The Jonah (8 page)

To his surprise, the children in the first bedroom he poked his head into were all asleep – or pretending to be. They were all girls in there, thirteen packed into one large room, their
ages ranging from five to fourteen. The boys – a right unruly bunch who sounded like the bloody Mau Mau sometimes – were on the floor above; next door was the nursery. Bailey thought
that having them close to the infants would keep the boys quiet at night. That was a laugh: many a night he’d heard Bailey or his wife pounding up the stairs to stop the noisy skirmishes
going on in this room. Still, there was no ruckus tonight, he mused as he trod the stairs to the second storey. That, of course, was because they knew
he
was in charge. They didn’t
mess about with him. He dealt out a few good hidings with the threat that they would get worse if they tell-taled to Mr Bailey. He chuckled as he remembered getting hold of one of the little
baskits – saucy little fucker – and dangling him over the banisters by his legs. Said he’d drop him if he didn’t behave. Funny thing was – although not funny at the
time because he’d almost given himself a heart attack – he nearly
had
dropped the blighter, the kid had screamed and squirmed so much. It was lucky Bailey and his missus had been
out that night as well. Mind you, there’d been no more trouble from
that
kid again. He silently pushed open the door to the older boys’ dormitory, half-hoping to catch one or two
of them out of bed so he could mete out some punishment. He scowled in disappointment when he saw they were all in their places. Fish stood there for several moments waiting for the sound of
giggling or whispering; all he heard were a few nasal snores.

The light in the hallway was dim: Bailey was always skimping on electric and coal. He even had bloody inquests on the gas bills. He probably wouldn’t have had a light up here at all if the
kids didn’t have to use the lavatory during the night. He shuffled along the landing, his breathing heavy after the long climb up the stairs. The door to the nursery was slightly ajar; it
always was, just in case one of the brats started bawling during the night. There was ten littl’uns in there, boys and girls, their ages from two to five years old. Whiney little baskits.

Fish stopped when he heard voices. Or was it just the one voice? He listened outside the door.

Baby talk. One of the nippers was having a right old conversation with himself. Fish poked his nose through the doorway. He could barely see the outlines of cots and small beds in the gloom, but
the voice was coming from a position opposite the door. He pushed the door open wider to allow more light into the room.

He was surprised when he saw who it was talking.

The boy sat upright in his bed, his toes still tucked beneath the sheets. He seemed oblivious to Fish standing in the doorway. Tiny hands were tucked into his lap and his head leaned forward as
though he was studying something on the bed with him. But although he chatted away, the conversation was one-sided, for there was no one else there.

The caretaker was surprised not because of that fact – he had become used to children’s fantasies by now – but because this particular kid had barely spoken to anyone since
he’d been in the home. Fish knew the staff had been worried at first, thinking the boy might be retarded, but he had proved bright enough. Just timid. No, that wasn’t the word they
used. Withdrawn or something. Something like that. And now here he was talking ten-to-the-dozen. Well, he’d get what for if he woke any of the others.

Fish entered the room, angry, but forcing himself to tiptoe. The boy only became aware of him when his shadow fell across the bed.

‘Right, you little orror, what’s this about?’ Fish whispered fiercely.

The boy looked up at him, his eyes becoming wide. The sides of his mouth dropped and his lower lip instantly began to tremble.

‘Come on, what d’you think you’re up to this time of night? You want to wake up all the others?’ Fish stood over the boy menacingly, enjoying himself.

The boy began to shiver, but said nothing. He blinked as his eyes became watery.

‘What’s your name? Jimmy, innit? You wait till I tell Mr Bailey about you disturbing the other kids.’ Fish’s nose twitched and he raised his head, turning it in each
direction and sniffing. His gaze fell back on the child before him.

‘Have you messed yourself?’

The boy said nothing.

‘Come on, answer me. You had enough to say for yourself a minute ago.’

