The Cold North Sea

by The Cold North Sea (retail) (epub)

  Finch breathed out a large cloud.

  ‘You know what I think, Jilkes…?’

  Jilkes shrugged.

  ‘…I think Russia’s a powder keg. You take a society that was in serfdom until relatively recently… It’s still an autocracy… Bloody inbred Romanovs… You conscript those barely-liberated, illiterate peasants, dress them up in uniform, send them to sea for the very first time and ply them with vodka…’

  The cigarette was now spent. He stubbed it out.

  ‘…Add a drunken aristo captain who needs to manufacture an external threat to stop his own men from lynching him and so fills his crew with paranoid nonsense about an enemy lurking out there in the dark… Do that and it only takes the slightest thing – a strange light, a strange boat… a fishing trawler – to set the men blazing away at anything that moves… and with highly mechanised weapons that more than exceed the capabilities of the persons operating them.’

  Finch nodded at the newspaper lying there.

  ‘I mean, for Christ’s sake, it turns out that, after attacking the fishing boats, they started shelling each other!’

  Jilkes sipped his tea then put down his cup and saucer.

  ‘Dare say you’re right, Ingo. But if you do nothing this time, then someone will do it again. Give ’em an inch… Britain has interests all over the world. If you don’t stick up for your own…’

  ‘You were in the army, Jilkes. Look at the mess we’ve made of the Niger Delta. Christ, look at the carnage “we” wreaked in the bloody Transvaal: scorched earth, burning down farms, herding women and children into camps…’

  Jilkes extinguished his cigarette.

  ‘And so that’s why you trashed the room?’

  The joke fell flat.

  They lit second cigarettes, poured more tea and, for the next quarter of an hour, Finch recounted the main points of his encounters with Pickersgill, his trip to London with Maude and, though he didn’t go into full detail, the fact that he had been approached by someone last night who had warned him to keep his nose out of business that didn’t concern him.

  When he was done, Finch leaned back – the invitation for Jilkes to venture an opinion. Jilkes sat there, trying to process it all. When he’d done so, he craned forward…

  ‘Then you think that your house was not simply burgled… robbed? Not just ransacked by this Pickersgill character? You’re suggesting what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Jilkes pressed his fingertips together in contemplation, making a steeple of the index fingers upon his chin.

  ‘The law of Ockham’s razor, Ingo…’

  ‘You sound like a chap I once knew.’

  ‘…The simplest explanation…’

  ‘…is probably the most likely one… I know. You mean that Pickersgill was simply an opportunist who took advantage?’

  ‘It’s what the law of averages would dictate.’

  ‘Then why on earth was he name-dropped by this other fellow… this man in the gentlemen’s room?’

  Jilkes hummed thoughtfully.

  ‘Maybe it was a sort of aside, a little gesture of goodwill on their part… Whoever they may be… You know, “Watch your back”, that kind of thing… Or, I don’t know, just a plain simple way of demonstrating just how closely they’ve got you monitored. “We’re watching you”… “We told you so”… “We warned you”… Something of that order?’

  ‘That’s a lot of “what ifs”,’ said Finch, rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘Well, have you looked? What did Pickersgill take exactly?’

  Finch sighed.

  ‘That’s the thing, Jilkes. I had a good root around last night. Upstairs is barely touched. He took nothing of import.’

  He pointed to the revolver on the floor.

  ‘He’d have found my Webley if he’d looked hard enough. There’s money in a vase in the kitchen that’s still there. All that’s gone are some silver candlesticks, a trophy I won in a pub darts tournament and a carriage clock. The only thing that was of any worth was my medical bag – the drugs and the prescription pad inside – and he’d even seen where I kept it. I forgot to tuck it away. And he left it.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘I’m saying that if Pickersgill was a burglar, he wasn’t a very good one, especially given all the trouble he’d gone to to ingratiate himself. You’d think he’d have come away with pickings a little more rich.’

  ‘You said he seemed pretty desperate. Maybe he just grabbed what he could in a hurry. Maybe he was disturbed?’

  ‘Possibly. But all this ripping of the cushions, the smashing of the pictures. It just seems a bit, I don’t know, theatrical… like someone wanted to give the impression of a burglary… The stuff he took has no value. He’d have to shop it around… pawn it… and that’s a one-way ticket to getting caught.’

  Jilkes rubbed his cheek.

  ‘How about value to you? Forget monetary worth.’

  Finch spluttered incredulity.

  ‘Come on, Jilkes… The emotional value of a darts trophy?!’

  ‘I’m just trying to explore all the options.’

  ‘My finest hour… Only three of us turned up for the tournament. The first player was so drunk he couldn’t hit the board. I beat the other chap because he couldn’t score properly.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And the candlesticks? They were a present from Mrs P-A. I know someone got them as a gift for her originally, bless her, and she quickly packaged them up for me when she realised she’d forgotten my birthday. She knew they’d still end up on our mantelpiece. Clever move actually.’

  Finch laughed but Jilkes didn’t this time.

  ‘And as for the carriage clock…’

  Jilkes signalled that Finch had made his point.

