Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (8 page)

The high pitched note of a car horn ripped the
afternoon air. Harry Caplin’s old black Mk1 Jaguar was
parked in the short stay area of Bournemouth’s beautifully
renovated Victorian station. I’d had to train it back from
London as both of the firm’s helicopters were being used
to ferry the Partners and their guests to and from the
races at Royal Ascot.

“Hi there, Ace, climb into the cart. I told Mr
Rumple I’d pick you up. He looked as if he’d got plenty
to do, making ready and fussing around that big boat of
yours, and as Fiona’s off shopping. So I thought I’d be
neighbourly and help out.”

I wondered by what process of deduction dear old
Harry had latched on to the boat being made ready. Was
it possible to keep anything secret from him? It made
the whole job a little more dangerous. We wove our
way slowly across town through heavy traffic. From my
relaxed position in the passenger seat, I could view all the
many frustrated, over worked people with bland faces sat
behind their windscreens fighting their way home through
congested roads, but in reality only heading towards prebooked early graves.

“So what’s the word on the street Harry?” I said,
shifting round towards him. Perhaps I should tell LJ
to prepare a cover for us in case trouble blew up. We
crawled past the sea front and on up the hill towards the
west cliff of the town.

“I just got some new CDs from the States, Ace.
Sammy Davis and Frank re-mixed and digitally remastered. Come around for drinks this evening. Get an
earful of wax. Ha ha ha.” We were outside the rented
house by now. I thanked Harry and he squealed down the
road towards his place.

Rumple let me through the gates and met me at the
front door.
Unfortunately for Miss Price she was the next
person I saw. She was standing in the kitchen wearing a
microscopic black bikini.
“Well hello Mr Dillon,” she said, putting a
sustained accent on the final syllable of each word.
“Cut the crap, Fiona, I’m really not in the mood.”
I said as I threw my bag down.
“Such skilful alliteration, Jake,” she said keeping
her eyes on the magazine that she was flicking through.
“What or who has upset you in London and where’s
Charlie?”
“Charlie - is dead - murdered, Fiona.” I said quietly.
I was interested to see her reaction, but there was none.
I went on before anyone could speak, knowing that this
news would devastate the Rumples like myself they had
worked with Charlie on many assignments in the past.
“So, tell me, why is it too much trouble for a member
of this team to come and meet me? And for the record, I
really don’t appreciate Harry Caplin informing me that
Rumple is making the boat ready to sail.”
“Making ready the boat to sail? Come now Jake,
he didn’t really say that, did he?”
“Not in so many words.” I said. “He inferred that
Rumple was fussing about and making ready the boat.
What I want to know is, how he even got to know that.
After all, the boat is completely concealed inside the
