‘Are you going to ring Mod?’
‘I can’t think of anybody else.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’s on his lunch break now at The Babe In Arms. I’ll get him there.’
Her face was turning away, watching the long waves swelling on to the beach. ‘You’ll be very cautious tonight, won’t you,’ she said.
‘You don’t know how much,’ he assured her.
‘If you don’t get back by a certain time do you want me to call the police?’
‘The very word sends shivers down my spine,’ he said. ‘But if I don’t turn up after, say, three hours, I think you could.’ He checked his watch again, and they walked back to the inn. In the room he picked up the receiver and gave the girl in reception the number. She rang him back quickly.
‘Hello,’ said Davies, ‘is that The Babe In Arms? Ah, Patrick, is Mr Lewis there? Mod, yes, Mod. Thanks.’
He sat on the bed and waited. Jemma was framed by the midday light of the window, looking out to the pale blue of the sea. His eyes went down from her hair piled above her slender brown neck, to her shoulders, her arms loosely held behind her backside with her fingers hooked, her tight waist and long brown legs. While he waited for Mod he wondered, a little sadly, what was to become of her and him.
She seemed to feel the thought because she turned from the sunlit window and smiled wistfully at him. She could make even a single pace graceful and she took it and sat on the bed beside him. The telephone was still against his ear but she manoeuvred herself around it and kissed him quietly.
Mod came on the line. He sounded breathless. ‘Oh, Dangerous, it’s you,’ he said, apparently relieved. ‘I thought it was my brother in Wales, with bad news about my mother.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother or a mother,’ said Davies.
‘I don’t tell you everything,’ said Mod. ‘My family is better left unsaid.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean.’
‘Are you having a nice holiday?’
‘I’m sitting here in my bathing costume. Now, Mod … there’s a favour I need.’
‘I thought so. What is it?’
‘You know little Edwin Curl, the security man at the trading estate? …’
‘Snow White’s fiancé.’
‘Yes. Well, tonight will you trundle over there, tell him you’re working for me, and get yourself into some place where you can observe the comings and goings at Blissen Pharmaceuticals …’
‘I don’t like the sound of this, Dangerous.’
‘You’ll be all right. Keep out of sight, that’s all. See if you can see what the Jungfrau is up to.’
‘What time is all this?’
‘After closing time. Get there about midnight.’
‘That’s very late for me.’
‘Mod, I think there’s going to be some drama there tonight …’
‘What sort of drama?’
‘Cars turning up and that sort of drama.’
‘The last time there was that sort of drama, Lofty ended up dead in the canal.’
‘I know, but it won’t be like that. You keep well out of sight but make sure you can see what’s going on. If there’s any danger I’ll make sure the police will be there.’
‘Why can’t the police be there anyway?’
‘You know as well as I do. Because they won’t believe me and if it goes wrong, if I’ve got the whole scenario wrong, I’ll be for the biggest high-jump since the last Olympics.’
‘I can’t say I like the sound of this at all,’ muttered Mod. ‘It’s way past my bedtime. But … as it’s you …’
‘Good old Mod. I’ll buy you a pint when I get back.’
‘It may cost you more than one.’
Davies put the phone down. ‘That’s that bit done, anyway,’ he said.
‘He’ll go, won’t he? He’ll not let you down?’
‘He’ll go. He’ll probably be so well hidden he’ll see nothing, but he’ll go.’
Jemma regarded him solemnly. ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea if you threw yourself at the mercy of the police,’ she suggested.
‘I can’t! You know that.’ His hand touched her face. His voice dropped. ‘… They’d throw the book at me. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe the cars will arrive and the drivers put up cosily at the Seashore Hotel in Weymouth, like they do on their legal run.’
‘Not even a call to the drug squad?’
He shook his head. ‘It won’t be any good. As far as the Metropolitan Police are concerned, I’m a marked man.’
The telephone sitting on his lap rang so sharply that he threw it in the air like a bomb. It landed on his knees again and he picked up the headset. ‘Hello.’
