by Berry, Tony
He copped the blast of a horn from a following car as he swerved without signalling to the left and pulled to a halt. He turned off the raucous Ride of the Valkyries and raised the phone to his ear, but said nothing.
‘Bromo? That you?’
He recognised Cedric’s sibilant tones.
‘Yes.’
‘Turn back.’
‘What?’
‘Switch off the sat-nav and come back here.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Don’t ask.
‘What about Swanpool. I saw a sign. I’m nearly there.’
‘You’re going the wrong way.’
Alarm bells rang. How would Cedric know? Bromo was alone; he had made sure no one was following. He leaned back in his seat, hands in his lap cradling the phone, silently reviewing the past day’s events and conversations, looking for inconsistencies, anything he might have missed. He put the phone back to his ear. Cedric’s voice was higher-pitched, querulous.
‘They’ve hacked into the sat-nav.’
Bromo let it sink in. Sat-navs had been known to lead drivers where they didn’t want to go – up bush tracks, into swamps, the wrong way down motorways. But they were glitches, technical errors, not the work of hackers. This was something else.
‘Bromo? Are you still there?’
The voice was anxious. Cedric’s concern seemed genuine.
‘Yeah, I’m here.’ Bromo paused and thought. Doubts nagged at him.
‘As a matter of interest, where do you think I am?’
There was no hesitation.
‘Halfway along Woodlane Terrace going towards the harbour.’
Neither said anything for some seconds, both assessing the situation. Cedric was the first to speak, calmer and quieter.
‘Stop thinking what you’ve been thinking. We’re on your side. It was Justin who put a bug on the car so we could keep track of you in case something like this very thing occurred.
His voice went up a notch, quickened.
‘Now put that car into gear, turn around and get back here without wasting any more time. We’ll be waiting for you at the top of Lemon Street. A red Honda CRV, our bush-bashing wagon. Pull in just past the Daniell Arms. Go!’
His last word was a whispered scream, full of urgency and command. Bromo checked his mirror, did a quick three-point turn that sent an elderly driver towing a caravan into a paroxysm of angry gesticulations, and set off towards the Western Terrace roundabout.
‘You are taking the wrong direction. Stop and reverse. You are taking the wrong direction. Stop and reverse. You are—’
Bromo grabbed the sat-nav, flicked the switch and threw it into the well of the passenger seat.
‘And you, woman, can bloody well shut up!’ he yelled. But no one heard.
TWENTY-ONE
Julian had struck lucky. There was a vacant space with just enough room to park their chunky wagon around the corner from the pub. From there they had an excellent view of traffic passing up and down the main road into Truro.
The narrow street’s terraced houses, built for the artisan workers of the industrial era, were set hard to the pavement. They closed in on the road climbing its way up to the city’s border and gave little cover to anyone trying to sneak up unsighted. The long slope down Lemon Street was on the Honda’s left, the climb up Falmouth Road to the confusing double roundabout at the Morlaix junction on the right. Above them towered the slender monument to local lad Richard Lander who died in the early 1800s on his third exploration of Africa’s vast Niger River delta.
‘He’s looking the worse for wear,’ said Cedric with a nod in the direction of the statue.
‘I know how he feels,’ said Julian. ‘I’m beginning to crumble myself. Another day like this and—’
‘Oh, you poor dear. It’ll all be over soon.’
‘I thought we’d quit the rat race, done our sea-change thing and all that.’
Cedric leaned over and patted him on the back of his heavily gloved hand.
‘We have. This was a one-off; for the Grumbler. And for Bromo. We owed him one.’
Julian looked up the road to his right. It was only 5.30 but already dark. A light mizzle was falling. Visibility was poor.
‘Bloody Bromo; never out of trouble. He should be here soon. Hope he can see us.’
‘If he misses us, he’ll see the pub,’ said Cedric.
Festoons of coloured lights were strung along the front of the low double-storey freestone building. It had been there since the early 19th century, first as a couple of small town houses and now doing service as a heritage-listed drinking hole for a mostly male clientele.
