High Water

by Douglas Reeman

  He jumped to his feet, but as he moved two arms, like bands of steel, pinioned his arms from behind.

  `It's my unofficial opinion,' Laidlaw's eyes were like two pools of brown fire, `that you've killed the girl too already! But we'll find out!' He turned to the doctor. `Have a look at that cut on his head. It's probably where Jensen hit him before he died.'

  His whole expression was filled with cold contempt. `I'm glad I do this job sometimes. Even if it's just to catch up with swine like you!'

  9

  LONG after they had locked him in the small, white-tiled cell, Vivian stood stock-still, his muscles stiff and his brain frozen into immobility. At first his cars had strained after the heavy, retreating footsteps, but as the silence closed in on him, so too the gleaming walls seemed to move inwards, mocking him, so that he involuntarily stepped back, pressing his back against the studded door.

  He was conscious of his own heavy breathing, and he found himself listening to its irregular, panting beat, unable as yet to take in and appreciate his surroundings.

  The cell measured about eight feet by ten, and was brightly lit, more by the harsh glare of the electric light than by the feeble rays of fading daylight, which . were reluctantly allowed to filter through a massive window made entirely of glass bricks and which was placed high up, next to the ceiling.

  The cold, unyielding touch of the door seemed to bring him to his senses, and as he pressed the palms of his hands against it he felt a wave of helpless revulsion run through him, bringing his body out in a fresh, icy sweat.

  For the very first time in his life he felt completely broken. In the past he had shied from a steady, routine life, in house or office, and always returned to his first love, the sea, with its constant movement and many kinds of freedom. Now, as he felt the great pressure of the walls, as

  they strained inwards, he felt a surge of sudden terror, mingled with the frantic desire to scream, and kick out at the impassive door, which was keeping him from his most precious possession.

  When the convulsion had passed he lowered his head weakly against the well-worn metal, smoothed by countless prisoners, who had stood, and hoped, and cursed, in this self-same spot. He found comfort from its touch, and he stared blindly down at the concrete floor, trying desperately to project his mind and soul out and beyond the confines of the police-station, back in time, to the moment he had gone into the cafe. When he had made some sort of plan, when he had felt that a new future was at last possible.

  Even as he tried to think, the voices came flooding back, blotting out all other thoughts in a mental sandstorm, choking his brain with their cruel insistence. And all the time, the loudest voice of all shouted Lang! Lang! Lang! until his eyes smarted with tears of frustration and mad fury.

  After the chief inspector had finished his cross-examination, he had handed Vivian over to the other detectives, and had watched him contemptuously while they searched and finger-printed him. At the memory, Vivian glanced at his fingers, which still showed the signs of the finger-print ink.

  `You'll be taken to court tomorrow,' Laidlaw had announced coldly. `You'll be formally charged then. You can rest assured that you'll be remanded for a couple of weeks after that, so that I can complete my inquiries.'

  `For the last time, aren't you going to look for the girl?' Vivian felt he wanted to fling himself at the other man. 'D'you think I'd have walked into this place and given myself up if I'd really done a murder, and if I'd known Karen's in danger?'

  Laidlaw watched him through narrowed eyes. `As I said, all inquiries will be made. But not into a trumped-up yarn like that!'

  Something had snapped inside him, and in the red haze which swam about him, he couldn't see Laidlaw, only Felix Lang's smiling face, and he thought he heard his smooth voice. `Well, old boy, it's nice to be working with someone I can trust!'

  He couldn't remember much about the short journey to the cells. He had vague impressions of a policeman searching through a large bunch of keys, and of the old station sergeant dropping his eyes as they had marched past, gripping his arms. A thin, cracked voice, raised in some obscure song, had stopped as if to listen, as they had arrived breathless outside the cell. This cell. It must have been some drunk, already locked up for the night.

  What did it matter now what happened to him? He had failed her again. Karen. Karen looking up at him in the bus, her eyes grave. `It is you who needs to be careful.' Her words rang and echoed around his skull.

