Ship Ahoy! (A Cliffhanger Novel Book 3)

by T. J. Middleton

  She’d lunged across, grabbed me round the neck, dragged me down.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ she said. ‘Cover me up, make out we’re up here for a quick…’

  She pulled me on top of her, covered her face with mine. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I can’t say I felt comfortable about it. I was about as pliant as a three day-old fish.

  ‘Hold that pose,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I want to get it down on paper, as evidence.’

  I rolled off. Emily was standing on top of the Pimple with a sketchbook in her hand.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘this is another of those, how did you put it last time…spur of the moment decisions, precipitated by the unwanted arrival of the police?’

  I stood up, dusted myself down. Audrey lay back on the grass, hands behind her head, legs akimbo. A bit unnecessary that posture, under the circumstances.

  ‘More or less my own. She saw you coming, not realising it was you of course. I was merely trying to protect her identity.’

  ‘While she’s riding round in an outfit that could light up half the county?’

  ‘We have already exchanged words on that subject, sweetness. She accepts now that it’s not something we expect from an escaped convict hiding in our bungalow. Still, prison does strange things to people, you know that.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  We stood there, the three of us.

  ‘How’s the painting going?’ I asked. ‘The caravan lending ammunition to your muse?’

  ‘Hardly. It’s horribly damp. And filthy.’

  Audrey sat up.

  ‘I’ll say. Not fit for human consumption that caravan. And it could be so cosy.’ Emily nodded.

  ‘Exactly, what with the view and everything. Why he can’t keep it in better order I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s Al Greenwood all over I’m afraid, Emily. Why, Monty, the dog he ran over, kept his kennel in better nick than Al ever did the bungalow.’

  I felt obliged to step in.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk Audrey. If you were such a bloody house-proud marvel, how come the bungalow’s cleaner now with you not in it?’

  ‘Because I didn’t follow you around with a dustpan and brush like poor Emily here feels obliged to. And does she get any thanks for it?’

  ‘Course I don’t.’

  ‘Course she doesn’t.’ She stood up. ‘They’re all the same Emily. That’s what I’ve found. Pigs the lot of them. You’ve just got to look at their underwear to know that.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Well, I don’t certainly feel obliged at doing any more cleaning up for him at the moment I can tell you. Or anything else. That’s why I…’ she made scissors with her fingers.

  ‘And I loved it’ Audrey picked up her bicycle. ‘I suppose I should be getting back. It was a bit daft, coming out like this.’

  ‘Come to the caravan,’ Emily offered. ‘It’s much nearer. We can put our feet up, have a nice cup of tea and wait until its gets dark before getting you back. Be safer that way.’ Audrey snapped the shower cap back on.

  ‘Good idea. I borrowed this. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. It suits you.’

  ‘Does it?’ She replaced the goggles. Emily put her hand to her mouth, started to laugh.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Audrey said.

  ‘Nothing. You look brilliant, like you’ve just stepped out of a comic book, ready for action. Those big black eyes, that great body. Look out everybody here comes Panda-cycle Woman.’

  ‘Panda-cycle Woman!’ Audrey clapped her hands. ‘I like that. And with that slim figure of yours, so young and supple, you could be my side-kick. Bamboo Girl.’ She turned to me. ‘Why don’t you get a Chinese in for Em and me this evening, prawn crackers, sweet and sour pork, the full works. Some of that sake stuff to wash it down. Bamboo Girl and me, we’re going to plan our first escapade.’

  And with that she took hold of Emily’s arm and giggling, they were gone. Emily had said nothing about the rucksack or the jacket. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed them. Only had eyes for Panda-cycle Woman. I didn’t get it. One moment they were daggers drawn, the next the Great Wall of China couldn’t keep them apart. Time to get back to work.