boathouse. What else has been told to him about what
we are doing and why we’re here - Miss Price?”
“Now listen here, sir.” Said Rumple. “He’s just
done to us what he’s done to you: mentioned the words
‘making ready’ to see what reaction he got.”
“What would you prefer us to do? Take him up on
it and start playing ‘what’s my line?’”
“I don’t like it, Rumple. That man should not
know about what we are doing here, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, you know, Jake, little us can’t be expected
to manage without you.”
“You shouldn’t have left us all on our own like
that,” Fiona said sarcastically.
I ignored her; the intonation in her voice made it
quite clear that I was far safer to back off. Getting into
an argument would not achieve anything, but I wanted
to have the last word. “Fiona, please go and put some
clothes on.”
“So much naked flesh in a kitchen is completely
inappropriate.”
“I’ve had no other complaints…” she said, with a
huff and moved past me through the door pausing, her
nubile body brushing mine. “…so far.” She said, and
leaned forward as if to kiss me. “My, you are breathing
heavily, Mr Dillon,” she said huskily just an inch or so
from my face.
“Go away, Fiona,” I said, “I’ve got enough on my
mind already.” But I was breathing heavily.
“I hear you have a sexy blond tucked away in
London, Jake. Is that true?”
Before I had the chance to answer her, the gate
intercom buzzed. I backed away from her. It was a local
car wash firm asking if we wanted a special deal on car
cleaning? Rumple was about to dismiss the caller in his
usual gruff voice, but I stopped him. Yes I would I said,
especially as the Mercedes had been brought back from
the airport in a filthy condition. So Rumple told the lad
to drive in and that someone would be out in a moment.
By the time I got to him he was already unloading
buckets, sponges and all of the other paraphernalia that
goes with cleaning a car. I told him what was required and
started to small talk as he worked. Casually asking him
if he knew Harry Caplin, the American up the road? Or
Mr Flackyard the local big man? Yes he knew them both.
Was trade good at present? It was all right but not like it
is in the winter. Was this his only job or did he work for
other firms? No, this was his only job all year round, but
that he would always consider other opportunities.
Would he care to earn himself some extra income?
Paid in cash of course?
After haggling a little we struck a deal and agreed
that it was best if no one else knew of our temporary little
agreement.
His job was simply to carry on washing the cars
of Robert Flackyard and Harry Caplin as usual. To find
out anything else while he was at their homes or in any of
Flackyard’s bars, for instance where they were going and
to generally keep his ears and eyes open and to phone me
with any information.
When he had finished and left, I went back inside
to brief Rumple and Fiona about what had happened to
Charlie and the assignment as it was now.

