Colin Forbes - Deadlock

'I didn't. You just sounded lonely.'

Newman had the impression it was the brandy which was talking, that had he come along earlier Fox would not have said a word. Now he was wondering whether he had talked too much. About what? Fox's right hand reached towards his hip, then withdrew and rested on the wall. Something odd, Newman felt.

A man needs money, a lot of it… Newman could have sworn Fox had brightened up for a few seconds when he uttered the words. The skipper, reassured by Newman's reply, started talking about his favourite topic. Himself.

'You're right, lives on me own. Got a small place at Brancaster. That's along the coast – towards King's Lynn. You look well fixed, Mister, if you don't mind me saying so.'

There was a question behind the statement. Fox darted another sidelong glance at his visitor. Newman replied carefully.

'I'm a writer. I've been lucky. Brings me in a good income.' He changed the subject. 'What's that funny rattling noise?'

Fox pulled at his greasy peaked cap. 'It's the wind shaking the riggin' against the metal mast of that boat over there, the one beached on the sandbank. Rubbish they are, rich men's toys. All fibreglass and aluminium. Not real boats at all.'

'Well, I think I've changed my mind about pushing off across the marshes,' Newman remarked. 'Don't like the look of those clouds coming in.'

Told you, didn't I? Goin' to piss down…'

Newman retraced his steps back to the waterfront pub. Butler and Nield sat at a window table, two glasses of beer in front of them. Newman walked to the bar, ordered a small Scotch, downed it, glanced at the two men and made his way back to the Mercedes.

His two companions came strolling along five minutes later, climbed back into the car. Nield again occupied a rear seat and spoke as Newman turned on the ignition.

'Found out something interesting talking to the landlord. That skipper you were chatting with is a pal of – guess who? Dr Portch from Cockley Ford.'

'I know,' Newman said as he turned out of the car park and left Blakeney Quay behind. 'He told me the same thing yesterday when I came here on my own. Not a popular character, Dr Portch. Except with the skipper of that coaster, Caleb Fox…'

'Why did we come to Blakeney?' asked Harry Butler,

'Because of Tweed's experience up here. There were two places where things happened. Blakeney and Cockley Ford. And that barman told me yesterday the coaster was due in here today from Rotterdam with another cargo of that soya stuff. Also that the skipper knew Dr Portch. Obvious conclusion: have a look at Caleb Fox.'

'And our next move?'

'Visit the other place this evening, Cockley Ford. You and I, Harry, had better get kitted up before we pay the village a call. Denims and windcheaters. We're going in as two SAS types, the couple Tweed invented for protection when he went there.'

'You can play the part,' Butler pointed out. 'You had SAS training when you did that series of articles on them. But what about me?'

Newman glanced at his passenger's sturdy frame, tall build. 'You won't have any trouble looking the part. Box and Cox. I'll be the gabby one, do the talking. You play the silent partner.'

'And where do I come into this?' Nield called out.

'You come into it all right. You'll follow us in Tweed's Cortina parked back at Tuesday Market. Give me one of those compact walkie-talkies you brought, carry another yourself. You park half-way up the side road leading to Cockley Ford. If I call you come like a bat out of hell. Flash that fake warrant card in your wallet. You're police. Special Branch.'

'Sounds as though you're expecting trouble,' Nield commented hopefully.

'I just don't know what Harry and I may be walking into. When Tweed first mentioned Dr Portch the name rang a bell. I checked the newspapers two years ago in the British Museum reading room. Then, as you know, I went to Brighton where Portch came from. I was right. And that Caleb Fox made a mistake.'

'Which was?'

'The sort of mistake Tweed is good at spotting. The absence of something. During our whole conversation he never once mentioned that bomb placed on Paula Grey's doorstep. Funny, that. While I was in that bar the locals were talking about nothing else.'

'And Dr Portch? You said you were right about him,' Nield recalled.

'He could be a two-time murderer – who got away with it in both cases.'

Newman drove back along the coast road – the A149 -towards King's Lynn. Nield, studying the map of Norfolk, pointed out it would be quicker to cut inland via Fakenham.

'I know,' Newman agreed, 'but I want to take a shufti at the place where Caleb Fox hangs out, Brancaster.'

The wind was rising, beating against the side of the Mercedes. A nor'easter coming in off the sea. The cloud bank had blotted out the sky and it was half-dark when the rain began to hammer down. Newman turned off the main highway to the right down a wisp of a road.

A winding road, it stretched across a flat area of sedge-land, wild and desolate. Beyond the sea was a dark belt flecked with white-capped rollers. They hadn't seen a soul since leaving the highway as they arrived at a crude car park, no more than a rectangle of flattened earth. Newman stopped the car, Close to the sea was a large isolated two-storey building. Two men with golf bags over their shoulders ran for shelter.

'While I remember,' Newman said, 'slight change of plan for this evening. Nield, you take my Mercedes – Tweed arrived at Cockley Ford in it that night he had his weird visit there. It might look funny if Butler and I turned up in the same car. So, we'll take the Cortina. Now, raincoats on. Time for us to stretch our legs, Harry. Pete, you stay dry and watch the car.'

'Suits me. You're going to get soaked.'

He was right, too, Newman thought as he walked with Butler towards the building and the sea. The nor'easter had increased in fury, forcing them to push against it as rain drenched down.

'What's this in aid of? Not that I mind a bath,' Butler enquired.

"Trying to find someone I can ask about Caleb Fox. Should be someone who knows inside that building. It's a golf clubhouse…'

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started but the wind continued to buffet them. They reached a board-walk which ran past the clubhouse down a slope to the edge of one of many creeks snaking away to the dark and distant belt.

'Sea's one hell of a long way out,' Butler shouted against the howl of the gale.

'And I should leave it there if I may make a suggestion,' an upper crust voice said.

A tall, distinguished-looking man with a white moustache had appeared round the side of the clubhouse. Wearing a waterproof hat and a dark blue raincoat, he carried a walking stick and his complexion had a weatherbeaten look. He gestured towards the building.

'Got a moment for a chat? We'll be out of the wind in the lee of the clubhouse.'

As they stood together Newman took off his hat and shook it free of some of the rain. The tall man stared hard at him.

'You look uncommonly like Robert Newman, chap who wrote that bestseller novel Kruger: The Computer That Failed.'

'That's right,' Newman admitted reluctantly.

Terrific book. Kept me up all night. Never thought I'd get the chance of thanking you for so much pleasure.'

'Glad you liked it.'

'Meant what I said about not walking out there.' He pointed his stick seawards. 'Look at the notice over there.'

The warning notice reared up close to the board-walk. Don't walk out to wrecks – incoming tide very swift. Newman gazed out beyond the slope which was covered with large pebbles. Dry creeks snaked in and out amid sandbanks, then vanished. It reminded him of Blakeney but here the creek system looked more insidiously complex. Blurred in the distance rose two hump-backed objects, one much further out. The shipwrecks.