by D A Kent
How it all began
In London, in the summer of 1948, with the Olympics in full swing, Mark Gunn and Sylvia Fordred, two young Private Investigators, who have set up in business together, are given an assignment which is very different from the usual fare of errant spouses and routine debt inquiries. It takes them across the Channel to France and on by boat to Naples and Haifa, and has them reaching into their past, separate and collective, to face an uncertain future.
About the authors
DA Kent is a pen name, a name chosen with reference to the county of Kent and the initials of two writers.
Both authors have drawn on their extensive travels and experience within the field of private investigation and probate research. They came together with a story to tell, and, using their skills and knowledge, have brought Dateline Haifa, the first of the Clements Chronicles, to life.
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Wealden Strand Publishers @wealdenstrand
Copyright@Wealden Strand 2019
The right of DA Kent to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Paper Edition ISBN 978-1-9161801-1-6
eBook Edition IBAN 978-1-9161801-0-9
DA Kent
Dateline Haifa
WEALDEN STRAND
Dateline Haifa
Jonathan Jones had lived in Chartrettes, a little town caught on the curve of the Seine, as long as he had lived anywhere. He often told people that. He had made good friends there. Despite the Occupation, and the occasional little unpleasantness, he had no especial cause for concern when he wandered into town for his accustomed drink with Jean-Paul Bossis at the bar and tabac. With his newspaper under his arm, he kissed his wife, Louise, the love of his life, and set out in the sunshine. He never saw her again.
He knew something was amiss immediately he arrived home. The gates were wide open. He had closed them; they always did, nowadays. Her voice was stilled. Two cigarette butts were on her clean kitchen floor. A cup lay on its side, cradling the dregs of her coffee, on the counter. He knew instantly that she had been taken and that he was alone. In years to come, he would torture himself with thoughts as to whether, if he had been at home, they would have taken her. The truth was, the house had been watched carefully, their movements monitored. There was nothing either of them could have done.
Chapter 1
Sylvia Fordred fiddled in exasperation with the unwieldy lock at Number 3, Clements Court, and bounded up several flights of ill-lit, narrow stairs, cursing the treacherous holes in the matted carpet, summoned by the imperious clamour of the telephone, catching it just before the caller rang off, trying not to sound out of breath. London was impossible to get around at the moment, with the Olympics in full swing, surging, jolly crowds and searing heat. In this weather, it was a mercy that the ‘bunker,’ as the office was affectionately dubbed, never got any sunlight. It was perishing cold in the winter but that seemed some time away. ‘Good morning, Clements Enquiry Agents, how may we help?’ Sylvia fiddled with a pencil stub as she listened to Edward Cumberland, her attention gradually narrowing from the office surrounds to the sheet of paper and sketched notes she was making, bent over the desk. Periodically, she lifted a hank of tawny hair out of her line of sight, caught by the unusual element of excitement in Edward's normally measured and calm tones. ‘Mr. Jones was booked to arrive on the Night Ferry at Dover two nights ago and he did not keep an appointment for dinner at Simpsons last night?’
‘That's correct.’ Edward's voice hinted at puzzlement. ‘Utterly out of character for Mr. Jones. Cumberlands have handled his affairs for over forty years, even after he married and moved his farming business over to France. He has never missed an appointment. Absolutely punctilious. I have to say, we're worried.’
This sounded rather different from the usual fare of errant spouses and recalcitrant debtors, entertaining though that often was. Sensing the note of urgency, Sylvia suggested:
‘We could come over this afternoon if that suits?’
Edward's relief was almost tangible. ‘That would be marvellous. As soon as possible, really. I've got a completion to do now, just round the corner, then lunch with the old man. I'll rustle up Louis as well. Shall we say three o’clock?’
Sylvia held her hand over the receiver as a whirlwind burst through the door, weighed down by a heavy holdall and a camera. The inevitable string of curses rang out in the background as the door to what was known as the ‘props cupboard’ was wrenched open and kicked shut. It had seen better days, like the rest of the bunker; those hinges needed replacing. An afternoon in Edward's more civilised surroundings sounded tempting.
‘Sorry about that. That was Gunn. Three o'clock is fine. We'll see you then.’
Replacing the receiver, she turned to face her colleague. She always liked hearing about his exploits. ‘What a night,’ he groaned. ‘Met up with the old Free French crowd. Only meant to have a quick snifter. And before you ask, yes, I did get round to the Imperial this morning. Caught the lecherous old sod in the act. Got him bang to rights. Better get these developed this morning. Who was that just then?’
Mark Gunn and Sylvia had met some years ago, sheltering from pounding rain in a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road. They had been friends ever since, although he drove her to distraction as regularly as the morning pips on the wireless, and ‘partners in crime’ at Clements, as they liked to tell people, for the past couple of years.
‘Come on, let's have a cigarette and a coffee and I'll fill you in,’ she smiled, liberating one of his cigarettes. Continental adventures had given both of them a taste for coffee and on his way from the Imperial, Gunn had picked up a pound of the precious stuff from a merchant in Old Compton Street. One of their first acquisitions for the bunker had been a decent coffee pot; a necessity rather than a treat, as they often worked late on cases.
