by JRL Anderson
If he was right . . . He tried not to show it, but he was in an agony of anxiety. If he was right the cruiser must be making for the Fen, but there was still so much he didn’t know. He hated to keep men hanging about, particularly men from another force who were simply obeying instructions without knowing how they fitted into the scheme of things. ‘These bloody chaps from the Yard – think they own us mere yokels in the country,’ he could hear them saying. He was comforted to feel that they probably knew now that the cruiser and her pursuer had sailed. The Yarmouth superintendent would have kept a man watching the cruiser until she left, and he’d certainly let Lowestoft know. Suddenly he was worried by another thought – handcuffs. They might need handcuffs and he’d forgotten to ask for any. Inspector Lennard was on the bridge beside him. ‘I’ve been a fool,’ Piet said. ‘It’s quite possible that we’re going to need handcuffs before we’re through and I forgot to ask you to bring any.’
‘Not to worry,’ Inspector Lennard said. ‘You said you might be going to make an arrest so we brought a couple of pairs as a matter of course. You can reckon that the Lowestoft men will surely have some, too.’ That was one fear relieved.
There were many which could not be relieved. What was happening, or had happened, to Sally? She might not be at Poplar’s Fen at all, but he feared that probably she was. If he was wrong in his guesswork she might be in no danger at all. But if he was right, or even partly right, then danger to her would be real. The period of greatest danger, though, would probably not come until after Malcolm and Trish in the cruiser had got back to the Fen – they might not decide what to do with Sally until then. And by the grace of God he and the Lowestoft men could get there in time to rescue her.
There was nothing to be gained by pursuing such thoughts now. He tried to concentrate his mind on the cruiser, still well ahead of them. And he had a momentary distraction when the deckhand came round with mugs of steaming tea – a North Sea tender is apparently fuelled by tea almost as much as by diesel oil.
‘There’s the North Corton buoy, fine to starboard,’ the skipper said. Mick Mallory was over rather than under sixty, but his eyesight was superb. He’d picked up the buoy without glasses. Pointed out to him, Piet could see it, too, but he’d never have spotted it for himself. The cruiser passed the buoy and made no immediate attempt to alter course. ‘If she holds this course, she’ll be making for Holland,’ the skipper said.
That was a new worry. Piet had considered it theoretically possible that Trish and Malcolm might be heading for the Continent but he hadn’t really believed it. Well, if they were, his contingency plans could still work. He’d pick up the Lowestoft men at Southwold and go with them to the Fen, leaving Lennard and the constable to follow the cruiser. ‘I’ll get through to the Yard as soon as I can and get a message sent to the Dutch police,’ he thought. ‘If they’re really going to Holland there should be time enough for that.’
The cruiser held her course ESE for about another twenty minutes, then she did change course to the south. ‘Looks as if you’re right,’ the skipper said. ‘He’ll probably go more or less due south until he’s clear of Lowestoft, and then, if he’s making for the Fen, he’ll go about south-south-west. If he does turn SSW we can be pretty sure that he’s going where you think he is. I reckon we’ll get ahead of him now and keep an eye on him astern.’
Daffodil put on speed and a few minutes later passed the cruiser, keeping well clear of her. Piet slipped into the little chartroom just behind the bridge as they came up. He had no reason to suppose that the people on the cruiser had the slightest interest in a tugboat going about her business in the North Sea, and at the distance they passed it would probably have been impossible for anyone in the low cockpit to recognise any figure on Daffodil’s bridge, but he acted instinctively. Daffodil had more than twice the speed of the cruiser, and the skipper kept up speed on a course of ESE until the cruiser was no more than a speck astern, and slightly to starboard of them. Then Daffodil, too, turned south, reduced speed and followed a course parallel to that of the cruiser, well to the east of her. ‘He’s low in the water and I doubt if he can even see us,’ the skipper said. ‘But we’ve still got a good view of him through the glasses. I reckon we want to get well ahead of him, to make time for putting into Southwold. Doubt if it matters much if we lose sight of him for a bit. On this course he’s clearly not making for Lowestoft and he’s not going to Holland either, though I suppose he could still be making for Belgium or France. But we know where he is, and if we do lose sight of him we can go slow and soon pick him up again.’
