Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  “Now Gentlemen, I have telephone calls to make, so I’ll bid you both a good afternoon. Captain Armand, let’s get this boat moving.”

  * * * Dillon took his time walking the short distance up the road to the rented lodge. He was seeing for himself, the reason why Nathan Cunningham had moved from London to the natural beauty of the island. The picture postcard scenery that surrounded the few luxury properties perched above him on the hillside, had spectacular views overlooking the small bay below and was breathtaking.

  He rounded a corner, and came to a narrow gravel track that led him to the front gate of the former Fisherman’s Lodge which would be his home for the foreseeable future. Five minutes later the Range Rover pulled up in the driveway. Dillon unlocked the front door, spoke briefly to Vince, and then walked off around the outside of the single storey building leaving his team mate to settle in.

  On the seaward side, the vegetation in the garden was extremely lush, protected by willowy trees that gently swayed with the light breeze coming off the English Channel. He paused at the cliff’s edge, taking in the uninterrupted view over the harbour, and decided that was far better than he could have wished for. Looking down he noticed that although overgrown, steps had been cut into the rocks, and appeared to lead all the way to the water’s edge below. More importantly, Rob Chapman’s place, could be seen, sitting sentry like on top of a rocky outcrop with easy access to it along the pebble beach.

  Taking a pair of binoculars from his holdall he took a closer look at the unusual round building. As he would have expected, there were bright blue diving suits hanging over the safety railings of an upper terrace. A black double cab pick up truck with air bottles lined up in the back was parked at the front, and the only real indicator that there was someone at home. Otherwise the place looked empty and desolate.

  At the other end of the bay, he could see that the harbour was now bustling with holidaymakers milling around and taking photographs. Along the high sea wall, and protected behind a high concrete walkway running its entire length, a dozen or so tiny wooden fishermen’s huts stood huddled like stationary railway carriages. The shutters of a few were thrown open, and some of the local fishermen were sitting on small wooden stools outside evidently enjoying the fine weather while methodically checking and repairing their nets, in readiness for the next day.

  Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost three-thirty, he started to turn away to go inside when he saw movement over at Rob Chapman’s place. Through the binoculars he could see a man lifting the air bottles out of the back of the black pickup truck. It was Chapman in shorts and tee shirt very tanned with spiky blond hair. Dillon recognised the man instantly from a photograph that Annabelle had shown him, just before he left London. After a few minutes he walked through a gateway in the wall, and disappeared from view.

  Unzipping the holdall, Dillon replaced the binoculars, and stood for a brief moment at the cliff edge staring out to sea, deep in thought. The spell was only broken when there was a knock and the next moment Vince came ambling through the French doors with a large gin and tonic in his hand. Kate Jackson came through just behind him, complete with a wicker picnic basket under her arm. Dillon turned to greet her.

  “I hope you don’t mind Mr Dillon? But Annabelle asked me to drop by with this.” She placed the basket onto the small circular patio table. “It’s only a few items of food that you might find useful until you get to a shop.”

  Dillon walked across the garden, and lifted the lid with one hand and peered inside. “That girl’s got good taste, Miss Jackson.” He picked up the bottle of Bollinger, and handed it to Vince. “Go, and put this on ice, Mr Sharp.”

  Vince automatically assumed his role of the dutiful employee, and sloped off inside with the Champagne. Kate Jackson walked to the end of the garden, and stood watching the waves roll gently over the jagged rocks in mesmerising relays. The sandy beach below, becoming a maelstrom of churning sand and foam as each one in turn tripped over itself in the rush to be dragged back out to sea.

  “In times of old, this bay like many others was used by smugglers, Mr Dillon,” She said looking straight at him.

  “There are hidden caves all along this side of the island, you know?”

  “I’ve not really seen much of the island yet, Miss Jackson. But I’m very pleased to hear you say that. Especially as I intend to dive quite a lot while I’m here,” he commented casually.

