Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 17

  Coriander was in no hurry, it seemed. She drove steadily and without haste in the direction of London and Bognor had no difficulty in following her. Even when they reached the motorway she stuck to the inside lane at fifty miles an hour and Bognor allowed an articulated heavy lorry to interpose itself between the two vehicles. He could still see her but he was less obtrusive. At the junction with the North Circular Road he gave a little smile of satisfaction as she followed the looping road to the right. That way lay the west of London and a little beyond it, the airport at Heathrow. He hoped that Parkinson had alerted the police. At Hanger Lane she passed across the main Oxford road and continued south still circling the city, and a couple of miles further on, just north of Kew Bridge, she climbed up on to the M4 which, at that point, flies over the suburbs on its way towards Bristol and South Wales. Bognor’s satisfaction was becoming almost total. She had to be going to the airport and, to judge from the unflustered, almost smug way she was driving, she had no idea she was being followed. As the road hit ground level again he began to relax.

  The relaxation was shortlived. A mile or so further on she suddenly turned off the motorway. Bognor almost missed her manoeuvre, but caught himself in time. All his senses came alive once more. Why was she leaving the road? An assignation? A change of plan? She must have spotted him after all. Then, relieved, he saw that this wasn’t an exit road but the entrance to the Heston service station. A sign over the main building said, ‘Welcome to Granada’ and Bognor realized that Miss Cordingley had stopped for a coffee or a pee. It briefly crossed his mind that she could surely have waited until the airport which was not more than ten minutes away, but the thought did not seriously disturb him.

  He slowed to little more than walking pace as the van ahead berthed in a parking bay. It was essential that she shouldn’t see him but as it was now quite dark there was little chance of it. The car park was full of holiday families heading coastwards and taking a final opportunity to stock up with ice creams and packets of crisps and sweets before the long night drive. There was a constant traffic of humanity and machinery, and parking some fifty yards away Bognor rated his chances of remaining unseen as being exceptionally high. He switched off the lights and sat watching.

  The trouble with remaining virtually invisible, himself, was that his powers of observation were correspondingly limited. He could see the van and when the door opened he could see that a lithe figure wearing a cap and flared trousers had got out. However the park was insufficiently lit for him to be able to recognize Coriander. Moreover he couldn’t follow her into the restaurant area because under the harsh glare of the overhead strip lighting she would be virtually certain to notice him. However it didn’t seem to matter as Coriander’s slim silhouette, shoulder bag swaying slightly as she walked, crossed the car park and entered through the swing doors. He took a cheroot from the packet and lit it; got out of the car, stretched, and blew smoke into the darkness; the end of the cigar glowed reassuringly. Everything was going according to plan.

  Five minutes later he was sitting, eyes idly scanning the park, when he was aware that the slim silhouette was returning to the van. With an almost studied nonchalance, the shoulder bag was unstrapped, and thrown on to the rear seat. The driver followed it. Seconds later the lights came on and Animal Transport Ltd headed out of the park and back on to the westbound carriageway.

  Bognor’s first real surprise came a few miles further on. So certain was he that Perfect Prettyboy was about to take off from Heathrow that he himself was indicating to go left at the airport turning. Only when he was travelling down the gentle left-hand bend did he notice, with a start, that the van was continuing straight ahead towards Slough. He frowned. That was very peculiar. He hoped the Heathrow police had not been over-alerted.

  At the Slough central turning the van turned off, bypassed Windsor and headed for Bagshot. Bognor knew this route. It was the link between the M4 and M3 motorways. If, as now seemed probable, they were aiming for the M3, then they could end up anywhere from Southampton to Weymouth. That must be it, he thought with a worried frown. The wretched animal was being smuggled out by sea. Probably in the hold of some banana boat. But why? It was so much slower. And no less risky. He tried to stop speculating. It was useless, and while he kept the van fixed firmly in his sights he was in no trouble. The drill would remain the same. He wondered, despite himself, if it would be Weymouth. The only boats leaving there were Channel Island ferries. Unless they were using the Royal Naval base. Hardly likely.

