The Jonah

by James Herbert

  Kelso spat out what he could of the remaining sickness and fumbled for a handkerchief in his pocket. A shuddering groan escaped him as the ache between his legs became a sharp dagger pressing into his testicles. He lay inert for several long minutes, afraid that movement would cause the stabbing sensation again.

  Gradually, a thin band of light came into focus and he realized it was shining from beneath a door. He tried to remember what had happened and his thoughts were hazy, too jumbled to make sense of. Then it came back to him in a rush: finding the drain, the dead animal; the crawl along the riverbank to the boathouse; inside the boathouse, the discreet stairwell, the metal door. He remembered only vaguely the beating he had taken, but Leather Jacket’s ugly face only inches away from his was sharp and clear.

  How long had he been unconscious? It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. For all he knew, it might well have been days. Kelso tried to raise himself, taking it steady, each inch an aching misery. Feeling a rough wall behind him, he leaned against it, his right temple becoming damp from the brickwork. Where was he? Somewhere in the tunnel running from the boathouse? Maybe beneath Eshley Hall itself. He eased his back round against the wall and slowly drew up his legs. His groin was still tender, but he knew he had not suffered a rupture; the pain would have been much more intense. Kelso licked his lips to smooth away dried blood.

  Thank God Ellie hadn’t been with him – he dreaded to think what they might have done to her. She would have sense enough to get the estate raided when she found he hadn’t returned to the caravan. Perhaps he should have listened to her from the beginning and had the place turned over as soon as they had known something was wrong. He touched a hand to his injured face again. Shit, what a mess! At least he was the only one involved this time.

  Kelso tried to stand, but found he was still too weak. Instead, he crawled towards the narrow band of light, puddles on the floor making his knees and hands wet. Although dried blood clogged his nostrils, he was aware of the damp, musty smell of the room; he was definitely beneath ground level and, at one time or another, water from the river had seeped into this room.

  He reached the door and its wood texture felt old and sodden. There was no handle on that side, only a keyless lock. He was on his knees, head pressed against its surface, when he heard footsteps outside. A key rattled in the lock and the door was pushed open, knocking him backwards onto the floor. Two heavyset figures peered in at him.

  ‘He’s awake,’ one said as they came into the cell-like room. Rough hands lifted him to his feet and the two men cursed as his legs gave way.

  ‘You’ll bloody stand up, mate, if you know what’s good for you,’ one said.

  Kelso did his best to steady himself and they gripped him tightly, holding him upright. He was propelled forward into a gloomy corridor, its walls shiny damp, its floor uneven and puddle-filled.

  ‘What . . . what is this place?’ Kelso managed to ask.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ was the reply.

  They half-carried, half-dragged him along the corridor and eventually, after what seemed to be several minutes, they reached a wide, metal door. Kelso wondered if it was the same door which led back up to the boathouse. He soon realized it wasn’t.

  The contrast between the dingy passageway and what lay beyond was startling: the metal door – again there were deep flanges to seal it tight when closed – opened out into a huge, low-ceilinged basement area. The walls, floor and ceiling were smooth concrete, the walls themselves covered in a patchy, chalky substance which Kelso guessed was lime; there were no windows, but fluorescent lights made the room unnaturally bright. Two long workbenches dominated the centre area and running between them was a long, open gutter. The worktops were filled with laboratory glassware and equiprrient; Kelso recognized several rotary evaporators, which he knew were used in the manufacturing of LSD.

  The heavy door slammed shut behind him and while it was being locked, he leaned back against the wall, pretending to be more dazed than he actually felt. One of the men held him there as his companion busied himself with bolts and lock. Vision from Kelso’s swollen eye was limited, but by turning his head from side to side as though still disorientated, he was able to study the room’s contents in more detail. There were many containers on the shelving which lined the walls – bottles, cartons and, at the far end, large drums with the word METHANOL stencilled in white on them. The two men moved him on and he managed to sneak a closer look at the chemicals on the shelves: calcium lactate, hydrazine hydrate, and the substance most necessary for LSD processing, ergotomine tartrate. There were also large containers of starch on the floor beneath the shelves. His senses were beginning to sharpen, revived by the discovery.

  They passed gauze trays, obviously used for drying, and two big grey-metalled units which he assumed were water-tanks. Twisting his head to the right, he saw on the workbenches machines that he knew were infra-red spectrometers, instruments used for measuring chemical quantities, as well as plastic moulds which puzzled him at first until he saw the hundreds of tiny perforations on their surface. Such moulds were used to shape LSD microdots. He became even more alert when they approached a door at the end of the room, for the shelves at that end were filled with containers clearly labelled THETRAHYDROCANNABINOL. THC – a derivative of cannabis!

  This was no small-scale enterprise but a well-stocked and highly organized laboratory, almost a drug manufacturing industry. He wondered what else came off the production line.

  The door before him was opened and he was pushed through, this time finding himself in what looked like a conventional cellar, a single lightbulb making a dismal attempt to combat the gloom. Grimy brickwork pillars cast dark shadows into the corners of the cellar and wine racks filled with dusty bottles stood against the walls. A sliding noise made him turn and he saw the door they had just come through was now screened by more wine racks; a long chest was wheeled back to cover the movable rack.

