Burning Wolfhound

By Justin Tuijl

Two people dear to Bernhart Smith have been murdered. It's 1968 on the North Norfolk coast in England and now he must seek revenge. In his ex-navy ex-gunboat, the Wolfhound, he sets out in pursuit of the gang of murders. Across the world, from England to India, the chase ends in a griping fight in Darjeeling. Until Bernhard finds the mystery must end in Goa. An action, adventure, thriller and gripping page turner. Find out the answers and twists right to the very last word. Contains violence, adult language, and somewhat graphic sexual situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Tuijl
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223144618

Justin Tuijl

Justin Tuijl writes shorts, novels, poems, scripts, non-fiction. Has a BA and MA in writing.

Book preview

Prologue

Anjuna Beach, Goa, India – March 1968

The grey ship was on fire. A few hippies gathered on the beach as the flames lit up the night with a haunting flickering on the palm trees. A loud bang had woken them followed by the light. One of the group, a naked woman, walked over to a huddled dark mound on the sand. She bent down and with gradual sloth-like movements checked if the man was alive. Withdrawing her hand from his head, she found a dark red stain on her fingers. Then another of the group, a short and exhausted looking woman in a tattered dress, joined the first. Between them, they struggled to move the heavy body and failed. Finally, two men stopped watching the flames and helped carry the man back to the palmleaf-clad beach huts. The light extinguished as the ship sank.

——-

Anjuna Beach, Goa, India - 23rd April 2008 - Midday

Forty years I’ve been stuck in this place, said the old man. Have you ever thought what it’d be like to be stuck in a place you hate for so long?

He stared at Kurt across the table in the coconut-leaf-covered beach shack. Kurt found it hard to believe the old man could hate it: blue water lapping white sand, drowned in constant sunshine; nothing to do but play backgammon and drink beer. A heady smell of incense drifted in through the empty window frames.

Why don’t you leave? he asked, as he took a sip from his Kingfisher beer and placed the bottle back on the table. The old man’s skin was sunburnt deep brown like leather, his body thin, and hair grey and balding. He looked tired in body but the eyes were sharp and missing nothing.

No passports, me and her. He nodded to the rough kitchen where the short woman with the Russian accent was making fried rice. The spices from the cooking made them cough.

Wow, how did that happen? he asked not really caring and feeling bored. What’s your name?

I’m Bernhart. It’s a long, long story. And if I told you, I’d have to murder you.

Uh-huh, and maybe if you don’t, I will murder you, said Kurt in a laughing voice, though his heart was hard. Anyway, it’s nice here... isn’t it? Paradise?

Bernhart was quiet for a bit as he looked over the empty, moon shaped beach at the sea. A native fishing boat was moving out of the small calm area near the outcrop of rocks; the little engine leaving behind a blue trail of smoke and its stink managing to reach them. He raised a finger and pointed: See that bloody boat?

Yea, nice. Love the rakish native design, with that sort of wood float on the side.

The float’s an outrigger. Damn thing goes out every day at the same time. They catch fish for the restaurant down there. Every bloody day. I’ve seen it so many times if I look again I’ll cry. In fact, I never look out there anymore, not properly. I’ve been to boredom hell and I’m still here. Kind of got used to it, but I still feel bitter. Before, my life was constant action and excitement. I used to crave being somewhere else like the old days: England, Holland, or France. Even craving the cold weather: like I couldn’t live without it. Coffee: oh for a decent cup of coffee even.

What about the parties and sexy beach girls I’ve heard about, said Kurt despite himself, wondering indeed where they were.

You’ve missed the parties, said Bernhart, it’s the end of the season, only expats like me here now. All the so-called hippies bugger off back home.

And her, said Kurt nodding to the woman as she brought his food and assaulted him with a heavy musk perfume. Thanks.

Yes, her too, stuck here, with me, said the old man with slight disdain in his voice.

Problem?

Ah, a few indiscretions...

Come on tell me your story, how you end up here owning a beach shack with a Russian woman.

Ah, you assume this shack’s mine and she’s my woman?

Well?

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and it’s a really long story.

I might believe more than you think and I’m not exactly in a hurry. As you say, there isn’t a party to go to, almost everything’s shut around here but this place.

We stay open, haven’t got any other place to go: may as well.

Huh, so you are the owner.

Maybe: had to make the most of it. You look like a trustworthy man; maybe I can tell you. And of course, I might be lying.

Kurt’s curiosity mixed with his hidden anger got the better of him: Come now, stop teasing me with your story. I bet it’s a boring one. Like: you came here as a young hippie and never left. Or, you ran away from something, something bad. But yeah, it’s probably all fantasy.

