3 BAPD 1967 - 1979) and 154 Forward Ammunition Depot (154 FAD* 1945 – 1997)

  *154 FAD became 12 Sup Regt RLC in April 1993.

  Acknowledgement

  Although 'The Devil's Jigsaw' is a work of fiction and the story and all characters, military and civilian, are figments of the author's imagination, it is acknowledged that some readers may try to link certain characters to unit members who served with them during the period 1993 - 1996.

  Any ensuing link then becomes a figment of the reader's imagination, not the author’s!

  ‘In the Bible, the number 6 symbolizes man and human weakness, the evils of Satan and the manifestation of sin.’

  Part One

  July 1994

  Chapter One

  Amy Carpenter wasn’t her real name.

  She looked like an Amy. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, an almost clear complexion, a small turned-up nose, high cheek bones and the sort of big blue eyes that would hold the attention of most men, but only when they could drag their gaze away from an equally attractive figure.

  Having been told on numerous occasions that her long slim legs appeared to go on forever, she was never sure whether it was meant as a back-handed compliment or not. Did such comments mean the rest of her was out of proportion? At just over five and a half feet tall, she felt that her height was an asset – not too tall and not too short.

  He had chosen the name Amy Carpenter for her because of the way she looked. She still didn’t understand why she needed to change her name and why the way she looked suggested her name might be Amy.

  His logic was questionable but she hadn’t questioned it too often. She was Leah Carmichael, she would always be Leah Carmichael, but she accepted that when she got there she would have to be Amy Carpenter; she just hoped she had the wit not to slip up when the time came.

  She normally exuded self-confidence, her prettiness matched by her intelligence. But for perhaps obvious reasons to some, her intelligence did not always prove to be an asset. Another woman once told her that a good-looking female with a brain was the most dangerous creature on earth.

  She was a predator to beat all predators.

  Although Leah didn’t regard herself as that good looking, she did not want to come across as being dangerous, so more often than not, and especially when in male company, she tended to keep her opinions to herself. Whether that was the right thing to do, she didn’t know.

  As for being a predator, that was the last thing she was. She didn’t want to prey on anybody else for anything and she certainly didn’t want to be preyed upon. Appreciating her naivety might be an added attraction; she used it whenever necessary.

  She also appreciated that some of her assets – if that’s what they were called – were difficult to hide but others she could conceal. Coming across as a dumb blonde sometimes worked to her advantage, but when the time was right she often used her intellect to her benefit, and to the disadvantage of the person who was doing the patronising bit. This tactic worked more often than not, especially when she needed to point out – with a smile and sometimes a pout – just how supercilious some men, and women, could be.

  At this particular moment though, Leah did not feel overly self-confident. She felt lonely, nervous, apprehensive, worried and just a little scared. As individual sensations they were not feelings she felt that often, but when grouped together they were certainly unusual and unsettling.

  Looking out over the English Channel on a clear, hot, beautiful summer’s day was enough to make anybody feel good, but not so for Leah. She knew what awaited her arrival on the other side of the water.

  Well, she thought she knew.

  Other than the little she did know she had no idea what really awaited her on the other side. Actually, her imagination was proving to be her own worst enemy. She remembered his words: “The less you know the better. What you don’t know you can’t repeat.”

  He hadn’t meant to be nasty or anything, in fact he had been smiling as he said it to her, but the message was clear.

  A little knowledge was a dangerous thing.

  Her argument was that if it all turned into a guessing game it could be even more dangerous. In response, he had smiled that smile and told her that all would become clear once she was there.

  With a couple of hours to waste, she had found her way to the National Trust White Cliffs car park above Dover harbour. Having been here once with her parents when she was in her early teens, she had remembered the magnificent view. Now, resting her arms on the open car door, her last cigarette – well, she hoped it was her last – smouldering between her fingers, everything should have seemed normal.

  At this time in the morning there were only half a dozen other cars parked here. In the two nearest cars, she could see elderly couples looking out over the Channel as they munched on whatever they were having for breakfast, and in both cars the plastic cups of coffee or tea placed on the dashboard resulted in the windscreens steaming up. It made Leah wonder if they were thinking about something entirely different and didn’t realise their view was obscured.

  Were they reliving their pasts, wondering what they should say to each other, or were they worrying about their futures? They might be wondering why time passed so much more quickly as they got older. Perhaps they had sons and daughters who were giving them enough trouble to stop them thinking about their own worries.

