The Jonah (6 page)

The bearded man’s eyes followed him.

‘You all right?’

Trewick didn’t seem to hear. He slowly reached for his beer and took a long, deep, swallow. Then he looked at Kelso. ‘What?’

‘I said are you all right? You look a bit pale.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m all right. Got to get goin, that’s all.’

‘Another party?’

‘No. Got to make an early start tomorrow. Need some kip.’

‘Do you want another beer before you go?’

‘No. It’s my turn anyway. I’ll get you one next time.’

He slid out from the bench against the wall, buttoning his anorak as he did so. Without another word to Kelso, he pulled open one of the double-doors and stepped out into the cold night.

Cheers, Kelso said silently, raising his glass in mock salute. He moved around into the seat just vacated and casually looked towards the bar; the man who had seemed to unsettle Trewick was
standing alone, drinking what looked like gin or vodka. For an instant, their eyes met, but the man turned his head as though studying the crowd in general. His hair was cut short, resting flatly
over his skull and his features had a hardness to them that had nothing to do with an open-air life. He wore a thigh-length leather jacket and as he raised his glass, Kelso noticed the little
finger of his right hand was missing.

Kelso wondered if he were being overly suspicious, making too much of the man’s arrival. Maybe Trewick really did need his beauty sleep. The man at the bar was making no attempt to hurry
his drink and had now turned his back on Kelso. The detective waited to see if he would follow the bearded man.

Ten minutes went by and Kelso decided he had been wrong. The man with the missing finger had ordered himself another drink and had joined in the conversation with a group of men at the bar. The
detective stifled a yawn, then drained his glass. He felt tired, the smoke haze inside the pub and the strong ale in his stomach a wearying combination for someone who had spent the day trudging
along footpaths and swallowing lungfuls of sharp, sea air. Boredom with his assignment didn’t help, either.

He rose from his seat and strolled to the door, glancing at the man at the bar to see if his departure had caused any reaction. The man seemed engrossed in a story being told by one of the group
he had joined. Kelso left the pub, coldness leaping at him as though it had been waiting for fresh prey.

Back inside the pub, the man in the leather jacket watched the doors close in the long mirror behind the bar.

Kelso walked down the quiet high street, making for the opposite end of the town where the caravan site was situated. It was a discreet location, for the town council went to great lengths to
prevent any eyesores from spoiling the charm of their seaside resort, much of which was protected by a charter designating it as an Outstanding Conservation area. The site was tucked away behind
buildings on the very fringe of the town and was mostly empty of occupants, the holiday season not having yet begun. He had rented the caravan for an indefinite period, telling the site manager,
who was rarely there, that it all depended on how long his project took. The caravan, itself, was small but not uncomfortable – he’d had experience of far worse quarters on other
operations – and had most of the conveniences to make life bearable. His budget for the investigation did not allow for anything much better and the isolation and self-catering aspect
certainly gave him more freedom of movement.

Tomorrow, he knew, he would have to give a report concerning his progress (or lack of it) to HQ in Lowestoft, and his dilemma was whether or not to inform his superiors that the case was a
complete waste of time. All reason told him that it was, that there was no organized drugs ring in the area, but he had an uneasy feeling . . . He had come to rely on irrational instincts, for they
had been justified in the past, and there was something about this place that disturbed him. Perhaps it was because the town was too quiet, the outlying areas too peaceful. In many ways it was
ideal for smuggling of any sort, and the fact that he had found little indication, let alone evidence, of such illegal operations aroused the contrary side of his nature. He was suspicious because
he had, as yet, found nothing to be suspicious of. The darkness closed in around him as he left the high street and entered the narrow lanes of the town. Soon there was not even the friendly glow
from windows for company.

He entered the caravan park. There were nearly twenty similar types of trailers in the grounds, only another two occupied as far as he knew. His was to the rear of the site, its back close to a
bushy hedge, with open fields beyond the natural boundary. He could hear the waves rolling in onto the shingle and feel the wind cutting across the land between the caravan park and the sea to
rattle fiercely against the fragile frames. He reached his temporary home, looking forward to some good, strong coffee and a soft, warm bed. He was too tired to eat. As he searched for the key in
his jeans’ pocket, he thought he heard a movement inside the caravan. It may have been the wind whistling around its structure.

But when he carefully pushed the key into the lock, he discovered the door was already open.

The bearded man’s pace was brisk, almost a run. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulder. Near the edge of the town now, he should have turned off to his right to reach
the small terraced house in which he rented an upstairs room; but someone was waiting for him on the corner just ahead. The dark figure stepped into view when the bearded man was no more than ten
yards away.

Trewick stopped dead, his mouth suddenly dry, the ale he had consumed an uncomfortable and shifting weight in his stomach. Hurried footsteps from behind confirmed his fear that he was being
followed.

The man in front said nothing as he approached, but Trewick began to move sideways, out into the road. He raised a hand as though it would halt the man’s progress, but the gesture had no
effect. He saw the one who had been following him now, the one who had been waiting for him outside the pub, waiting for him to be flushed like a pheasant from the undergrowth.

‘Wait! Look . . .’ Trewick knew that words would not help him.

‘You were warned, Andy.’ The man’s voice was soft, almost regretful.

Trewick turned away from the two men and ran, almost tripping over the kerb on the other side of the narrow road. He plunged into a small sidestreet, one hand scraping against the brickwork to
steady himself. Footsteps echoed behind him and a tight sob escaped his lips. He emerged from the sidestreet and knew there was only one way to go: away from the town and into the darkness beyond.
Into the marshes.