  At Micheldever they stuck to the A30, heading for Salisbury. Bognor remembered with a twinge of worried anticipation that this was the way to the Duchess of Dorset’s. He prayed that he would be spared another visit to that ill-fated place. Salisbury in turn was by-passed around midnight and then Blandford, silently asleep, was traversed. Three miles outside, the van turned left towards Bere Regis. In Bere it crossed the main road and headed due south, away, thankfully, from Dora Dorset’s, which still remained uncomfortably close. Bognor guessed the sea would not be far now—under ten miles. They passed the Royal Armoured Corps at Bovington Camp, crossed the level crossing near Wool Station, illuminated but apparently uninhabited, then immediately afterwards swung left at a sign to Lulworth Cove. Bognor frowned again. As far as he knew Lulworth was little more than a pretty picture on a postcard: all lobster pots and ancient fisherfolk. There would certainly be no cargo ships or passenger steamers, let alone aircraft. On the other hand it was a smuggler’s cove straight from the pages of romantic fiction. Perhaps a powerful launch or even a fishing smack to France and then a quick spin to the nearest French airport, where no quarantine restrictions operated and, hey presto, New York, Los Angeles, Bogota or. … He was musing on this when the van pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. It was half past one. Bognor braked hurriedly. They were still in the village and he reversed quickly behind another parked car and switched off his lights. He prayed that Coriander hadn’t noticed.

  For five minutes he sat and waited, but nothing happened. Another five. Still nothing. He had a small pencil torch in the glove compartment, and he picked it out and examined his Automobile Association Guide with it. As far as he could see this road led only to Lulworth, though there were turnings which could lead to Wareham or Weymouth. Neither seemed likely. There had been more direct routes to both. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps Coriander was merely taking a quick nap before embarking. Since he had an almost certain idea of her destination, now could be the time to ring Parkinson. He looked around and saw to his satisfaction that there was a phone booth, not thirty yards from the car. He tiptoed stealthily towards it and inside dialled Parkinson’s special line, the one which would automatically be transferred to wherever he was.

  ‘Yes.’ The phone had rung several times and the voice sounded bleary. Parkinson had clearly been asleep. Bognor, suddenly feeling his own fatigue, envied him.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said, sotto voce, ‘I’m in Wool.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Wool. North of Lulworth. About four miles north, I think. I can see the van with the dog in it. They’re parked. I think possibly they’re resting before making their break. My guess is that they’ll run for it at dawn.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic,’ said Parkinson. ‘Why dawn? You’re always guessing and you’re invariably wrong.’

  ‘But will you alert the police?’ asked Bognor. ‘The van has “Animal Transport Ltd” written on the side and it has to be heading for Lulworth. From what I can see you can cut it off by setting up road blocks on the Lulworth to Wareham and the Lulworth to Weymouth roads. They’d better have a boat of some kind to cut off the sea and I’ll be behind her.’

  ‘Big deal,’ said Parkinson laconically, ‘I’ll talk to the local constabulary and tell them what you’re doing. Remember to keep in touch.’

  Bognor replaced the receiver very gently and retraced his footsteps slowly and tentatively; back in the car he lit a cigar and settled down to wa
it.

  He had trouble keeping awake and was dozing fitfully when he heard the sound of an engine starting. He looked at his watch and saw that it was just after five. He hadn’t been so wrong about dawn. The morning had got to the stage where shapes were visible but only in two dimensional form, and where colours were muted to a stage only just more gaudy than black, white and grey. Birds were being noisy but otherwise the country had barely woken. Not even an early morning tractor disturbed the peace. The van swung back on to the road and set off towards Lulworth. Bognor waited until it had turned the corner and followed in slow pursuit. He kept his lights off to avoid arousing suspicion, and hoped that the police were in position. It would be absurd to have got so far and then to lose.

