Prisoner 441 Read online

  PRISONER 441

  Genetics, Lies, Secrets and Murder

  Geoff Leather

  Readers Download Offer

  Get your free no-obligation download today.

  Find out more here

  PRISONER 441

  Geoff Leather

  Chapter 1

  Belmarsh Prison London

  The heavy glass wood framed door swung open to the sound of the buzzer. Dr Solomon Isaacs took one step forward and passed through. He hesitated uncertain how he was meant to feel. He shifted his feet and looked back as the door closed and looked up at the coat of arms above the words H M Belmarsh Prison with the morning sun glinting of the freshly painted lettering. To his right the smell of mown grass lingered in the air. To his left through the ground floor window of the purple brick pentagon tower, he saw the library warden tip his forehead in what looked to Solomon like a gesture of good luck. He smiled weakly back. Gone was the deep brown hair that once graced his head, now all that was left under his hat was a shiny top surrounded by carefully manicured fine grey hair. His brown, almost black, eyes were still as bright as the day he started his sentence belying the aging skin around them. He took a deep breath of the first moments of his freedom and started to walk towards the carpark and then onto the main road that led past the Crown Court at Woolwich.

  Solomon had been one of the early Category A prisoners transferred when the prison opened in April 1991. It had been life with a recommendation of a minimum of thirty-five without remission. There was nobody there to welcome him. He didn’t expect anyone. He had had only one visitor for the last ten years but that was his choice. As far as the prison staff and governor were concerned, Solomon Isaac’s was the model prisoner. Intelligent, very intelligent, compliant, co-operating and never caused any trouble. In fact, he had tended those unable to cope with incarceration and through an understanding of the human condition guide them back to living for another day. He treated infections with simple organic remedies, surprising the medics in the hospital wing. They all said it was a sad day as he reached the term of his term.

  The warden needn’t have been so generous as Solomon was not exactly without resources, but now waiting by the bus stop fingering his transport pass given by the warden together with one hundred and fifty pounds that he had taken from his wallet, Solomon smiled to himself.

  He was aware of the tall man in a long black raincoat who had followed him from the carpark, watching. Solomon would recognise this face again. He had learned all those years ago as a persecuted Jew in Nazi Germany to notice everything and be careful, very careful. The tall man was oblivious to Solomon’s observation.

  Solomon was clutching his only possession, his shabby leather case.

  No-one knew anything about ‘Stealing the Staircase.’ To them it was his favourite book when working in the prison library. He read it over and over again. Whenever he was asked about its fascination, he merely commented that even though it was not well written or by a well-known author, it soothed his nerves and took his imagination away from Belmarsh. What no-one could possibly have known was that the simple story with its simple words became a work of code. Each letter, each word, each chapter, the page number, Solomon Isaacs’ had translated so that he alone had memorised everything and now he had his life story tucked in his leather case for the world to read for better or for worse.

  Chapter 2

  Southampton England 1956

  Jonny Wightman left school as soon as he could. He wanted to be a newspaperman. From an early age he’d read avidly, devouring stories his contemporaries couldn’t be bothered with, as they ran out of the classroom as soon as they could, chasing each other aimlessly around the playground. His teachers implored him to stay on at school. Mrs Richards, the English teacher, had told him he could enter any University he wanted to. ‘You don’t get straight ‘As’ by being an idiot, Jonny,’ she implored. Jonny had made up his mind, he wanted to leave school now. Clearly, she wasn’t going to change his mind so, finally, she told him a friend of hers could take him under his wing and teach him the trade.

  It was the 31 August 1956 when Jonny entered the offices of the Northfield Times. He was greeted by Rosa. She was seated behind a shiny red Remington typewriter and stood grinning at him as she held out her hand.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Wightman.”

  Jonny hesitated. He’d never been addressed as ‘Mister’ before. It sounded grand. He stretched over the desk and took her hand.

  ‘He’s waiting in his office’, she said pointing to the door to her left. ‘Always keeps it shut. Hiding most of the time, from me!’ She laughed.

  Jonny knocked and entered. Sam Thomas surveyed this young lad. Tall, still a bit thin but time would take care of that. He had an air of determination hidden behind the youthful face that had hardly needed a razor.

  ‘Hear you’re a bright lad, Jonny. Gloria, Mrs Richards to you, told me she couldn’t persuade you to stay on and go to College. Well, stay close to me and we’ll see what we can make of you, my lad.’ He said a little condescendingly.

  Jonny smiled not quite knowing how to respond, finally he said, ‘I’m here to learn, Mr Thomas, but I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sam, ‘because you’ll be learning to make good tea and coffee. So, you’re the official teaboy from now on and the most important job after that is the waste-paper bins, nothing goes out of here that is legible, apart from The Times.’ Sam laughed again at his own joke. ‘Understood, can’t have people reading the news out of our dustbins.’

  Jonny had thought he could learn more in the years that others spent at college or university. He was now beginning to wonder if he had been a little hasty.

  ‘Oh, by the way, that’s your desk. You’re to sit in with me, listen and hopefully learn,’ quipped Sam again.

