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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781780295732 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 11/30/2017 |
| Series: | A Shaw and Valentine Mystery , #7 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Death Ship
By Jim Kelly
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 Jim KellyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78029-573-2
CHAPTER 1
It was no surprise to Donald Ross that his three sons had decided to mark their first day on holiday by digging a hole on Hunstanton beach. Digging was in the Ross family DNA: a hardwired urge to disappear underground. A distant relative had earned a Victoria Cross in Crimea, leading two hundred men out at night to dig zigzag trenches across no-man's-land. Donald's father had worked on the Channel Tunnel, commanding a TBM – a tunnel boring machine – one of the mechanical worms that had eaten its way through the chalk to France. Donald had a job on the London Underground, as a maintenance supervisor, trawling the dark tunnels at night, tapping rails.
His boys worked with an almost manic intensity, digging down into the damp, cloying sand. The pit, as it deepened, collected the shadows of the day and seemed to pack them tightly away, consolidating their darkness into a single black void, within which anything might lay hidden – a treasure, a fiend, a tunnel entrance, a mystery. The boys had brought spades with them, each one suited to their respective ages of five, eight, and thirteen.
The sand flew while Donald and his wife, Eve, watched from their vantage point in the lee of the concrete esplanade, a sinuous miniature cliff which would offer shade until midday, and a comfortable surface on which they could later lean back and enjoy the eventual, inevitable sunset. Hunstanton, Donald had gravely informed the boys, was unique in this one (literal) aspect of its geographical position, being the only west-facing East Coast resort, tucked into the great estuarine bucket-shaped bay of the Wash. The consequence of this strange inversion – a seaside town facing its own coast – was that the place felt humid and enervating, haunted by dead air.
More sand flew from the deepening pit. Eve and Donald sipped stewed tea from a thermos flask. Above them, on the seafront, they could hear the unmistakable sound of coins being ejected by a one-armed bandit. A small amusement arcade and café operated in what was left of the old pier entrance hall, a stubby remnant of what had once been one of the finest Victorian structures ever built on the English coast: eight hundred yards of wrought-iron tracery, as graceful as an arrow, flying west towards the setting sun.
Storms and fire had reduced this fine landmark to a series of stunted wooden piles, visible only at low tide, two dotted lines leading out to sea: a fleeting reminder of a more graceful, splendid past. It was between these rotting stumps that the boys had dug their pit.
By mid-morning the children had disappeared from sight. The fact that she could not see her boys prevented Eve from sleeping, although her eyelids weighed heavy. Her problem, which kept her nervously vigilant, was that she found it very difficult not to equate holes with graves. The Ross family enthusiasm for dark pits left her cold. She'd been just fifteen at her mother's funeral. Encouraged to stand at the graveside, she'd been told to take a handful of dust and let it fall to the coffin lid. But the soil had been substantial, a claggy, clay clod, so that the sound, the dull echo of the percussion from within the casket, had marked her for life.
Donald intermittently heaved himself up on his over-large feet and went down the beach to survey the work, advising his eldest son, Marc, appointed gangmaster, to widen the hole so that it didn't tumble in on the 'navvies' as they dug down. The children's spades made an increasingly harsh, quartz-on-metal clatter.
'A fat man told us to stop, Dad,' said the youngest, Eric, grains of sand in his eyelashes. 'He said it was dangerous between the old pier posts. It's not, is it? He said he might call the police.'
'Course it's not dangerous,' said Donald, checking again that there were no signs. Besides, the boys were within sight of a lifeguard hut, from which a yellow 'all safe' flag flew.
'Mind you – you have hit rock bottom,' added Donald. 'So you could pack it in and wait for high tide.'
The boys said they could go deeper, and their father was stupidly proud of their stubborn endeavour. Marc, a keen photographer, asked his father to bring his camera down to the pit so that the excavation could be recorded and then posted on Instagram. The boy took a picture at about two o'clock, the last of the hole itself, as it turned out. (This would prove a vital piece of evidence in that it revealed a small metallic blemish, the colour of fish skin, in the west wall of the pit.)
Lunch was chips, and Donald had to pass the greasy parcels down, because the boys wouldn't come up to eat properly on the picnic blanket, complaining that they might lose their pitch to interlopers. Besides, the moment of drama was less than an hour away: the sea, which at Hunstanton did not so much go out as go missing, was – at last – about to make its dramatic return. A warning sign next to the lifeguard's hut, dutifully studied by Eve, explained that because of the shallow declination of the sands, the sea, when it arrived, would race landwards, flooding acres in seconds, swirling into pools, bubbling over sand banks. This was the moment for which the pit had been dug, the moment of biblical inundation.
