Bello:
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Contents
Victor Canning
Dedication
1. Destination Unknown
2. The Professor Takes A Hand – and More
3. Operation Grey Goose
4. The Laird Defers a Decision
5. The Watcher From The Shore
6. The Birthday Present
7. The King Of The Castle
8. The Skipper and the Chief Mate Come Aboard
9. The Distress Signal
10. The Empty Boat
11. Destination Still Unknown
Victor Canning
Flight of the Grey Goose
Victor Canning was primarily a writer of thrillers, and wrote his many books under the pseudonyms Julian Forest and Alan Gould. Among his immediate contemporaries were Eric Ambler, Alistair Maclean and Hammond Innes.
Canning was a prolific writer throughout his career, which began young: he had sold several short stories by the age of nineteen and his first novel, Mr Finchley Discovers His England (1934) was published when he was twenty-three. Canning also wrote for children: his The Runaways trilogy was adapted for US children’s television.
Canning’s later thrillers were darker and more complex than his earlier work and received great critical acclaim. The Rainbird Pattern was awarded the CWA Silver Dagger in 1973 and nominated for an Edgar award in 1974.
In 1976 The Rainbird Pattern was transformed by Alfred Hitchcock into the comic film Family Plot, which was to be Hitchcock’s last film. Several of Canning’s other novels including The Golden Salamander (1949) were also made into films during Canning’s lifetime.
Dedication
For Fiona with love
1. Destination Unknown
It was a fresh, sunny morning in July. Big puffballs of cloud rolled lazily across the sky from the west. In a lay-by at the side of the main road, a grey squirrel was sitting on the edge of the rubbish bin, fastidiously nibbling at a stale piece of cake which it had found.
A little farther down the road was a boy with not many months to go before he reached the age of sixteen. At his feet was a battered old suitcase. He was tallish, fair-haired, and well built with a friendly, squarish face – heavily freckled under his sun-tan – a pressed-in smudge of a nose and a pair of angelic blue eyes which, when he put on his special smile, made him look as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. From the cheerful grin on his face as he waved to the traffic it would have been difficult to believe that that morning early he had given the police the slip for the second time in the last six months. He was wanted by them for absconding from an approved school. Although his friends called him Smiler his real name was Samuel Miles. Actually he preferred Samuel M., because that was what his father called him. That, too, was what he called himself when he gave himself a good talking-to – which he often did when he had some problem to face. And on this sunny July morning Smiler really did have a problem to face because by now the police forces of Dorset, Wiltshire, Hampshire and a few other counties were all on the lookout for him.
‘Unless, Samuel M.,’ he told himself, ‘you pick up a lift soon and get out of this area some police car is going to come along and pick you up. And then, my lad, you’ll be sunk for good and all.’
It was at this moment that a long, high-cabbed white lorry came down the road towards him. Smiler gave it a wave and a cheery grin automatically. To his surprise the lorry pulled up slowly just beyond him. Smiler ran down the road to it.
The driver leaned over and opened the nearside cab door. He was a round-faced man of about forty with an old white cap perched on the back of his head, the peak pushed up at a sharp angle. He wore green overalls, had a broad smile on his face, and alongside him on the bench seat sat a largish black dog with a white patch on its chest and a large grin on its face.
The driver said, ‘Where you headin’ for, son?’
Smiler said, ‘I dunno, exactly.’
The driver chuckled. ‘Destination unknown. Good as any. Hop in. You’re the second this morning.’
Smiler swung his case and then himself up into the cab and closed the door. The lorry moved off down the road.
Smiler, who was polite by nature and by policy, said, ‘ Thank you very much, sir.’
The driver chuckled. It was a nice, friendly, happy sound. ‘Strictly ’gainst company rules. But all rules is made to be broken at times. You want to sit and brood over your worries or listen to the radio or talk? Take your choice. All the same to me.’
Smiler said, ‘I don’t mind talking, sir.’