  In the cramped space of the Northfield Times offices, he had Sam Thomas to work off. Sam had been an old newspaper hack for more years than he wanted to remember. He was the archetypal late forties chain smoking local know all. Even the police bobbies needed his ear when investigations into some minor misdemeanour were giving their station boss grief.

  Jonny shadowed Sam gaining in confidence that one day he would have his piece on the front page for his mum and dad to tell their friends 'That's our Jonny, you know'. Proudly.

  That break came unexpectedly, as these things do, a year and a half later when Sam was suffering from a bout of influenza. Jonny was sitting behind Sam’s large oak desk which was normally covered with cigarette ash, papers, hand written notes and stained tea cups. Today, the picture of Sam’s organised chaos had gone and the desk was clear and clean.

  No one was manning the front desk when Mrs Osborne from 16 Florence Grove walked in. She was shaking and Jonny needed her to calm down. Jonny by then made the best tea in Northfield and handed her a cup. She cradled it in her hands allowing the warmth to penetrate her red woollen gloves. The story that Mrs Osborne told Jonny that morning would propel him to a major newspaper in London within twelve months.

  Chapter 3

  Northfield Times Southampton 1957

  What Mrs Osborne of 16 Florence Grove told Jonny Wightman was unbelievable. He listened to her story that rambled all over the place between dabbing tears and sips of tea. Jonny watched her as she heaved her large torso from one cheek to another clearly uncomfortable sitting in Sam’s interview chair. Sam had told him that he’d lowered the front legs a little so that people would feel the strain of leaning forward after ten minutes and get to the ‘bloody point’, as he told Jonny. Mrs Osborne had reached that point now and started talking very quickly.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but we have to be certain from this side of the desk. We don’t want to be in trouble in the courts o
r with an Official Secrets Act violation, now do we Mrs Osborne.’ said Jonny with authority gained from listening to Sam Thomas.

  ‘Look, I have these papers.’ Mrs Osborne put down her cup, wrenched the gloves from her hand and dipped into her voluminous faux leather bag. She handed Jonny a large envelope. On the outside was a hand-written note. “Don’t go to the police. Suggest a newspaper.” She handed them to Jonny. He scanned them, his eyes darting to and fro and up and down. They appeared to contain a detailed copy of an experiment that her son had been subjected to. He put down the first two pages. The next contained what for Mrs Osborne would have been a harrowing description of her son’s death. Jonny looked up at Mrs Osborne as he finished reading her son’s last minutes on this earth. The rest was his military record then the autopsy report.

  ‘These are all on official Porton Down letter heading,’ announced Jonny incredulously. ‘How did you come by these? I can’t make out the signatures, totally indecipherable,’ he said holding several sheets closer to the light.

  ‘They were hand delivered yesterday whilst I was out walking my dog, Domino. He’s black and white reminded me of the game we used to play as kids, you know.’

  Jonny sat back in Sam’s chair and folded his hands behind his head. He looked at Mrs Osborne. She was staring at his desk, there was a sadness all over her face. Jonny could read the pleading, he had to help this poor lady.

  ‘Look, Mrs Osborne, there’s a lot here for me to read more carefully and think about, can you leave them with me. I promise, I mean, promise that I will get back to you as soon as I can. I will put them over there. You’ll not hear from me for a while. I’m going to have to check some things out. You know, verify.’ Jonny pointed over his shoulder to the large green heavy looking object that graced the corner of Sam Thomas’ office. ‘They’ll be safe there.’

  ‘All I want is to know why my son died,’ she blinked away some more tears. He was a gallant boy always willing to try his best. This shouldn’t have happened to him. Please help me?’

  ‘I will, but in return, you have to promise me not to talk to anyone about this.’ He paused, ‘save Domino, of course,’ said Jonny with a smile. She laughed for the first time that day. He rose and took Mrs Osborne’s arm and sympathetically guided her out of the building, promising again that he would do his best for her son.

  Jonny sat back with a steaming cup of black coffee laced with too much sugar. He read the papers for a third time. Each time with a different thought in mind. He needed to make many more enquiries and they had to be discrete but effective. Eventually, he’d find the right angle to present the facts without laying his provincial paper open to being a victim of a gagging order or closure through legal or non-legal means.

  Chapter 4

  Southampton 1957

  He picked up the sheaf of copied papers he had obtained from the central library. Written by some chap that Jonny had never heard of, Professor Edwin Carstairs and started to read. After a while he stretched back in his chair, musing, ‘This is what I wanted. The thrill of a story, discovery, piecing together, looking beyond what is simple to see in front me. This is the investigative journalism, I need.’ He read on.

  During the final stages of the Second World War, the top officials, political and military, from the Britain, America and Russian were keen to find and keep the secrets of German technological advances for themselves. The Germans discovered a new nerve gas they called, Tabun, which was toxic to humans, but also another gas, Sarin, even more toxic.

  Jonny took a sip of his cold coffee and read on.