The boy began to draw his little body into a ball, his head sinking down onto his knees, hands tucked into his lap.

‘You little bleeder!’ Fish cuffed the back of the boy’s head. He kept his voice low, but its gruffness was effective. He pulled at the boy’s shoulders, lifting him up and
turning him around to examine the back of his long nightshirt. The boy cried out and the sound was no more than a tiny yelp, but Fish cupped a rough hand over his mouth anyway.

‘You bugger! Don’t you dare make a sound!’ He examined the nightshirt by the poor light shining through the doorway and was almost disappointed to find no dampness, no stains.
He grunted and let the infant collapse back onto the bed, but not before he’d dealt his bottom a hefty whack.

‘Now get into bed and no more noise. Mr Bailey’ll deal with you in the morning.’

The boy pulled the sheets up around him, covering his head so that only a small clump of hair was visible. The bedclothes shuddered spasmodically as he fought back the sound of his sobs.

Fish looked around the room once more: one of the other perishers must have done a packet. Or been sick. It was a funny smell. He shuffled out of the room, muttering to himself in low tones. He
left the door ajar as was usual – didn’t want Mr Bailey telling him off again for being careless – and crept stealthily towards the stairs.

He was on the first step going down when he thought he heard soft footsteps padding behind him. He half-turned and just caught sight of the tiny figure which had emerged from the shadows of the
now wide-open doorway; then small hands were pushing at his hips, powerful hands, and he was toppling forward, the stairs rushing up to meet him.

He bounced down the staircase and, if his limbs had been less brittle with age, he might have survived. But his head came to rest against the wall at the bend of the stairs and his neck snapped
like a frozen twig, his wire-framed spectacles slipping from his nose to swing casually from one ear.

At the last moment, just before all his senses had their lines to the brain cut, he was able to see the landing at the top of the stairs. And there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

Kelso sipped his second cup of coffee and held the gingham curtain away from the window. It was a bright day outside, giving the impression that spring really had arrived after
all. He watched Ellie Shepherd trudge her way along the lane between the caravans, a full shopping-bag carried against her stomach with both hands. Her dark hair was tucked beneath a bright red and
white scarf, the scarf’s knot tied at the back of her neck. A fawn raincoat that had seen better days covered her jeans. She caught sight of him at the window and flashed a smile. A
definite
improvement.

He opened the door for her and she brought in the smell of fresh, sea air with her.

‘I didn’t hear you leave,’ he said.

‘No, I didn’t want to disturb you. You were snoring like a pig.’ She dumped the shopping-bag on the draining-board and began to unload. ‘I looked through your cupboards
this morning. What are you? Some kind of anti-food freak? You don’t like to eat?’

‘I, uh, didn’t realize I was so low. I usually restock every week.’

‘I think you would have starved to death if you’d waited. Like some breakfast?’

‘I’ve just had it.’

‘Coffee?’ She pulled a disgusted face. ‘You’ll never grow into a big boy.’

‘I don’t usually eat in the morning.’

‘No, it shows. Well, I’m hungry – maybe you’ll join me.’ She cluttered in the cupboard beside the sink and drew out a pan. Soon the delicious aroma of frying bacon,
spiced with wafts of freshly brewed
real
coffee and toasting bread aroused juices even in his morning-delicate stomach.

‘You sleep okay?’ he asked after yawning and realizing he hadn’t.

‘Fine. Those bunk beds are more comfortable than they look. How was the couch?’

‘All right. It’s meant to be a spare.’

‘You could have taken the bunk above mine, you know. It wouldn’t have bothered me.’

‘Yeah, but it would have bothered me,’ he mumbled.

‘Sorry?’

‘I just said my snoring would have kept you awake.’

She grinned. ‘Maybe.’

Three slices of bacon crammed between two toasted doorsteps were placed before him.

‘I told you . . .’

