Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  She put her cigarette out and took a deep breath. Her decision was already made for her. George suddenly appeared in front of her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Fordred,’ he said, in unctuous tones.

  Sylvia had never noticed that one of the conference room windows looked out onto the alleyway. By pure coincidence, George had been in there, to pour himself a large glass of brandy. He had taken a sip, and decided to put it on one side. He wanted to be able to enjoy her. Rather irritatingly, he had recently started to experience a few problems ‘in the bedroom department.’ He wasn’t sure if it was alcohol that exacerbated the difficulty or his ugly old trout of a wife, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Scarcely able to contain his excitement, he took Sylvia by the arm and led her firmly inside, through the side entrance. The front door was probably locked, she thought, as there was nobody on reception. He led her up the back staircase to an office she recognised as Edward’s.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He ushered her to an armchair by the window. ‘Can I offer you a drink of water or perhaps a brandy?

  ‘No thank you,’ she replied politely.

  He sat down in the armchair opposite her. They were separated by a small table with a leather top. After a few pleasantries about the weather, she got out the bundle of papers she had made up and began talking about the sad discovery they had made in Chartrettes. He seemed distracted and was fidgeting.

  ‘But Miss Fordred,’ he commented. ‘You and Mr Gunn have been away for over two weeks. I don’t see why my firm is paying you for information which appeared in the press the day after your departure. And I believe we have paid you considerable sums already.’

  Sylvia explained, patiently, that this ‘information’ had only appeared in the press at all because of the discovery that she and Mr Gunn had made but George did not appear to be listening. Perhaps this was just as well, because the papers she had made up were a complete fabrication. She had used the time-old trick of staining paper with tea to make it look old; a bundle of scrap paper of Marguerite’s. This was the point at which Gunn was meant to appear, help her incapacitate Cumberland, extract a confession and take him out.

  ‘You look very nice today, Miss Fordred.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied absently.

  Something had happened to Gunn. She could sense it. He had been set against the idea from the start of her being used as a ‘lure.’ He would not have left her alone. Deciding she ought to make a bolt for it, she stood up.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me today, Mr Cumberland. I think on reflection it would be better if we adjourned this meeting until Edward and Louis can join us.’

  He was ready for her.

  ‘Miss Fordred,’ he murmured. ‘I believe you and I have unfinished business. I have always thought you needed a firm hand. We were interrupted last time. Now, where were we?’

  Seizing her arm and pinioning her arm behind her back, he led her over to the desk. Squirming in his grasp, she managed to free herself and to kick him hard in the groin with her heel. He doubled over with pain, at which point she smashed him over the head with a heavy paperweight. He fell to the ground. He was unconscious, but for how long?

  Sylvia went over to the table, got the Beretta out of her handbag and kept it trained on George while she tried to think what to do and how to do it all by herself. She noticed the paraphernalia on the desk; the riding crop and handcuffs placed tidily on a pile of magazines and felt sick to the stomach.

  ‘Those will do,’ she thought, deftly slipping the handcuffs on George.

  He began to stir. He shook his head, clearing the fog. He looked up at Sylvia and then at his cuffed hands. A vein throbbed in his temple, pulsing like a sick cobra. Sylvia could feel the bile rising in her throat.

  ‘You little bitch. Wait till I get my hands on you!’

  ‘I’m afraid you might find that a little difficult,’ replied Sylvia brightly. ‘Incidentally, don’t even think of moving. I’m not afraid to use this.’ She began to wonder wildly how long she could keep this up. The Beretta was loaded (she had checked). She glanced down at it again. It was an MI934, generally issued to the Royal Italian Army, chambered for the 9mm Corto cartridge. It was reliable. Not heavy on the stopping power. It could do serious damage to George if she felt inclined. She had to admit that at the moment, she did.

  There was a sound outside, a tread. The door opened. It was Edward.

  He surveyed the scene in front of him, confused.

