Ship Ahoy! (A Cliffhanger Novel Book 3)

by T. J. Middleton

  My first instinct was to leg it, leave the Pimple like I’d never even been there, but the trouble was, I didn’t know if anyone had seen me on my way up. It could be a tricky one, to pretend I hadn’t been here only for it to come out later that I had, round about the time he’d lost the plot. Wouldn’t not look good that, not for a man of my reputation, and I’d been dead careful for the last few years. The trouble was I hadn’t tried to hide it, me meeting Gerald. Audrey had seen me come up this way, but that was no problem - she wasn’t in any position to tell anyone anything. But who else might have noticed? Alice Blackstock, scouring the skyline with her industrial strength binoculars? One of them pesky walkers? I hadn’t seen any, that’s for sure, but that didn’t mean to say there weren’t none around. They have a nasty habit of popping up from nowhere, walkers. Still, perhaps it was worth the risk. Putting myself in the frame was just asking for trouble. Yeah, maybe I should just go, pop back to the bungalow, put my feet up, pretend nothing had happened.

  Then I remembered. The second Mrs Durand-Deacon, her of the fluttering bee-hive, she knew I was meeting Gerald up here, heard him give me my marching orders, knew the time of it too. She was probably waiting for him somewhere right now, combing her eyelashes in the café down the cove, or in his car perhaps. Did he have a car? I had no idea, though there was no sign of one outside the bungalow. But what about his luggage in the spare en-suite? That put him right on my doorstep, probably put the police right on my doorstep too. This was getting trickier by the moment. Then there was the matter of the real Mrs Durand-Deacon, sitting in the Bindon,, twiddling her thumbs, waiting for hubby to turn up complete with her complimentary cruise tickets and what-not. What was I going to tell her? “You’ll never guess what’s happened, Mrs Durand Deacon, but you know that little job you wanted me to do, well your Gerald, he fell of that cliff of his own accord. Poetic justice or what?” Or should it be, “The thing was Mrs D-D, it was too good an opportunity to miss. One quick shove and that was it. What you call a pushover.” Either way it put me in her hands and I didn’t like the thought of that one little bit. And if that wasn’t enough, I still had to get Audrey out the country and Em back into the bungalow. All in all, Gerald Palmerstone had landed me right in it.

  I stood there, trying to plan my next move. Down below was Gerald and his butterfly net, and up here was his jacket and his rucksack with the killing jar and all his other butterfly gubbins. Anyone coming across them would jump to the right conclusion, that in his excitement chasing the Blue Bindon, poor old Gerald had got carried away and butterflied his way straight over the cliff edge. Nothing to do with me at all. The only trouble was my proximity. What I needed to do was to make like I was somewhere else when it happened, but I couldn’t see for the life of me how. If I left the jacket and rucksack where they were, it told everyone that this was the last place he’d been. If however I chucked them in with him, it removed him from the scene completely, at least until he was found, and there was a good chance he might not be found near here at all. The sea could take him to all the way to Portland Bill if it had a mind to. But, here was the thing. If I chucked them over with him and they were found, the police might start asking themselves, how come he took his rucksack along with him, if he wasn’t wearing it. I mean, half way down the cliff face he didn’t say, hang a moment I’ve left my rucksack behind did he? No. He carried on falling. And yet there they’d be, bobbing up and down next to him. Funny that. Of course, them currents can strip a body clean in fifteen minutes flat when they have a mind to, everyone round here knows that, so if they had any brains, they might come to the conclusion that he went chasing the Blue Bindon with his rucksack on, which would, natch, make him unbalanced, top heavy, a bit awkward on the pins when dancing the old butterfly-net fandango. In fact chucking the rucksack in with him might be the best option all round. And of course, there was always the possibility that if I threw the whole lot over, he might never be found at all, like poor old Robin’s mum never was. It would become a mystery, what happened to him. No one would know, save yours truly. Squaring it with the Durand-Deacon Twins was still going to be a problem, but as far as the D-D the First was concerned, she wanted it to it happen, didn’t she. We just had to settle on the time and the place. As for Busty Dusty, I could deal with her. Young women like that, they might have their aspirations, but they bend with whatever wind they think’s blowing.

