by Tony Nash
The Last Laugh
Tony Nash
Copyright © Tony Nash 2013
ISBN 9781631737374
A Hand Full of Dust
The Tony Dyce Thrillers:
Murder by Proxy
Murder on the Back Burner
Murder on the Chess Board
Murder on the High ‘C’
Murder on Tiptoes
The Harry Page Thillers:
Tripled Exposure
Unseemly Exposure
The John Hunter Thrillers:
Carve Up
Single to Infinity
The Most Unkindest Cut
The Devil Deals Death – (A Black Magic Thriller)
The Makepeace Manifesto
Panic
A Handful Of Dust
A Handful Of Salt
This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings and locations are named, they are used fictionally.
“He who laughs last, laughs, laughs, laughs, laughs, laughs………” (Anon.)
CHAPTER ONE
The scarecrow on its pole looked out over the field towards a large straw stack in the middle distance. Whoever made the figure had given it a repulsive, grinning face and evil eyes. A small child’s blue anorak covered its straw shoulders and a tatty pair of discarded lovat moleskin trousers had been stuffed with straw for the legs. On its head was a vintage bowler hat with a large hole in the top, through which a score or so of straws poked up into the weather. The field, one of just over eighty acres, planted with clover and almost ready for its second cut of the year, was a magnet for woodpigeons. They ignored the scarecrow completely, and a flock of over a hundred had landed and was having its morning feed just yards away from it. A vague path ran through the tall grass along the edge of the field, and by its side where it met the road was a decaying, small wooden sign with the direction, ‘To the Beach’.
A police car passed slowly on a normal patrol, the male driver and female passenger more interested in their desultory chat and their awakening sexual attraction to each other than scanning the fields on either side.
Lying in the straw at the bottom of the stack, Billy Harsley lay fast asleep, still dressed in the clothes he wore when he left home: a dark grey pair of long trousers, a brown jacket, a dark blue shirt and a lighter blue, long-sleeved pullover. Each garment had a strip of light grey ribbon carrying his name sewn inside it. By his side lay a full plastic shopping bag, holding his vintage transistor radio, some apples, sandwiches, cakes and biscuits, and bottles and cans of drink.
A scrawny ancient male rat appeared out of a crack between the straw bales and eyed the small sleeping creature. It eased forward, unsure of the different and strange smells coming from the new intrusion into its well-known world. Among the other smells there were some it had not encountered before around its home on the marsh, but which could possibly indicate something edible. It emitted a low squeak, and the youngster stirred, having a bad dream, where he saw a ragged figure stabbing viciously, over and over again, at something on the ground, using a long knife, its blade running in blood. Billy’s face twisted in torment, and his body rolled over. The rat, suddenly scared, fled back into its hideaway.
The scrabbling sounds woke him. He opened his eyes quickly, still afraid.
Seeing nothing to alarm him, he sighed with relief. He shivered, yawned, stretched and rubbed his stomach, then opened his bag and took out an apple and a can of Cola. He pulled the ring off the tin and began to drink and eat.
As the sun came from behind a small, puffy white cloud its rays struck the face of the scarecrow and made its grin look even more evil.
CHAPTER TWO
While Billy consumed his meal, the crew of the ‘Eisenstern’, an eight hundred ton cargo ship which had fought the six-knot ebbing tide until it tied up by the quayside in Great Yarmouth harbour, were working hard. To a man they were worn out after fighting the sea and going without sleep for more than twenty-four hours, but pleased to be safe in harbour. The old freighter, built to less than exacting requirements in 1953, and maintained to the lowest acceptable standards by a company whose only interest was the bottom line, was well past its sell-by date. The crew did what they could to keep her running, but were fighting a steadily losing battle. They had had to put back in to Bergen for engine repairs when half a day out, and sixty miles off their destination the engine had stopped again as the wind increased to near gale force. They’d made up and put out a drogue anchor, but the freighter wallowed almost side on to the seven-foot waves for almost three hours before they got the engine going again. The ship’s outdated and badly worn winches and cranes were being used to unload her cargo of timber from Norway, and some crewmembers were working on a large piece of machinery near the fo’cstle. The German skipper, Heini Schlitter, a good-looking, blond six footer, with sky-blue eyes, in his late thirties, wearing a white roll-neck pullover, dark blue trousers and a marine cap at a jaunty angle, was walking along the corridor on the lower deck with two bowls of dog food in his beefy hands.
