Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1)

by James White

  She stood looking at him, a tear beginning to well in the corner of her eye. It broke his heart. He pulled her round to the shore-side of the boat and pointed at the gangplank. “Please, Clara, go. I love you.”

  She looked at him, bit her bottom lip, looked at the gangplank then back at Nick and wiped away a tear. “My coat…”

  “Forget your coat. We’ll come back for it. Go!” he commanded and gave her a little push.

  “Nick.” She turned to him, eyes ablaze with anguish. “Forget this. Come with me. Let’s go.”

  But he wasn’t listening. He gave her another push. “Go!” he shouted.

  As if in a daze, she tottered off. The officers at the plank asked her if she was all right. Nick saw her nod and sniff without saying anything, then, holding the rail, she carefully made her way down the plank. Halfway down, she stopped and looked back, right at Nick, her face frozen in an uncertain half-smile. Nick smiled back at her and nodded. She turned away and carefully skittered off the plank. He watched her walk slowly up the pier and onto the Embankment. She hailed a passing cab and clambered in without looking back. Nick allowed himself a sigh of relief. The relief didn’t last long, though; men were casting off the ropes. They scrambled aboard and the gangplank was lowered away, the rail secured. They were leaving.

  They’d obviously decided that Nick probably wasn’t police, which, Nick had to admit, really wasn’t such an unfair supposition. He’d run on without a coat or hat then evaded all attempts to speak to the crew. The captain probably had to sail with the tide. Nick wasn’t terribly up on boats; he’d never really liked them since a disastrous sailing holiday on the Norfolk broads as a very young child, the chief memory of which was lying on the damp bottom of a wooden clinker-built yacht being violently sick for days on end. He’d then avoided them until sailing to France. Since then he’d made a conscious effort to avoid waterborne transport when possible. As the boat slowly pulled away and the gap between the quay and the boat widened into an oily black chasm of frothing water, he reflected that on this occasion he’d just have to make do.

  He was dying for a drink, but he couldn’t risk going to the bar. He’d stand out too much without black tie and who knew how many of the crew had been alerted to the presence of the bogus policeman? Instead, he worked his way back inside, keeping his head bowed and crouching slightly to drop below head height of the other revellers. Sticking to the curved edges of the room as much as he could, Nick took his time, slowly working his way round, scanning the faces once more, but this time looking for someone altogether different.

  Under his feet, the deck trembled and he could feel the pulse of the engines running through the boat, even above the stamping of the dancing feet. This was no way to travel and Nick could feel the first uncomfortable rumblings in his stomach as the boat began to sway as it moved farther out into the flow of the dark river.

  Nick breathed deeply and paused at a bulkhead. This was impossible. He didn’t feel good and he was not only trying to find someone on board this boat crammed with hundreds of people all moving around as they circulated between bars, but also trying to avoid being collared by the crew. He’d just had a narrow escape, managing to duck from the inner corridor to the outer deck as a sailor walked past. He sucked in the cold night air and watched the dark, southern bank of the Thames drift by. Nick stood by the railing for a while. Behind him were the bridges and lights of London. Big Ben stood shining in the darkness framed by the strings of lights running along the Embankment. A pale yellow glow hung above the city, between the low, dark clouds and the rooftops. He’d give anything to be back on dry land, safe, with Clara. The thought of her spurred him on. He wanted to get this done before Greenwich.

  Re-entering the interior of the boat, Nick picked his way gingerly down a steep staircase towards the bowels of the vessel. He’d entered another, smaller and altogether quieter room, some sort of snug. It was richly carpeted, had oak-panelled walls, oil paintings and a small bar. Here comfortable armchairs sat round small table and there was a low hubbub of conversation as people rested from the dancing, the thudding footsteps of which could be heard on the ceiling directly above. The room was well lit and Nick was still in the darkness of the small passage outside, so he could scan the room. Then he saw them – Jurgen and his companion Gunther Braun. Nick cursed inwardly; he’d been expected Jurgen alone. A small leather folder, like an orders case, sat on the table between them. That had to be it. It was fairly thick, probably waterproof, Nick guessed. The men seemed in good spirits. They had brandies and were chatting animatedly, not really paying attention to the room or their surroundings. As far as they were concerned they were as good as gone, home safe if not quite dry. Well, Nick would soon change that.

