Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  Inspector Gunn, an older version of Gunn (the first thing anyone remarked on) was propping up the bar. He shook his head as Gunn limped in.

  ‘There’s a sight for sore eyes,’ he commented. ‘What on earth have you been up to, son?’

  ‘Let me have a wash and spruce-up, Dad,’ said Gunn wearily, ‘And then I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘Your room’s all ready,’ came the reply ‘and I’ll have a snifter lined up for you.’

  Gunn’s room was in the attic, at the top of the building, up four flights of rickety stairs. There was a sad-looking pot of maidenhair ferns on each landing. They needed a good watering and some fresh air but Gunn walked straight past. His room was huge, with fantastic views, a real vantage point. The floor sloped away at an angle because of the subsidence. Gunn liked it like that; it added to the character. A box in the corner contained toys and books from his childhood and his sister’s. They had been close in age, but she had died of complications from measles when they were small. A little holy water font was attached to the wall, passed down to him from his Irish grandmother. It was empty, ‘for ornamental purposes only,’ but it reminded him of France, so he had kept it. Nobody ever stayed in Gunn’s room, even if the hotel was jam-packed. His father was meticulous about that.

  Back in the bar, where it was still a little early for the regular crowd, his father passed him a pint. Gunn sipped it appreciatively, enjoying the hoppy taste.

  ‘We’re trying out one of the Lewes breweries for a change. Now,’ said Inspector Gunn, who missed nothing, even after a tipple or two. ‘Young Israeli cove was in the other day, brought your car from Italy. Nice motor. So come on, spill the beans.’

  ‘It is a nice motor.’ Gunn agreed. ‘Well, it all started as a research case that got a little out of hand.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Imagine kicking a pebble off a mountain peak and the resulting situation when it reaches the bottom.’

  ‘I see. Mayhem, chaos and thunder.’

  ‘Not to mention blood and guts.’

  He recounted the story from the beginning; there was no end in sight yet, he reflected. His father listened carefully, putting in the occasional aside. He got them another pint each.

  ‘This Sylvia girl, she’s the one I speak to on the phone sometimes? Your partner at Clements?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  His father nudged him in the ribs. ‘You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I can tell. You look...different. Like you did before, you know...that little French piece.’

  ‘But life has a habit of getting in the way. Always does, with me,’ remarked Gunn, deciding not to mention Maddie further at this stage.

  He told his father about the prospect of a year in Israel working with Sol. He remembered Sol’s question, about whether he was Jewish, somewhere along the line.

  ‘Yes’ Inspector Gunn replied. ‘Your grandma on your Mum’s side. She loved you, but you probably won’t remember her; she died not long after your Mum and I went back to Paris. I’ve got some photos upstairs; I’ll show you some time.’

  ‘I really want to do it, Dad. But...’

  His father considered this for a moment.

  ‘If she’s worth it, and it sounds to me as if she is, she’ll wait for you,’ he advised. ‘But more immediately, this predicament you’re in...you’re right to get out for a while, let the dust settle. Get your head down for a few hours, then get on your way while the roads are quiet. I’ll come and wake you.’

  Inspector Gunn was as good as his word. Just before two, with some sandwiches in the glove compartment, a flask of coffee with a tot of whisky, and a whispered ‘look after yourself, son,’ Gunn was driving the Horch towards Lewes. The chalk cliffs shone white above the little town, a dramatic contrast against the night sky. There was a hunter’s moon. The roads were clear.

  He headed on towards Polegate and then took the back roads towards Herstmonceux and Battle, enjoying putting the Horch through its paces. He followed the narrow roads that ribboned across the green fields, through Westfield and Cock Marling, before leaving Rye in his wake. The Horch dropped down the spiral onto the Folkestone Road and onto the labyrinth of the Romney Marsh. He had heard it called the Fifth Continent. Its remoteness would suit him fine.

