Deadlock

37

At Blakeney, the tiny Norfolk port, Pete Nield was proper browned off, as he put it to himself. He'd spent endless days in the pub overlooking the front and the house belonging to Paula Grey where the bomb had been placed on her doorstep.

By now he was a regular, a habitue of the pub, and a close friend of the barman. Wearing a hunting jacket and corduroy trousers, he sat with yet another beer at a table where he could watch the sea front. The barman, cleaning a glass with a cloth, wandered over.

'See Caleb Fox's coaster is taking on board a different load.'

'So I notice. And Dr Portch is hanging round again. Those two seem real buddies.'

Nield was remembering the night he'd followed Dr Portch's car along the coast road in the dark. How Portch had gone inside a cottage which, it turned out, was Caleb Fox's.

'Anything about the sea interests Portch. He's a pal of the harbourmaster here. Knows the Customs people. That cargo they're loading now. It's Portch's bits and pieces -all his furniture from Cockley Ford. Going back to Holland is the good doctor.'

'He's been there before?' Nield asked casually.

He moved restlessly inside the clothes he didn't like because they felt strange. But hanging about Blakeney all this time he'd have been absurdly conspicuous in his normal smart suits. He'd bought the gear in King's Lynn, which was still his base. And he was still staying at The Duke's Head facing Tuesday Market. Again to avoid standing out like a sore thumb in Blakeney.

Before Butler returned on his own to London they'd discussed what Nield should do. 'Stay here,' Butler had decided. 'Keep an eye on the Blakeney sector.'

'What for?' Nield had queried.

That bomb found on Paula Grey's doorstep. It was the first appearance of that new Soviet type of bomb in this country.'

'And what has that to do with the price of tea in China?'

'No idea,' Butler had admitted. 'But stick around.'

Nield had stuck around, driving to Blakeney each day, drinking gallons of good Norfolk beer. Now, for the first time, the barman's chance remark seemed to give some point to his long vigil.

'Oh, yes,' the barman replied to his question. 'When he first came to Cockley Ford the practice wasn't vacant for a few months. Some cock-up. I suppose Portch needed the money. He took on a locum job in Holland – and took his furniture with him. Said it would make him feel more at home. Then he brings it back again when he takes up the practice. Now, I hear, he's found himself a permanent post in Amsterdam. He liked the Dutch. So off goes his furniture again, like I just said.'

Think I could do with a breath of sea air.'

Nield stood up, said he'd be back, and wandered out on to the front which was deserted except for the loading activity by Fox's coaster. Dusk was falling, lights in houses had a weird glow, below in the creek there was the sound of water surging in from the sea. Like a tide race.

Nield turned up the collar of his duffel coat against a chill breeze coming across the desolate marshes, thrust hands into his pockets and strolled along the front.

He was within twenty yards of the coaster when the crane hoisted a loading net containing an oblong crate off the quayside. Inside the net something came loose, a hinged side of the crate slid open. Shouting from the group on the quay. The operator in his little cabin atop the crane stopped the hoist, lowered it back to the quay.

Nield was about twenty yards away when the incident occurred. He lengthened his pace without appearing to walk any faster. Under the spotlight shining down from the crane he saw an old-fashioned wardrobe inside the crate. Both doors had also swung loose, exposing its empty interior. Fit for firewood, Nield thought. The junk people lumbered their lives with.

Three of the removal men from the furniture van standing in the shadows started roping up the wardrobe. Dr Portch came forward, shaking his head as he watched them.

'Sorry about that, lads. I should have locked it more securely. My fault entirely.'

In his high-pitched voice Nield, who had an acute ear for intonation, caught a hint of smugness. Behind the group gathered round the net a Customs official was busy chalking other crates.

'Should know your stuff by now, Dr Portch. Back and forth, back and forth to Holland. A right commuter, you be. You'll be with us again, I'll be bound.'

'Wouldn't surprise me one little bit,' Portch assured him.

