Against the Tide (15 page)

According to the reports, he had been hiding from his fame for many years, though on the list of people who attended his funeral were generals, earls and well-known politicians, including Winston Churchill. While this was fascinating, I wanted to know if
Boadicea,
or
George VII,
had been his bike and how Fred had acquired it. Unfortunately, my uncle had disappeared along with the answers.

I needed to speak to Rachel but didn't want to go to her workroom. She'd told me how difficult the head seamstress was and I didn't want to get her into trouble. I would have to wait until lunchtime and try to catch her as she left. At least it was cool in the library, with its high-vaulted ceiling.

I decided to find out some more about my ghost rider and soon had a pile of books on my table. I knew I could be in the sea, but there was something comforting about digging into books in this quiet atmosphere. After all, if I wanted to study literature at Oxford, I'd be spending a lot of my time worming away out of the sun. If? What did I want to do and with whom did I want to do it? Miko was right, I still had a lot of learning to do about myself. The more I read about Lawrence though, the more I realised he had faced a similar problem until, at the age of forty-seven, it was resolved for him.

At one o'clock, I wandered out into the heat of the Royal Square, past the comatose pigeons and across King Street into the relative cool of the arcade in de Gruchys department store and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, I gave up. I'd missed her. Keeping to the shade, I walked to Fred's house.

It looked very different. The curtains had been opened. I sighed in relief. Now perhaps I could get some questions answered. I knocked on the front door and waited. There was a scuffling sound from inside then Rachel's voice. ‘Who is it?'

‘Me, Jack. What are you doing in there?'

The door eased open and she dragged me in. I was appalled. It looked like a Guernsey guesthouse after our water polo team had visited. Drawers were lying on the floor – paper was everywhere. Even the chess pieces were scattered about the room. Utter chaos.

Rachel looked very upset. ‘Malita wasn't at work again so I came straight here at lunchtime. I knocked on the door and tried the handle. It was open so I came in. The lock's been forced. I've never seen anything like it. We must tell the police.'

‘Wait. Let's just check first.' I wasn't sure Fred would want the police poking around his house but couldn't tell Rachel that. I wanted to see if this was a burglary, or whether someone had been searching the place. Fred and Malita didn't have many treasures and, from a quick inspection, there didn't seem to be anything missing. My uncle, well aware of the official interest in his affairs, would have hidden anything of importance.

Even his workshop had been vandalised, though the sight in the sitting room that met me was more upsetting. They'd systematically worked their way through his record collection and taken a hammer to Caruso, Gigli, and Bjorling. They were clearly not opera lovers and this savage behaviour made my stomach lurch. I picked up the pieces and resolved to replace as many of his precious records as I could, whatever the cost. I wondered if the men in the car had been involved. I looked out of the window but there was no sign of them.

Fred had converted one of the bedrooms into a workroom for Malita as she did some private dressmaking. They'd smashed her sewing machine and torn up her pattern books. Rachel started to cry when she found the mess. I knew they were planning to start their own business together and Rachel hoped to persuade her father to let them rent one of his shops for a reduced rate. They both wanted their independence so this was very important to her. The wrecked machine and ruined pattern books would be difficult to replace. This wasn't mindless and it wasn't a robbery. It was a cold, calculated and vicious warning. It might even have come from the police themselves.

‘I think we should wait until they return before we go to the police,' I suggested.

‘But what about the house? We can't leave it unlocked. We can't leave it like this. We don't know where they are, when they are coming back or even if …' She stopped; the next thought was too horrible. She was right. We had to inform the police, officially. At least they would then have to do something.

I still felt dubious though. ‘Let's just give it until this evening. They might be back then.'

‘No, Jack, I'm going to report this now. You can come if you want or… please yourself, but I'm going.'

She picked her way over the littered floor and out into the dusty street.

I checked the door but could see no sign of forced entry. I closed it and followed a hundred yards behind as she marched towards the town hall.