His left ear itched, and he juggled the dishes, stopping for a moment, in order to rub the lobe, thinking about the itch and frowning slightly, with the seagoing man’s superstitious fear. Walking on, past the several doors in the corridor, he finally reached his destination – a door formed of steel bars, with a large padlock securing it.
Inside the cabin-sized kennel lived the two ship’s dogs, Mukki and Moos, the former a small mongrel, with a character so appealing that his expression appeared almost human, the latter a quiet, steady Doberman. Unusual when food was in the offing, Moos lay supine at the back of the kennel. Mukki stood just inside the door, howling.
Heini shouted, ‘Mukki! Hör auf!’ and the dog stopped, its head cocked to one side and eyes wide.
Suddenly the captain heard very loud mechanical knocking, and shouted, ‘Mensch! Musst Ihr so viel Lärm machen?’
He turned back to the dogs and spoke in a much quieter voice, ‘Na, Jungs –Frühstück.’ He set the two bowls down on the floor of the corridor, took a large bunch of keys from his trouser pocket, unlocked the padlock, opened the door, picked up the dishes and carried them into the kennel, setting them down on the floor inside and closing the door behind him firmly, but not locking it.
Mukki did two excited laps of the kennel then ran up to greet him, and Heini stroked the mongrel’s head. The captain noticed that the dog was moving rather stiffly in its hindquarters and shaking from time to time. He wondered if something was wrong with the animal, but then decided, ‘Du wirst alt, oder?’ Mukki was fifteen years old and Heini had had him as a six-week-old pup. He knew that most small dogs lived no longer than fifteen years, and had steeled himself in preparation for what he knew must happen before too long. He loved both his dogs, but Mukki held the top spot in his affection. Moos was only four years old, and a much steadier companion, whose affection for his master was obvious, but more subdued.
The little mongrel began to eat as if he had seen no food for days. The big Doberman still lay motionless on the floor, and Heini crossed to him and fondled his head.
‘Na, Moos, frisst du nicht? Du hast ja normalerweise so einen guten Appetit. Komm!’
He helped the dog to its feet and across to the other dish of food. Mukki was still eating voraciously. Moos sniffed at the dish.
‘Ja – das ist richtig. Du bist mein braver Hund.’ He turned and stroked the smaller dog’s head, ‘Ach, Mukki, du auch, natürlich.’
A noise like an explosion, followed by a loud hiss was followed by great clouds of steam billowing into the corridor and kennel.
Mukki started running round and round in the
kennel, frightened.
Heini wrenched open the door and stepped into the corridor, leaving the door open. He shouted, ‘Zum Teufel! Was ist passiert?’
Mukki, momentarily out of his sight, ran out of the open door of the kennel behind him and away along the corridor, disappearing round the corner at the end.
Unable to see what was wrong through the clouds of steam, Heini decided he had to investigate. He turned quickly, closed and locked the door of the kennel, then realised he could not see Mukki. He peered harder through the steam, reacting when he realised that the little dog was gone. He whistled and shouted, ‘Mukki! Mukki! Hierher! Mukki!’
He was torn between the two demands on his attention, but realised that the other problem needed his attention more and swore, ‘Ach, Scheisse!’ before running towards the source of the steam.
CHAPTER THREE
Trying not to fall over, with Cleo fussing continuously round the legs of her pyjama trousers, Carole Summerset opened the door of the cupboard, took out a packet of Kittykat and began to open it, reaching for a dish with her other hand.
