Cut to the Chase

by Ray Scott

  ‘How long will it take me to get up there?’

  ‘Depends on you, I’d say about ten days maybe less. But you’re in no hurry, your American trip will probably be on hold anyway until you’re cleared.’

  ‘What about fuel?’

  ‘Carry it in cans, but if you need more you just fill up, there are petrol stations just like on a road. It pays to top up when you see one.’

  ‘What about money, I can’t use credit cards, they’ll track them straight away.’

  ‘Leave that to me, I’ll book the craft so you don’t have to worry about that. Here’s £500, which should tide you over. But I need a receipt, OK?’

  ‘What do I do about food?’

  ‘Buy it, there are facilities, same as for fuel. I’ve stashed some food in the boot, mainly eggs, but some tinned food as well plus a can opener!’

  The boat yard was full of canal craft. Wallace saw some quite racy looking speed boats and looked around with interest. It seemed to be quite a thriving inland port and he thought back to what McKay had told him. McKay lifted the suit case out of the car boot, together with a grocery bag.

  ‘Stay here and leave this to me,’ McKay said, then as an after thought he rummaged in the glove box and produced sunglasses and a baseball cap. ‘Put these on and pull the brim down fairly low.’ Then he left and entered a small brightly painted office on the quay with a large sign “BOAT HIRE” outside it. Wallace sat down disconsolately. There was a delay, and then McKay emerged from the wooden building accompanied by a young woman.

  ‘Bring your case, Harry…er…er…Tom,’ he said. His eyes roved to the one side where the girl was walking and he waggled his nose. Wallace got the message and had to admit that she was worth a second look. She was young a woman of probably late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a tight pair of jeans and a tight, white blouse. She knew how to walk too, and Wallace felt his mouth go dry as he looked at her and then hastily averted his eyes. He wondered if she was included in the rental with the boat.

  “Tom” picked up his case and followed McKay, the girl led the way and Wallace was fascinated with the movement of her hips, which drew to his attention how long it was since he had con-sorted with a woman. Her figure was reminiscent of Fernandes’ secretary in Jakarta.

  The craft looked reasonable, even Wallace had to admit that. It was about thirty feet long, with a large cabin with a windscreen and a roof. The wheel was in the cabin, and within the well there was a door that presumably led into the living quarters.

  ‘The cabin is through here,’ said the young woman, and bent down to get down into the well. She opened the door and entered. McKay caught Wallace’s eye as her hips swung easily through the door and they exchanged glances. Despite their uneasy relationship they appeared to be agreed on one point. They followed her through and Wallace was startled to find that the cabin was more spacious than it looked from the outside, despite the seven foot width limitation. The bunk was in the bow while above the bunk was a small hatch. There was also a small kitchenette.

  ‘The toilet is through there, you can empty it at various points along the canals as you go,’ she said and showed a slight semblance of embarrassment. ‘Don’t empty it into the canal, it’s against the law, you must use a disposal point. You can cook all your meals down here, there’s an outlet to take out the fumes. There’s also a fridge, it’s operated by Calor Gas.’

  ‘Where is the gas cylinder?’

  ‘Through here,’ she indicated a small space in the stern. ‘It’s full, it was replaced yesterday.’

  ‘What is that hatchway there for?’ Wallace indicated the hatch above the bunk.

  ‘Just a way out, should anything go wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’ Wallace looked blank but McKay intervened.

  ‘If you start a fire, or if one starts while you are in your bunk, you can get out without having to force your way past the flames,’ he explained.

  ‘I’ll check it,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to open it.’

  The girl knelt on the bunk and stretched upwards. Wallace heard McKay give an intake of breath as she arched her back to reach the hatch.

  ‘Christ!’ he muttered. They both watched avidly as she removed the hatch and daylight poured in. She replaced it and looked at them and they hastily looked away. It seemed to Wallace that she was fully aware of the effect she was having, and she seemed to like it.

