The Jonah

by James Herbert

  The grip end of the launching trolley had been carelessly left out of line with the boats it nestled between, and Trewick’s left foot made contact. He flew forward, his lumbering form leaving the ground completely, and smashed into the earth with a force that jarred every bone in his body. He tried to stifle the cry that was squeezed from his chest, but was aware that the sound of his falling alone would bring the two men to him. Ignoring the numbness in his arms and knees, he pushed himself between the mounts of a medium-sized ocean racer. His eyes were blurred with tears of pain and fear, and he bit deep into his lower lip to stem the whimpers that rose like hiccups. He rolled himself up into a ball, keeping his face and hands tucked into his knees lest their whiteness show up in the dark. He waited and tried to listen over the pounding of his own heart.

  Footsteps approached, not running, but slow and deliberate. He stopped breathing. They were closer, treading warily. He raised his head slightly to see, using just one eye, afraid to expose too much of his face. The footsteps stopped and he heard a shoe scuffle against metal. Silence for several moments and Trewick was forced to release air from his lungs. He did so as quietly as possible, then drew in a short, jerky breath. Footsteps again. A dark shape moved before him, not more than two yards away. He couldn’t make out if it was two pairs of legs or just one. He tried to control his shaking, sure that even that could be heard. The legs moved on, out of vision.

  His eyes closed and his sigh of relief was barely audible. Silent tears had made his face and beard damp and he brushed them away against his knees.

  Then something prodded his back and a quiet voice said: ‘Boo.’

  The girl was lying on one of the caravan’s narrow bunk beds, leaning on an elbow with her back against the wall as though he had roused her from sleep. There was no surprise in her expression.

  ‘Kelly?’ she said.

  ‘Goldilocks?’ he asked.

  ‘With dark hair?’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but remained seated. ‘It is Kelly, isn’t it? Or I should say Kelso. You match the description they gave me quite well.’

  ‘Who gave you?’ Kelso’s hand was still on the light switch by the door. The door, itself, was open, ready for him to take instant flight should the occupant or occupants of his make-shift home have proved a threat. The girl didn’t look threatening.

  ‘Your people in the Central Drugs Intelligence Unit.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ His hand had dropped from the light switch and was pulling the door closed. His eyes stayed on her all the time.

  ‘I’ve also spoken to your immediate superior, Detective Superintendent Barrie of the Drugs Squad, who passed me on to your governor, Detective Inspector Wainwright. As usual with the Yard, they were cagey at first.’

  Kelso walked further into the caravan and leaned against the open doorway leading to the sleeping quarters. He flicked on the light switch in that section to get a better look at the girl.

  She wore jeans and a dark blue crew-neck jumper, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Long, brown hair hung loosely over a shoulder; hair on the other side of the parting was tucked behind her ear as though she had quickly pushed it back out of the way when he had entered the caravan. Clear blue eyes appraised him in the same way he was appraising her.

  ‘I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And how did you get in here?’

  The girl smiled and, strangely, it hardened her features rather than softened them. ‘That door wasn’t locked.’ She reached out for a bag lying on the dressing-table unit opposite the bed. His hand closed around her wrist.

  ‘I’ve got my ID inside the bag,’ she said.

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Ellie Shepherd.’ She tried to pull her wrist away, but his grip tightened. ‘I’m an investigation officer with Customs and Excise.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled her arm away.

  Kelso reached for her bag, opened it and riffled through the contents until he found what he was looking for. He held the wallet up and looked enquiringly at her.

  She nodded.

  He opened the wallet, studied the inside for a few moments, flicked it shut and tossed it back into the bag. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, placing the shoulder-bag on the unit and turning away from her to walk through to the kitchen area. She followed him out and watched him fill the electric kettle in the compact sink. He took a mug from the cupboard above the sink and placed it next to the one standing on the draining board.

  ‘How d’you like it?’ he asked, reaching for the coffee jar.

  ‘Strong. Black.’

  He grinned to himself and scooped the instant into the mugs.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?’ The girl rested against the wall, her arms folded.