  That was what Leah was doing.

  Worrying.

  It was all in her mind, but maybe if she stopped to think logically she would realise she was letting the products of her imagination get the better of her.

  She must stop asking why she had accepted the responsibility in the first place especially when she didn’t know the truth … it was too late now to go back on her promise.

  Of course she wanted to prove herself to him; after all she was in love with him, wasn’t she? However, even if she was in love, accepting more responsibility than she could perhaps cope with was, in retrospect, probably unwise.

  She was getting herself into a state and she wasn’t even there yet.

  Allowing a smile to cross her lips she remembered her father looking over his left shoulder while driving and saying, “Will you stop asking if we are nearly there yet?”

  Although she could see France, she was nowhere near her destination. By her estimation, she was at least two hundred and fifty miles away from where her responsibilities would really start.

  Perhaps they had already started.

  She had been responsible for getting herself this far, and now she needed to get to her final destination. Looking down, there was something unexplainable but absolute about the cross-channel ferries she could see leaving the port beneath her: it was as though they were sailing into a mist of insecurity, not knowing what lay beyond.

  An ominous shiver ran down her spine, making her scrunch up her shoulders.

  She could not believe that such a narrow stretch of water could be so busy. As she drew on her cigarette for the last time before stubbing it out with her booted foot, she really wished she hadn’t decided to stop smoking. Why when faced with this amount of stress had she decided to give up the one thing that could help her? Perhaps she ought to give up drinking as well and really punish herself.

  In an attempt to steady her nerves she counted the number of ferries she could see. At least seven. She could also see all the way to the French coast. Well, she assumed it was the French coast because she couldn’t think what else it could be; it wasn’t low cloud or just a heat haze, it had to be the French coast.

  She was being silly.

  When she drove onto the ferry in a couple of hours’ time, she would feel the same as she always did when she boarded an aircraft. As she took the final step into a plane, she always said ‘goodbye’ wondering if she would ever set foot on mother earth again. She wasn’t scared of flying, nor was she scared of being on a ferry, but she still said ‘goodbye’.

  She wondered if she was alone with such thoughts.

  Stepping into the British Airways Embraer 170 on the internal flight from Newcastle to Heathrow yesterday, she had wondered exactly that.

  Was she unusual?

  With a slight shake of her head she told herself she was being stupid. If he had confidence in her then she really
ought to share that faith. If he did not believe she was capable of doing what he had asked then he would not have risked giving her such a mammoth task. He certainly would not have been able to convince them, whoever they were, that she was capable of doing it.

  Of course she was capable so of course she would do it.

  She reached into the car to recover the empty packet of cigarettes she had thrown on the floor, praying that there was still one in the packet.

  There wasn’t, so she rifled through her shoulder bag and smiled when she found an old packet containing two cigarettes.

  She would give up – eventually.

  Exhaling skywards she thought about how all this had come about.

  Late October 1993

  Chapter Two

  His name was Peter.

  They met for the first time one Sunday in the autumn of last year. Leah was reading psychology for her first degree at Durham University. Peter was there to do some research for a doctorate in clinical psychology, or so he said.

  It was such a lovely autumnal day that she decided to go for a walk by the River Wear to get some inspiration from somewhere; maybe the ripples, eddies and currents in the river would help straighten out her own mind. She had an awkward essay to write on whether people’s personality profiles could determine what career they ought to follow, rather than deciding without any reference to their psychological make-up.

  Not even sure what she thought about personality profiles, or how she supposed psychologists thought up the right questions to pigeonhole people, she found a suitable spot by the river and sat down to reflect on the question. The grass looked floppy and sad, the trees sorry to be losing their leaves – although the colours were magnificent – and the fast flowing water looked cold and uninviting.

  Nothing she was looking at was inspirational … just depressing.

  She was sitting with her back against a tree trunk, her knees drawn up and a note pad resting on her faded jeans. Tapping the end of a pencil against her teeth she gazed down towards the river.

  Quite a few people were about but as she was well away from the main path, she remained undisturbed.

  She did not want any intrusions.

  Looking up, she saw a lone man coming towards her, and he was deep in thought.

  “Damn,” she muttered, “why can’t he stick to the proper path like everybody else?”

