The Loophole

  THE

  LOOPHOLE

  VERA MORRIS

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2019

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Vera Morris 2019

  The right of Vera Morris to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names

  and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and

  any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely

  coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

  means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written

  permission of the publisher:

  Accent Press

  Octavo House

  West Bute Street

  Cardiff

  CF10 5LJ

  ISBN 9781786156617

  elSBN 9781786156600

  For Simon, my nephew, with love

  The wish to hurt, the momentary intoxication with pain, is the loophole through which the pervert climbs into the minds of ordinary men.

  Jacob Bronowski 1954

  Chapter 1

  Sunday, May 9, 1971

  It was ten o’clock as Thomas Taylor Coltman slipped his feet into Wellingtons, took an oiled-coat from the rack by the back door, slung his leather bag over his shoulder, and stepped out into the night. All was quiet in Orford. He turned the iron key and placed it under a plant pot at the back of a rosemary bush. The plant’s sharp smell brought saliva to his mouth: he remembered his mother lifting a crackling leg of lamb, spiked with the herb, from the oven. The thought of the semi-rare meat, pink juices oozing from the cut flesh, turned his mouth acid, choking him. He spat onto the garden path leading into Doctor’s Lane, looked round, and guiltily smeared it away with his boot.

  The moon was in its first quarter, fresh against the black sky; he gazed up, imagining the Apollo 15 astronauts who, in a few months, would be circling it. Brave men. Once, he’d been brave like them.

  He thanked God, if there was one, the longer days were here, and would be for the next few months. He was filling the short nights with walks over the fields, lanes and beaches, with no one to see him but the nocturnal animals. As he walked down Doctor’s Lane, east towards the North Sea, he savoured the smells of the night: grass, flowers and the tang of salt. A seed of joy started to grow in his heart. A movement of the air, hardly a breeze, touched his face, caressing his greying curls. His heart swelled as he remembered how Audrey used to stroke his hair, pushing it back from his ears as she looked up into his face, her eyes full of love, lips parted in a sweet smile. Tears pricked his eyes. With head lowered he walked on; the familiar pain of losing Audrey and John never lessened, stretching his heart until he thought it would burst. The seed in his heart shrivelled. He moved his head from side to side, like a caged, flea-bitten tiger seeking escape. He must hurry. Find something to put in the bag. Keep moving, always moving.

  He turned from Doctor’s Lane down a pinched track called Doctor’s Drift, which led to the River Ore, and then to the sea. A barn owl, white and silent against the starry sky, glided over the fields on its regular beat; head fixed, wings pressing down the air. He wished he was back flying in his Hudson plane, back before it all happened. Back before the war, back before being posted to the Malang base in Java. Back before defeat; they were totally underpowered with too few planes, and all out of date -no match for the Japanese air force.

  Move on. Stop thinking. Find something for the bag. As he neared the river, where his rowing boat was anchored, alders and willows appeared. As a child he had come with his family every year from London to Orford for holidays in their Victorian summer cottage. The cottage was now his home. He’d grown to love the sea, crabbing, fishing and learning to row a boat. When he had returned in 1946 the boat was in the cottage’s garden, rotting. He’d worked on it, replacing planks, caulking the seams until it was water-worthy again.

  He bent over, pulled up the anchor, wincing as his back creaked. God, he wasn’t sixty yet, but sometimes he felt like an old man. He pushed an oar against the bank and the boat glided over the stagnant water of the shallow inlet. He pulled on the oars, his muscles warmed and the movement of the boat soothed him. He thought of the uncompleted work in the kitchen cupboard. Tonight, he must finish it.

