‘Help’s coming,’ I said to Drummer. ‘We made it. Hold on, Germoline.’
I reached for the button and kept my hand there for what seemed hours. The horn blared and blared and blared.
Chapter 10
They got a quack whose surgery stood across from the staithe proper. I can still see Drummer’s body on the yacht club’s new carpet. In the dreadful glare of the strip lights you could see what the bastards had done to him. He was in an appalling mess. His face was practically unrecognizable. His arms were deformed, bent the way no arms were ever meant to. Blood caked his nostrils and his stubbly chin. He must have tried to fend the blows off. It was too painful even to think about, the old bloke vainly attempting to evade the maniacal battering on the dunes . . . Somebody gave me a brandy which I fetched up, then some gin thinned out with minty stuff which I kept down.
I’ve never had much time for club people, especially golfers and these yohoho boat characters. You can never tell what they’re saying, for a start. They have private languages. But this crowd was really kind. They’d come out at a rush to our boat and ferried us off, calling their nautical terms in the night with gusto. They carried Drummer on a makeshift stretcher and cleared their posh bar for him, ignoring the muddy filth which trailed from Drummer and me. I asked somebody to please look after Germoline and was told she was safe ashore – the first time I’ve been called ‘Old Sport’ and not got mad.
The doctor gave Drummer a good cautious examination in total silence while the amateur sailors sipped rums and glanced ominously at each other. I wouldn’t go and lie down. I’d never seen so many polo neck sweaters in my life. Everybody was very friendly in an awkward embarrassed way. One or two patted my shoulder in sympathy before the doctor rose, folded her tube thing and told us Drummer was dead. ‘I’m sorry,’ was how she put it. In better times I’d have chatted her up because she was a cracker, especially for a quack, but now all I could think of was Maslow’s maddening voice. Joe was seeing to the boat I’d nicked.
They lent me some clobber, trousers, socks, oddly a pair of running shoes and the inevitable woolly sweater. I even got a crested yachting cap. People said things but I could manage nothing back. I think I got out a few words about sandbanks.
An hour or so afterwards they took me to Joe’s house. His wife Alice was still up and his two lads, Alan back from Wainwright’s and Eddie from the oyster beds, the three of them pale and quiet. I couldn’t eat the hot soupy stuff Alice gave me and just went to lie on the couch in their living room.
All night long I lay there listening to the sound of the sea. It seemed the shortest night on record, though I was sure I never slept.
Joe never rested that night. He worked like a dog, and looked worse than me at breakfast. He and two helpers had gone around all the households on the wharves knocking folk up and asking what they had seen that evening. The local school teacher hit on the bright idea of taking small portable cassette tape-recorders along. They gave the completed tapes to the bobby about six, but people had seen nothing significant, or so they said. Everybody was eager to please. Nothing like Drummer’s death had ever happened before in Barncaster Staithe, and Drummer was a favourite among the colourful characters living locally.
I was summoned to Dr Meakin’s surgery after breakfast to make a formal indentification of Drummer. I felt stupid because there wasn’t anybody for miles around who could mistake Drummer. Anyhow I stood there, muttered my piece, and signed the policeman’s paper. Doc Meakin said how sorry she was and thanks for having tried to save him anyway. Drummer was cleaned and brushed down. He lay on a roller stretcher covered with a sheet. A few of the yachtsmen were there signing statements.
The police car brought Inspector Maslow after we’d finished the formalities. By then Drummer had been something over twelve hours dead. In Maslow came, bossy and thick. I watched him arrive with complete detachment, almost as if he were a celluloid image straight off a screen. He had a quick chat with the Staithe policeman, then asked us to clear off, all except one. Guess who. Dr Meakin went with the others after glancing at me. She was worried. I wasn’t, not any more.
Maslow crooked a finger at me, chancing his luck. ‘A word with you, Lovejoy.’ We stood like two bookends in the surgery with Drummer lying to one side. ‘Lovejoy,’ said the berk. ‘What do you know about all this?’
‘Only what I told you.’ My voice was somebody else’s. ‘Before it happened, you will recall.’
‘Never mind that,’ he snapped, puffing up. ‘The implications are you know plenty. Are you concealing evidence?’