They huddled down into their thick black anoraks, the engine ticking over quietly, the heater fighting the icy chill and spreading some much needed warmth around their feet. Wipers made a spasmodic sweep of the windscreen. Each man was sunk deep in thought, comfortable in his own space yet close to his companion – a shared wavelength. Cedric broke the silence.
‘There shouldn’t be any more trouble.’
‘Don’t know how they got on to us in the first place.’
‘There’s always a mole.’
‘But not here, not us. We don’t matter. We’ve been away from it for too long.’
‘Not long enough it seems.’
‘You did well.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t know how I didn’t tumble to her.’
Cedric wriggled in his seat. He giggled.
‘There’s only room for one genius in the family.’
‘Braggart.’
‘Tart.’
Their banter paused. Julian scanned the road through the mist. A steady stream of headlights passed, none of them slowing. He looked at his watch. Bromo should be arriving soon.
‘Odd business about that woman dragged from the river down at Trelissick,’ said Cedric. ‘Quite hilarious in a sad sort of way.’
He felt Julian tense alongside him.
‘What are you talking about?’ he snapped. ‘How do you know about it?’
‘Calm down; it’s me you’re talking to. I read about it in the Briton on line.’
‘Hell, they’re quick off the mark. What did it say?’
‘Only that police had pulled a woman’s body from the river down near the King Harry Ferry. Seems a couple walking their dog through Trelissick found her. Quite funny really.’
He giggled again. Julian snapped back.
‘What’s there to laugh at in that? Another suicide probably.’
‘The police don’t think it’s suicide.’
‘What? Oh shit.’
Cedric put a consoling hand on his mate’s arm.
‘Don’t worry, love. They think she went to hide behind a tree to take a pee and slipped in. Terribly muddy. Couldn’t swim. Died with her knickers round her ankles. End of story.’
Julian put a hand up to his forehead and sunk back in his seat.
‘End of story, eh? Let’s hope so for everyone’s sake.’
He let out a brief laugh.
‘You’re quite right, it does have its funny side. By the way, who was she?’
‘According to the police, the only ID on her was a passport, a credit card and a couple of letters, all in the name of some Brazilian woman. The impression given, and one they seem to agree with, is that she was an unfortunate lone tourist, a day tripper from somewhere up-country.’
‘And our guest in the hotel, she was really—?’
‘What guest?’ said Cedric. ‘I have no record of any woman guest. You truly are crumbling, dearie.’
He wriggled closer to Julian and gave his thigh an affectionate squeeze.
‘I think you are in need of a big dose of TLC. Let me—’
‘Later, I think.’
The on-off, on-off flash of headlights toggling between high beam and low briefly blinded them as Bromo brought his car round the corner from Falmouth Road and came to a sudden stop.
‘I’ll go,’ said Cedric, openin
g the door and rolling across the road towards Bromo’s car in a surprisingly fluid movement for one so short and rotund.
Bromo already had his door open and feet on the ground.
‘What’s this, the Michelin man? I didn’t order any tyres.’
Cedric gave him a playful punch to the chest.
‘Rude bugger. No time for pissing about. Get over there and I’ll bring your bag.’
He moved quickly round to the boot while Bromo hurried across to the Honda and climbed into the rear seat. Cedric followed soon after, slamming his door shut as Julian eased the car out into Lemon Street and veered off sharply to the left down the steep slope of Infirmary Hill. Bromo clasped his seatbelt shut.
‘Do I detect an air of panic?’
‘Julian always drives like this,’ said Cedric.
‘Stop arsing around,’ said Bromo. ‘I’m cold, I’m hungry and I’ve spent the past two hours driving on strange roads under instructions from a bloody woman who wouldn’t shut up.’
‘Calm down,’ said Julian, his level voice reflecting his words. ‘There’s been what we used to call a Code Red, although they’ve probably got some hi-tech jumble for it these days. They were on to us – on to you.’
‘Who were?’
