Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (22 page)

The Professor’s eyes lit-up. “Ah! So you have learned something worthwhile from me in the past?”

“Not really, professor. Information received pointed me in that general direction, I just took the persons word for granted.”

Professor Squires wasn’t amused. He said solemnly, “Shackleton Speed, (he always called me by my full name when he was annoyed), you greatly disappoint. If you had taken the time to attend my lectures with a bit more regularity and the commitment to learn, you might have achieved the ability to be in the same position as I am instead of messing around in muddy fields. It pays handsomely well, and you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”

“I like to get my hands dirty,” I said seriously.

“And that’s your choice. Now pay attention to someone who knows what he’s talking about. Oh! Before I forget, you still owe me a liquid lunch for verifying to the police that you attended one of my lectures when I know damn well you were in Berlin attending-what was the excuse you gave me-ah yes-a seminar in structural engineering. Utter bollocks! More like a slice of your black market involvement. You’re damned lucky I’m on your side or else you’d have had a lot of explaining to do.”

“I did thank you for it,” I corrected him.

“Verbally is insufficient! You can thank me by taking some weight off your illegal gains and buy me a ticket to the opera of my choice instead.”

I agreed hastily; wanting to move things along.

“Good. Now let’s return to the necessities.”

Professor Squires meticulously packed away the remnants of his lunch into a briefcase and resumed his study of the photographs. When he began speaking it was if he was lecturing a class.

“The sweeping angle of the waves hitting the coastline is most definitely a western coast, as you rightly suggested,” he said, looking at me to see if I was paying attention, which I was for a change.

He picked up a magnifying glass and repetitively re-scanned the four pictures with equal amounts of time. His studious silence had me drumming my fingers on my thigh with no rhythmical pattern as I grew impatient.

Finally he said, “These rocks don’t relate to any United Kingdom shorelines, that I’m certain. No. I’d be more prone to suggest that the distinct contours of the rocky shorelines actually point me more in the direction of the South coast of Ireland.”

I was actually disappointed with his findings; expecting an exact location.

“It’s still a fair amount of coastline,” I moaned.

The Professor raised his head alarmingly and told me off. “You have the patience of a Wildebeest spooked by a stalking Lion, Shackleton Speed!”

I shrugged apologetically and he resumed his study of the photographs.

Without looking away from the photographs he reached for the folded paper map on the corner of his desk. It was an enlarged map of the Republic of Ireland. He began flitting from the photographs to the map as if he was participating in a game of bobbing for apples and continued the motions for approximately two minutes before I saw the smile of satisfaction across his face. Then he infuriated me by flitting through for a second opinion, map-picture-map before he lay back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head in a gentle stretch.

“Well?” I probed anxiously.

“I’ve no doubt whatsoever it’s the coastline of South or South-west of Ireland. I’d say roughly coastline between Skibbereen and Bantry. I’d like to speculate further, but without actually attending the area, and taking in consideration the water damage on the photographs, it’s the best I can do at the moment, Shacks.”

“You can tell all that from those photographs?”

“The way the waves hit the coastline concedes the information. I’ve studied enough coastlines around the world in the past to know the differences, believe me, Shacks”

I thought initially what a boring life he must lead to take up such a subject and spend endless hours studying, but I’m glad he did. His knowledge would guide me along a different road; to where exactly only my own intuition would take me.

I smiled. “You’ve done more than enough, Professor. I can’t thank you enough.”

“My pleasure, Shacks, though I don’t issue freebies. I’ll add the consultancy fee to the drinks bill when you decide to honour your previous debt. Now be off with you!”

I placed the photographs back into the envelope and went home. I poured myself a cold beer, dug out a road atlas and began scrutinizing the southernmost point of Ireland. The professor’s estimation of the possible coastline was filled with bays, crevices, inlets, and rivers, which I estimated would take me a multitude of time to explore. I’d no complaints because it was a starting place regardless, and one I wasn’t about to ignore.

