by Alan Hunter
She nodded. It was about throwing the marker overboard. Uncle Ray was on deck several minutes before daddy, but he hadn’t thrown in a marker or done anything at all. Perhaps he was in a panic. According to daddy, they’d probably searched in the wrong area. With the direction of the current they could have been half a mile out. I was horrified. I had dreams for weeks.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘And I told Paul.’
‘He believed his uncle had done it deliberately.’
‘Yes. Especially when they lied at the inquest. And he knew about Aunty Julie, of course . . . that had never been a secret. Then it all piled up. They got married, and Uncle Ray made daddy managing director. Paul said it was proof. The way he talked frightened me ... especially just lately, during the vacation. At times he seemed very wild, talking about his father and about natural justice. But I didn’t think it was serious. Paul is like that. He isn’t really wicked, just so young.’
‘Do you remember Saturday?’
She shuddered. ‘He was in his wild state when he came in here. He’d got the letter. He was waving it about and calling it his instrument of justice. I asked him what it was, but he wouldn’t tell me, told me I would know soon enough. He said I was to take it to Uncle Ray, but not to tell him who it came from. I said I wouldn’t. He said yes, or he’d never speak to me again. He took me in his car to the top of the road, and waited to see me on my way to the Lodge.’
‘Did you notice anything in the car?’
‘Something under a rug in the back.’
‘Did he refer to it?’
She shook her head. ‘But it was too long to lie flat across the seat.’
‘Which way did he drive off?’
‘Up the street. I kept looking back till I saw he was gone.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I came home again. I had no intention of delivering the letter. I didn’t know what it was, but I guessed it must be something very unpleasant. I wanted to get rid of it. I went down the garden. I was going to tear it up and shove it into the composter. Only daddy was down there, he saw me with it, I had to come back to the house. And he followed me up. I slipped into the kitchen, and just had time to stick it in the swing-bin. Daddy asked me about it—’ her lips twitched painfully ‘– and I told him it was the envelope off a circular.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘I – I thought he did. He just went to the sink to wash his hands. And I went upstairs. And that’s all ... until the policeman showed me the l-letter on Sunday ...’
Ruth Quennell’s arm tightened around her, but Fiona Quennell shrugged it away. She reached for the tumbler and drank from it. There was moisture on her pale forehead.
‘What’s going to happen to him?’
‘You’ll be able to visit him.’
She shivered. ‘Will it be very long?’
‘Everything will be considered. There’ll be certain tests. At a guess, he’ll get a minimum sentence.’
‘Tests ...?’
‘The court will ask for them.’
In her eyes a trace of the stare had returned. ‘Perhaps I should be there with him. I knew what he was thinking, but I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘Yes . . . he talked about it, about being his father’s avenger. Only it was half a game, I didn’t believe it, everything was half a game with Paul. You went along with him or he lost his temper. But it was always half a game.’
‘You were fond of him.’
‘I don’t love him, you know. Just that I always feel terribly responsible.’ Her head dropped over the tumbler. ‘Shall I see him now?’
‘Do you want to see him?’
‘No.’
Outside a car pulled up noisily, making Fiona Quennell start. One heard voices, then a step in the hall and Eyke’s face showed at the door.
‘Sir ...’
Gently rose and went out. Reymerston waited in the porch. On the painter’s face was a look of concern and he took Gently by the arm.
‘Listen ... just now I called at my place and happened to look towards the harbour. There was a yacht under sail. I put glasses on it. It was Quennell’s Dragon, and the helmsman was Paul Tallis.’
‘Paul Tallis! Are you certain?’
‘More than certain. I jumped in my car and drove down there. I ran along the jetty, calling to him, telling him he was wanted and that weather was blowing up. He must have heard me, but he wouldn’t turn his head, just kept jilling along down the harbour. If he’s going out, he’ll be in trouble. A Dragon is a bitch to single-handle.’
‘The bloody young fool.’
‘Perhaps he’ll listen to you ...’
But Gently was already running to the car. Eyke jumped in beside him; the engine fired, and the Princess scoured away in a rattle of chippings.
