A Fatal Score

By A. W. Lambert

Theo Stern's old friend, jazz musician, Steve Arnold hits Sheringham. But jazz is the last thing on Stern's mind when he finds that his friend is involved in a sinister tangle of violence and death.

A brutal killing on a cross channel ferry and the arrival of a jazz musician to perform in a sleepy seaside town.

Two totally unconnected events?

So thinks private investigator, Theo Stern. But sinister happenings indicate otherwise and Stern finds himself sucked into a threatening entanglement of intrigue and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054195

Book preview

Prologue

Summer 1953

BATTERSEA—LONDON

It’s hot, the sun pounding down on the narrow, airless street. In a vain attempt to capture any available airflow, the doors of the old, cramped terraced houses are thrown open, their sash windows lowered. The softening tarmac road surface smears itself a tacky black to the shoes of a small group of sweating boys as they chase a battered tennis ball from one kerb to the other. Occasionally the kids’ antics draw foul curses from within as, inevitably in such confined surroundings, the ball thumps dangerously close to a window.

Through open doors and windows, the strident call of Wakie, Waaakie rings out as the Billy Cotton band rattles wireless speakers with its rendering of Somebody Stole My Gal, the introduction to the Sunday favourite, The Billy Cotton Band Show.

Along the street, women lounge at front doors, gossiping, hair in rollers, cigarettes smouldering between nicotine-stained fingers.

But in one house, hot or cold, the Sunday routine is always the same.

Mother, too busy for gossip, spends the whole morning sweating profusely over the old gas stove, preparing a roast, undeterred by the fact that when the time comes, it will take a fraction of that time and effort to dispose of.

Earlier, as is also part of the Sunday routine, Father, darts and Woodbines tucked into his top pocket, disappears. On his return, his step as always is slightly unsteady, his speech slightly slurred. But his timing is perfect. He walks through the front door as the meal is being placed on the table and to Mother’s obvious pleasure embraces her and whispers secretly into her ear.

After the washing up, a greasy affair, Mother discards her trusty pinafore and carries a kitchen chair into the back yard. Her head protected from the sun by a hat she last wore to a cousin’s wedding more than three years before, she sits reading a book, her eyes frequently drooping.

Father and son adjourn to the front room and the gramophone, the afternoon spent, just the two of them, steeped in jazz, the music they both love. Father’s proud collection includes many of the greats: New Orleans jazzmen like George Lewis, Bunk Johnson, Sidney Bechet, and many more. And there is little he doesn’t know about them all: the tragedy that was Bix Beiderbecke; the outrageous Jelly Roll Morton, who at only twelve was already playing piano in the bordellos of Storyville, New Orleans; and above all, the rise of the great Louis Armstrong from a lowly boys’ home to immense stardom.

Father’s own enthusiasm for his beloved jazz music has been instilled into his son from the first, and it’s all he knows. He too is twelve years old, and as he listens to the music and the fascinating stories behind it, it’s all he wants to know.

Father, his sweat-saturated shirt discarded, sits in his vest in one of the mock leather armchairs positioned either side of the fireplace, the gramophone at his elbow. His son sits, as always, cross-legged at his feet. Father lights a cigarette, taking one or two deep pulls before placing it in the polished brass ashtray on the arm of the chair.

Today, he tells his son, there is a new acquisition, the latest addition to his collection, bought on his way home from work the previous day. The boy sits, excitedly waiting as his father lovingly cleans the surface of the new disc with a soft cloth before laying it gently on the turntable. Very carefully, the turntable spinning, he lowers the pick-up onto the record, and the sound fills the room.

Ken Colyer in New Orleans is the title of the recording. A recording that, to this day, rekindles memories of that stifling Sunday afternoon in a smoke-filled front room. Father, his head back, eyes closed, a smouldering cigarette drooping from his lips.

He’s English, boy, he whispers without opening his eyes, the cigarette bobbing to his words. Born in Great Yarmouth, would you believe? He sighs contentedly. But he’s been there. He’s played with ’em. He knows how it should sound. His eyes flick open, and he looks down at his son. Now we’ve got one of our own, he says triumphantly.

Other records from the collection are played that Sunday afternoon, and many more Sunday afternoons follow. But of them all, that one particular time, those particular words, Now we’ve got one of our own, remain with the boy.

His decision made, he waits until the afternoon is over, his father’s precious collection once again safely back in its cabinet.

Dad? he says, as they make to leave the front room.

Father turns, eyebrows raised questioningly.

That’s what I’m going to be, the boy says. I’m going to be a cornet player; I’m going to play jazz. And Dad, he continues determinedly, I’m going to be the best in the world.