‘No,’ I said. I was mild as a duck pond. ‘But you did.’ My head felt hot and light.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. I notified you of a crime in good time to prevent it. And you suppressed my notification.’
He decided on attack. His sort honestly get to me worse even than traffic wardens. ‘You stole an ocean-going motorized luxury launch, Lovejoy.’
That shut me up. Well, I had. Then this big familiar-looking bloke cut in. He’d thoughtfully dallied in the hallway while the rest shuffled outside to stand around the garden lighting pipes. I recognized him as the Yank I’d saved from buying that crummy forgery of Nelson’s letter at the auction. It seemed aeons ago. He looked all nautical, which was why I’d not recognized him earlier.
‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Not steal exactly. It’s my boat. Name of Naismith.’
‘And you gave him permission, sir?’ I could see Maslow was going to be stubborn.
The bloke hesitated. ‘Not exactly. But I would have, if I’d been here.’
We all thought hard. There was some New World logic in there somewhere. To me it seemed preferable to that relentless Old World stuff you can never argue with.
‘Thanks, mate,’ I told him.
‘You’re welcome.’ He ducked out again. A big bloke, he kept having to mind the low oaken beams. I noticed he again idled in the hallway, gazing absently at a seascape hanging by the stairs. Don’t say I’ve an ally at last, I hoped in disbelief. Unless he turned out to be yet another friend of Maud’s. They’d been near each other at that same auction . . . Maslow was apoplectic but trying to stay calm.
‘All right, Lovejoy,’ he said at last. ‘You can go. But watch it, that’s all. I’ll want you down at the station later—’
‘Maslow,’ I said, grinning like I’d never done before. ‘Piss off.’ There was only one witness, though I like now to think Drummer was watching too.
Maslow rounded on me, finger raised in warning. We were as pale as each other. ‘Look here, Lovejoy—’
I hit him then, sweet as a nut. He folded with a whoosh and crumpled to the floor. Lovely. I decided to save some of Maslow’s punishment for later. The big Yank hadn’t even turned round, though he must have heard.
‘So long, Drummer,’ I said to the sheet. ‘I’ll do you the gadroon. You see.’
Maslow, trying to stand, crumpled in agony again and fell between me and the door. I kneed him ever so gently on his back, still folded and grasping his belly. ‘Out of the way, Maslow. There’s justice to be done.’ The law has no sense of what’s right.
I passed the big bloke in the hall. He was still frowning at the seascape.
‘Be careful, Mr Naismith,’ I said. ‘That’s a reproduction.’
‘Is that right!’ he said affably to the seascape. ‘Well, thanks.’
I went out by the back door to avoid Doc Meakin and the others. There was a feeling I’d see more of the big Yank called Naismith.
Before I left the staithe I went over to Joe’s house at the end of the staithe. I asked Joe if I could look at the sea reach between the promontory and the big sandbar where I’d found Drummer and Germoline.
‘Can we look from your coastguard place?’
‘If you like.’ He tried grinning and failed. ‘It’s only the same sea, Lovejoy.’
Joe’s lad Alan ran ahead of us and started explaining about his dad’s telescope and instru
ments. The lookout space was recessed back from a balcony, with walls covered by charts of isobars and whatnot.
‘Don’t fool me, Joe,’ I said, trying my best. ‘You never get the weather right.’
‘That’s the Meteorological Office,’ he cracked back fast. ‘We’re coastguards.’
I looked out. And it was the same sea, same estuary. The reach looked narrower, hardly a stone’s throw, but then the tide was lowish. And the same dunes. And Drummer’s pathetic ramshackle hut, just the same. And the distant old gun platforms low down and miles off. The ocean-going ships on the horizon. The same gaggle of tiny yachts already racing from the Blackwater. Yet . . .
‘Something’s missing, Joe.’
‘Eh?’ He scanned the outside world, puzzled. ‘No. Same as always.’
‘No, Joe. Something’s odd.’
I kept looking at one place. Wherever I tried to look, my eyes kept coming back to it. It was the dune, the big mounded dune where I’d found Drummer. Its top just touched the horizon for what seemed an inch or two when seen from here. But so what? And they’d done Drummer on the far side where they wouldn’t be seen from Joe’s place. If I hadn’t stood on Drummer’s hut roof I’d never have seen him and Germoline, from that different angle.