  “Well in that case you must take a look at Wolf’s Caves. They’re just around the headland towards St. John’s Bay. Oh, and don’t forget Devil’s hole at Les Reuses. But I assume that you’re an experienced diver, Mr Dillon? Because the waters hereabouts are some of the most dangerous in the world.”

  “Oh, I’ve been diving for many years. And, I’m fully aware of just how dangerous these waters can be. that’s why I’m going to have a chat with Rob Chapman. Annabelle, told me that he was one of the best divers on the island, and knows these waters like the back of his hand. Is that true, Miss Jackson?”

  Dillon felt her eyes scrutinising him in an odd sort of way. He didn’t like it, and yet she had aroused his curiosity, and an uncertainty about her. A nagging question as to why she was making small talk, especially after her earlier outburst toward him. Also, her body language had stiffened, and had become almost wooden at the mention of Rob Chapman’s name.

  “Well I’m sure that if Annabelle has said that about Mr Chapman, then it must be correct. But no matter how experienced you may be Mr Dillon, many divers have lost their lives in these waters. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be getting along. The café reopens shortly for the evening trade.”

  Dillon showed her out through a gate at the side of the lodge, watching her as she walked away up the gravel lane. Wondering why she should be so concerned for his safety.

  Rounding the corner at the back of the building, Dillon found Vince sat on the terrace in a robust looking wooden steamer chair. Resplendent under the dangling corks of his Australian bush hat. He was now in a state of languor, sipping his second or possibly third gin and tonic of the day. Looking up briefly, he sipped his drink before settling back in the chair to resume his lethargy, and worship of the sunshine that was filtering through the trees. Dillon laughed aloud, knocking the old leather bush hat off his friend’s head with a flick of his hand, as he went by on his way to the kitchen. Returning a moment later with the bottle of chilled Bollinger in one hand, and two slender glasses in the other.

  They sat outside until it was dark, drinking the Champagne, discussing the assignment. By the time they’d emptied the bottle, and finished off most of the food from the hamper, millions of tiny stars were clearly visible in the clear night sky. But they didn’t see the Solitaire as she came around the headland at Belle Hougue, and dropped anchor about five hundred metres away in Gifford Bay.

  Malakoff stood on the bridge of the luxury yacht with, Captain Armand beside him.

  “So, they’ve rented one of the properties on the hill, Monsieur?”

  “So it would seem, Armand. That in itself is very interesting.” He thought about it, stroking his chin between forefinger and thumb, and then made a decision. A moment later, Malakoff entered the salon where, Kurt was leaning over the long oak dining table, a detailed map of Jersey was laid out on the polished surface in front of him.

  As his employer walked into the room he immediately stood up and snapped to attention, Malakoff breezed past him and sat down heavily in one of the leather easy chairs.

  The former German special forces sergeant poured out a large brandy, and took it to where Malakoff was sitting. Placing it on the arm of his chair, he withdrew back to the table without saying a word.

  Malakoff looked up at his bodyguard, and said. “I would like you to go ashore tonight. Take one of the others with you.”

  “What is it you require of me, Mien Herr?”

  “Firstly, I want you to take a little look at Dillon’s boat. See what equipment is on board. Then go and find o
ut where he and this other fellow Sharp are staying. Should Mr Dillon go out then follow him. The same applies to his oversized friend of course, and do not underestimate him, Kurt. Don’t forget, he is with Dillon for a reason.”

  “Should I introduce myself to Dillon, Mien Herr?” Kurt asked optimistically.

  “Only if the opportunity arises, Kurt,” Malakoff smiled. “Oh, and if it does, please ensure to make a lasting impression.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Mien Herr.” Kurt said pouring himself a mineral water.

  Dillon felt restless as he always did at the start of an assignment. Had showered, and slipped into a pair of casual linen trousers and a soft blue cotton shirt. He’d walked the short distance down the hill to the harbour, went up the steps, glanced quickly around the room full of people as he entered and was now sitting at the bar of Annabelle’s Café and Bistro.

