The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘You’re seeing it at its best,’ said Bernard Linder, waving his hand at the desolation. ‘When the damned people arrive it’s spoiled.’ He grunted, almost to himself. ‘Tennis racquets and brats.’ He led them up the resounding main staircase.

  ‘How long has it been a hotel?’ asked Davies.

  ‘Thirty years now,’ said Linder with a shrug. ‘At the beginning you did get a better type, but it’s deteriorated sadly. I dread the coming of Easter. These days, I get out, away to France, as soon as I can. And I don’t come back until October.’ He opened a heavy panelled door. A thoughtful smile then crossed his face. ‘After that, I have the place to myself.’

  He led them into a large untidy flat with generous bay windows overlooking the expressionless sea. ‘Sometimes in January,’ he said, ‘I sit in bed and just look out of the window for hours. I can’t see any land, just sea, empty grey sea. Not a boat, sometimes. All I can hear of the outside world is the occasional traffic on the road, the bus that goes every hour to Clacton-on-Sea.’

  They sat down and he brought them each a pale sherry. Davies thought of Colonel Ingate in his cascading house in Yorkshire. There was a lot of solitariness about. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all. It’s time I was stirring anyway. It’s almost March. You wanted to know something about my late father?’

  Davies opened the valise and brought out Lofty Brock’s wooden box. ‘I was wondering if you would recognise this.’

  Linder was astonished. ‘Well, well,’ he said, reaching out for it. ‘Fancy. I never thought I would see one of these again.’ He took it and turned it carefully. ‘His wooden screw period,’ he said.

  ‘I wonder …’ hesitated Davies, ‘if you could tell us something about it.’

  ‘Wherever did you get it?’ asked Linder.

  ‘An old man, who died last October in somewhat strange circumstances, had it in his possession. He had lived under an assumed name. I thought his box might give us some clue to his past and identity.’

  ‘Really.’ Linder looked up, his pale blue eyes cosseted by wrinkles. ‘You do go to a lot of trouble in the police, don’t you.’

  Davies caught Mod’s eye and coughed. ‘We … we like to clear things up,’ he said.

  ‘But however did you trace the box here?’ he asked. ‘That’s very clever, I must say.’

  ‘All part of the job,’ said Davies, swallowing modestly. ‘It was the wooden screws. I discovered that your father was one of the surgeons who pioneered them in the twenties. Other aspects of the case pointed to this area – Clacton, Chelmsford Women’s Prison.’

  ‘Ah yes, I see. My father made a hobby of rehabilitating – or trying to rehabilitate – people who’d been in prison. He even employed some of them. I gather that the scheme was not entirely successful. Even as a schoolboy I was taught by the butler how to pick a lock.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Davies, leaning forward.

  ‘So is the box,’ answered Linder. ‘I used to have several of these but I got rid of a lot of possessions when the hotel took over. There is just one I have left.’ He rose and pedantically laid aside his sherry glass. ‘When I was at school, I had a collection of insects. My father made cases for them. I have one left.’ He went into the bedroom.

  While he was out, Mod whispered: ‘Don’t you feel, Dangerous, that sometimes you are travelling down a dark road with no end to it?’

  Davies nodded. ‘I keep telling myself there’s an end,’ he whispered back.

  Bernard Linder returned. ‘It’s been on the wall for years,’ he said, holding out the small wooden frame. Davies took it and as he did so, one of the creatures pinned within dropped to the bottom of the case.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with embarrassment. ‘One of them has fallen down.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Linder. ‘It’s the damselfly. They become terribly frail. But, see how beautiful the frame is.’

  Nodding, Davies turned the chamfered edges in his hands. He examined the joints. ‘Wooden screws,’ Linder said for him. ‘I was about twelve at the time. I remember how pleased I was.’

  ‘He always used these wooden orthopaedic screws?’ asked Davies.

  ‘And stainless steel,’ added Linder, smiling. ‘There were lots of them around the place. I suppose he used to purloin them from the hospitals. And when the wooden screws went out of use, he came home with boxes of them.’ He shook his head. ‘He was a wonderful craftsman. He used to joke that being an orthopaedic surgeon was only like being a carpenter. He made furniture, frames, all sorts of things, some of them quite exquisite, and he was always fashioning boxes of various sizes to give to people. He made writing boxes, modelled on those in Victorian times, and boxes for ladies – perfume, handkerchiefs and suchlike. Even tiny pill boxes. He said working like that kept his hand in, particularly later in his life when he suffered ill health.’

