The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

on him suddenly, seemed to crush him at the shoulders: his responsibility and the weight he carried. Saw the face, scarred and carrying stubble, aged from warfare. Blinked, saw it again and clearer – memorised it . . . Did not doubt that soon, he would look at the face, be close to it.

Chapter 14

Midnight. A church clock struck in the distance.

The rain had stopped. Jonas lowered his window. He needed a break, and the dog did, and maybe Dominic too, and Babs. He assumed they would be expert in choosing the moment when it was suitable to duck into the bushes – and they might enjoy a cigarette: Jonas did not smoke, had not for years, but harboured none of the fascist tendencies against those who did. He had enjoyed a good journey down the A303, the chosen route for those with a dislike of the motorway, never fazed by the length of the queue behind him and his towed caravan. Had appreciated the recollection of the target’s young face. An old picture, and the man would now show the wear and tear of warfare. Would have been a pretty bloody experience in Jonas’s view. He had seen the arrest snaps of Provos in the net late in their conflict – never met with them face to face or sat in on interrogation – and had looked at the monochrome images of the faces and measured the extent of the pressure they had lived under . . . Did not mean he sympathised but he understood better.

“A comfort break, are we up for that?”

All out. He gave Dominic the dog. Babs went deep into shadow. Jonas thought it a caricature of a night operation. Was a little shy himself and stood apart from them, but could see that the dog did its business and so did Dominic, the assault weapon hanging awkwardly from the strap around his neck. Before he’d shaken, Babs was coming back, fastening her belt.

Jonas said, “I suppose it’s something you want to do.”

“What’s that, Mr Merrick?”

“Get a chance to perform. To shoot.”

“Is this conversation, Mr Merrick, or is this for a psychologist’s assessment-of-mental-state report?”

Dominic said, “We had a bit of biography on you, Mr Merrick, but an economic one. Didn’t say what you’d done that singled you.”

Jonas said, “What I call a ‘clear blue sky’ moment. An impertinence on my part. Something happens in front of you, and sparks a reaction. You do something . . . cannot explain it. Didn’t have a manual to leaf through, five hundred pages of regulations. Train and train and make ready, but how will it be? And – will you be up to it – all that palaver? Tonight all three of us are weighed down by responsibility. If I get it wrong, if you get it wrong, then we’ll swing in the wind. Which I suppose is what responsibility is about.”

“How are you feeling, Mr Merrick?”

“Rather tired. Will be glad when it’s concluded.”

“Not the most comfortable place, Mr Merrick, our back seat.”

“But not for much longer. Very close, I’d say.”

“We’ve rather taken you on trust, Mr Merrick.”

“Appreciated.”

“Where is he, Mr Merrick? Any idea?”

“Could already be there. Could be with his mother. Either there or very close. Not going to be fun for him. I think she is a woman of quite powerful resolve. He has put her through pain, some very acute, and she will not have appreciated the ripping apart of her life. He will get the book thrown at him, and maybe the kitchen sink as well. He will not have expected that. He’ll be quite severely shaken. But that is only my assessment.”

“If you are wrong, Mr Merrick?”

“Problem is, I am the only game in town.”

“If he doesn’t come, Mr Merrick?”

“That’s beyond where I am prepared to go. Means he is loose . . . Sitting in your car, and with my new best friend, I was thinking of holidays. Always lightens the mood, don’t you think, the thought of a holiday? Vera and I like to take our caravan down to the south-west. Some very pleasant sites in Devon, which is where we prefer to be, but the same is true of Cornwall. I don’t know the Dorset coast, but I expect it’s quite fun to be near Bridport and looking for those fossils on the beach, those ammonites. Yes, we should try that one day . . .”

He realised there was a quaver in his voice and that he rambled and that both of the police officers were staring at him and there was enough moonlight for him to see that both accepted that he had told the, as he saw it, the truth. He was, for the next few hours, “the only game in town”.

The dog had started to drink from a puddle of rainwater.

He said boldly, “It is a crocodile we’re looking for. When it moves, it shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

He climbed back into the car and the dog nestled up close, and he held his phone, waited for the call.

He had used that back door, the one into the kitchen, when his mum had brought him back from the college. She had said there was no shame attached to a changed voice, but Cammy had bolted from her and had run around the side of the house, skipped past the bins and the rest of the dumped rubbish, and had waited for her at the kitchen door. Had left her to carry his bag, and not much in it. She had unlocked the door and let him in.

Same door, and he eased it shut behind him.

Sufficient light now for him to register that no furniture had been moved. The table where it always had been, and the four chairs around it, and the fridge in the same place, and the photograph in the frame . . . should have been on the window-ledge. The photograph had been of himself, aged twelve, wearing the full uniform of a cathedral chorister, in colour. His mum had paid £11.75 for the picture and then another £9 for