  At the bottom of the long hill to the cove the road narrowed and there was a large public car park. Bognor parked well away from it and got out to walk. The van had stopped in the park and he watched in the shadow of a cottage as the driver came round to the back, opened the doors and took out a crate with a handle. He could scarcely resist a smile of triumph. Dog and smuggler heading for the water’s edge. Perfect. From behind he heard a car which stopped abruptly. Footsteps followed the slamming of its door and in a moment an unmistakably policeman’s voice enquired, ‘Mr Bognor of the Board of Trade?’

  He turned to see a heavy figure in blue, wearing a hat adorned with scrambled egg. The man carried gloves and a cane, which meant a gratifying degree of seniority.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Simon Bognor.’ They shook hands. ‘That,’ he pointed to the disappearing smuggler as she walked down the narrow street, ‘is your woman, and the poodle’s in the basket thing she’s carrying.’

  ‘Fine,’ said the policeman. ‘We have a launch standing by outside the cove. I suggest we follow at our leisure. I’ll just make sure they’re alerted.’ He walked back to the car and Bognor heard the crackle of electricity from the wireless set as instructions were given. Then, together, they sauntered downhill.

  When they arrived at the seashore the drama was just beginning to unfold. As they rounded the last cottage and came alongside the cafeteria and the chandler’s shop they could see that a seagoing cabin cruiser ornamented with wires and radar was just beginning to power towards the narrow entrance to the cove. Standing in the stern was the wasp waisted figure in the costermonger cap.

  ‘Shall we row after them?’ asked the policeman, waving in the direction of a dinghy on the pebbles a few yards away. Bognor nodded and together they heaved the little boat into the water, took an oar each and paddled across the famous horseshoe harbour. The motor boat was a hundred yards ahead of them and not at full throttle. Half-way across the water, the two rowers rested and turned their craft round, the better to observe operations. Just as the smuggler’s vessel approached the open sea, just as its engines were revved up preparatory to an exultant charge towards France, a smart blue launch came into view, almost blocking the exit. The smugglers threw their engines into reverse and Bognor could hear a voice through a megaphone dimly. ‘Heave to,’ it said, ‘we are coming aboard.’ He rested his chin on his oars as the police boat went alongside the cruiser and two uniformed men sprang on board. A moment later they jumped back on board their boat, accompanied this time by a captive figure and the crate containing Perfect Prettyboy.

  ‘Very neat indeed,’ said Bognor, appreciatively. ‘Let’s meet them on terra firma, shall we?’ Saying which he dipped his oar into the sea and together they rowed sedately if clumsily back to the land. They arrived there at almost exactly the same moment as the police launch, and as they struck the beach Bognor heard a greeting which made his stomach lurch in a sudden ghastly anticipation of despair.

  9

  ‘MORNING, MR BOGNOR. YOU’RE up very early, and you seem to have brought a great many friends.’ Looking up to the deck of the police boat Bognor saw that the sylphlike figure in the immaculate suiting was not, as it had been the previous night, Coriander Cordingley. It had been transformed into Cecil Handyside. The dog transporter touched his faintly absurd corduroy cap in a gesture of courteous greeting. ‘I was just goin’ fishin’ when I was waylaid by your colleagues here. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to ask them to remove themselves.’

  Bognor was not so easily discouraged.

  ‘The dog,’ he shouted back through cupped hands. ‘The dog. You’re forgetting the dog.’

  Handyside put a hand to his ear affecting not to hear and then jumped down on to the beach, followed by two policemen.

  ‘I thought,’ said Bognor’s companion, ‘that we were pursuing a lady.’ His tones were frosty with suspended belief.

  ‘We were,’ said Bognor. His mind, more than usually slowed by his long drive and sleepless night, struggled to cope with the sex change. It could only have been at the service station. Coriander must have left the car in the gloom, met Handyside in the restaurant, exchanged car keys. Then the figure who had come back to the van must have been Handyside. Bognor tried to cast his mind back to the scene and recalled the slim silhouette with the shoulder bag. It was conceivable. … He hadn’t managed to recognize the face or even the clothes, only the outline and the walk. Handyside and Coriander had, it dawned on him, tolerably similar figures, and a sexy wiggling walk was easily simulated. It was a risky swop, but it had worked.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch …’ It was Handyside, standing before him, unmistakable now and preening himself.