The father leans forward and hugs his son to him, the familiar, intoxicating aroma of stale beer and cigarette smoke seeping into the boy.

Yes, some things are remembered as if they happened only yesterday. But it is a distant yesterday, and a long and dangerous road has been travelled since. A road nearly fifty years long. A road that has led inexorably to the nightmare events of months past.

One

March 2006

The North Sea

Twenty miles off the coast of North Norfolk, England

The forecast for the latter part of the week was typical March: blustery showers with more prolonged periods of rain. But that was yet to come, and tonight was exceptionally clear with an incandescent, white moon casting a fluorescent sheen across a calm north sea. With hardly a breath of wind, the water lay like a glass sheet. Visibility was almost day-like, and but for the boat’s wake stretching back in a virtual straight line, dispersing as if in slow motion, the huge craft appeared stationary in the vast expanse of water.

On such nights Captain Hornchurch was a happy man. His ferry had left Rotterdam the previous evening at 18:30 hours, exactly on schedule. The crossing so far had been faultless, and at this point, approximately twenty miles off the North Norfolk coast and with only some four hours to run, his arrival at Kingston-upon-Hull at 08:00 hours would be equally as exact. He had just left the bridge, and for a few moments he stood by the rail, a contented smile playing on his lips.

Hornchurch was a bachelor; he was also a very private person. He enjoyed his own company enormously, and to be a sea captain, his ambition since early childhood, suited him perfectly. The fact that he had never sailed the world over, mattered not. Neither did he feel the need for a girl in every port. To him, two was the perfect number. His beautiful Lila in Amsterdam and the wonderfully naughty Rosie in the little town of Beverley, just north of Kingston-upon-Hull, were enough to keep him very happy indeed.

The captain cast a final ear to the steady, comforting throb of the huge engines. Everything as it should be. Everything under control. Back in his cabin he relaxed, savouring the one glass of wine he allowed himself each trip. Always taken at this time, in the early hours, when the body was at its lowest ebb, it acted as the perfect stimuli for the last few hours of the trip. Yes, Hornchurch was indeed a happy man.

But maybe if the captain had known of the attentions being paid by two of his crew to a certain truck on the vehicle deck below, he might not have enjoyed his wine quite so much. He might not have been so happy.

THE TINY PEN TORCH, clamped between irregular, darkly nicotine-stained teeth, shone a thin, powerful beam upwards. The deckhand, lying on his back, used a screwdriver to release the fasteners securing the greasy, mud-covered metal panel to the chassis of the truck. Laying the panel quietly to one side, he pushed one of his rubber-gloved hands up into a gap now exposed directly behind the vehicle’s cab. He groped around for some seconds before finding the ends of two thick Velcro straps. With a muffled tearing sound he quickly released the straps and lowered the package they had secured. Sliding the package along the ground toward the edge of the vehicle, he finally eased it out from under with his foot.

The other man, standing above him, lifted the package and retreated to a shadowed corner of the deck. The panel beneath the lorry was quickly replaced; thick grease and mud smeared back into place masking any evidence of disturbance.

In the darkened corner of the deck the two men inspected the package closely. The size and shape of a small suitcase, it was vacuum-sealed in heavy-gauge plastic. Bonded to one side was a black moulded rubber box the size of a mobile telephone. Encircling the whole package was a deflated rubber ring.

Having assured themselves that the package was not damaged, they returned to the truck. Unlocking one of the doors, they stowed the package on the floor of the cab. Then, casually making their way to the deck rail, they stood smoking and talking quietly for some time. Finally, flicking the stubs of the cigarettes over the side, they checked and synchronised their watches. Without a further word, they went their separate ways.

Neither had seen the dark, shrouded figure watching intently from the heavy shadow of a nearby bulkhead.

Or so it seemed.

After waiting for some long moments, remaining absolutely motionless until he was sure he was alone, the figure moved cautiously to the vehicle where the two men had stowed the package. He spent some minutes taking the details of the truck before moving away and again secreting himself, this time behind another vehicle further down the deck from which there was a clear view of the suspect vehicle. Looking around himself, he carefully checked his position a second time before nodding, satisfied. Pulling the collar of his heavy coat closer around his neck, he settled down to wait.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, his short break over, Captain Hornchurch again assumed his position on the bridge. Here he was God. He spoke only to give an instruction or to acknowledge information given him by a member of the crew. He was not particularly liked nor disliked by the crew. To them he was just the skipper. He had little to do with any of the lower ratings, believing firmly that they were the responsibility of his junior officers. In truth he would not have recognised most of them should he have met them face-to-face on the street. He certainly would not have recognised the two nondescript deckhands that had once again come together alongside the truck on the vehicle deck.