  ‘Figured you’d tell me.’ He turned to face her and she saw a weariness around his eyes that had nothing to do with physical fatigue.

  ‘Have you come up with anything yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘You give me some information first.’

  ‘Okay, here it is. For some time now, my department has been working closely with the Military Police at the NATO base at Bentwaters. You probably realize by now that it’s one of the biggest combined defence installations we have in this country.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen enough A-l0s flying over to start World War Three.’

  ‘Not quite, but it has a high strike potential.’

  ‘You said it was for defence.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s always a slight drugs problem on any American base, no matter where it is. It goes on, and those caught get discreet but rapid court-martials; of course, there’s no way it can be controlled completely. Soft drugs have been a source of irritation to the US military since Vietnam. An irritation, but never a threat. Until now, that is.’

  Kelso poured boiling water into the mugs, his interest aroused. ‘You’re telling me there’s junkies flying those planes up there?’

  She smiled, and this time the smile softened her face. It was an improvement.

  ‘No, it could never get that serious. But the airmen are becoming . . . well, over-supplied, if you like. We think most of it is coming in through Harwich and passed on to the local towns where the airmen spend much of their spare time.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the local Drugs Squad be involved in this?’

  ‘We keep them informed, but you know yourself how stretched they are. The trouble is, they very often don’t bother to inform us of their own operations. We only found out about you by chance.’

  Kelso placed the two coffees on the small dining-table and nodded towards the bench seat behind it. The girl slid into the seat and rested her elbows on the table’s surface while he tossed his coat through the doorway onto the bed she had just left. He sat on a stool opposite her.

  ‘You’re not saying there’s a connection between your investigations and mine?’

  ‘There may be.’

  ‘But you said the problem with the airmen was soft drugs.’

  ‘Mostly Class B drugs, yes. Amphetamines and various combinations with barbiturates are included in that category.’

  ‘My case is acid poisoning. A normal family, father, mother and child, all hallucinating from the effects of LSD.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been told. I’ll be working with you from now on.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s also a letter in my bag signed by Detective Chief Superintendent Stone of the CDIU instructing you to co-operate fully with me. Do you want to check it?’

  He left her at the table and walked back into the bedroom area. She sipped her coffee and grimaced at the taste. Kelso returned, a frown of concentration on his face as he studied the letter in his hand.

  ‘Your coffee’s terrible,’ she commented.

  ‘My budget doesn’t allow for the real thing,’ he said distractedl
y, spreading the letter before him on the table. ‘I’ll have to verify this by phone.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get some better coffee tomorrow – our expense allowance is a hell of a lot better than yours.’

  He looked up at her in surprise. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m staying.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘My God, I never thought you’d be a prude.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it! I work best alone, that’s all.’

  She saw something more than just anger in his eyes. Was it apprehension? No, more. There was fear in them.

  ‘Look, it’s the perfect cover, don’t you see? I’m your girlfriend. I’ve come down to be with you while you’re working on your conservation project.’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  She leaned across the table, glaring at him. ‘Why? Because I’m a woman? You think I’ll be a hindrance?’

  ‘It isn’t that . . .’

  ‘Do you remember Operation Julie a few years back – the drug syndicate that was busted in Wales? Two of the investigating detectives sharing a cottage in Blaencaron and working undercover were getting nowhere with the locals until they discovered they were regarded as a couple of homosexuals. Things soon changed when they shipped in a policewoman to act as a secretary to one of them. It has to be a woman, don’t you see?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Then you think I’m not good enough.’

  Still he said nothing.

  ‘I’m part of Bravo Squad.’

  There was little love lost between Customs and Excise Drug Investigation Units and the police Drug Squads – both organizations were too busy trying to grab the glory for themselves – but there were two Customs teams well respected by every police division in the country: Bravo and Charlie squads.

  If she belonged to Bravo, she had to be good.

  ‘I was involved in “Operation Wrecker”.’

  She was good. In 1979, an eighteen-month investigation by Customs and Hampshire police had resulted in one million pounds’ worth of cannabis seized and twenty-three arrests in the South.