‘Right.’ Sylvia sipped at her cup, savouring the taste. Despite his foibles, Gunn made an excellent coffee. ‘In a nutshell, elderly gentleman, English, lived in France for thirty years or more as a farmer. Highly respectable. Managed to survive the war; should have been in London for an appointment at Cumberlands and then dinner with his bankers at Simpsons last night – a celebration for the opening ceremony apparently. He didn't show up for either. Not a sign, not a word.’
‘Must have been something serious to duck out of dinner at Simpsons,’ Gunn grinned. ‘Assuming he even arrived in London of course.’
‘And Edward sounded decidedly ruffled. Not like him at all. I'll give you a hand with your photos and the report and then we'll head over to see him and Louis.’
Sylvia noted Gunn's raised eyebrow; he had picked up on Edward's departure from the norm too. Nothing usually perturbed that Battle of Britain flying ace. In the dark room, she cast an appraising, perfectionist eye over Gunn’s handiwork. Their dark room was at the back of the office in an alcove to which Gunn had added some doors and panelling he had found on a bomb site in Whitechapel last year. There was barely room to swing a cat in there, but tolerance and experience of working in even more cramped and dangerous conditions allowed them to work together like gears meshing in a decent car. Gumshoes on a shoestring, they often quipped.
‘I reckon
Vera will be pleased with these,’ she commented. ‘And we could make a small fortune, flogging them to one of those shops in Berwick Street. Anyway, the sooner we get our report to her, the sooner we can put our bill in.’
Vera had turned up at the bunker one day, and instructed them directly. Usually, instructions on such delicate matters came through their growing network of solicitors, but Vera was quite a ‘gal.’ She came across initially as one of the most embittered, vindictive people they had ever met, with language that would have made a navvy blush but she turned out to have a twinkle in her eye when they sat her down in the most respectable chair they could find, plied her with coffee and cigarettes and coaxed the sorry saga out of her.’
Born into a family of wealthy publicans in the East End, she had married, far too young, a man who turned out to be a drunkard and a wastrel. Vera had left him one day with their little girls in tow; a brave move, as there was nowhere for her to go really, as her parents had retired to the country and died prematurely. She managed by a stroke of fortune to get herself a job as secretary to a Member of Parliament.
While working for him, she met Wilfred, a naval officer; some years her junior and devilishly handsome. They married when her divorce came through and settled by the coast. More children followed. Just as she thought they were safe, with the war finished, (the second they had lived through), and heading for the sunny uplands of retirement, she discovered Wilfred was having an affair with a ‘flibberty-gibbet’ by the name of Prudence. Nasty little piece; Vera had some pithy comments to make about her. The upshot was that Vera now wanted a divorce and to drag him through the mud.
Gunn had spent a few entertaining evenings following Wilfred from work at the Ministry of Defence to the front door of the Naval and Military Club and had, having bought the doorman a few drinks, discovered he was meeting Prudence at the Imperial Hotel in Bloomsbury. With a raging hangover, he had somehow got himself over there this morning, flirted with one of the chambermaids and got her to knock on the door of room 31, calling ‘Room Service!’ in dulcet tones. Wilfred had opened the door ready to give her a piece of his mind, as they hadn't ordered anything, with a scantily clad Prudence behind him, but Gunn was ready with his camera and had time to get some excellent shots before legging it down the corridor and squeezing into a service lift with the chamber maid, emerging into an alley which led him around the back of the British Museum. He was glad to see a few curators back at work; the building, always a favourite of his, had suffered some damage in the Blitz. A couple of them gave him a strange look as he dusted himself down carefully. That lift was not designed for two.
He made a mental note that he owed the chambermaid 10 shillings for her willing assistance. There was a network around town and it was always best to keep staff sweet. Word would spread if he didn’t unbuckle the silver and equally it would spread if he did. It was a relief to have the pictures, he thought, as he typed up a letter on Clements paper to Vera, while Sylvia sorted the photos into order. Vera insisted on corresponding through a Post Office Box; she didn’t want any of Wilfred’s relatives nosing about and did not entirely trust her daughter not to tell him. Feisty old bird seemed to relish the cloak and dagger side of things. Perhaps she might make a good recruit.
They decided to treat themselves to lunch out at a Lyons Corner House, as a reward for their work on Wilfred and an early celebration of Edward’s new assignment. Pushing aside the remains of his rather non-descript soup (water with a heavy-handed dose of pepper), Gunn looked across at Sylvia. They made a formidable duo, he thought. The son of a French woman and an Englishman, Gunn had grown up in France before being sent to England to school in the thirties. He had joined up in 1939 and served in North Africa and Syria, at one point fighting Vichy units near Damascus, which amused him once the bullets had stopped flying about. He had been co-opted into the SOE and jumped more than once, breaking an ankle and a collar bone separately. He had been arrested twice and was among the prisoners who had escaped following the RAF raid on Amiens prison in February 1944. He had made his way back to England and went back over on 6th June in the gliders.