  He took a quick look around. The other drinkers were mainly couples, some older men; most were sitting, a few standing idly as they drank. Jurgen and Gunther were at an angle from the door. If they didn’t look directly up they shouldn’t see him. Nick looked behind him. The staircase he’d come down looked to be the only way leading directly back onto the deck. There was another door off the lounge, but that might take him deeper into the ship. Once he had the plans, he had nowhere to go, except to the captain. Once he showed him the contents of that wallet, he’d be sure to hold the Germans and turn the boat around. Nick hoped so anyway. Unless he was in on it of course. Nick paused and thought. Rendezvousing boats at night wasn’t easy. What were the German’s proposing to do? Jump overboard or have a boat alongside? The captain and crew would need to help surely. Nick bit his lip. He couldn’t risk it. He took a deep breath. There was only one thing to do, but he’d have to be fast.

  Nick eased the Luger out of his pocket and held it down by his side, hoping that no one would look down as he crossed the lounge. His heart was beating hard as he eased the safety off. Gunther was the man facing him and he looked up in surprise as Nick reached their table. That surprise turned to alarm and he jerked in the seat as if making to stand, but Nick raised his arm part of the way so the man could see the pistol. Jurgen had whirled at Gunther’s sudden movement, hand darting to the inside of his jacket and now he sat, twisted, glaring at Nick.

  “Gentlemen, good evening,” Nick smiled. His left hand reached out for the wallet but Jurgen slammed his hand down on it. Nick turned slightly so the barrel of the Luger pounded directly at the seated man. “I won’t miss from here and it’ll make a hell of a mess. Ah ah!” he cautioned as Gunther made to move again.

  Jurgen made a show of relaxing back slightly in his chair, his eyes hooded, but his body remained tense. “Nick, how nice to see you. I trust you’re not going to do anything stupid to ruin our evening, or your life?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s nothing personal. Someone wants these back.” He lifted the wallet from under Jurgen’s stiff hand and clumsily tucked it under his free arm.

  “Nick, don’t be silly. There’s no way off this boat. We’re both armed and the captain has been handsomely paid to take us to our rendezvous. It’s over. Let us slip away and you can sit and enjoy a drink.”

  “’Fraid not. Call it professional pride, or call it self-preservation, but I have to get these documents back.”

  “Nick, you won’t get off this boat, I promise you that. Even if you did, then what?” Jurgen spread his hands. “It is a matter of principle; I would have to come after you.”

  “Principles are such tricky things. Look at the mess it’s got us into,” replied Nick, backing away from the table carefully, the gun still held up at an angle. As he moved back, both men strained upright in their seat, Gunther already reaching into his inside pocket.

  “Don’t!” Nick warned. “I won’t hesitate to shoot, you know that. Why don’t you enjoy the evening and then head home? You know you’re a wanted man back in London anyway.”

  To Nick’s surprise, Jurgen gave a laugh. “Am I? Am I indeed?” He shook his head. “Poor Nick. You really don’t know do you.” He stood slowly, a smile on his face as Nick backed away th
rough the tables trying to look inconspicuous. “You’ve been played my friend, played like a fool. Wanted? Sure, go ask Carruthers, go ask him who’s wanted.” He laughed again. Nick kept backing away. Jurgen hadn’t moved forward. Gunther was looking at his companion for some kind of command. Nick kept moving.

  “Nick, do you really know who your friends are?” boomed Jurgen.

  Suddenly a dancing couple crossed the space between Nick and the two men, oblivious to the stand off. Nick saw the two Germans leap up, so he turned and ran for the door, hearing the shouts of indignation and crash of glasses go up behind him. He was up the steps in two bounds, cannoning off an old man he sent flying. Nick stumbled, nearly dropping the wallet. He crashed into the guard rail and whirled. A shout went up and ahead of him he saw two sailors charge towards him. Behind him he could hear the two Germans pounding up the stairs.

