The Jonah (5 page)

The Lowestoft Drugs Squad was called in and they, too, were mystified. They knew of no drugs ring in that area, but believed the incident might uncover one. Unfortunately, their small drugs team
was overstretched; they could not spare officers on what could have been a fruitless investigation. Assistance was requested and it was the Yard, itself, who supplied someone, a man who had
experience of undercover work, someone who had the knack of getting on well with the more unsavoury elements of society. Kelso, go to the top of the unsavouries class. And take your time with this
one, there’s no rush. It might be nothing, but dig around; something could turn up. If you’re lucky. Grin.

Kelso lit another cigarette.

He wasn’t renowned for his good luck.

He turned away from the harbour and walked back towards the town. Water had seeped through his sneakers, making his socks damp, the big toe on his left foot numb. That was always the first one
to go. Poor blood circulation. He was conscious of the stiff breeze glancing around the tip of his nose.

Kelso had watched the Preece house for several days, squatting on the embankment on the far side of the marshland which separated the town from the river. The bank rose pyramid-shaped from the
water, descending just as sharply to the marsh on the other side. It was manmade and meant to contain the floodwaters when they rushed up the ten-mile estuary from the sea. Several canals
crisscrossed the marshland, natural drains for when the river overwhelmed its confines; one such canal bordered the allotments which led up to houses on the town’s edge. The Preece woman,
poor cow, would have drowned in there if she hadn’t been dragged out. Kelso had watched through powerful binoculars, a natural aid to an ornithologist, as Preece had dug his vegetable patch.
Preece worked alone, for his son was still in hospital with his dislocated shoulder, and Kelso had seen no suspicious activity. The man usually worked till dusk, stopping occasionally to chat to
neighbours. He would leave his tools inside a small hut on the site (Kelso had searched the hut by torchlight one night and had found nothing other than rusting and blunted garden equipment) and
then return to the house. And he would stay there. Even his evening drink had been forgotten.

But maybe tonight he would change his mind; he may have regained his thirst by now. It was reason enough – and a good excuse – for Kelso to visit the man’s local.

The lights of the town beckoned him back and he left the coastal path, sliding down a concrete incline to the car park which was used by tourists in the busy season, but empty now. It was a
convenient short-cut to the high street, but like dropping into a large, black pit. The urgent sound of waves pounding on the shore was muffled by the sea wall and concrete slope, the breeze
skipping over the barrier to swoop down towards the middle of the dark arena. The gravel beneath Kelso’s feet had a less satisfying crunch to it, too compact and, unlike the seawashed beach,
too filled with dirt. He cut a diagonal path across the car park, both hands tucked into the pockets of his reefer jacket, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his shoulders slouched
and head bent forward as though studying the ground before him. His footsteps slowed; he came to a halt. He took the cigarette from his mouth and raised his head.

He looked around.

Nothing but black shadows. Lights ahead, stars above; in between – darkness. His nose twitched and he whirled around. No one there, but he could smell that faint, familiar aroma. Familiar
because it had come to him before, sometimes in dreams, sometimes when he was awake. An odour that was elusive, yet sometimes strong. He had been a child when the strange smell had first come to
him and then it had merely been unpleasant; now he had learned to fear it. It was the smell of vomit. Vomit and blood. And corruption.

He felt himself tremble and his eyes tried to drink in the darkness, to absorb it and see what lay beyond. Was there a shadow darker than the rest? Something moved and his eyes locked on to it.
But he was mistaken; he edged closer and there was nothing hiding there, no person, no creature. The smell had gone.

Kelso backed away, the coldness tightening his spine. He turned, but did not run. His footsteps were swift, though.

He left the car park, grateful for the modest glow from the streetlights and glanced back over his shoulder. The car park was empty. But the darkness could have hidden a hundred demons.

It was like walking onto the set for a Western. The bar was long, almost stretching the whole length of the one-room public house; black pull-pumps –
genuine
pull-pumps – projected from the bar’s rough wood surface, each one denoting a different strength of local brew. The walls were covered in planking which had originally matched the
uncarpeted flooring; rough boots had removed any sheen that the floor may have had at one time. The coal-burning stove in the middle of the floor, its pipe ascending to the ceiling, then turning
right to run the length of the room and disappear through an outer wall, emphasized the unique cowboy flavour of the small, English pub, although two elements managed to spoil the image to some
extent: dozens of chamber-pots hung from the ceiling, an unusual addition to the decor, to say the least, and a fruit machine stood near the double-door entrance. Even most of the clientele, given
the right garb, had the rugged appearance of ranch-hands. And that included the women.

The smoke haze made Kelso blink his eyes for a second or two; he hid the reaction by turning and carefully closing the double-doors behind him. Heads looked in his direction and one or two
nodded an acknowledgement. He had tried all four public houses in the town, but had soon realized that this was the one which might provide some useful information, for many of the drinkers here
were boat people; local fishermen, or those working in nearby boatyards. Several of the younger members of the community also gathered here, youngsters who might be vulnerable to the temptation of
speed or grass; there was little else to provide kicks in the town.

Kelso made his way to the bar and eased his body between the backs of two solid-looking individuals, careful not to jog their drinking arms. The barman was already waiting for his order, having
seen him enter. It made a refreshing change from London pubs.

‘How’d you get on today, then?’ The barman’s voice had a pleasing local drawl to it, not unlike the Cornish accent, but softer, less broad.

‘Not bad. I kept hearing distant bangs all day, though. It frightens the birds.’

‘That’d be the bomb disposal. Your usual, is it?’

Kelso nodded. His ‘usual’ was the strongest of the local brew; somehow he felt intimidated by the pub’s atmosphere and clientele into drinking the ale.

