Stealth Read online

  ‘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.

  ‘Oh, you’re far too posh for me.’

  ‘You have a posh boat, though.’

  He glanced quickly down at the marina. ‘You’ve seen me aboard? That’s where all the money goes, darlin’.’

  ‘Not on tarts?’

  ‘Oh, yes, on tarts. But not on high-maintenance birds like you.’ He eyed my solitaire diamond ring. It was actually my engagement ring which I was wearing on my other hand having left off my wedding ring in connection with the pretence of travelling alone. Seemingly unattached women tend to learn more when they talk to men, criminal suspects or not.

  ‘So what do you do?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  ‘Here for the festival?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Wanna see the boat?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He spread his hands. ‘I’m not after you, promise.’

  ‘So why are you talking to me?’

  ‘I like meeting people.’

  Had Clement Hamlyn asked, or ordered, him to talk to me? Told him to get me on the boat and find out, one way or another, if Patrick had deliberately been tailing him? I was factoring in several things: the fact that I was bigger than he was and, when forced to, can run like crazy. OK, we would talk.

  ‘It’s been a bloody awful winter,’ said Danny after a sip of his coffee, scalding himself.

  ‘You’ve been here all the time then.’

  He nodded and lit a cigarette. I supposed he was around fifty years of age but dressed younger in ‘yachty’ style: blue slacks, a heavy cotton blue-and-white-striped top worn under a navy gilet, the outfit completed by scruffy canvas deck shoes that had probably once been white. His fair hair, evidence of highlights at the ends, was still quite thick but greying at the roots. I was sure he thought he looked the part: I thought he looked, and sounded, exactly what he was: an east end London gangster.

  ‘That bloke . . .’ Danny began before taking another sip of coffee, more carefully this time.

  ‘Which bloke?’

  ‘The writer. Big, scarred face.’

  ‘Clement Hamlyn?’

  ‘That’s right. Is he with you?’

  ‘Hardly!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘No offence, darlin’,’ he said hastily. ‘I thought you two might be friendly, that’s all. You know, professionals together and all that.’

  ‘Between you and me,’ I said quietly, in conspiratorial fashion, ‘he’s bad news.’

  The faded and slightly bloodshot blue eyes stared at me. ‘Seriously? No, come to think of it . . . Go on.’

  ‘He raved and swore at me, saying that my friend had followed him down here to the harbour just because he went for a walk at about the same time. He was really offensive.’

  ‘Wait until you hear this then. He had the nerve to come down here, stepped on board without so much as a by-your-leave and told me I owed him money.’

  ‘And did you?’ I risked asking.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But why would he think such a thing? Marching down to someone’s boat in a foreign place and demanding money sounds like the action of a man who’s brain isn’t quite right.’

  ‘You’ve got it, darlin’, bonkers. He’d been drinking too. And then he got on his mobile, hollerin’ in French. God knows what he was saying – I’ve never learned it. Real bag of nerves he was, looking round as though someone was after him. Perhaps that’s what it was, your bloke just strolling about. Perhaps he thought he was a cop. Is he?’

  ‘No,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’ll tell him, but I don’t know whether he’ll be pleased or not. He works in a bank.’

  Danny gave me an empty smile in return and drank some more coffee.

  ‘Being bonkers apart, did you get the impression that Hamlyn might be some kind of criminal then?’ I enquired casually.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You said he could have thought my friend was a cop.’

  ‘You said he was bad news.’

  ‘Yes, but I meant ill-mannered, foul-mouthed and generally rather revolting.’

  Silence.

  Then, slowly, Danny said, ‘Yeah, now you mention it I reckon he could be dodgy.’

  ‘Did he threaten you?’

  ‘Yeah – in a way.’

  ‘You ought to go to the police.’

  The man did a sort of shimmy in his seat. ‘No! No need for that! Besides, the French cops are useless. And the bastard’s going home tomorrow. At – at – least, I should think he must be,’ he amended, all in a rush. ‘You know, when the festival ends.’