  ‘Father, what’s going on?’ Edward edged into the room, trying to avoid the covering arc of the Beretta. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘This woman has gone mad.’ Cumberland senior had gone puce in his anger. ‘Now, stop these damn fool questions, sort this bitch out and help me out of these confounded things.’

  ‘Bitch?’ queried the younger man. This was Sylvia he was talking about, the girl he had idolised for so long. George shook with frustration. His handcuffs jingled.

  ‘Why do you have to question everything, you tedious little shit? It was just a game that went wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean, a game?’ echoed Edward. He was clutching at straws. Perhaps what Louis had said was all lies after all. He really did not know what to think.

  Sylvia couldn’t believe the brass front of it. ‘I don’t think I would ever be so desperate as to want to play games with the likes of you,’ she replied, with bitter amusement.

  To Edward’s combined shock and enjoyment, Sylvia pressed the Beretta into the folds of the old man’s neck.

  ‘How about this for a game?’ she suggested, mischievously.

  She was playing for time. She could not trust Edward. When they were children, and the families were friends, he had been a cry baby and a tell-tale. He used to encourage her to do more and more audacious things and then go and tell, seeming to relish getting her into trouble. She had got wise to it after a while. All these years later, he hadn’t changed but the stakes had.

  Gunn made his way carefully upstairs. He could hear voices, raised and high. He was pretty sure one of them was Edward’s. He avoided the third stair from the top, which he remembered always creaked, wincing as he did so. He was somewhat battered, but he had a job to do. Edward being there muddied the waters somewhat; if needs be, he would have to go too.

  He opened the door a crack, very cautiously. Sylvia saw him straightaway, but didn’t react.

  He gave her an encouraging smile and remained on the landing. Keeping the Beretta trained on George, she suggested: ‘I think you have some explaining to do, Mr Cumberland. I’m sure Edward would love to hear what you have been up to. After those years he spent, risking his life and defending his country.’

  Cumberland spat.

  ‘Defending his country? He hasn’t got the imagination to see beyond his Spitfires, pints of beer and darts at the White Hart. And the job I created for him. He is nothing but a disappointment. And I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. How dare you insinuate such things? I should have dealt with you years ago, you little trollop.’

  ‘That last remark of yours rather spoilt things, Mr Cumberland? Dealt with me?’ Sylvia began. But Edward had crossed the room and was at her side.

  ‘I know all about you,’ he said, to Sylvia’s surprise. ‘You and Uncle Friedrich and your ‘assets.’ You make me sick to the stomach. Give me the gun, Sylvia.’

  Cumberland laughed out loud at his son.

  ‘You haven’t got the courage to do that. It was easy enough, wasn’t it, shooting down a hero of the Reich from behind your gun sights, but this? No.’

  ‘Sylvia, give me the gun. I’ll take it from here,’ Edward repeated.

  ‘Let me handle this, Edward.’

  Sylvia turned again to Cumberland senior, still purple with rage and muttering about giving them both a damn good thrashing.

  ‘Mr Cumberland,’ she said. ‘You have a choice. Not an especially palatable one, I grant you…’

  Before she could outline the c
hoice, however, Edward was upon her, trying to get the gun.

  ‘For God’s sake, Edward,’ she shouted. ‘It’s loaded.’

  He was stronger than she remembered, although the last time they had fought, she had been about thirteen. That day had not ended well. A shot cracked away. It took Cumberland senior in the shoulder and sent him spinning to the floor. The back of his head cracked on the edge of the small grate. He would not be getting up from that.

  Edward went over to his father. He backed away. He turned on Sylvia, his face white. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

  ‘What have you done?’ he yelled.

  Sylvia, her face taut with shock, slapped Edward so hard across the face that the blow left a reddened print.

  ‘You did that, you idiot. You did exactly what you wanted to do, what you’ve always wanted to do. And now you’re blaming me, like you’ve always done. You always went and sneaked on me. Well, I’m not having it.’

  Edward was upon her, pushing her to the floor, with his full weight upon her.