‘Wise choice,’ said the driver. ‘Silence is golden but weighs heavy. The radio is full of woe – or pop music which is worse. But talk is human and friendly. Also, don’t call me “sir”. I’m Bob Peach. Peachy my friends call me, but you stick to Mr Bob till I tell you you’ve served your time which –’ he winked – ‘could be anything from an hour to a hundred years ’cording to the way things go.’
‘Yes, Mr Bob,’ said Smiler.
‘Well then,’ said Bob Peach, ‘go ahead.’
‘Go ahead what?’ asked Smiler.
‘Go ahead and talk. That’s your choice. You got to start. Only fair.’
Smiler, a little unsure of Bob Peach, was silent for a moment and then said, ‘What did you mean that I’m the second this morning?’
Bob Peach nodded towards the dog which was sitting between them. ‘Him. Another “ Destination unknown.” Like you. Sittin’ I was, havin’ a bite of breakfast by the road, when up he walks, no collar, no name, free as air and cadges a bacon sandwich from me. Bit skinny, ain’t he? But he’ll fatten up. Hops in the cab with me, won’t take “Go home” for an answer. Probably because he ain’t got one and here he is. Sitting like a lord and not a word to be got out of him.’
Smiler took a good look at the dog. He knew quite a bit about dogs and liked them. This was a biggish dog, but in no way a pedigree one. There were touches of Alsatian and sheepdog about him. He was quite pleasant to look at but definitely very much a mixture. The dog looked at Smiler, panted a little with the warmth in the cab and let a long red tongue flop over the side of his mouth. Smiler scratched him behind the ears and the dog shut his brown eyes in ecstasy.
‘He ought to have a name,’ said Smiler.
‘If he’s got one he won’t tell. What do you reckon we should call him?’
‘Rex?’ suggested Smiler.
‘Too grand. He ain’t no aristocrat. He’s a good, common, solid, mixed up all-dog dog. What’s your name?’
‘Samuel,’ said Smiler.
‘Samuel what?’
‘Samuel Miles,’ said Smiler and wondered why, in the circumstances, he was being so truthful – except that with someone like Bob Peach it wouldn’t have seemed right not to be. Then, to avoid any further questions about himself, he went on quickly, ‘What do you think he should be called, Mr Bob?’
Bob Peach, his eyes on the road ahead as he drove, said, ‘Bacon. I been thinkin’ about it coming along. Things like names must be fitting always. And that’s what brought us together. The smell of that bacon sandwich. What do you think of that?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Smiler. ‘I used to know a horse called th
at.’
‘Horse or dog, no matter,’ said Bob Peach. ‘It’s a good name. Comes well off the tongue either in anger or love, and not going to be answered by any other riffraff of Fidos, Tims, or Rovers or what-have-yous. All right then, that’s settled. Subject number one discussed and disposed of. What’s the second item on the agenda?’
Smiler said, ‘It’s your turn, isn’t it, Mr Bob, to start something?’
‘So it is. Fair’s fair. Well then, let me see. What about a few personal questions? You got a father and mother?’
‘No mother, Mr Bob. She died when I was a baby. But I got a father.’ Smiler said it proudly for he considered he had the best father in the world. He added, ‘He’s in the merchant navy. A cook. He’s away at sea right now.’
‘A sea-faring man. There’s a life. Here today and gone tomorrow. Just like me. Long distance driving. Always something different coming up over the horizon. A great life if you’ve got a touch of the gypsy in you.’
‘What do you carry in this truck, Mr Bob?’ asked Smiler, who was rather keen to steer away from too much personal talk.
‘Marine stores and equipment. From Southampton. Going to Bristol now. Then on to Birmingham and Liverpool and then back home again. Since you don’t know where you want to go you can take your choice of any of ’em or some spot along the route.’