The barman filled the straight pint glass and placed it before Kelso. As he counted out Kelso’s change, he said, ‘Be years before they’re finished there.’

‘Can’t be many left, can there, after all these years?’ He took a deep, grateful swallow of the beer.

‘You wouldn’t have thought so. But they say there’s hundreds of those mines left over after the war. Got covered by silt, you see. It’s worse where they’ve drifted
up the estuary. Always finding something there. There’s little danger now, though, so you don’t have to worry.’ He smiled reassuringly, then strolled away to serve someone
else.

Kelso took another long drink of beer, feeling his nerves settle a little more. He had been glad to get into the brightness and warmth of the pub after the strange experience in the car park.
Maybe not so strange – it hadn’t been the first time he’d had such feelings. The dark liquid was satisfying and he could already feel its soothing influence. He casually turned
his head, looking for a familiar face.

There were several in the bar whom he knew by sight, a few he had spoken to. It was the man at the fruit machine who drew his attention, though. Kelso picked up his beer again, sipping it this
time, and studied the man’s back, waiting for him to turn his head so he could be sure. It looked like one of the young fishermen he had spoken to down by the quayside just a few days ago. He
was a cousin or nephew to the man who owned a drifter moored in the natural habour; fishing was mainly a family business and most boats were worked by members of the same clan.

Kelso watched him thump the machine angrily with the flat of his hand, then place another coin in the slot. The detective swiftly looked around and saw the unattended half-filled beer glass
resting on a table on the opposite side of the double-doors. It was a small table and no one else sat at it. Kelso casually walked over and pulled out a low stool that nestled between the
table’s legs. He lit a cigarette.

Within minutes a figure slumped into the seat opposite and he knew he had guessed right.

‘Hello, there,’ he said and the young fisherman stared back in surprise. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties, heavyset with thick black curly hair matched by a thick black curly
beard. The beard was shorter than his hair, but not much shorter.

‘I spoke to you the other day,’ Kelso told him, seeing the puzzlement in his eyes. ‘Down by the quay. Remember?’

‘What? Oh yeah. Bird-watcher or something, aren’t you?’ He reached for his beer and drained it in three noisy gulps. When he placed the empty glass back on the table, his eyes
flicked around the bar. He seemed distracted. Or perhaps nervous.

‘Another one?’ Kelso asked.

‘Eh? Oh, yeah. Lovely.’

Kelso scooped up the glass and went back to the bar, feeling the fisherman’s eyes on his back. He returned with both glasses full to the brim.

‘I didn’t catch your name the other day,’ the bearded man said, reaching for the proffered ale.

‘Jim Kelly.’

‘And you’re writing a book or somethin.’ The Suffolk accent was even stronger than the barman’s.

‘That’s right. It’s to do with the bird sanctuaries in this area.’

‘Oh, aye. There’s plenty of those.’

Conversation ended momentarily as they both drank, Kelso surreptitiously studying the other man over the rim of his glass. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I didn’t get
your name, either,’ he said.

‘Trewick. Andy.’

‘You look as if you’ve had a heavy day.’

Trewick’s voice was sharp. ‘What makes you say that?’

Kelso shrugged. ‘You look a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘So would you be if you’d been out on the sea since four this morning.’

‘Tired? I’d be dead.’

Trewick grunted something unintelligible.

‘Still,’ Kelso said, unperturbed, ‘there’s not much to do around here at night, is there?’

‘Oh no?’ The bearded man managed a grudging smile. ‘There’s plenny if you know where to look.’

‘I’ve been here a couple of weeks now, and I haven’t seen anything in this town. Apart from the little cinema and the pubs, that is. So where’s all the action?’

‘Depends on who you know. There’s always a party goin on some place.’

‘Yeah? Well, I suppose I’ll have to get to know a few more people. Still, you can get a bit fed up with drinking every night.’

‘There’s more’n just drinkin.’.

Kelso’s senses became instantly keener. ‘Like what?’

Trewick grinned, one black-stained tooth spoiling what could otherwise have been a handsome face. ‘Like screwin.’

He laughed aloud and Kelso forced himself to join in. ‘You can even have too much of that,’ he said.

‘I can’t. Can’t get enough.’ Once more Trewick laughed aloud, but the sound died quickly when the swing-doors opened. Kelso saw the apprehension in the bearded
man’s eyes just before it vanished as two giggling girls entered the pub.

‘No, in London there’s other things you can get into, know what I mean?’

‘Ah, fuck London. You think you’ve got it all down there, but you’d be surprised, boy. There’s a lot going on aroun here.’

Kelso felt close to something, but decided not to push his luck. It was always a tricky time, knowing just when to press further or back off. ‘Any time you fancy showing me, I’ll be
around. I’ve got a lot of work to do yet.’

‘Watchin birds. Funny kind of job for a bloke.’

‘Yeah, I think that myself sometimes. Beats working for a living, though.’ Kelso grinned, but there was no amusement on Trewick’s face. Instead there was a trace of
hostility.

Oh shit, Kelso thought, I’m messing this one up.

‘What kind of money d’you get for doin that sort of stuff?’ Trewick asked.

‘Not much. Enough to get by on.’

‘About how much?’

Kelso cleared hs throat, then sipped his drink. Trewick waited, his eyes not leaving the detective’s face.

‘Er, about three hundred to begin with, then a percentage of the royalties on the book if it comes out.’

Trewick scoffed and sat back against the wall. ‘Three hundred? That wouldn’t keep me in baccy papers, boy. I need . . .’ Once more his head swung towards the swing-doors as
they opened. This time the alarm stayed in his eyes as a figure entered.

Kelso glanced towards the entrance as he raised his glass to his lips. If the man who had entered knew Trewick, he did not show it; he strolled towards the bar, pushing his way through the crowd
without looking left or right.