  I’d made up my mind. Chuck the lot in.

  Before I did anything though, it made sense to go through his pockets, see what’s what: Inside right; a fountain pen and a wallet. Inside the wallet; three posh credit cards, one private health insurance, one driving licence, one membership card to the Grand Order of Toffee-nosed Butterfly Killers or whatever the crap name they gave themselves was, and two hundred and forty smackeroos, all in used notes. They could prove handy. In the left hand inside pocket he had one British passport, a swank envelope stuck inside, one tortoiseshell comb, and two tickets, dress circle to Gotterdammerung, courtesy of Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. I was tempted, ‘cause I’d never been to an opera in my life, least of all one of Richard W’s best efforts. The passport was made out to, well I never, Mrs Durand-Deacon the First, and a very bad-tempered photo she took too, her face all screwed up like she’d just trod in something warm, and in the envelope all the necessary papers she need to book her complimentary ticket on the Lady Di. In the left hand side pocket was a mobile phone, a handkerchief ponging of cheap perfume, and a front door key. In the right there was nothing but a pencil and a little notebook with a list of all the butterflies he’d poisoned over the years, the date, the time, location, species, the lot. I left twenty quid and pocketed the rest of the money, the passport and the opera tickets. Well, you never know.

  Time to do the dirty.

  I picked up the rucksack, went back to the cliff. He was still down there, but one of his legs had dropped into the water and was moving back and forth with the swell. I was home and dry. In a couple of hours the sea would carry him off, bash him about a bit, making it real difficult for anyone to put an exact time as to when he went in – or where. I moved up closer to the edge, ready to swing the rucksack round my head a couple of time, give it some welly. It was important that it landed in the sea. I didn’t want it to get caught on the chalk overhang going down. That wouldn’t look good at all. I gripped the strap tight, swung it round my back, and braced myself. Here we go again, I thought, me and the old Pimple. The things we’ve been through. I mean, did it do this to everyone? Perhaps there was some disgruntled chieftain buried under there after all, playing merry hell with our plans.

  I was just about the throw it when something made me look back over my shoulder. I don’t know why, ‘cause I couldn’t hear anything, but the moment I did, this poncy cyclist popped up over the hill, dolled up to the nines like he’d just been let loose from the Tour de France. It was typical of the breed. Cyclists weren’t allowed up there, no way. The Pimple was a Dorsetshire beauty spot, not some cross-country race track for international lycra-suited pedal-pushers. He came zooming in, his legs going up and down, this horrible Day-Glo one piece shining like Aladdin had rubbed it once too often, thick black goggles over his face and a stupid white rubber cap stretched tight over his head, with these grinning dolphins chasing each other round his forehead. I mean I ask you. What’s wrong with short sleeved Viyella shirt and a pair of bicycle clips?

  He stopped at the foot of the Pimple, stuck one of his tapered legs down and stared at me hard, like it was he who didn’t care to see me there. I didn’t like to look, but his legs, well, they were quite shapely. Muscular but shapely. A bit disconcerting that. I let the rucksack drop gently behind me. I couldn’t throw it in now, whatever happened. He’d seen it, I could tell. And if he came any nearer and looked down, I was done for. Jesus, was I going to have to chuck this prat off too?

  I had to get rid of him. Give him a taste of local hospitality.

  ‘You’re on the wrong side of the Channel, chu
m,’ I said. ‘You want the A351, then sharp right when you get to Southhampton. And use a bell why don’t you, so we can have our sunglasses at the ready for the glare. You do have a bell don’t you, or does it weigh too much, get in the way of the aero-dynamics?’

  He pulled the goggles up over his head.

  ‘What on earth’s going on, Al? What are you doing with that man’s rucksack?’

  ‘Audrey?’