Smiler, who had been born in Bristol and had a Sister Ethel who lived there still with her husband, Albert, wasn’t too keen on Bristol. When his father was at sea he lived with them. Although he liked both of them Smiler wasn’t too comfortable living with them. They were very fussy about the tidiness of their spick and span little house and grumbled because his hands were always marking the fresh paintwork. People, somehow, always seemed to be making a fuss about what he did … Well, of some of the things. Like pinching a bottle of milk from a doorstep if he was thirsty, or nicking a book from a shop if he felt like reading. Though there had never been any call to send him to approved school because he just hadn’t done what they had said he had done. The last thing in the world he would have done would have been to pinch an old lady’s handbag with twenty pounds in it. Still, when his father got back he would settle all that. That was why, after exactly thirteen days’ and four hours’ residence in the approved school, Smiler had run away and had been managing on his own ever since. In the last few months Smiler had become very good at looking after himself.
He said, ‘I’m not keen on Bristol, Mr Bob. Could I go to Liverpool?’
‘Liverpool it is. Or any place in between that you might happen to fancy. Shan’t get there until tomorrow. But you and Bacon can kip down in the cab tonight if that suits. All right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Bob.’
Bob Peach smiled to himself. He had two boys of his own, though they were much older than Smiler, and there was not much he had to learn about boys. He could tell a boy who was in trouble easily enough. And he could sense very quickly whether a boy was a bad or a good apple. This Samuel Miles was in some kind of trouble, but he was prepared to bet that he wasn’t really a bad sort. But Bob Peach knew too that you had to take your time with boys in trouble. No good pressing them. If they wanted your help or advice they would ask for it in their own good time. Until then you just kept things going nice and easy and didn’t ask any awkward questions.
So Bob Peach drove to Bristol and part of the time he and Smiler talked, and part of the time they listened to the radio or were just silent with their own thoughts. In between them sat Bacon, leaning against Smiler and settling down happily in friendly company in the way all dogs of good character and no fixed abode do. And every time that Smiler saw a police car parked ahead by the road, he would bend over and pretend to scratch his ankle, keeping his head well down until the car had been passed.
When they reached Bristol and Bob Peach drove the lorry into a yard to unload part of his stores, Smiler strolled out into the road and found a telephone booth. All Smiler possessed in the world was the thirty odd pounds he had saved up from the job he had worked at during the past few months, his battered old suitcase with a few clothes and odds and ends in it, and the clothes he stood up in; a rough blue shirt, a shabby green anorak and a pair of patched blue jeans. Being at large in Bristol made him uneasy. Some of his old school friends might spot him or – if he were dead unlucky – he might run into Sister Ethel or his Brother-in-Law Albert, so he was glad that there was a telephone booth just around the corner from the yard. He looked up the number of his father’s shipping company in the directory and called it. Making his voice sound as rough and grownup as he could he asked when the Kentucky Master was due back in the country and at what port. He was told that at the moment she was scheduled for some time at the beginning of October at Greenock. After making this call Smiler contemplated ringing his Sister Ethel to tell her he was all right and she was not to worry – which he knew she would do anyway. But he decided against it. It would be better to write her a letter in a few days’ time when he was well out of the Bristol area. Then he went back to the yard and sat waiting in the cab of the truck until Mr Bob had been unloaded and was ready to move on. There was some trouble over the load which Mr Bob was delivering, and it was some time before they moved off.
After leaving Bristol, Bob Peach drove northwards through the green English countryside with Bacon and Smiler beside him. Now and again Bob would flash his lights or blow his horn to some passing lorry driver he knew. In the fields the cows grouped themselves under the broad shade of trees. Rooks gritting on the road ahead of them flew up as they approached and, in the clear air above, the swallows and swifts performed their aerobatics. They went through small country towns and large industrial towns and past farms and cottages. Most of the time, whatever they were talking about, Smiler was thinking that it was a long time to October and that he would have to get himself settled in somewhere safe and sound and find himself a job. His thirty pounds would not last for ever.
Once he said, ‘Where’s Greenock, Mr Bob?’
