by Mike Bennett
‘Some people have described you, named you as being a likely suspect.’
‘But nothing more concrete?’
‘No. Not relating to Miss Haverlay. But I have since linked you to other murders in Algeria and Tunisia.’
‘Have you now?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you suspect me of being – what? A homicidal maniac, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you shared your suspicions with anyone else?’
‘No. I’m waiting to catch you in the act.’
‘Are you, indeed? And then what, you’ll come to the rescue I suppose?’
‘Yes. I’ll arrest you.’
Underwood smiled. ‘Really? Are you armed? You’d better be.’
‘I have a pistol.’
‘Show me.’
Jenkins opened his raincoat and revealed a revolver in a shoulder holster.
‘Well, well, you’re quite the man of action, aren’t you Jenkins?’
‘Yes. I was a commando in the war.’
‘It was a rhetorical question, Jenkins, I don’t want to hear your life story. Tell me – and this is a real question – which is your cabin?’
‘Cabin 14.’
‘Sharing?’
‘No.’
‘Very good. Why don’t you take me there and offer me a little something to drink before dinner?’
‘I don’t have anything to offer you. I don’t drink alcohol.’
‘Really, Jenkins,’ said Underwood taking the detective lightly by the arm, ‘who said anything about alcohol?’
Underwood opened Jenkins’ cabin door and flicked on the light. He looked around then beckoned Jenkins to follow him inside. Once the detective was in, Underwood closed the door and locked it. It was a small room with two bunk beds fixed to the wall. The top one was undisturbed but the one beneath had been slept in. There was also a chair and a table. On the table was a briefcase, an ashtray and various papers. A single porthole looked out over the sea. To the right was a door. Underwood opened it and found a tiny shower room with a washbasin, a toilet and a shower stall. He turned back to Jenkins. ‘Take off your hat, coat and shoulder holster and gun and put them on the bed there.’
Jenkins did as he was instructed.
‘Now roll up your sleeves.’
Jenkins obeyed.
Underwood turned on the light in the shower room. He motioned for Jenkins to enter. ‘In here, please.’
Jenkins stepped past Underwood and into the room. There was only enough space for one person to stand at a time.
‘Get into the shower stall.’
Jenkins did as he was told.
Underwood inspected the items around the washbasin. He saw what he was looking for. The safety razor was slippery with soap scum and Underwood grimaced. ‘Oh dear, you really ought to rinse this out more thoroughly, Jenkins. You know you could get an infection if you were to cut yourself with this?’ He turned on the hot tap and rinsed the razor under the slow gurgle of water, washing away the soap and beard detritus before carefully unscrewing the head and removing the blade. He held the razor blade up between his finger and thumb. ‘Hmm, looks a bit old. Obviously detective work isn’t paying too well, eh Jenkins?’
‘I – ’ Jenkins began slowly.
Underwood cut him off. ‘Oh, it’s alright old chap, just another of those silly rhetorical questions of mine.’ He looked to where Jenkins was standing facing the wall of the shower. ‘Turn around, will you?’
Jenkins turned around.
‘Now, sit down.’
The detective sat in the shower tray, his legs protruding out onto the floor and his trousers riding up his ankles to expose gartered black socks.
‘Are you right or left handed?’
‘Right-handed,’ said Jenkins.
‘Okay,’ Underwood handed him the razor blade. ‘Take this and open the veins across your left wrist.’
Jenkins took the blade, pressed it against the pale underside of his left wrist and then, without hesitation, drew it slowly across, slicing down, deep into the flesh. Blood erupted around his fingers. Jenkins, his face impassive, continued to draw the blade until it fell away from the wound. Then he looked back to Underwood for further instruction.
Underwood reached out and took the bleeding arm. He held it so blood sprayed over the shower walls for a moment, then pushed the hand inwards against the wrist joint to staunch the spurting arteries. He then positioned himself on top of Jenkins’ legs, leaned into the stall, and brought the wound to his mouth. He hesitated for a moment to smile at the detective, then, opening his mouth, he eased the man’s hand back. Blood gushed into Underwood’s mouth. He closed his lips about the wound and let the blood surge around his tongue. He parted his lips and let it spill over them as he savoured its taste, its heat, its richness before finally closing his eyes and beginning to drink.
