Stealth (4 page)

‘Whatever Hamlyn's come here for – and it doesn't seem to be the literary festival – it can't involve anything that requires a clear head and much intelligence,' I murmured. ‘Perhaps he did just come here to get money from Daniel Coates. But just because he's a drunken oaf with a criminal record who can't tell the difference between a tree and a lavatory it doesn't mean he's doing anything other than that here – anything illegal, I mean.'

‘No, but being in receipt of the proceeds of crime is illegal and Miss Smythe did spot him in that room where several men were handling guns. He got mighty upset about me following him, too. Talking of which . . .' He turned. ‘Ah, it's the little shit who acted as his eyes and jumped in the water.' And louder, ‘Are you bored with being dry, Monsieur? Shall we have an action replay?'

The thickset man, some ten yards behind us on the pontoon, every tensed muscle and the expression on his face indicating that he had been about to launch himself at us, hesitated for a moment then turned and hurried away, only pausing a couple of times in order to look over his shoulder.

‘That was interesting,' Patrick said.

‘D'you reckon that man on the boat is Coates?' I whispered as he watched him go.

‘He could be. Coates is quite a small man, only about five foot four and that bloke isn't very tall.'

‘Would you arrest him if he was on board?'

‘Strictly speaking, I'm not involved in Operation Captura and for all I know he's being closely watched and given the softly-softly treatment, hoping he can lead the law to bigger fish. So, no. But I'd tell Mike where he is if I positively identified him.'

‘I think we're likely to achieve more by searching Hamlyn's room than hanging around here. And if it is Coates and he feels he's being watched we might mess up someone else's investigation if he does a runner.'

‘Thus speaketh the oracle?'

‘If you like.'

‘You're right – stick to the immediate brief.'

He took my arm and we walked back. We saw no more of the man who had followed us but I had filed his description in my memory: swarthy, dark-eyed, short dark brown hair, Spanish-looking.

C
lement Hamlyn's room was on the third floor. Patrick had decided not to attempt to search it on the two previous evenings when the author had been in the hotel bar as he wanted to see who he might meet there. But no one had arrived and Hamlyn had sat alone, his dour and forbidding demeanor not inviting conversation. We decided, therefore, that after I had shown my face at various events for the rest of the day we would eat in the restaurant as usual and then I would go in the bar and, in the company of other people I had met for safety, keep an eye on the man, instantly phoning Patrick the moment he left.

Hamlyn, as he had done previously, stayed in the bar all evening and by the time Patrick came into my line of vision in an adjoining room, a small lounge off the restaurant, presumably having completed his investigation, my little group was having a ball, me included. I could not remember having laughed so much for a very long time but had not actually realized how late it was or how much wine I had drunk and only became aware of possible excess when I tried to stand and had to grab hold of the table. Problem was, Patrick would not want Hamlyn to see him in case it caused more trouble, thus drawing attention to himself. Finally, and concentrating deeply, I succeeded in bidding my friends goodnight and made my way, steadily or not, I did not know, from the room. Fortunately Patrick saw the state of affairs and hurried over to catch me as I staggered before I fell flat on my face.

‘You're really gorgeous,' I can remember saying, clutching on to him.

‘And you're really sozzled,' he remarked with some surprise.

‘Only because he stayed right where he was,' I slurred.

He told me the next morning that he had ended up having to carry me up several flights of stairs to our room as all three lifts were not working due to a sudden power failure.

Solemnly, two Paracetamol tablets were handed over together with a mug of tea.

‘Sorry,' I mumbled, setting my head pounding even more.

‘I'm not complaining – well, only about lugging you up the stairs, getting a giggling idiot out of her clothes and the snoring.'

‘I can't remember the last time I drank too much. I didn't honestly think I was.'

‘I can't either. If you don't feel queasy I suggest some breakfast.'

Having something to eat and the painkillers did indeed repair most of the damage and I detected that my husband appeared to be quietly amused by my lapse. I was driven to question him about this.