  The atmosphere inside had completely changed since his earlier visit. With the evening darkness came intimate lighting, and tables that now had red and white chequer covers upon them. He’d never cared for the usual beer or lager so he settled for a vodka, lime and soda which the genial Portuguese bartender promptly mixed and placed on a small round wooden mat in front of him.

  A small group of men and women were finishing their meal at one of the tables overlooking the bay, and way out to sea he could see the lights of passing ships on the horizon. It always made him feel good inside, almost to the point of forgetting why he had been sent to Jersey, and the job that he had to do. As he finished his drink, Vince walked in and ordered two more.

  “Thought I’d come and keep you company, chap. Shall we eat?”

  “But we’ve already eaten.”

  “What? That was merely a snack, and a man must have sustenance, Jake. Just smell that garlic, and the lobster looks exquisite.”

  Dillon had to admit, the food did smell and look delicious and eventually gave in to Vince’s persistence. They ordered the lobster, no Champagne but a fine bottle of Italian Pinot Grigio white completed the experience.

  Kurt waited patiently on the sea wall, concealed by one of the small wooden huts While Pierre took a closer look around the outside of the café. Five minutes later he reappeared out of the darkness.

  “Well, did you see him?”

  “He’s inside with the other one, and from the look of it they’ve just finished eating.”

  “Sounds like they may be leaving soon, Frenchman. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves as they come out?” Kurt said with a malicious smirk.

  They started to make their way along the sea wall towards the beach. Kurt suddenly halted, putting an outstretched arm across Pierre’s chest, and pushed him sideways into the shadows of a nearby hut.

  “Wait, that man going up the steps of the café, it’s Chapman the diver. What is he doing here?” The tall German peered around the corner of the hut, Rob Chapman had gone inside, and was now sitting at the bar.

  “This changes things completely, Dillon could be in there for hours if he starts talking to him. Herr Malakoff will not be at all pleased with this development.”

  “How do you know that it’s Chapman?” Pierre asked.

  “Never mind how I know, Frenchman. Just do as I say, and stop asking stupid questions, you asshole. Now follow me, we’re going inside for a drink.”

  Dillon noticed Rob Chapman walk in, and go straight to a vacant stool at the end of the bar and wait until the bartender was free to serve him.

  “I’ll have my usual please, Afonso.”

  “No problem, Senor Chapman. One Jack Daniel’s on ice, coming up.”

  The barman placed the drink in front of him, and then went and served another customer. Chapman shifted slightly on his stool, looked around the busy bar, and then as he turned back to reach for his drink, became aware of Dillon staring in his direction and frowned.

  Dillon walked over to the bar, and ordered two brandies, turning to the man sat on the stool, he said. “You’re, Rob Chapman, right?”

  The other man looked wary. “And you are?”

  “Jake Dillon. I’m renting the old Fisherman’s Lodge up on the hill. Annabelle told me to look you up, and to say hello.”

  “Annabelle?” Chapman frowned. “When did you see, Annabelle?” He asked, with more than a little surprise in his voice.

  “This morning in London. In fact it was just before my friend,” Dillon pointed across the room at Vince, who was still sitting at the table, “and I left to come down here.”

  “I see, known Annabelle long, have you?”

  “Long enough.” Dillon said, and then changed the subject. “You’ve heard about her father’s accident?”

  “Yes of course, very unfortunate Nathan being run over like that. Annabelle phoned me a couple of days back, and told me all about it. So how is he?”

  “Still in a coma, I’m afraid. But the doctors seem to think that he’s going to be just fine. I believe you taught him to dive as well as introducing him to the mysteries of archaeology?”

  “Nathan could already dive, long before he came down to Jersey. All I did, was help him to rediscover how enjoyable it can be.”

  “And how did you manage to get him interested in scratching around in dirt?”

  “By that, I take it you mean, archaeology. Well that just happened. I was looking for help on the excavation that I’m working on, over at St. Lawrence. Nathan and I had got to know each other pretty well, and he was bored doing nothing. So, he came along with me one day, and that was well over a year ago. Anyway, that’s enough about me. So what brings you to Jersey, Mr Dillon?”