Donald, mildly dazed by a pint of lager from the Golden Lion, the pub up on the clifftop green, snuggled down for a nap, leaving Eve to tackle the Daily Mail crossword, asking only that she wake him in time for high tide.
It was Eric who struck metal first: the sound of a beach spade striking iron ringing out as distinctively as a church bell.
Donald sat up, unsure what had snapped him out of his half-sleep. Anxious, unsettled, he rummaged in the picnic bag and found his binoculars. Between thumb and forefinger he turned the serrated dial until an image came sharply to his eye. Out at sea a structure resembling an oil rig bristled with cranes and girders, a miniature maritime Manhattan. Mechanical noises had reached him earlier in the day: had this been what had woken him now?
Hunstanton had been chosen for the Ross annual holiday because Donald's younger brother had secured a contract to work on the construction of the new pier. Robbie, a bachelor aged just thirty, was a member of that elite known as the 'tunnel tigers'. For nearly ten years he had worked for one of the big multinational construction companies, responsible for bridges, oil rigs, coastal defences and tidal barriers. Now the company had won the contract to build a new pier at Hunstanton. The pier head, more than a mile out to sea and standing in the deep water channel, would be of itself, Donald told the boys, a feat of twenty-first-century engineering.
The magic, Donald had explained, lay below the surface. A concrete caisson, manufactured in Holland, had been hauled across the North Sea and lowered, by crane, to the seabed, two hundred feet beneath the rig. At bath-time in their rented cottage he'd illustrated the principal qualities of a caisson to the boys by taking one of their beach buckets, turning it upside down, and forcing it down into the water so that Eric could put his hand on the top, countering the buoyancy of the trapped air.
'See?' said Donald. 'There's air in the bucket. Men can work in the bucket on the seabed, digging away, and then the bucket settles into the sand, and they put the metal pillars on the top of the bucket, and on top of those you build the pier!'
'There's men under the sea?' asked Eric, astonished. 'Uncle Robbie's underwater?'
'It depends on which shift he's working. But he will be. It's really safe. The paper says they've sunk the caisson, but now they're working on the pipe that goes down for the men – that's what they call a manlock – and the bigger pipe for the gear and the stuff they dig out, that's the mudlock. The men who go down are all tunnel tigers – just like Robbie.'
Eric, delighted, liked the sound of the mudlock and the tunnel tigers. He'd tilted the bucket until a glistening bubble of air had broken free to pop to the surface.
The new pier was not, however, a universal source of admiration.
Driving into town, they had passed under an old railway bridge adorned with graffiti: no urban childish scrawl, but a work of art, six feet high, in bulbous multicoloured letters: STOP THE PIER.
The town was plastered with posters calling supporters to an anti-pier meeting at the theatre. Graffiti seemed to mark every bus shelter, every wall. Protestors claimed that the original idea of rebuilding a classic Victorian pier had been hijacked by big money and vested interests. They wanted the work on the pier halted so that there was time to take the case to Westminster and Brussels. All sorts of allegations were made in technicolour: fraud, graft, corruption, incompetence, and reckless pollution of the historic Norfolk coast.
The anti-pier campaign had not stopped at graffiti. The construction company's trucks had been vandalized, and a floating demo in the spring had attempted to prevent the lowering of the great caisson. Only yesterday Donald had bought the local rag to check on cinema times for Interstellar and read the splash story: ARSON FEAR OVER FRESH PIER ATTACK. Police were, apparently, trying to track down a man who had swum out to the rig at night and dragged an oil drum into the fuel store and left a paraffin-soaked rag smouldering, stuffed into the open cap. An explosion, and the clear danger of injury or worse, had only been averted by an alert lookout on night watch.
Even here, on the beach, they couldn't shake off the protestors, who worked the crowds, collecting tins in hand, giving out STP stickers.
A wave of screams swept the beach, and, lowering the binoculars, Donald saw that the sea had breached the leading sand bar and was rushing inwards, the white-edged waves advancing at a running pace, leaving children in its wake, suddenly paddling in a foot of water. The boys had already scrambled out of their pit and were sitting on the edge throwing stones. It was Marc's turn next, and as he drew back his arm, his father saw that he'd chosen a half brick, smoothed by the sea.
The sound of it hitting its target took a second to reach Donald, but he knew instantly what had woken him up, and it hadn't been the cranes on the distant rig. He stood, fell, stood, tripped, then finally found his running feet, calling out Eric's name, because it was his youngest son's turn next and he had his hand up, ready to strike. Donald got to the pit just as the sea funnelled down, carving a miniature valley, creating a whirlpool which spun their plastic buckets wildly in a circle and threatened to suck them back out to sea.