Patrick chuckled.

‘The bloody oracle fell off her golden perch, I suppose,' I said belligerently.

He turned a wide gaze on to me, eyes almost fizzing with laughter. ‘That's a neat way of putting it.'

This had implications that I simply could not be bothered to think about right then. I said, ‘And Clement Hamlyn's room?'

‘The only thing of interest was a large amount of money in the safe, at a guess a couple of thousand euros and around five hundred pounds in sterling.'

‘They even let you have the key to
that
?'

‘The manager loathes him now. Shit, full stop.'

‘It looks as though Greenway's hunch was right.'

‘Mike's usually right about things like that.'

‘There's no proof that he received the money from Coates, though.'

‘No, none whatsoever.'

‘Is there any point in staying longer?'

‘You have the bookish banquet tonight. Don't you want to go to that?'

I thought about it and must still have looked a bit glassy-eyed because Patrick waved a hand in front of my face. ‘Hello?'

‘Sorry. I was thinking back to last night. We were taking pictures of one another with our phones. I think I took one of Hamlyn and a woman he started talking to quite late on.'

‘You haven't mentioned him talking to anyone.'

‘I've only just remembered, haven't I?' I said, finding my mobile and handing it over. ‘You get them up. It might be the councillor girlfriend who's in trouble over her expenses claims.'

‘Had you noticed her here before last night?'

‘No.'

He pressed buttons and perused the pictures. ‘All girls together then. Bloody hell, some of them actually appear to be more sloshed than you were. Did you just talk books?'

‘That and about blokes, men in general and sex.'

An eyebrow quirked. ‘Sex?'

‘Quite a lot about that.'

‘I see,' he murmured. Then, ‘She might be just a tart hoping to be picked up as I know what Hamlyn's councillor girlfriend looks like. She's the woman sitting opposite you
.'

I took the proferred phone. ‘Surely not. No, that's Alice. She said she wrote travel books.'

‘Her name's Claudia Barton-Jones. Did you discuss what your partners did for a living?'

‘Some did. I didn't. I didn't even mention that there was a man seriously in my life. Oh, that's right, I did. I said he worked in a bank and was fantastic in bed. Not you, though.'

‘Thanks.'

‘You know what I mean!'

‘Are you sure you didn't say we were married and what my job is?'

‘Of course. Look, I'd hardly—'

‘But you were canned,' he interrupted, police interrogator-style.

‘I can distinctly remember what I said,' I countered. ‘Ye gods, I've had enough time working with you for SOCA, plus MI5 before that, to know not to talk about anything like that. And, don't forget, as far as I'm concerned you're just here as an old friend and people can make of it what they will.'

Patrick made a ‘peace be with you' gesture that I've seen his father utilize at the end of services. ‘OK. Did this woman buy a lot of the alcohol?'

‘Now you mention it, she did. She insisted on treating us all to drinks as she was celebrating getting a contract for several books.'

‘Could she have spiked them, do you think? Bought shots of vodka and put it in the wine? I'm only asking because I've never seen you drunk like that before.'

‘I suppose it's possible.'

‘Did you like this woman?'

‘Not really. She's rather a loudmouth.'

He went off into a reverie, concerned, I knew, that we had achieved little, having merely established that a best-selling, filthy-tempered and heavy-drinking author had gone to a literary festival, visited someone on a boat that could belong to one of several million people, had quite a lot of money in his room and that his current female friend had joined him.

‘I think we should stick it out,' Patrick said. ‘And stay until tomorrow morning as planned. If it makes the pair of them jittery and puts them off making contact with anyone else dodgy it's regrettable but can't be helped.' He shrugged.

‘It would have been better if you hadn't been seen following him and we could have remained unnoticed,' I pointed out cruelly.