  ‘Then my advice, Ingo, is get this lot tidied up…’

  He waved his arm around the room.

  ‘…Get the cushions stitched, reframe the portraits… Just let the whole thing go…’

  He nodded to the floor.

  ‘…And whatever you do, stow that bloody gun away.’

  ‘You know,’ said Finch. ‘I’m surprised that you, of all people, didn’t tell me to report it to the police. You’re the one person I can always rely on to tell me to do the sensible thing.’

  ‘Ingo. Given what you’ve told me… and given that you just answered the door with a Webley in your hand, I suspect we’re operating on a level higher than the one on which the local plods operate. They’re not going to trawl the land looking for Pickersgill. If that’s even his real name.’

  Jilkes hummed to himself in contemplation.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This lass… this Annie… Is there something you’re not telling me here…? It’s your eyes, Ingo. You say her name and they dart around, then look away…’

  ‘It’s nothing, Jilkes. Nothing.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Well you know I think you’re a bloody fool, Ingo…’

  ‘Not you too.’

  ‘…Maude… What are you playing at?… You know Agatha and I adore her… the kids adore her… She’s beautiful… She’s kind… She’s intelligent… She’s funny… She’s feisty. There couldn’t be anyone more perfect for you… And you’re not getting any younger.’

  Jilkes put his palms up in apology. He looked at his watch again.

  ‘I need to go soon, Ingo.’

  He stooped down and started piling up books.

  ‘But while I’ve got a few minutes…’

  Finch put a hand out to stop him.

  ‘No need, Jilkes. It’s my bed. I’ll lie in it. But I do appreciate your being here…’

  Finch wrinkled his brow.

  ‘…Which begs a question, Jilkes. Why are you here?’

  Jilkes stood. He smoothed down his trousers and put on his gloves.

  ‘You know, I thought you might ask me that…’ he sighed. ‘You mean, how I didn’t just suspect th
at you somehow might have been burgled and I thought I’d better wander on over to investigate…?’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘…It’s just… And I don’t know quite how to say it…’

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘…but I don’t think I can represent you any more, Ingo… not in a legal capacity.’

  Finch slumped back.

  ‘Christ, when it rains it really does bloody pour… Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that as your legal counsel, the one who brokered your “arrangement” with the War Office, I’m running a high risk.’

  Finch slammed his cup down.

  ‘Jilkes, for Christ’s sake. You were given absolute assurances and from the highest authority – a document signed by Joseph Bloody Chamberlain – that as my legal counsel your position is inviolable and that all dealings between us are bound by legal privilege… You have a complete guarantee of security.’

  To Finch, Jilkes looked genuinely pained now.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ingo. Truly I am. But I have a wife… kids…’

  Finch groaned in resignation.

  ‘Someone got to you, didn’t they?’

  Jilkes averted his eyes. Finch understood. He backed down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Finch.

  ‘Look, I can find someone else for you. Someone good.’

  Finch exhaled loudly. He pulled his blanket tightly round him again. He rubbed his foot. Jilkes made his way out. He turned before exiting.

  ‘Be mindful of your obligations, Ingo… and for God’s sake, be careful…’

  Chapter Ten

  After Jilkes had left, Finch bathed, dressed, scavenged some remnants from the kitchen and procrastinated over the business of tidying up the mess. A torrent of thoughts streamed through his head. Though, while soaking in the tub, one thing dominated – Annie.

  With all that had happened, the encounter with her in the Chinese restaurant had since assumed an almost dreamlike quality. It beggared belief that a chance meeting with someone he hadn’t stopped thinking about for the last two years, and whom he’d genuinely never expected to see again, should now be just one item in a bizarre series of events.

  That said, the very real business of having his home ransacked seemed of lesser injury than the fact that Annie – and despite it being none of his business – should have sought love with the very man, Edward, she professed to have enlisted for South African service to escape… And he, Finch, had been forced to bear witnesses to this unedifying spectacle.

  What he would do, he didn’t quite know. Last night seemed like unfinished business. The goodbye had seemed so tame, not a terminal adieu. But she had also stated quite clearly that, within days, she was sailing for the United States and there was no further opportunity for meeting up.

  Amid the thoughts whirling in his head – about Pickersgill, Maude, Jilkes, the lavender man – Finch did resolve to do one thing. And it was not a decision to be taken lightly – he would ignore Jilkes’ advice.

  If his house had been robbed by an opportunist, whether Pickersgill or somebody else, then it was Finch’s duty to report the matter to the police. There lurked some sense of civic duty. He toyed with the irony in Jilkes’ words when it had come to the Empire:

  ‘But if you do nothing this time, then someone will do it again. Give ’em an inch…’

  He thought back, too, over his – and Annie’s – previous experience when dealing with the dark arts of state intelligence. And, on that basis, he wanted everything on record. The last thing he needed was to be arrested further down the line, be put in the dock and have some supercilious wig turn to a jury and announce, smugly:

  ‘And yet, Dr Finch, despite your claims, you chose not to report this so-called “robbery”…’

  Jilkes, Jilkes, Jilkes…

  He felt no sense of betrayal on his friend’s part for terminating their professional relationship. Indeed, he would have done the same in Jilkes’ position, he was sure. But there lingered disappointment. He owed, in part, his liberty, perhaps his life, to the brilliance of Jilkes. He had acted as Finch’s counsel on a particularly bleak day in Whitehall when the storm was gathering. But now his friends and allies were evaporating fast.