‘Oh, Cleo, give over.’ She told her beloved ‘bitsa’, whose daddy had definitely been a travelling man. ‘It’s coming up on the next lift.’
Cleo knew it was, but wanted to continue showing how much she appreciated her mistress. Carole loved all cats, but Cleo was her ideal – a genuine ‘moggy’, with a lineage as mixed as it was possible to get. She was a half dozen colours, ranging from yellow to black, with all shades in between. Three of her paws were white, and one black. Her left eye was in the middle of a black patch and the right was surrounded by brown. She was gorgeous! At least, Carole thought so. She just had to have her when she saw her in the RSPCA kennel, and had given them five times the asking price.
She put the food on the tiled floor and Cleo began to wolf it down.
Carole made herself a latte and some toast while the cat ate, thinking about the new development.
Her meal finished, Cleo jumped up onto the table. To begin with Carole had tried to stop her, then realised she was fighting a losing battle, and just let it go. She realised that, as with old dogs, you can’t teach a cat new tricks.
‘I can’t decide if I’m angry or upset, Cleo.’ She told the cat. When Richard had first gone off to Bramshill he wrote regularly once or twice a week, filled with sentences containing the first person plural and always speaking of love. Slowly they decreased to one a month; the first person plural became the first person singular and if any affection was felt it was obviously for that person only. For the last five months of his course there had been no word at all. They had joined the Force on the same day, and both had been constables at the Wymondham headquarters when he was selected for the fast track to inspector rank and sent to the police training college. Both had degrees, but his was in law, while hers was in criminal psychology. A month after he went off she had been posted to the Great Yarmouth station as a newly promoted sergeant. Her boss there, Inspector Hugh Gladwin, was a weary veteran and just coming up to retirement. It was a happy station and she’d settled down well in her new post.
She fussed Cleo’s head, ‘What do you think, pusscat? Should I be pleased or not, being with Richard again? He’s obviously gone off me, and I hoped I could stop loving him, but I don’t know if I can. I think he must be able to hear my heart banging away every time I’m near him.’ The cat purred happily and Carole sighed, ‘You know, you are no help at all.’
Though she and Richard Transome had been a couple since schooldays, they had been more like brother and sister until their late teens. Trips out gradually turned into dates as they became more aware of their sexuality, but they had never been lovers. When he first went away she was sorry she had not given herself to him, as he’d wanted. Now she was glad. They had renewed their friendship at Wymondham and the romance was blossoming, with intimacy looming again – until he’d been sent off to the College.
Life at the station was an interesting mixture and kept her busy, so that the time passed rapidly. She had just reached the point where she believed she could forget the man she had always loved, when she heard that he, too, was to be posted to Yarmouth, to take Gladwin’s place. Her thought her heart would burst: her excitement grew daily, and she tried to think of ways she could show her love, foolishly ignoring the fact that he had not contacted her about the move.
They had always talked about a house with a big garden and lots of exotic plants. Both sets of parents were keen gardeners. She believed he liked plants as much as she did, and as a surprise for him, and with Gladwin’s permission, she filled the inspector’s office with a variety of expensive pot plants, which cost her almost a week’s wages.
His arrival had been a strain: on the one hand she wanted to hug and kiss him – impossible anyway in front of the rest of the staff – and on the other he had seemed distant with her, merely shaking her hand, as he had with the others. There had been no smile, no endearing eye contact, and his hand had not held hers for more than fleeting seconds. Of course, she thought, he can’t show any feelings with the others watching, but then he could have shown some recognition. Though they were the same height, she’d had the feeling he was looking down at her, almost through his nose. She recognised the symptoms: he was just full of himself and his new post, and right from that moment she began to think of him as ‘The Big I-am’.
Being second in command at the station she had expected to be asked to follow him into the inner office, but the door was closed in her face. She did hear through the door his explosive, ‘Bloody hell!’