‘Nonsense. Anyone can eat in the morning if they make the effort.’ She grabbed his coffee mug and emptied the lukewarm dregs, replacing them with piping hot coffee. The ashtray by
his elbow, full to overflowing, was whisked away and its contents emptied into the bin.

‘Thanks, Ma,’ he said, as she returned it.

‘Just because you snore like a pig, it doesn’t mean you have to live like one. How’s the sandwich?’

He tried to swallow so that he could reply, but failed to clear his throat completely.

‘That grunt means it’s good, eh?’ she said.

He nodded, then gulped the remnants in his throat down with coffee. The coffee burnt his lips.

‘How come you’re not married?’ he finally managed to say, having already inspected her third finger, left hand, the night before.

‘How do you know I’m not? The absence of a ring could be part of my guise as your girlfriend.’

‘Are you?’

She shook her head and joined him at the table. Her sandwich almost matched his in size. ‘How come
you’re
not?’

Again she saw that troubled look appear in his eyes, but it was no more than a flicker.

‘Does it show?’ he asked, and she felt him making a conscious effort to relax.

‘What? That you’re not married? Yes, it shows. But I was told about you in my briefing.’

Kelso frowned. ‘What else were you told?’

‘Oh, just your general background. You’re good at undercover work.’

‘Nothing more than that?’

‘Is there anything else?’

He looked down into his coffee mug. ‘No, there’s nothing important.’

She studied him for a few moments, biting into her sandwich. She swallowed, then said, ‘Okay, what’s your routine for today?’

Kelso folded his arms on the table. ‘Well, like I told you last night, so far I’ve come up with zero. The town is quiet, friendly – and doesn’t seem to have any criminal
activity.’

‘It’s a nice place. I walked through it this morning when I was shopping. The groceries go on my account, by the way; as I said, our allowances are a bit more realistic than
yours.’

‘I won’t quarrel with that. Now, there’s a river inlet that runs parallel to the coast for seven miles or so before turning inland. The distance between the river bank and the
sea is not more than a couple of hundred yards in places. It’s perfect for boats to come in through the channel and make their way inland. It’d be perfect for smuggling contraband or
whatever, except that every boat is carefully monitored by the coastguards. Anything suspect would be pounced on immediately.’

‘They couldn’t unload on the beach, carry it across to the river?’

‘Impossible. They’d be seen. Even at night the risk would be too great.’

‘Who uses the river?’

‘Mainly pleasure-boats. A couple of fishing drifters use the harbour where the river turns inland; their boats are too big to beach.’

‘Couldn’t they bring drugs in?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s unlikely. They’ve been watched, even searched. All they’ve brought ashore is fish. Something funny happened last night, though, but it could
amount to nothing.’

‘Funny?’

‘Yeah, strange. Nothing much, just a little incident in the local pub.’ He quickly recounted his meeting with the young, bearded fisherman and his hasty departure at the arrival of
the man in the leather jacket. ‘Like I say, it isn’t much, but it’s about the only interesting thing that’s happened since I’ve been here.’

‘What did he look like, this man?’

‘Not like a local. He looked as though he would have been more comfortable drinking in the Green Gate at Bethnal Green. And, oh yeah, the little finger of his right hand was
missing.’

Ellie’s face was half-buried in her sandwich, but she nodded for him to go on.

‘That’s it, there is no more. Trewick bolted from the pub and I waited for chummy to follow. But he didn’t. Just carried on drinking.’

The girl chomped on her food for a while, then said: ‘Not much to show for three weeks’ work, is it?’

‘I’ve been telling my guvnors that in my weekly reports. Casing this back-of-beyond place isn’t my idea.’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t criticizing.’

He reached for a cigarette and lit it. As an afterthought he pushed the pack towards her. She shook her head.

‘The funny thing is,’ he said, exhaling smoke, ‘I
feel
something is going on. Call it intuition, a hunch, or what you like. The place is almost too respectable, too
perfect. And there has to be some explanation for what happened to the Preece family.’