Cut to the Chase (21 page)

Other locks further out were unmanned, but were well maintained and greased, so many boats passed that way near to London that maintenance was regularly carried out.

He decided to turn in for the night. Initially he had fears that a night traveller might come up behind and ram his craft up the back, even though he thought it unlikely that many pleasure boats would travel by night. As it turned out the fears were groundless, he slept like a log and awoke refreshed and ready for anything the next morning.

After a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, he cast off and promptly hit the opposite bank. He could see another boat moving in the distance around the curve and cursed angrily as he fought to bring the boat back to where it should be. He managed to push her into the middle as the other craft approached. It was a commercial barge; it had slowed down when the boatman saw his predicament and as Wallace eased over to his own side of the canal its bow wave picked up again.

As it swept past, Wallace's boat rose and fell with the disturbance. One man was cooking breakfast in the galley on the other craft and didn't even look up as they passed. Another man in the stern was steering with the tiller and gave a solemn wave. If he had any thoughts about Wallace's watermanship he didn't give any sign, for which Wallace was grateful.

Wallace had examined the map and had a look at where he had to go. He had the choice of the Grand Union Canal which would, in the long run, take him to the Birmingham Canal System, or he could travel via Reading and Oxford on a canal that eventually joined up with the Grand Union prior to Birmingham. What swayed him to go via the Grand Union was that the other way necessitated long stretches on the River Thames and he wasn't sure whether the craft was licensed for that. There were two long tunnels on the Grand Union, the Blisworth and the Braunston, each over 3,000 yards; he wasn't too happy about that but realised that beggars couldn't be choosers.

It took a couple of days to reach Watford, by this time he was becoming fairly proficient with the handling of the boat and when passing other craft he would acknowledge other boat people with a casual wave reminiscent of a seasoned boatman. When he reached Watford eventually he had had enough of his own cooking and decided to put in at a pub that lay by the side of the canal. That he was not the only one with that thought in mind was clear from the number of boats and barges moored around it.

He found a likely spot, moored the barge with a careless skill, and then ambled slowly up the tow path to the pub. It was a building that was clearly quite old, maybe erected in the early 1800's, possibly when the canal was being built, for the use of the original canal boatmen. It was also popular amongst motorists as the adjoining car park was full.

Wallace entered the public bar which was full of people dressed in casual clothing, reefer jackets and flannel trousers. The air was full of tobacco smoke, which was surprising in view of present day restrictions. He could also smell cigars and, more important, cooking.

‘What's yours?' asked the barman and just in time he stopped himself from asking for a Fosters.

‘Whitbread,' he answered, being the first beer he spotted on the shelves behind the barman and a pint pot was plunked down in front of him. The dining room was next door, Wallace could see into it through the hatch.

‘Have you got a menu?'

‘On the blackboard by the door over there,' the barman jerked his thumb in that direction, and Wallace detected a hint of disapproval as the barman cast his eyes over him. There was a mirror behind the bar and he studied himself critically. His stubble of beard didn't help, but there wasn't much of it, his last shave had been the day before leaving McKay's apartment. There was also a spot of oil on the midriff of his shirt, Wallace zipped up his jerkin to cover it and then smoothed his hair down with his hands. He did have a comb somewhere but had left it on board.

The beer tasted like nectar, he savoured it as it went down and ordered another. Australians are usually scathing about the English liking their beer warm, but warm or not it had plenty of nutriment in it and the taste was ecstatic.

‘Travelling far?' asked the barman.

‘Bir…Ripon,' Wallace answered.

‘Christ! Where's that?'

Wallace remembered that McKay had coupled it with York.

‘Yorkshire.'

‘Didn't realise you could travel that far,' said the barman. He eyed Wallace quizzically for a moment and Wallace quailed. Fortunately the barman was called away by another drinker and Wallace wandered over to the menu board which was written up in different coloured chalks. As he stood there making up his mind, he overheard a conversation between two men nearby who were reading newspapers.

‘…caught the bastard yet…' he heard one ask the other ‘…he has a broad Australian accent, so it says here.'

