James Hewlow, with his suitcase at heel, stood on the wide footpath in front of the building, looked up, listened to his taxi’s diesel engine tick, ticking behind him and was tempted to get back in. Instead he turned, paid and tipped, and watched the cab draw away. Take me, take me with you, he wanted to call out.
A neatly-typed sign on the front door read: “No vacancies. Do not disturb.”
He tapped the door knocker. One floor above, a window creaked open and a woman’s voice greeted him with: “It’s dawn! Can’t you read?”
“Actually it’s 7.20,” Hewlow called back, “and I have a reservation.”
The window came down with a bang. A breeze, stiffened by droplets of cold Channel spray, came off the water and misted his glasses. Placing his suitcase on the stoop, Hewlow studied the street. The only bright markers were a red telephone box standing to attention 50 feet away and, equidistant in the other direction, a Royal Mail post box of the same colour also playing sentry. An elderly couple, bent forward against the elements, took a lonely walk along the seafront. In the summer of ’65, the town appeared unconvinced by its own It’s Fun in the Sun in Brudley marketing campaign.
The front door swung wide. “Welcome to Bord de Mer,” croaked Audrey Conkwell. Her throat needed lubricating as did her skin: too many Balkan Sobranies and years spent by the water. With her left hand she held her dressing gown tight; her right was buried deep in a pocket.
“I’m James Hewlow. Mother sent me.” He sensed her taking him in: tall-ish, blue suit and dark tie, heavy black framed spectacles, blond hair parted neatly, cleanly shaven. He’d passed the first test.
“Bord de Mer,” she repeated. “Geddit?”
“French for seaside and a play on words on a place that offers board.”
Mrs Conkwell drew her hand slowly out of her pocket. He’d passed Test #2.
Leading the way up narrow, carpeted stairs, she stopped twice for breath. With a hand wave she indicated his room. It lay at the far end of the corridor facing the cruel sea and an ice cream sign on the pier. “If you’d like to use the bath, come and collect the plug from me – and return it afterwards. An industry-standard charge of £1 applies for three baths during your stay. The daily cooked breakfast is covered by your room costs. It’s served at 8.30 sharp, Mr Hewlow.” She paused. “A Froggy-sounding name, that.”
“I grew up
in Sevenoaks,” he lied, and he knew she knew it.
Sitting on the edge of a single bed, he could feel springs pressing up through the thin mattress. The window provided a grim view of grey water speckled with foamy chop. Normally, he’d sweep the room – carefully turning over the bedside lamp, checking the backs of framed prints on the walls – but there was no need at Bord de Mer. The place was certainly bugged.
As he entered the dining room at 8.32, three faces at the table lifted.
Standing at a sideboard, Mrs Conkwell was putting a silver domed lid over a slaver piled with Kedgeree. “We thought you weren’t coming,” she said.
At the table, a woman in her early 30s dressed in a summer frock and light cardigan, smiled at Hewlow, still in his suit. “Who’s the naughty boy? Presumably you’re here to audit Mrs C’s books.”
Hewlow’s hand hesitated before he tugged at his tie, slipping it off. “Holiday, in fact.” He wondered if the woman always patted her hair while appraising a new man in the room.
With chairs well spaced, two men sat either side of her. Neither appeared proprietorial. “Paul Norton,” said the closest. “Rolly Pennock,” said the other. It was the woman’s turn. “Cleo Laine.” Unlikely, thought Hewlow before giving his own false name, then adding: “Mother sent me.”
“Well that takes the fun out of it,” said Cleo. “We were hoping you’d be interesting.”
“Apologies,” said Hewlow, lifting the lid off the slaver and helping himself to breakfast. The aromas of smoked haddock, curry powder and rice took him back, but not to a Sevenoaks childhood. A nearby Chemex Coffeemaker with Arabica beans from De Bry's was another surprise – flavoursome, strong. Perhaps he might last the week.
Norton scratched at a healed scar that ran from his forehead down his jawline. He watched Hewlow take a second sip of black coffee before asking: “I haven’t seen Mother in months. How’s that prick?”