She was standing at the counter as I entered the paid police area. Fortunately, Rachel had gone to the Bluebottles rather than the on-duty centenier, who might have been my dear friend Phillips. A uniformed constable was talking to her but stopped when I arrived.

He scrutinised me. ‘That's it. I knew I'd seen you before.' He looked back at Rachel with a smirk. ‘But now he's arrived, I remember where. Of course you're wearing more clothes now.'

I watched her face turn crimson and felt a growing nausea in my own belly.

She recovered first. ‘Stop leering. That's all over.'

‘Not if you've got a memory and a bright torch, young lady.' He looked her up and down. If anything, the smirk was larger now.

I pushed in front of her. ‘We've come to report a break-in, not to be humiliated. Can you deal with it, or is there someone else more sensible you can call?' Big mouth, still out of control.

He pulled the leather bound incident ledger across the counter. ‘Right, sonny. Escaped from school, have we? Name?'

‘Renouf, Jack. You probably know my uncle, Jurat Poingdestre.'

He lifted the pen and pointed it at me. ‘Listen, Master Renouf. I don't care if your uncle is Neville Chamberlain. You have a complaint. We do this by the book.'

That would soon change when he found out my other uncle's name, I guessed.

‘I've told you already. We want to report a break-in,' Rachel said.

‘Name?'

‘Oh for God's sake. Vibert, Rachel Vibert.'

‘You don't have an uncle to impress me with?'

‘Excuse me, but are you local?' I asked.

‘No, but what is with you people? Does it matter? I'm from Southampton and we do things properly there. We don't care about people's uncles.'

‘That's a shame because this break-in has occurred at my uncle's house.'

‘What, Jurat Poingdestre's?'

‘No, Frederick Le Brun, 18a Union Street. Just around the bloody corner.'

‘That's enough of that.' He scratched his head. ‘Le Brun, you say. That rings a bell.'

A bloody big one, I said to myself. ‘Yes, his house has been broken into and smashed up.'

‘Where is he, this Frederick Le Brun?'

‘We don't know. We haven't seen him or his…' how could I describe Malita? ‘companion since yesterday. They've… disappeared.'

‘Did I hear someone say Frederick Le Brun?' Another policeman, this time a sergeant, poked his head around the partition.

‘Yes, my uncle.' Time for big mouth again. ‘You might know him as Red Fred.'

The sergeant grimaced. ‘I'll deal with this, Stokes. You two, wait there.'

He disappeared and we waited.

After a few minutes, another man, wearing a crumpled suit, entered from the office door, clutching a panama hat.

‘I'm Inspector Le Feuvre. Yes, we know your uncle. I suggest we walk there and have a look at this break-in. As you say, it's just around the corner.' His smile was predatory. Fred was going to kill me for this.

He seemed to know the way so we followed him. When we reached the front door, I realised how foolish I'd been. If the police were intercepting his mail and monitoring his phone, wouldn't they just love an opportunity to be invited into his house when he wasn't there to watch them?

Rachel must have read my mind as she stepped in front of the inspector. ‘Perhaps we should wait until he gets back.'

‘What, and leave the place unlocked? Do you have a key?'

‘No.'

‘In that case, I think we should look inside and I'll get a photographer to record the damage.'

‘No, wait. I can get the place locked up. My father's a builder. He'll put a new lock on the door,' Rachel volunteered.

‘Just one moment, young lady. You've reported a crime and now you seem to be trying to stop the police investigating it. That's a crime in itself.'

I stepped in. ‘Perhaps not, Inspector. The issue is security. If we can lock the place up, you can keep an eye on it until my uncle returns. It is private property, after all.' I looked at Rachel for help before I started digging myself in any deeper.

She mouthed, ‘Jurat'. Of course, he was local and would understand.

I lowered my voice. ‘I tell you what. I'll pop down to my Uncle Ralph's office, Jurat Poingdestre, and see if he agrees.' Fat chance of that. Ralph despised Fred even more than my father did but would the inspector know that?