It was a strange pursuit, to be ahead of the quarry. Piet went over his reasoning anxiously. He could understand Yarmouth – with its access to the Broads, and its character as a holiday town as well as a port, it was a reasonable place for a motor-yacht to go, and if one wanted to get a train to London, who would know, or care, about it? It was not all that far from Poplar’s Fen, but far enough for it to be unlikely that anyone from the colony there would be visiting the Haven. Lowestoft was nearer, but a yacht might attract more attention there, and he remembered from a sailing trip as a boy with his father the complexities of the tides sometimes at the entrance to Lowestoft. They could go south to Harwich, but it was a lot farther away. If you had a sea-going boat and wanted to go to London from Poplar’s Fen without anyone’s knowing about it, Yarmouth was about the best railhead to make for.
It couldn’t always be like that, though, for the cruiser was lying in the river on the afternoon that he and Sally got to the Fen, and that was the day when Trish, calling herself Mrs Vincent, had first visited Mr Constantine. The cruiser had been there, but Trish and Malcolm had not – at any rate, they hadn’t met them that first evening at the mill. That was consistent with the woman having been in London, though on that occasion she had not travelled from Yarmouth. Sally said they had a car – perhaps they varied the procedure. Then he remembered Sally’s remark when he had asked if she knew their surname – Roger had asked if she’d met Malcolm Winterer at Lavenham. So they had some connection with Moat Cottage: what more reasonable to go to London via Lavenham and Sudbury as Sandra seemed to have done on her last journey?
Reasoning held together so far. Were Trish and Malcolm the couple in that curious attempt to break into the Lost Property office at Liverpool Street station, and in the burglary (if anything was taken) of Sandra’s studio at Finsbury Park? Possible, but he had no means of knowing whether they were or were not at Poplar’s Fen over those dates, because it was before he got there, and Sally had no real recollection of the cruiser’s absences. Both performances struck him as somehow out of character with the rest of the case, though if he was right in his other assumptions he could see a possible reason for them.
*
Daffodil was now off Southwold, a couple of miles ahead of the cruiser and about a mile to seaward of her. The skipper reduced speed to give Daffodil no more than steerage way. ‘I reckon we’d best hang about here until he passes inshore of us,’ he said. ‘We should be able to make out what he’s going to do, and with the swell and his lowness in the water I doubt if he’ll even notice us.’
‘I don’t think it matters if he does,’ Piet said. ‘He’s no means of knowing that we’re interested in him.’
It was a long twenty minutes before the cruiser was roughly level with the tender, well inshore of her. ‘He’s going in all right,’ the skipper said. ‘Do you want me to put into Southwold now?’
‘I’d like to make absolutely certain that he enters the Fen. Could we close the coast a bit?’
They did, until they could clearly see the breakers on the bar at the entrance to the Fen. ‘Wind against tide now,’ the skipper said. ‘Not a nice place. But with his draught, if he knows the entrance, he ought to get in all right.’
They were well astern of the cruiser now, but still considerably offshore of her. She was making for the breakers, disappeared for a moment in a flurry of spray and was then through. ‘That’s that,’ Pi
et said. ‘Now for Southwold.’
As Daffodil turned to make for Southwold Piet automatically glanced round the horizon. A speck in the distance made him suddenly feel sick. ‘Give me the glasses, please,’ he asked urgently.
He focussed the skipper’s glasses and saw that what he feared was real. The botter, under full sail, was standing out to sea.