  McKay settled all the details and Wallace stayed aboard the craft. When McKay returned they had a brief chat then he turned away.

  ‘Memorise my telephone number, OK? Just take your time and don’t draw attention to yourself. And you’d better sign this otherwise it will come out of my wages. Be warned, after this is all over, they might want it back, so don’t spend it on wild living.’

  He placed a form in front of Wallace; it was for the £500 he had previously given him. Wallace signed it after checking the wording, for all he knew it could have been a confession. But a receipt was all it appeared to be, he turned it over to check there was nothing on the back of it.

  ‘Suspicious bastard aren’t you!’ McKay commented sourly.

  ‘Just making sure, that’s all,’ Wallace said coldly, and signed it with a flourish.

  ‘OK,’ McKay picked it up and gave it a cursory glance. ‘Now you’ve got this boat for three weeks, I can extend it if necessary but we should have you off the hook by then…hold on…what’s this? I thought you said your name was Harry.’

  ‘It is!’

  ‘Well you’ve signed this J. H. Wallace.’

  Wallace explained the saga about his first name, Josiah, and the fact that he never used it, but when signing documents he used the proper initials.

  ‘Can’t say I blame you; sometimes mothers can be a boy’s worst enemy,’ McKay nodded sympathetically and then turned back into the wheelhouse. ‘OK, keep in touch, and let me know when you’re in position anywhere near to Craddock, or the man we suspect could be Craddock. Give me a call when you are able… and don’t draw attention to yourself.’

  He disembarked and began walking off, then turned as a thought struck him.

  ‘By the way…don’t shave.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t shave, grow a beard. There might be pictures of you on television.’

  Chapter 13

  Wallace delayed his departure until the following morning; he certainly wasn’t going to risk running aground with McKay looking on. After donning McKay’s sunglasses and baseball cap, he found that starting the engine was fairly easy, but committed a faux pas as he had slipped it into drive before casting off which he found most embarrassing with the young woman looking through the window of the office. He angrily disengaged and had to ease the craft back a fraction to cast off.

  He finally eased the boat away from the side of the boat harbour and put the engine onto low throttle. As he headed to the first lock the girl came out of the office doorway and gave a friendly smile and a wave. As he responded Wallace suddenly felt a desperate longing, somehow her flashing smile, friendly wave and her physical attractions shafted deep into his consciousness and, like a ray of sunshine, made him feel good.

  She reminded him of a girl he had known in Melbourne many years ago, he felt very homesick and frustrated as the boat swung into the middle of the harbour. He became aware she was still watching. She probably watched all her charges go, maybe checking that the hirers didn’t hit anything on the way out.

  She waved again and her smile was like a beacon, Wallace responded and then she turned and made her way back to the office. Wallace exited the harbour, rounded the harbour entrance and into the canal lock and looked back. She had disappeared.

  It was heavier going than he thought it would be, as the night drew in he drew up alongside the canal bank without knowing where he was and moored. As he hashed some tinned peas and corned beef, he resolved to buy some frozen foods later on to put in the fridge. After he had chased it down with some coffee he felt better, and found that
listening to the water lapping against the sides of the boat was most soothing. It was a moonlit night and the stars were bright, it was also cold but not unduly so.

  Wallace had made his way out of the London outskirts without experiencing too much trouble with any locks. Some of them had lock-keepers who greeted him like an old friend as he passed through. It appeared as though there was still commercial traffic in this area that made employment of lock-keepers worthwhile. He returned the greetings confident that his accent sounded just like one of the natives, he thought it more than likely that after exposure to southern English accents over a period of about a week that his former mode of speech would return and the Australian inflexion would recede into the background. From an accent point of view he could probably just merge in. Having English parents was a great advantage in the present circumstances.

  Other locks further out were unmanned, but were well maintained and greased, so many boats passed that way near to London that maintenance was regularly carried out.