  ‘The dog,’ said Bognor, ‘Ramble’s champion poodle. It’s in your crate, up there on the deck. I know. And don’t think you’ll get away with it. That dog is now positively and demonstrably identifiable.’

  ‘Could well be,’ drawled Handyside, lizard-like. ‘Only it just doesn’t happen to be here.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Bognor. ‘I want to see inside that crate. Now. Will you open it yourself or am I going to have to force it?’

  There was a moment of tense silence before Handyside answered. A pair of gulls wheeled and mewed at each other in a desultory dog-fight, the small waves lapped gently on the pebbles and the police, grown dangerously neutral, looked on curiously. Then the smuggler shrugged.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re ramblin’ about,’ he said, ‘but you’re welcome to look. Not that there’s any law against fishin’ gear. Not to my knowledge.’

  He turned round and headed back to the police launch. Bognor followed him and scrambled aboard. The police gathered round, curious but not, Bognor realized sadly, very friendly. He was afraid they thought him mistaken, and worse, incompetent.

  Handyside paused theatrically, then with a flourish, lifted the lid of the crate, which was made from canvas. There was, as he had said, no dog. Instead there was a quantity of telescoped aluminium tubing, some twine and some vicious hooks. Even to the uninitiated, like Bognor, it looked like fishing tackle.

  Silence descended once more, broken finally by Bognor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but shortly after eight o’clock last night a miniature poodle, Perfect Prettyboy, was loaded on to your van at the kennels of Mr Albert Ramble. That dog must be here. We shall just have to search until we find it.’

  Even as he said the words he knew that he was wrong. Perfect Prettyboy was even now on its way … he consulted his watch … worse, had probably arrived in New York. He had failed.

  ‘I wonder,’ he turned back to the senior policeman, ‘I wonder if you could possibly go through the van. That dog must be somewhere. It is …’ he concluded feebly, ‘very small.’

  He knew it was hopeless, but he had to do something. Even as the police grudgingly acquiesced his mind ran swiftly over the possibilities. There were only two. He could either confess to Parkinson. That would be humiliating and unproductive. This time Parkinson really would in his characteristically picturesque phrase, ‘have his guts for garters’. He would be fired with ignominy and without pay. His pride and his purse would not allow it. The alternative was to continue his pursuit of Perfect Prettyboy. Parkinson would never consen
t to such a course of action. Too expensive. Too speculative. Too, he had to face it, too Bognorish. He sighed, and felt in his inside jacket pocket. His wallet, bulging with credit cards, and his passport were both there. Together they would get him to the States before anyone realized. He would telephone Watherspoon for the precise address of Edgar J. Eagerly’s Dog Centre and go there with all due haste. It was a shade risky, but he knew intuitively that he would find both Coriander and the poodle there. The alternative was too grim.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the policeman at his elbow, ‘I must make a phone call.’ So saying, he set off back up the road towards the Mini in the car park. There was no time to lose and he could not afford to suggest his course of action to the police. They would have no alternative but to let Handyside go, and no doubt they would make formal complaint to Parkinson. At the moment, that was the least of his worries.

  He was airborne before lunch and the achievement gave him a compensating satisfaction after earlier disasters. The return journey to Heathrow took little more than three hours. He had found a flight with plenty of empty seats and had paid for it on his Diner’s Card. Watherspoon had given him the address of the Dog Centre with the added information that it was no more than three and a half hours’ fast driving on the Thru-Way from Kennedy Airport. He had also contacted Monica and told her where he was going. She had been resigned though greatly alarmed. He had even persuaded her to telephone Parkinson and tell him that he, Bognor, was coming personally to explain the debacle. That gave him breathing space. By the time Parkinson realized that he was AWOL, he would have reached the Dog Centre. He settled back in his seat and absent-mindedly ate the olive from his dry martini. This morning had been appalling but things would scarcely deteriorate further. If he could run the little poodle and Miss Cordingley to earth at the home of Edgar J. Eagerly, he would have come back from an apparently impossible situation. He thought he could.