‘Is that Mr Davies … Insurance?’
‘Yes, Davies, Insurance speaking.’
‘This is Askew, Department of the Environment. We talked at Weymouth quay …’
‘Yes, Mr Askew.’
‘The parties you’re interested in are definitely booked on the ferry to arrive here at nine this evening. I checked for you.’
‘Oh, you did. That’s very kind.’
‘I thought I might be of further help. Naturally I don’t know the nature of your investigations … business … but I think I can help. I’ll show you a few short cuts. I can even get aboard the ferry before she docks, while she’s out in the bay. We can go aboard the pilot cutter. Are you interested?’
‘I think I might well be.’
‘Right. I’ll pick you up at eight.’
In the late afternoon a dusky rim appeared on the western horizon, moving quickly and within an hour darkening the whole sky. The wind which pushed it convulsed the sea, and rain began to drop in heavy pellets. By seven o’clock a storm was in full voice. The shutters of the inn rattled and the curtains in their room were agitated. ‘It’s no night to go adventuring,’ grumbled Davies.
‘Great dramas are played out on nights like this,’ said Jemma, lying beside him. ‘Ask Shakespeare.’
Askew arrived promptly at eight, and with his overcoat up to his ears Davies hurried across the front yard and climbed into the waiting Land Rover. ‘How did you know I was staying here?’ he asked when they were driving east.
‘I saw your car in the front when I came by, after I’d been talking to you,’ said Askew.
‘It’s not easy to miss,’ conceded Davies. ‘I keep going to change it but my dog likes it. Are we going to be able to get out to the ferry before she docks? I’d like to get a good look at these characters before they get ashore.’
The rain was thick against the windscreens, the wipers swinging frantically. ‘You are a policeman, aren’t you,’ said Askew. It was scarcely a question.
‘Since you ask, yes,’ said Davies. ‘You spotted my funny walk, didn’t you.’
‘What is this? Drugs?’ asked the man.
‘Yes.’
‘It makes it easier that you are a policeman because it gives us more elbow in getting on the pilot boat. An insurance man might be difficult to explain.’
‘I don’t want this getting too official,’ said Davies, alarmed. ‘It’s a bit of an undercover effort.’
‘I see. Well, just to get on to the pilot landing and to go out on the pilot boat is always difficult. They’re naturally security conscious like everybody else these days. God, you ought to see it at the Department of the Environment. On the other hand, if somebody wants to get out to the incoming ferry, the pilot cutter may well pick them up off-shore. Then it’s not so official, nobody has to sign things or know the reason why.’
‘That sounds more like it,’ said Davies. ‘The more unofficial the better.’
‘I’m enjoying this,’ said Askew frankly. ‘A bit of skulduggery. Checking vehicles on and off ferries gets incredibly dull.’ He laughed. ‘One day I’ll be able to boast about it. There’s a rumour that it’s tied up with that chap who was found drowned on the Bank last year, the Swiss. Is that true?’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Davies. ‘Everybody
around here knows so much, I’m beginning to feel like a tail-ender.’
The storm was unabated when Askew turned the vehicle on to a concrete platform overlooking the Chesil Bank. Gusts of rain blew straight in from the unseen sea. ‘You’ll need to run,’ said Askew. ‘We go down the beach to the fisherman’s landing. There’s a hut there, so we can shelter. I’ve fixed for this chap to take us out to the pilot cutter in his boat. I’ll lead the way. Don’t fall on the pebbles. They hurt.’
He jumped from the Land Rover. Davies followed him. The rain was pounding and he ducked his head and began to run after the big crouched figure ahead. Now, even above the wind, he could hear the growl of the breakers and the rattling of the stones as the sea fell back to gather itself for a further rush.
Despite the warning he stumbled and swore a couple of times. The lights of Weymouth were shimmering as though through water on the horizon ahead. ‘Are you all right?’ shouted Askew.
‘Fine. It’s just a broken leg,’ called back Davies after once more tripping over the slanting pebles.