  He couldn't even remember how long he'd been in the cell, or even in the police-station. Several times he had glanced automatically at his wrist, only to be confronted with a band of pale skin where his watch had once been. They had even removed that when they had searched him.

  The scarf around his throat tickled his chin and he pulled it off, running it through his hands, remembering how she had looked that first time on Seafox, when she had found him holding this very one. He suddenly flung himself face down on the bed, trying to shut out the light, and trying to hold on to the picture of her face. It was useless. All the time he saw Lang, and heard only his mocking laugh.

  Occasionally, a fresh realization stabbed his aching mind.

  No wonder Morrie and Cooper hadn't worried about being followed. They knew they were being followed. By the faithful Lang, who was making sure that no one else was following to see his `friend' being led docilely to his own funeral.

  Escape. He stared round his little prison. Escape. The very word, let alone the idea, seemed ridiculous. The men who designed and built such places left nothing to chance.

  He tried to think of what Laid law had said.

  Going to court in the morning, wherever that was. Going further and further away from Karen. Being cheated of one' last chance of saving her.

  He faced the blank, tiled bricks of the wall. Stop fooling yourself! Stop thinking that you're in control of the situation! Can't you see that there is no last chance? He shook to his torrent of silent rebukes.

  The more he thought, the more simple it became. It seemed impossible he had not suspected it from the beginning.

  Lang had used him ruthlessly from the very start. It hurt him so much to believe it, that his racing mind tried to find a small loophole, but all the time he knew there was none.

  Lang had wanted those plates, and all that went with them. When Mason had told him about the drugs being thrown overboard, and of Vivian's impending visit to Jensen, Lang must have raced straight round to the old man's house, to make some sort of bargain, but when Jensen had told him that he had already spoken to Vivian and his niece on the telephone, and that they were on their way up to see him, Lang must have realized that unless he could get the plates there and then, his dreams would be shattered.

  Vivian twisted his hands in agony. He could well imagine Lang losing his temper, as he had seen him do often enough during the war. He probably started to threaten Jensen, only to be told that the plates were in Vivian's possession anyway. Having given himself away, and to no purpose, Lang must have acted instantly. Vivian saw in his mind's eye, the desperate Lang, telephoning Mason, and giving his terse instructions. Like giving orders at sea. Get the girl. Jensen knows too much now. He has to be taken care of. Taken care of. Like Patterson had been. And how well I played my part for them thought Vivian wretchedly.

  No doubt Lang had waited until he knew Vivian was well on the way to the house, and then he too had gone back, probably on the excuse to renew his pleas, or threats. Jensen must have seen the real danger too late, as he doodled calmly on his drawing-board, while his once trusted friend and saviour had circled behind him. Only the staring travel posters had been silent witnesses to the savage drama of man's greed.

  The more he thought, the clearer it became, like a bad film slowly developing in the tray. Only Lang could have thought calmly of what was to be done next. Karen's car to be driven near the house, where it was well known. Vivian's behaviour, blinded to everything but Karen's safety. The bait, the catch, and the execution.<
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  Once he had believed that the pair of them had been disposed of, he must have started the ball rolling with the police.

  For a brief moment there was a small flicker of hope, and he tensed his body forward on the edge of the bed. Lang must have got a terrible shock when Cooper reported their escape. He fell back, weak and deflated. What did it matter? The story still fitted. The fact that he was in the cell, was living proof. Lang, wherever he was, knew that

  the only key to the real story was Karen. And he, Vivian, had sent her straight to his grasp.

  It seemed obvious that the police would only be interested in the murder. They probably considered the case closed already. And later, at the trial, how would his word stand against the evidence of Lang and Mason? He sweated when he thought of how the police case would stand.

  He could almost see the brief smiles on the lips of the jury, the contempt in Mason's eyes. And Lang! He doubled his fists helplessly. He'd just shrug his shoulders and say, `Well, old boy, you've got to look after Number One!'

  The strain of thinking had left him weak, and even the entry of a policeman carrying a tray of food failed to rouse him from the depths of despair.

