The Cold North Sea

by The Cold North Sea (retail) (epub)

  ‘That’s just ridiculous!’

  ‘On Tuesday morning, two days ago, Dr Finch then went absent from his work. After laying a false trail, he took a train to Endthorpe on the Norfolk coast, home, as it happens, to the late Sidney Pickersgill. We also have good reason to believe that Pickersgill was aware of Dr Finch’s past – something that happened in South Africa. Maybe he was using it against him. Blackmail, possibly. We don’t know yet…

  ‘What we do know is that a man fitting Finch’s description made himself unwelcome there, angered some of the locals. Yesterday morning, Wednesday, on confirming his identity, the Norfolk Constabulary rearrested him in connection with the murder of Sidney Pickersgill. He was placed in the custody of the local police superintendent. Neither of them have been seen since.’

  Annie sat in stony silence.

  ‘Now here’s the thing, suspicions were aroused when some footwear of this arresting officer… a pair of wading boots… items of clothing he was last seen wearing, in the company of Finch… were found washed up on the shore at Blakeney, the place where the arrest was made.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean—’

  ‘This morning, the body of said police superintendent pitched up on the shingle beach just to the west of there. It had been knocked about by a rough sea and was pretty bloated, but there was enough physical evidence to suggest that the man had been shot… Twice, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Most likely with a .303 calibre weapon… a rifle… the bullets had passed right through.’

  ‘I still don’t see—’

  ‘Mrs Pointer… Does Dr Finch have a problem… with alcohol… drinking… in your estimation?’

  ‘I mean, he likes a drop, who doesn’t?’

  ‘Is he a man, in your experience, prone to rages… blackouts even…? Is he capable of things, perhaps even violent things, beyond that suggested by his everyday persona?’

  She was starting to question it herself.

  ‘I really couldn’t say. As I told you, I hadn’t seen him in a long time.’

  ‘Dr Finch was seen to have an altercation with Mr Pickersgill in his local pub a few days before he died.’

  She shrugged. There really was no opinion she could form.

  He exhaled a whistle.

  ‘Like I say, you were lucky.’

  ‘And what, I’m still in danger…? Not in danger…? What?’

  The first movement, the Allegro, had finished. The quartet took a polite round of applause.

  ‘I would say not, Mrs Pointer, for this very reason… We also found some of Dr Finch’s clothing – the clobber he was last seen in – washed up further still along the Norfolk coast, near Wells… his rucksack too, along with a Lee–Enfield rifle – a .303 calibre Lee–Enfield rifle – standard army issue, just like his pistol… There’s no body as of yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Are… are you saying…?’

  ‘They were last seen alone on the beach… Finch… the superintendent. We’ve no concrete evidence, but… putting two and two together…’

  Annie felt a swirl, a sudden rush, as if she were instantly detached from her surroundings.

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Most likely he killed again…’

  ‘No, I… I… mean Finch.’

  The musicians eased into the slow Largo.

  ‘Yes ma’am, almost certainly… Dead…’

  * * *

  Looking back, Annie didn’t remember the next bit – saying goodbye to the detective, or her leaving the hotel. She found herself by the Covent Garden Market in a daze, lost in an early morning crowd, stumbling into people, then drifting over to the Charing Cross Road, retracing the steps she’d taken only yesterday – some subliminal means of repeating the past, she told herself later, as if to prevent the future from occurring again.

  She got lost in thoughts of South Africa – of Finch, of his stubbornness, his kindness and, in the last few days, his sadness. And she thought of how, in her darkest hour, when they were on the run, facing the cruellest of ends, he had saved her… saved her life.

  That Finch might be dead was, in itself, perhaps not unsurprising. She had considered more than once that she, and especially he, might be on borrowed time – not that it had lessened the blow. But the stuff about his rages, his violence…? She supposed that the detective would be travelling up to St Albans right now to impart the very same news to a heartbroken Maude.

  There was one hope. As Detective Coates had flipped his notebook shut, tucked it away, she had asked a question. Some instinct had compelled it.