"Not so simple. It’s a really long story. And I will have to murder you at the end."

Yeah and like I say-

Oh yes, he cut in, you’ll murder me if I don’t.

Kurt smiled, and though the conversation was jocular, the sentiment was real; he knew more of this old man than the other realised. Hate had burnt his soul for many years, and though Bernhart failed to realise it, he was on trial.

Part 1 Chapter 1 Ship to Ship

North Norfolk Coast, England - 8th March 1968 – 1 a.m.

I stood in pitch darkness, away from the light of a porthole, which cut through a briny hazy mist. Inside was a sight of narcotic-fuelled debauchery. There were three naked bodies, two men and a woman. She looked asleep, but I suspected she was taking part in her own drugged disconnected journey. The men were so engaged that I would have no trouble killing them.

We were only making a small headway along the coast. The calm sea made the metal deck of the big freight ship feel firm beneath my feet.

Everything was in my favor except two problems. The first problem: a massive gorilla of a bodyguard standing by the door. I had caught sight of him by the light from the cracks of the frame. For a gorilla, he was alert, warned by the sound of my oilskins and heavy sea boots. The disguise had worked for getting on board, but was not good for covert operations. I hoped he would take me for one of the crew as I pretended to watch the deeds inside. My plan was to wait and see what he did. In my hand was a knife, which I gripped hard, the wooden ornate handle biting into my hand.  He was moving now, inching closer. My head pointed towards the light but my eyes turned to track him.

The second problem: I was scared. So scared I wished this was not happening. With the knife burning into my hand, and the tension, I felt faint. It was hard to pull myself together and focus as the fear threatened to overwhelm me.

In my pocket rested a gun with a silencer. Despite the silencer, I knew it would make a sound as the bullet rasped from the muzzle, and my worry was that the huge man would crash to the floor and alert those inside. I decided he would need to be taken out with my knife. He came closer. I could see no details in the inky black. Now he kept away from sources of light, which made me assume the gorilla had more brains than I had credited him with. I was only aware of a vast bulk making its way towards me. I thought of him tensing his huge muscles ready to deliver a mighty blow. I became more tense, gripping the knife harder. My breath started to come fast; with the fight coming I felt a little less scared and my mind started to clear.

At that moment the situation changed. The once stable deck twisted under my feet and I heard the big engines race. The captain had turned her hard and I knew that we were heading to the shore. The bodyguard now looked in a quandary, unsure if he should continue to hunt me down. He had stopped moving, with his head twisting this way and that, trying to make a decision. I revised my appraisal of his mental capacities. I knew that the ship, at this speed and heading, would soon have no water left. Then it came: a shuddering, rending crash. I was taken off guard by the force of the impact and thrown to the floor. The hull ground into firm sand. A twisting buckling sound of tortured metal was intense screaming in my ears. This was my chance. As the deck sloped beneath my feet, I rose a little, enough to dash headlong at the bodyguard. Bringing my knife up into his vital organs, he went down like a falling whale with not so much as a grunt. I followed him to the floor, making sure I drove the blade home and that the great carcas made no sound hitting the deck. I was winded as the brute landed on me, but he went limp, and I knew I had extinguished his life. Now was no time for remorse; only more fear.

The ship was swaying alarmingly, and it was hard to stand again. I tugged at the knife deep in the ex-bodyguard; it was stuck to the hilt. I tried to pull it harder but time was slipping away fast, there was a more important job than getting the knife out. Remorsefully, I had to leave the treasured blade that my brother had given me, and I took a silenced gun from my pocket. Grabbing the hard metal wall for support, I could see that the heavy door was not latched. Standing up as straight as I could, I mustered my strength and gave it a massive kick open. The door swung wide and fast, stopping short with a thump. The obstruction it hit was not a wall but a naked man. Hard metal took him in the face and he went down with blood pouring from his now broken nose. A putrid smell of the debauchery came to my nose and made me nearly gag. I walked to the open door and brought the weapon up. The man in the bed was so high on drugs he clearly had no idea what was happening. My gun spat two silent bullets and he slumped down. Then I aimed at the one on the floor and pumped lead into him. My job was done.

My eyes fell on the woman. She was tied to the bed, legs akimbo. There were dark bruises all over her body and one eye was black. Her eyes were closed. Her face was painted with heavy but smeared make-up. Her feet and hands going blue with the ropes. There was rope tied around her breasts, which were also going blue. I knew I needed to leave and fear preyed heavily on my mind, but I walked in and loosened the knots. Then I pulled the bleeding dead guy away from her. I wanted to take her away from this, but I knew that was foolish. She was completely out of it and failed to stir. Then I pulled myself away from the distraction and thought of my own preservation.