  ‘You say that on occasions your father employed people who had been in prison,’ said Davies.

  ‘Yes, indeed. He was an old-fashioned idealist,’ nodded Linder. ‘He always wanted to give people another chance – a fair and square start, he used to say. Unfortunately, not all these people were as idealistic as he. There were some unfortunate results, thefts and that sort of thing. But he never lost his faith in human nature.’

  ‘That’s an achievement,’ said Davies feelingly. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket, produced an envelope and from that took the prison photograph of the young woman. ‘You would not by any chance recognise this person, would you, Mr Linder?’ he said. He handed the picture across. Bernard Linder’s pale face went tight. His hand went to his neck.

  ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Nanny.’

  Eleven

  ‘“Prenderley, Mavis Anne. Convicted of Theft,”’ read Mod. ‘That’s it, Dangerous.’ He slammed the bulky index fiercely, sending a mushroom of dust against the low ceiling. Davies coughed and blinked, backing away against the steel racks in the basement of the County Library. ‘Twenty-sixth of March, 1936,’ said Mod. Eyes screwed behind his glasses, he progressed crabwise along the shelves. The newspaper files, tall, red-bound, gold-embossed, were drawn up in the dimness like an enchanted military parade, forgotten and layered with dust. ‘There, this is it.’

  He levered the heavy file from its slot among the others and carried it to a table beneath a low lamp. He blew the dust from the cover towards Davies, causing him to make another face and back away. Mod did not notice. He began to turn the big brown pages with a sound like the flapping of sails. ‘March 12th, 19th … here we are, 26th. Now I can’t remember which page it said.’ Hopefully he regarded Davies. ‘Have a look in the index, Dangerous. It’s quite simple.’

  ‘Even for me?’ said Davies. He edged back along the narrow alleys between the metal shelves and picked out the tall volume.

  ‘Got it!’ exclaimed Mod from the table. ‘It’s all right. Don’t bother. It’s here.’

  Davies, like a soldier in a slit trench, retraced his steps. Mod had the bound newspaper opened on the table. ‘There,’ he said. ‘“Woman’s Thefts from Country Homes”.’ Davies edged him over and they read the two columns together, Davies aloud: ‘Got herself a job, good references, sussed the place out, and left a window open – for an accomplice “as yet unknown”. Now if there was anything little Lofty was cut out for, it was a cat burglar.’ He returned to the page. ‘Here she was found with some of the goods on her – they called it “swag” in those days, didn’t they? In the Beano burglars always wore masks and striped jerseys and carried a bag marked “swag”.’

  Mod looked disdainful. ‘We’re reading the Essex Chronicle,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Jewellery and silverware. Five charges. Three different houses,’ said Davies. ‘She got eighteen months.’ He suddenly thrust his head close to the page. ‘Ah, but look, this is interesting. “The Rev. Michael Jones, vicar of Purwell-by-Sea, who said he had known Prenderley and her family for several years, spoke on her b
ehalf and said that she had fallen into the hands of an unscrupulous accomplice who had used her and whom she still refused to name.”’

  ‘Where’s Purwell-by-Sea?’ asked Mod.

  ‘Probably not far,’ said Davies. His nose went up as though sniffing the brine. ‘Feel like a day on the beach?’

  A niggling force eight came in over the North Sea, buffeting everything from gulls to grass; black and silver mud stretched from the low land to the rough and bitter water. A solitary man, far out, stood against the wind and stoically dug for bait.

  ‘Not much of a day for building sand-castles,’ mentioned Davies to the landlord.

  ‘Never is here,’ agreed the man. ‘Sand went away years ago. The tides changed and carted it down the coast. Purwell-by-Sea? Purwell-away-from-the-sea more like it.’

  ‘Nice bit of fish, anyway,’ said Davies, eyeing the white morsel on his fork as Mod nodded agreeably. ‘Local?’

  ‘Birds Eye,’ said the landlord with uncaring honesty. ‘The chips are too.’

  ‘Times change,’ said Davies philosophically. ‘Nothing’s the same.’

