One More Unfortunate

by Kaitlin Queen

Nick stared back at DS Cooper. He decided this was not the time to debate the extent of police powers. "Is that it?" he said.

  Cooper smiled. "For now," he said. Then he slid into the front seat and the car backed sharply out of the gateway.

  For an awful moment, Nick thought it was going to surge forward and ram him, then the driver spun the wheel and pulled out into the road, heading back towards town.

  Nick grinned, at last. He had come too far to be so easily intimidated. He looked down at his shoes. They weren't his good Adidas running shoes, but at least he was in trainers.

  He started to run, at first along the roadway and then out along a track which would eventually draw close to the railway line, before passing through an area of industrial land on the edge of Westquay.

  He ran homewards, the driving rhythm of his heart, the flush of adrenalin, serving to clear his head. Slotting himself into the right mental groove.

  From feeling so bad, he quickly began to feel exhilarated, the exertion freeing his mind.

  Cooper and his driver must have pictured him trudging disconsolately back along the twisting road, feeling humiliated and beaten. They hadn't expected him to know the lie of the land so well after all this time. But you never really forget.

  He came into sight of the refinery, and then the small cluster of factory units that marked the beginning of Westquay.

  He started to laugh.

  He couldn't stop himself. By the time he emerged by the roadworks on Ray Island Road the tears were streaming down his face, mixing with his sweat. It was the first time since his return to Bathside that he had felt quite this good.

  ~

  He gathered himself as he passed through the town. He started to think.

  Cooper had reached Nick only a few minutes after he had left the Gayle house. Too quickly to simply be the response to an angry telephone call to the station by Gayle senior. It was as if Cooper had been waiting for him. Or following him.

  But if they had been on Nick's tail, then why had they not simply prevented him from calling on the Gayles in the first place? More games, he suspected. Cooper's warnings were just a part of it. They weren't concerned with the feelings of the family: they had let Nick visit, probably in the hope that something would be provoked. Maybe they had thought Nick would give himself away in some manner. Were they so desperate for leads that they would resort to that?

  Whatever their reasons for allowing his visit to proceed, one thing was clear. Even if they were not permanently on his tail, then they were keeping tabs on him, tracking his movements.

  Cooper had warned him not to get involved, and after all that had happened that was clearly the sensible thing.

  He didn't get involved through lunchtime. He didn't get involved well into the afternoon. And then, he pulled on his faithful old leather jacket, and stepped out into the remains of the day.

  ~

  He chose to walk. Down through Cliff Gardens, where a police car could not follow. He walked casually, as if he had no purpose. He walked through the tunnel which passed under Coastguards' Parade. He glanced behind but there was nobody.

  He hid for several minutes behind a wall, but nobody emerged. Maybe he was being paranoid, although that had never been one of his symptoms. They'd have told him if it was, he felt sure. He waited a little longer, feeling foolish.

  There was nobody following him.

  He checked the address again, on the list Betsy had written out for him. It was too late for him to get all the way down to the office of Sperry and Neeskens this afternoon. He would go to Ronnie's home and wait. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, but he decided to leave that until the time came. He'd always been a better thinker on his feet, in the thick of things.

  His reasons for targeting Ronnie were purely subjective. If he was to proceed in a methodical manner then the next step should be to pay a visit to the University and speak to Trevor Carr and Mandy Kemp. He had already spoken to Ronnie, and to Betsy. The accounts of Trev and Mandy might give him a new angle, they might point up any contradictions in what he had been told already.

  But Trev and Mandy were in Colchester and Nick was in Bathside. And so was Ronnie.

  It was more than convenience, though. It was personal. He had never liked Ronnie Deller. At school, Ronnie had always been a liar and a braggart, and somehow he had found a sophisticated sixteen year-old girlfriend, too. He had been an indiscriminate bully, picking on boys both younger and older than himself, with seemingly no fear and a pain barrier so high that he was held in awe by everybody. He had always been devious and underhand and despite what people told him of the man Ronnie had become, Nick's low view of him had not been changed.