I turned my attention to escape. The ship had grounded bow first on the sand, which was high above as the stern settled deep into the water. The crew were up there throwing things around and shouting. I could see them clearly as deck lights had been switched on at that end. Where I stood, it was still in darkness, but I doubted I could go undetected for much longer. Luckily, they had not heard the shots over the grinding metal of the big vessel. Abandon ship had not been called, and I would look suspicious trying to leave. It was a gamble, but I decided that the best plan was to join them and try to evacuate with the group. It was a mystery to me why the captain had not given the order to abandon her.

I walked cautiously up towards the frantic crew. Fire had broken out and there was a stink of petrol, which explained their panic. Also explained was the lack of Captain's orders: a man sat slumped against a wall, white-faced, blank-eyed and dazed, blood running from a nasty deep cut on his temple. The captain was in no state to give orders. The rest of the crew were a rabble. They were doing enough to stop a little catastrophe; enough to save their own skins from the fire. Most were simply standing in random positions and watching as, surprisingly, the fire started to be put out. Some extinguishers were found and inexpertly pointed at the flames.

I joined the onlookers to blend in, standing well back but pretending to take an interest. Looking secretly at my fellow crew members, I could see most were waifs and strays. There were about three of the number who directed the others; it was them who were instructing on how to contain the fire. A rough bunch indeed, carrying heavy weapons that I suspected were more for show as masculine adornments. The ship had stopped moving on the slight swell. I felt as if I might get away with it until the opportunity came to leave. My original plan of escape had gone out of kilter.

As the general panic of the crew was subsiding, my hopes of a quiet evacuation were dashed when a shout came from the darkness of the stern. A man ran up holding a heavy machine gun in one hand and a bloody knife in the other: my knife. I stood closer to the group to avoid suspicion. This new arrival looked as if he thought he was in charge, and a more rough man I had seldom seen. He was good looking, but there was a manic look in his eyes and a permanent sneer, which destroyed his looks. Arriving at the group, he behaved as if he meant business. His shout had been directed at one of the more efficient and smarter looking subjects of the rabble.

Tommy, we got trouble, he said in an American drawl.

You're tellin’ me, Jack, replied Tommy in a rough London accent, eyeing him with disfavour. He wore a neat, expensive looking suit: also a good looking man with fine short-blonde hair and no sneer.

Jack's eyes glared, I'm not talking about your boat, he snarled, menacing with the knife as if to run in his own colleague.

Ok, take it easy, Jack, returned Tommy smoothly but with equal menace. I decided that Tommy was the more dangerous of the two, level-headed and calm.

Someone’s done in Matt and Sandy. The bitch whore was out of it, I slit that little floozy’s throat. I found Keith finished off with this.

He waved the blade around and finally stabbed it hard into some nearby woodwork. I watched it, saw the ornate wooden handle, and fought the desire to go and retrieve the knife that meant so much to me. I cursed myself for having left it in the bodyguard. I felt mortified that it had been used to kill the girl.

Ah shit, said Tommy.

I dunno, looks like a pro job. Must be still on the ship.

Jack took a glance at the rabble, suspicion in his crazy eyes. They failed to stop on me; I was pretending to be uninterested, eyes to one side. I gripped the gun in my oilskin pocket, expecting trouble.

No, a pro would’ve slipped away by now. Shit. Just what we fucking need.

Jack lit a cigarette. For a moment, I thought he may be placated by Tommy's comments. I never liked the look of this stinking tub anyhow; he could be on the ship. Do you know any of these morons? he said, eyeing the crew again. Someone here knows something. He walked towards the men.

At that moment a man standing a few yards from me made a dash for the darkness of the rear of the ship. Jack dropped his cigarette and hoisted the gun to his shoulder but failed to fire before the man had vanished into the gloom. He lowered his gun and sprinted after the man. Tommy followed on his heels, yelling to some of the others, who took up the chase half-heartedly. As a few men were moving around, I took my chance to walk beyond a lifeboat into a shaded area, away from the deck lights. There was no need to stay; I wanted off. I removed my oilskins and sea boots, revealing my wetsuit. I walked over to the railing. I held the gun in my hand and, intending to climb over, I looked first down the side and then realised the ship had driven further onto the land than I would have expected. The waves were breaking just below, which meant it was certainly too shallow to dive.

