High Water (1959), page 18
‘Nothing,’ he said shortly. ‘That ’phone box must be further away than I thought.’
‘What do we do now, Philip?’
She ran her hand through her hair, and for a moment he was caught in wonder and admiration, the mantle of weary and fearful anticipation seeming to drop away as he watched her. She stood poised and alert, yet apparently relaxed, her beauty accentuated by her stained and crumpled clothing. She saw him watching her, his eyes exploring her body, and she dropped her gaze, a slow flush spreading across her cheeks, but with a secret smile playing on her lips.
‘I’m sorry,’ he faltered, suddenly aware of the pounding of his heart. ‘I’m afraid my mind was not where it should have been. You’ll have to forgive these sudden lapses of mine.’ He grinned awkwardly. ‘I’ve not got used to being near you, if you understand what I mean. Each time I look at you I just go completely stupid and tongue-tied.’
‘For one so tongue-tied, you are pretty eloquent, Philip. Perhaps I too have the same feelings as you.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders, her face suddenly grave. ‘But all my little dreams and hopes seem so very uncertain now. We must try to decide what we must do next. And, Philip,’ her eyes clouded, ‘I want to hear all about Nils, about what you found, anything you can remember’—she trembled, as if suddenly chilled—‘he was so very dear to me.’
Vivian gripped her by the arm, and together they started to walk briskly along the road. Neither spoke for a while, and their shadows twisted and flitted along the dripping bushes, seeming to keep time with the slap of their feet on the wet tarmac.
‘As I see it,’ he said at length, ‘I’d better get along to the police as soon as I can. I don’t quite know how I shall start, it’ll probably sound a bit of a queer story to them!’
‘I wonder if Felix had gone to the police yet?’
‘Hmm, maybe he has at that,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘In which case, the sooner I get my story out the better. If I’m careful, I might be able to keep your uncle’s name out of it. After all, they must be mainly interested in those drugs, and they were Mason’s doing. And when I tell them about the rest of it, about Nils,’ he breathed heavily, ‘they’ll be very interested!’
They found themselves at the junction of the main coast road, quite deserted but for an occasional car heading for Dover.
‘The police will have to know about the money too.’ Her voice was quiet, but very firm. ‘They’ll find out anyway, and I do not want you to be implicated any more than you are. As it is, they will understand. I will be there too.’ She stifled his protests. ‘It is no use arguing, Philip, you know quite well that I was not mixed up in it, so, therefore, I am the obvious one to help you. Right?’ Her eyes shone in the sun.
‘I don’t like it,’ he persisted stubbornly. ‘I loathe the thought of your name being dragged through the courts, or whatever’s going to happen.’
‘But I am right, it is the only way. Please say you understand.’ Her voice was imploring.
‘If you say so,’ he conceded doubtfully. ‘So that means I’d better get the rest of the plates from Seafox. That’ll at least prove that I’m trying to help.’ He grinned weakly.
She squeezed his hand hard. ‘You’ll see, it’ll all be all right.’ The Danish accent became more pronounced, as it always did when she became excited. ‘It was a wonderful idea of yours to hang on to half of these dreadful plates!’
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it. A few weeks ago I don’t suppose either of us had even heard of this sort of thing. Now, you and I talk quite calmly about plates, and drug smuggling, as if we’d been mixed up with ’em all our lives!’
‘I don’t know about calmly.’
‘Anyway, we’ll have a go.’ He smiled.
He stopped in his stride and pointed upwards at a bus stop.
‘See?’ he grinned. ‘Civilization again! Might as well wait here and try to get back to Ramsgate. By the way, do you have any money? I seem to have lost all mine back there!’
It was amazing that he could now joke about it, and keep the edge of strain out of his voice.
She found some loose change in the pocket of her jacket, and as they waited for a bus they discussed carefully the plan of action, trying not to omit any detail.
A travel-stained bus ground to a standstill, and oblivious of the curious glances of the few passengers, they climbed to the top deck, which was fortunately deserted.