‘What – what—?’
They’d forgotten Raymond Tallis, who sat gaping in the seat behind.
Already the breeze was bending the heads of the poplars that grew along the private road.
If anything the press cavalcade had grown and now was towing behind them like a royal entourage. The crowd, which had begun to stray after the departure of Tallis, came back running at the sight of the cars. Above the piles of the jetty a sail was still bobbing, held back by the flood and the jetty’s obstruction. Gently swerved the Princess into the visitors’ park and drove on to the boundary posts. He and Eyke piled out.
‘You too, Mr Tallis!’
‘But why – what—?’
‘I may need the advice of a yachtsman.’
Tallis, press and all, they plugged over the salt-marsh and up on to the rugged framework of the jetty. The Dragon had fifty yards to go before it cleared the harbour mouth: it was inching along over the tide, driven only by puffs in the top of the sail. Paul Tallis sat low at the helm, face turned up to the shifting pennant. The jib, which he’d cleated, flapped unhappily, catching only eddies and down-draughts. Gently came to a stand above the yacht.
‘Put about, Mr Paul!’
Cameramen ran to kneel on the rough timbers, others manoeuvred to catch Gently in the foreground. But Paul Tallis ignored them all. His solemn face continued turned towards the pennant. Under his arm nestled the tiller, in his hand the soft propylene sheet.
‘Mr Paul, there’s weather coming up. It isn’t safe for you to go out.’
Not a flicker showed in his face, and his only movement was the nursing of the tiller.
‘Can you hear what I say?’
No response. It was as though he were acting out some scene. Up on the jetty they were merely an audience, to be ignored by the man holding centre stage. Reporters, cameramen ran ahead: every moment cameras clicked at the blue-hulled Dragon.
‘You’re running into danger – don’t you understand?’
If he did, it meant nothing to him.
‘We shall have to send out a lifeboat to rescue you.’
Perhaps, secretly, that was what he was wanting!
Ignored by the reporters, Tallis stood scowling at the blue boat. Suddenly you realized that those creased, narrowed eyes were the eyes of a yachtsman, a seafarer. He was measuring the distance between yacht and jetty. But it was too far for the most desperate of leaps.
‘Paul – it’s me! Pull over a bit.’
‘No heroics,’ Gently muttered.
‘If he goes out there alone he’s a goner. There’s a gale brewing out of this.’
‘He’s acting a part.’
‘Then it’ll bloody drown him, and lose a boat worth more than he is.’
‘Keep it down.’
‘Paul!’ Raymond Tallis shouted. ‘You need cruising rig, boy, if you’re going out there.’
Paul Tallis sailed on. By yard and yard, he was beating the flood to the jetty’s end. An extra puff over their heads brought up the boot-topping and hastened him on. And when he cleared the jetty, wind enough then, with a dangerous broad reach to rush him seawards ... did he mean to do it? With his audienc
e growing by the moment, the odds were that he’d shrink from an anticlimax ...
‘Get his mother out here.’
‘What—? You’re mad!’
‘If she can’t talk him in, nobody will.’
‘The reporters – the cameramen—’
‘It’s her son! On your way and get her out here.’
Raymond Tallis gaped for a moment, then scuttled away towards the house. But the chances of her getting there in time were remote: the Dragon had only twenty yards to make.
‘Sir, I could turn out the inshore lifeboat,’ Eyke murmured in his ear.
‘How long do you reckon it would take to get here?’
‘Well, sir, if the crew were handy ...’
‘We’ll hold them back till we see what he does.’
He shifted on down the jetty, which here had awkward gaps below which water swirled. A cameraman, bolder than the rest, was climbing out on the baulks at the very end. And now the reporters were trying their hand:
‘Sonny, pull in and let us aboard!’
It could be worth a packet ...’
‘If you need a lawyer, my paper ...’
‘Shut up!’ Gently snarled at them.
‘Chiefie, we’ve got a right—’
But they did shut up, murmuring amongst themselves and scrambling on a bit further along the piles. And Paul Tallis had taken not a scrap of notice. You might have thought he was in a different world.