‘Not sure. Looks like two groups.’
‘Two!’
Bromo exploded. It wasn’t only the cold, the hunger and the hangover of long-haul travel that was getting to him. This was too much like the old days: the endless tension and double-crosses, never being able to relax, to trust even those closest to you; a world of loners, misfits and renegades. And all because of a friendship formed in those distant unwanted days. Bloody Sigiriya. Adding to his misery was the constant nagging thought he still had to endure that god-awful flight back home.
‘Yes, two,’ confirmed Julian. ‘We’re fairly sure one of them is the old firm simply keeping an eye on their lost child—’
‘Me? A lost child,’ scoffed Bromo. ‘Pushed out into the cold drear of winter is more like it.’
Julian ignored his outburst.
‘The others we’re not sure about but they’re probably rooted in Sigiriya but on the other side.’
Bromo shuddered again. It was what he hoped not to hear; praying this was some minor fracas that had got briefly out of hand. But it wasn’t so. His demons were back; they never let go.
Cedric turned in his seat and faced him.
‘Cheer up, there’s nothing to worry your pretty little head about,’ he chirruped. ‘It’s all fixed.’
‘What do you mean, fixed?’
‘“Need to know”, m’dear.’ Cedric put his index finger to his lips and raised his eyebrows – a look of innocence, almost cherubic. ‘Three wise monkeys and all that.’
Bromo knew when he was beaten. Any decision making was out of his hands for the time being. They were an odd but formidable pair; he had to trust them.
‘So how about doing some more fixing, like finding some food?’
‘Not long now,’ said Cedric, turning back to the front and peering ahead through the misted windscreen. ‘I’m sure our host will be able to find something to ease your hunger.’
Bromo squinted out of the side window, looking for a landmark, a street sign, anything to give a hint of where they were. The curtain of drizzle made everything too dark; the street lighting was too dim. Julian seemed to be locked in a maze, taking the Honda on a route of incessant turns, over cobblestoned streets, squeezing along narrow alleys, up and down the city’s calf-testing hills and between lines of houses with no more than a car’s width apart.
‘Our host?’ queried Bromo. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with Swanpool, by any chance?’
‘The very same,’ said Julian. ‘We gave him a call. He saw them coming and got out. Saved everyone a lot of trouble.’
‘So, nothing for you two to fix, then.’ He thought he was making a point, picking up on Cedric’s earlier use of the word. They seemed not to notice.
‘The estate staff are quite capable; blocked off a few access points and took the dogs for a walk. Left their visitors to enjoy the horticultural delights while the boss flew off in his chopper.’
Bromo digested this information, his mind thumbing through old files and lists of contacts, trying to get a step ahead, seeking clues to this link to Sigiriya, wondering who had the resources to call up a helicopter at a moment’s notice, let alone apparently own one. Nothing stirred in the backblocks of his memory. He leaned forward, arms resting on the seat backs, his head between them.
‘So this Swanpool is what … a place or a person?’
‘A dot on the map, old dear,’ said Julian. ‘A small beach, a handful of houses, couple of cafés, mini golf, boards for hire, usual thing, nothing special.’
‘But special to you, or to someone.’ Bromo thumped a hand on the back of the seat. ‘Come on, stop pissing me about. This is my life you’re playing with—’
Julian swerved the car on to a rutted track. It lurched suddenly, throwing Bromo sideways. Thick undergrowth crowded in on either side, scraping against the car’s sides. Dense foliage overhead darkened the night even more. They juddered to a halt in a small grassy clearing. Julian switched off the car’s lights.
‘We wait,’ he said.
Bromo felt his impatience rising along with his hunger.
‘What for? How long?’
‘Couple of minutes,’ said Julian. ‘Checking no one’s following. We move when I say and don’t slam your bloody door.’
They waited. The silence was intense. Outside, only the foliage moved, the trees and bushes bending to the wind.
The two minutes passed. Julian took a final look in the rear view mirror and briskly opened his door. There was no mistaking his urgency.