  At the hamlet of Shingle Street the river emptied into the sea; tonight, it was calm, with a pleasant swell. He pulled hard on the oars and turned the boat north. To his right was Orford Ness, a wide shingle spit, linked to the shore by a narrow strip of land south of Aldeburgh. When he’d been a lad, it had been a place of mystery and fascination: a military site since 1918 and later used for secret research. He’d disobey his father and creep to the barbed wire guarding its perimeter and lie in the marram grass watching planes come in from Felixstowe; sometimes they’d drop test bombs which exploded in the sea. Often, they’d land, usually on the Ness’s North Airfield. His dad warned him to never go onto Orford Ness. Not only was it forbidden, but it was littered with unexploded bombs and artillery shells. Soon after he was posted to Java he got a letter from Mum telling him poor Mr Laughton, the lighthouse keeper, had been blown to bits when he was beachcombing on the shingle ridges of Orford Ness.

  Now it was deserted, the demolition crews had left years ago; it was rumoured they’d return next year and finish clearing it as there were still many unexploded bombs. From his boat he’d watched the Ordnance men working; he knew which areas were clear of explosives, and since they’d left, he often came to the Ness at night, ignoring the sagging barbed-wire and wind-worn wooden notices, bleached by salt-spray, their lettering faint against the pale wood.

  LANDING FORBIDDEN

  DANGER UNEXPLODED BOMBS

  As he neared the shore, water from the oars splashed his face; he licked his lips, tasting salt as the keel ground against the shingle beach. He clambered out, his Wellingtons slipping on the pebbles, pulled the boat above the water line and threw the anchor onto the beach. He opened the leather bag and took out a torch and switched it on; its beam glinted off desired objects, which he picked up and put in the bag.

  After working the beach for half an hour, he turned the torch off, straightened up and rubbed the small of his back. The red-and-white striped lighthouse was in front of him. Reluctantly, unable to stop himself, he turned and looked at the pagodas. There they sat, their black silhouettes squat and menacing against the night sky, their heavy, concrete roofs supported by thick pillars. As always, his stomach clenched with an absurd fear. They were shaped like pagodas, but they weren’t pagodas, he told himself. This was Suffolk, not Java. He forced himself to look at them, always hoping the fear would fade. But it didn’t. Never sleep at night, they said, for if he did, the nightmares came stealing from the recesses of his brain and he would wake up screaming, quivering, his pyjamas soaked with sweat.

  Always the same dream: he was lying on bare earth, unable to stretch out his body, his head forced to his chest, knees bent, back rounded, confined by the bamboo cage, reeking of his own piss and shit. The nights were worse than the days. The darkness was absolute, the noises perpetual: the droning of mosquitoes as they approached his nakedness, the harrowing calls of night birds, the flapping of bats’ leathery wings, the slither of snakes and the wind plucking the bars of his cage and flailing the leaves of the wild banana trees.It was four o’clock, and the air redolent with the dawn chorus when Coltman laid the bag on his kitchen table, opened it an
d carefully extracted what he’d picked up from the shingle ridges of Orford Ness. There were tiny sea-snail shells, their nacred surfaces shining with rainbow colours; small ridged scallop and other bivalve shells, some veneered with pale blue lines; pieces of driftwood, grooved by the sea; glass pebbles, dulling as they dried; and rectangular dog-fish egg-cases, like the backs of black cockroaches.

  He brought the work he must finish from a cupboard. It was the base of an empty chocolate box which he’d taken from a waste bin in one of the chalets in the holiday camp when he’d been sent to replace a light bulb. He didn’t think the chalet occupiers would notice its absence. He’d reinforced the base with plywood and covered the insides with wallpaper he’d found in the attic. In the centre he’d pasted a picture of a young woman: pretty, with brown curls, a smile and happy, deep blue eyes. He’d cut her from a woman’s magazine, he remembered it was a shampoo advert, sourced, like the chocolate box, from another waste bin. Round her he’d glued rings of shells.

  He washed and dried the new shells, got a glue-pot from the cupboard and, using tweezers and a fine brush, completed the intricate pattern. From a drawer in the table he took out an envelope which contained lengths of fine wire. With a scalpel, its blade glinting, he made minute incisions round the edge of the box. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Five thirty. He’d time to finish it. He couldn’t leave her like this -unprotected.

