High Water (1959) (27 page)

He ran desperately down the white line in the middle of the road, his rubber deck shoes making no sound, and with his eyes wide and staring, searching for a way of escape. Behind him, he heard the blast of a whistle, doors slamming, and the sounds of car engines starting, but already they were muffled, and part of another world. He tried to ignore them and concentrated instead on the steady pad of feet, close on his heels, and as his breath laboured in his lungs he forced his body forward with wild desperation, the wet, clinging air soaking his face and chilling his heaving chest, bared by his torn jacket.

The car engines were getting louder and he cursed himself for staying on the road. He almost stumbled as he swung in to the pavement, dodging a looming lamp-post and losing valuable ground. And all the time, the other footsteps sounded nearer, slowly but relentlessly overtaking him.

Only one of them, he thought wildly, but it only needed one to hold him long enough for the others to close in.

If only he could throw him off. Neither of the cars had been wireless cars; it would be some time before a general alert could be called, he might be able to make it, if only—he cursed aloud, as the kerbstone dipped into a small gravel incline. He turned left, his breath coming in great, sobbing gasps, and he found he was blundering down some sort of small pathway between what appeared to be wooden walls, lock-up garages probably, anyway, off the main road.

He almost cried out as a high wall brought him skidding to a halt, his throat dry and his body pounding with exertion. Blindly he ran from side to side, but there was no other way, it was a cul-de-sac.

He peered up at the top of the wall. About eight feet high. As he gathered himself for a spring, the fog wall behind him darkened, and a figure padded towards him, half crouched in readiness.

Sergeant Arnold halted, his chest heaving, his tie hanging loosely from his jacket.

In silence they peered at each other, like wild animals looking for an opening to make a kill. Both tensed, as a freak cloud of mist swept between them, distorting their bodies and making their shapes twist and writhe in distorted shadows.

The car engines revved louder, and another whistle shrilled its urgent message.

‘Well, you bastard! Are you going the easy way, or the hard way?’ Arnold was speaking through his teeth.

Vivian backed against the wall, feeling its rough surface scratching his jacket.

He couldn’t speak, he just stood gasping in the clammy air. Behind him, one jump could take him to some sort of
safety,
but he knew that as soon as he turned, Arnold would have him down. Somehow he knew that the other man would enjoy doing it.

A voice boomed unnaturally and without warning down the little road. ‘Are you there, Sergeant? Do you hear me?’

Arnold grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness, and he twisted his head half round to answer.

With a sob of desperation Vivian sprang forward, propelling himself from the wall in one quick movement. His wildly grasping hands felt the detective’s tie, and before the man could cry out, he jerked him off his balance, pulling him forward with all the strength he could muster.

Together they rolled over on the roadway, hitting out at each other in short, vicious jabs, each grunting with pain as the blows went home. Arnold kicked out his long legs, gaining a purchase on the ground, and slowly but surely forcing himself on top of the other man. Their arms locked and their faces were inches apart, Vivian feeling the warm breath on his neck. He felt Arnold drawing back a knee, preparing for the crippling blow, and with a final, anguished heave he twisted one hand free, making the vicious movement impossible, and causing Arnold to temporarily lose his balance. With his palm open, Vivian struck downwards, the edge of his hand striking below the hairline, and as he rolled from under the suddenly limp body, he knew that it was over.

Somehow he pulled himself up and over the wall, only once glancing back at the still form on the road, then, as he dropped silently to the ground he peered round, getting his bearings, and finding that he was apparently in another side road, he started to run again, but more slowly and with more confidence, as all sounds of pursuit were swallowed up and lost behind him.

He ran his hand shakily through his hair, pushing it
back
from his contorted face. He could run no more, and when a pillar-box suddenly appeared in his path he stopped altogether, and leaned weakly against it, letting his body fight its gasping battle. His face and neck were soaking wet. When he felt a little easier he took stock of his surroundings and cocked his head on one side, listening. Hearing nothing, he started to walk on, trying to recognize a landmark, or see something which would give him a clue to his whereabouts. Sometimes he thought he was walking in a circle, and sometimes he would turn down a road, only to stop dead, as if his instinct was guiding him and warning him of a wrong direction.