  ‘That table over there,’ offered the man, nodding to the other end of the bar. ‘See how thick it is. The men used to get up there and dance in their clogs.’

  ‘You been here long?’ asked Davies.

  ‘Ten years,’ said the landlord. ‘This’ll be my last summer.’

  There was only one other customer, a glancing man in a brown cap sitting by the thick table. ‘I remember the clog-dancing,’ he called to them. ‘An’ the shove-’a’penny championships.’

  Davies half turned. ‘Do you recall a family called Prenderley?’ he asked the man before looking back at the landlord. ‘Had a girl called Mavis?’

  ‘Not in my time,’ said the landlord. ‘You know them, Bert?’

  ‘’Ow long ago?’ asked Bert. ‘I got a feeling I know the name.’

  ‘Before the War,’ said Davies. ‘And a bit after, probably.’

  ‘I got a notion they lived up by the old coastguard houses,’ said Bert. ‘But I don’t remember ’zactly. My mind’s going anyway.’

  ‘There’s not that many people living here now that would have been here then,’ put in the landlord. ‘It’s all changed even while I’ve been here.’ He glanced towards Bert. Both seemed glad that Davies had brought up the topic. ‘Old Tommy ought to know,’ he suggested.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Bert. ‘Old Tommy ought.’

  ‘Where will we find Old Tommy?’ asked Davies.

  The landlord leaned across the bar. ‘If you turn around,’ he said, ‘and look out of that window, you’ll see him. A long way out, see? He’s digging bait.’

  ‘We spotted him,’ said Davies, his spirits dropping. ‘How long will he be out there?’

  ‘Till dark,’ put in Bert. ‘Once ’e gets out there, ’e don’t come back till it’s dark or the tide comes in.’

  ‘Six o’clock today,’ said the landlord with a sort of fatalism. ‘Soonest.’

  ‘And … there’s no way of getting a message to him?’ asked Davies. ‘Like a loud-hailer?’

  ‘Or a boy who doesn’t mind getting muddy,’ put in Mod.

  ‘’E wouldn’t take any notice,’ said the landlord. ‘Is it that urgent then?’

  Davies took the risk. ‘Police,’ he said, taking his warrant card from his pocket. ‘We have to get back to London.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said the landlord.

  ‘So did I,’ said Bert.

  ‘Is there a way to get to him?’ asked Davies. ‘Safely?’

  ‘There’s a way across the flats,’ nodded the landlord. ‘That’s how Old Tommy gets out there. But you’ll get muddy. I’ve got a couple of pairs of boots you can borrow.’

  Mod raised his hand. ‘Only one pair,’ he intoned. ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘I thought you might not,’ muttered Davies. ‘Thanks,’ he said to the landlord. The man nodded at Bert.

  ‘Bert knows his way out there,’ he said. ‘I expect he’d go with you.’ Bert’s creased little face had contracted further.

  ‘Retired,’ he said. ‘I’ve retired.’

  ‘Ten pounds,’ said Davies.

  ‘I’ll go ’ome and get my boots,’ said Bert.

  Mod had settled himself in a public shelter facing on to the barren coast. Wandering shafts of gaunt sunshine moved over the mud but scarcely lightened the colourless afternoon.

  ‘You’re quite comfortable, are you?’ inquired Davies caustically. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t like a blanket and a hot Thermos.’

  ‘Both,’ replied Mod, ‘would be welcome. I’m willing, however, to undergo a certain amount of deprivation, seeing as you are doing so.’ He viewed the unhappy policeman clumping towards the mud in great green waders. ‘I’ll wait,’ he promised.

  ‘Take us ’arf ’our,’ said Bert. ‘There and back.’ In his thin waders he stepped stiffly but safely, like a long-legged seabird. The wind bit at their faces. Davies buttoned his long-serving overcoat around his neck. Bert went down the short grass and on to grey shingle and Davies followed him, with one last glance back at Mod who waved daintily. Davies cursed.

  The shingle crunched like nutshells below his boots, gulls squealed and flung themselves about the sky, the wind was like a flight of arrows. Bert plodded on ahead. ‘Keep right aback of me,’ he called over his small shoulder. The wind whipped the words away as soon as they were spoken. ‘If you get bogged, shout out loud.’ He had insisted on payment in full before leaving.