‘I’ve got to change my plans,’ he said ‘Do you see that small sailing boat? I’ve got to get on board her before we do anything else.’ Daffodil put on speed, the botter became clearly visible and the distance between them lessened rapidly. Piet had a hurried talk with Inspector Lennard. ‘I know that boat, I know the man on board her, and I’ve got to get hold of him,’ he said. ‘We must close her, and I’d like to go on board with Constable Macleod. The two of us will be enough to handle her and I’ll put back to the Fen. You must take charge of the Southwold party. After Macleod and I are on board the sailing boat – she’s a Dutch boat, called a botter, and I suspect she’s making for Holland – I want you to make full speed for Southwold. Collect the Lowestoft party and get to Poplar’s Fen as quickly as you possibly can. The cruiser will be moored in the river by then. Arrest the man and woman on board her – they’re called Malcolm and Patricia Winterer, or at least that’s the name they go by – on a charge of being concerned in attempting to defraud a firm of art dealers in London called Gavell and Gainsworth. Be very careful, for they may be dangerous and violent. If they give any trouble, arrest them for resisting the police, if you like. It doesn’t matter what charge you arrest them on, for there’ll be other much more serious charges to come. But get them in custody, handcuff them and hold them till I can come. There’ll be five of you. Three should be enough to hold the Winterers, and send the other two to guard the old watermill near where the cruiser’s moored. There’s a sort of artists’ colony there, not quite hippies, but hippy-types. No one is to be allowed to leave the mill and if anyone comes he or she is to be detained. I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with them, and I don’t think – though I can’t be sure – that any of them is mixed up in the other matters. You’ve got your revolver, and the Lowestoft men will be armed. I’m afraid you’ve got a horrible job ahead of you, and don’t hesitate to shoot if you’ve got to. I take full responsibility for giving you these orders.’
The skipper had again taken Daffodil’s wheel. He closed the botter, carefully coming up to leeward of her so as not to interfere with her handling. Piet and Constable Macleod went down to the tender’s low after-deck, kept clear for the manipulation of towlines. ‘Take the loud hailer,’ the skipper said to Piet as he left the bridge.
They were about thirty yards to leeward of the botter, and the skipper reduced speed to keep level with her. The man called Roger Leplan was standing at the high, curved tiller of the botter. Trudi was sitting in the cockpit beside him. Using the loud hailer Piet called out, ‘Please come alongside. I want to come on board you.’
Roger had no loud hailer, but his angry shout was audible enough. ‘Go to hell. I don’t want you on board. I’ve got right of way under sail, so clear out.’
‘I am coming on board,’ Piet called.
‘Then you’ll get this.’ Roger produced an automatic pistol and fired a warning shot slightly astern of Daffodil.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Piet shouted. ‘I’ve got an armed police party on board, and you can’t possibly get away.’ Piet heard Trudi scream at Roger, ‘Shoot him! Or give me the gun and I’ll shoot!’
The man at the tiller neither gave her the pistol, nor fired another shot. He held up one arm to signify that he was going to obey, freed the mainsheet and turned the botter into the wind so that she lay wallowing in the swell. The skipper ordered his crew to throw out fenders, and with consummate skill he brought Daffodil up to the sailing boat. ‘I want a line,’ Piet said. Roger threw a line, Daffodil’s deckhand caught it and put a turn round a belaying pin on the tender’s counter. There was not much difference in height between the tender’s low stern and the botter’s narrow side-deck. Piet waited for the right moment of swell, and jumped. Trudi clawed at him and he hit her roughly, knocking her to the floorboards of the cockpit. A moment later Constable Macleod was on board the botter, too. ‘Handcuff the woman and keep her quiet,’ Piet said. ‘I’ll deal with the man.’
Roger made no effort to resist. ‘I’ll have that gun,’ Piet said. It was handed over, and he put it in his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I want you handcuffed, too.’ Roger held out his hands meekly. ‘Thank God it’s all over,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, but I’d prefer your hands behind your back.’ Roger obeyed this order with the same docility. ‘I’m not having you jump overboard with manacled hands. I want both you and Trudi in the cabin, and Constable Macleod can keep an eye on you. I must warn you that he is armed,’ Piet said.
Trudi was still lying on the floorboards, her hands also held by cuffs behind her back. ‘You weak-kneed swine! Why didn’t you shoot when I told you to?’ she said to Roger. He took no notice. The jib had not been backed when Roger turned into the wind, so the botter, although stopped, was not hove-to. Now the headsail was bringing her round, and the boom of the mainsail, although free so that there was no drive in the sail, swung viciously across the cockpit. Piet saw it coming. ‘Duck!’ he shouted. Roger slumped on one of the cockpit lockers, and the constable, who, as a Yarmouth man, knew something about boats, got down beside Trudi. The botter was beginning to gather way from the headsail and the line holding her to Daffodil had to be cast off.