Gunn relished what his old headmaster would have called ‘high jinks’ and ‘piracy.’ Stunts like the raid on Wilfred and Prudence in Room 31 definitely fell into that category. It was true to say though that working with Sylvia had polished up his more cerebral side. She was rather a dark horse. When he first met her, she was doing some sort of secretarial work with the army; didn’t let on much but nobody ever did. She had landed a job at the Nuremberg Trials and, when that came to an end, declared she never wanted to work for anyone else again. Women were being steered firmly back into the home now the war was over but Sylvia had no home to go to. So they had pooled resources, taken a lease on Clements’ Inn with the last of Gunn’s ‘demob’ money and a little bit she had put by, and started in business straightaway.
Edward was an old friend of Sylvia’s family; Louis Wonzowicz, his partner, had served in the RAF with him. They had been among Clements’s first clients. Who on earth was this Jones character, he and Sylvia mused, as their taxi purred towards Queen Anne’s Gate (they had no desire to join the perspiring hordes on the underground.) Why had he got under Edward’s skin?
Chapter 2
These questions were still taxing them as they arrived at Cumberlands’ offices. The bells at Westminster Abbey were just striking three. Edward, most unusually, was in the foyer before Cathy, his well-spoken but slightly scatter-brained receptionist, and Joan, her quick-witted sidekick, could even offer them a cup of tea. Edward’s father, senior partner in Cumberlands, disapproved of Joan and her huge bulk and broad Cockney accent and didn’t want her anywhere near clients. He was hardly ever around nowadays to witness what went on, which was fortunate, as the clients loved her. She never forgot a face or what they took in their tea.
‘Shall we go straight up to the meeting room?’ suggested Edward. ‘Louis will meet us up there.’ He seemed on edge. Joan and Sylvia exchanged glances before he led the way upstairs.
The contrast between Edward and Louis always struck Sylvia, whenever she saw them together. Louis was slight, dark and excitable. Edward was blond, patrician and courteous. They could hear Louis loudly berating one of the girls from the bank on the telephone as they walked upstairs; they could never spell or pronounce his name properly, to which he took great and vociferous exception.
‘We won’t be needing tea or indeed anything at all for the next hour or so’ Edward pre-empted Joan briskly. She nodded at his retreating back and shook her head. Gunn winked at her, rolled his eyes in sympathy and followed Edward and Sylvia, his hands firmly in his pockets. Making one of his ‘points,’ as Sylvia had been heard to observe more than once. Having finished terrifying the hapless girl from the bank, Louis followed them down the corridor, which was lined from floor to ceiling with bound volumes of law reports, in date order. Sylvia wondered idly if anyone ever bothered to take one off the shelf; they looked in such pristine condition.
The meeting room was panelled and discreetly furnished. A pair of Stubbs flanked the fireplace and a decanter of brandy and a set of highly polished Napoleon brandy balloons sat on a felt marker on the long oak table, which gave off a slight hint of beeswax. Edward offered Sylvia and Gunn a seat either side of the table, motioning Louis to sit at the end, and poured a decent measure for each of them. He sat with his fingers steepled in thought for a while. Then, unusually for him, he opened proceedings with no preview or preamble.
‘How confident would you two be about an enquiry in France? It’s a highly sensitive matter, maybe a little dangerous. I’d hate to think of it being bungled in any way; the consequences could be dire.’
Gunn bridled a little at the inference that he and Sylvia could be involved in any ‘bungling’ whatsoever. Clements was a highly professional outfit, as Edward well knew. He was about to add that they would expect suitable remuneration and a decent operative budget, when Sylvia shot him one of her warning glances
. He decided to sit back and listen. He was very good at that when he wanted to be; it unnerved people. Edward could do with a bit of unsettling sometimes.
‘Without wanting to state the obvious,’ began Sylvia, ‘We can see you are very concerned about Mr Jones’s welfare. Have you thought about ringing the local gendarmerie? Or even talking to the police here?’
Louis leant forward. ‘Miss Fordred,’ he stated emphatically, in clipped tones. ‘I must tell you from the outset, we cannot involve the police in this matter, in any jurisdiction.’
Sylvia knew better than to ask why not. She was in no mood for one of Louis’s tirades.
Edward raised a hand in a gesture of peace. ‘Look, I am sure you would handle the matter in your usual exemplary fashion. It’s just that we are committed to client confidentiality and we have no desire to involve country gendarmes, bringing their mud and gitanes into the equation.’
He paused, took another sip of brandy and then went on to explain that Jonathan Theophilus Weston Jones was born in the 1880s into a farming family of some note. He was sent away to school but, as he intimated on more than one occasion, he always preferred farming to any other career.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary so far,’ Sylvia observed. Edward nodded in agreement.
‘Indeed. But then, his life changed. His father died in 1908 and Jonathan came into some money. That summer, he decided, on an impulse, to accompany some friends to see the last stages of the New York to Paris automobile race, just as it arrived in Paris. While he was there, he met the lady who was to become his wife, Louise Marie Vogel, from Austria originally. It was what the French call a coup de foudre.’ Gunn tried not to wince at his accent.