  Betsy had told Nick that Ronnie and Jerry were close, but on Friday night the two had been constantly getting at each other. Maybe something had happened between them. Maybe Ronnie had finally fancied his chances, with Matthew Wyse away on business.

  No, thought Nick, as he walked down Station Road. He'd never much liked Ronnie Deller, and that was as good a reason to suspect him as any, he supposed.

  He passed St Augustine's Station, the halt between Eastquay and Westquay. Albert Street was tucked away a short distance past the station, almost a continuation of Bagshaw Terrace on the North side of the Main Road. He found Ronnie's address quickly. Halfway along the street a new block had been built into the old terraced housing, the style similar but the bricks a brighter shade of red. There was a lot of that in Norwich, if you knew where to look, a result of wartime bombing. Nick guessed that the new stretch of Albert Street was more modern than that, because a number of garages had been built into the ground floor. Ronnie had a flat above the block of garages.

  It was well after five by now, so Nick walked on until he found a suitable place to loiter. There was a footbridge over the railway, a shortcut from town to the Riverside Estate. He had used it often, as a boy. Now, he climbed its uneven steps and went to stand halfway across, leaning against the parapet so that it would appear he was watching the trains.

  It started to drizzle, so he turned up the collar of his jacket. He thought back to his encounters with Ronnie in the Two Cups. The first time, when he had been so full of himself, eager to assert his social superiority, the success he had made of his life. And the second time, when he had only wanted to get away from Nick.

  Maybe it was foolish to try reading too much into Ronnie's behaviour. They had all been changed by Jerry's death. It was only natural that Ronnie should be wary, that he should want to keep well clear of the man who had been taken in by the police and then released on bail without charge.

  But no matter how hard he tried to excuse his behaviour, Nick was left with the strong impression that Ronnie had been trying to hide something.

  He stood on his bridge, occasionally reaching up to run a hand through his damp hair. Trains passed beneath him every so often, making the bridge shake under his feet.

  It started to get dark and still there was no sign of Ronnie. Maybe he had left work early and had been inside all this time. Maybe he had gone on somewhere from work.

  He decided to give it ten more minutes.

  A short time later, a red BMW swung round the corner from Station Road. It cruised up Albert Street, paused outside the row of garages as a door lifted by remote control, then reversed in. A few seconds later, Ronnie emerged and the door slid down behind him. He walked a short way down the street to the end of the row of garages, opened the door that would lead him up to his flat, and went inside.

  ~

  He had decided as soon as the BMW came into sight that he was not going to confront Ronnie that evening.

  He waited on the bridge for nearly an hour, then a mini-cab came and blew its horn. Seconds later, Ronnie came out into the street, climbed into the back and was driven away.

  Nick walked back to his digs, fished the key from the letter-box, dried himself off. In the morning the rain was harder, the wind squally and wild. He considered staying in and doing exercise
s, but in the end he went out and ran, revelling in the sheer physicality of it. The wild elements. The road, hard, thumping repeatedly at the soles of his feet. The power in his body, to be out on a day like this.

  He drove down to Eastquay at about midday. Ronnie would be safely in his office until then.

  He watched Ronnie emerge from the Portakabin and go to the Two Cups for his usual lunch. In the evening he followed him home and waited in his car in the mouth of a side street. This time, when the taxi came, he was able to follow it. It took Ronnie to a pub in Westquay. The place was crowded but small and Nick didn't dare go inside. He watched the people come and go, recognizing no-one, wondering what he was doing spending an entire evening in his car, outside a dingy little Essex pub. Eventually, Ronnie emerged, one of a mixed group of seven. Raised voices, exaggerated gestures, the end of another night out. He climbed into a waiting mini-cab with a man and a woman. Nick followed at a distance. The couple were dropped off in Selby Road and later Ronnie was deposited outside his flat.

  He was getting nowhere.

  The next day followed the same pattern, except the rain had stopped and the taxi didn't come.