  He decided to turn in for the night. Initially he had fears that a night traveller might come up behind and ram his craft up the back, even though he thought it unlikely that many pleasure boats would travel by night. As it turned out the fears were groundless, he slept like a log and awoke refreshed and ready for anything the next morning.

  After a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, he cast off and promptly hit the opposite bank. He could see another boat moving in the distance around the curve and cursed angrily as he fought to bring the boat back to where it should be. He managed to push her into the middle as the other craft approached. It was a commercial barge; it had slowed down when the boatman saw his predicament and as Wallace eased over to his own side of the canal its bow wave picked up again.

  As it swept past, Wallace’s boat rose and fell with the disturbance. One man was cooking breakfast in the galley on the other craft and didn’t even look up as they passed. Another man in the stern was steering with the tiller and gave a solemn wave. If he had any thoughts about Wallace’s watermanship he didn’t give any sign, for which Wallace was grateful.

  Wallace had examined the map and had a look at where he had to go. He had the choice of the Grand Union Canal which would, in the long run, take him to the Birmingham Canal System, or he could travel via Reading and Oxford on a canal that eventually joined up with the Grand Union prior to Birmingham. What swayed him to go via the Grand Union was that the other way necessitated long stretches on the River Thames and he wasn’t sure whether the craft was licensed for that. There were two long tunnels on the Grand Union, the Blisworth and the Braunston, each over 3,000 yards; he wasn’t too happy about that but realised that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  It took a couple of days to reach Watford, by this time he was becoming fairly proficient with the handling of the boat and when passing other craft he would acknowledge other boat people with a casual wave reminiscent of a seasoned boatman. When he reached Watford eventually he had had enough of his own cooking and decided to put in at a pub that lay by the side of the canal. That he was not the only one with that thought in mind was clear from the number of boats and barges moored around it.

  He found a likely spot, moored the barge with a careless skill, and then ambled slowly up the tow path to the pub. It was a building that was clearly quite old, maybe erected in the early 1800’s, possibly when the canal was being built, for the use of the original canal boatmen. It was also popular amongst motorists as the adjoining car park was full.

  Wallace entered the public bar which was full of people dressed in casual clothing, reefer jackets and flannel trousers. The air was full of tobacco smoke, which was surprising in view of present day restrictions. He could also smell cigars and, more important, cooking.

  ‘What’s yours?’ asked the barman and just in time he stopped himself from asking for a Fosters.

  ‘Whitbread,’ he answered, being the first beer he spotted on the shelves behind the barman and a pint pot was plunked down in front of him. The dining room was next door, Wallace could see into it through the hatch.

  ‘Have you got a menu?’

  ‘On the blackboard by the door over there,’ the barman jerked his thumb in that direction, and Wallace detected a hint of disapproval as the barman cast his eyes over him. There was a mirror behind the bar and he studied himself critically. His stubble of beard didn’t help, but there wasn’t much of it, his last shave had been the day before leaving McKay’s apartment. There was also a spot of oil on the midriff of his shirt, Wallace zipped up his jerkin to cover it and then smoothed his hair down with his hands. He did have a comb somewhere but had left it on board.

  The beer tasted like nectar, he savoured it as it went down and ordered another. Australians are usually scathing about the English liking their beer warm, but warm or not it had plenty of nutriment in it and the taste was ecstatic.

  ‘Travelling far?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Bir…Ripon,’ Wallace answered.

  ‘Christ! Where’s that?’

  Wallace remembered that McKay had coupled it with York.

  ‘Yorkshire.’

  ‘Didn’t realise you could travel that far,’ said the barman. He eyed Wallace quizzically for a moment and Wallace quailed. Fortunately the barman was called away by another drinker and Wallace wandered over to the menu board which was written up in different coloured chalks. As he stood there making up his mind, he overheard a conversation between two men nearby who were reading newspapers.

  ‘…caught the bastard yet…’ he heard one ask the other ‘…he has a broad Australian accent, so it says here.’