  Leah was wearing a black leather jacket with the fur collar turned up, jeans, black boots with grey socks folded over the top and fingerless black woollen gloves. On her head was a pink woollen hat she had pulled down over her ears, her long blonde hair tucked under the hat. With a thermal vest on under the jacket she felt warm, but she was still having trouble in concentrating.

  She glanced to her right. The man was getting closer.

  He was kicking at the leaves, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets and he seemed to be unaware that he was being watched, albeit furtively. Leah looked down at her notepad and pretended not to notice him. She turned her head away and tapped her pencil on her teeth again, hoping he would just walk on.

  He didn’t.

  “A picture of total concentration,” he said as he stopped a few feet away from where she was sitting.

  Without answering, she slowly lifted her head towards him, shading her eyes from the weak sun.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work,” he said as he squatted down and rested his arms on his thighs.

  Leah felt compelled to say something. She turned towards him, screwing up her face. “What? Were you talking to me and if you were, who are you?”

  She wasn’t normally rude but he had intruded into her space.

  He was standing with his back to the sun so she couldn’t see him properly. “Yes, I was and I am a passing stranger,” he said. “But I’m sorry the sun is in your eyes.” He moved round to her other side and squatted down again.

  He smiled and Leah felt a little of her initial wariness leave her. In fact, if she were being honest with herself, she felt goose pimples on parts of her body covered by at least three layers of clothing.

  “Well, passing stranger, perhaps you’d better carry on passing, I’m trying to –”

  “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry to have interrupted you, but something made me stop and say hello.”

  “At least you’re original. I haven’t heard that one before.” She looked down as she felt herself colour under his gaze. She didn’t normally blush in men’s company.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to write an essay, and I came here for peace and quiet and for inspiration, but not to be sociable.”

  “That’s me told,” he said, the smile still on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry or interrupt.”

  “You did both,” Leah said, but she was actually pleased when he didn’t stand up and move away. “You just stopped to say hello, that’s what you said.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well …”

  “Are you here, at the university?” he asked.

  She carried on with her assessment of this stranger.

  He wasn’t too tall, six feet maybe, with longish but well cut dark brown curly hair, a dark complexion, grey-green eyes, and – the thing she approved of most – clean shaven, except for the designer stubble he probably had to take care of every day. He had dimples when he smiled, which made him appear slightly boyish for thirty. She was guessing at thirty, but he couldn’t be any younger.

  His jeans were a good quality and the dark tan Burberry boots and Barbour jacket suggested he might have a bob or two, not that having money was necessarily a factor in her assessment ... but it might be a bonus. She liked what she saw so she decided to prolong the conversation; it was certainly better than trying to write an essay.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m at the university. And you?”

  She was surprised when he said, “Yes.”

  “What are you –?” they asked at the same time, laughing as they suddenly stopped.

  “You first,” he suggested.

  “Psychology,” she said. “I’m in my third and final year, thank God.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. We must have passed in the night.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m here doing a bit of research for my doctorate and I spend quite a lot of time with you first degree psychologists, or are you a sociological spy?”

  The smile slipped from her lips. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, just thinking of a joke I was told the other day.”

  “I see.”

  During a few seconds of silence, he looked over the river towards the golden yellows and browns on the other bank, while Leah continued her scrutiny.

  Yes, she concluded, she liked what she saw.

  Doing his doctorate, he had said. Should she be impressed?

  As she looked at him, he seemed to come to a sudden decision.

  “I know this is a bit banal and just a little forward,” he said, “but it’s such a beautiful afternoon, would you like to go somewhere for a cup of tea?”

  He stood up and she saw him wince as he straightened his legs.

  Lifting her hand to her mouth she sniggered.

  “It’s not only banal and forward, but it’s old fashioned too. The last time I was asked to go somewhere for a cup of tea was by my mother when we were out shopping.”

  “Lucky mother,” he said.

  “Now that is unoriginal.” Lifting the pencil to her lips, she tapped it again on her teeth. “But, on this occasion I think, yes, I would rather like a cup of tea.”

  “Oh, that’s great. I’d better introduce myself, my name’s Peter, Peter Bennett.”

  He held out his hand.

  “Mine’s Leah Carmichael.” Taking his hand she held on to it as he helped her to her feet. His grip was firm and reassuring but once she was on her feet he let go immediately.

  She brushed the back of her jeans.

  “I’m not really dressed for afternoon tea. Mother wouldn’t approve,” she said.