  Nick had just about decided to pack it in for the night when Ronnie emerged and set off on foot. Tonight's pub was The Ferryman, on St Augustine's Road, only two streets from Ronnie's flat. It was a dark building, with a few desultory flower troughs fixed beneath its windows.

  When Ronnie had disappeared inside, Nick tried to peer in through the windows, as he had done the previous night in Westquay. They were too dirty and smeared for him to make out more than the lights and the cartoon blurs of the drinkers. He decided to take the plunge and went inside.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness and then he spotted Ronnie, over at the far end of the big bar, watching a game of pool.

  Nick ordered an orange juice and slipped onto a seat at the opposite end of the bar to Ronnie, after first making sure that he wasn't on the route to the toilets.

  The interior of The Ferryman was pretty much what Nick had expected. Big enough to house a couple of pool tables and a darts board at the far end and still have plenty of space for a punch-up. A general air of neglect and decay, countered to some extent by the number of bodies packed in—fairly impressive for this early on a Thursday evening. The drinkers were mostly young, the atmosphere boisterous and probably, by closing time, verging towards the aggressive. Nick had spent many nights in pubs like this, mostly behind the bar.

  After a while Ronnie had a game of pool, but the second ball he managed to pot was the black and the game was over almost before it had begun.

  Nick got talking to the barman at one point. He asked about the possibility of work, but there didn't seem to be much going. "Get much trouble here?" he asked.

  The barman laughed and looked around him. "What do you think, mate?"

  And just then Nick saw that Ronnie was talking to a man he hadn't noticed before. There were two of them, he realised. The thin, blond one doing the talking and some kind of minder in long hair and denims, playing dumb.

  "I'll be in again," Nick told the barman, using him as a screen to conceal himself behind. "Will you ask the boss? See if there's anything going? I've got plenty of experience. And I can handle myself."

  The barman shrugged and said it was probably not worth it and beyond him, Ronnie Deller reached into his jacket, produced a small brown package and passed it over. The thin man handed something to Ronnie, then turned to leave, shadowed by his companion in denim. It was all very casual. The sort of thing you would normally miss, or ignore.

  But Nick had been watching and now his brain was working overtime, making the obvious connections.

  Ronnie had said he worked for a shipping agency, but he had never said precisely what goods he shipped. Heroin? Crack? E? What might Jerry have known? What might she have found out and confronted Ronnie with some time before her death?

  Chapter 10

  That night Nick Redpath lay awake, letting everything run through his mind. Shaking up all of the pieces to see how they fell.

  He should have guessed there would be something like this. He should have been alerted to it by what he had seen at the party, the undercurrents he had sensed.

  Drugs.

  Jerry must have known too much.

  Nick hadn't liked the look of the two men Ronnie had met in The Ferryman. They had looked very businesslike. Had Ronnie got himself into something a little too big for him to handle? Had Jerry found out something about the people he was dealing with?

  Ronnie must be using his work at Sperry and Neeskens as a cover for his real source of income. Contacts on both sides of the North Sea. Drugs were easy in Holland, it was just—as Ronnie, himself, had said—a matter of moving goods from A to B.

  Nick thought back to the night of Jerry's murder. Yes, he was certain that there had been something going on between her and Ronnie, some undertow of tension that erupted in sharp comments and digs at the slightest opportunity. Maybe she'd even been teasing him: she knew his secret and therefore she had a hold. She would enjoy that kind of power, he thought. She would play with it. Controlling men was how she got her kicks.

  But Ronnie Deller would never take that kind of treatment for long. He was on too short a fuse. He was a fighter. Cut his legs off and he'd kick you with the stumps, as they had always said.

  Ronnie had been tending the fire when Nick and Jerry had gone off into the woods. He would have seen the path they took—he could easily have caught up with them, spied on them. Maybe he had really only intended to catch them in each other's arms and so have a hold over Jerry, to counter the hold she had on him. But when he had found her alone...

  Betsy had seen Ronnie out on the jetty at some point. Cleaning the blood off his hands?