He was walking downhill most of the time, and whether it was that, or whether it was the sea calling him back to his own, proper element, he found that he was progressing with an unaccountable sureness, although most of the time he could see nothing.

He saw several hurrying figures with heads bowed and squinting faces, and each time he was able to keep his distance, but for the most part Ramsgate seemed dead and deserted. No doubt the hotels and boarding-houses were finding difficulty in turning their reluctant guests out into the streets under such conditions.

Once he stiffened as the figure of a policeman moved slowly along the deserted pavement, but the man’s attention was elsewhere, or perhaps he just did not know what was happening.

He was just beginning to feel an edge of despair when all at once, mingling with the acrid stink of the fog, he detected something else. He halted, wrinkling his nose, and then hurried on, following the scent of the salt air, the sharp, clearly defined tang, that told him he was getting near his first destination, and automatically, the need for greater caution transmitted itself to his brain.

A dim tobacco kiosk, a little island of colour, which he had visited many times in the past, pinpointed his position. Without further hesitation, but walking more slowly, he made his way from the kiosk towards where he knew lay the main harbour entrance. There were a few more people here. In ones and twos, they wandered disconsolately up and down, while some of the more daring groped their way along the shining stonework of the harbour.

He stopped once more, forcing himself to think before taking another step. He was so keyed up, that thinking had become an effort of will-power. His actions now seemed to be automatic, or governed by instinct.

It was likely that there would be a guard on his boat, he thought. They would not assume that he’d make for the boat, but it was possible that they might want to keep sightseers away. Anyway, he could take no chances.

As he stood pondering, he heard a car slowly drive to the harbour wall and stop. He could not see it, and he marvelled at the determination of the driver. As he listened, a voice, very close, said quite conversationally, ‘Look, Jane, a police car.’

Vivian shrank back, straining his ears.

A heavy crunch of boots halted, apparently by the car, and he could even hear the man clearing his throat.

‘All correct, Sergeant!’ a voice said.

‘Very good. Keep your eyes skinned at this entrance, will you. No need to go along the outer harbour, just watch this bit.’

‘All right, Sergeant,’ the other man answered obediently. ‘D’you think he’ll come this way?’

‘Not likely. What’d be the point?’

The constable laughed. ‘Poor devil! He must be about all in.’

‘So’ll you be if he gets hold of you!’ The voice was grim. ‘He’s just laid out a sergeant from the Yard!’

‘Serve him right,’ muttered the other man surlily. ‘Why can’t they let us get on with it?’

The sergeant laughed, and a second later the car moved stealthily away, its lights glinting feebly.

Vivian breathed out slowly, waiting for the policeman to move back to his position of observation.

After a while he started off in the opposite direction, until he found himself overlooking the inner harbour, which was mainly used as a yacht basin.

He could not see the water, but a seemingly disconnected forest of small masts swayed and bobbed at him along the edge of the wall. Feeling carefully with his feet, he crept down the first stone steps leading to the water, a scheme forming in his mind. He was so busy with his thoughts that he almost stumbled over the sitting figure on the last step. A lonely fisherman, the sea lapping practically over the tops of his rubber boots.

‘Lousy morning!’ he commented without looking round, his face turned towards the invisible end of his rod. ‘Still, it keeps the bloody kids away!’ He chuckled hoarsely.

‘Pretty thick,’ agreed Vivian casually, stepping back slowly to hide his wild and ragged appearance. ‘Been here long?’

The fisherman spat. ‘Since an hour before high water. ’Bout two hours, I suppose. Haven’t caught a blessed thing!’ he added bitterly.

Vivian took another step back, feeling the stones with his heel.

‘Tell you something, though. I wish I’d been here a bit sooner.’

‘Really?’ Vivian tried to sound interested.

‘Yes.’ The man laughed shortly. ‘My mate, Jim Gibbs,
you
may know him? Well, he was here all night. Eels, he was after,’ he added scornfully. ‘As if you’d get eels here!’