‘Just listen and see if anyone says “cobber” or “fair dinkum”,' said the other and they broke into laughter.

Wallace felt himself go cold. He looked to his left and saw that there was a photograph of him in the newspaper, with a caption underneath. He peered at it to try and decipher it and they became aware of his presence. Strangely, the picture was of Wallace all right but it was a bad one, further his name didn't seem to appear anywhere.

As they looked at Wallace curiously he gave them a ghastly grin and reached around them to place his empty beer glass on the counter. He kept the inane smile on his face as he thanked them for making way for him. He had removed his sunglasses but the baseball cap was still on, fortunately the peak was well down.

McKay was right, the photograph the police, or the press, had procured was not a good one. It was grim and unsmiling. That was fortunate but what Wallace didn't like was that the visage that was staring out of the newspaper pages, by happy chance an inside page, looked like a hit man from the Mafia, ruthless, uncompromising, mean and one who would like inflicting pain. Had Wallace seen anyone remotely resembling that picture he would have instantly called the police.

‘Over here, sir, just the one?'

‘Just the one, thank you,' Wallace grinned broadly and kept the grin there. The waiter looked at him quizzically and he hastily scratched his nose. He would have to watch the incessant, broad grin as well. It could indicate something else if he persisted with it. Englishmen, and Australians alike, tended to be very wary and suspicious of any fellow citizens who gave persistent broad smiles to strangers in pub saloon bars and gents' urinals.

Luckily the waiter had selected a table for him that was in shadow near the window overlooking the canal, well away from any newspaper readers. He ordered cottage pie and when it arrived Wallace attacked it as though he had not eaten for weeks. There was some credence in that, his system had not altogether got over the vomiting of a few nights back. He felt as though he was in Heaven as he consumed it and accompanied it with a glass of red wine. Nevertheless the ever present threat of that newspaper picture was very disturbing.

On the way out he found a discarded newspaper and took it back to the boat. He took great care to avoid being exposed under bright lights, but took equal pains to avoid appearing furtive.

He could still remember the lash of McKay's tongue when he accused him of creeping across the pavement like a hardened criminal.

He reached the boat and stepped aboard and found that he was unable to avoid peering cautiously from side to side. He entered the cabin, lit the lamp and began to read.

Murder in Knightsbridge

Police are looking for a Mr Henry Wallis who is the owner of the flat where Mr Ananda Ravindran, a well known Indonesian liberal, was found murdered.

Mr Wallis is believed to have been in England for about two weeks, but so far he has not been traced by the police who believe that he may be able to assist them with their enquiries.

Mr Ravindran was a well known intellectual who was opposed to the regime in his own country, and wanted independence for the island from which he emanated, which he claimed was annexed illegally by Indonesia. He had been living in London for about five years.

The motive for the killing is unknown but is thought to be political.

The photograph of Wallace was not a good one, Saul had many others of him that were much better than that one; he must have deliberately selected one that was taken in shadow and from a bad angle. Wallace had also been caught half on the blink, he recognised the picture now as one that both he and Saul had deemed unsuitable and after a brief discussion as to whether they should ditch it altogether, they had finally tossed it back into the file. The writers of the article were obviously unaware how to spell his surname, it looked as if Saul had not been overhelpful as he had failed to correct their natural assumption that Wallace's first name was Henry.

He was surprised that Saul still had that old photo. Maybe he was too and had seized upon it as a red herring. The only disadvantage was that that it made Wallace look like a supporting actor out of a Hollywood “B” gangster movie, if anyone caught sight of Wallace in shadow and associated him with that photo they would have no compunction whatsoever in alerting the nearest police station.

The other point was that there was no mention of drugs or any hint of a drug deal gone wrong. Maybe the police were either keeping that one close to their chests, or they had discarded it as a theory.

He tore the newspaper into shreds and flung it into the waste bin. He didn't want that hanging around the cabin if he had any visitors.