  I took the rucksack back to the edge of the cliff. I had to get rid of it now, to dispose of the killing jar and the Blue Bindon that wasn’t there. I stamped on it a couple of times, till I heard the glass break. Down below Gerald’s leg was still where it was, but his arms were moving up and down like he was trying to back-stroke away from it all. I whirled the rucksack round my head a couple of times and let fly. It sailed out, and landed slap, not ten metres out from where the butterfly net was, him, the sea washing it to and fro towards him, like he was trying to grab hold of it. It would have been better had it landed a little further in, but it was OK. He wouldn’t be on those rocks for much longer.

  It was time to leave, before anyone else came up and saw me. I checked the ground for anything I might have left behind. There was nothing much to mark our presence, just Angus McWhirtle’s paper bag full of doughnuts and an area of flattened grass and a couple of skid marks where he’d turned and twisted about. Good that. Wish he’d done a few more. I picked up the bag, stuck it in my pocket and walked back up to the Pimple. The bungalow looked like a little haven down there, the grasses round the pond waving like they was beckoning me home. And it still was my home, despite all the things that had happened there. It was strange, but I felt safe there, almost peaceful, like it was a little fortress against the cares of the world. Even when I brought them through the front door with me, the bungalow sorted them out. Maybe it was Torvill watching over me on the mantelpeice that did it. Suddenly I wanted to see her again, wanted to run down the hill and grab hold of her, look her in the eye, tell her straight how I wish I could lower her in the pond, see her do the dip and dive again. It wasn’t my fault, what happened to her. Torvill was a koi in a million.

  I hurried on down, hoping someone might see me this time, but wouldn’t you know it, there was no one about, not even old Poke Nose. No one that is until I got to the fence at the back. I’d thought those grasses round the pond had been moving about a bit vigorous, but I’d put it down to changes in the wind. It was nothing to do with the wind. Kneeling by the edge of the pond was Adam Rump. When he saw me, he jumped up, looking all guilty.

  ‘Ah Mr Greenwood. I was just about to walk up. Alice Blackstock told me you’d be up there.’

  Bloody marvellous. The first person I see having come down from helping Gerald on the way to his maker was a policeman. But hang on a moment, thanks to Audrey, Gerald hadn’t gone over yet. He was still charging up and down the Pimple. And here I was back at the ranch. What better alibi could I have than one of Dorchester’s finest? And if I could keep him here until around six thirty I was home and dry.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. Engaged.

  ‘Delighted to see you Adam. Delighted. Always a pleasure to see Dorsetshire’s premier koi collector.’

  ‘Very decent of you to say Al. Though it isn’t easy, holding the gold medal for South-West Koi of the Year, three years running. The responsibilities, not just to my fish but to my public.’

  ‘Lucky you have broad shoulders Adam, to bear them like you do. What were you doing just now, to my fish? Looked like you were singing to them.’

  His face gave a sudden twitch.

  ‘Singing? To your fish? Why would I be singing to your fish? Or any other fish for that matter. That would be the work of someone who was frankly unbalanced.’ He thought for a moment, ‘What sort of thing do you think they would like?’

  ‘I don’t know Adam, but I’ve been thinking about experimenting musically with the pond’s ambience for their benefit, laying a set of speakers out, playing something suitable, the Flying Dutchman or something. You see how the nymph’s right arm is bent. I always thought she was beckoning, you know, giving some lucky punter the old come-hither look, but she could also be plucking a harp.’


  ‘Very true. And she looks quite musical.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve always said. The way those lips pout, I mean they’re just made to run up and down on a flute or whatever. Tell you what, why don’t we conduct a little experiment this afternoon, go for a drink afterwards. Even better. Let me stand you a Chinese. There’s a number of carp related health issues I would like to discuss with you, if you have the time.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I always have time for carp related health issues Al, as you know, but sadly…’ he shuffled his feet and coughed, ‘I had to come here for another reason, not more serious of course as the health of one’s fish, but in the hum-drum everyday scheme of things…’

  He coughed again.

  ‘Look Adam. I’m sorry, if it’s Mrs Durand-Deacon you’re talking about…’

  ‘Not that. A different matter altogether.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  ‘There’s been a complaint,’ he said. ‘A Mr Angus McWhirtle. Claims you assaulted him with a Cornish Pasty.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s what he says. He says you locked him in his shop.’