Askew waited for him. ‘He’s not here yet,’ he said. ‘The chap with the boat. He shouldn’t be long.’ As he said it, he himself stumbled forward and tripped. Something fell on to the pebbles and bounced with a metallic clatter. Davies knew it was a gun.
‘Damn, my lighter!’ exclaimed Askew. He began feeling about in the dark, almost on his hands and knees.
‘You must smoke heavy cigarettes,’ said Davies. He moved towards Askew and the big man, with a surprisingly agile spring, came up from ground-level and punched Davies on the side of the head. It would have been the chin but Davies was slithering sideways. He fell down a slope, the small pebbles avalanching after him. Askew was still frantically searching for the gun in the pitch-darkness. Davies got up and charged up the slope at him. The man hit him again and knocked him into the next trough. Now he abandoned his search for the gun and came down powerfully after the policeman. Davies saw him looming above him and flung a handful of small pebbles in his face.
Askew cried out and staggered back, the moving slope causing him to tip backwards. Davies jumped up and flung himself on him. They rolled, hugged together down the incline to the edge of the sea. A powerful roller, black as the night itself but breaking into clouds of dull white, crashed up the beach and engulfed them. Still clutching each other, they felt themselves being torn away from the Bank by the huge undertow. Davies’s overcoat wrapped itself around him like an octopus. He hung on to Askew.
‘Let go, you stupid bastard!’ bawled Askew. ‘We’ll both drown.’
They released each other simultaneously and each managed to crawl on slipping, sliding hands and knees up the cascading shingle to the first platform of pebbles. Panting and soaked, they faced each other. As though by tacit agreement each pulled his encumbering overcoat off. They then closed with each other again.
Jemma had watched from the streaming casement as the Land Rover had picked up Davies and driven into the stormy dark. Uneasily she finished dressing then went down to the dining-room. She sat with the gale shaking the window at her elbow, the rain flung with the fury of the sea itself. The girl from behind the bar brought her the pencilled menu and she sat, troubled, with a glass of wine, watching the storm. As she ate she saw the knot of lights out to sea that she guessed was the approaching ferry. She wondered if Davies would be seasick. He probably would.
‘How far out does the pilot boat go to meet the ferry?’ she asked the girl.
‘That I don’t rightly know,’ she answered. ‘I’ll find out.’
There were only half a dozen people in the bar at that early hour. In one of the corner benches sat an old couple, solidly sipping Guinness. The woman nudged the man as if to stop him saying something, but he nevertheless called over to Jemma whom he could just see under the arch formed by the old beams.
‘What did you ask, miss? About the ferry?’
‘I wondered how far the pilot boat had to go out to meet it. I know someone going out there tonight and it’s bound to be rough.’
The man seemed in no hurry to reply. He took a drink from his glass and, having swallowed it, said: ‘There ain’t no pilot boat, miss.’
Jemma got up from the table and went towards him. The couple were startled. ‘How do you mean, no pilot boat?’
‘There ain’t,’ insisted the man. ‘Because there’s no pilot. The ferry comes and goes without one. The captain knows these waters like ’is own garden path. They don’t need no pilot.’
Jemma made for the door, calling ‘Thanks’ over her shoulder. She went to the bedroom, pulled on her coat and picked up Davies’s car keys from the dressing table. Briefly she touched the telephone but then took her fingers away. It might still be all right. It might have been a mistake. She hurried down the creaky stairs and went straight out into the gusting night.
She had never driven the old Vanguard and she had trouble backing it out of the inn yard. She kept thinking she ought to tell someone. But who was there to tell? Only the police. She decided to go alone.
The rain suddenly eased and a trace of moon came out, running between torn clouds. She drove determinedly along the coastal road, bordering the beach at one point, turning inland and curling through streaming lanes by stiles and cottages for another mile and eventually touching the beach again. A prolonged cloud space suddenly flooded the whole of the sea-shore with moonlight. She could see the galleries of silver waves ploughing against the shingle of Chesil Bank. She stopped the car once and hurried to the top of the Bank, looking along the length of the illuminated amphitheatre. The coloured lights of Weymouth shimmered in the distance.