  ‘And I was there when they brought in the Guiding Light.’

  One and a half tons of hashish worth £2 million on the streets had been its cargo. The final take after more raids on various locations – again in the South – had amounted to nearly ten million pounds’ worth of cannabis.

  ‘And when I say involved, I mean involved. I wasn’t there to make the tea and take notes.’

  He held out a hand towards her. ‘Okay, you’re good at your job.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘I believe you.’ He gulped his coffee. ‘I didn’t mean to offend. All I’m saying is that this . . .’ he waved a hand around the caravan ‘. . . is no place for a woman. They shouldn’t have sent . . .’

  ‘You’re not afraid I’m going to seduce you, are you? Because if you are, you needn’t worry on that score. You’re not my type.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you’re not mine.’

  Some of the anger left her. ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same for me. It’s kind of cramped in here, you know. We could get in each other’s way.’

  ‘I’ll try to think pure thoughts.’

  He grinned, but she could still feel his unease. He was worried about something and it was more than just the male/female or Customs/Police relationship. She wondered if it was anything to do with his reputation. Did he believe in it himself? She’d had little time to find out much about him, but a contact she had in the Yard’s CID had filled her in on his general background. She had dismissed her contact’s insinuation as nonsense. Stupid nonsense. But was it affecting him? She hoped he hadn’t become full of neuroses because of what amounted to no more than just bad luck.

  ‘We’re worried, Kelso.’

  He looked at her curiously.

  ‘’79 and ’80 were great years for drugs busting. Our combined forces virtually wiped out trafficking in the South of England, but we know it’s still coming into the country. We’re still the major staging post for the States and Europe. So how is it getting in?’

  ‘The whole coastline of England is ideal. It could be anywhere. Probably everywhere.’

  ‘No, the east coast is the most ideal. Heavy shipping lanes, a short hop across the Channel, lots of isolated areas to bring boats and light aircraft into.’

  ‘And lots of coastguard patrols.’

  ‘But they’re getting through. Admittedly, we’ve stemmed the flow, but it’s still a big problem. And every indication is that it’s a problem that’s growing.’

  ‘Where does my investigation come into all this? It’s kind of low-key, you know.’

  ‘Most of our leads have come through minor events; a small slip by a trafficker, information picked up at pop concerts – or freak “accidents”.’

  ‘Like the one in this town? The Preece family?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Look, I may as well tell you: nobody expects anything to come out of this. They shifted me out here because I’m used to undercover work and because they wanted me away from London for a while.’

  The girl wondered if she should tell him she had heard of his reputation as a jinx, and decided not to; if he wanted her to know, he would tell her in his own time. At this stage, it might make their working relationship even more awkward. ‘Like I said, a tiny incident, isolated though it may seem, can often lead to something bigger.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t buy that. There’s something you still haven’t told me.’

  ‘All right, I was getting to it. It may have no bearing on what happened here – in fact, it probably hasn’t but we have to be sure.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Five days ago, an A-10 from the NATO base at Bentwaters went down in the North Sea.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any news on it.’

  ‘You won’t – the authorities are keeping it quiet. Officially, the reason for the crash has been put down to engine malfunction. Unofficially, the pilot went berserk and aimed it into the blue.’

  ‘Berserk?’

  ‘He tripped out. Freaked. He was on a mind-bender, a bad one.’

  Kelso shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘They recovered the plane and found the dead pilot floating in the sea two days ago – he must have ejected before the aircraft hit the sea. When they opened him up they found enough lysergic acid still in his system to kill ten men.’

  April, 1953

  He’d put his bloody boot through the wireless set if he heard Guy Mitchell belting out ‘She Wears Red Feathers’ once more. Didn’t people know there were other, nicer songs around? That Frankie Laine did a nice tune. Made old Moaning Minnie – Johnny Ray – sound like a bad case of asthma. Nice bit of crooning he liked; old Bing and Perry were favourites for that. He stuck a Player’s into the corner of his mouth and tore a strip off his Daily Sketch. He leaned forward with a grunt and shoved the paper into the fire’s dying embers, then lit his cigarette with the flame.