Quickly the two men removed the package from the floor of the cab and relocked the door, double-checking that it was secure. It was essential to the success of the operation for the driver of the truck to know nothing of their ability to enter his vehicle. When he returned to disembark at Hull he would have no idea that his truck had been tampered with. He would leave the ferry confident that he carried no more than the legitimate load stated on his inventory. His first stop after leaving the port would be a certain little roadside café where he would enjoy his usual full English breakfast. He would then head for the depot to unload. Another successful trip, another happy driver.

At the rail the two men again carefully checked the package. It was something new and unfamiliar to them both. And, they were told, probably a one-off. Certainly something that could only be achieved when the weather was as accommodating as it was tonight. But they knew that this was a very important delivery; it was the forerunner of much bigger things to come. It had to be right.

Certain now that all was well, one of the men teased a short lanyard out from within the folds of the rubber ring. A sharp pull, and immediately there was a gentle hiss of compressed air as the rubber ring slowly inflated. The man gently squeezed the sides of the moulded rubber box secured to the side of the package, and a high-pitched beep was just audible. He smiled a crooked smile at his colleague, who gave him the thumbs up. Again they checked their watches, waited just a few minutes, then dropped the package over the side.

From his position behind the truck further along the deck, the dark figure had observed their every move. Again he waited for some long moments after the two deckhands had moved away. He had to be sure.

Finally, leaving his hiding place, he moved quickly away from the lorry deck, his destination the bridge. He had what he wanted, and it was time to reveal his identity to the captain and to radio ahead to his colleagues in Hull. The ferry’s current position could be confirmed, and hopefully a fast launch could be despatched to search the area where the package had been dropped over the side. Back in Amsterdam, when receiving the tip-off, he hadn’t expected to see the events of tonight. It was very different from the norm, but it didn’t take a genius to work out what he had just observed. Somewhere, close by, out there in the North Sea, someone was waiting. They were no more than twenty miles from the coast; a high-speed customs launch could be in the area in no time at all. He smiled a satisfied smile. It had taken six months, but he was sure this was the big one. He could identify the two deckhands, and if whoever was waiting out there could be apprehended it would complete a link right back to the source. A whole network could be closed down. He had reason to smile.

But caution was essential. Check, double check, and check again. He knew the game well; for years he had lived his life by the rules. The critical time was just before the bust, at the end of months of grinding work and hundreds of hours of watching and waiting. Then, when the chase was almost over, when you knew you had them, was the time when you were most likely to relax.

The same applied to the opposition. This was the most dangerous of games being played out by both sides. The two deckhands needed to be every bit as cautious as he. They had received the warning message only minutes before setting sail.

They could be under surveillance during this trip.

It was disconcerting, but these were experienced, hard men playing a hard game, and a change in plan was nothing new. Their instructions had been clear. This was a trial sample for a much larger batch destined soon for a Norfolk customer. It was important that it arrive safely. The weather, as forecast, was perfect, and it was essential that their cargo be released at a specific position and time off the North Norfolk coast. Someone would be waiting.

The method was unfamiliar to them and devised at the last minute because of intelligence received. If they were being watched, then the carrier, the specific truck, might well be known. It was imperative therefore that the truck should disembark at Kingston-upon-Hull carrying only its legitimate cargo.

To men like these it was the final part of their orders that was the easiest. If they were being observed and could identify their observer, they knew what had to be done.

After delivering the package over the side, they had moved just a few yards before secreting themselves behind a bulkhead and observing the area of deck they had vacated.

They saw the man emerge furtively and watched as he stood for a while before decisively moving off along the deck directly toward the bridge. Toward them. They knew instinctively; this was their man.

When he saw them emerge from the darkness in front of him he cursed vehemently. He had broken the golden rule. He had relaxed. He should have known.

The man was strong and knew how to handle himself; a crashing blow to the face stopped one of the deckhands in his tracks, and for some minutes, despite being outnumbered two to one, he fought like a tiger. But alone he was no match for two steel-hard men armed with knives. The encounter was short, the outcome inevitable. A callused hand clamped firmly over his mouth prevented the slightest sound as the grime-covered blades slashed their way into his writhing body. A single, violent convulsion was all the two men felt as they lowered the lifeless form to the deck.

Dragging the limp body to the rail, they quickly and expertly searched their victim. Every pocket was emptied, the watch dragged roughly from the wrist, and a ring removed from a limp finger. When they finally dispatched the lifeless form over the side, it made little more sound when hitting the water than that of the package delivered in the same way only moments before.

They stood at the rail panting, one holding a grubby handkerchief to his face, trying to stem the blood running profusely from his nose.

Hard bastard, he mumbled through the handkerchief.