  He pulled into St Mary in the Marsh, crossed the stone bridge and parked in the lee of the church, taking shelter beneath the weight of its ragstone tower. He turned the engine off and it ticked down and cooled. He was tired. He had fallen into a heavy sleep in his old room. It had been one hell of a day. The Horch was heavy on the concentration and his ribs were aching. He lay back, looking at the wild skies above and began counting stars. Soon, he fell into the deep sleep of the just and utterly spent. A cockerel woke him again - another of these sodding things, he thought, drifting back to the night in the inn at Bad Kaltenbrun. The rain was pattering against the windscreen. He looked at his watch. Still early; bags of time before he had to be in Dover.

  He got out of the car and locked the door. The rain would pass soon enough. He needed to empty his mind and stretch his legs. He went inside the church to shelter for a moment. It smelt faintly damp. He studied the plaque to Edith Nesbit, ‘who delighted the hearts of so many children by her books.’ The Railway Children, that was the one; he still had his copy in Brighton.

  After a swig of coffee and a sandwich, he drove on through the Marsh. The rain had stopped and he was enjoying the strange beauty of the landscape. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going; he was really following his nose. Apart from a flock of sheep and a tractor, there was nobody about. He remembered a poem they had made him learn at school about the rolling English drunkard making the rolling English road. The poet must have been here, he thought.

  He sat by the canal for a while. Built to keep out Napoleon, the sign said. Gunn thought Napoleon would have made short work of it. There were a few people around now, so he inched the Horch up into the hills, coming to a stop by another Norman church with a pub opposite. Beside it was a sign:

  ‘The highest Church and the lowest Steeple;

  The richest Parish and the poorest People.’

  Sylvia would love all this, he thought. The pub looked decent. It was just opening. A snifter and a bite to eat would be in order. He was in Battle of Britain country. He sipped his drink and reflected on his experiences with the people of Kent. They had always been somewhat contrary, awkward sometimes; independent-minded and even prepared to have a divide within the county. What was it, Man of Kent or Kentish Man? He could never remember which way round. Such things mattered though. They could certainly give Yorkshire folk a run for their brass farthing in the awkward stakes. His East End publican forebears originated from somewhere round here, he recalled, and were fiercely proud of that. He would ask Dad about that next time, he resolved, and decided to order something decent to eat, a proper ploughman’s lunch.

  The previous day had been quite surreal for Sylvia. She went with Louis and Edward to the Cannon Row police station, where the station clerk had made rather a meal of booking them in. They seemed to have to spell every second word for him. They were all interviewed separately. Sylvia was questioned by two rather obtuse sergeants, a male and a female. She explained briefly about Mr Jones, not going into too much detail (it was in the newspapers after all) and then described her meeting with George. They seemed to be satisfied with her account and the way she answered all their questions. They let her out at the same time as Louis and he took her round the corner to the Two Chairmen to wait for Edward. They sat in a secluded alcove with a brandy each. They spoke frankly and at length about George and his affiliations, Jones’s will and the lawyer in Haifa Marguerite had instructed. Cumberlands were of course still the administrators of the Jones family trust.

  ‘In it up to his neck,’ Louis said. ‘Stupid, arrogant man. He had no regard for the fact that I speak German. Operation Crown Jewels indeed. But I fear the
re are more where he came from.’

  Louis told her about the files that George had hidden at Junckers, and the cat that drank whisky from a saucer. Sylvia was fascinated. Louis shared her views and Gunn’s about the British authorities. What was important now was for George to have a dignified send-off. That way, Edward and his mother (old hag, thought Sylvia viciously) could have some sort of peace and he and Edward could just carry on with Cumberlands. Louis suggested the files should be handed over to the Israelis as soon as possible, but they would probably be all right at Juncker’s for now.

  They returned to the police station an hour later, just as Edward was coming out. He looked exhausted; his hands were in his pockets and his hair flopping across his brow. The police had already been round to Queen Anne’s Gate; what they had found seemed to coincide with everyone’s recounting of events. He smiled, without much in the way of humour.