He was hungrier than he had realised; the cat had done little more than appease the gnawing hunger within. And now, as the blood began to fill his stomach, he felt his strength returning. His dull headache began to disperse and clarity returned to his thoughts. He held Jenkins’ arm a little more tightly around the wrist, lessening the flow for a moment before letting the flow again and then relaxed his grip, giving himself a second rush of blood.
Tempting as it was to play with his food until his victim was dead, Underwood knew there was still work to be done. He gasped as he tore the wound from his lips. Blood continued to pour and he again staunched the flow by pressing the hand in against the wrist. He looked at Jenkins, who was watching him with mild interest.
Underwood licked his lips. ‘Now, Mr Jenkins, dip your finger into the blood and write, “Forgive Me”, just there, on the shower wall.’
Jenkins, his movements weak and trembling, rubbed his finger in the blood that seeped down his arm, and began to write.
Underwood waited patiently. When Jenkins had written the M in “Me”, he could wait no longer: he opened the wound and resumed drinking. He watched as Jenkins unsteadily continued to write, determined, it seemed, to complete his message before finally relaxing and letting his hand slide down the wall.
Underwood continued to drink until Jenkins’ pulse was so weak as to signal the imminence of his death. Then, he relinquished his meal and lay the arm down beside the body so that the remaining blood would flow down into the drain. Then, feeling suitably sated, he stood up to examine the scene of the poor detective’s apparent suicide. He smiled. If he did say so himself, it was a work of art. With an air of satisfaction, he wiped his chin on the back of his hand. ‘Well, thank you for dinner, old boy. But now, I’m afraid I have to go. The ship docks presently and I have to be in my coffin and ready for the off.’
Whistling fragments of a Bing Crosby tune that had recently been haunting him, Underwood went to the basin and washed his hands and face with a small cake of soap. Afterwards, he had to clean the blood from both basin and soap as well. Once the area met with his satisfaction, he dried himself with the hand towel and neatly hung it back on the rail. Then, as he stepped over Jenkins, making sure that he wasn’t trailing bloody footprints behind him, he said, ‘As you so rightly observed, Mr Jenkins, I’m not on the passenger manifest. But, had you checked further, you would have noticed I am listed among the cargo... as deceased.’
Thirty minutes later, Flinch found his master at the bow of the ship, gazing towards the distant horizon. Without turning, Underwood said, ‘Hullo, Flinch. How was dinner?’
‘Very nice sir. Steamed steak pudding with peas and slightly lumpy mashed potato. And you?’
‘Oh, a chap called Jenkins. Turns out he was a detective. But yes, very tasty.’
‘A detective, sir? Should I be concerned?’
‘No. Anything he had on us I bunged out of his porthole, along with his gun.’
‘What about the body, sir? Do I need to do any cleaning up?’
‘No, poor fellow made his own quietus.’ Underwood smiled. ‘At lea
st, that’s what it looks like.’
‘Oh. Very good, sir.’
Flinch joined his master at the rail. Ahead of them the fog was thinning. A full moon shone like a smudged thumb print on the sky, its light reflecting on the surface of sea as if painting a silver path to their destination. Underwood pointed to a distant lighthouse that winked at them from the blackness. ‘Look: land. It won’t be long now. You must be quite excited, eh?’
Flinch tried to smile. ‘I, er, I daresay life in Almacena will be very interesting, milord.’
Underwood looked at him. ‘Is that all? I thought you’d be thrilled.’
‘Well, yes, but,’ Flinch looked down at his shoes, ‘I just wish you’d reconsider, sir. I mean, it’s not as though you’d be in any danger, not in Spain of all places.’
‘It has nothing to do with danger, Arthur. It’s more a matter of,’ Underwood sighed. ‘Exhaustion. What with the last war, that business in New York, the Suez affair. I need a rest, old man. Surely you can understand that?’
With a tight smile, Flinch nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I mean, it’s a pity we couldn’t be going to the United States, California perhaps, but we both know that’s quite out of the question. And you say you’ve no desire to go to England, even if we could?’
