The Longest Pleasure (37 page)

But now the tide was falling. The station was on the sea-front, and he looked out at sandbanks and mudflats, beginning to poke through the water. He had checked these on the map. They were called Chapman Sand and Marsh End Sand and Southend Mudflat, and then there was the deep water channe
l of the Thames itself, the Yantl
et, before you came to Yantlet Flats and the Isle of Grain. He was in Essex, and Kent was only three miles away. Three miles of water now. But in a few hours' time the water would cover hardly
a
mile in the middle. The fears, the hatreds and the desires which had been seething inside his mind all the way from Devon were coalescing, just like that sand, thrusting solid
tips through the maelstrom of
his thoughts.

The train puffed, and drew out of the station. Next stop Southend-on-Sea, and a few early holiday-makers. The station-master regarded Galitsin sceptically, perhaps waiting for him to confess that he had no ticket He was accepted as a British layabout, with his jeans and his leather jacket, and his beard. This was reassuring.

He presented the slip of pasteboard, .thrust his hands into his pockets. It was still only March, and the breeze off the river was chill. But here, in the station yard, there was
a
call-box.

The house was under the name of Smith. Naturally. There were several Smiths in the book, but the address of Tigran Dus's British headquarters was burned on Galitsin's brain as if etched with acid. Tigran Dus himself had seen to that. He dialled.

'Yes?' a woman asked.

‘I
would like to speak with Helena Isbinska,' Galitsin said.

There was a moment's hesitation, and then the voice said, 'Just a moment.'

Galitsin listened to the click of the extension being taken off the hook. He imagined the triumphant smiles being exchanged in the house. And they were only a few hundred yards away. All of Leigh was only
a
few hundred yards
away; there were only half a dozen streets in the village. 'Yes?' This woman's voice was breathless. 'Helena?'

'Alexander! I had to, Alexander! You understand that I had to?'

The voice was Helena's. But this Helena had lost her dignity. 'I understand that you had to,' Galitsin said. 'What do they want?'

'Colonel Dus wishes to speak with you.'

'Then put him on the telephone.'

'Yes.' Helena hesitated. 'Do not . . . please be careful, Alexander.'

Galitsin made no reply. He could hear the stealthy sounds of the telephone being exchanged. Even if Tigran Dus must know that Galitsin was aware of the extension he would still go through the rigmarole of exchanging the receiver. The hunters and the hunted. But sometimes the roles were reversed, and when they were unlucky the hunters were not even aware of it.

'Alexander Petrovich!' This voice had not changed. Galitsin did not think this voice would ever change. 'It is good to hear from you again after all these months.'

'You are very kind, Comrade Colonel.'

'And you are well?'

'Very well, Comrade Colonel.'

'And you are in Leigh?'

Galitsin smiled. A village this small would probably only have one telephone booth.
‘I
can come to Leigh, Comrade Colonel. Why?'

'Because I wish to speak with you, Alexander Petrovich. There is still a great deal of work we must do together.'

'Oh, yes,' Galitsin said. 'I have the information that you seek, Comrade Colonel.'

'You have been in contact with the woman Moeller?' For the first time that Galitsin could remember, Tigran Dus sounded excited.

'Yes, Comrade Colonel.'

'Then you may be sure, Alexander Petrovich, that I shall be happy to overlook any irregularity in the methods you have used. When can we meet?'

'Soon,' Galitsin said. 'I shall be on the beach.'

'Where on the beach?'

'Just come down to the shore,' Galitsin said. 'And walk out on the beach. It will soon be low water, but you will see a little creek. It is called Ray Gut Follow that, and I will see you, and come to you.'

'When?'

Galitsin looked at the mudflats, slowly uncovering. 'In three hours' time, Comrade Colonel.'

'In three hours, Alexander Petrovich. But really, you know, there is no necessity for this elaboration. Why do you not just come to the house?'

'Because I wish you to bring Helena with you, Comrade Colonel. Helena, but no one else. That is why I am going on the beach. I will be able to see you coming
a
long way off.'

'I would not play
a
trick on you, Alexander Petrovich.'

‘
Nevertheless, Comrade Colonel, you and Helena, on the beach off Leigh, in three hours' time. And if you are not alone you will never see me at all.'

Tigran Dus sighed. 'You are trying to make this into
a
drama, Alexander Petrovich. Your stay in the West has corrupted you. Helena and I will be on the beach off Leigh in three hours' time.'

'Thank you, Comrade Colonel.' Galitsin replaced the receiver, opened the door of the telephone booth, went on to the front. It was just noon, and
a
sea mist was sweeping down the Thames. Kent was already lost to view, and a freighter, making its way downriver, blaring on its horn every second minute, was nothing more than
a
large shadow. He wondered if the sea was as cold as the wind.

He had ten shillings left. He found
a
public house, had
a
pint of beer and a sandwich, a pickled onion and
a
boiled egg. An Englishman's lunch. No one spoke to him. In some ways the English inability to communicate had its advantages.

He left the public bar, climbed over the low wall on to the shingle. There was only a brief patch of shingle, and then there was sand, sometimes, hard, sometimes soft. The tide was not far away now, slowly pulling back before him. But it had been dropping for three hours already.

Galitsin walked. To his left, perhaps two miles away, he could see the houses of Southend looming through the afternoon mist, a tall red chimney rising behind the town, the long reach of the pier, stretching across the drying mud-fiats, ending in the sea. The end of Southend Pier never dried. It made a useful marker for the limit of the sand.