The car park opened out to his left, a vast black pit, the waves pounding the beach on the other side of the sea wall. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and his body was already damp with sweat.
He took a swift, panic-stricken look over his shoulder and saw they were still following, their pace steady, unhurried, as if they knew he could not escape, that there was nowhere to run to.

He was beyond the car park, nothing ahead but darkness and stars. If he could reach the marshes he had an advantage: he knew the paths, they didn’t. His feet slid from beneath him and he
went slithering downwards, his body rolling over as he tried to grab at earth to slow his descent. His hands only closed around loose shingle, though, and he cried out, confused by what was
happening. He came to an abrupt halt, soft mud cushioning the impact, and sat up almost at once. He quickly realized why he had fallen.

The road from the town turned into a raised track that ran along the coastline, the sea wall and beach on one side, a steep embankment on the other. He had slipped down the embankment. At the
bottom of the slope on this side was a boatyard, beyond that the quay to the harbour. The river headed directly inland from that point, winding its way through the marshes. A minor avalanche of
shingle told him his pursuers had begun their descent, and once more he was on his feet, running, heading into the boatyard, hoping to lose them among the clutter of motor cruisers and sailing
boats.

The two men steadied themselves at the bottom of the slope and watched him disappear into a channel created by two rows of boats. They glanced at each other, their eyes well-accustomed to the
darkness by now, then moved forward, splitting up, one man following the same channel as their prey, the other taking a parallel path.

Trewick had a choice: hide in the yard itself, either beneath or inside one of the boats, or make his way into the marshes. His breathing was laboured, his throat becoming raw as though the air
he sucked in was full of grit. He stumbled on, afraid of running into something in the dark, but equally afraid of giving the two men the chance to catch up. And in his haste, he did trip.

The grip end of the launching trolley had been carelessly left out of line with the boats it nestled between, and Trewick’s left foot made contact. He flew forward, his lumbering form
leaving the ground completely, and smashed into the earth with a force that jarred every bone in his body. He tried to stifle the cry that was squeezed from his chest, but was aware that the sound
of his falling alone would bring the two men to him. Ignoring the numbness in his arms and knees, he pushed himself between the mounts of a medium-sized ocean racer. His eyes were blurred with
tears of pain and fear, and he bit deep into his lower lip to stem the whimpers that rose like hiccups. He rolled himself up into a ball, keeping his face and hands tucked into his knees lest their
whiteness show up in the dark. He waited and tried to listen over the pounding of his own heart.

Footsteps approached, not running, but slow and deliberate. He stopped breathing. They were closer, treading warily. He raised his head slightly to see, using just one eye, afraid to expose too
much of his face. The footsteps stopped and he heard a shoe scuffle against metal. Silence for several moments and Trewick was forced to release air from his lungs. He did so as quietly as
possible, then drew in a short, jerky breath. Footsteps again. A dark shape moved before him, not more than two yards away. He couldn’t make out if it was two pairs of legs or just one. He
tried to control his shaking, sure that even that could be heard. The legs moved on, out of vision.

His eyes closed and his sigh of relief was barely audible. Silent tears had made his face and beard damp and he brushed them away against his knees.

Then something prodded his back and a quiet voice said: ‘Boo.’

The girl was lying on one of the caravan’s narrow bunk beds, leaning on an elbow with her back against the wall as though he had roused her from sleep. There was no
surprise in her expression.

‘Kelly?’ she said.

‘Goldilocks?’ he asked.

‘With dark hair?’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but remained seated. ‘It is Kelly, isn’t it? Or I should say Kelso. You match the description they gave me
quite well.’

‘Who gave you?’ Kelso’s hand was still on the light switch by the door. The door, itself, was open, ready for him to take instant flight should the occupant or occupants of his
make-shift home have proved a threat. The girl didn’t look threatening.

‘Your people in the Central Drugs Intelligence Unit.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ His hand had dropped from the light switch and was pulling the door closed. His eyes stayed on her all the time.

‘I’ve also spoken to your immediate superior, Detective Superintendent Barrie of the Drugs Squad, who passed me on to your governor, Detective Inspector Wainwright. As usual with the
Yard, they were cagey at first.’

Kelso walked further into the caravan and leaned against the open doorway leading to the sleeping quarters. He flicked on the light switch in that section to get a better look at the girl.

She wore jeans and a dark blue crew-neck jumper, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Long, brown hair hung loosely over a shoulder; hair on the other side of the parting was tucked behind her
ear as though she had quickly pushed it back out of the way when he had entered the caravan. Clear blue eyes appraised him in the same way he was appraising her.

‘I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And how did you get in here?’

The girl smiled and, strangely, it hardened her features rather than softened them. ‘That door wasn’t locked.’ She reached out for a bag lying on the dressing-table unit
opposite the bed. His hand closed around her wrist.

‘I’ve got my ID inside the bag,’ she said.

‘Just tell me.’

‘Ellie Shepherd.’ She tried to pull her wrist away, but his grip tightened. ‘I’m an investigation officer with Customs and Excise.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yes.’ She pulled her arm away.

Kelso reached for her bag, opened it and riffled through the contents until he found what he was looking for. He held the wallet up and looked enquiringly at her.

She nodded.

He opened the wallet, studied the inside for a few moments, flicked it shut and tossed it back into the bag. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, placing the shoulder-bag on the unit and turning away
from her to walk through to the kitchen area. She followed him out and watched him fill the electric kettle in the compact sink. He took a mug from the cupboard above the sink and placed it next to
the one standing on the draining board.