Ignoring the comment and his accomplice’s discomfort, the second man, apparently unharmed, slid a wide-bladed knife back into a sheath secured to the back of his trouser belt. From his pocket he again produced the pen torch and leafed through the items removed from their recently dispatched adversary.

Driver’s licence says ’is name’s Henderson, he muttered after a short while.

The other man continued to dab cautiously at his nose. Anything else?

Yeah, he was making notes in this book. Dates, times, everything. He pushed the notebook and other items into his pocket. He was our man all right.

Good, cursed the other, wincing. I think the bastard’s broke my friggin’ nose.

His colleague sniffed loudly. Well, it’s the last one he’ll break, whoever he was. He chuckled callously. He glanced down. Get a bucket of water and get rid of that blood, will you?

Two

Relaxing comfortably at the helm of the powerful fishing trawler, Carl Banham watched his brother connect the lead from the directional aerial mounted on the roof of the boat’s cabin to the portable radio receiver. He glanced casually, first at the illuminated clock on the dash then at the GPS. Perfect timing. They were at their prearranged position exactly on schedule. Scanning the glistening surface away to his left, he smiled. Confirmation, if it were ever needed. The dark silhouette of the ferry moved ghost-like across their path.

The aerial connected, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, looking toward his brother, as always, for approval. Carl nodded his assent, and Arthur threw the power switch on the receiver. A compass-bearing graticule glowed bright green as the power from the boat’s generator surged through the little receiver’s circuitry. Almost immediately a white, pulsing blip appeared on the screen, accompanied by an audible ping from the receiver’s tiny speaker. Arthur’s eyes remained fixed on the small screen as he gave the thumbs up to his brother.

Carl and Arthur Banham were both large, powerful men. As their father had before them, they had spent their life at sea and were equally at home aboard ship as they were on land. They had fished off the Norfolk shores since childhood, and day or night the North Sea held no fears for them. They were as comfortable out here in the middle of the night as they were at home in bed.

Since childhood, Carl and Arthur had been inseparable. Even in adult life, neither having ever married, they still lived together in the family cottage. Their mother, a sickly woman, having only just survived the birth of her first son, had succumbed to the efforts of the second; the two boys, only a year apart in age, had been raised by their dominant father.

John Banham, who owned the largest and most successful fishing boat in the area, was never a great believer in education. He was often heard to boast that he had left school for the sea at fourteen and saw no reason why his two sons should not do the same. There was a living to be made, and they should play their part.

By the time their father died, the brothers were as expert sailors and fishermen as he had ever been. The boat, always meticulously maintained, was as strong and reliable as ever. The two brothers, skilled only in the one trade, carried on as before.

But fishing was in decline; the new European rules were strangling British fishermen, and the brothers had come to find life very difficult. They had been at sea since they were strong enough to haul on a rope, and with their schooling so woefully lacking only the most menial tasks were open to them. The truth was neither tried very hard to find alternative work. They were fishermen; the sea was all they knew. It was all they wanted to know.

Therefore, several months before, when the offer of additional work had been put to them, they accepted without question. It had been a simple job: liaise with another craft a few miles off shore and collect a small cargo. That cargo was then to be delivered to a truck waiting at a secluded jetty in a cove a short distance north of the small coastal town of Mundesley. As easy a task as they had ever undertaken, but to the struggling brothers the rewards had been immense.

With their father’s favourite adage, ask no questions, hear no lies, always uppermost in their minds, the brothers hadn’t asked what they were carrying or why they had been asked to do the job at the dead of night. Indeed, it had never even occurred to either of them to do so. And since that first successful delivery, the little nighttime jaunts had become a regular part of their lives.

It soon became clear to the two men that with the income from their clandestine trips they need not have bothered with other work. Their needs were basic, and they could well have lived happily on the proceeds. Their instructions, however, had been forcefully explicit: their trips should not be mentioned to anyone, anywhere, at any time. They were fishermen, and if questions were ever asked, fishing and only fishing was what they did for a living. In that respect nothing must change. Should they be found to have broken that rule it would be the end of the gravy train, and worse, their own personal safety could not be guaranteed.

To the mountainous Banhams such threats fell on deaf ears, of course; they feared no one. The threats were also unnecessary. The brothers might be uneducated, simple folk, but, in the words of an elderly local man who knew them and their father before them very well, they were as canny as a wagonload of monkeys. The brothers knew when they had found the golden goose. Their lives had been transformed, and they weren’t about to jeopardise that for anyone, threats or no threats. Sure, they were fishermen; that’s all there was to it.

The blip remained bright on the little screen, and the speaker echoed an ever-stronger tone as Carl steered the heading indicated on the glowing screen. Soon, Arthur switched on the powerful spotlight attached to the side of the cabin and reached for