  The policeman returned later and stared at the untouched tray. 'Tch! Tch! This won't do, old man,' he said, not unkindly. `You must keep your strength up, y'know.'

  Vivian turned his head heavily. The constable was a sturdy young man, and his eye fell on the faded row of medal ribbons on his serge jacket. He smiled grimly.

  `What's the joke, then?'

  `Nothing, nothing.' He shook his head. But all the time, he was thinking. Lang, this constable, and myself. All heroes together. Can the years have changed us so much, or were we as we are now? The P.C. picked up the tray casually, but Vivian noticed how he stayed facing him, and he sensed the presence of another man outside the door.

  A new feeling ran through him, and as he watched the heavy door begin to close he felt a tide of resentment and bitter fury engulfing his whole body and sweeping away the heavy weight of self-condemnation and surrender.

  He knew at that moment that he would take the first opportunity, no matter how slight or small, to make a bid for his freedom. He could not, would not, wait for any obscure miracle. He had in the past shunned society, and now that very society was taking the word of a liar, and a murderer, against his. He must escape, if only to get his hands on the one man he had always trusted and admired, and the one man who had taken from him his one chance of happiness and life itself.

  He lay on his back, seeing and hearing nothing, and when the cell light was switched off from the outside he continued to stare up at the invisible ceiling, his whole being throbbing with this new, consuming fire of destruction.

  Vivian awoke from his sleep, dull and listless, until his puzzled eyes fastened upon the unfamiliar surroundings of the police cell. The door was open. It must have been the grating of the key in the lock which had summoned him back from his exhausted state of collapse. As he watched, with dulled eyes, a constable banged a tray of food on the floor and nodded to him.

  ''Mornin',' he grunted. `Breakfast. When you've 'ad it, you can come along 'er me and get a shave. Reckon you'll need it!' And so saying, he slammed the door.

  Vivian rubbed the bristles on his chin. Must be damned early, he pondered, there was hardly any gleam through the thick glass of the window, only a suggestion of greyness.

  He picked up the tray of food and realized suddenly that he was extremely hungry. As he munched steadily through the sausages and baked beans, and washed them down with an enamel mug of sweet tea, he began to think more clearly, his brain sharp, and his heart filled more than ever with an almost insane desire to break out, to find, and to kill Felix Lang.

  Unlike the previous night, however, when he had been torn apart mentally and physically, he was able to look at the situation in a coldly calculating way, which would have surprised him, had he considered it. He had nothing to lose but his life, which already seemed to have been disposed of by everyone else, and to gain, he had the satisfaction of revenge, brought about by this new and savage hatred.

  Two constables escorted him along to the end of the passage, and while he shaved in lukewarm water, he caught a glimpse of their stolid but watchful faces in the glass.

  The whisper of caution which seemed to come from the vigilant faces of the two policemen was not lost on him. He realized only too well that they would be watching his every move. As far as they were concerned, he was a murderer of the very worst kind, and one small, careless move on his part would lessen his chances of escape one hundred per cent.

  He wiped his tingling skin carefully with the towel. `Bit of an early start this morning?' he observed casually. `I suppose that's the usual thing in these places, is it?'

  The two men glanced at each other, their faces blank. Then one of them smiled briefly, understanding crossing his face.

  `Of course,' he nodded, `he means it's dark.' Then to Vivian: `You wouldn't know about it, being in a cell. I mean, we've got the worst fog in the Channel we've had for bloody ages!P

  'Really?' Vivian prayed that his voice concealed the mounting excitement he felt.

  `Yes, it may be dark, but it's nigh on eight o'clock.'

  'Er, what time'll I have to be leaving, d'you think?' Vivian lowered his eyes as he folded the towel.

  `Pretty soon, I should say. They won't be using the van this weather. You'll have to go by car.'

  'Yup, the chief inspector'll take you in 'is,' added the other one.