  After an initial and pained assault on the disorder of his living room – sweeping up the debris, but leaving the books in piles to be shelved later – Finch gathered his hat and coat to set out for the police station. Then it was just a matter of counting down the hours till Sunday evening pub opening.

  Wait… He still had some claret stashed somewhere. Didn’t he? He’d hidden it for emergency use. And once he remembered where… He would search for it on his return.

  Things were clearly running ahead of him, for as he opened the door, he found a police constable marching towards him down his front garden path.

  ‘Dr Finch!’ he bellowed.

  The officer was middle-aged, sported a beard and would have been an impressive physical specimen were it not for the portly midriff straining at his belt, or his helmet seeming a little too small for his head.

  ‘Morning, Percy,’ replied Finch, with a strong note of curiosity.

  ‘Ceased bein’ mornin’ about two hours ago, sir.’

  Finch went into his usual routine of professional feigned jollity.

  ‘One loses track of time at the weekend. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, mustn’t grumble. You know how it is.’

  ‘And Mary?’

  ‘Better these last few days, sir. Thank you, sir. Said she was goin’ to knit you some socks. You know, as a thank you.’

  Finch waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘Don’t mention it. Just make sure she gets plenty of rest.’

  ‘Easier said’n done.’

  Finch suddenly realised that PC Percy Woodruff’s wife – a sufferer of a recurring, debilitating viral condition – might be the reason for this inadvertent encounter.

  ‘Goodness… Is everything okay?’

  ‘No, no. Nothin’ like that, sir. It’s somethin’ else.’

  PC Woodruff jabbed a discreet thumb over his shoulder.

  Following through the small picket gate was another officer… the three stripes of a sergeant.

  ‘Good day. Dr Finch?’ the man asked – a statement more than a question. He barked it in the brusque manner of someone wishing to demonstrate authority.

  The sergeant had a clipped moustache, was well-built and reminded Finch of just about every NCO he’d encountered during his time with the army. He was shorter than Finch, barely minimum height for a copper. He had the demeanour to compensate.

  ‘Mind if we come in, sir?’ Again, not really a question.

  Finch shrugged and opened the door.

  ‘We have a few things we’d like to ask.’

  PC Woodruff rolled his eyes at Finch apologetically.

  ‘Funnily enough, I was just coming over to see you,’ said Finch. ‘Something I needed to report.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the sergeant. ‘Well, well, well…’

  Finch didn’t like the tone.

  The men removed their helmets and each took an armchair, rearranging the large wooden truncheons to allow them to sit. Finch offered tea. Woodruff accepted but then changed his mind once it was clear the sergeant was declining. Finch bundled the blanket away and took the settee.

  ‘Been having a clear-out, have we?’ the sergeant asked, noting the piles of books and the picture frames now stacked against the skirting board.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Finch. ‘In fact, it’s the reason I was coming over to the police station. You see, I’ve been robbed… burgled… Not quite sure what the legal distinction is.’

  The sergeant motioned to Woodruff and the constable flipped a brass button on his tunic breast pocket. He pulled out a small photograph. He went to hand it directly to Finch but the sergeant coughed. Woodruff passed it to the sergeant, who then handed it to Finch.

  The photograph was a tattered, creased, black and white portrait �
�� almost sepia from exposure – of a man and his wife posed before a wooden rowing boat on a shingle beach. The man was standing, the grim-faced woman, presumably his wife, sitting. She was done up in a fairly stiff-looking dark dress, buttoned up to the throat. He had been posed awkwardly with one hand tucked into his waistcoat, the other behind his back.

  ‘You know this man?’ asked the sergeant.

  The picture was a few years old, but there was no mistaking its subject.

  ‘I do,’ said Finch. ‘His name is Pickersgill… Sidney Pickersgill. At least that’s what he told me.’

  ‘Turn it over, sir.’

  On the reverse was written, in a loopy pen stroke: Sidney and Edna Pickersgill, Cley-next-the-Sea, 1892.

  He handed the photo back.

  ‘What do you mean, sir… that you know him?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I mean I’ve met him… two… three times, actually, over the past few days. I don’t want to point the finger of blame without evidence, but there’s a strong possibility he was the one who robbed me. You know, Ockham’s razor.’

  ‘Ockham’s what, sir?’ asked Woodruff.

  ‘Sorry… I mean the simplest explanation… You know, law of averages.’

  There was no response. Finch took out a cigarette. He didn’t bother offering the packet.

  ‘Robbed you when?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Some point yesterday. Between noon and midnight, if you’re looking for the window of opportunity. I mean that’s when it seems my house was turned over, some stuff stolen. Again, I’m not saying it was necessarily him…’

  He pointed at the photo.

  ‘…Pickersgill… But it happened around the time he was here.’