  The Government had established Porton Down during the First World War to provide a proper scientific basis for the British use of chemical warfare, response to the earlier German gas attacks in 1915. Work started in March 1916, at the time, only a few cottages and farm buildings were scattered on the downs at Porton and Idmiston in the beautiful Wiltshire countryside.

  It was originally opened as the Royal Engineers Experimental Station. The laboratory's remit was to conduct research and development into chemical weapons agents such as chlorine, mustard gas to be used in retaliation by the British armed forces in the First World War. By 1918, the original two huts had grown into a large hutted camp with 50 officers and 1,100 other ranks.

  ‘This is fascinating stuff,’ Jonny said to himself and read on. He knew nothing of this, even though it was going on just down the A3 road from his hometown.

  By 1926, the chemical defence aspects of Air Raid Precautions (ARP) for the civilian population was added to the Station's responsibilities. By 1938, with the worsening political situation in Europe, the Government authorised offensive chemical warfare research and development and the production of stocks of chemical warfare agents by the chemical industry. Britain had ratified the 1925 Geneva Protocol in 1930 with reservations. The Protocol permitted the use of chemical warfare agents only in retaliation.

  ‘So, Porton was and still is at the forefront of producing highly toxic lethal chemical weapons.’ He looked at the papers from Mrs Osborne. ‘Someone needed to know what they could do to humans’,

  ‘How much of this is in the public domain?’ he said out loud.

  ‘What did you say?’ shouted his secretary, Rose, from the front office.

  ‘Nothing. Well, actually, how much do you know about chemical weapons?’ Rose was now standing in the open doorway looking blank. Jonny continued. ‘How much is out there in writing and where do we look.’

  As usual when you asked Rose a question the blank stare had actually set the wheels in motion as if you’d put a penny in the slot and pressed the button. Seconds later came the winning result.

  ‘What about one of the scientists at the University. They’re meant to know. Aren’t they?’

  ‘Great idea. Bless you, Rose. Can you find someone who would be willing to speak to me?’

  Two days later, Jonny walked into The Red Lion public house just off Marine Parade near the University. Dr Paul Bartlett PhD MSc, researcher in Chemistry at Southampton University, was already nursing a pint of beer and assumed that the tall lanky young man with fair hair and open shirt walking towards him was Jonny Wightman. He stood and they shook hands.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of getting you a pint. Please sit down, Mr Wightman. Your secretary told me how to recognise you. All she said was tall, very. Well I am here to listen to the questions, so….’

  ‘Information within the public domain about chemical weapons research,’ Jonny plunged in.

  ‘Interesting, but why me?’

  ‘I learnt from reading your University profile that your father had been a victim of the first chlorine gas attack by German forces that took place on 2 January 1915.’

  ‘One hundred and forty English officers were killed including my father. It was barbaric. It was that event that had prompted me to become a chemist and anti-war campaigner,’ said Dr Bartlett with the force of sadness in his eyes.

  Jonny waited until Dr Bartlett recovered.

  ‘I am on your side, Dr Bartlett. What I want is your knowledge and your considered opinion as an expert. ‘Sources in the field’, as they say. Can we agree that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘OK. What’s still going on here in Britain? Do you know or are we into the realms of secrecy?’

  ‘Bit of both, Jonny. Most of it is shrouded in the Official Secrets Act, but there are some published articles within the circles I move academically, mostly about what happened after Germany surrendered in 1945.’

  ‘I’ve seen a few, but they were in very general terms.’

  ‘Well, you’ll know that our experts swarmed over there to confiscate paperwork on biochemical warfare amongst other things. Most of our men came from Porton Down where they were carrying out their own research. What they discovered was that the Nazi’s had poured millions of Deutschmarks into nerve gas research and were way ahead of what we were doing here.

  ‘I am sorry to say, but they had human volunteers by the t
housands in concentration camps all over Germany and Eastern Europe. That is why they were so advanced. The data from the experiments was meticulously documented and the Germans were able to move forward rapidly. We had no way of obtaining the same data.’

  ‘Well on that count alone, I am grateful,’ said Jonny. Dr Bartlett nodded his agreement.

  ‘But what these experts saw, gave them. How should I put it? Food for thought.’

  ‘You mean that they too had to find a way to carry out biological and chemical on humans instead of animals.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. You must remember, Jonny, we were in a new world order in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The research and development at Porton Down was aimed at providing Britain with the means to arm itself with a modern nerve agent-based capability and to develop specific means of defence against these agents. In the end, these aims came to nothing on the offensive side because of the decision to abandon any sort of British chemical warfare capability.’

  ‘So, are you telling me that that type of research stopped altogether?’

  ‘Oh no. We knew others were still secretly developing offensive chemical capability, so we concentrated on the defensive side. There were years of difficult work ahead to develop the means of rapid detection and identification, decontamination, and more effective ways of protecting humans against nerve agents that are capable of exerting effects through the skin, the eyes and respiratory tracts.’

  Dr Bartlett sat back and took a long sip of his beer. Jonny hesitated then asked the question he really wanted Dr Bartlett to answer.

  ‘Have you ever been able to verify that servicemen have been subjected to live experiments to further the effectiveness of this defensive capability?’