‘Are you all right?’ the skipper called from Daffodil.
‘OK,’ Piet called back. ‘Situation under control.’
‘Do you want a tow?’
‘No thank you. I can handle things, and it’s not far back to the Fen. I want you to go full speed ahead to Southwold – you’ll be faster without a tow.’
The skipper blew a blast on his siren. ‘Good luck,’ he and Inspector Lennard called together.
Piet hardened the mainsheet and tidied the jib sheets for the new tack. Then he took the tiller. ‘Go forrard into the cabin,’ he ordered Roger.
‘You’re doing quite well,’ Roger said mildly, ‘but I think you haven’t much experience of sailing botters. You’ve forgotten the lee-board. You want to winch up the one that’s down and let down the other.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do it when you’re safely in the cabin. Get forrard now.’ He couldn’t understand the man’s extraordinary docility and didn’t trust him an inch.
‘You can’t get into the cabin. It’s locked, and I threw the key overboard,’ Trudi said from the floor.
Constable Macleod tried the door. It was certainly locked. Then he and Piet both heard a sort of scuffling noise coming from the other side. ‘I think there’s someone else on board,’ Macleod said.
‘Give the key to the constable,’ Piet ordered Trudi.
‘How can I, with my hands like this? Besides, I haven’t got it. I threw it into the sea.’
With his left hand on the tiller, Piet drew Roger’s pistol from his pocket. ‘Get down on the floor,’ he ordered Roger. ‘Break open the door, constable.’
Constable Macleod weighed fourteen stone and played for the local Rugby football club. The botter belonged to a period when boats were built of seasoned wood but three heaves from Macleod’s powerful shoulders were enough. The wood split away from the lock and the door burst open. Inside, roped to the cabin table, with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth, was Sally. The scuffling was her efforts to work herself free. Piet let go the tiller and ran to her. ‘Take the tiller,’ he said to Macleod. He snatched the handkerchief from Sally’s mouth, got out his knife and cut the rope that bound her. She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘Oh Piet, Piet,’ she sobbed.
Piet said nothing. He felt nothing but a surge of infinite relief at finding Sally alive, mixed with a wave of anger at the people who had bound her, locked her in, and were taking her . . . where? He p
icked her up and carried her into the cockpit, putting her down on the after locker, next to the tiller and as far as possible away from Trudi and Roger. At least now she was in fresh air. There was work to be done that could not wait.
‘I’ll take over,’ he said to Macleod. ‘Get those two below. If they won’t get up, heave them in.’
With the movement of the boat and his hands cuffed behind his back, Roger found it hard to get to his feet, but at least he tried. Macleod hauled him up, and he went below on his own. Trudi mulishly refused to move.
‘Let me help you to get up, madam,’ Macleod said politely.
‘If you so much as touch me I’ll sue you for assault through every court in England,’ she screamed back at him.
‘The Chief Inspector wishes you to go into the cabin,’ Macleod replied quite gently.
‘That other pig can go to hell, and so can you.’
Macleod put his arms under her and lifted her. With her hands tied she couldn’t claw at him, but she bit his cheek as he bent over her, and drew blood. Macleod had to shake her to break free, but although her bite hurt and blood was streaming down his face he continued to handle her without roughness. Piet, watching enraged from the tiller, thought he behaved magnificently. He put the woman in the cabin, on a settee on the opposite side of the table from Roger, and came back into the cockpit.
Piet took out his own handkerchief. ‘Seawater, Sally,’ he said. She dipped the handkerchief over the side and cleaned up Macleod’s wound. ‘I should hold the wet handkerchief over the bite,’ Piet said. ‘It may sting a bit, but seawater is a good disinfectant. If you feel up to it I’d like you to stay in the cabin to keep an eye on those two specimens we’ve got there.’
‘I’m all right, sir. If you’ll pardon the expression, miss, that woman’s a fair bitch.’