As they jolted along the wind-swept road, Vivian frowned, as a sudden, disquieting thought occurred to him.
‘I’ve been thinking, Karen,’ he announced slowly, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that it might be unwise for both of us to bowl into the police-station together. It’d perhaps be better if you went to the boat and got Felix and the plates, and came on a bit later.’
‘But, Philip!’ Her eyes filled with concern. ‘I must be with you!’
He gripped her hands, his heart warm for her.
‘Believe me, it is better that we go separately. After all,’ he began carefully, ‘they may decide to hold me in custody. I shall need all my friends then,’ he finished quietly.
She turned up the collar of his jacket and handed him her own head-scarf to tie around his throat.
‘No one will see that you do not have a shirt on now. We do not want people to think you are a pirate!’ But her sad expression belied her brave words.
‘We’re nearly there. Now promise you’ll be careful. I’ll carry on into the town and get this business off my chest.’
‘I will be all right.’ She nodded gravely. ‘It is you who needs to be careful.’
The bus slowed down as it swung in towards the cliff top. Beneath them the harbour lay like a white horseshoe.
‘I will hurry, Philip,’ she said softly. Her lips brushed across his mouth, then she was gone.
The bus lumbered on its way and began to fill up with chattering holiday-makers, but Vivian stared at them unseeingly, his mind elsewhere and conscious of the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He found his way easily enough to the dark, red-brick building, with its large blue lamp outside. He walked past it twice, glancing up at the solid, helmeted policeman who stood indifferently in the doorway.
He swallowed hard, clenching his fists that he had thrust deep into his reefer pockets. His knuckle touched a small, hard shape, and he pulled out a sixpence, which had somehow got itself lost in the lining. He glanced round, his eyes falling on a small café opposite the police-station. A quick cup of tea, he thought. That’d do the trick. It might be just emptiness which was making his inside boil and quiver so sickeningly.
He sat in a corner of the café, at one of the marble-topped tables, watching the policeman across the road. Soon be over, he thought, soon be cleared up, one way or the other.
A fat, jolly man, his face and neck burned by the sun to a fiery, lobster-like glow, heaved himself up from a neighbouring table, where he’d been feeding his two noisy children with cakes and ice cream. As he pushed a small piece of silver under a plate he caught sight of Vivian, sitting taut and grim-faced and toying with his cup and saucer. His broad, Yorkshire features split into a grin.
‘’Ere you are, lad! ’Ave a dekko at the paper, it’ll cheer you oop!’ He thrust the afternoon paper across to him and chuckled. ‘It’s right good, I can tell you; another bloody war goin’ to start any second, and my horse ’as coom in fourth at Hurst Park! I dunno, I’m sure!’
Vivian nodded to him, and watched the man shepherding his children out of the café.
Ah well, time to see the gentlemen across the road, he thought, no good putting it off. He finished his tea and stood up. As he did so, his eye fell casually on a side column of the front page. The café spun about his ears and he reached out to stop himself from falling across the table. There was a great roaring in his head and he had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself from crying out in astonishment and horror.
With a frightened glance round, to see if he had attracted any attention, he sat down again and forced his eyes and brain to work slowly and carefully across the bold type.
MAN MURDERED AT HAMPTON COURT
Early this morning, in response to information received, police went to the 16th century riverside home of Mr. Nils Jensen, well-known Danish head of the Europa Travel Agency, where they found his body lying savagely battered to death and hidden in an old cellar, used as a studio by the deceased man. There were signs of a violent struggle and of a forced entry having been made. Miss Karen Jensen, the dead man’s niece, is missing, and it is believed that she may have been kidnapped by the murderer, whom she is believed to know. A senior police official told our reporter that he is confident of an early arrest, although he was not prepared to state his own views of the reason for the murder at this stage. It was later announced that Chief Inspector Laidlaw, well known for his recent success in the Brighton Cellars murder case, is in charge of investigations. Police are anxious to trace the whereabouts of Philip Vivian, who they feel may be able to help in their inquiries.