  The pile of wires diminished. He looked at the clock again. Ten to seven. He needed to leave for the camp soon. He looked at his work and felt at peace. He’d got through the night and now she was safe. She smiled out behind the wire bars. No one could harm her and she couldn’t escape. He took the work upstairs to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe and placed the box with all the others.

  Chapter 2

  Monday, June 7, 1971

  Laurel Bowman glanced at herself in the hall mirror. She’d put her hair up into a chignon and chosen a crisp white blouse to go with her new suit. She hoped Frank wasn’t wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Sam Salter was the most important person to consult The Anglian Detective Agency so far, and she felt they ought to try and make the right impression.

  She bit her lip and gave a rueful smile. No one could tell Frank what to do. The best she could hope for was the leather jacket and clean shoes. She pushed open the door of the dining room of Greyfriars House, which also served as their office and meeting room.

  Frank Diamond, former Detective Inspector, was staring out of the window, rubbing his chin. It was the leather jacket. He still looked more like a rock star than a private detective. It was the hair -black, curly and too long.

  ‘Still obsessed with your stubble, Frank?’ She found the grazing of his bristles on her cheek when he occasionally, far too occasionally, gave her a friendly kiss, mildly erotic.

  He turned, still caressing his face. ‘Someone’s got to be. I shaved at six and I swear it’s grown an eighth of an inch already and it’s only ten thirty.’

  ‘Too much testosterone,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘Tut, tut. Far too early to be talking sex.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ Stuart Elderkin, formerly Frank’s Detective Sergeant, came into the room. ‘Good job Mabel’s not here. You know she’s sensitive about... you know what.’

  ‘What’s she doing married to you, then?’ Frank quipped.

  Stuart parked his bulky body onto a chair. ‘She’s going all domesticated, that’s what she’s doing. As agreed, she’s supervising the new kitchen being installed and won’t be at the meeting with Salter.’

  ‘Dorothy’s upset about that,’ Laurel said.

  ‘She’s been rather sharp lately. Perhaps you’d better have a word, Laurel?’ Frank said.

  She shook her head. Not a good idea.

  ‘I’m glad to get away from all the mess and Mabel moaning about the rising price of food, especially bread. Says she’ll have to start baking if the price of a loaf goes up to 15p.’

  Laurel sat down. ‘Let’s get down to business. Stuart, have you found out any new facts about Sam Salter? All I know is he runs several holiday camps.’

  ‘Nothing juicy. He was a bit of a lad, used to mix with the East End gangsters in his teens and early twenties, but nothing serious, never charged with any crime. He settled down, one son, wife died when the kid was about five. He’s made a great success of the holiday camp business and he’s well-heeled.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘He’s 51, never re-married. That’s about it.’ He smiled at her. ‘You look terrific, Laurel. New suit? Grey suits you. You remind me of one of those Scandinavian film stars, you know, cool, blonde and unattainable.’

  ‘Can’t see you as Anita Ekberg,’ Frank said.

  She gave him a frosty look. She certainly couldn’t compete with the Swedish film star in one respect: the star of La Dolce Vita was a 40DD at least in the bosom stakes. She chose not to rise to the bait. ‘What height is Salter?’ She pointed to her high heels. ‘I don’t want to tower over him.’

  Frank laughed. ‘Let’s hope he’s over six feet, then he’ll be able to look you in the eye.’

  ‘I wonder why Salter wants to keep this meeting hush-hush?’ Stuart said.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied. ‘I was hoping we’d meet at one of his holiday camps. I’ve never been to a holiday camp. Have you?’

  Stuart smiled. ‘Yes, went to one once. Must have been in the 1950s. I didn’t like it, too many people all determined to have a good time and to let everyone else know they were having one.’ His smile broadened. ‘Not like last week in London, it was packed, but that didn’t worry Mabel and me, we did what we wanted, when we wanted. Best holiday I’ve had in a long time.’ He let out a long, slow sigh of satisfaction.