  ‘Being an author I’m absolutely fascinated by this. It sounds just like the plot for a novel!’ I gushed.

  ‘Still don’t want to see the boat? You’ll get the feel of it then if you decide to use something like it in a book.’

  ‘All right, I will. Thanks.’

  He gulped down the rest of his coffee and jauntily led the way, saying with a grin over his shoulder, ‘I’ll expect a share of the dosh you get for it, mind.’

  ‘Do you know who it was who fell in the water the day before yesterday?’ I asked, making my tone light.

  He turned. ‘No. Did someone?’

  ‘Some bloke or other. But apparently he could swim.’

  ‘He was probably sozzled as well. Some of these boaties live on booze.’

  On closer inspection Ma Concubine, which appeared to be around forty feet in length, had seen better days. The upper deck and a higher one, referred to, I believe, as the flydeck, were coated in salt spray, this not concealing the fact that some of the metalwork frames of the windows were pitted and corroding. The decking was very dirty and slippery in places with bits of seaweed, plastic and other wind- or sea-borne detritus in corners. At the top of a companionway a plastic bucket held empty wine and whisky bottles and what looked like rubbish from the galley. I got a whiff of bad fish as I went by.

  ‘Not too good on the old housekeeping these days,’ Danny said cheerily, heading down into a spacious saloon.

  Swift impressions were of curving, upholstered bench seating with a central table. Open to this living area was a galley set high on the port side reached by a short staircase and, forward, two large cabins, or staterooms, as I think they are called. On the starboard side a ladder led up, presumably one of the ways to access the wheelhouse. There were clothes and other possessions dumped everywhere.

  ‘Packing up?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, just having a big turn out.’

  I followed him around the boat, not getting too close. The staterooms had their own showers and toilets and could be closed off at night from the main saloon for privacy. They were fitted out practically rather than with extravagance, which rather gave the impression that, having had the thing built, Danny or the original owners had had to economize when it came to the rest. This state of affairs was echoed around the remainder of the vessel, including the wheelhouse, which had been finished in extremely nasty wood-effect brown Formica. I guessed that Danny would not care a toss about the decor.

  ‘Take a pew,’ he said when we returned to the saloon, throwing some stuff on the floor to make space for me.

  I sat, trying to do the maths. Even if he had bought this vessel second hand and in the condition it was now in it must have cost in the region of a million pounds. The proceeds of serious crime?

  And, thinking about money . . .

  ‘You don’t want that to go up the vacuum cleaner,’ I said, handing him the fifty-euro not
e that had been revealed near where I was sitting.

  ‘Oh – great! Thanks,’ Coates chortled, stuffing it in his pocket.

  ‘This all yours then?’

  ‘Hell, no. I’m in it with some chums. But I’ve got the largest share and live on board for most of the time. They take it in turns to come out for hols with their girlfriends.’

  I found that I could easily picture these people.

  ‘Drink?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘I was thinking of something stronger than coffee,’ he added, going over to a wall cabinet.

  ‘No, honestly.’

  He opened it, grabbed a half-empty whisky bottle and sloshed some into a tumbler. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. I over-indulged last night.’

  He guffawed, took a swig of his drink and flopped into a seat.

  I said, ‘So what did Hamlyn actually say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he said for your book, does it?’ Danny retorted.

  ‘No, of course not. I’m only making conversation.’

  ‘He thought I was some bod from his past, that’s all.’

  ‘On the other hand you might want to drop him right in it.’

  He gave me a hard stare.

  ‘It’s a crime writer’s imagination at work here,’ I went on with a light laugh. ‘An author, someone like Hamlyn, up to his neck in dodgy dealings or even criminal activity, visits an old buddy who, many years previously, had some kind of perfectly legal business dealings with him. Hamlyn, or whoever, is really short of cash right now and it goes through his mind that the old buddy, who now swans around in an expensive boat, might be a soft touch, or even give way under threats, to a request for funds. That’s not a bad plot, is it?’