‘Greenock. That’s on the Clyde. Near Glasgow. Take a load up there sometimes. Why?’
‘That’s where my father’s ship berths.’
‘Oh, want to get up there, do you?’
‘Well, not just yet. Not till October.’
‘And what you goin’ to do until then?’
‘Get myself a job, I suppose. I don’t like doin’ nothing.’
‘Neither do I. Takes all the sap out of you.’
For a moment Bob Peach considered pursuing inquiries about Samuel Miles, but decided against it. If the boy wanted help he would ask for it soon enough. He seemed a capable sort and able to look after himself.
At seven o’clock they stopped at a transport café and had a meal and Smiler got a plate of scraps from the kitchen for Bacon. Some time later Bob Peach turned off the main highway on to a side road. Half a mile down the road was a large picnic area on the edge of a wood. Bob Peach pulled into this.
He said, ‘Can’t take staying in transport lodgings in the summer. Kip out in the open. Saves money and it’s healthier. You and Bacon can have the cab, I’ll sleep in the back. Now then, why don’t you and Bacon take a stroll before turning in? I’m going to sit and read me paper over a bottle of beer.’ He pulled from his pocket the evening paper and a bottle of beer which he had bought at the transport café.
Smiler and Bacon jumped down from the cab and moved off into the trees. Although Smiler had been born and lived nearly all his life in Bristol he had in the last few months become very much of a country boy and now knew that, next to shipping off to sea like his father, he would prefer always to live and work in the country. He went happily through the trees with Bacon at his heels.
Behind him Bob Peach took a swig at his bottle of beer and shook open the evening paper. His eyes rounded with surprise. ‘Cor, luv a duck!’ he said.
There, staring at him from the centre of a column on the front page, was a head and shoulders picture of Samuel Miles. Not a good pho
tograph and one taken eighteen months before. But it was unmistakably Samuel Miles. The caption at the head of the column read – COUNTRYWIDE SEARCH FOR RUNAWAY BOY. Even as he began to read the account the thought went swiftly through Bob Peach’s mind that half-a-dozen drivers had been reading the evening paper in the transport café. In fact, now he thought of it, one or two had given Samuel Miles an odd look as they had gone out. It would be a miracle if no one had recognized that broad, snub-nosed face, the thick freckles and the fair hair.
Some way in the wood, sitting by the side of a small lake with Bacon close to him, Smiler was eyeing the water. There wouldn’t be any trout in it, he thought, but it looked good chub and carp water. Maybe some tench. A mallard duck moved along the fringe of reeds and bullrushes with a little flotilla of ducklings following in line astern. A swallow dipped to the lake surface and made a ring like a rising fish. Life in the streets of Bristol had made his eyes sharp, but life in the Wiltshire countryside in the past months had made them even sharper. In the country you had to be all eyes and ears. Somewhere in the trees on the far bank a wood pigeon was cooing. A hatch of flies moved ceaselessly up and down in their mating dance over the reeds and he caught the flick of a waterhen’s white scut under some overhanging branches. He thought of the times his father had taken him to places like this fishing, and also of his recent friend Joe Ringer, who had taught him to poach trout and anything else that was going, with the best of them. October was a long way ahead. A very long way. And Greenock was in Scotland. He knew nothing about Scotland except that up there they ate haggis and made whisky and wore kilts. His father was fond of a glass of whisky now and then. October. Scotland. He gave a sigh and shook his head. They were both a long way off. Funny look that chap in the transport kitchen had given him when he went to get the scraps for Bacon. Almost as though he knew him. Perhaps the police had put something on the radio about him. He remembered the last time he had escaped from the police when they were taking him back to approved school. Then, he had gone into hiding, kept right out of sight. ‘ You was being hunted then, Samuel M.,’ he told himself, ‘and you acted sensible. But now … Blimey, you really haven’t been very sensible. Staying right out in the open, riding the roads with Mr Bob, giving everyone a chance to see you.’
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