Nield stood stock still. His mind raced. Butler's remark. That bomb found on Paula Grey's doorstep… the first appearance of that new Soviet type of bomb… Then Newman's account of what he'd seen the evening he visited Cockley Ford – and the church – with Harry Butler.

Then there was the Custom official's comment. Should know your stuff by now… He was automatically passing all the crates, marking them with his piece of chalk -without examination. He hadn't even bothered to come and have a look at the opened crate inside the net.

Nield received further confirmation of the appalling idea which had flashed through his mind when one of the removal men spoke as he tackled the crate.

'Can't understand how these screws came loose. You crated most of the others yourself, Dr Portch. This one I screwed up.'

'Must have worked their way loose during the journey along that bumpy side road from Cockley Ford,' Portch said smoothly. His voice quickened as he addressed the man tightening the screws. 'Foreman, I'd like to give you your tip now. I'll forget it if I leave it until the last minute…'

He had his wallet in his hand, taking out banknotes which he handed to the foreman. 'You've done a very good job again.'

'Thank you very much, Doctor. Very generous. Mind you, we're not finished. Only half the van has been unloaded.'

'And you'll take the same care you always do.'

Nield felt himself go cold. Portch had successfully turned the removal crew's attention away from the loose screws. The crate had been intended to fly open – a precaution to show the innocence of the cargo. He suddenly realized Portch had noticed his presence, was staring at him.

'A bit late for an evening walk, sir.'

'A necessary bit of exercise,' Nield replied instantly. 'I have been consuming rather a lot of beer…'He belched.

Portch chuckled, a sound like pebbles sliding down an iron chute. 'Getting the wind out of his sails.'

There was a polite chortle from the assembled removal men who stood back as the foreman waved a hand and the hoist began to lift the net prior to swinging it over the hold.

Nield was taut with tension. He had to get to a phone, to call Park Crescent. He turned quickly, caught his foot between two projecting cobbles, lost his balance and heeled over sideways. His skull struck the stone wall of a cottage. The world spun, oblivion fell like a curtain, he collapsed.

The barman, who had been watching from a window, came running along the front as Dr Portch bent over Nield, felt his pulse. As he straightened up Nield stirred, one hand groping against the wall. The barman, panting, stood silent for a few seconds, regaining his breath.

'He's drunk,' Portch announced. 'He practically admitted it.'

'No he's not.' The barman, a burly man with ruddy cheeks, had clenched his fists. 'No one gets drunk in my bar. I saw it. He tripped, hit 'is 'ead against that wall.'

'Well, his pulse is normal…'

'He needs to go to 'orspital,' the barman hammered on. 'I'll drive him there.'

'Might be best,' Portch agreed with no particular interest. 'I have to catch the tide.'

The barman stooped as Nield struggled to get to his feet and looped an arm round him, hauling him upright. He glared up at Portch who watched with blank eyes from behind the gold pince-nez. Some doctor, the barman was thinking. And now I see him close up I don't like those eyes. Lizard eyes.

'Can… walk,' Nield mumbled.

'With a bit of 'elp. I'll take your weight.'

The barman took Nield back to the pub by easy stages, supporting him under the shoulders. Inside he let Nield sag into a chair near the door. He shouted to his assistant. 'Mick, you take over. I'll be gone a while.' He turned back to Nield.

'Your car's parked down road? Usual place? Give me the keys then.'

Nield fumbled under his coat for his jacket pocket. The barman reached into the pocket, his hand came out with the keys. When he backed the car round the corner in front of the pub and went inside Nield was still conscious, sipping mineral water provided by Mick. The glass suddenly tumbled from his hand, rolled across the floor.

'Never mind that, sir. Ups-a-daisy. Car's outside.'

'Get me… to King's Lynn… Duke's Head,' Nield mumbled, his face ashen.

'You're going to 'orspital. Come on now.'

With the barman's aid Nield stood up, stumbled towards the door. He nearly tripped at the exit but the barman's firm grip saved him. Nield's last clear vision of Blakeney was of the coaster, the crane swivelling another loading net to the hold. He fell into the back of the car, rested his swimming head on the head-rest, then blacked out.