Ok, hold it there.

Snatching a glance behind, I saw a man holding a vicious looking automatic gun. I ran quickly away, down towards the stern. The gun barked behind me and I heard the bullet pass through the air near my head. The shot had alerted the others and it was like a disturbed wasps nest. I heard the original assailant shouting. Further shouts came from behind and then gunshots. I was already in the dark. Shouts came from up ahead. One was coming closer and as I rounded some superstructure a figure was running my way. I levelled the gun and fired as I ran. My shots hit the target and the guy was a bloody mess on the floor as I reached him.

Then I decided I’d run far enough and I must be over deep water. I stopped and turned, just as a silent pursuer was closing in. He lifted his gun but I was already pumping away at my trigger and he sprawled headlong at my feet. Just as I considered climbing the railing, a concentrated barrage of gunfire was unleashed. I realised they had been holding back so as not to hit my now dead pursuer. I flung myself on the floor and attempted to fire back but my gun was empty. The fusillade died down and I decided to go for broke while they were considering if they had got me.

I crouched up a little and ran headlong towards the railing. At the last moment I jumped up and dived over the handrail. A great cacophony of gunshots accompanied this but I was already dropping down the side of the ship. Bracing myself for an impact, as I had no idea how deep the water was. I resigned myself to the fall, grateful to feel water embrace me. I gave further thanks finding that it was deep. Once my downward motion had stopped, I struck out and swam hard until my lungs were about to burst. Losing track of the distance, I finally broke the surface and sucked in lungfuls of air. Treading water, I turned to look back at the ship. She was some distance away: no-one would be able to see me now. I could see some men moving around but it looked quiet. I hadn’t been the only stranger aboard that night. I wondered who the other man was and what would now be happening to him.

When I got my breath back, I swam along the coast, taking my time with an easy stroke. After some time, a light came into view ashore and I headed towards the land. This was a quiet, sandy and silted up coast. The light was from a little fisherman’s hut. I stole a rowing boat that stunk of fish.

Rejoining the wide sea, the smelly little boat pulled well as I leant into the rowing. It was hard to believe that just down the shore was a grounded ship full of cut-throats, vice and murder. The moaning breeze was joined by the quiet call of an early bird. The sound stopped, presumably it had put its head back under its wing to sleep some more. I made good time and the whippy boat covered the distance well. I knew where I was, and after a time I heard the sound of water rushing into a wide channel. Distant lights showed inland.

As I turned the boat into the channel, the speed of the water increased, entering a wide bay. I drew her over, away from the rushing water. Ahead I could see riding lights of various leisure vessels. They drew close and I put only a little effort into the movement of the tide-borne boat. Around me, dark bodies of various sized boats and yachts slipped by. Then I spotted the shape of a particular ship dead ahead: my ship. I drew in and grabbed the metal ladder at the rear. I climbed up the rungs, letting the smelly boat drift away.

Once on the flat metal stern near the little motor dingy, I walked past two large storage boxes either side, but for a hatch to the engine room, the deck was clear right up to the rear of the bridge superstructure. This contained the main cabin door visible in the glow of the riding lights. I opened the door and switched on a dim light inside. A familiar smell of home came to my nose: of coffee and newspapers. To one side were steps that led to the bridge, to the other a small neat galley and ahead a spacious saloon.

The ship was devoid of life: my floating bachelor pad. Once in the saloon I pulled the curtains closed along the low wide windows on both sides. To the left were a couple of comfortable easy chairs and a low occasional table adorned with, now yesterday’s, newspapers. Walking to the drinks cabinet near them, I fixed a neat double whisky and placed it on the table.

I went to the front of the saloon and passed through a door. The short corridor contained a door to each side and one ahead to the study at the front of the ship. I slipped through the left door into my bedroom. Under the porthole was a double bed. To the back, a built-in wardrobe and door to the shower and toilet. I squeezed out of the wetsuit, picked up my dressing gown and returned to the cabin naked. I slipped into the dressing gown before finally stretching on the chair and reaching for my glass. The brass wall clock said 3 a.m. Now that I was home the fear was melting away and I felt relaxed.

Then, as I reached for the glass, a deep reverberating sound of a marine engine came to my ears; strange, I thought. My hand remained empty, ready to grab the glass, stopped by the questions running through my mind. A boat this late never happened, and it was close. Most would travel in the main channel, not amongst the pleasure craft. It was coming in my direction. Visitors were something I was never keen on. I let my hand drop, forgetting the whisky and turning my head to listen. The fear returned.