  ‘Rubbish. I merely invited him to close the premises so that we could discuss appropriate recipes. Did he say Cornish Pasty?’

  I mean the nerve of the man. Rump nodded

  ‘He says you force fed him eight Cornish pasties, and ate a large portion of his cream comestibles. He took your car number. Very distinctive car anyway, that Citroën of yours. As soon as the report came in, I knew it must be you he was talking about.’

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘They were not Cornish Pasties,’ I said. ‘They were pasties dressed up to look like Cornish Pasties. That was the problem.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Rump said.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit like if you had gone into an accredited fish emporium and bought what you thought was a prize looking Asagi, taken it home, stuck it in the pond, only to discover, that all the colours had run off and all you were left with was a common or garden goldfish’

  He clapped his hands, all agitated.

  ‘Funny you should mention that. There was report in Carps and Carping of something very similar going on in Wolverhampton.’

  ‘Well, that’s what this McWhirtle character has been doing Adam vis-à-vis meat- orientated confectionary, passing off inferior, carrot-infested pasties as thoroughbred top-of-the-line Cornish ones, when every decent minded Englishman knows that not only does a Cornish pasty never have carrot in it, it also has no carrot in it, just to make sure. And I’d bought eight of them in good faith.’

  His eyebrows went up.

  ‘Eight. It’s rather a lot isn’t it. Just for you and your good wife. Unless…’ he paused, ‘you have guests.’

  Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.

  ‘I was going to try them out on the carp, see what they thought of them.’

  His face brightened.

  ‘Cornish pasties. That’s a new one.’

  ‘I was worried because I thought they might be too heavy, sink to the bottom before they had a chance to come to grips with them. So I got some doughnuts in too. They love a doughnut, my carp. You ever tried doughnuts?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You should. They float in the water see. As far as your average carp is concerned, a doughnut is just an edible beach ball. Watch.’

  I chucked one in. It bobbed up and down on the surface like one of those mines they had in the war. Sure enough within a minute a couple of my koi had come up and were chasing it up and down like they were training for the Olympics. Rump was beside himself.

  ‘Doughnuts,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought it? May I try.’

  ‘Help yourself Adam. My pond is your pond, you know that. And have a nibble yourself while you’re at it.’

  We spent a very happy couple of hours chucking in various sized lumps of doughnut, though by the end, my fish were beginning to look a bit puffy round the gills.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I should be reporting back. I only wish all my official duties were this pleasant.’

  I wiped my hands, looked at my watch. It was ten past six. Five minutes ago Gerald had caught his last butterfly.

  ‘And that Cornish Pasty business? He needs taking down a peg or two this McWhirtle character. He wasn’t wearing a hairnet either, I forgot to tell you that. I mean it’s de rigueur isn’t it, hygienically speaking?’

  Rump jumped right in. I was a fellow carp lover wasn’t I?

  ‘McWhirtle? Sounds a thoroughly unscrupulous character. I’ll get health and safety on him.’ He hung back. ‘I don’t suppose you talked to Mrs Durand-Deacon yet?’

  Best to keep him sweet, his mind occupied

  ‘I have as a matter of fact. Told her of your feelings. She’s struck with you too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, she didn’t see you of course, or talk to you for that matter, but when I told her about Mother Teresa, and you being a three time gold medal holder for the South-West.’

  ‘That impressed her?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t it? He nodded.

  ‘It is a pretty imposing achievement. Dedication, that’s what I put it down to. Dedication and my own mix of fish meal. I eat it myself you know.’

  ‘Don’t tell her that,’ I said, ‘Let her find out.’

  I saw him off, went back into the bungalow. Mrs Durand-Deacon the Second was in the lounge, smoking a cigarette. Her dress was short. Matched her temper.