Mrs Rumple had cooked freshly caught local
mackerel, served with a tomato salad and freshly baked
crusty bread. I didn’t want to get too heavy, but I suggested
that Harry Caplin was far too inquisitive about what we
were doing and that the assignment was at a delicate
stage, because of the confiscated opium.

“Do you suspect Caplin of being in league with
this character Robert Flackyard, sir?” asked Rumple.
“At this point in time, Mr Rumple, I even suspect
you,” I said, matter of factly.
There were no smiles and the air became tense.
They all knew I was being deadly serious.
We continued to eat in silence. Then, as Mrs
Rumple collected up the dishes, Fiona said, “I didn’t
know Harry Caplin had a luxury cruiser.”
“Has he now,” I said. Fiona had got up and gone
into the kitchen. She called to us. “It’s coming into the
bay now.”
We all went out on to the balcony to watch. Down
below, beating a wake on the gleaming water, the big white
boat cast a long shadow in the remnants of the evening
sunlight. From the high wheelhouse a cap, blue, soft
and nautical, peeked over the wrap-around windscreen.
Harry Caplin’s bronze face broke into a grin and his lips
moved. Fiona put her flattened hand behind her ear and
Harry shouted again, but the wind from the sea grabbed
the words out of his mouth and tossed them over his
shoulder. He disappeared into the inner confines of the
boat, leaving the diesel motors idling with just enough
power to hold her position without turning it beam-to to
the swell. He reappeared holding a mobile phone to his
ear, and the same time the house phone started to ring. I
put it on loud speaker.
“C’mon, landlubbers,” he said into the tiny flipphone. “Get off your butts and get out here and have
some fun.”
“He really is the most vulgar man,” said Mrs
Rumple.
“Insufferable,” added Rumple.
“I only said he was vulgar, I didn’t say I didn’t like
it,” replied Mrs Rumple.
Fiona lit a cigarette as the three of us went down to
the dinghy. The small outboard motor spat and whined
like a wasp in flight as we shot out towards the cruiser.
“Are you sure that we’re safe with you Mr Caplin?”
Asked Fiona flirtatiously as she stepped aboard.
“Hell, lady, how many times do I have to tell
you…”
“Harry?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Fiona. These two guys are
perfectly safe. You – aren’t safe at all.” He pushed his cap
back and boomed his big laugh.
Inside the main cabin it was all fitted furniture
and soft music. Nautical procedures had gone clean
overboard. Along the wall were a stainless steel sink
and an array of built-in appliances including a fridge.
Set on the wall was a large plasma screen. We sank into
luxuriously soft leather seats while Harry blended vodka
martinis with ritualistic devotion.
“What’s that all about, Harry?” Fiona was looking
at the mural of signal flags which decorated the cabin
wall.
“It’s flag talk, see, you haul them…”
“Yes, Harry, I do understand the function of signal
flags. What I want to ask, is what is the meaning of these?”
“Sure, Fiona, that’s what I thought you meant.
They’re international foreign flags, see these over here,
they mean in nautical terms…” Harry leaned over close
to Fiona Price… “permission granted to lay alongside.”
Miss Price Blushed and Harry slapped his leg and boomed
his larger than life laugh.
“Oh, very nautical, Harry, I really must commit
that one to memory,” she said sarcastically, blushing the
colour of a strawberry.
I noticed Rumple’s lip curl, but whether at Caplin’s
suggestiveness or seamanship I couldn’t tell.
“Come on up to the bridge,” said Harry. The CD
had finished and the next was already taking its place.
Against the hull the water giggled and gurgled like a fool.
I heard Miss Price says, “so this is the driver’s seat?”
Harry replied, “yep.” I wondered how many of the jibes
really bounced off of Harry and how many went deep
under the skin like a chigoe, a nasty little tropical flea that
likes to burrow into flesh. Frank Sinatra began to pump
the cabin full of sound.
Rumple was admiring the treasure trove of
electronic equipment on the bridge.
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, “a powered anchor; right
here.” He pushed one of a series of brightly coloured
buttons. There was a faint purr and I felt the big cruiser
float free on the outgoing tide. “The latest inboard
diesels,” the big engines suddenly broke the calm of
the quite bay. Harry moved the gear lever, and the twin
screws engaged the water. We slid forward. Harry held
the wheel in a firm proprietorial grip, bit on his large
Havana cigar and beamed at us all from his high stool.
“You Limeys have had the monopoly on messing about
in boats long enough; here, let somebody else steer,” he
said, and poured us all another round of vodkas form the
big iced jug with a design of dancing pirates on it.
What a strange scene we made like something out
of a television advertisement all standing on the fly bridge
of a boat called Star Dust.

