All he had said to Giel was that he had to leave England, now, immediately, clandestinely. By boat. Giel had decided what to do after a moment’s reflection: find a small provincial seaside town with a functioning harbour. Canvey Island, Jonjo had said instantly, recalling his childhood holidays — that’s where you’ll find me: Canvey Island, the Thames estuary, Essex. They had chosen a date and time and Giel had outlined a notional plan. From Canvey Island to another small seaside town with a harbour and a busy marina, boats coming and going all the time — Havenhoofd, it was called, near Rotterdam. Then from Rotterdam to Amsterdam to a flat Giel’s sister owned. “Be a tourist for a few weeks,” Giel said. “I have many friends. There’s a lot of work for someone like you, Jonjo. You can be as busy as you want, we get you new passport, become a Dutchman.” Thank god he kept the stash of money aside, Jonjo thought. He had dumped the taxi and had bought a fourth-hand camper-van for £2,000 cash and had driven out of London heading east through Essex for the coast and freedom.
He had parked up in Canvey and waited for his appointed rendezvous with Giel Hoekstra. He felt both pleased at his resourcefulness and mounting anger that he had been obliged to rely on it. What was going to happen to his house, his stuff? Don’t even think about it, he told himself, you’re free, the rest is history and junk. Major Tim Delaporte, move to the top of the shit-list. No, not quite the top — the number one spot was permanently reserved for Adam Kindred.
Jonjo stopped: he had come a few hundred yards from the yacht club and the boatyard, now, it seemed quiet enough. He led The Dog off the coastal path, let him off the lead, and picked his way through the coarse brown grass of the saltings and stepped down on to a small beach. He turned through 360 degrees and saw no one. The Dog was bounding about on the sand, sniffing at sea-wrack and chasing sand crabs, his tail a blur of excitement. Jonjo looked across the river estuary and saw the tall chimney of the Grain power station on the Hoo Peninsula opposite. That was Kent over there, he thought idly, a mile or so away. He walked back to the grassy humps at the edge of the beach and, with his spade edge, measured a rectangle in the thin, shell-choked shingle and began to dig down quickly and easily into the moist, sandy loam beneath, excavating a neat dog-sized hole, two feet deep, with an inch of water in the bottom. He whistled for The Dog and soon heard him panting up from the beach.
“Go on,”Jonjo said, “get in.”
The Dog sniffed around the edge of the hole, clearly not sure about this game. Jonjo put his boot on his rump and pushed. The Dog plumped down.
“Sit,”Jonjo said. “Sit, boy.”
He sat, obediently.
Jonjo took out his Clock. He held it close to his leg and checked the area again, in case any ramblers were heading for the point across the flat, dark brown humps of the saltings before the tide rose, but there was no one. Opposite, on the far side of the mouth of Benfleet Creek, were Southend’s crowded streets and the long arm of its pier. He felt oddly alone, a man and his dog on the extreme, bleak, salty tip of a small island in the Thames estuary and, simultaneously, oppressively suburban — all Essex was out there, just across the water, half a mile away.
He looked down at The Dog and began to experience very odd sensations, all of a sudden, as if his head were fizzing. He pointed the gun at The Dog.
“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I love you, you know that.”
His voice had gone weird and croaky and Jonjo realised he was crying. Fuck! He was falling apart — he hadn’t cried since he was twelve years old. He was past it, well and truly washed up, over the hill, pathetic, disgusting. No wonder Risk Averse had kicked him out. He swore at himself — get a grip, you pathetic girl, call yourself a soldier, some kind of fucking warrior, you are. He levelled the Clock at The Dog’s head. The Dog looked up at him, still panting slightly from his exertions, blinking, unperturbed. Squeeze the trigger. Slowly.
♦
At high tide, as they had arranged, Giel Hoekstra was waiting for him on the quayside at Brinkman’s Wharf on Smallgains Creek where visiting boats were allowed to moor. Giel was standing on the quayside, pacing around, smoking, a squat, burly man with his longish hair in a small pony-tail. He’d put on weight, had Giel, since they’d last seen each other, Jonjo thought, quite a gut on him now. They embraced briefly and slapped each other’s shoulders. Giel showed him the powerful cabin cruiser moored by the quayside that he’d crossed the Channel on: white, raked, clean lines, two big blocky outboard motors on the stern.
“We be in Havenhoofd in three hours,” he said. “Nice little marina. No questions. I am friend for the harbourmaster.” He grinned. “Let’s say — new friend.”
“I can pay for all this,” Jonjo said, handing him a wad of notes. “Look, they’re all euros.”
“No need, Jonjo,” Giel feigned being offended. “Hey. I do this for you — you do it for Giel Hoekstra, one day. No need, please.”
“It’s your money, Giel.”
There was something different about his tone of voice. Giel took the money.
♦
Jonjo stood in the cabin with the wheel in his hand — Giel had gone down to the head to take a leak — and enjoyed the sensation of steering this powerful boat, with its creamy boiling wake, away from England towards his future. The remorseless vibration of the twin engines drumming through the deck reinforced this idea of steady purpose, of smooth untroubled progress, of the inevitability of their arrival at their destination.
He took a deep breath, exhaled. He had hoiked The Dog out of the hole, fitted the lead to his collar and walked back towards the yacht club and the boat yard. Then he had removed the collar (with his name and address imprinted on the dangling steel coin) and had improvised a noose, of sorts, and tied The Dog to the railings by the boat yard. He gave The Dog a pat, said a hoarse goodbye and strode away. He looked back, of course, and saw The Dog sitting on his haunches, licking at something on his side, completely unperturbed. Jonjo had tossed the collar into Smallgains Creek and had walked on. A bark, a yowl — was that too much to hope for? Somebody would take charge of that dog in ten minutes, that was the thing about basset hounds — they were irresistible.
Still, he felt reassured, obscurely pleased at his weakness, not condemning himself, concentrating on the feeling of the engines thrumming through the decking, the vibration travelling up his legs, almost sexually arousing, in a funny sort of way. Quiet, steady purpose. Yes, that would be his motto, now he was free, now he was shot of everyone and everything. And his quiet steady purpose would be directed, he decided, towards one end: he would find Adam Kindred. He had the scooter’s licence plate number — he had paid that piece of filth £1,000 for the scooter’s licence plate number — and that was all he needed. That had been Kindred’s downfalclass="underline" there was a trail now — electronic and paper, from the scooter to its owner — where there had never been a trail before. When it all went quiet, when the toxic dust had settled, when everyone had forgotten about John-Joseph Case, he would come back from Amsterdam to England, secretly, silently, find Adam Kindred and kill him.
61
ALLHALLOWS-ON-SEA. A GOOD NAME FOR A PLACE, A PLACE ON THE Kent shore of the Thames estuary. Adam stood and looked north across the mile or so of water to Canvey Island opposite, on the Essex shore. It was as good a spot as any, he thought, to claim that here the river ended and the sea began. He turned to the east and looked at the high clouds — cirrostratus — invading the sky from the south, lit by a strong, afternoon late-summer sun. Could be bad weather, threat of thunderstorms…You felt yourself on the edge of England here, he thought, surrounded by sea, continental Europe just over the horizon. The air was bright and hazy and there was just a hint of coolness in the estuarine breeze. Autumn coming, finally, this year of years beginning to draw to its close.