  “Diving, Mr Chapman, lots of diving.” Dillon savoured his brandy, and looked around the room. Kurt and Pierre were drinking beer at a small round table by a window. They were not looking directly at him, apparently engaged in conversation. Dillon’s eyes barely paused, moved on and yet something registered in his mind about them, perhaps it was the cropped hair or the hard battle scarred faces that they both sported.

  “And what are you two up to?” Dillon murmured, for he had seen trouble many times before during his time in army intelligence, and never believed in coincidence.

  Chapman finished his drink in one gulp, and put the glass down onto the bar, ready to order another. His eyes flashed bright blue in the tanned face as he grabbed the attention of the Portuguese bartender.

  “I’ll have a refill when you’re ready please Afonso, and another of whatever Mr Dillon is drinking.”

  “Coming up, Senor Chapman.”

  Afonso brought the Jack Daniel’s and the brandy, and Chapman said, “So you’re here for the diving are you?”

  “That’s right. My friend and I arrived here this morning.”

  “Would that be your twenty-six footer parked in the harbour?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Well it’s not your run of the mill sport fisherman, now is it?”

  “Point taken.” Dillon said wryly.

  “Is it the wrecks you’re looking for?”

  “Something like that.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “The thing, is I’m interested in doing a little diving, and Annabelle suggested that I spoke to you. Said you were the best, and that you know where all of the best sites are located.”

  “That’s Annabelle, always saying nice things about people.”

  “She also said that you’re the only diver on the island who her father would ever trust to dive with.”

  “Is that so?” Chapman took a swig of his drink. “Nathan is certainly a good diver, foolhardy, but still a good diver.”

  “Why do you say foolhardy?”

  “Diving alone is a dangerous and sometimes fatal pastime, and not to be recommended. Nathan is one of the worst offenders. I’ve known him to get up in the morning get on board the Nautical Lady, and just go. That’s his boat over there.” Chapman pointed towards the middle of the harbour. “The problem is that accidents can happen no matter how well you plan a dive. The waters around here are treacherous in the
best of conditions, what with the tidal movements and the strong currents.” Chapman drank some more of his Jack Daniel’s, and looked Dillon in the eye. “But, then I’d say you’re the sort of man who already knows this, Mr Dillon.”

  He had the easily likeable personality of someone who accepted life as it was, and not as it should be. There was no hurry in either his voice or his movements, and everything he said was carefully considered.

  Dillon said, “It’s ironic isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “That in all the time that Nathan dived alone in a potentially lethal environment, he should then be run over on a pedestrian crossing in London. Doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  Chapman said calmly, “You’re right, it’s a bit of a raw deal. But, do you know what? Nathan has a favourite saying. Treat each day as your last, because one day you’ll be right. You see, Nathan Cunningham is a pragmatic man, Mr Dillon, he knows exactly what risk he runs when he dives alone, and that’s the reason he does it.”

  “And you, Mr Chapman is that how you view life?”

  Chapman smiled. “So, you want to do some diving?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “Oh, I manage,” Dillon told him, “but I’m always willing to learn from a good teacher.”

  “Good, then I’ll meet you at the St. Helier marina at seven-thirty in the morning.”

  “Okay.” Dillon swallowed his brandy. “I’ll see you then.” He hesitated before turning to leave.

  “Tell me, have you ever seen those two men sitting over in the corner before?”

  “Never, they’re not holiday makers, that’s for sure. They could be off of that big power yacht that moored up in Gifford Bay earlier this evening.”

  “Gifford Bay?” Dillon’s ears instantly pricked up. “Why not anchor in Bonne Nuit?”

  “Not deep enough for this beauty, she must be sixtyfive to seventy feet long. By the look of the flags being flown, whoever owns it is French. Also, Gifford is a lot quieter, and there’s room to manoeuvre something of that size without fear of snagging on the bottom or colliding with another boat.”