After an evening with Harry Caplin I was pleased
to get back to the house.
Although it was well past midnight none of us
were ready for sleep, so we sat around drinking brandy
and coffee into the small hours. I heard Fiona say,
“Any more coffee for you,” but I was beginning
to notice that Rumple wasn’t worrying too much about
coffee, he was hitting the brandy. The talk went on over
more coffee and even more brandy Rumple told us about
his father. “He wasn’t happy in the water. He never
took a bath always had a shower, he used to say that he
might slip and drown in the water, until one day when
the shower wouldn’t work for some reason, my mother
did manage to persuade him to have a bath. We were
living in the south of France at the time. I remember it
was sweltering; he got this enormous terracotta pot that
was used at harvest time, he plugged up the hole in the
bottom and filled it with water. He then got in, but all the
time he held onto a hammer. He said that if he felt himself
slipping he could smash the pot with the hammer before
he drowned.”
Then he told us about his diving exploits in the
Falklands and drank even more brandy, generally glossing
over his time in the Navy, Fiona was interested in this
and they talked about techniques of diving, when the gate
entry buzzer broke into the conversation.
Fiona said, “Who the hell is that at this time of
night?”
“Probably just kids messing about. I’ll go and see,”
I said, already getting up and heading for the door.
I guessed it might be the young lad, Sam, who I’d
asked to keep an eye on Flackyard and Caplin. It was.
To my surprise he had written up a report on
Flackyard’s movements for that afternoon and evening.
I thanked and paid him the agreed sum, plus a bonus
for being vigilant and thorough. He walked off down the
road happy and said that he would contact me again in a
day or so. Fiona called from the doorway, “Who is it?”
“A couple of drunken kids, messing about, they’ve
gone now.” I replied.
We went back indoors, where Rumple was still
drinking heavily.
“I saw you chatting away like lost brothers to one
of them,” said Fiona. “Wasn’t that the kid who washed
your car earlier today?”
“No, You must have drunk to much brandy Fiona,
I most certainly was not talking like a lost brother to
either of those two. I was actually telling that young
drunk that if he didn’t move I’d call the police, at which
he came up to the gate and threatened me. What you
actually saw was my hand around his throat and his face
in the railings; I was simply advising him what a bad idea
that was.”
By the time we eventually got to bed the wind was
blowing a gale outside, and below on the small private
beach that belonged to the house, air, water and sand
thrashed together.
Sometimes one could distinguish each separate
wave; the roar, crash, confusion and withdrawal. Often,
however, the sound became just one long howl; rocking
the window panes, vibrating against the metal watering
can, flapping the canvas awning, pounding into the head,
filling the ears and spinning the mind into a whirl.
My room opened on to a small wooden balcony.
Two miles out on the black ocean the lights of the local
fishing boats were winking in the movement of the
horizon. I imagined the misery of the English Channel
at night, working for a meagre living. The fishermen’s
catches were becoming smaller and smaller, diminishing
each year. I watched the black clouds move across the
moon for a long time before going to bed. I tried to sleep,
but the noise of the wind and the effect of the coffee kept
me awake. At 4.00 am I heard a bedroom door open and
then close with a click. Soft footsteps went down the bare
wooden stairs.
Someone else couldn’t sleep; perhaps a cup of tea
would be a good idea.
The footsteps went on through to the kitchen. I
heard the back door open and the footsteps outside on
the sun patio. As I was climbing into some clothes I heard
the hinges of the rusty gate creak open.
Looking over my bedroom balcony there was
enough moonlight for me to see someone was moving
down the path in the direction of the boathouse.
The figure turned, dropped off the sea wall and
began to walk along the sand towards one of many
groynes which separated each private beach. I went down
the staircase as quickly as I could.
The wind cut me with an icy shiver and the
needlepoints of spray penetrated my trousers and sweater.
The metal of my pistol was cold against my hip. I decided
not to use the gate; instead I eased myself through a gap
between the garden wall and garage. Fifteen metres ahead
of me the nocturnal stroller made no attempt to conceal
himself. It was Rumple. He went to the first groyne
climbed over it and continued along to the next and the
next.
As he made his way along the last stretch of beach
he came to the base of a wide stone staircase, which
twisted up to the road above. To begin my ascent before
he had completed his would be foolish. He had only to
glance down to be certain of spotting me.
I gave him plenty of time to get to the top; then,
keeping well to the inside of the staircase, I began to walk
up.
I watched carefully for anything that if trodden
on would give my presence away, although the roar of
the sea would have swallowed the noise of anything less
than an avalanche. I paused as I neared the top, took the
automatic out of my belt, breathed in and out very slowly
and moved up on to the road. If he was waiting for me, a
deep lungful of air could make all the difference.
No one was waiting for me. To the right the road
was completely empty as far as I could see. From the left
came only the faint sound and red tail lights of an old
MkI Jaguar as it turned a corner and then there was only
the pandemonium of the sea. A little finger of grey cloud
smudged the bright eye of the moon. It seemed as though
Rumple had got a lift. Who did we know with a MKI
Jaguar?
I was losing friends faster than I could replace
them.