  It didn't even have to be Ronnie. Maybe one of his contacts in the drugs underworld was aware that Jerry knew too much. Maybe they had been out in the woods all night, waiting for their opportunity. Maybe it had been their way of warning Ronnie not to be so lax in the future.

  ~

  All night, it seemed, his mind raced. By dawn, he had settled into a kind of half-slumber, staring at the ceiling, mind adrift.

  He got up, pulled on his track-suit and running shoes and went outside.

  It had been a clear night and the air had the taste of frost to it. He ran. Zigzagging up and down the paths of Cliff Gardens, sending up the gulls that lined the Prom. He watched them lift, lazily, then hang in the air until he had passed and they could return to their positions. Past two tiers of beach huts he ran, through Cliff Park to the Main Road.

  Long, rapid strides, pulling him past the police station. Free. He ran hard this morning. Out to Eastquay, past Elizabeth Wharf and the three Portakabins where Ronnie worked. The Green, Stone Point and the Dubbs. The sea front and more zig-zags through Cliff Gardens.

  He should go to the police, he knew. He should tell them all that he had discovered.

  But he could imagine the look on Cooper's face. The smirk. The disbelief. "This is the best you could come up with?" he'd say. Langley might listen to him, but he would probably not get past Cooper and another warning not to interfere.

  He thought about it some more. He had little to tell them, in any case. He had seen Ronnie in a pub, handing over a package to some strangers. That was all.

  Later, he drove down into Eastquay, parking behind St Nicholas' church again. He found a newsagents' and bought some Phonecards.

  He'd just have to make something happen.

  ~

  "Mr Deller," he said, when Ronnie was connected. He had dropped the pitch of his voice, adopted a slight lisp and a roughened-up public school accent. "I wonder if we might talk."

  "Yes?" said Ronnie, polite, cautious. "What can I do for you?"

  "My organisation has completed a transaction with one of your, er, clients," said Nick, struggling already. "Your name was mentioned."

  "A lot of Sperry and Neeskens' business
comes through the recommendations of our existing client base," said Ronnie smoothly. "We like to think our reputation is our best advert."

  "My organisation does not wish to deal with Sperry and Neeskens," said Nick. "We prefer the personal touch. We understand you operate on your own, sometimes. When the cargo is of a, shall we say, more delicate nature." Ronnie tried to interrupt, but Nick continued. "I understand that you might not wish to discuss this business at your office. I have your home telephone number, and address. I could arrange a visit." Time for a touch of menace, he thought.

  "I'm sorry," said Ronnie. "I don't really understand. What exactly is it that you require?"

  "You wish me to spell it out?" It wasn't going how Nick had hoped.

  "That might help."

  "Cocaine," said Nick, taking the plunge. "I want you to import a quantity of cocaine, through your usual contacts."

  There was a silence. Then Ronnie said, "Who are you?"

  Progress. He was no longer playing innocent. "You will appreciate, Mr Deller, that I cannot say. Can you do it?"

  "I'm sorry," said Ronnie. "This really is too much. I'm going to put the 'phone down."

  "I'll call again," said Nick quickly. "As I said before: I have your home number."

  "Who are you? What do you want? You've got the wrong man, okay?"

  Ronnie sounded genuinely scared. But then, if Jerry's murder had been because of what she knew, he had every reason to be frightened.

  Nick suddenly realised that he was lost. He couldn't go ahead and arrange a deal: Ronnie would need to meet someone, he'd need convincing with a down-payment, at least. And with Nick's own conviction behind him, he had every reason not to get any more deeply involved.

  But he knew he was on the right trail. Confrontation, he decided. Try to make Ronnie talk.

  "We could meet," Nick finally said. "I would like to convince you of my good intentions." If Ronnie agreed to a meeting, then he would be admitting his own involvement in the drug trade, at least.

  "Okay," said Ronnie. "We meet."

  "You leave your office. Now." If Ronnie left his office to meet a drugs dealer in mid-morning then he really would be giving himself away. "Walk alone to the Sailing Club. I will meet you."