Sometimes one could distinguish each separate wave; the roar, crash, confusion and withdrawal. Often, however, the sound became just one long howl; rocking the window panes, vibrating against the metal watering can, flapping the canvas awning, pounding into the head, filling the ears and spinning the mind into a whirl.
My room opened on to a small wooden balcony. Two miles out on the black ocean the lights of the local fishing boats were winking in the movement of the horizon. I imagined the misery of the English Channel at night, working for a meagre living. The fishermen’s catches were becoming smaller and smaller, diminishing each year. I watched the black clouds move across the moon for a long time before going to bed. I tried to sleep, but the noise of the wind and the effect of the coffee kept me awake. At 4.00 am I heard a bedroom door open and then close with a click. Soft footsteps went down the bare wooden stairs.
Someone else couldn’t sleep; perhaps a cup of tea would be a good idea.
The footsteps went on through to the kitchen. I heard the back door open and the footsteps outside on the sun patio. As I was climbing into some clothes I heard the hinges of the rusty gate creak open.
Looking over my bedroom balcony there was enough moonlight for me to see someone was moving down the path in the direction of the boathouse.
The figure turned, dropped off the sea wall and began to walk along the sand towards one of many groynes which separated each private beach. I went down the staircase as quickly as I could.
The wind cut me with an icy shiver and the needlepoints of spray penetrated my trousers and sweater. The metal of my pistol was cold against my hip. I decided not to use the gate; instead I eased myself through a gap between the garden wall and garage. Fifteen metres ahead of me the nocturnal stroller made no attempt to conceal himself. It was Rumple. He went to the first groyne climbed over it and continued along to the next and the next.
As he made his way along the last stretch of beach he came to the base of a wide stone staircase, which twisted up to the road above. To begin my ascent before he had completed his would be foolish. He had only to glance down to be certain of spotting me.
I gave him plenty of time to get to the top; then, keeping well to the inside of the staircase, I began to walk up.
I watched carefully for anything that if trodden on would give my presence away, although the roar of the sea would have swallowed the noise of anything less than an avalanche. I paused as I neared the top, took the automatic out of my belt, breathed in and out very slowly and moved up on to the road. If he was waiting for me, a deep lungful of air could make all the difference.
No one was waiting for me. To the right the road was completely empty as far as I could see. From the left came only the faint sound and red tail lights of an old MkI Jaguar as it turned a corner and then there was only the pandemonium of the sea. A little finger of grey cloud smudged the bright eye of the moon. It seemed as though Rumple had got a lift. Who did we know with a MKI Jaguar?
I was losing friends faster than I could replace them.
By the next morning, big droplets of rain dabbed at the grey slate windows.
The bad weather had moved in from the south west as the shipping forecast had predicted. The wind and rain gave no sign of relenting before late afternoon, so I worked on my report for LJ in the privacy of my bedroom.
Sandbanks was an area designed for the sun to shine upon, so when the rain came it looked confused, and most of all betrayed. Along the main road rain dripped from the shop awnings, and in La Café the girls whiled away their time when not serving the odd customer, by gazing out of the window across the bay and drinking cappuccino.
Mrs Rumple brought breakfast up to my room at around 10.00am. While she was there I asked how Rumple was after his brandy session.
“Well, sir. You know Rumple, brandy never affects him. He was up at the crack of dawn as usual, and out the door straight after breakfast. Something to do with a spare part for the dinghy’s outboard motor. I think he said that there was nowhere local, and that the nearest stockist was in Brighton.” She didn’t think he would be back much before dinner.
I left it at that, not wishing to arouse any suspicion by overly questioning her. When I’d finished typing up my report I emailed it straight to LJ.
Afterwards, I decided to go down and check that the cargo we were baby-sitting was still stowed safely on the boat. When I opened the boathouse door I found Fiona wearing a swimsuit and shorts, her diving equipment lying around her bare feet.
“Going for a dive?” I asked casually.
“Why, Jake Dillon, what brings you down here? I hope you’re not spying on me?”
“Now why would I want to spy on you? Unless…” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of one of the lockers where Rumple had stowed the raw opium. I climbed up onto the lower rear deck of the forty-six-foot cruiser. The locker door was just slightly ajar, and the handle had been wrenched round so far that the spindle had snapped clean in half and the strike plate carefully twisted back out of the way. This gave the impression that the door was locked, but in reality it had just been pushed too. Fiona came and knelt down by my side. “You’ve got it wrong, you know.”
“Sorry, what do mean,” I replied, studying the damage to the door.
“I know you think that I’ve been landed on you, and that I’m a pain in the arse that you really could have done without. But you’ve got me all wrong, I’m not here to spy on you, you know. I would really like it if we could be friends, Jake. As for who I work for, well, the only thing that I can tell you is that it’s Her Majesty’s Government, but usually behind a desk.”
“I don’t know, Fiona, there are many things about you that don’t tally.”
I slowly opened the locker door; inside everything was as it should have been. The brown wax packages were still neatly stacked liked miniature sandbags. Nothing seemed to be missing. I carried on and checked the other two compartments, finding each with their cargo intact.
“What is it that doesn’t tally about me, Jake?” She asked, her voice low and husky.
I went to stand, her hand reached up for my arm. Looking down at Fiona I smiled in genuine admiration. Her face was alive and her eyes sparkling.
There was a vibrancy I hadn’t noticed before. She wore a black skin-tight swimsuit and shorts. Her breasts loomed larger and her hips more slender than I had thought, her legs were long and athletic. She stood up and leaned against the cabin doorway, her pose was provocative and she moved with sensual vivacity.
“So tell me, Jake. What is it that doesn’t tally?” She asked demurely. A bout of temporary shyness taking hold, as she dropped her gaze to avert any eye contact.
“It won’t work, you know?”
“What won’t work?” She said coyly, running a hand through her hair which shone under the lights of the boathouse.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Fiona?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Jake?”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it? Perhaps you can tell me this?”
“Why does a desk bound civil servant sleep with a loaded Beretta under her pillow?” I said it with deliberate slowness, for full effect.
“What?”
“You heard me.” I said.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s the second time you’ve lied to me, Fiona. One more, and as far as I’m concerned you can go to hell.”
“It’s true, what they say about you. You’re an absolute bastard, aren’t you?”
I simply shrugged my shoulders, and said nothing.
“Is that it, a shrug. Got nothing to say, Jake. Well, I’ll tell you something, Mister. It’s not polite to rummage through a girl’s bedroom without an invitation.” The intonation in her voice, made it perfectly clear that she was far more annoyed at herself for having been careless, leaving the gun where anybody could have found it. Than she was at me for having found it.