  Davies narrowed his eyes towards the bereft horizon. Mud – leaden, faintly glistening mud – stretched between him and it. There were channels and smooth but ominous pools of sea water, like dead eyes, and neat holes that blew inky bubbles. Far, far out, much more distant than he had seemed before, was the lugworm-gathering figure of Old Tommy.

  Bert, his arms and legs at the tangents of a star, went over the mud adeptly, locating unseen firm places, rocks and parts where stones had been strung out to form a causeway. With his four points of balance and his little balaclava-covered head dodging this way and that, he progressed, leaving Davies stumbling along in his rear. The wind was raw, it scythed across the mud-flats, rifling the lapels of Davies’s coat, making his eyes and nose stream and leaving his skin sore. Twice, having stumbled forward into the sucking mud, he involuntarily shouted and the wind flung away his words over his shoulder as soon as he had called them. They certainly never reached Bert who went jerkily but further ahead, like an expert cross-country skier leaving a novice far behind.

  Davies was also finding it exhausting. The weight of the tall, clinging waders, the effort to make progress against the wind, his antics with the moving mud, all sapped his suburban strength. Halfway to Old Tommy, he turned and saw Mod sitting fatly in the seaside shelter. Angrily he waved his fist and Mod, mistaking the gesture at that distance, waved amiably in return.

  Bert reached the bait-digger several minutes ahead of Davies and, after turning around to see where he was, stood alongside Old Tommy who showed no interest in his arrival and carried on with his spadework. Bulky and wet as a walrus, Davies paused and observed them against the wide and weakening sky.

  Eventually he reached a ridge of rocks, worn flat by years of tides, and rested for the last time. One more advance across the morass following Bert’s indentations and he reached the pair, panting but triumphant. No conversation was passing between the local men. Old Tommy was digging and Bert was staring at the horizon as if wondering what lay beyond it. Nor was his own advent to give cause for the merest excitement. Old Tommy scarcely glanced his way as he stood, mud three parts up his waders and thick on his coat, ribs aching, face raw, mouth opening and shutting to no avail. Eventually Davies gathered himself sufficiently to bawl against the shrieking wind, in Bert’s direction: ‘Did you ask him?’

  Bert looked mildly offended. ‘Ask ’im what?’ he shouted back.

  ‘About the Prenderley family?’ Davies yelled.

  ‘Oh, that.
No, I thought you was going to ask him that.’

  Davies glowered. ‘Can he stop digging for a moment?’

  ‘I ’spect he could,’ bawled Bert. He laid his hand on the thick elbow of Old Tommy. The lugworm-seeker reluctantly straightened. He was very tall and powerful for an old man. His riven face turned away from the wind, the eyes red as furnaces.

  ‘What you want?’ he bellowed.

  Davies almost staggered back but he stood his ground and yelled back at the face: ‘I’m Detective Constable Davies …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Detective Constable … oh Christ … this wind! I’M THE POLICE!’ For a moment he thought he had communicated because the big old man looked towards Bert, the lines in his face even deeper. But the face then returned to Davies.

  ‘POLICE!’ bellowed Davies again into the howling wind.

  ‘He’s deaf,’ said Bert in an almost normal voice which he seemed able to slot between gusts. ‘Been deaf for years.’

  Davies thought he was going to fall backwards into the mud. He looked aghast at the puckered Bert. ‘Deaf?’ he howled. ‘Bloody hell, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ shouted Bert, a little shamefaced. He regarded Old Tommy, who examined the contents of his lugworm bucket, and then summed up the dimming horizon. ‘Get him ashore,’ he suggested. ‘Ask him on shore. Got a fiver?’

  ‘Yes … what for?’

  ‘Wave a fiver at him.’

  ‘Oh … I see. All right. Christ, what a performance!’ Swaying in the mud he managed to extract a five-pound note from his wallet. As he held it out speculatively so the wind, apparently having been lying in wait, gusted and tore the blue note from his fingers. Davies cried out and Bert watched expressionless as it flew off across the mud. ‘Bugger it!’ exploded Davies.

  ‘There it is,’ pointed out Bert. ‘Miles away.’ He looked up with a creeping sympathy. ‘Won’t get that back now.’