‘He doesn't know for sure that I
was
following him. I wasn't the only one down by La Pantiero marina. The fact that he ranted and raved at you just demonstrates that he's twitched. That the woman pretended to be a writer and lied about her name also demonstrates that they're nervous and want to know about us. All we can do in the circumstances is bear in mind what evidence we have: the fairly large sum of money in the safe in his room. Who knows, it may have useful repercussions back in the UK.'

I would have preferred to go straight home to see if we could become involved with finding Miss Smythe's killer. I was also worried that getting the pair of them ‘jittery' was counter-productive.

‘Are you due to do anything literary-wise this morning?' Patrick asked.

‘There's a talk I might listen to,' I said, without much interest.

‘I don't need to stand guard on the door, do I?'

‘I wouldn't have thought so.'

I went for a walk instead.

Drawn, I went in the direction of La Pantiero marina. But, aware of the need for caution, I headed round to the Quai St Pierre on the far side and one of the small cafés from where, sitting beneath the awning outside, I could see nearly everything that went on some two hundred yards away across to the moored boats. I had already noticed that the stealth boat had gone, another vessel just nosing into the space next to
Ma Concubine
. Someone – Daniel Coates? – poked his head up from below to see what was going on and then went from sight again. Little else moved but for listlessly patrolling seagulls; the sky was a clear blue this morning but it was still cold.

My cappuccino arrived and I wrapped my hands around it gratefully. I kept thinking about Rosemary Smythe, that plucky lady obliterated perhaps on the whim of serious criminals. Proving that Hereward Trent had been involved would be difficult and I knew it would be just as difficult for me to remain even-handed as I found myself loathing him and his cronies already.

I daydreamed, for some reason recollecting something that had happened not long after Patrick and I were first married. Late for a party in the officers' mess because the car had refused to start, we had arrived when the gathering had reached the stage of playing forfeits. Patrick walked straight into having to kiss the tallest girl in the room. It was not his forfeit but Miranda's, the younger sister of the host's wife.

The forfeit was the wife's idea and I cannot remember her name, only that she was not famed for her charity and kind heart. So there was Miranda, standing bravely in the centre of the room, everyone looking at her, obviously hoping that the carpet would open and swallow her up. She
was
tall, around five foot ten, at a guess sixteen years of age, and was going through the stage of having braces on her teeth and a few spots. Her sister had almost certainly lined her up for the adjutant, who had arrived just before us but had lingered to talk to someone in the hall. He was short and fat, the sort of man Miranda would have found repulsive – no, on reflection, very repulsive.

Patrick and I had greeted our hosts and Patrick was told of his onerous task before he was allowed to have a drink. He told me afterwards that although she was smiling shyly at him her eyes were like those of a wounded deer. And deeply wounded she would have been if he had so much as turned to grin at his colleagues in ‘let's get this over with' fashion.

Nothing like that happened. He went to the girl as though being offered the greatest gift on earth, tilted up her chin gently and kissed her. Although a perfectly proper kiss in the circumstances it went on for quite a long time and there were nuances, I felt, that made the enterprise one of beguiling illumination for Miranda. The kiss over, he took her away from her sister and brother-in-law and gave her a gin and tonic, which, come to think of it now, she might have needed. I followed the pair, smiling into the sister's annoyance. Only a few months later Miranda had shed her braces, lost her spots and developed quite a mature attitude to life.

The past. Another country.

‘So sad,' said a sudden voice, startling me.

Looking down at me was, I was sure, the man we had seen on the boat. He did not wait for a reply, waved what looked like his wallet and went into the café. Half a minute later he returned with a packet of cigarettes and an Americano – I had still not really gathered my thoughts – drew out a chair at my table and sat down.

‘May I?' he asked, feigning that it was an afterthought.

‘You already have,' I told him.

‘My name's Danny,' he went on. ‘And yours?'

‘Jezebel.'

‘Is that your real name or a job description?'

‘Neither.'

He frowned at me. He did not appear to be quite sober.

‘I don't allow men to pick me up either,' I said. So this had to be Daniel Coates, wanted criminal.