  ‘Get OFF me, Edward,’ she screamed, trying to push him away. ‘What the hell are you doing? I can’t breathe.’

  Gunn took a deep breath and kicked the office door wide open. This was his cue. He pulled Edward’s jacket up over his head, disorientating him, marched him across the office and launched him, face first into the grate.

  Edward tumbled over in worried confusion, his head ringing. He had no idea of who his assailant was. He shook his head, ripped his jacket clear and stood up and turned. He saw Gunn before him, looking like someone who had just received something for which he had been waiting a long time. Gunn smiled, a slow baring of the teeth.

  ‘Come on then.’

  Edward’s sangfroid and dapper appearance were now things of memory. Gunn standing before him was a provocation too far. He left science behind and came high at Gunn, who twisted and ducked about on his waist. Gunn slapped him across the ear, as if he were a naughty school boy caught with his fingers in the tuck kitty.

  Edward cracked his shoulder on the door frame and held onto it for a moment, catching his breath. He turned and went at Gunn again and again. Gunn swerved, and flicked him across his left ear. This was humiliation and they both knew it, with Gunn determined to add more to Edward’s creaking morale.

  ‘Come again, old son,’ Gunn grinned. ‘This has been a long time in the brew. I reckon you want to make the most of it.’

  Edward leaned against the mantel over the grate to give himself some purchase and smiled back. He reached over to his right and picked up a fire poker.

  ‘Going to even the odds up, old boy.’

  Gunn shrugged at Edward’s choice of weapon and invited him on. Edward did not need a second invitation and launched himself at Gunn, raising the poker as he did so. Gunn smiled.

  ‘Got that wrong, chum.’

  Edward’s poker tangled in the light fitting in the centre of the office and Gunn was in on him, landing punches in tight combinations into Edward’s midriff, groin and head. Edward could not let go of the poker and his body danced like a marionette with the strings snapping as his blood sprayed across the desk, his father’s body and his expensive suit. His head twisted back, and a molar described a lazy arc up and out of his mouth before rattling into the grate. He had not landed a single blow. He was desperate. He dropped his hands and went for Gunn’s eyes. Gunn rolled back with Edward’s momentum, placed a foot on Edward’s belly

  and threw him on his head, through the open door and onto the landing.

  Gunn got up. Edward staggered to his feet, gobbets of blood lacing his shirt and face. He leaned on the banister. He reached into his pocket. He had nothing. He shrugged and came back at Gunn, who danced in on boxer’s feet, avoiding Edward’s flailing arms, landing a first-class upper cut on the younger Cumberland’s jaw. Edward’s eyes rolled back. Lights dimmed. He hit the floor.

  Sylvia stood up and dusted herself down. She was relieved to see Gunn, but her mind was racing ahead. She was worried that Edward, when he woke up, might pull some sort of stunt and call the police; as, in the past, he had gone running to Nanny. She walked over to Cumberland senior and removed the handcuffs. The keys were on top of the magazines, by the riding crop. She scooped them into her handbag.

  Gunn propped Edward up in a corner of the office. He patted him on the cheek. Nothing, just a dull murmur. He sat down at the desk, rooted around in the drawers and found a decent bottle of Scotch. He did not bother with a glass; he took a long, neat swallow. He said nothing to Sylvia. He did not look at her. He was calculating.

  The Cumberland situation could be explained, so long as Sylvia could persuade Edward to get the story straight with enough fraying at the edges so as to make it not so cast iron that the police would get nervous. However, the Wapping connection would probably come to light once the wheels were in motion, so he had to make a move and a good one too. He had to make it quickly.

  He crossed over to Sylvia and held her close. She flinched slightly.

  ‘Are you all right, sweetheart? They didn’t hurt you, did they?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ Her arm still hurt, where George had grabbed her.

  ‘Sylv, I’ve got to go,’ he said gently. ‘I hate leaving you with all this, but they’ll link Wapping to Cumberland and that will come back to me. I didn’t leave many standing at the Prospect of Whitby.’