  He carried on staring at me and I suddenly wished that Patrick was not too far away. Then Danny said, ‘No, it’s quite good. Are you going to do it?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘No names, mind.’

  ‘You can’t, or people can sue you for libel. But a bit of background would help.’

  He knew exactly what I was asking of him. ‘You hate this bloke, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t like being sworn at.’

  ‘What will you really do with the info if I tell it to you straight?’

  ‘I’ll write the book – a work of fiction but make sure people know exactly who I’m talking about.’ I was beginning to sweat now. Would he swallow this?

  ‘No names then. Especially mine.’

  ‘No. I promise, all different names. Fiction. Straight out of my head, based on what you tell me.’

  He got up to refill his glass, his hands a little shaky and then started to pace around. I kept him right in my field of view.

  ‘He’s a real bastard,’ Danny burst out with. ‘He’s only been writing books for a few years, based on his time inside and when he knocked around rough in London, Leytonstone. I used to run a garage in East Ham and he worked for me for a while valeting the motors and stuff like that. At nights he used to act as a heavy for some gang boss or other and also used to do a bit for himself on the side.’

  ‘Did he tell you this himself?’ I asked, making my tone incredulous, when he paused for a gulp of his drink, and knowing it was not a good idea to enquire who that gang boss was.

  ‘Bragged about it. How many rival mobsters he’d put in hospital. I got rid of him in the end. It wasn’t good for business as he used to give the evil eye to the punters. And that was before he was in a car crash. Now he’s posing around as a famous writer – well, I suppose he is in a way – but hasn’t the money for the high life he’s after and is hooked on booze and gambling so what dosh he has goes nowhere. And yeah, he thought I might like to help him out.’

  ‘He could be posing around with high-life gangsters and that’s why he can’t make ends meet from writing,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘He is. He said he was big chums with some bod who knows how to make a penny or two the easy way and has a posh house in Richmond, bragging again – just the same as ever – about how he could ask him to send out a hit man to get me if I didn’t give him the dosh – some dosh, rather.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘What the bloody hell would you have done with this ugly great bastard towering over you? Yes, I did – to get rid of him. But not as much as he wanted.’

  I suddenly remembered what Alan had told me, how Hamlyn used the threat of rape, either sex, not fussy. I did not have the courage to ask, saying instead, ‘You said he’d been drinking.’

  ‘The man was always half canned.’

  ‘Will you be safe now?’

  ‘I might just head for St Tropez. You just have to stay one step ahead, don’t you?’

  For one nanosecond I actually felt sorry for him. ‘Richmond, though!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s a very upmarket area of London.’

  ‘Apparently this bloke’s living a whiter than white lifestyle giving to charity and all that crap. But really he’s involved in a mega-business with drug-running plus money laundering through other schemes.’

  ‘Did you get this man’s name?’

  ‘Nah. Better not to know.’

  Concerned that he might be seriously regretting telling me all this and try to stop me leaving in permanent fashion I got to my feet, saying, ‘As far as the book goes I don’t know you. I’ve never been here.’ Then, on deck, I gestured towards the newly-arrived motor yacht. ‘You have new neighbours.’

  ‘Thank God,’ the man said fervently. ‘The stealth boat was all part of the threat. Just called in to breathe down my neck. Hamlyn said it’s part of that Richmond geezer’s empire.’

  ‘Did you believe that?’

  ‘At the time I did. But he was always a liar.’

  My fears might have been realized then as he immediately turned and hurried below. My cursed writer’s imagination presented me with a view of him getting a firearm of some kind from one of the wall cabinets with which to erase his indiscretions. I have never felt more defenceless than I did walking away from that boat.

  As I hurried by the doorway of a nearby shop that had closed for lunch, a voice said, ‘Learn anything?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m freaking out right now that he might be about to shoot me in the back,’ I replied, appalled to hear the sob of pure fright in my voice.