Back in the car she drove straight and fast until, rounding a curve hung with a clutch of low, windbent trees, she saw the Land Rover parked clear of the shingle. She turned out the Vanguard’s headlights and pulled up against the other vehicle. Briefly she looked inside and then took off her shoes. Carefully she trod over the soaking pebbles, until she was in a gallery looking down to the next layer and the breaking sea. At once, immediately below her she saw a man on hands and knees. He was picking up something from the pebbles. In the wide moonlight she saw the silver glow of a gun. He was only yards away and she heard it click in his hand. He began to walk carefully, below her elevated place, and she saw he was advancing on a huddled mass on the beach.
Jemma crouched and crawled along her pebble gallery until she was ahead of the man. She could hear him cursing as he stumbled along the lower stage of shingle. Now, she guessed, they were both within feet of the heap on the Bank. Bent double she heard the man advancing. Then there was another stirring and Davies’s blurred voice saying: ‘So you found it.’
‘I found it,’ answered the man.
Jemma knew he was almost below her. She waited until he had stumbled past and then half rose from her concealment. He had his back to her now and Davies was another few paces in front, still half lying. Her stockinged feet moved swiftly over the small pebbles. She briefly wondered if he would hear her over the pounding of the breakers, but it was too late now anyway. Ahead of her Davies was struggling to his feet. The man lifted the gun.
‘Excuse me, Mr Askew,’ she said quietly from immediately behind his back.
He whirled around and she brought a heavy pebble in her hand down on to his forehead. He dropped at her feet, the gun clattering away on the stones.
‘Oh, Dangerous,’ she sobbed, stepping over the man and running to him. ‘You’re all wet.’
‘Christ,’ he breathed against her neck. ‘I was very nearly all dead.’ He kissed her, keeping one eye on the prostrate Askew. ‘I think it’s time someone called the police,’ he said.
‘We’re both going,’ she told him firmly. ‘God knows where the gun went. Leave him here. The police will find him.’
Arms about each other they staggered up the beach to the cars. Davies opened the vent and let the air out of one of the front tyres of the Land Rover. ‘Try blowing into that,’ he muttered.
His neck and nose were bleeding, his nose copiously, his face was bruised, and there was a cut on his head. He began shivering with the wet cold. ‘I’ll drive,’ she said, helping him into the Vanguard. ‘We’ll go back and ring the police.’
She started the heavy engine and backed out on to the road. ‘Thanks for turning up, darling,’ he said fervently as he lay back against the head-rest. ‘I thought that was goodbye.’
‘Anything for you,’ she said, heading the car back to the inn.
‘That stone you hit him with was like a house-brick,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t find anything larger than a marble on that bit of the beach.’
‘I brought it with me,’ she said.
Sixteen
‘Nice havin’ a while in London,’ said the young police driver conversationally over his shoulder. ‘I got an auntie at Shepherd’s Bush. I can go and see ’er.’
The older man in the seat beside the driver was on the radio. ‘Car H for Hardy T for Tess. Dorset Police, special escort. We’re just approaching M3. Location of suspect’s car, please. Over.’
He turned to his colleague. ‘You’ve not got no auntie in Shepherd’s Bush,’ he said mockingly. ‘It’s that old slag you met when you was on Miners’ Strike duty.’
‘She’s my auntie,’ insisted the driver primly. ‘I ought to know.’
The radio cackled. ‘Hello, Dorset Police, special escort, car H.T. … Your suspects have just passed our check at Basingstoke, heading for London. Speed seventy.’
‘That’s very law-abiding,’ said Jemma.
‘They’ll not want to be nabbed for speeding,’ said Davies. His nose had begun to bleed again. She handed him a pillowcase. The inn had been short of bandages but had been generous with substitutes. ‘Does your eye ache?’ she asked gently.
‘Like hell,’ he replied. ‘Both. He had the biggest fists I’ve ever known and I’ve known a few.’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 45