The tide was several hundred yards away now, but on his right there was again water. Shallow water, streaming across the sand. Ray Gut. And in the distance, just visible, was a black buoy, the Leigh Buoy, marking the first of the deep water. He turned, but Leigh itself was nothing more than a shadow. He was about a mile offshore. He stepped into the gut, sloshed through the knee-deep water. It soaked his shoes, his bare feet underneath. It was very cold. He shuddered. This was no tumbling whitecap with which it might be possible to reach a gigantic climax. This was an insipid, cold, slimy trickle. But, of course, it was impossible to drown on a falling tide. So the unpleasantness, the coldness, the lack of emotion, of strength, in this water was not relevant.

Galitsin found a large stone and sat down. The water swirled about his ankles and withdrew. Soon his feet were exposed, if still cold and damp, and the sea was another hundred yards away. But it was still behind him, the faintest trickle. Ray Gut, according to the map, stretched almost back to the mainland, running roughly parallel with the shore at Leigh. He was on the Chapman Sand, an extension of Canvey Island, really. But the operative word was island. He looked back across the shallow stream, saw only the mist. Leigh was lost to sight, and so was Southend Pier.

Galitsin waited, while the afternoon became colder, and the mournful hoots and wails from the river suggested that all the dead spirits of the Thames were rising up to bid him farewell. Or welcome. There was no colour in this afternoon. The sand was brown. What water he could see was brown. The looming bulk of Canvey Island was grey. And the sky was grey. The very air was grey. No colour for Galitsin. And this afternoon it was not possible to imagine colour. Now that was strange. To imagine colours had always been easy for him. But not on a misty afternoon off Leigh.

He stared into the mist, accustoming his eyes to their surroundings. Visibility was half the battle, in weather like this. And at last he saw two figures walking towards him.

Maisie knocked, uncertainly. Entering this room, knocking on this door, over the past few weeks, had been an act requiring considerable courage.

'Not well, is she?' asked the man standing behind her.

'Ssssh !' Maisie said. 'Mrs. Hamble is very highly strung.' She knocked again.

'What is it?' The voice was low.

'There is a gentleman here to see you, mum.'

'Tell him to go away.'

'It is a police officer,' Maisie explained.

'He, surely,' protested Sergeant Crane. He prided himself on his sense of humour.

' 'A police officer!' There was a moment's hesitation, and Crane wondered what thoughts were racing about in there, How many fears, forgotten guilty secrets, were always aroused by the mere word 'police'. As if Mrs. Jonathan Hamble could possibly have anything worse in her past than the odd parking offence.

'Tell him to come in. Maisie.'

'Yes, mum.' Maisie opened the door, and the sergeant stepped through, checked in surprise.
He
had expected a dark room, drawn curtains, overwarm central heating. But this room was light, and even cold; one of the french doors on to the balcony was open. And the woman on the day bed was quite absurdly beautiful, and far younger than he had supposed. Not a day over thirty-five, he calculated; the feet thrust into the furry mules contained not a wrinkle, were amazingly white. She wore a blue velvet dressing gown, smoked a cigarette. She looked tired, and there was a petulant cast to lips which were a shade too thin. But there was no possibility of faulting the rest of her, visible or, he decided, invisible. Nor was she ill; on the table beside the chaise longue was the remains of a hearty lunch.

She did not look at him, kept her gaze on the window, watched the still bare trees, moving in the brisk March wind which even whipped u
p a faint scuff on the Thames. ‘
Yes?' she asked.

'Sergeant Crane, Mrs. Hamble.' The sergeant shifted from one foot to the other. 'I'm afraid this is something of an imposition, but we were wondering if you could help us. It's a small matter, really.'

Christine Hamble turned her head, slowly, looked at him for the first time.
'I
have no idea what you are talking about,' she said.

'Well, Mrs. Hamble, there's this woman. Well, actually, to call a spade a spade, she's a street-walker. If you know what I mean.'

Christine Hamble looked away. She certainly did know what he meant, arid was embarrassed by her knowledge. There was sudden colour in the pale cheeks, and the hitherto almost motionless bodice of the dressing g
own was moving. 'A prostitute.’

'That's right, Mrs. Hamble. Name of Renee Smith.'

‘
Renee Smith,' Christine Hamble said softly. 'She sent you to me?'

'Oh, good lord, no, Mrs. Hamble. I mean to say, she's in no condition to send anybody anywhere.'

Christine Hamble turned so sharply her shoulder hit the table, upset. a teacup. She sat up, swinging long, pale legs to the floor. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, Mrs. Hamble, she's been operating in my patch for the past few weeks. Oh, of course we should have pulled her in, but we've been rather busy, you see, and she never made a nuisance of herself. And then last night she just keeled over and collapsed. On a street corner, about two o'clock in the morning. One of my constables on beat duty found her stretched out there.'

'She was dead?' Christine Hamble's voice was high.

'Oh, no, Mrs. Hamble. Not dead, or anything like that. We took her to the hospital, and she's been put to bed and given a thorough examination. And here's the queer thing. The doctor has given it as his opinion that Smith is suffering from an extreme case of gout, aggravated over the past few days by the consumption of what he says cannot be less than a gallon of port. Now I ask you, Mrs. Hamble, have you ever heard of a tart suffering from gout? Or, for that matter, of a tart drinking port by the gallon? Drinking, eating, breathing it. The doctor says he doesn't think there's been anything else but port inside her stomach for at least three days.'

‘
This
gout,' Christine Hamble said, ‘
how does it affect you, Sergeant?'