Joe tried kindness again. ‘Go home and have a rest, Lovejoy. Do as Doc says—’
‘Lovejoy’s right, Dad.’
Joe looked at me, then at Alan. ‘Show me what you mean, son.’
Alan pulled at us both, jubilant. We followed him in silence out on to the balcony, as far left as the railing let him. ‘Lean out, Dad.’ Alan was proud as Punch. ‘Now look at the sea.’
And suddenly I knew. Even before looking I knew, knew it all – or most of it.
‘Good lad,’ I told Alan. I was downstairs and walking off when Joe and Alan came running after me.
‘Lovejoy. You didn’t even look.’ Joe didn’t know whether to be annoyed at himself or pleased with Alan’s observation. ‘It’s—’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘The gun platforms.’
‘That’s right.’ Alan was grinning as we walked out, chuffed at being one up over everybody. ‘From almost everywhere else you can see three gun platforms. From Dad’s lookout you can only see two, because—’
‘That big dune obscures it.’ I stopped and waved to Alice at her window. ‘I’ll get the clothes back when I can get a minute.’
‘You’re welcome, Lovejoy. Here. What’s so special about the old gunfort?’
‘Nothing, Joe. Forget it. Thanks for everything.’ We stood about being embarrassed. I decided to thumb a lift back from the road.
‘Cheers,’ Joe said. Alan said the same, a bit self-consciously. ‘Er, Lovejoy,’ Joe called. ‘Don’t forget Germoline.’
Germoline and her cart were tied at the railing of the yacht club. A few members were having coffee in the bay of their verandah, clearing throats and studiously reading papers.
‘We got the cart and did it up,’ Joe added. ‘She’s been fed, only . . . well, she’ll be a bit lost . . . and she likes you . . .’
The cart was spotless. Somebody had laboured most of the night on it. I bet it was the yacht club people now so preoccupied. Germoline’s harness was gleaming and her coat was brushed to a fine dark sheen. Even her hooves shone. She looked really posh. Broken-hearted, but posh.
I managed to say after a bit, ‘Tell them thanks, Joe.’
‘Get in. It won’t hurt her.’
I did as I was told. The shafts rocked a bit but Germoline shuffled expertly and we balanced up.
‘It’s a long way to my cottage,’ I said anxiously. Now I had a bloody donkey to worry about.
‘She likes work,’ Joe informed me. Alice was smiling and nodding from her steps. ‘It’s Germoline’s trade, like antiques are yours.’
I sat there like a lemon holding these straps while everybody avoided looking.
‘Er . . . ?’ I got out at last, quite lost.
‘You say, Gee up, Germoline,’ Alan prompted.
‘Gee up, Germoline,’ I commanded apologetically. ‘Please.’
And I rolled home at a slow stroll to the sound of Germoline’s harness bells.
One donkeypower. Well, I thought helplessly, it’s more than I’m accustomed to.
Chapter 11
Countryside never stops being astonishing. When you think of it, it’s only a collection of villages dotted thinly among trees and estuaries and other boring pastoral crud. So you’d think news has a difficult time getting itself spread about. Nothing is further from the truth. An hour after I reached the cottage a silent pale Dolly arrived with a hot meal, sat me down to eat and moved about tidying up. Several times she bravely answered the door but didn’t let anybody in.
I don’t know much about donkeys but I’m sure Germoline knew what was up. After her terrifying experience she’d be daft if she didn’t. I was scared the journey home was too much for her but Dolly said she was probably glad of a job, take her mind off things. We went out to her about fiveish just as Tinker arrived stinking of fish meal, Jacko’s flavour of the month, and carrying a dirty sack. Dolly linked her arm with mine defensively and recoiled as Tinker came plodding up the gravel.
‘Had to walk bleeding miles, Lovejoy,’ he whined indignantly.
‘Get it?’ I’d phoned him from the box by the chapel to bring Germoline some grub.
‘Aye. You owe Lemuel for it.’ Tinker slung the bag on the grass disgustedly. ‘He says it’s enough for two days.’ He hawked deep and spat messily on the gravel.
‘Show us how to feed her, Tinker.’
Germoline was standing forlornly in the garden. She had a half-hearted go at chewing a bit of grass, then sobbed a few heartbreaking donkey sobs. Naturally Tinker grumbled but did it, threading a rope through the sack some way and hanging it over Germoline’s face. It looked a dicey business to me, though Germoline got the hang of it smartish. And it stopped her crying, thank God.