I threw some belongings into a small travel suitcase, shaved, showered and dressed into suitable driving clothes. I fed Winston with a hearty meal of diced best steak mixed with biscuit cereal, and while I watched in amazement as his slobbering jaws devoured the contents, the telephone rang. It was Professor Squires.

“Glad I caught you before you left.”

“Who said I was going anywhere?”

“Just say, I’m a good guesser and I know you too well. Now, pay attention! Forget my previous prediction on the location of the rock formations and concentrate on the surrounding coastlines in and around Baltimore and Roaring Water Bay. Don’t forget to send me a postcard,” he added just before he broke off his call.

Reluctantly I decided to leave Winston at the home of an acquaintance of mine, a nice girl called Judy; she does my daily housekeeping. Okay the mutt had been a marvellous ally up to now, but I hardly think rock climbing or snorkelling would be suitable for a dog. Besides I couldn’t possibly concentrate on his welfare and mine too especially now the minefield had widened considerably. And if my pursuers were willing to kill me they wouldn’t think twice about shooting a dog whose acquired reputation of taking no prisoners in battle had probably now become legendary.

Incredibly I’d suddenly lost all interest in Hamer and Morgan. They would have to wait for my help. I packed everything into the Roadster, drove down the M4 to Swansea where I caught the next available night car ferry to the Republic of Ireland. I was too late to book a cabin so I found a comfortable chair and slept a few hours. There was one important thing I promised myself as I began to snooze. Whatever happens to me in the following days it was important that I was back for Len’s funeral, even if it meant I would have to share his coffin too.

It was raining hard when the ferry sailed into Cork harbour. From Cork I eased the Roadster along the N71 coastal route to Skibbereen. Even though Professor Squires had pinpointed the area of Baltimore, I thought I would check out his first prediction anyway and then make my way back. On my arrival I wasted no time in touring the roads close to the coastline that I’d marked on my road map. Mile after mile, I travelled, stopping at various points that looked something similar to those on the photographs I had spread across the passenger seat. It soon became apparent I was getting nowhere fast, other than sending myself daft. There was nothing on the photographs that I could relate to the landscapes or coastlines I came across. Then I shouldn’t really be surprised since structural changes to the landscapes had obviously occurred over the passing years.

Overall I found little of significance. It had been a long day. I was tired and hungry and I was developing the first signs of a crunching headache. I decided to give up for the day. There was no point in pushing myself beyond exhaustion. Dejectedly, I drove back to Baltimore to locate the hotel where I’d booked a reservation over the telephone before I’d left London.

The Baltimore Harbour Hotel was busy and perfect to blend in without attracting too much attention to myself. After dinner in the hotel I went out to familiarize myself with the area. If this was going to be my base camp for the duration then I would need to know every nook and cranny of the area. It would also give me the opportunity to double check if I had been followed across to Ireland. I didn’t expect to be followed, and I soon discovered I hadn’t. Though to be absolutely sure I ventured into a pub called Bushe’s Bar. I ordered a cold Guinness and sat at a suitable table with my back against a wall and to keep watch on the entrance while I listened to the lively tunes and Irish songs from a local folk band.

During a short intermission from the music I took the opportunity to pester Inspector Hamer. I needed to ask him something. I rang the mobile number he’d given me and kept it blunt. “Got anything on Deveron?”

Naturally, Hamer was pleased to hear from me. “Oh it’s you Speed! So nice of you to surface from your hiding place! I’ve been searching London for you.”

“Why?”

“I have your required document stating immunity from prosecution over the matter of Ministry property at Berkshire, signed, sealed, as you asked for. Remember?”

“So?”

“So how the fuck do you expect me to deliver it when you elect to disappear?”

“Well don’t bother breaking into my home. Post it!”

I sensed I’d rattled him.

“You have the gratitude of a male spider being killed after mating! Where exactly are you?”

“I’m in a safe place. Did you locate Deveron?”

“Not exactly, he retired from the Ministry years ago.”

“I already know
that!
Where did he go?”

“He never left a forwarding address, so I guess he didn’t want to be traced.”