She ran into the ladies’ loo and cried – something she had not done since a child. Not only did he not want her, the surprise had obviously backfired.
Determined not to let him see she’d been upset she washed her eyes several times and re-did her makeup, then sat on the top of the loo seat for twenty minutes, trying to slow her fast-beating heart.
When she emerged, Marjory, one of the civilian staff, told her, ‘He’s been asking for you.’
She knocked at the door and entered at his shouted, ‘Come in.’
He did not get up from behind the desk, and did not invite her to sit. He couldn’t help running his eyes over her though. She was in uniform, but hatless, and, at twenty-four, in her prime; a pretty, if not quite beautiful blonde, with baby-blue eyes, a thirty-four B bust, which he had once managed to fondle, and great legs, the tops of which had always filled his dreams.
‘So, here we are together again, Carole.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Fate is strange. Do you think Dyce arranged it?’
Detective Chief Inspector Tony Dyce had been their superior officer at Headquarters, and knew of their earlier attachment. It was possible.
‘Could be.’
Transome felt he needed to make something clear and did not hesitate, ‘You realise that we will have to be circumspect with our relationship, don’t you?’
Carole was not going to have that, ‘I’m sorry, Sir; I was not aware that we had one.’
He looked miffed, ‘Of course we do. Don’t you want to carry on from where we left off? In private, naturally.’
She was suddenly furious: the cheeky bastard! Thinks he can treat me like a dirty dishcloth and then get into my knickers – he’s got another think coming!
She tried to keep her voice even, ‘No, I don’t think so. Surely your exalted seniority would make that impossible.’ She decided to throw a heavy spanner into the works, ‘In any case, I am engaged now – to Jack Arnold. He’s an officer in the merchant navy and his ship is in Rio de Janeiro. He’ll be home soon, and we’ll probably be getting married.’
He blustered, ‘Well, you don’t sound very sure of him, and we do go back a long way. I agree there is something in what you say, but I’m sure we could work something out.’
She snorted, thinking: not while you’re up there on your high horse, Buster!
She added to the lie, ‘You seemed to have forgot
ten me, so I’ve made a life for myself without you. I’ve not heard a word from you for almost a year. What was I expected to do – wait for you for forever? I think we should forget the past, and concentrate on the future, as unattached colleagues.’
‘I see.’ He realised what a mistake he’d made, expecting her to be ready to fall into his arms. He knew he should have kept writing – should have looked her up with flowers and chocolates when he returned to Norfolk. He still loved her, but self-importance had dominated his life for the last half year, and he found it impossible to allow himself to crawl. ‘If you think so.’
‘I do.’
‘The woman on the desk tells me you brought these plants in. I don’t think they go with---‘
While he looked for a word that would injure less, she angrily filled it in for him, ‘Your exalted image?’
‘No, not that, of course.’ She had hit the nail on the head, and both of them knew it. She noticed the trace of a blush and thought there might just be some feeling in there after all.
‘This is, after all, the office of the senior----oh, all right, leave them be.’
Carole smiled sweetly, ‘I knew you’d like them.’
She turned, and without waiting to be dismissed walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.
She was not summoned and he did not appear for the rest of the day, even to ask for a coffee. She left on the dot of five, without seeing him again.
Since then they had maintained a distant, office relationship: just two ships sailing close to one another and exchanging signals now and then. Every few weeks she took in another plant, just to annoy him.
He had tried on several occasions to speak to her on personal subjects, but she maintained her stance, and intended to do so for as long as he stuck to his high ideas of himself. He was not the lovely, simple boy she’d loved for so many years. He was the stuck-up, bloody ignorant pig of an officer she still loved! It was painful being around him all the time, but the ball was in his court. She wanted to hate him; certainly to stop loving him, but it was no good. Several times she almost asked for a posting, but knew it would not do her career any good, and she wanted so badly to go up the ladder.