  Dear Stuart, he looked happy and relaxed; it was good to have him and Mabel back, even though they’d only been away for a week. ‘It wasn’t a holiday, Stuart, it was your honeymoon. I know Mabel loved it; she certainly did a bit of shopping.’ She raised her eyebrows and pulled a face.

  He laughed. ‘We’ve made a big dent in our savings, especially after this new kitchen we’re having fitted. Just as well the firm’s doing well; let’s hope Sam Salter has a nice big, fat juicy case for us.’

  The sound of a car pulling up on the drive drew them to the window. Through the lingering sea mist, which they’d woken up to, a dark silver car with a Jaguar mascot on its bonnet manoeuvred between her Ford Cortina and Frank’s Avenger. ‘Gosh, the holiday camp business must be doing well,’ she said.

  Stuart pursed his lips. ‘A 420G,’ he said. ‘Warwick grey; bet it’s got red seats.’ His eyes shifted to his car, parked nearer the round pond; his mouth turned down.

  ‘I thought you loved your old car?’

  ‘I do, but I could be persuaded to love that one even more,’

  A tall, well-built man, dressed in a camel-hair coat and dark suit got out of the car, took a briefcase from the passenger seat, and walked towards the house. They stepped back from the window, like schoolchildren who’d been caught peeping at a courting couple.

  Dorothy Piff, owner of Greyfriars House, one-time school secretary, now administrator of the agency, came into the room and looked at the layout of the table; she primped an arrangement of roses in its centre, sending a heavy scent into the air. The front door bell rang, and she looked at her wrist-watch. ‘Eleven o’clock. He’s punctual.’ She squared pencil to blotting paper and pushed up her blue-framed glasses with a forefinger. ‘I’ll let him in. Frank, sit down. All of you, try and look alert. Stuart, wipe that moony smile off you face. The honeymoon’s over, it’s back to business.’ She stomped off.

  ‘What’s got into her?’ Stuart asked. ‘She’s always been bossy but that’s border-line rude.’

  Laurel patted his hand. ‘She went to Emily’s grave this morning; her death is hurting more than ever, and I think she missed you and Mabel when you were away. When Mabel said she wouldn’t be here for the meeting, I don’t think that went down well either.’

  D
orothy’s twin sister, Emily, had been murdered last September, by Nicholson, the headmaster of Blackfriars School.

  ‘Welcome to The Anglian Detective Agency, Mr Salter. I’m Dorothy Piff, the administrator. Can I take your coat?’ A deep voice rumbled a reply.

  Frank rolled his eyes and Stuart sniggered. Laurel shook her head.

  ‘Through here. The rest of the team are in the main office.’

  Dorothy held the door wide as Sam Salter came into the room. He was tall, about six two, and divested of his coat, the well-cut suit couldn’t quite conceal he was beginning to run to fat. Thick blond hair, darkened by age and silvered at the sides, sprang from a high forehead on which were traced faint lines -of worry? overwork?

  Dorothy introduced them. He silently nodded and grasped each hand in turn. ‘Our fifth associate, Mrs Mabel Grill -sorry, Mrs Mabel Elderkin -has another assignment.’

  Salter looked quizzically at Stuart. ‘A newly married man? My congratulations, Mr Elderkin.’

  Stuart reddened, wriggling his shoulders. ‘Thank you, Mr Salter.’

  ‘Please take a seat.’ Dorothy indicated the chair at the head of the table.

  Salter’s small, blue eyes stared at each of them in turn. His nose was neat, his lips full and there was a faint cleft in his chin. Not unattractive. He remained silent.

  ‘How can we help you, Mr Salter?’ Frank asked.

  He took a deep breath, his barrel chest pushing against the expensive white shirt. ‘Before I explain the reason for my being here, I must be assured all I tell you will remain within these four walls.’

  What on earth was he going to say? They’d all been intrigued when he’d insisted he must meet them here, at Greyfriars House, and they mustn’t tell anyone he was seeking their help.

  ‘We’ve had plenty of practise in keeping silent lately,’ Frank said.

  Stuart raised his eyebrows and Dorothy twisted her lips.