  ‘We just have to have the police in Norfolk ask a few more questions,’ he said. ‘At the bed and breakfast where he stayed and suchlike.’

  ‘If Finch were on the run… or on some kind of secret, murderous mission,’ she replied, ‘what on earth was he doing checking into a guest house?’

  The detective had stood, pulling on his raincoat.

  ‘He used an assumed name, ma’am.’

  ‘What was it?’

  He had wrinkled his brow at her wanting to know. He got his notebook out again and thumbed through the pages.

  ‘Cox… Leonard Cox.’

  Finch would not have used Cox’s name lightly. It was for outside consumption. Or rather the consumption of those in the know.

  She needed an ally. Someone to help her.

  The detective had laid his credentials out. She had no reason not to confide in him. He had seemed sincere. But there was a party line, she felt, an official narrative, and he was subscribed to it. She had to find someone to trust – to get to the bottom of it all. Wasn’t there a lawyer? Someone Finch had mentioned in his letters?

  And then there was Edward… She thought of Finch again and of their visit to Lady Verity back in Stellenbosch – the bird in the gilded cage, desperately sad and unable to confide in her own unfaithful spouse. Yes, she had loved Edward once. But she had gone to South Africa to escape all that… and had humiliated him in the process.

  Her brother… the gambling debts, the impending jail sentence… Edward’s money and influence. It seemed like a worthwhile trade. One she could learn to live with.

  Annie returned across the Strand, went down to the Thames and sat in the Embankment Gardens again. She looked up at Robbie Burns.

  O sweet, to stray and pensive ponder a heartfelt sang.

  She got out her cigarettes, lit one, and felt the tears trickle down her cheeks.

  Finch, Finch, Finch…

  She had been there for what seemed an eternity, while people, heedless of her sorrow, promenaded up and down without a care in the world.

  This bench, this very bench, where not three days ago…

  There was a rustle in the bushes behind, a pained groan. It came from beneath a thick screen of leylandii.

  Annie rose and turned. Amid the roots, tucked in deep, was a man, lying in the soil. He was filthy dirty, had no shirt on beneath his jacket and was caked in dried mud and black, encrusted blood.

  He said something. It was barely discernible. But then he repeated it.

  ‘Annie.’

  She knew right away.

  ‘Jesus Christ… Finch?!’

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He was swirling, swirling, swirling in the blackness, as if in a dream where you were once flying but now suddenly plunging to earth. Finch tumbled over and over and over, reaching out, waiting for something to break his fall. And then he realised… the primeval force within him compelling him to seek it…

  Air… He needed AIR!

  He had no idea which way was up, which way was down. He knew, if he kept still, he would begin to rise. But the pain screamed in his lungs. The panic shot like electricity through his limbs, imbuing them with an unnatural energy and strength.

  His foot clipped the bottom and then he understood. With an almighty, instinctive push, he thrust himself up, pleading, pleading, to break the surface. His burning l
ungs were ready to burst. And then, with an eruption of relief, his head was above the water, mouth sucking in the oxygen for all he was worth – sucking in life itself amid the howling wind and sea.

  A breaker crashed over him and he ducked under. When he came up again he could see Cole’s mast, heading west. He was consumed with an overriding desire to physically climb out of the water and strike him dead.

  But the hands were pulling him under, the undertow tugging. He knew to shrug off what clothing he could, to shed the encumbrance. Another absurdity… the dead weight, the rifle slung around his neck. He pulled it off and thrashed his arms, flailing off his jacket as he went below the water again.

  A wave caught him and flung him further in. There was a searing pain in his head – not just his jaw, his forehead, but on the side. Cole’s low blow. Though it had not landed squarely, it had glanced. Stunning him, not knocking him out.

  Finch went through the motions of swimming. The saltwater stung his wrist and scoured his forehead. It was impossible, amid the raging foam, to effect any kind of stroke. But as soon as he hit the shore shelf, the sea became shallow. The swim became a frantic deep wade, and then a wide-legged stagger through the surf. Without the buoyancy of water came the sharp stabbing pain in his ribs.