  Sammy Fish stretched his limbs, letting the newspaper slide onto the lino floor. He removed his wire-framed National Health spectacles and huffed on them, wiping away the vapour mist on the lenses with his sleeve. Family Favourites. Must be nine o’clock. Time to do his rounds. Get away from fucking ‘Red Feathers’. He’d have to send off a record request for himself one day – at least he’d choose something tasty. Bit of Lita Roza.

  He stood and scratched his grizzled chin, then pulled the folds of his baggy trousers out of the crease of his buttocks. Don’t know why I’ve got to look after the bloody little baskits, he grumbled to himself. And that’s what a lot of them were – real little baskits, no dads, some with no mums, even. His job was to look after the boiler and do the odd jobs around the home, not play nanny to all those miserable bleeders. With a back like his, he shouldn’t have to work at all.

/>   He cursed the principal, Mr Bailey. And his staff. Lazy lot of fuckers. Oh, couldn’t do enough for the kids, but ask any of them to give him a hand lifting or mending and they didn’t want to know. Scared now, though, weren’t they? Frightened the LCC was going to close the orphanage. All run off to the Council meeting tonight, didn’t they? Serve the buggers right if the Council did close the place. Mind you, he’d be out of a job for a start. Bugger that.

  He shuffled across the kitchen, the cigarette never leaving his lips for a moment. They were saying now that fags could kill you, but it was all bollocks. They’d ban them if they really could.

  Sammy Fish had worked in the orphanage for eight years, joining it just after the war. Unemployment was the order of the day and he considered himself lucky to have a job; there had been a lot of younger men, all freshly demobbed, looking for work. He had been all right during the war when labour was short, but when the fighting stopped, the employers could be more choosey. His one qualification was that of a handyman, or more accurately, a general dogsbody. His big disqualification for the job in the orphanage was his hatred for kids. But that he kept to himself. Lots of children’s homes had sprung up after the war – there was a big need for them – but now the local councils were trying to control them, bring them under their own umbrella. Mr Bailey’s home was too small to contain thirty children. The maximum he should have been allowed was twelve. The old, Victorian house itself was big – but thirty kids? Too many. Bailey was in trouble.

  Fish climbed the stairs, still grumbling, leaving thick billows of cigarette smoke behind to disperse into the shadows. They’d better all be asleep, he told himself. No, that was too much to ask for: the older ones would still be awake larking about. He was in no mood for any monkey business tonight, though. They’d feel the back of his hand around their chops if they gave him any nonsense. He wanted to be back downstairs in time for Wilfred Pickles on the wireless at half-nine.

  To his surprise, the children in the first bedroom he poked his head into were all asleep – or pretending to be. They were all girls in there, thirteen packed into one large room, their ages ranging from five to fourteen. The boys – a right unruly bunch who sounded like the bloody Mau Mau sometimes – were on the floor above; next door was the nursery. Bailey thought that having them close to the infants would keep the boys quiet at night. That was a laugh: many a night he’d heard Bailey or his wife pounding up the stairs to stop the noisy skirmishes going on in this room. Still, there was no ruckus tonight, he mused as he trod the stairs to the second storey. That, of course, was because they knew he was in charge. They didn’t mess about with him. He dealt out a few good hidings with the threat that they would get worse if they tell-taled to Mr Bailey. He chuckled as he remembered getting hold of one of the little baskits – saucy little fucker – and dangling him over the banisters by his legs. Said he’d drop him if he didn’t behave. Funny thing was – although not funny at the time because he’d almost given himself a heart attack – he nearly had dropped the blighter, the kid had screamed and squirmed so much. It was lucky Bailey and his missus had been out that night as well. Mind you, there’d been no more trouble from that kid again. He silently pushed open the door to the older boys’ dormitory, half-hoping to catch one or two of them out of bed so he could mete out some punishment. He scowled in disappointment when he saw they were all in their places. Fish stood there for several moments waiting for the sound of giggling or whispering; all he heard were a few nasal snores.