The following night he stayed on the boat feeling no urge to go out and mingle with his fellow men. He travelled quite a few more miles up the water but by the next night had had enough of the smell of Calor gas and visited another pub further up the canal. This time he bought an evening paper but there was no mention or any sign of a picture of him anywhere in the pages. He had been superseded by Liverpool being beaten on their home ground, England forcing a draw in the last Test match in India, and a Cabinet Minister being compromised by an assignation with a young lady of dubious morals. Nevertheless, he sat in the darkest corner he could find and dined on fish and chips, he wanted to merge in.

The next morning, just as he was just becoming concerned about the fuel question, a petrol depot appeared as the boat rounded a bend. There were a few craft of various sizes hanging around the basin, he checked the fuel and decided that it would be politic to top up.

There was a pub nearby and a newsagents shop. Next door to that was a chandlers' shop that seemed to be doing a roaring trade. He eased in behind a small motor cruiser which was graced by a girl in a bikini who certainly raised the sap. She was accompanied by a muscular brute built like an all-in wrestler who would discourage any other hopeful's sap rising more than hip high. Wallace gently nudged their stern as they, and he, moved slowly forwards. Wallace received a flashing smile from her that made his adrenalin run, and a surly nod from her companion.

Wallace decided to turn in early that night and fantasise, he found that her assets were fascinating, again emphasising how long it had been since he had had female company. He realised that his glances, however covert, were becoming obvious to her companion so Wallace hastily applied himself to removing a stain from the deck.

Wallace received two nasty shocks after he had filled up, and regretfully bade the bikini girl farewell. She looked just as good from the rear. He entered the newsagency and was greeted by a billboard that read:

WALLIS BELIEVED TO BE HEADED NORTH

Roads and railway stations being watched.

He wasn't sure what to make of that, would the police really be so stupid as to give the game away like that…or did the press have an informant within the police who had leaked the news? He was also encouraged by the continued misspelling of the surname; the reporter must have been in a hurry to catch the later editions. He decided to buy a newspaper and was paying for the fuel when a policeman walked in. Wallace nearly had a fit, and his voice was trembling as he completed his purchases.

‘Pardon?' asked the newsagent.

‘I want a piper…paper as well…and some loll . .er…' he just stopped himself in time from saying “lollies” and likewise discarded “choccies” ‘…Cadburys fruit and nut, thank…please.'

He could have kicked himself; that was three Australianisms in one sentence. Nearly saying “piper” instead of “paper”…“lollies” instead of “sweets” and ending a sentence with “thanks” instead of “please”. He would really have to watch himself.

But the shop-keeper appeared to have noticed nothing amiss and neither had the policeman who was buying a newspaper and two coffees in plastic containers from the attractive young assistant, presumably for him and his partner who was still seated in the police car outside. His close attention to her precluded him from making the arrest that could have enhanced his promotion chances and been the foundation stone of a successful career.

Wallace stumbled out keeping his head down, and walked to the boat to cast off. He wondered how much longer he could carry on without broadcasting his origins or identity far and wide by making silly verbal mistakes.

At the next stop he stocked the pantry well up, he wanted to avoid disembarking from the craft too often until the heat died down. The fuel tanks were full and he cruised at a leisurely rate heading slowly northwards.

During the next week he almost forgot his troubles. The canal banks slid past slowly, the sunshine in the main was bright and warm, and he persistently received greetings from other boat people as they either passed in the other direction or overtook. Some were pleasure craft while others were commercial craft with company names emblazoned on their sides.

Wallace passed near to places with names like Slapton, Dunstable and Leighton Buzzard, he wondered for some days what the Buzzard meant and resolved to find out when next in a library. He was struck by the amount of wild life that frequented the waterways and he saw countless birds, shoals of small fish and occasional animals on the bank that could have been otters or water rats. He was just turning in one night when unmistakeably he saw a fox regarding him curiously from a patch of open ground between a bridge and a clump of trees. They eyed each other for some time as Wallace sat in the stern, then it slowly wandered off into the gathering dusk, presumably heading for somebody's henhouse.