“I thought you chaps were good?”

“Shut it you facetious swine. Anyway, the old bastard is probably dead. What’s so special about Deveron?”

“He’s a war hero. I want his autograph.”

“Well I hope you have better luck than I did trying to find him. Now are you going to tell me where you are, Speed?”

“I’m on holiday.”

“Oh! A pleasant place is it?”

“Are you asking or probing?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well then, when you’ve decided I’ll ring you back.”

Hamer began to mutter some obscenities but I cut him off and switched my mobile to silence and straight to the answer phone.

While I was replacing the mobile back into my pocket I became aware of a rugged looking fellow of medium height standing at the bar, probably in his middle fifties, wearing a flat cap and knee length coat opened to reveal a checked shirt. I’d no doubt whatsoever that he was staring directly at me. He actually made me nervous. I sipped some Guinness to steady myself, watching his distorted shape through the rim of the glass. If it was me that the fellow was interested in then I was about to find out what he wanted because he moved away from the bar and headed in my direction.

I continued my observation of him through the beer glass while I pretended to take a long drink. When he got within spitting distance I placed the glass down onto the table in anticipation of trouble. He had a determined look in his eyes but I soon realized he presented no danger to me. Anyone preparing for a fight wouldn’t have had a clay pipe clamped between their front teeth and carrying a glass of beer ever so careful so as not to spill a drop. I continued to be minding my own business but remained wary of him.

On closer observation the man had red veined cheeks associated with someone who had spent a good deal of life in the open air. I could tell even before he spoke he was touting for some relevant business and as he hovered over me I got a distinct smell of fish which narrowed down the options of what he did for a living quite conclusively.

He removed the pipe from between his teeth and smiled at me. I could clearly see the arch shape chipped away in his tobacco stained upper two front teeth where the pipe stem had fitted perfectly, the indentation probably achieved after a lifetime of clamping the pipe stem.

“Hullo there, sir!” He said with a cheerful southern Irish voice.

I acknowledged half heartedly with a false smile, nodded and looked away to discourage his approach. In truth, I wasn’t in the best of moods for small talk, as my mind had yet to clear from the disappointments of the day. But the Irish fellow was persistent.

“Would it be work or pleasure that brings yer to these shores, sir?”

“A bit of both,” I said, dryly.

“Yer’re wouldn’t be one of those poets looking for a bit of inspiration, would yer be, sir?”

“Not really-Mister-ah?” I thought I might as well know who I’m talking to.

“It is I, sir, Shamus O’Malley, at yer service, and owner of a pleasure fishing boat. Do yer perhaps want to fish these waters?”

“I detest sea fishing.” And I did.

He expressed his disappointment. “O that’s a shame yer don’t like fishing, sir.”

But he had me contemplating an idea. “How big is this boat of yours?” I asked, thoughtfully.

“It’s very big, sir. And the finest in Baltimore harbour. She’s in readiness for a fine customer as yerself. Yer be thinking of a cruise then, sir?”

“Yes, cruising, Shamus; amongst other things.”

I could sense his suspicion creeping into the conversation. “And what would this other thing be, sir? I’m not a smuggler or anything of that nature. My hearts as pure as the water I drink.”

“You’re drinking Guinness,” I reminded him.

“That I am, sir.”

I smiled. “Relax, Shamus. I’m actually a journalist researching for material on the possibility of an attempted Japanese invasion on these very shores in 1944.”

“You’d be kidding me, sir? A Japanese invasion indeed! Here in Ireland?”

“It’s perfectly true. I thought an excursion around the bay might reveal some relevant details.”

I was half expecting him to assume I was crackers. That I’d maybe lost a few screws that held my brain in place. I was wrong. He didn’t rate me as an escapee from a mental institution because he began to rub the grey bristles on his chin while delving into the depths of his mind in search for a speck of information to extend our conversation. He raised a forefinger. I assumed he’d suddenly remembered some important detail he needed to tell me.

“An invasion you say, sir? I might just be able to help yer on that one,” he said, proudly.