  ‘Just carry on and I’ll walk a short distance behind you, spoiling his aim,’ Patrick said calmly.

  FOUR

  After being in receipt of a short but to the point husbandly lecture on the inadvisability of what I had done, I gave Patrick an account of what had been said on Ma Concubine, practically verbatim. As he himself had said, I have a good memory and intended to write it down for reference purposes.

  ‘I’m staggered that he told you so much,’ was Patrick’s first comment.

  ‘I don’t think it was his first drink of the day – and of course he loathes Hamlyn even more now.’

  ‘Mike’ll give you a gong. But you took a hell of a risk.’

  ‘Just stay right by my side for the rest of the time we’re here, please.’

  ‘I will. Some of the things he said: running a garage, Hamlyn working for him valeting cars and looking him up in a casual way because he needed money have to be discounted. I rather admire the guy for thinking on his feet like that. But why did he start talking to you in the first place?’

  ‘Loneliness? Full of grievance after having had to part with so much money, possibly a large chunk of available funds and unconsciously wanting to tell someone about it? Needing female company? There didn’t seem to be any evidence of another person on board. He admitted spending money on tarts.’

  ‘I have to confess that I don’t know whether to get the police on to him or not.’

  ‘Phone Greenway.’

  This he did. The commander responded by saying that he would relay the information to those SOCA personnel involved with Operation Captura and would mention to them that if Coates left Cannes he
could well head for St Tropez. We were to forget about him, although, in view of what he had told me, exercise all due caution as he had a record for committing firearms offences. Greenway then went on to say that he would like us to attend the banquet that night in order to observe Clement Hamlyn, assuming that he would attend, and then return to the UK, as planned, early the following morning.

  Still not happy about being in a position to openly watch this man I urged caution, whereupon Patrick said he would think of something.

  We duly presented ourselves – slightly pretentiously it was black tie – at the appointed hour, seven thirty, my companion succeeding, I thought, in not looking like a minder. There appeared to be far more people in the large, quaintly old-fashioned but sumptuous dining room than had attended the conference during the past couple of days, but I then remembered that we had been promised the presence of various glitterati literati for this final evening. I recognized no one and it made me feel out of touch and hopelessly provincial.

  ‘Why should you know who they are? They probably all run bookshops or write very bad poetry for the local rag,’ Patrick declared robustly when I had voiced my gloom. All the ex-choirboys I have ever known possessed a carrying sort of voice and this one is no exception.

  ‘There’s Hamlyn,’ I said, spotting the man on the far side of the room.

  Patrick took a couple of glasses of orange juice from a waitress’s tray and handed one to me. ‘So it is. Heading straight for the bar too, so there’s a surprise. Keep close.’

  We set off through the throng that was packed into the space surrounding the long table laden with flowers, glassware and silver cutlery – plated, I had a surreptitious look – in the centre of the room, this particular author wondering how closely he intended to ‘observe’ his quarry. Fairly snuggly, by the look of it. There was also the possibility that the foray was nothing at all to do with work but merely the action of a man furious with someone who had hurled obscenities at his wife. I felt a regrettable frisson of girlish excitement.

  The bar was extensive, a curving affair taking up one whole corner of the room with a small section at one end reserved for serving coffee. It was furnished with several small tables and dinky little chairs, at one of which Hamlyn was sitting, uncomfortably, a large whisky in front of him, accompanied by the woman who had introduced herself to me as Alice but Patrick was convinced was Claudia Barton-Jones. He leaned on the nearby bar, drank half his juice, dumped it down on the counter and subjected the writer to a steady stare. There is a good repertoire of these, ranging from amused curiosity at one end of the scale through open derision to penetrating malevolence at the other. I was standing next to him, but on the leeward side, so could only guess which particular one had been selected. At a guess it was the second most likely to hit the mark.