Vivian’s head swam and his throat felt as dry as dust. In a semi-dazed state, he read the rest of the announcement, which included his own full description, as well as a smiling photograph of Karen. He tried to think back, remembering the broken glass from the window, that he had thrust into the desk drawer. His fingerprints were probably everywhere, he realized. He swore silently, remembering too what Mason had said, and how he had boasted of the success of their plan for laying Jensen’s murder at his door. There had been only one hitch so far, for by rights he and Karen should now be lying in the slime and mud at the bottom of the gravel pit. His thoughts crowded in on him and he stared blindly down at the newspaper, trembling with the fury of a trapped animal.
Almost without realizing it he jumped to his feet, and with the paper clenched in his hand, he blundered out of the café. For a moment he stood unsurely on the edge of the pavement and then, bracing his shoulders, he marched grimly across the road, and with his heart pounding, past the policeman, into the front office of the station.
If anything, his reception was one of anti-climax. The office was high and cool, its pale green, distempered walls covered with notices and bills, and the many bookshelves crammed with tall, dusty ledgers. There was a long, well-polished counter across the entrance, and in the centre of the room, a plump, elderly station-sergeant sat writing carefully in a heavily bound book, a thick briar pipe hanging from his mouth.
At the counter, a young constable, looking somehow strange without his helmet, was pouring tea into a succession of cups on a battered tin tray. He looked up briefly, and smiled cheerfully.
‘Shan’t keep you a minute, sir. Just dealing with an essential duty.’
God! If I don’t get this thing sorted out, I shall go raving mad! Vivian swayed on his feet and placed his hands flat on the counter to control himself. He cleared his throat, his firm chin jutting forward in a certain pathetic defiance.
‘I’m Philip Vivian,’ he announced flatly. ‘I understand you think I’ve done a murder!’
There was a hard chink as the spout of the teapot clattered against the cups, and a sharp intake of breath from the constable, who stared at Vivian, his eyes wild, and seemingly unable to release the metal pot from his grasp.
The sergeant put down his pen and with slow deliberation removed the pipe from his mouth. Vivian noted with surprise that the man’s eyes were china blue and unwavering.
‘Er, what’s that you were saying?’ he asked, his tone conversational. ‘Something about a murder, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m Vivian,’ he repeated it wearily. ‘It’s in the paper here.’ He planked it down on the counter.
The sergeant was on his feet, methodically buttoning his jacket. His eyes never left Vivian’s face, but his expression remained calm and unruffled.
‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘Well, perhaps you’d better come inside the counter here, so that I can have a look at you.’
Nobody moved as Vivian lifted the wooden flap and walked into the room, and stood quietly by the desk.
He was a good few inches taller than the old man, but the sergeant seemed to fill the room. He sensed the goggling stare of the constable who had at last succeeded in ridding himself of the teapot, and he observed that the other one, who had been standing by the door, was now inside, blocking the entrance.
‘Take a chair!’ The sergeant’s voice held a ring of authority. ‘And, Collins, finish pouring the tea. I’ve a feeling we’ll all be needing a cup.’ He turned to Vivian, and after a slow scrutiny, he perched himself on the edge of his desk. ‘You’re the man all right,’ he said slowly. ‘I think you’d better just sit here quietly while I get things organized.’
He pressed a button on the desk, and Vivian heard a door open behind him.
‘Tell Peters to get on to Information Room about, er,’ he glanced quickly at a pad of messages, ‘message number seven. Tell them we have man answering description in the station. All the usual to Chief Constable, and our own people. And make it snappy!’
‘Very good, Sergeant.’
The door closed, and seconds later Vivian heard the rattle of a teleprinter. He found that he was breathing heavily. It was all too calm and too normal.
The door opened from the street and his heart leapt, perhaps it was Karen already. But it was only a small man inquiring about a lost umbrella.