‘Mr Paul, you’ve had your fun, and you’ll be in danger if you take it further ... can you hear me?’
The jib had picked up: at its seaward end the jetty consisted only of skeleton piles.
‘Listen ... your mother’s on her way. She’s expecting you to be here to talk to her. Put your turn in now, before you pick up too much wind ...’
But slowly the Dragon was increasing speed, ready to launch into the chop outside.
Then, from up the jetty, came a cry: ‘Cooee, Paul – cooee!’
It wasn’t Julia Tallis but Fiona Quennell who came stumbling and jumping over the timbers. Behind her was Reymerston and her brother, with Ruth Quennell some distance back. Fiona Quennell’s black hair was flying and she sprang panting on to the baulk beside Gently.
‘Paul, you idiot – it’s Oona!’
Paul Tallis half turned his head.
‘Listen, you nitwit. Stop acting the goat, and bring daddy’s boat back at once!’
Now he turned to look full up at her. Fiona Quennell made an imperious gesture.
‘Come on, chump ... put about! You know you’ll have to in a minute ...’
But that was when the wind hit him. First, the jib cracked and bellied full. At once the Dragon heeled and began to rush forward out of the shelter of the jetty. It plunged in the chop, the mainsail filled and suddenly the yacht was on its ear. All its red bottom heaved out of the water and stayed for a moment, gleaming.
‘Oh ... he’ll drown!’
But the Dragon heaved up again, wet sails empty and flogging. They could see Paul Tallis again, working furiously to free the jib-sheet. The yacht pitched and bounded, hanging in the wind; then the jib was trimmed and she bore away. Finally, he got a trim on the mainsail, when, heeling firmly, she began to travel.
‘But he’ll never get her in again ... he can’t!’
Yet the crisis seemed over, just for that moment. Clearly Paul Tallis had regained control, and the wind, though puffy, was not yet strong. On a sensible course, with wind abeam, he appeared to be out of immediate danger.
‘Call out the inshore boat.’
Eyke hurried away to take care of it. The reporters, their dash of excitement over, now wanted to turn their attention to Gently.
‘Chiefie, we know Paul Tallis is chummie ...’
‘Just hold your horses for a statement!’
A better look-out was to be had from the sand dunes, and, shouldering through the reporters, he set off there. Everyone else moved off too – the jetty had been a comfortless perch! Fiona Quennell was sticking close to her brother; the flash of spirit had gone out of her. Reymerston chaperoned Ruth Quennell. Across the car park, too late, Raymond Tallis hastened with his wife.
‘Is he all right?’
‘He made it outside.’
‘Oh lord,’ Julia Tallis said. ‘Not him as well.’
‘The inshore boat will pick him up.’
‘It’s exactly a year since Arthur ...’
Fiona Quennell ran to Julia Tallis: ‘Oh, Aunty Jule ... oh, I’m so sorry!’
Tearfully, Julia Tallis hugged her. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Oh I’m so sorry – for everyone!’
They scrambled up the sand dunes. All along the tops people were crowding for vantage points. The yacht now was quarter of a mile offshore and sliding bravely over the waves. Every so often her sail fluttered, indicating that Paul Tallis was sailing her loose. Nevertheless she was slipping along fast, holding a course due south-east. Eyke rejoined them.
‘The boat’s on its way, sir. Should be along in a few minutes.’
‘Have you sent a man with her?’
‘DC Bayliss. They’ll be off when they’ve picked him up.’
‘Where will they bring him?’
‘To the ferry landing. I’ve put some uniform men down there.’
‘I want it sealed off.’
‘Yes, sir. Those were the instructions I gave them.’
Raymond Tallis said: ‘If this weather holds off, that young devil could fetch Holland.’
Julia Tallis watched with haunted eyes, her handsome face tear-ravaged.
An engine moaned up river, then buzzed, mosquito-like, towards the jetty. One could hear it grumble and snarl as it met the chop outside the harbour. Into view bounced the orange inflatable, its three crouched crew bulky in life jackets; slamming and moaning, it set off over the waves in the track of the Dragon. It was doubling her speed, or more: a marine terrier hot on the trail. The Dragon continued her sliding pace, aristocratically unmoved by the ruffian astern.