“He’s busy.”
Mrs Conkwell ahemed: “No talking shop, boys.” Holding a piece of paper at arm’s length, she squinted at it. “9.30–11.30: at leisure; 11.30–12.30: poetry recital by Mr Pennock followed by group discussion; 12.30–1.30: light lunch after which you’ll all attend a screening of The Ipcress File at the Gaumont Cinema. Mother hopes you might learn something. You’ll be back here in time for tea and an early night.”
“I love a Michael Caine flick,” said Cleo. She leant towards Hewlow as he forked rice. “Has anyone ever said you look like …?”
He shook
his head to save lying again.
By 10.45, Hewlow’s leather shoes were dusty and his feet ached. He wasn’t quite sure how Cleo had convinced him to take a beach walk while Pennock went shopping for linen slacks and Norton chose an early opener. Cleo had outpaced Hewlow on the pebbled beach until they reached the almost empty pier. Side-by-side they waited for ice cream, then he paid. Resting on the pier’s railing, they could see Bord de Mer a half-mile off. A figure in a dark coat and hat was taking the front steps two at a time. In seconds the person was inside.
Cleo ran
the tip of her tongue over the ice cream. “I don’t trust those three.”
Those four, decided Hewlow. It was going to be a long week. After being held in a Casablanca basement for three months before killing his guards and hiding below decks on the night ferry to Lisbon followed by a covert flight to London, he’d been ordered by Mother to take leave at a MI6-approved lodging. “I’m told it’s very relaxing,” Mother said while studying the tremor in Hewlow’s right hand. “The other guests are Friends of the Family. They’re also enjoying a … a stress-free holiday.”
With minutes to spare before Pennock’s poetry turn, the pair walked back into the B&B. Mrs Conkwell lay facedown on the hallway carpet. Behind them, the front door opened and Norton and Pennock came in – the latter with a menswear-branded bag, the former with a whiff of mid-morning whisky. “Dead?” asked Pennock.
“Or very tired,” said Cleo. Bending down, she placed two fingertips on the groove of Mrs Conkwell’s neck. “Gone to her reward.” As she stood up, she pointed to a jagged wound behind the dead woman’s ear. “Old school bullet. I’d say the killer used a Webley.”
Immediately a loud, circular blame game began with Norton, Pennock and Cleo shouting accusations at each other. Hewlow held up his hand. “About 40 minutes ago, Cleo and I saw a man in a hat and coat run into this building.” A pause. The two men facing him were dressed in pale shirts and light grey flannels. “I imagine Mrs C greeted all new arrivals with a service revolver in her pocket. The killer must’ve overpowered her and taken the gun.”
“Oh, really, Sherlock?” sniffed Pennock. “And do you suggest we call the cops?”
The discussion was short. No police. Stepping over the body, they went into the dining room. None sat. They stood around the room, backs to the walls. It was agreed they’d phone The Cleaners, wait until men in overalls arrived with a large hessian bag and mops and buckets, then they’d pack and leave.
Norton touched his scar. “Mother won’t be happy.”
“He’s not paid to be happy,” said Hewlow.
“Neither was Mrs C,” added Cleo. “Shame. I was so looking forward to Rolly’s poetry recital.”
After a call to The Cleaners and with the corpse still in the hallway, they shared the already-prepared lunch. The chat was desultory, the cold collation delightful. Later Hewlow and Cleo washed up; Pennock and Norton played chess in the dining room.
Nudging Hewlow’s elbow, Cleo took a partly soapy plate out of his hands and polished it with a tea towel. “Did you?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I prodded Rolly’s shopping bag open and saw ...”
“Let’s guess. Dark coat and hat? Some people will do anything to get out of public speaking … or … I’d hazard Mrs C found a clue the Russkies had turned Rolly. Shall I eliminate him or will you?”
Hewlow
handed her another plate. “I’m on holiday.”
# # #
Copyright 2022 GREG FLYNN