‘You really need Lemuel for this,’ Tinker groused. ‘He’s a natural with nags.’
‘I’ve heard – from the bookies,’ I said sardonically. ‘There’s a beer indoors, Tinker.’
‘Should I fetch it out?’ Dolly suggested brightly, thinking of her cleaning, but Tinker had streaked off.
A car screeched to a stop in the lane.
‘Lovejoy! You poor, poor creature!’ Patrick descended, grand with grief in his orange suit and blue wedge heels.
I’d put a couple of planks across the gap in the hedge to show Germoline her territory. Patrick momentarily shed his unmitigated sorrow to curse this arrangement while he stepped gingerly over. Lily followed lovingly. Oho, I thought, where are the widows of yesteryear? Lily’s husband was in a cold bed again.
‘Wotcher, Patrick, Lily.’
Patrick posed on the gravel, orange trilby tilted and hands clasped to show the depths of his emotion. ‘Lovejoy! We’ve all heard and we’re positively distrait!’ He was going to enlarge further but got bored and decided to notice Dolly. ‘Ooooh!’ he squealed. ‘Love your pearls, dear! False, though, aren’t they?’
You have to take Patrick with a pinch of salt. He’s not as daft as he looks. On average he pulls a high-priced deal in minor master paintings once a year, which shuts his critics up for quite a while.
I introduced them all, Dolly as an old school friend.
‘No need to apologize, Lovejoy.’ Patrick fluttered his eyes at Dolly roguishly. ‘We won’t say a single mot about you and Lovejoy rutting the way you do.’
This was getting out of hand. I cut in. ‘Patrick, do me a favour. Ask Brad about a boat.’ Brad’s brother Terry has a boatshed.
‘How old, dear? There’s only those old sailing barges—’
‘Not antique. One that goes.’
If he was surprised at this non-antiques enquiry he concealed it well. ‘For you, anything! But why, Lovejoy?’
Anxious not to reveal too much, I turned the chat to antiques for a minute or two. Clearly Patri
ck was disappointed at not finding me moribund. His enthusiasm for the visit weakened visibly when Tinker reappeared from the cottage swigging ale from a bottle.
‘We’ll go. In case we get covered in fleas,’ he hissed. ‘One thing, Lovejoy.’ He pulled me aside and whispered, ‘Do tell that sweet Dolly there’s a limit to how much tan a bottle-green twinset can bear. Promise?’
They departed, Patrick abusing Lily for bad driving as she made eight noisy attempts to turn their car. ‘You’re giving me a headache!’ he was screeching. Neither remembered to wave.
‘Frigging queer,’ Tinker growled after them. ‘What’s this about a boat, Lovejoy?’
‘We need one for a couple of days.’
‘That’ll cost us,’ he grumbled.
Dolly took my arm gently. ‘Come in, love. I’m chilly now the nights are drawing in.’ I was glad to call it a day.
* * *
That day all I could think of was where to get some money. Dolly has a car and her husband has a good job, but could I tap her for a boat’s hire, deposit and all? Probably not. And how much is a boat anyway? While she was running Tinker back to town, Helen dropped by to ask if it was all true about Drummer. It was a curiously stilted visit, her standing in the doorway saying, no thanks, she wouldn’t come in just now. I told Helen thanks for visiting and I was fine but Drummer was killed. She said politely how she quite understood and turned on her heel and zoomed off in her red saloon. I think she sensed Dolly. I went and sat on the grass near Germoline to think.
Devlin, of course, killed poor old Drummer – the only pair of eyes looking seawards at a precise spot on the ocean, from the dune. And I knew roughly why. It was the gun platform, one of the sea forts, as people call them here. Thanks to young Alan, I knew which one.
They stand some miles offshore. Our people built them during the war as flak batteries against enemy raiders. Soldiers were posted there for only limited periods because of the constant risk. It was no rest cure. Between bomber raids there was the constant fear that every warship was an enemy until proved otherwise. Apart from that there were only the terrifying storms which tried to shove the gun tower over into the deep ocean. And the blizzards. And the fogs, when you began to wonder if the rest of the world had simply vanished . . .
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