  ‘I could do with a drink.’ He paused and considered, flicking a pebble off the pavement and down into the gutter with the point of his shoe. ‘Probably more than one.’

  They went straight back to the Two Chairmen, in time for last orders, and then over to the Agrippa Club where they managed to get more drinks and some sandwiches. Nobody really felt like eating. While Louis was at the bar, Edward took Sylvia on one side.

  ‘Sylvia, I am so sorry about forcing myself on you earlier. It was unforgiveable. I suppose I deserved that beating I got from your boyfriend.’

  ‘Boyfriend.’ Sylvia turned that word over in her mind.

  ‘Be careful of him,’ he warned. ‘That’s all I am going to say on the subject.’

  After even more drinks for Edward and Louis and coffee for Sylvia, who simply could not keep up, they dropped her off at Mrs O’s.

  ‘You’re living with him now?’ Edward queried.

  ‘No, I just have a room here,’ she replied, amused despite herself. ‘I couldn’t stay at Tufnell Park any longer. But the landlady’s locked me out. Help me up this drainpipe.’

  Waving goodbye to Louis and Edward, Sylvia almost fell into Gunn’s bed, draped his greatcoat over her and drifted off to sleep.

  She was up early, wanting to be in the office before Kiwi and Joan, so that she could explain about the break-in and the forthcoming trip and sort out the wages and a few invoices.

  Louis telephoned, as promised. Sylvia was concerned, and remained concerned, that Edward would go to pieces when confronted by his mother and retract his statement. Louis assured her that this was not the case so far; funeral arrangements were going ahead, with a small family service and cremation in a week’s time and a memorial service to be arranged at a later date. An obituary had already been prepared for the papers.

  Sylvia was at Victoria in good time for the boat train, scanning the menu outside the café and deciding against the unappetising fare on offer, opting for a simple cup of tea. She picked up her canvas holdall with her good arm and headed for the train.

  Gunn was on the platform at Dover. Sylvia jumped off the train, straight into his arms.

  ‘Missed you, sweetheart’ he said, giving her a kiss. ‘Come and have a look at our new motor.’

  He took her hand and put her bag over his shoulder.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s heavy. What have you got in there? The crown jewels?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied.

  The Inspector at Cannon Row put down the telephone after a brief conversation with a colleague at Wapping. He had said something about this Cumberland fellow having hired a gang of thugs to beat someone up. It sounded as if they had come off worse. The Wapping Constabulary were, truth be told, quite relieved to have this gang out of commission; Garner in particular had been a nasty little thorn in their side for years. They wouldn’t be taking any action their end. For his part, he had already received a note from the Home Office on Cumberland, stating ‘no further investigation required on this matter.’ Strange, but he had encountered stranger over his long career. Putting on his jacket, he headed for the underground and home.

  Down at Wapping, Detective Inspector Collins let the receiver drop. It was late. He had missed dinner and would be in trouble with the missus. After a few moments consideration, he came to a decision. He would head down to the Prospect for a pie and a pint and get the lowdown on the Garner incident; no harm in having the full starting price on this one. Just in case. It was, after all, on his “patch.”

  Gunn watched as the Horch was lowered onto the car deck. It should be all right there, he thought. It had better be. He smiled at Sylvia.

  ‘Come on, time for an exceptionally large snifter.’

  The Channel was in one of its more capricious moods, which became apparent after the ferry cleared Dover’s embracing sea wall. Gunn peered out of the brass ringed port hole close to their pew at the bar.

  He took a sip of brandy and looked again.

  ‘It may slow us down a little. Still, paws crossed, nobody is following on behind.’

  ‘Excuse me a second,’ said Sylvia, as if on cue. He found her outside, watching the sea rushing past. She took the handcuffs from her handbag, threw them in and watched them sink.

  ‘I can’t believe I walked into the bloody police station with these. Supposing I had been searched?’

  ‘You’ll get cold out here, come back in and tell me what happened. I felt awful, leaving you to sort all that out.’