‘No, sir. The weather’s so bloody grim. I’d like to see a bit of sunshine, you know?’
‘Er, actually no, not really. But you’re right, yes, you could do with a spot of sun; you look positively ghastly.’
Flinch chuckled. ‘Well, it comes with the job, I’m afraid, sir.’
‘Well, you’ll soon be able to remedy that, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
For a few moments they stood in silence. Then Underwood said. ‘Shame about the ship’s cat.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Still, never mind, eh? I’m sure they’ll find another one.’
‘Oh, yes, sir. No shortage of cats in the world. Especially in ports. It’s the rats that attract ’em.’
‘Yes. Wherever there’s a plentiful source of prey there’s usually a predator.’ Underwood took out his watch. It had stopped. He tapped the glass and the second hand began to move again. ‘I say, Flinch. Do you have the right time?’
Flinch looked at his watch. ‘Ten past ten, sir. Time we were getting ready, perhaps.’
‘Yes,’ Underwood looked to where the lights of Malaga now glittered on the horizon, ‘though I think I’ll have one last fag before I get back in the coffin.’ He reached for his case.
‘Oh no, sir,’ said Flinch, ‘My flash.’ Flinch took out his packet of cigarettes and offered them to Underwood.
‘Thank you, Flinch. What would I do without you?’
‘You never need to worry about that, sir,’ said Flinch, flicking on his lighter. ‘Of that you can rest assured.’
Underwood accepted the light and both men turned to face the dark, oncoming land on the horizon. The first breaths of a warm wind drifted to them across the sea and Flinch sniffed. ‘Do you fancy you can smell oranges on the breeze, sir?’
Underwood smiled. ‘Sorry Flinch. But all I can smell is blood.’
Flinch chuckled. ‘Oh, very good sir. Very droll.’
Prologue 2: Spain
FLINCH LOOKED IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR and saw headlights, their distant beams shimmering over the surface of the coffin behind him like moonlight on water. Then a third light, a blue one, began pulsing above the headlights, and the trill ringing of a siren started.
‘We seem to have attracted the attention of the authorities, sir.’
For a moment there was no answer. Then a low, muffled voice came from the back of the hearse. ‘Drive on, Flinch.’
‘Very good, Your Lordship. Should I attempt evasive action?’
For a moment, besides the noise of the siren, the hearse was silent, then the lid of the coffin slid aside, and Underwood sat up and looked out of the back window. ‘Where are we?’
‘About thirty miles inland from Malaga, sir.’
Underwood looked around, out into the night. ‘Not much chance of losing them in this countryside. What’s all that, out there?’
‘Olive groves.’
‘Oh, how nice.’
‘Perhaps I could attempt to outrun them?’
‘No, don’t bother, Flinch.’ Underwood looked back at the pursuing vehicle then turned to address Flinch in the rear view mirror. ‘Actually, I’m feeling rather peckish, and it’s been so long since I had a drop of Spanish. What say we stop and see what they want? Do you have your gun?’
Flinch opened the glove compartment and took out his Luger. He slipped it under the black top hat beside him on the passenger seat. ‘I do, sir.’
‘Right,’ Underwood lay back down in the coffin and settled himself. ‘Pull over, Flinch. Tell them you’re British; even Franco’s fascist coppers should respect that and let you go about your business. And if they don’t, well, they’ll jolly well regret it, won’t they?’ He reached up and pulled the coffin lid closed on top of him.
‘Yes, sir.’ Flinch slowed the car and pulled over on the side of the road. He waited, watching as the lights of the pursuing car drew nearer. The siren fell silent and the car rolled to a halt behind them. Two figures got out. In the glow from his rear lights, Flinch recognised the distinctive tricorn hats of the Civil Guard. The men unbuttoned their holsters and drew their guns.
Flinch took his passport and travel documents from the glove compartment and wound down the driver’s window. ‘Hola, señor.’
The guards paced around the hearse, eyeing it suspiciously. Then one of them barked a command in Spanish. ‘Salga del coche!’
‘Sorry, señor. No comprendo mucho Español.’