‘Okay, move it!’ he snapped, closing the door with the merest of clicks and marching briskly to the vehicle’s rear. Cedric was close behind, helping raise the tailgate and pulling two long objects from the luggage compartment. Bromo stood back, watching, trying to get his bearings. He could see the cathedral’s spires through the gloom and fancied he heard water. It told him little; the city was riven by streams and leats used in the tin-washing era, and the cathedral was a landmark that dominated the view in all directions. He could be anywhere.
Julian thrust a roll of something soft at him.
‘Put these on, quick as you can.’
Bromo unfolded the bundle; a long rubberised coat, waterproof mittens, a woollen beanie – all black with no distinguishing marks. While he fumbled with the coat’s Velcro fastenings Cedric and Julian bent over two inflatable kayaks they were sliding over the grass.
‘Hardly boating weather,’ murmured Bromo.
‘And this isn’t the English Channel,’ snapped Julian. ‘You won’t have time to get wet or cold.’
Cedric thrust a short-handled paddle in Bromo’s direction and bent back to the kayaks, now resting on the edge of a dark, muddy stream flowing away to their left.
‘We’ll tell you when to use it, if at all. Leave the steering to us.’
‘Fine. I’ll just sit back and sip champagne. You did bring some, I assume.’
‘In your dreams. Keep quiet and get in.’
Bromo felt Cedric’s gloved hand in the small of his back pushing him gently towards the water’s edge. The other hand came up to take his elbow and guide him into the kayak’s rear seat. The craft wobbled and briefly tipped sideways. Bromo clutched a clump of grass and steadied himself. He held on as Cedric squeezed into the front seat and the kayak rocked again. Julian was already in mid-stream, steadying his canoe with gentle dips of a paddle, first one side and then the other. He raised one hand and pointed ahead to where the foliage ended and high stone walls crowded the stream still more as it curved towards the blackness of a tunnel beneath a narrow old bridge.
‘Head down and stay down,’ whispered Cedric.
Bromo obeyed. He could feel bumps and scrapes as the kayak threaded its way past chunks of conc
rete and masonry strewn along the shallow riverbed. He raised his head slightly and peered over Cedric’s shoulder to where the far side of the bridge framed a wider stretch of water and the protective side walls were topped by spiked iron railings fencing off the beer garden of a waterside pub. No one was around; the night was too cold and damp for alfresco drinking. Only the incessant squawks of seagulls disturbed the peace. They carried on their endless shindigs day and night, good weather or foul, wrangling over every scrap of food.
Bromo saw Justin in silhouette on the other side of the bridge. He was sitting upright, gliding his craft forward with slow rhythmic strokes on a two-bladed paddle.
‘Okay, you can sit up,’ said Cedric. ‘Take a short breather.’
He used his paddle to fend the kayak away from a large boulder and pointed it towards another bridge, bigger and broader than the first. It arched higher over the river but they would still need to crouch low to gain headroom.
‘Heads down,’ said Cedric.
‘Sounds like bloody bingo,’ grumbled Bromo, the cold and hunger increasing his irritability with each dip of Cedric’s paddle. He sensed they were somewhere near the centre of the city but had no idea of where they were going or why. The “need-to-know” dogma could be stretched too far. A bit of comradely communication would have been welcome.
‘All clear,’ said Cedric, his squat form bobbing upright. ‘One more bridge and we’re done.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered Bromo. He felt his neck click in his haste to sit up and bent his head from side to side to ease the stiffness. They were in a wider channel, the rear of buildings on one side, the broad expanse of an almost deserted car park on the other. A squawking cluster of seagulls was squabbling over the dumped remains of a takeaway. He felt exposed and uneasy. Their visibility to passers-by seemed to negate all the subterfuge of paddling down this muddy waterway. The stream was deeper now, flowing faster. The tide had turned and was enough to carry them along. Paddling was needed more for steering than for impetus. A car trundled over the hump of the approaching bridge, headlights piercing the drizzle.