  Finch couldn’t see Cole any more. He must have passed round the bend. The beach here was sand, not shingle. Amid the storm and the blackening sky, he stumbled up the shore, every step sending darts into his midriff. He flung himself into the dunes and curled up in a leeward hollow. He didn’t think he would be able to get up ever again.

  It was only when out of the water and in the air that the delayed shock of the cold became apparent. He was in his corduroy knickerbockers and woollen socks. He still had his boots on. But his upper half was clad only in an undershirt. He was freezing, shivering. There was no option. He would have to move. He had to keep moving.

  In the distance there were lights – a village. He concentrated, like a Saturday night drunk, on the very art of walking – slowly, deliberately, placing one foot in front of the other. Using tree trunks for support, he dragged himself into the pine woods which lined the beach and which screened him from the worst of the wind and rain. The scent, combined with the sea air, was potent.

  He trod on, with difficulty, through the sand and loam, stopping to rest. Over the hump of a dune and the slats of a wooden walkway, he came to the coast road. The grim weather had put paid to any traffic. The tops of the trees swayed violently. His shivering was almost uncontrollable. To his left he saw house lights and billowing, spilling smoke. And, beyond it, a hundred yards away, there was a pub.

  He limped on, driven by desperation. Past the house, he hugged a wall for cover, trying not to scream out in pain. Leaning in the pub’s side passage was an old black pushbike. From inside came the sound of chatter, bursts of laughter. He could see through the window – men gathered in the saloon. The smell of ale was like an elixir. And then, in the doorway, coat hooks… coats…

  He targeted one, a waxed jacket with a quilted lining, the kind a gamekeeper might wear. There was a tweed flat cap hanging on the peg above it. He summoned every strength, stiffened every sinew and casually opened the door. He lifted them from their hooks and walked straight back out. No one noticed.

  He took the bike, wheeled it clumsily and climbed on. The saddle was too low, the bar brakes ineffectual, but it made no difference. And then someone came running out.

  ‘Oi, YOU!’

  Buffeted by the wind he swerved round them – a fist swung but missed – and kept just ahead as they raced after him before giving up.

  He hadn’t realised, but he was now laughing, delirious. He was hurtling along the coastal road, heading, he assumed, towards the east.

  The clouds scudded along on the wind and there was a deep patch of navy blue, a magnificent splash of silver across it. He saw Orion and his belt. There were other lights – up ahead, the headlamps of a car coming towards him. He pulled off the road into the darkness of the verge. It droned past.

  In the distance he heard the toot of a train. The railway sprung like a stream from its source somewhere around here. It trickled slightly inland before curving east, following the coast along to Cromer, from where the main line bent south to Norwich.

  Finch cycled on and dog-legged inland. There were places he passed whose names seemed straight out of the pages of fiction: Stiffkey, Cockthorpe, Letheringsett. Fuelled by adrenalin, he just kept going. Within half an hour he was nearing the small market town of Holt. He could see the train in the distance pulling away, the lights from the carriages a streak of yellow in the night. He remembered the trains ran in each direction hourly.

  The storm was easing, the rain letting up. There was road traffic now, more people the nearer he got. He rode on in. There were shops and pubs, a bank. He ditched his bike in an alleyway and walked.

  That he was soaking wet was not a problem, given that he could simply have been drenched in the downpour. But his face? He caught sight of himself in a window and felt momentarily sick. He certainly didn’t want to come within sight of an inquisitive policeman. He pulled his cap down and his collar up. There was no way to disguise it.

  He limped around the edge of the town, his long-standing troublesome knee having announced its presence, too. He found a place in the bushes a hundred yards upstream of what was little more than a sleeper station, a raised wooden platform either side of the track. There were two or three passengers huddled there.