  I couldn’t believe it. Leave her for five minutes and she goes AWOL, with no thought to the consequences. And those were my goggles she was wearing, the one I used to chain-saw my sharks. It was Emily’s shower cap too, I recognised it now, last seen hanging up on the multi-functional shower head in our private en-suite, though I never saw the point of a shower-cap myself. The thing about a shower is, you stand under it and let the water formation of your choice bounce up and down on your bonce and then run down hither and thither all over your body. That’s what makes it so much fun, the way it travels this way and that, the little rivers it makes. Stand there long enough and it looks like you’re pissing for England. If you don’t want to get your hair wet darling, take a fucking bath, or use soap and a flannel. Still, that didn’t excuse Audrey from borrowing it without permission and parading round the village in it. It was a bloody liberty. But that was Audrey all over. No sense of responsibility. I tried to keep my voice down.

  ‘Audrey!’ I said. ‘ What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I needed to get out. I was going mad, stuck in there, everything pressing in on me …well you know what it’s like. And you were right. Who would guess it was Audrey Cutlass in an outfit like this? I found the goggles hanging on that monstrosity of yours in our conservatory.’

  Our conservatory? She fiddled with Emily’s cap.

  ‘Anyway, you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing with that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The rucksack you’re trying to hide. You were going to throw it off, weren’t you? Why? What’s it got in it?’

  I’d seen that question coming.

  ‘The clobber you came in,’ I told her. ‘Thought I should get rid of it.’

  ‘Really? I thought you’d told me you’d fed them into one of those waste-disposal things. Anyway that isn’t your rucksack. That belongs to the chap who checked in last night. I recognise the big butterfly on the back. See?’

  I turned it round. There it was, large as a dinner plate. She tapped her foot.

  ‘Well? Come on, out with it.’

  Then it came to me, the solution to the problem, like those flashes of lightning, everything bright and clear. If I could just persuade her. I picked up the rucksack and took a step forward.

  ‘There’s been a bit of an accident,’ I said. ‘The chap what owns this, Gerald, well it’s hard to credit Audrey, but he’s just fallen off the cliff.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Honest, there was nothing I could do about it. One minute he was here, the next, he wasn’t.’

  ‘You mean you pushed him? Christ Al, what had this one done? Not wiped his feet on the mat?’

  ‘Nothing. It wasn’t like that. As I said, it was an accident.’

  ‘Just like the others, you mean. Don’t come any nearer! I’m getting out of here. You, you…’ She moved to other side of her bike.

  ‘Audrey. You’ve got to believe me. He was chasing this fucking butterfly and just ran right over. Look.’ I opened up the rucksack. ‘Here’s the jar he kills the little bleeders with, and if you look in his jacket, you’ll see a notebook where he writes it all down. I never pushed him. Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because for you it’s like giving up smoking. A bit of stress and you’re back on it. Over someone goes.’

  ‘Audrey, think about it. I’m putting my life in your hands here, telling you what happened. I needn’t have told you need I? I could have let go on your merry way without you knowing anything about it. I mean you weren’t about to go to the edge to take a peek down below, were you?’

  ‘Not with you around, no.’

  ‘Audrey, please. That’s all in the past. You know that. On my mum’s grave, I didn’t lay a finger on him.’

  Which was strictly true.

  She picked up the jacket, tested its weight in her hands. She was thinking it through. She knew how I felt about mum. I didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘What were you both doing up here in the first place?’

  Phew. I was over the hill.

  ‘He wanted to buy one of my sharks,’ I said. ‘He wanted it to be a surprise, for his wife. We couldn’t hardly discuss it in the bungalow with that other one in tow, could we? Hence the meet up here.’

  ‘He has one then, a wife?’

  ‘Course he has a wife. You knew that, first time you saw him.’

  She sniffed.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a fix, what with my past and unwarranted prejudices certain people still have of me.’

  I waited.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And had this thought. Take a look at that notebook. Time, date, location, species, he put down everything. Well, remember how brilliant you were at copying other people’s handwriting, how you used to do it to whoever crossed you? Doc Holiday, your old man, that maths teacher you got run out of the village. You’ve caused some proper mischief in your time using that particular skill.’