  “Shit!” Nick exclaimed and hurled himself over the rail.

  The shock of the freezing cold water exploded the air from his lungs. He hit the water hard. He couldn’t see the water properly from the boat and he hit it awkwardly, winding himself. Just as his brain was overcoming the shock of his body being suddenly immersed in icy water, he registered that he was sinking. Nick had let go of the Luger as he’d hit the surface, but somehow kept hold of the attaché folder. He could feel the currents and chop of the water pulling him this way and that as he sank slowly down. Nick kicked desperately for the surface, his lungs burning. The weight of his suit was pulling him back and it seemed to take an age to break the surface of the water. He gasped again as he hit the fresh air and gulped in a single lungful before his head was covered by the chop of the waves and he started to sink. Kicking frantically, Nick struggled back to the surface and started to wriggle out of his jacket. The boat was already some way ahead of him, a glimmering beacon of light moving fast away from him in the darkness. Suddenly the river seemed very big. He could barely see the banks on either side and the water was as inky black as the night. He could just make out faces crowded at the stern rail as he got the jacket off. He turned and started to kick out for the north shore as he saw the boat slow and begin to angle into a turn.

  They’d come back to look for him of course; it was man overboard. They probably didn’t even know who. He had to get to shore before they found him, or before he drowned. He clumsily started swimming. Nick was a good swimmer; it was being on the water he disliked, not being in it, but doing the crawl while holding the folder was ponderous. He seemed to be making no headway against the swirling waters of the Thames, but it was difficult to tell; he could barely see the shoreline. Suddenly he became aware of something else, something in the water closing on him. There was a tug on his leg and his head went under. Someone clawed at him, grabbed at his shoulder, pushed him downwards. Nick’s eyes were wide open under the water but he could see nothing in the murk, just feel the bulk pushing down on him. Nick kicked fruitlessly with his legs; his breath was starting to go. Then the pressure released slightly. He felt a hand tearing at the folder. Nick stopped panicking, grabbed the man and pulled himself up along his body, his free hand searching, clawing until he found the man’s face. Nick broke the surface just as his hand found Gunther’s eyes. The two men were face-to-face for a split instant, terror in both their countenances as they battled in the icy waters. Nick was momentarily faster, his fingers dug deep into Gunther’s eye. The man screamed, letting go of Nick and grabbing at Nick’s arms. In an instant Nick took advantage, pushing Gunther’s head down. Struggling to keep his own head above water, Nick kept up the pressure as the man thrashed beneath him. He kept that downward force up for a long time after the struggling ceased. Nick let go. The lifeless body bobbed facedown beside him.

  Away, downstream, the boat ahead completed its turn. Nick could see the phosphors bow wake as it stemmed back upriver. He still had the folder and wearily kicked for the shore.

  CHAPTER 18

  Nick made firm ground and hauled himself onto the small stretch of muddy beach. Out in the night, the boat had slowed, passengers lined the rail, pallid faces scanning the water as lights from the boat criss-crossed the turbulent brown sludge of the river. Nick began to shiver. He stood up and paced along the riverbank walls until he found a metal ladder fixed in the towering bank. He painfully hauled his way up it, pausing to retch up some of the foul water he’d swallowed in his struggle. He didn’t even want to think about what might be lurking in it.

  Reaching the top, he dragged himself over the small wall and lay exhausted on the pavement. Above him the clouds scudded past giving the briefest glimpsed of the stars above them, his body started to shiver uncontrollably now and he reluctantly pulled himself to his feet. He looked at the leather folder in his hand. He hoped it was worth it.

  Shaking uncontrollably, Nick managed to flag a passing taxi. The man tried to refuse to take him when he realised Nick was sopping wet, but Nick refused to get out and waved a sodden bank note. He had the taxi drop him off just around the corner from his flat and squelched the remainder of the way though the dark, quiet streets on foot. He knew his home would be being watched, but he was beyond caring. He needed dry clothes, a gun and a drink, not necessarily in that order. Sure enough, there was the all-too-familiar car parked up the street with a man sitting at the wheel. Nick trudged up the middle of the road, weaving slightly to appear like a drunk. As he drew level with the car, he suddenly lunged at the door. The man turned his head in shock just in time to connect with Nick’s fist. It had been a peach of a punch, right on the point of the jaw; the guy was going to be out for a while. Nick reached in and took the key from the ignition as he laid the man out. Now he wouldn’t get any unexpected visitors, at least for a short while.