As he watched the slow, patient proceedings, the sergeant giving no hint that he was already dealing with a suspected murderer, Vivian heard the door open behind him again. This time, two men in civilian clothes walked into his vision.
One, a dark, thin-faced man, jerked his head. ‘Okay, upstairs, you!’
Vivian felt himself flushing. ‘Look, who the hell d’you think you’re talking to?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve come here of my own free will to explain what’s happened!’
‘Okay, okay, don’t get excited!’ The man was taken off his guard by this outburst. ‘Just come up to the C.I.D. office so that we can get the preliminaries over. The chief inspector from the Yard’ll be here to see you as soon as he gets the wire, and he’ll want all the loose ends cleared up.’
The other detective, a gaunt, ungainly figure, with a permanent blink in his left eye, grunted surlily. ‘And no tricks!’ he added unnecessarily.
Wearily, Vivian followed them to the C.I.D. office. A room crowded with desks, filing cabinets, and ash-trays. A room which spoke of constant and unceasing use.
‘Look,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’d rather not say anything until I can see this Chief Inspector Laidlaw. What I’ve got to say is big stuff, and I’ve just about had enough trouble lately to last me a lifetime!’
The two men exchanged glances.
‘Right,’ snapped the first detective. ‘Sit down there and we’ll get on with the job in hand.’
The door opened slightly and the station sergeant thrust his head into the room.
‘All right, gents?’ he grinned broadly, as if it was all one huge joke. ‘The chief’s on his way and so’s the tea! I see you were in the Navy?’ he asked, quite inconsequently.
‘Yes,’ replied Vivian, surprised.
‘My son was too. Went down on the old Prince of Wales.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. Er, d’you take sugar?’
When he had gone, Vivian sat back and began to worry. Karen should be here by now. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Lang had found out about the allegation of murder and was getting legal aid, or perhaps he’d not been aboard Seafox when Karen got there. He cursed silently for not going with her.
The time passed, the tea was brought and consumed, without any further attempt at conversation, and all the while he writhed inwardly at the delay, and with the all-consuming desire to set the wheels in motion to place Mason in the position he now occupied himself.
Eventually, one of the detectives looked up from his desk, his head cocked. Below, some car doors slammed and the rumble of voices drifted up the stairs.
‘He’s here,’ he announced.
Vivian sighed deeply, not with tiredness, but with that odd, empty feeling that he had felt before going into a fight, or whilst awaiting the dentist’s chair.
Chief Inspector Bruce Laidlaw, followed by two other men, entered with a suddenness, and with such an air of brisk decisiveness, that the very room seemed to come alive with his presence.
Although above average height, his square, compact shoulders and short neck gave the impression of stockiness, a growing paunch beneath his neat, grey suit adding to the general appearance of heavy middle age. He swept a trim, green trilby from his head, and for a moment ran his stubby fingers through his cropped, greying hair. Then, for the first time, he let his eyes rest on Vivian. They were dark brown, and unlike the rest of his body, they held all the secrets of his immense vitality and energy, as in a few, quick glances, he took in the other man’s appearance, as if tabulating each small fact as it came to life.
Vivian began to stand up, but one pink hand waved him down again.
‘No, no, Mr. Vivian, you can remain seated. We have certain details to discuss.’
It was a quiet, even voice, with a small hint of harshness, and like many policemen’s it bore no trace of any particular accent.
He nodded to the two local detectives. ‘I’ll be taking an official statement shortly. In the meantime, you can wait in the other office.’
It was neither an order nor a request. It was a statement of fact. It revealed to Vivian the whole machinery of this man’s remarkable method of dealing with his job. He realized he was face to face with a professional policeman, a detective at the top of his already brilliant career. He sat now, facing Vivian, one leg crossed over the other, and his hands resting in his lap like two pink crabs. He had taken over. He asked for no help or guidance from anyone else. As if realizing this, the two local men left the room.
Laidlaw looked briefly at the other men. ‘This is Sergeant Arnold, my assistant, and this is Dr. Mortimer, who has also been assisting me.’