  ‘What of it?’ She was making me spell it out.

  ‘Can you still do it do you think?’

  ‘I could in prison. I used the governor’s signature all the time. That’s how I got to the nursery garden that day.’

  ‘Well I was just thinking, if you put in an extra entry in Gerald’s notebook for today, but put the time as four hours from now, then, when they found it, they’d put the time of his death after I’d been up here. I could go down to the Spread, have a few pints, give myself an alibi. What do you say?’

  She’d taken the book out of the jacket pocket. She had my bleeding driving gloves on too.

  ‘I’d say it was typical of you, dragging innocent parties into your murky carryings-on. I’d say what’s in it for me?’

  See, some people never change.

  ‘You could say those things Audrey. On the other hand you could also say that if you chose not to help out, there’s a strong possibility I’ll end up in Dorchester nick helping them with their inquiries instead of helping you. You could say, “Well what’s it to me. Thanks to him I’ll be out of the country in three days time and is there anything else I can do?”’

  That got to her.

  ‘What am I going to write it in, blood?’

  ‘There’s a pencil in there if you look. Just write like he does, about the Blue Bindon. He was mad on the Blue Bindon. That’s what he was chasing when…’

  ‘Yes I know. When he unaccountably fell off, like everyone else who comes within striking distance of you.’

  She sat down the slope of the Pimple.

  ‘Keep an eye out then. And if someone comes, give me a whistle. I don’t want to be caught doing this, OK?’

  She leafed through a few pages.

  ‘These entries are for butterflies he’s caught,’ she said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, if I write down the Blue What’s-it, 18.00, won’t it look a bit odd, the butterfly not being there.’

  ‘No, because by that time it should be in his killing jar, what’s going over the cliff with the rest of his stuff. I’ll smash it first, so it looks like it got broke on the way down.’

  ‘But leaving his jacket here?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a warm day. Lots of people carry their rucksack in their shirtsleeves in weather like this, their jackets or whatever stuck in the straps. Here’s what happened see. He’s caught one, put it in his jar, when, as he’s about to leave, his trusty rucksack back on, and his jacket slung over his arm, he catches sight of another. Well, he hasn’t got time to unstrap himself has he, he mi
ght lose it, a rarity like this, so off he goes, crash bang wallop. I know, put “damaged” or “not good specimen” or something after the entry, so there’s more reason for him to go chasing another.’

  She looked up at me.

  ‘Jesus Al. One day you’ll just be that bit too clever. 18.00 OK?’

  ‘Make it 18.05. He’d be precise.’

  She studied the page, her lips moving over the words, the finger holding pencil following the letters. I’d never seen that before, the care with which she done it. Almost made me proud.

  ‘No mistakes now…’ her hand flew up.

  ‘Quiet Al. I’m concentrating.

  Then she hunched over, took a deep breath and wrote it in, real quick considering. She held it out, all pleased with herself, like she’d won first prize.

  ‘There. What do you think?’

  I took it from her. There it was the date, the time, the location, something about a torn wing, handwriting bloody perfect. The only trouble was…

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve written the Bindon Blue.’

  ‘That’s what it’s called .’

  ‘It is not. It’s called the Blue Bindon. Christ, you lived here long enough to know that.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Natural history wasn’t really my thing. I pulled a few wings off, when we went nature rambling of course but…Blue Bindon, Bindon Blue, what’s the difference?’

  ‘Practically everything. You don’t call a Blue Whale a Whale Blue do you, or say look at the dirty great Woodpecker Green hopping about the lawn. You call it by its proper name, the name everybody uses. And the name everybody uses around here when talking about our native rarity is the Blue Bindon, and not the Bindon Blue.’

  She snatched the notebook back, stuffed back in the pocket.

  ‘Well it’s done now. Perhaps he wrote it down the wrong way round because he was over-excited after catching one. Did you ever think of that?’

  ‘Audrey. What he might have done is not really the question is it? It’s what he did do that matters, and what he’d done now is written the bastard name the wrong way round, a man of his…what the…?