  Nick shook his head when he saw the flat; it had been turned upside down. He scarcely cared who’d done it, but at least his drinks cabinet was still intact. Teeth chattering, he slipped out of his shirt and poured a large Scotch that slipped down in one. As its warmth hit him he felt better already. He stepped out of the rest of his clothes, poured another drink and set the bath running. Returning to the drinks cabinet, he lifted the lid to reveal a sunken area for the bottles. He pulled them out and lifted the wooden floor piece. Nestled there in a hidden recess was the small snub shape of the Mauser. Nick pulled it out, checked the magazine and put it on the chair. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but the way things were going he was pretty sure he would.

  As the bath topped up, he retrieved from various hiding places a brass knuckleduster and a small, thin, bladed stiletto knife and laid them all on the chair. He was still shivering. Deciding he couldn’t wait for the bath to fill all the way up, he jumped in and submerged himself under the water, which to his disgust turned a murky brown as the river grime came off him. Emptying the bath, he splashed more water over himself until he felt fully clean.

  It took him only minutes to dry himself and get dressed. He shaved and splashed on some cologne. Smoothing his hair back with pomade, he sat down in the lounge and lit a cigarette. He wondered how long he had here. Not too much longer. He opened the folder and shook it out. Everything inside was damp, so it hadn’t been that waterproof. Sure enough, two sets of negatives fell out, together with a sheaf of prints. The water hadn’t done them much good at all. He toyed with the idea of burning the lot then and there, but thought better of it. Carruthers wanted them, Carruthers was going to get them. He was the type of guy who would never believe that Nick had just burned them.

  Slipping on his jacket, Nick stuffed the photos into the inside pocket together with the two sets of negatives. He slipped the small pile of weapons into different pockets then crossed to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, he dialled a number.

  “Yes?” came a sleepy voice.

  “I’ve got what you wanted. All of it.”

  “Nick?” The voice sounded more awake.

  “Yep. I’ve got the lot, damned near died doing it, too. We meet now, you tell me where Stephen is, or better still, bring him, I han
d these over, we’re done. Deal?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Carruthers? Deal?”

  Carruthers cleared his throat. “Deal. Where are you?”

  “Never mind. How quickly can you get Stephen?”

  “Quickly.”

  “Good. Pick him up and meet me at the Phoenix Club on Charing Cross Road in fifteen minutes.”

  Carruthers started to protest but Nick cut him off.

  “Phoenix in fifteen minutes. You come with Stephen but otherwise alone. I’ll tell the doorman to look out for you. He won’t let anyone else in. If he’s made to then I’ll get tipped off and I’ll be gone, along with those photos. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Carruthers. No tricks. This is it.”

  “Sure, Nick.”

  The line went dead.

  Minutes later, Nick was back out in the cold night, cigarette stuck between his lips. He made a mental note that he would have to swing by The Blue Rose at some point to retrieve his hat and coat. It was getting too chilly to wander round without them. He crossed Oxford Street and ambled down through Soho Square. He was just nearing the alleyway that cut through onto Charing Cross Road at the Pillars of Hercules when he heard running footsteps behind him. He turned, but too late. There was an almighty thwack on his head, a flash of light and everything went dark.

  “He’s coming round.”

  Nick winced at the sound of the gruff voice. He blinked and winced. His head throbbed. He really had to stop getting clocked like this. His mouth was dry with the familiar feeling of nausea. He didn’t have to try to move his hand to know that they were tied behind him. He was sitting on a chair in what looked like an office. His blurred vision was clearing enough to make out a dim green lamp on a desk. He winced and blinked hard to try to clear his vision. He could make out the bulk of someone behind the desk.