For a fleeting moment, as the wave retreated, Donald saw the boys' target. Their stones had dislodged part of the pit wall, to reveal a shiny metal surface which, for a surreal moment, he thought looked as if it might be scaled. Then the sand wall gave way, spilling out the object within, as if giving birth. In less than a second it was gone, lost in the frothing spume, but Donald sensed its weight as it tumbled, its sheer mass: a giant silvery metal fish, almost instantly concealed within the hissing whirlpool of white surf.
CHAPTER 2DS George Valentine had always felt that there was a distinct criminal class – a type – each individual member of which was fated to follow certain predetermined and irresistible urges. This somewhat Victorian view had been tempered by nearly thirty years in CID, but its essential contours still formed the bedrock of his own attitudes and methods. One tenet of this view of the lawbreaker was that he, or she, always felt the need to return to the scene of the crime. Most criminals were stupid and getting no smarter – a fact that Valentine understood to lie behind the steady increase in the rate at which they were being caught. It was now standard practice, for example, for CID to discreetly film the crowds gathered behind the yellow-and-black SOCO tape at the crime scene, and especially those who stole to the spot to lay flowers and notes of condolence and support in cases of murder.
Valentine rummaged in the pocket of his raincoat and found his dark glasses, slipping them on his narrow skull, which from either side followed the outline of a hatchet; his face, in fact, seemed almost entirely constructed of profile, so that when he said 'no', it seemed to flip from left to right, without an intervening full-face image. Thinning hair, a widow's peak, a suit, an ironed white shirt, dark tie, and black slip-on shoes completed the unvarying ensemble. The raincoat, worn in winter, was simply carried in the summer, folded like a priest's maniple over one arm.
Valentine eased the collar on his shirt with a finger as a trickle of sweat ran down his neck.
Sitting opposite Hunstanton's modest bus station in the summer sunshine, he watched a queue beginning to form for the T45 service to King's Lynn railway station, fifteen miles south along the zigzag route that hugged the coast. The bus, a single-decker, was due at three thirty. Folding out a copy of the East Anglian Daily News with a crack, Valentine peered over the top of the newspaper and noted the faces of the eight would-be passengers waiting for the bus: two men, six women, none a match for the widely distributed police 'wanted' poster, a copy of which he had between the pages of the paper. He forced himself to scan the other queues, at the other stops, reminding himself that his surveillance shift would be over soon with the departure of the T45, and that he should remain alert. He sensed, however, with all the cynicism of his thirty years of service, that he was wasting his time.
It had not been a good day: he was bored, uncomfortable, hungry, thirsty, and hot. Valentine was newly married for the second time, to Probationary Police Constable Jan Clay, the widow of a former colleague, who had brought up a family out here on the windswept north Norfolk coast. Valentine was, by contrast, a man of the town. His two-up two-down lay in the tightly packed terrace streets inside Lynn's London Gate, a warren of corner shops, backstreet boozers, and the Gothic remnants of the port's whaling past.
Jan wanted to start a new life, in a new house, out here in sight of the sea. They'd spent the morning viewing identical Barratt boxes on faceless streets, each estate agent desperate to meet Jan's desire for that glimpse of the ocean. One property had boasted 'a much sought-after view' – which turned out to be an apology for the fact that to see the sea you had to stand on tiptoe at one of the dormer windows.
Valentine didn't want to move. He'd spent his life on Greenland Street. Late at night he'd sit by his first wife's grave in the nearby cemetery of All Saints'. It pleased him, oddly, to be a ghostly presence. Moving out to the coast felt like an act of betrayal, although even Valentine was able to discern behind that simplistic summary other, less accessible emotions: a fear of failure perhaps, and a stunted, atrophied expression of the concept of home.
He caught the soft whisper of the distant crowds on the beach, a gentle pulsing scream marking the onward rush of the tide. There were so many things he loathed about the seaside: the sun and fresh air, the irritating sand, the salty tang of burnt flesh on the breeze. Even the sound of it made him feel anxious.
Snapping the paper open again, he took his hundredth look at the wanted poster.
The crime in question had occurred at precisely this time a week earlier. An elderly woman standing in the queue for the T45 had, at first, done nothing to attract attention. Her fellow passengers had outlined a surprisingly consistent picture of her face. Several said they might have seen her before, on the bus, but they couldn't be sure. Valentine's boss, DI Peter Shaw, was a trained forensic artist, and having interviewed the witnesses in the queue to form an overall visual impression of their suspect, he had been able to produce the wanted poster. The ghost of lost beauty lay in the fine features, the wispy white hair, and the choice of earrings, noted by three of the female witnesses: two small classic cameos, set in silver. Pushing a wheeled shopping bag, she had worn a crisp white blouse and pale cream pleated trousers, with brown leather court shoes. She was neat, respectable, and, as it turned out, lethal.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Death Ship by Jim Kelly. Copyright © 2016 Jim Kelly. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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