By the next morning, big droplets of rain dabbed
at the grey slate windows.
The bad weather had moved in from the south
west as the shipping forecast had predicted. The wind
and rain gave no sign of relenting before late afternoon,
so I worked on my report for LJ in the privacy of my
bedroom.
Sandbanks was an area designed for the sun to
shine upon, so when the rain came it looked confused, and
most of all betrayed. Along the main road rain dripped
from the shop awnings, and in La Café the girls whiled
away their time when not serving the odd customer, by
gazing out of the window across the bay and drinking
cappuccino.
Mrs Rumple brought breakfast up to my room
at around 10.00am. While she was there I asked how
Rumple was after his brandy session.
“Well, sir. You know Rumple, brandy never affects
him. He was up at the crack of dawn as usual, and out
the door straight after breakfast. Something to do with
a spare part for the dinghy’s outboard motor. I think he
said that there was nowhere local, and that the nearest
stockist was in Brighton.” She didn’t think he would be
back much before dinner.
I left it at that, not wishing to arouse any suspicion
by overly questioning her. When I’d finished typing up
my report I emailed it straight to LJ.
Afterwards, I decided to go down and check that
the cargo we were baby-sitting was still stowed safely on
the boat. When I opened the boathouse door I found Fiona
wearing a swimsuit and shorts, her diving equipment
lying around her bare feet.
“Going for a dive?” I asked casually.
“Why, Jake Dillon, what brings you down here? I
hope you’re not spying on me?”
“Now why would I want to spy on you? Unless…”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of one of
the lockers where Rumple had stowed the raw opium. I
climbed up onto the lower rear deck of the forty-six-foot
cruiser. The locker door was just slightly ajar, and the
handle had been wrenched round so far that the spindle
had snapped clean in half and the strike plate carefully
twisted back out of the way. This gave the impression that
the door was locked, but in reality it had just been pushed
too. Fiona came and knelt down by my side. “You’ve got
it wrong, you know.”
“Sorry, what do mean,” I replied, studying the
damage to the door.
“I know you think that I’ve been landed on you,
and that I’m a pain in the arse that you really could have
done without. But you’ve got me all wrong, I’m not here
to spy on you, you know. I would really like it if we
could be friends, Jake. As for who I work for, well, the
only thing that I can tell you is that it’s Her Majesty’s
Government, but usually behind a desk.”
“I don’t know, Fiona, there are many things about
you that don’t tally.”
I slowly opened the locker door; inside everything
was as it should have been. The brown wax packages were
still neatly stacked liked miniature sandbags. Nothing
seemed to be missing. I carried on and checked the other
two compartments, finding each with their cargo intact.
“What is it that doesn’t tally about me, Jake?” She
asked, her voice low and husky.
I went to stand, her hand reached up for my arm.
Looking down at Fiona I smiled in genuine admiration.
Her face was alive and her eyes sparkling.
There was a vibrancy I hadn’t noticed before.
She wore a black skin-tight swimsuit and shorts. Her
breasts loomed larger and her hips more slender than I
had thought, her legs were long and athletic. She stood
up and leaned against the cabin doorway, her pose was
provocative and she moved with sensual vivacity.
“So tell me, Jake. What is it that doesn’t tally?”
She asked demurely. A bout of temporary shyness taking
hold, as she dropped her gaze to avert any eye contact.
“It won’t work, you know?”
“What won’t work?” She said coyly, running a
hand through her hair which shone under the lights of
the boathouse.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,
Fiona?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,
Jake?”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it?
Perhaps you can tell me this?”
“Why does a desk bound civil servant sleep with a
loaded Beretta under her pillow?” I said it with deliberate
slowness, for full effect.
“What?”
“You heard me.” I said.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s the second time you’ve lied to me, Fiona.
One more, and as far as I’m concerned you can go to
hell.”
“It’s true, what they say about you. You’re an
absolute bastard, aren’t you?”
I simply shrugged my shoulders, and said nothing.
“Is that it, a shrug. Got nothing to say, Jake. Well,
I’ll tell you something, Mister. It’s not polite to rummage
through a girl’s bedroom without an invitation.” The
intonation in her voice, made it perfectly clear that she
was far more annoyed at herself for having been careless,
leaving the gun where anybody could have found it. Than
she was at me for having found it.
“So why do you have the gun, Fiona?”
“Well I’d have thought that even you could have
worked that one out, Jake?”
“You’ve not been doing this cloak and dagger stuff
long have you?” I said, adding. “And that’s a really crap
answer, by the way. I’m disappointed that you don’t trust
me. No matter what you think of me personally. My only
hope is that you know how shoot the thing, and more
importantly, that you know when to shoot it?”
“I can assure you, Jake, that when the time comes
I know exactly what has to be done. But thank you for
your concern.”
“Um, I’m sure you do.” I said jumping down off
the boat. At the heavy double doors I paused just for a
second; giving her yet another opportunity to come clean
about who she worked for, before pushing one of them
open, and walking out into the grey daylight.
“So what happens next, Jake?” Fiona shouted
after me.
“I really don’t know, Fiona. But I’m going to find
out.” I said over my shoulder as the door swung closed
behind me.