  He rubbed his jaw.

  ‘So I suggest you and Master Edward get a story straight, get Louis in on the act and go down to the police station.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Back to France. Change of clothes first and a shave and go down to Brighton. I’ll leave in the small hours and take the back roads to Dover. I’ll see you there tomorrow. I’ll meet the 2pm boat train. Make sure you’re on it.’

  He kissed her, and then he was gone. Sylvia realised she was shaking. She needed to pull herself together. Edward was already stirring. She took a deep breath and sat beside him on the floor. She said nothing; just let him take in the scene of devastation around them.

  ‘My father...’ he began.

  ‘Edward,’ she said gently. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  It was more of a statement than a question.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Edward. It was a terrible accident. I came here to tell him about our findings. But then he started abusing me, you know, like he used to abuse you, and you pulled the trigger, remember?’

  He was sobbing uncontrollably now. She put her arms round him and drew him to her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Edward.’

  They sat like this for about twenty minutes. After a while, he said:

  ‘I do remember. And I’m glad he’s dead. Louis told me he was a fucking Nazi. I hate him. Hated him. But, Sylvia, what do we do now? What about Mummy?’

  Edward’s mother had been unkind to Sylvia as a child. She could not bring herself to feel much sympathy. Now she was the least of their problems.

  There was a noise downstairs. They both started up.

  ‘Hallo?’ called Louis, as he came upstairs. ‘Are you up there, Mr Cumberland? Rain stopped play. I left that tedious little bank manager fast asleep on a bench, can’t hold his drink…Oh God…’

  He looked at Edward.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?’

  Sylvia didn’t want Edward thinking about Gunn, although she imagined he would want to draw a veil over whatever he remembered about his pasting. She explained to Louis that she had come to report on her findings, not realising it was the Cumberland Cricket day, and that George had started to abuse her. She gestured towards the magazines and the riding crop.

  ‘And thank goodness Edward came along.’

  Louis sat on the edge of the desk as Sylvia continued to explain the situation as succinctly and as swiftly as possible, without skimping on the details. He had a good sense of the reality behind George’s chosen mask and grasped things quickly.

/>   The Beretta was still on the floor. Edward was on the floor too, with his head in his hands. Louis and Sylvia exchanged glances. Louis said gently:

  ‘You know, Edward, you mustn’t think you did anything wrong. There isn’t a court in the land that would say otherwise. You understand that, don’t you? It was an accident, nothing more. Things just got out of hand.’

  Edward nodded, miserably. He winced as he tried to move. Sylvia put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Look, we simply have to get this straight between us, go to the police, make our statements and then get on with our lives as best we can.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Muddling through usually seems to work.’

  Over a brandy each, they went through the story, meticulously, until they knew it off by heart.

  ‘He must have had the gun in his desk and kept it loaded and got it out to try and frighten you, Sylvia,’ Edward reflected. ‘Mind you, he had all sorts of things in there. Kept it locked most of the time. I thought it was just for all that…filth of his.’

  ‘Edward, I think we should try and give him a dignified exit, don’t you,’ she said, gently. ‘Not for his sake, but for yours and for the firm? Reckon we’re ready now?’

  With his canvas holdall over his shoulder, Gunn was making his way through the back streets of Brighton towards Oriental Place, in a zigzag. Seagulls were circling raucously overhead. He was beginning to feel tired and he ached all over. He was thinking about the day’s events, and Sylvia. If anyone could sort all this out, it was Sylv, but he hated having to leave her like that.

  In no time at all, he found himself outside the Gunn House Hotel, a tall Regency building in need of some renovation. The cream paintwork looked grubby in the early evening light. His father had picked the building up for a song when he came back from Paris in the thirties. The Gunns came from a line of East End publicans and his father had inherited some money on the death of his parents. His father always maintained that the building’s proximity to the Pavilion had spared it from the Luftwaffe and would regale anyone who cared to listen with the theory that Adolf Hitler had intended to base himself there after the invasion.