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

deer that is alone, naive, does not read the danger signs, or even a goat tethered by a shoreline and enabling hunter, possibly, to confront the crocodile . . . A useful image, the tethered goat. Mrs Jilkes is acting out the part of the goat. I’m sure you follow me. Get the brute out of its cover and then, chuck a big net over it, subdue it, negate the power of the gnashers, cart it off to a zoo and put it in a cage. That’s my idea of the best place for crocodiles . . . and I’ll be fine.”

He stepped out from the car. Hardly wanted two tooled-up young police officers, pumping adrenaline, accompanying him. Heard the dog scratching at the window behind him and thought it could probably do with a square of grass and a gulp of fresh air. Mrs Jilkes was in front of him, walking slowly into the darkness beyond the street light. He accepted that, in his dealings with the young officers, he posed as an expert and a man with a well-full of experience. Was in fact a novice. Had spent his working life corralled in an office, his attention on screens and his card index system and a phone clamped to his ear. It was an inexact science. He thought of the coming contact with the mother of a man subsumed with loathing, with anger. She might spit in his face.

“Mrs Jilkes? Mrs Sadie Jilkes? A moment, please.”

She stopped, turned. Jonas stopped beneath the street light. She would have seen him clearly, his face and his clothing, should have been reassured. No preamble, no messing with her, no soft soaping. Jonas looked into her face. Her eyes quizzed him, her jaw set in defiance. A tough woman who did not need a bouquet of gilded lilies, and whose life was hard . . . He ducked his head as if respect were owed her.

“We believe, Mrs Jilkes, that he is very close. If I am wrong, as I may be, then we face a time of maximum danger. But I believe my assessment is correct – that he is here to see you. You are, of course, at liberty to reject my request but you would then have to live with the consequences . . . It would help me greatly if . . .”

He told her what would help him greatly, and looked for a reaction and did not get one, saw only the weariness in her face. She said nothing: did not agree and did not reject. She walked away. He thought she might have started to limp as if a blister or a bunion pained her. He was confident. Had to be. Stayed in the darkness until she had turned the corner and was on her way to the last home in the cul-de-sac.

He went back to the car and the dog jumped across the back seat at the pleasure of reunion.

Babs asked, “How did it go?”

“Time will tell.”

Dominic said, “Difficult to subdue the brute, that crocodile, even when netted. Why not just shoot it? Turn it into handbags and dog food?”

“And then it is in the territory of mythology and legend. A glorious death at the hands of the tyrants, bullies, despots. I prefer the cage. Endless days without hope turning into months, then years. How did it go? Not long until we find out.”

He settled in the back seat. He felt old and tired, clung to his instinct that seemed – now – fragile.

Chapter 13

The phone beeped. The dog grunted as if annoyed.

Jonas heard the voice of the AssDepDG, clipped and well-schooled, clear but with an undisguised hint of nerves. “Just going to bring you up to speed.”

“All quiet at this end – but not for long if I am correct in the assessment.”

“Like a morgue here, all except for the control areas. Everybody we can turf out and put in the field is now assigned.”

“We are waiting. I remain confident.”

“What would you like first? The almost bad news, or the definite bad news?”

“I’ll take ‘almost’. Is it relevant to me?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. We are operating in a fog. One of those where you hold your hand out in front of your face and cannot see it. We have a target in Leeds who should be doing the washing up in an internet café, except he is not. He is off the radar. We reckon he’s the facilitator . . . You want the second option, ‘definite’?”

“I’m listening.”

Jonas could picture the man alone in the pint-sized office awarded to an AssDepDG, all the rooms around him silent and empty, no footsteps in the corridors, and no voices around the coffee machine. Maybe he would go outside, using the side door and stride around the perimeter fence of the gardens, letting rain drip on him smoking a cigarette. Jonas imagined the AssDepDG dragging a filter-tip, then tossing it in a gutter, then returning to the building, checking the control area: his reward would have been shaken heads, no change of situation.

“The courier I told you about . . . the Germans have lost him, and the Dutch and the Belgians have not picked him up, and the French are still checking. Actually, it’s a couple, and mislaid with them is this bloody missile launcher. It makes for a difficult situation, Jonas.”

“If you say so. They’ll be picked up at a port.”

“You show, Jonas, very tolerable optimism. We are going through the protocols, procedures of notification for an automatic stop . . . God, Jonas, you should know that. Matters of that type take time, take fucking authorisation. I hope that we have the necessary in place.”

“At my end, I remain confident.”

“Your boy down there, he will need – if your prediction is correct, Jonas – a facilitator. Whom we have lost. He will also need a weapon with guaranteed hitting power. And that is also lost. Is your target, locating him, our best chance?”

“I think so.”

A pause on the line, an intake of breath, a moment of consideration. Then the reason for the call. “Jonas, I value your judgement, but . . .”

“If