He was debating my suggestion when I had another inspiration. ‘Two men in a black Jaguar have been observing the house. They might know what happened. Why don't you ask them?'

‘Ask whom? Where are these men? Can you describe them? Do you have the registration number of their car?'

Good questions, to which I had no good answers.

‘Yes, the car number was J 478.' Rachel replied. ‘Perhaps you know them?'

He glared at us. ‘I'll check. We have your names.' He turned away. ‘You'll be hearing from us. I will note that you are taking responsibility for this house. I suggest you contact the insurers and let them know what has happened. You, Renouf, seem very much like Mr Le Brun. I'm not sure if that's a good thing for you.' He marched off.

‘Cripes. I don't believe what we've just done or why. What's going on, Jack? Why don't you want them in there?'

‘You know that Fred is a Communist?'

‘Of course, everyone does. It's hardly a secret though I'm not sure what it means.'

‘I can't really help you there but he believes the authorities are out to get him.'

She looked puzzled. ‘But he's harmless, isn't he?'

‘Obviously not. Look at this mess. The police seemed very interested. My father thinks he's dangerous, Uncle Ralph hates the sight of him. He's also got some connections to other Communists in England and France, I think – has Malita ever said anything to you about his politics?'

‘No, the sort of things we talk about would bore you men senseless in minutes. The price of lining, how to get five skirts out of a bolt of cloth instead of four –'

‘I see what you mean. You probably don't have any time left for gossip, do you?'

She laughed.

I looked at my watch. ‘Can you get your father to put a new lock on the door?'

‘Of course not. He wouldn't do that without the owner's instructions and guarantee of payment. It bought us some time though. Why didn't you tell me before?'

I shrugged. ‘Sorry, I didn't think you needed to know.'

‘You've got to start trusting me, Jack.' She sighed. ‘Well, what are we going to do? We can't stand guard here forever.'

‘Leave it to me. I'll get a hasp and padlock and fit them to the back door. I'll fit a sliding bolt to the front door from the inside. I noticed there are some in Fred's workshop. I'm sure I can find enough undamaged tools.' It was a simple enough job. If I could strip a tractor, I could secure a door. I should have thought of that before we went to the police station.

I took her hands in mine. Despite the heat, they were cool. ‘I'm sorry… for everything. I'll deal with this now. You go back to work.' She smiled at me; she looked so vulnerable, my heart lurched.

‘Shall we meet later? Here, this evening, say seven-thirty?' She hadn't let go my hands. Hers felt soft and vital.

‘That's fine. I've got to go home and tell my father about this before the police get to him. There are some other things I have to tell you as well, about the bike and,' I paused, then squeezed her fingers, ‘other, more important things, about us –'

She removed her hands and placed one finger on my lips. ‘Shush. That can wait. We mustn't be late tonight. I need some sleep. Remember, we've both got a big day tomorrow. You've got to get that qualifying time.'

‘And you're trying to relieve Caroline of the springboard-diving cup.'

In all the chasing about, I'd almost forgotten. How could I? I would be up against Fletcher and Rachel had a fight on her hands to win the trophy, which had been donated by Caroline's father.

Miko had been training us for those competitions, had made them our main focus. Like most of the club, I would be rooting for Rachel, though I had a very different reason now.

16

Father claimed there was always work to do on a farm, though it seemed Mum was the one who did most of it. She wanted to know why I was home so early and I gave her an excuse about having to come back to collect some kit. In truth, I was meant to be weeding some old widow's garden as part of the college's community service programme. Mrs Buezval was a dear and I was sure she wouldn't report me. She'd be disappointed but I'd try to get there before the end of the week to save her from the rampaging chickweed and dandelion.

Mum swallowed my story then insisted I swallow some lunch. I hadn't felt hungry for a couple of days but I didn't want an argument and didn't want to explain that I was so confused that hunger had switched itself off.

‘Where's Father?'

‘You haven't eaten much. Are you feeling alright, love?' She pointed at my plate.