Julia Tallis gasped: ‘Oh ... they won’t hurt him!’
‘It’ll be his own fault if they do,’ Raymond Tallis said. ‘But they know what they’re up to.’
After watching for a moment, Reymerston ran back to his car, to return with glasses.
Steadily the gap lessened; yet it took longer to close than at first seemed probable. The further the two craft moved away, the less was the apparent differential in speed. Finally the lifeboat appeared to be dogging the yacht and making no ground at all. Then suddenly the yacht bobbed visibly, its sails yawing about.
‘What’s happening ...?’
‘I can’t quite see ... he’s shoved her up into the wind.’
Gently took the glasses from Reymerston and trained them on the boats. The blue hull was now visible, now concealed as it bobbed between crest and trough; the orange lifeboat, instead of closing with her, was bobbing too, at a short distance. It moved on a little, bobbed again, and at long last spurted to join the yacht. A man scrambled into her. There was some confusion with flogging sails and a bouncing boom.
‘Well ... they’ve got her!’
First the main, then the jib were pulled down from the wagging mast. But the two boats continued to bob there, riding uneasily side by side. What was going on? Gently caught a glimpse of a man in the act of throwing something overside: something that glinted colour for an instant then was lost in the waves. What ...? Minutes dragged by before the boats began to move. Then it was slowly, very slowly, the lifeboat lashed alongside the yacht.
Raymond Tallis said surlily: ‘Let me have the glasses!’
He squinted through them for a long time; then, coming close to Gently, he muttered:
‘He isn’t with them ...’
Gently grabbed the glasses back. Three figures were visible, one in the yacht, two in the lifeboat. Each wore a life-jacket. Unless he lay prone, Paul Tallis was not on the boats.
‘He could be under the shelter ...’
‘He’s gone. I saw them throw in a marker.’
Gently stared into the squinting eyes. ‘Get your wife back to the house.’
As though instinctively she knew what had passed, Julia Tallis set up a wail.
‘I want to stay here – I want to see him!’
But Tallis was forcibly pulling her away. He dragged her, weeping and imploring, down the sand dunes, his arm implacable round her waist.
Gently said to Reymerston: ‘You too. Take Mrs Quennell and her daughter.’
‘No, I’m staying, I’m staying!’ Fiona Quennell cried.
‘Go with your mother. Mrs Tallis needs you.’
‘Oh Paul, poor Paul!’ Fiona Quennell cried.
Reymerston grabbed both their arms.
The tandem tow came in very slowly, the yacht dragging at the lifeboat with its slower pitch. Now there was a rush back to the jetty, with the reporters and cameramen in the van. Gently let them go. He nodded to Eyke, and together they went down towards the ferry. There the minibus stood blocking the approach and six uniformed men waited. Nobody spoke. Some fishermen had appeared from the huts and stood watching. It must have been twenty minutes later when lifeboat and yacht edged in to the staging. Gently went out to it.
‘Well?’
The crewman cut his engine.
‘The young bugger jumped. I saw him stuff something into his pocket ... ballast.’
‘You couldn’t get to him.’
‘He went down like a stone. We were fifty yards away. I’ve buoyed the spot with a net-float, but there’s a funny old current out there.’
‘How deep?’
‘Seven or eight fathom.’
‘Put the yacht back on moorings and give the officer your statement.’
And that was all. Perhaps he’d have done it in the harbour if they’d gone after him sooner; or perhaps he wouldn’t.
A Greek tragedy ...?
The chorus, the press, were clamouring for a hand-out.
THIRTEEN
SOMEHOW, GENTLY HAD kept the secret for forty-eight hours, from Thursday till Saturday; but only because Gabrielle’s attention had been focused on the flat. He had taken time off to meet her at Heathrow when, after the first fine flush of greeting, she had placed her finger on his chin and said:
‘My friend, I have many ideas ...’