Dead if You Don’t

107

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

Norman Potting clipped a kerb, taking the racing line as he slid the car at speed through a left turn, onto a road that ran parallel to the pebble beach and the sea beyond. Roy Grace clung to the grab handle, glancing repeatedly at his watch. Less than ten minutes to rescue Mungo, if his calculations were correct.

They drove into a fenced parking area, with just a couple of vehicles in it, and both detectives jumped out almost before the car had stopped moving. A distinguished-looking blonde woman in her early fifties hurried towards them through the blustery wind. She was followed by a man in his forties, with a crew cut, wearing a grey top, jeans and trainers.

Grace flashed his warrant card. ‘Mrs Sampson?’

‘Yes — and this is Gary Baines — he’s in charge of the restoration of the fort.’

Grace shook his hand and shot a fleeting glance around him, getting his bearings. They were on the west side of the harbour, in a huge, flat area of wild, unkempt grass, in a complex of old brick structures. Straight ahead to the east, visible beyond the low roof of a green corrugated-iron Nissen hut, was the superstructure of a white building bearing the large words, in black, NATIONAL COAST-WATCH, SHOREHAM. Past that, across the rippling water of the harbour mouth, were two arms; on the end of one he could see several anglers. Across the River Adur were the houses of Shoreham Village. To his right was a steep grass embankment topped by crumbling, buttressed flint and brick walls, with a pebble beach to the south and the sea beyond. Sunk into the embankment, every twenty feet or so, were brick steps down to solid-looking steel doors.

‘That one there, officers!’ Sharon Sampson said, excitedly, pointing at one pair of doors secured by a shiny brass padlock.

‘What’s down there?’ Grace asked.

‘The old gun emplacements,’ Gary Baines said. ‘These contained the cannon facing out to sea and across the harbour entrance, to repel any invasion by the French — which never happened, luckily. Some of the cannon were taken and smelted down, unfortunately, but we still have some here.’

‘Are these emplacements above or below sea-level?’ Potting asked.

‘Well, these were constructed in the early 1850s, before anyone knew about global warming, sir. They’re all submerged now at high tide — we’re trying to salvage the remaining cannon and restore them.’

Sharon Sampson hurried over, down the brick steps, and pointed at the large padlock. ‘This, see? You didn’t put it on, did you, Gary?’

Baines shook his head. ‘No, that’s not mine.’