  As they headed back to the cell Vivian's heart pounded noisily and he shuffled his feet heavily, in case they might notice any sudden change in his manner, or any expression of hope in his appearance. They passed another policeman shepherding a small, watery-eyed man in a rumpled, blue suit, who pressed himself against the wall as Vivian went by. There was a mixture of fear and curiosity in his dirty face, and Vivian concluded that he must be the singing drunk from the night before. Also on his way to court, no doubt.

  That was just one of the many curious glances he was to get when, shortly afterwards, he was accompanied to the main building. He was led into a high, bleak room, labelled `Charge Room', behind the front office, and even in there he could sense the air of excitement and expectancy as the groups of policemen studied him with interest.

  He was able to ignore them. His whole attention was taken by the overpowering and almost threatening gloom which hung over, and even invaded, the police-station. As a sailor, he knew that this fog was one of real menace and strength. But at that moment he knew that it was his only possible ally.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the hustling entrance of Chief Inspector Laidlaw, his eyes darting everywhere, and his lower lip thrust out belligerently.

  The uniformed policemen fell back respectfully, and the hum of conversation died away.

  Sergeant Arnold followed his superior, his arms clutching a file of papers, and his face dark and impassive.

  Laidlaw was wearing a light raincoat, and Vivian's keen eyes noted the heavy drops of moisture on the collar. It was a real fog all right.

  `We're off soon,' snapped Laidlaw. `We shall come back here after the hearing, and then you'll be collected by prison officers and taken to a safer place while you're on remand.'

  Vivian inclined his head, the detective's eyes were too dangerous to meet.

  `I suppose you don't feel like altering your statement?'

  `I have told you the truth,' Vivian answered quietly.

  Laidlaw looked at him thoughtfully. `We shall see,' he said slowly. He turned to speak to his sergeant, and then as a thought came to him, he swivelled his eyes back to Vivian, `By the way, if you're thinking of anything, don't! I thought I'd mention it.' His face hardened. `My boys are pretty used to this sort of thing!'

  Vivian shrugged angrily, and pretended to read one of the notices on the Charge Room wall.

  Perhaps the detective always gave warnings like that. Maybe he had been unlucky once with
a prisoner. It made Vivian realize that if and when his chance came, it would be his only opportunity of escape, and unless pressed with a ruthless determination it would easily be cut short by a man like Laidlaw.

  His attention was taken by a new voice and he saw a constable, his peaked cap glistening with moisture, speaking to the detective.

  `Car's out back, sir,' he reported. `We'll have to take it slow, but it shouldn't take more than 'alf an hour.'

  A small procession clattered past. The drunk was being escorted out of the rear of the station.

  `He's goin' in the other car,' explained the driver. `We shall be followin' him all the way.'

  A fine contrast, thought Vivian grimly. A drunk and a murderer. All in a day's work for the police, it seemed.

  When, a few moments later, Sergeant Arnold touched his sleeve, he felt an icy thrill run through him, and as he was led to the massive door, which opened out on to the enclosed yard, he had to fight hard to keep the tenseness out of his arms.

  The fog swirled in on them, its thick, moist breath caressing them, and its dark tentacles filtering between and around them, causing Arnold to change his grip on Vivian's arm, his cold fingers twisting the bottom of his cuff into a tight and effective handcuff.

  Laidlaw led the way and they stumbled down the steps to the waiting car, its vague shape broken only by the dull eyes of its headlamps. Laidlaw flung himself into a corner seat, and Vivian found that he was squeezed between him and the sergeant, who sat back cursing, and rearranging the papers which had threatened to slide under the car. The upholstery felt cold and clammy to the touch, and the windows were already black with dirt from the fog's embrace, the windscreen wipers squeaking ineffectually on the filthy glass.

  The driver hunched over the wheel, and another uniformed man sat beside him, the back of his head and casual stance, typical of one who is neither concerned nor responsible for possible events.

  A faint, pink glow lit up the fog as the other car's rear lights backed towards them, then with a snap of gears, both vehicles started to move forward, passing between the dark, indistinct shapes of the main gates, and both drivers watching and responding to the white gauntlets of a traffic policeman, who, seconds later, was swallowed up by the seemingly impenetrable grey clouds.