Vivian was half-way up the steps now and the other man’s shape was fading.

‘Well, Jim was tellin’ me that some silly ass of a yachtsman put out to sea just before the fog came down.’ He shook with silent humour. ‘Reckon he must be stuck out there right in the middle of it now, eh?’

Vivian stiffened, suddenly wide awake and alert.

‘What yacht, d’you know?’

But as he asked, he knew that it had to be the one. It had to be Lang. If the police had been watching his own boat, and Lang had not been aboard he must have been very close at hand, to catch Karen as she entered the harbour. Where else but right here? He stared at the blank wall of fog, his head spinning.

‘Don’t know the name of the boat. Jim said there was a pansy-looking chap in a bow-tie up in the bows, shining a torch on the harbour wall as he went out, afraid he’d hit it, I expect.’

Vivian caught his breath. Cooper! No wonder they were in a hurry. They had what they wanted. The girl, the plates, and the method of completing their alibis!

He muttered something to the fisherman and hurried up the steps. There was still a chance. There had to be. As if in answer, a doleful clang sounded from the fog bell at the harbour entrance.

Somehow he found the end of the inner wharf, and without pausing for further thought, he stripped off his jacket and trousers and stood naked on the edge of the slippery stonework. With the clammy mist exploring his body, he lowered himself down one of the mooring chains, gritting his teeth as the cold, oily water moved up and around his body. When the water lapped across his back
he
pushed away from the green slime of the wall with his feet, hardly making a sound as he drifted clear of the old chains and weather-worn piles along its edge.

As is often the case, the visibility was better near to the surface and he started to swim, strongly and easily, across the invisible harbour. It was a queer, unnatural experience. Occasionally he would hear a snatch of conversation, or a laugh, apparently quite close, and odd, unexplained noises and bumps echoed and muttered through the water around him. He was swimming almost exactly from north to south, from the end of the inner harbour to the eastern arm of the horseshoe-shaped outer wall.

The bottom half of a dark blue hull—the top was invisible in the swirling mist—seemed to drift past him, but it was the reserve lifeboat resting peacefully at her moorings, just as he had anticipated. He rested for a moment, supporting himself by one of the boat’s slip-wires. So far so good, he breathed. The next stretch was more difficult because there would be no more obvious guides, or, in fact, any visible guides at all. He would be depending entirely on his sense of direction.

His flesh tingled as he pushed himself forward again, and his body felt refreshed rather than tired. He knew that could be deceptive, and was careful not to use up all his strength. Instead, he maintained his steady crawl, his eyes keeping a constant watch on the fog-banks ahead, which rolled across the dead water like great creatures in a dream.

He was in the widest part of the harbour now, and he could feel the strong surge of the current’s undertow pulling at his legs. He swam on, losing all idea of time and praying that he was still heading in the right direction. The steady boom of the fog bell was no help at all, as its source seemed to change its bearing with devilish cunning.

His arms and legs were beginning to ache, and his body
felt
heavy and unresponsive to his efforts. He knew, only too well, that if he had made a mistake in direction, he might easily have been carried through the harbour entrance already, and be swimming out towards the open sea. He spat out salt water as his head ducked wearily under the slight swell, and he concentrated grimly on his stroke. It would be very simple to be unnerved by wild fears and go blindly off on another, even more fruitless, search.

Clang, clang! The bell was nearer. Or was it behind him? He swore breathlessly and stopped, treading water. There was a longer patch of grey on his left and he stared at it without comprehending, and wondering what fresh twist of distortion had caused it. Unlike the rest of the fog, it didn’t seem to move, or alter, and he was tempted to turn towards it.

His heart bounded as a shrill whistle cut through the heavy air, followed by the harsh bark of a command over a loudspeaker. Of course! That explained it! The grey shape was a ship, the naval fishery protection vessel in which he had often enjoyed a drink with the officers when he had called at Ramsgate in the past. The sound was that of a bosun’s pipe announcing part of the daily routine. Thank God! He knew now that his own boat was about fifty yards further on.