Darkness, along with the neighbouring jetties and moorings kept us concealed along the way and as we got closer to the rambling Gothic-style property, its sheer walls of granite looming above us through a shroud of sea mist. Gargoyles, looked down from their high perches in snarling condemnation at anyone entering their domain.
We left the small boat secured to Harry’s jetty and covered the distance across the garden to the back of the garage block, staying low, our feet sinking into the freshly dug earth of the flower border. We moved around to the side of the single storey building, and crouched down to take in our surroundings.
A light was on below us at the cellar window and the sound of water gulping down a drain was loud in the night. Around us colourful hydrangea bushes lined the walls, and from the lit window came the sound of Sinatra.
I dropped down onto weather worn flagstones outside the cellar window.
I raised my head slowly above the sill. I saw the brightly-lit area at the bottom of the stone steps, which at first sight looked like any other room for storing wine. Except that tonight, the rows of racking, heavily laden with bottles, had been moved back on rollers out of the way and were now stacked against the end wall. This secret part of the room was large and well equipped with machinery and laboratory benches. A draught of hot air was coming from the heater fans.
Nearer to me an electric vacuum pump was pounding gently. Harry Caplin walked across the room; his black T-shirt was stained down the front. The smell of acetic acid was almost overwhelming.
I felt Fiona’s hand on my back as she looked over my shoulder, and could hear her swallow hard to avoid throwing up on the acrid fumes. Harry went across to the small electric pulverizer and pulled the switch. The music was washed away on a tide of noise from the little electric motor. The cellar had obviously been very well sound proofed and Harry was oblivious to the din coming from the machines and pump. Outside, the sound of the sea slapping against the jetty wall and the wind was all that could be heard.
This was definitely a small morphine-processing lab: the vacuum pump, pulverizer, drying area, everything to turn morphine into heroin before it was distributed to the dealers. Harry Caplin I thought; a retired American wine distributor living his dream by the sea in England. More like creating a nightmare. He was almost certainly the go-between through which supplies travelled and were then processed. I leaned through the open window, raised my 10mm Glock automatic, and aimed with care. The small weapon spat through its silenced barrel. The only sound was the gun coughing. On impact the bullet tore open the compact disc player on a shelf above Harry’s head, sending fragments of plaster and sharp plastic everywhere.
Harry cowered down by the side of the bench that he had been working at, raising his arms to protect his head. Disoriented by what had just happened he stood up very cautiously, a Walther PPK pistol in his right hand.
“Switch off the pump and the pulverizer and drop the weapon, Harry, or I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” I said. For a moment he stared at me, then he did so and silence descended on the room. He placed the pistol on the bench.
“Now, Harry, walk slowly towards the door and open it.”
“You must be outta…” His voice trailed off as I cocked the Glock.
“Don’t say a word,” I said. “I haven’t forgotten that you were partly responsible for the death of Charlie McIntyre.” Harry was about to speak, but decided not to. He came over to the arched door and slipped the bolts. I motioned to Fiona to go to the door, but she was already one step ahead of me and was there, gun in hand.
“OK, Harry, now back away from the door. There’s a good chap. Just stay where you are, and I promise not to blow holes into you or any of your very expensive equipment…”
Harry was biding his time, waiting until I had to move away from the window, but what he hadn’t allowed for was double jeopardy. Fiona pushed open the door, her gun pointed at his genitals. I joined her inside, closing and bolting the door behind me.
The three of us stood there in silence until Harry, having regained his composure, said, “Welcome to the dream factory, people.”
Fiona and I stood there and said nothing.
“Who the hell are you people anyway? I know you’re not cops,” said Harry.
“No, were not cops, Harry. But I can call one if you like?” You could cut through the tension that had mounted inside the cellar.
“So, tell me, Harry, why did you plant a bomb under my boss’s car? Was it him you were after or the opium inside the glove compartment? Or did a little bird inside Ferran & Cardini give you a call and tell you that LJ’s car was going to be moved?”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Ace,” said Harry. He was tanned darker than the last time I’d seen him, and the skin where his watch had been was like a white bangle. His wrinkled forehead was covered in beads of sweat and he kept wetting his lips with the end of his tongue.
“What’s the use of explaining,” he continued. “I really thought you were an OK sort of guy, a little stiff assed at times, but OK. No hard feelings. As they say back home, Ace, when Fall comes you can always tell which trees are the evergreens!”
“Well, where you’re going, Harry, it’s going to be winter all year long,” I said.
He looked across at me and gave a rueful smile.
He said, “Son, why is it I get the feeling that you’re shouting at me from the other side of the highway when all you’ve got is small talk on the sidewalk. If you get my meaning.” He was cold and as hard as the northern mistral winds of Southern France.
“How did you get into this racket?” I asked him quietly.
“Can I sit down?” he asked.
I nodded, but kept the automatic aimed at him.
“Look, we’ve all got problems, Ace,” Harry said, as he sat down heavily, “and they have to be put into perspective; the trouble is that problems look big close up.” Fiona got out her cigarettes and threw one to Harry along with a lighter. He took his time lighting one up.
“You don’t have to play games, I know all about your enterprise here,” I said.
“Yeah, so tell me Ace, what do you know?”
“What I know, is that I came here to retrieve certain items from a sunken boat off the coast of Dorset. Simple enough, wouldn’t you say, Harry? But something obviously went wrong on the night she went down — didn’t it? I’d guess that just before the Gin Fizz was deliberately scuttled someone or something became a problem. Your precious consignment of opium goes down with the boat. More than likely the pickup was late and the captain panicked. This must have made you very unhappy, Harry. Especially as you’d almost certainly had to pay extra to have it transferred to the Gin Fizz just off the French coast.”
“I’m introduced to a certain gentleman by the name of George Ferdinand, who turns out to be an exsoldier by the name of George Thomas Ferlind, who served in the same regiment, and at the same time as our Cabinet Minister, Oliver Hawkworth. As I see it, he is either working for Hawkworth or with you, Harry. Either way he is in a sweet position to keep an eye on Robert Flackyard and his activities down here in Dorset.”
“Yeah, you are right up to a point Ace, the opium should have been picked up just before she was scuttled. The guy sent to collect it was thirty minutes late, by the time he arrived that little weasel of a captain had put the Gin Fizz on the bottom,” said Harry reflectively. He nodded and suddenly began talking quickly.
“I got involved with this racket, because, well, because I needed the dough.”
“I met George in a bar in London about three years ago, and I suppose we hit it off instantly because for the next two hours I went through the whole mess back home. My pal Marcus Cohen was on a tax evasion charge at the time and it looked as if he would be going to the pen for a serious amount of time.”