  ‘Okay, up the stairs.’ The man who had just concealed the doorway, a short, axe-faced individual, pushed him towards a rickety set of steps. Kelso just caught hold of the banister, but could not prevent himself from going down on one knee.

  ‘Take it easy, you prat,’ he heard the other man say. ‘We don’t wanna carry him up.’

  Kelso was yanked upright and forced to mount the stairs, each step creaking beneath him. His legs felt stiff from bruising, but he managed to get to the top with the aid of the two men. It was almost with relief that he staggered out into the wide hallway of what surely was Eshley Hall itself. It came as somewhat of a shock to see it was dark outside; he had been unconscious for hours rather than minutes. The sound of rain beating against the windowpanes, increasing then decreasing in intensity as the wind lent its force, came to his ears. He was almost tempted to make a break for the double-doors at the far end of the hall, but realized he would never make it; he just didn’t have the strength yet. Once more he waited while the door behind was locked and he deliberately let his chin sag down onto his chest to further the impression that he was still in a bad state. He forgot the pose when the door opposite opened and Slauden’s personal secretary, Henson, stared out at him.

  ‘Bring him in,’ Henson snapped.

  The first face Kelso saw when he was pushed into the room was that of Sir Anthony Slauden himself. The dapper little man was seated in a deep brown wing armchair, its high back making him look even smaller; in his hand he held a brandy glass, flames from the roaring log fire reflecting in the amber liquid. He was casually, but still immaculately, attired in grey slacks and a fawn polo-neck sweater; soft, elegantly styled shoes and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches completed the relaxed image. Slauden frowned when he saw Kelso.

  ‘My God, what have you done to him, Bannen?’ he asked angrily.

  Leather Jacket was standing by a drinks cabinet. There was no apology in his voice when he replied: ‘He put up a bit of a fight.’ He lightly touched the side of his nose, which was red and swol
len, as if indicating the evidence.

  Slauden showed little sympathy for his own man. ‘I’ve told you before, Bannen, I want none of this insane violence. Is that clear?’

  Kelso was surprised at the big man’s meek response.

  Slauden studied the detective for several moments before saying, ‘Bring him over here.’ He indicated a long settee opposite his own chair and Kelso was led towards it. It felt good to sink into the soft cushions.

  ‘You look as if you could use a stiff drink, Kelly.’

  Kelso wondered if Slauden was mocking him.

  ‘Pour him a brandy, Julian,’ Slauden ordered, and it was obvious that the personal secretary was not happy with the idea. Nevertheless, he walked briskly to the drinks cabinet and poured a brandy. Kelso found it difficult to keep his hand steady as he took the glass. The first sip hurt his cracked lips, but the hot liquid felt good as it rushed down his throat. For the first time, he noticed a thin, bespectacled man nervously watching him from the other side of the room. The man was sitting at a small, antique writing desk, papers spread out before him. He kept jiggling the PRESS button of a biro against his jaw, his agitation at the sight of Kelso obvious.

  The detective’s attention was drawn back to Slauden as the little man crossed his legs, tugging at the trouser crease of one knee so that it would not lose its sharpness. ‘I don’t much approve of alcohol, young man, but a small nip of brandy is another matter,’ he said.

  Kelso, revived even more by the drink, leaned back into the settee and replied flatly: ‘Apparently you approve of drugs, though.’

  Slauden smiled. ‘Not in the least – hate the damned stuff, as a matter of fact.’

  Kelso’s uninjured eye widened. ‘How the hell can you say that when you’ve got a bloody drugs factory downstairs?’

  ‘I also have a company that produces animal feedstuff – that doesn’t mean I eat it.’

  Julian enjoyed the joke; the thin man with the spectacles seemed uncertain that it was one.

  Kelso shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why would someone like you, with your wealth and reputation, be involved with the dope trade?’

  The smile disappeared. ‘For one very simple reason, Kelly, but I don’t feel it necessary to answer questions from your kind.’

  ‘My kind?’

  ‘Nasty little scum. A cheap crook. Isn’t that what you are – you and your friend Trewick?’

  Kelso could only stare.

  ‘Come now, Kelly, you didn’t really think I believed you were a damned bird-watcher, did you?’ Slauden laughed. ‘I know you were only snooping around yesterday looking for your partner in crime.’

  Kelso did not know whether to feel relieved, or even more apprehensive: did their error put him in a better or worse situation?

  ‘It was perfectly clear, Kelly, that you had only a rudimentary knowledge of birdlife. Perhaps you could have been forgiven for not knowing that the storm petrel does not, in fact, breed here, but when I tested you further, I’m afraid you failed rather dismally. Rather stupidly, actually.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Slauden.’

  ‘Of course not. Nor did you yesterday. I informed you that I had a goosander nesting in the reeds by the river; anyone with a good knowledge of the subject would be well aware that the goosander nests in trees.’

  ‘I’d forgotten.’