  ‘Just listen and see if anyone says “cobber” or “fair dinkum”,’ said the other and they broke into laughter.

  Wallace felt himself go cold. He looked to his left and saw that there was a photograph of him in the newspaper, with a caption underneath. He peered at it to try and decipher it and they became aware of his presence. Strangely, the picture was of Wallace all right but it was a bad one, further his name didn’t seem to appear anywhere.

  As they looked at Wallace curiously he gave them a ghastly grin and reached around them to place his empty beer glass on the counter. He kept the inane smile on his face as he thanked them for making way for him. He had removed his sunglasses but the baseball cap was still on, fortunately the peak was well down.

  McKay was right, the photograph the police, or the press, had procured was not a good one. It was grim and unsmiling. That was fortunate but what Wallace didn’t like was that the visage that was staring out of the newspaper pages, by happy chance an inside page, looked like a hit man from the Mafia, ruthless, uncompromising, mean and one who would like inflicting pain. Had Wallace seen anyone remotely resembling that picture he would have instantly called the police.

  ‘Over here, sir, just the one?’

  ‘Just the one, thank you,’ Wallace grinned broadly and kept the grin there. The waiter looked at him quizzically and he hastily scratched his nose. He would have to watch the incessant, broad grin as well. It could indicate something else if he persisted with it. Englishmen, and Australians alike, tended to be very wary and suspicious of any fellow citizens who gave persistent broad smiles to strangers in pub saloon bars and gents’ urinals.

  Luckily the waiter had selected a table for him that was in shadow near the window overlooking the canal, well away from any newspaper readers. He ordered cottage pie and when it arrived Wallace attacked it as though he had not eaten for weeks. There was some credence in that, his system had not altogether got over the vomiting of a few nights back. He felt as though he was in Heaven as he consumed it and accompanied it with a glass of red wine. Nevertheless the ever present threat of that newspaper picture was very disturbing.

  On the way out he found a discarded newspaper and took it back to the boat. He took great care to avoid being exposed under bright lights, but took equal pains to avoid appearing furtive.

  He could still remember the lash of McKay’s
tongue when he accused him of creeping across the pavement like a hardened criminal.

  He reached the boat and stepped aboard and found that he was unable to avoid peering cautiously from side to side. He entered the cabin, lit the lamp and began to read.

  Murder in Knightsbridge

  Police are looking for a Mr Henry Wallis who is the owner of the flat where Mr Ananda Ravindran, a well known Indonesian liberal, was found murdered.

  Mr Wallis is believed to have been in England for about two weeks, but so far he has not been traced by the police who believe that he may be able to assist them with their enquiries.

  Mr Ravindran was a well known intellectual who was opposed to the regime in his own country, and wanted independence for the island from which he emanated, which he claimed was annexed illegally by Indonesia. He had been living in London for about five years.

  The motive for the killing is unknown but is thought to be political.

  The photograph of Wallace was not a good one, Saul had many others of him that were much better than that one; he must have deliberately selected one that was taken in shadow and from a bad angle. Wallace had also been caught half on the blink, he recognised the picture now as one that both he and Saul had deemed unsuitable and after a brief discussion as to whether they should ditch it altogether, they had finally tossed it back into the file. The writers of the article were obviously unaware how to spell his surname, it looked as if Saul had not been overhelpful as he had failed to correct their natural assumption that Wallace’s first name was Henry.

  He was surprised that Saul still had that old photo. Maybe he was too and had seized upon it as a red herring. The only disadvantage was that that it made Wallace look like a supporting actor out of a Hollywood “B” gangster movie, if anyone caught sight of Wallace in shadow and associated him with that photo they would have no compunction whatsoever in alerting the nearest police station.

  The other point was that there was no mention of drugs or any hint of a drug deal gone wrong. Maybe the police were either keeping that one close to their chests, or they had discarded it as a theory.