From the coffin, Underwood spoke, his voice muffled by the lid. ‘He wants you to get out, Flinch. Don’t disappoint him. He sounds awfully miffed.’
Flinch opened the door and got out, his hands raised. ‘Pardon me, señors.’
The guards looked at him as if he were something someone had carelessly trodden into their carpet. One of them – the taller of the two – reached out and gestured for Flinch to hand over his documents. Flinch did so. The guard inspected his passport. ‘Inglés? You no speak Spanish?’
‘No, sir. I’m, er, here on business.’
‘Oh? What is your business?’
Flinch cocked a thumb at the black Rolls Royce hearse beside him. ‘I’m an undertaker. I’ve been hired to deliver the body of a Spanish gentleman to his family estate.’
‘Undertaker?’
‘Yes, dead people. My business, is, er … dead people.’
The guard smiled. ‘My business too, sometimes.’ He liked the joke and repeated it in Spanish for his friend.
The other guard chuckled and tried the handle of the hearse’s rear door; it was locked. He spoke to Flinch in rapid Spanish. Flinch’s face was a picture of bewilderment.
The tall guard translated the order. ‘Open the car and take out the box.’
‘But, señor, por favor, the casket is – ’ Finch’s protest was cut off by a backhanded blow across his face.
‘Open the car, now!’
Flinch wiped his mouth. It came away dark with blood. He looked at the guard evenly for a moment before bowing his head. Then he reached in through the driver’s door and took the keys from the ignition. He held up the keys to show them he wasn’t holding a weapon then walked around to the back of the hearse and unlocked the single, heavy door. He pulled it open then stood back.
The guards looked in at what to them was an incredibly expensive coffin. ‘Okay. Take out the box,’ said the tall guard.
Flinch hesitated for a second then replied, ‘Well, you’ll have to help me, señors. It’s very heavy.’
The guards exchanged a few words in Spanish then the shorter of the two went around to the opposite side of the coffin to Flinch and took one of the coffin handles. He motioned at Flinch to do likewise. Flinch obeyed. The tall guard took a few steps ba
ck and aimed his gun at Flinch’s head.
The shorter guard looked at Flinch and nodded. ‘Uno, dos, tres.’ They pulled and the coffin slid out, foot end first. When it was half way clear of the hearse, the shorter guard grunted an incomprehensible command and began to lower the coffin down to the ground. Flinch followed suit.
‘Now, open it,’ said the tall guard.
The moon found a break in the cloud and spilled silver-grey light over the scene. ‘Really, señors, I can’t imagine what you think I might be hiding in here, there’s only a body – ’
‘Open the box!’ the guard shouted, and pointed his pistol into Flinch’s face.
Flinch bowed and then came around so his back was to the guards, both of whom were now aiming their guns at him. Flinch smiled, and then lifted the lid from the coffin.
The tall guard grimaced. Inside the coffin was the body of a man whom he estimated could have been aged anything between thirty and forty, it was difficult to tell when they had been dead for a while. The cheeks were sunken, as were the closed eyes, which were barely visible under the shadow of the man’s brow, and the skin – typical of a cadaver – was the colour of white ash; it seemed almost to glow in the light of the moon. The guard admired the corpse’s suit. It was expensive, black, and more or less his size.
Flinch cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, may I present the late señor Underwood.’
The shorter guard stepped forward, aimed his pistol at the corpse’s chest, and fired. The body rocked with the bullet’s impact.
‘Gentlemen! Please,’ Flinch began to protest.
‘You want to go into the box also?’ snapped the tall guard.
Flinch raised his hands and lowered his head.
The short guard walked up to the coffin and began to feel the lapel of Underwood’s suit. He said something in Spanish.
‘Si,’ the tall guard chuckled. He was about to add something when suddenly, the body in the coffin opened its eyes.
‘Well, it was a nice suit,’ said Underwood, grabbing the short guard by the shoulders. ‘Until you went and put a bullet hole in it.’
The guard managed to utter a syllable of disbelief before Underwood yanked him forwards as if to embrace him. The guard struggled, hands flailing, trying to fight but unable to get a blow to connect due to the sides of the coffin.