  Again, Slauden laughed, but this time disdainfully. ‘What we have to find out from you, Mr Kelly, is just how much damage you and Trewick have done to my organization with your petty pilfering. If, indeed, it was petty.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Slauden’s knuckles showed white around the stem of the glass. ‘I really do hope we won’t find it necessary to resort to extreme measures. We’ll all be very busy after tomorrow and will have little time for foolish games.’ He drained the brandy and held out the empty glass; Henson took it from him and placed it on a small leather-topped occasional table. Slauden sat stiffly in his chair, eyes that were almost black fixed on the detective.

  ‘What’s happened to Andy?’ Kelso asked, more in desperation than out of curiosity.

  ‘Sir Anthony told you not to ask questions,’ Bannen said, approaching menacingly.

  ‘Wait, I want no more of that,’ Slauden snapped. He watched Kelso thoughtfully for a few minutes, steepled fingers against his lower lip; then he seemed to come to a decision. ‘Unfortunately your friend, Trewick, came to some grief. We knew he was stealing from us, you see, but we didn’t know to what extent and just who was helping him dispose of the merchandise. Then you came on the scene – you were seen together on separate occasions. His disappearance caused you some concern judging by your attempts to locate him. I wonder if your anxiety was for Trewick or because your source of supply might dry up?’

  Kelso swallowed more brandy and said nothing.

  ‘We weren’t very sure of your involvement until I invited you here to Eshley Hall. The mistakes you made left little doubt.’

  ‘So you tried to frighten me off last night.’

  ‘No, not at all. I tried to have you killed.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, just because you thought I was stealing drugs from you?’

  ‘My – shall we say “clandestine”– business earns me profits of several million a year; do you imagine I’d let anything or anyone jeopardize that?’ Slauden’s tiny, well-manicured hands gripped the sides of the chair before he controlled his rising anger and relaxed them once more. ‘Trewick paid the price of his folly. His rewards for helping to bring the merchandise into the country apparently were not enough for him – he had to create his own market using goods that did not belong to him. His greed could have ruined everything.’

  ‘He brought the drugs in?’

  ‘Come now, Kelly, let’s not play these stupid games. I’m sure you’re well aware of how the merchandise was smuggled into the country. What I need to know is just how big your particular network is. How many others are involved? Or was it just you and Trewick – and, of course, this girl you live with?’

  ‘Didn’t Andy tell you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I never had the chance to ask him: Bannen was a little too enthusiastic when his two thugs, here, delivered Trewick to him.’

  The two men by the door looked uncomfortable as Bannen began to protest.

  Slauden wearily held up a hand. ‘Yes, I know, Bannen: he broke his neck falling down the stairs when you brought him back. No doubt Kelly fell down those same stairs.’ He turned his attention back to the detective. ‘Like you, Trewick was an amateur, a bungler. We would never have known about his thefts had he not made a serious error. With the vast quantities my laboratory processes, under the guidance of our learned chemist, Dr Vernon Collingbury –’ Kelso glanced towards the man sitting at the writing desk and at whom Slauden had briefly pointed ‘ – his pilfering would have gone on undetected for years, but he used a singularly foolhardy method to get the stolen drugs out – although perhaps the only one because of the thorough searches everyone, without exception, undergoes on leaving the basement area.’

  ‘How did he manage it?’

  ‘You don’t know? I’m sure he must have boasted to you.’

  Kelso decided to gamble – at least this way he was gathering information and gaining time. If they discovered he was with the Drugs Squad, they would probably get rid of him immediately. They’d have little choice. ‘Andy wouldn’t tell me how he got hold of the stuff.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Henson said.

  ‘Why should I lie about that?’ Kelso countered. ‘It won’t help me any.’

  ‘No, it won’t help you at all,’ said Slauden. ‘Your friend and colleague used a simple idea. He stole very small amounts each time – LSD crystals mainly, because they were easier to handle. A plastic bag containing the drugs was dropped into the laboratory’s drainage system. As you probably realize from the glimpse you had when you were brought up here, our processing re
quires thousands of gallons of water during distillation to keep the equipment cool and the only way we can shed such amounts is by draining into the local canals or the river. The river is too risky because of traffic – our drainage pipe might be seen.

  ‘We, along with everyone else in the area, were puzzled by the peculiar incident concerning the family living at the edge of town. In such a close, and perhaps, unworldly, community, such occurrences are not common. We became quite alarmed when we realized that the Preece family lived nearby the particular canal in which we disposed of our waste and, because we have always been extremely careful never to flush any harmful substances into the system, we suspected either an accident or that someone was deliberately using the drain for their own surreptitious purposes. The temptation had always been there for those who worked on the processing, but each individual knows the dire consequences of such a misdemeanour. The pipe and drain were examined and a small grille, just big enough to prevent any package of a certain size from passing through, was found across the channel outside the house. Whoever had been stealing merely dropped his package into the waste system, then collected it from the outside at a convenient moment. Unfortunately, on one occasion, the container burst – perhaps it was chewed open by an animal or pecked by a bird – and the contents flushed into the waterway leading towards the town. It was a chance in a million that the Preece family used water containing a tiny amount of diluted LSD crystals, but a chance that could have exposed everything.’