  ‘Have you seen my husband?’ she said, ‘I’ve been waiting for over three hours now. It’s fucking boring, your bungalow. You got a dead goldfish on your mantelpiece, did you know that?’

  ‘She’s not a goldfish,’ I explained. ‘She’s an Asagi, a particularly delicate breed of koi, famed for their grace and beauty. Hence her position of pride of place in the lounge.’

  ‘Looks like a fucking goldfish to me. So did that creep outside. What was he doing, sniffing around like that?’

  She flicked ash onto her shoe. What a charming example of the modern feminine she was.

  ‘That was the private detective, my dear, here to note down all the naughty strokes you and Gerald have been pulling.’

  ‘You what!’

  ‘Pictures, tapes, the lot. Gerald’s other wife hired him, you know, the one he’s married to? She’s the one with the money, I understand. Threatened to cut him off without a penny unless he starts behaving himself. Gerald’s flown the coop I’m afraid, gone back to the arms of his legal spouse. I’ll be taking his luggage over later.’

  ‘But he promised me…’

  ‘They all promise you darling, promise anything that pops into their balding heads. Why wouldn’t they, with what you’ve got to offer. The stories I could tell, young women like you believing all they hear.’

  She looked all deflated suddenly, like a party balloon that had burst. She wasn’t such a bad kid, probably, just using what she had the best way she could.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll drive you to the station, put you on train back home. You do have a home?’

  ‘Course I have a home. Bournemouth way.’

  ‘Bournemouth. Well I never. So where did you and Gerald…?’

  ‘Internet.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well let this be a lesson to you. If you want to get picked up, get picked up in person.’

  She packed her bag, I carried it to the boot. She got in. We set off. It had been quite some time, since I’d had someone like her next to me in the front seat. And knowing that it was only me what knew what had happened to her Gerald, made it all the more, how shall I put it, intense, pleasurable. It was like I was back in the taxi, Al Greenwood, King of the road again. There she was and there was me. She knew nothing about me, what I was capable of. Or perhaps she did a bit. Girls like her often do. It’s what makes their little engines start humming. I waited. It’s always
good to let them make the first move, let them break the silence. You can judge it better, where it might go. We barely made it past the army camp.

  ‘So, are you a secret writer then?’

  It wasn’t what I expected, but I wasn’t unpleased. It meant she could sense the artist in me.

  ‘ A writer? That’s an interesting question. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Only I read that story you had hidden away, the one you wrote like it was a letter, about all those people pushed off cliffs and that and the police coming for the killer at the end.’ She nudged my knee. ‘Real filthy it was in places, and your handwriting’s crap too. You should get a lap-top or something. Funny place to keep it though.’

  I glanced at her quick. She wasn’t a modern feminine at all. She was an angel sent down from above.

  ‘Copyright theft,’ I told her. ‘That’s why I don’t write them down on a computer. They can get stolen, like your identity. As a matter of fact I hide them all over the house. Writers do it all the time, like squirrels do their nuts. That’s what stories are to writers like me. Where did you find this one, you bushy-tailed marvel?’

  She sniggered.

  ‘You’ll get me all embarrassed now. Tucked inside the spare loo roll, if you must know. If the one in the dispenser hadn’t run out…’

  ‘The spare loo roll! Yes. Do you know though, I’d forgotten all about it.’ I tapped out a bit of Brunnhilde on the steering wheel. ‘I could kiss you sweetheart. I really could.’

  ‘Yes, and the rest.’

  ‘No honestly. You’ve no idea what this means to me, to get that particular story back. Here, look.’ I took out my wallet handed it over. ‘There’s £250 quid in there. I know it’s not much of a recompense with what you’ve been through, but take it anyway. You deserve it, every penny.’

  She took it, no protests, no hesitation, eased the notes out like she was filleting a Dover sole, stuck them safe in her dress pocket. Nice fingers.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to meet a writer,’ she said, smoothing herself down. ‘I love a good murder. He was a real character that bloke in your story, a right bastard but, you know, fanciable with it. Gave me shivers all up and down, just thinking about him.’