Part 1 Chapter 2 Visitors

She sounded a powerful craft. Running over the events of the night, I wondered if the gang on the ship could have tracked me. I thought not, though it was better never to be complacent. The engine was certainly coming very close. Getting up, I went quickly through to the study. Inside was pitch black, with heavy blinds over each side window. I didn’t switch on the light, finding the heavy metal secret compartment with ease. I felt inside and my hand closed on a small automatic. Popping it into my silk dressing gown pocket, I returned swiftly to the cabin after securing the secret compartment.

The sound was right on top of us as I heard her come close in. Then came the sound of heavy feet landing on the deck. The visitor made no attempt at stealth, stomping with flat feet up to the door and banging on the hard metal. Two more sets of feet followed; these were much lighter. Usually, I would have delayed answering to give the visitors a few uncertain moments, but now I strode over and opened up quickly, more out of curiosity than anything else. I held the automatic in my pocket. The door swung wide and my tension relaxed as before me was a uniform of Her Majesty’s police force. Behind him were two men in plain clothes. The tall one smoked and gazed upon me with no emotion showing on his face. The other was shorter and bearded, looking like an angry bristling terrier.

Ah, good mornin’ sir, said the dark blue uniform in a Norfolk accent, his demeanour apologetic.

Good morning. The Norfolk Constabulary’s now waterborne I see.

I’m from the Blakeney police station, he admitted, these gentlemen are from MI6. It’s with their authority that we’re here. We’re checking all inhabited craft in the area.

Indeed, I’m honoured gentlemen.

We wondered, said the tall one in an unfriendly manner as he exhaled smoke, what a military ship’s doing moored in Blakeney bay.

Ex-military, I corrected.

Ex-military, it was a question phrased as a statement.

I stepped forward with the excuse of observing and referring to the Wolfhound. Obligingly, they stepped back.

The Wolfhound’s an obsolete ex-British navy gunship. I bought her from surplus years ago and converted her to a motor yacht. She served with the coast guard for some years sans guns. From the bridge to the bow area was the old location of the bigger gun; I fabricated living quarters in its place. This stern section’s flat as there was a smaller mobile gun here. These metal boxes are for storage, added again by me...

Ok, ok, so what are you doing here? snarled the bristling terrier.

Taking a holiday. I’m a birdwatcher. March is a good time to be here. I was always a good liar. Anyway, I love this part of the coast. Would come here even if there were no birds. Now I was on the deck I could see the vessel that had brought them. Certainly, she was the strangest official boat I had seen, a tall but powerful-looking tug painted white with 'Morning Star, Felixstowe' written on her side. You got the name right, I said nodding to the craft.

Never mind that, where do you live and what’s your work? said the tall smoker, giving a last puff and throwing the stub over the side.

I live in London. The Wolfhound gets moored on the Thames when I’m home: I have a flat, though I prefer the ship. My work’s engineering, once mainly in big diesels. A legacy of my father. Then I moved into printing presses and trained engineers to look after their inky print towers. Now my company’s dabbling in all sorts of engineering which led on to this ship. She’s capable of offshore surveying. Though I know little of surveying, we supply the ship and captain, yours truly, and they supply the surveyor, or surveyors if need be. Truthfully, most of our work’s land based, but the ship’s useful and gives me an excuse to own it. Nice company perk. My father and I enjoyed the challenge, especially with her three diesels to work on.

Of course, most of it was a blind. Yes, the company existed, run mostly by a puppet managing director. It had been my Father's after he stopped working for a big diesel engine concern but had never been a profitable enterprise. I took the printing work to help out. The printing companies paid well, but the main money had really come from elsewhere. Father never knew, and now he had passed on he would never know. There were many dark gaps in my career. Much that I was telling the MI6 men was untrue, but I couldn't tell them why I was really on my own ex-navy ship in North Norfolk. The story had been rehearsed many times and would fit the facts if they made enquiries. I could, if I chose, kick them off the ship but it was better not to reveal my true identity. The policeman seemed genuine, but I had my doubts about the plain-clothes men. There was no point asking for bona fides as, whether they were genuine or not, the identifications would look perfect. In fact, forged ones would probably look more real.

She’s a lovely ship, said the policeman. About 60 foot?

Thanks, I think so. No, she's...

Never mind that, snapped the terrier, You didn't say the company name. Or yours.

No, I didn't. Smith and Son Engineering. I’m Bernhart Smith. My father was Aart Smith.

Strange first names for Smith?

"That’s because my father changed our names when he, my brother and me, came to live here from the Netherlands after