  Finch bided his time. Sure enough, to the hour after he heard the first whistle, came another. The smoke billowed as the shape of the train emerged from the western darkness, gradually slowing down. As it came within sight, he could see in the gloom three passenger carriages and – yes – a goods wagon, coupled to them in front of the guard’s van at the rear.

  With a great visceral hiss, the train slowed. It was still travelling too fast to climb on board and too risky – too dangerous in the dark. With a squeak and a shudder, it came to a halt. To his advantage, the last two wagons fell short of the stunted platform. The guard alighted and walked up, boots crunching on the gravel. Finch went around the rear to the blind side of the train. Against the shards of pain plunging deep into his ribs and the fire in his wrist, he pulled the lever to slide back the door.

  It won’t budge.

  He heard the conductor’s whistle. The steam hissed. The guard was crunching back down the gravel. He tried again with all his might. It opened a crack. He pushed himself up on the wheel’s pivot, praying that it wouldn’t yet turn. He just managed to wriggle in.

  The smell was overpowering. Though empty, it was clear there had been pigs in there – most probably on their way to slaughter. Pigs were clever. They knew what lay in store. Their anxiety had coloured the air and stained the floor. But, at one end, were piles of unused straw. Finch buried himself in deep. He heard the guard tut at the unsecured door and slide it back shut.

  Finch’s face ached like hell. He was a mess. He felt scared and nauseous. For the first time he could discern the great egg of a bump above his left ear. Though it was his forehead that hurt the most. Of all that had happened to him, it seemed perverse that his worst injury had come from bumping his head in the car.

  He wondered whether the police knew that he was ‘dead’ yet or just suspected it. They would no doubt already be concerned for Dryden. He suspected that Cole might have stage-managed the dumping of his body, too, yanking off the anchor with a quick-release knot, a highwayman’s hitch – ensuring that the corpse would wash up before too long. Maybe he had since spun the police a yarn – witnessing a ‘struggle’. Finch hugged himself tight and drifted off into a strange, dream-laden, hallucinatory sleep.

  He awoke with a shudder as the train nudged the buffers. But he was not at Cromer, he was at… Norwich. The goods wagon must have been recoupled and steered on. He had slept right through it.

  It was late at night, after eleven, and still no one seemed to care much a
bout the sad, empty abattoir wagon. After the few passengers had been discharged from the passenger carriages, the wagon was shunted into a darkened siding.

  Dressed in his gamekeeper’s jacket and cap, Finch figured he could bluff his way out of any situation – beaten-up face or otherwise. He thought that, with his medical knowledge, he might blind any interrogator with science. He concocted in his head a story about how he was an agricultural inspector, there to check on the hygiene of animal transportation. (And if anyone asked, he’d been kicked by a horse.)

  So thoroughly did he rehearse his lines in his head that it was a disappointment when the station began shutting down and he was able to climb out – albeit with difficulty – limping up the track to a side platform, and then on to the covered station concourse. It was pretty much empty. There were people sweeping the floor.

  The cafeteria was closing but there were tables outside with unfinished meals left here and there, attracting the attention of the pigeons. Finch saw something that looked like a sandwich – a slice of French baguette filled with a kind of ham. He calmly took it, shoved it in his pocket and retreated to a bench to eat it.

  He noted the time of the first train to Liverpool Street station, 5.15 a.m., and the fare – two shillings and sixpence. There were a few spare pennies in the pocket of the jacket – the unwitting fist-swinging benefactor to whom he’d be forever grateful. He noticed some more copper coins lying on the floor under the cafeteria tables which he discreetly gathered up.

  He remembered something he had once heard about industrious tramps, and how rich pickings were to be found in left-luggage lockers. There was a row of them against the station wall on the far side.

  They had a coin-operated system. You inserted a penny, turned a handle and took your key out to lock it – the same penny being returned when the key was inserted to reopen it. He was sure that of the two hundred-odd lockers, there must have been at least a few hurried travellers who had left their expelled coins behind. He was right. He found seven pence among them, which left him with another shilling to find.