  Back in the bar, over a brandy, she told Gunn the whole story and about how she had, with Louis’s help, convinced Edward that he had pulled the trigger but that it was a terrible accident. I think he’ll stick with it, she concluded. ‘In a way, it was a relief for him.’

  ‘What happened to your nose?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, got into a scuffle with those lowlifes at the Prospect. I’d broken it before actually, playing rugby at school.’

  ‘So what happened at the Prospect?’ Sylvia asked. ‘You did say you hadn’t left many standing.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t. One or two won’t be playing in the gang again. That’s the way it goes. It was a decent scrap though.’

  ‘My Beretta is now ‘Exhibit whatever,’ I suppose,’ Sylvia said, sadly. ‘Mind you, I dread to think what would have happened if I had had to fire it. It’s been a while.’

  ‘We can practice if you like; good idea to get your confidence back. But you were a star, sweetheart. All the same, I’d rather you left the dangerous stuff to me and Kiwi.’

  ‘I’d love some practice.’ She always enjoyed Gunn’s training sessions. Most of them ended up in the pub. ‘So what happens now? Where are we going?’

  ‘Fleapit first,’ he smiled. ‘And then, well, over the next few days, wherever you want. I can show you round Paris. I’d like that. I reckon we should give the Cumberlands time to bury their dead and for the dust to settle.’

  ‘I might have to go shopping,’ Sylvia considered. ‘I haven’t brought all that much in the way of clothes.’

  ‘Boulevard Haussmann tomorrow then. I’m awash with cash at the moment.’

  Sylvia decided not to enquire why. She had her suspicions. Despite the enormity of what they had done, she was feeling happier than she had done for some time. She settled luxuriously into the crook of his arm and watched France approaching. They seemed to be making up for lost time now. Gunn felt her relax against him.

  ‘We’ll be in Paris for dinner at this rate, sweetheart.’

  Chapter 20

  A casual salute from a tired gendarme at Calais and Gunn put the Horch into gear, pointed its nose towards Paris and swung onto the long straight Route 1 framed by Lombardy poplars. Sylvia thought about the story he had told her, about those poplars and Napoleon. It seemed a lifetime ago. They drove in companionable silence; they were at ease with each other and didn’t have to fill gaps.

  ‘Oh, incidentally, Sylv, I’m not sleeping on that buggering floor tonight at the fleapit. Bloody uncomfortable. I was camped out under the stars last night, absolutely frigging freezing. Woken at dawn by a ch
orus of sodding cockerels.’

  Gunn’s choice of language made her laugh. She had no intention of either of them being on the floor. However, his seduction techniques needed improvement. She smiled mischievously, suggesting they could toss a coin.

  ‘I mean it, Sylv,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I can drive if you’re tired,’ she offered. ‘I’d love a go with this beast.’

  ‘I am absolutely not letting you loose on this gearbox.’

  They went on in this vein, sparring happily as the Horch swallowed up the miles.

  In Israel, Sol picked up the telephone. He leaned back, his one eye narrowed in thought as the fan swung overhead with little effect. It was on days like these that he missed the sharp cold of Warsaw in winter. He thanked the caller and put the receiver back on its handset. He got up, moved across the office and rapped sharply on his boss’s desk.

  ‘David, they’re on the way to Paris. Just had a call from a friend in Calais.’

  ‘Get on a flight, get yourself over to Paris. You need to bring them in close to us.’

  ‘On my way.’ Sol grinned, amused at the prospect.

  Sylvia carried their bags up the steps to their room at the fleapit while Gunn went to find somewhere to park the Horch. La patronne was delighted to see her honeymooners back. Sylvia was in her element, settling back into that role. She ran herself a bath. Somebody had actually cleaned it in their absence. She had the window open onto an amazing view out over the rooftops and luxuriated in plenty of hot water, admiring herself in the mirror. She wasn’t usually vain, but those days in Israel had done her a power of good.