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A BITTER FIELD
JACK LUDLOW
/body>
To
Richard Mantle,
who as Deputy MD
oversaw my dismissal from ENO.
If his help was inadvertent, he is
in some measure responsible
for my publishing
30 novels over 25 years.
Thanks Richard.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
About the Author
By Jack Ludlow
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Callum Jardine was practised in the art of looking relaxed when he was not – much more so, he observed, than those keeping an eye on his movements. The two men who had tailed him from the Marconi Wireless office, almost caricature Frenchmen in their berets, striped jerseys and too-clean blue overalls, were now sitting a few tables away, making a poor fist of their supposedly disinterested surveillance.
Their attempt to look like working men was risible; worse, they were fidgeting, acting as though he was about to get up any second, dash to the edge of the quay, jump into a boat and vanish, when in fact he was quite content, given he had nothing to do for several hours, to keep them in this café while he read his newspaper and consumed his petit déjeuner.
When not idly scanning the news he could watch the last of the fishing boats enter the harbour of La Rochelle to unload their overnight catch, which made it pleasant to sit and while away time on a fine late August morning, already warm and getting warmer, and to idly speculate about the history of a part of France he had never previously visited.
In a country where governments came and went with tedious regularity, in which politics and politicians seemed to operate on a revolving door, the same faces reappearing in various ministerial disguises, and one much given to strikes by dissatisfied workers, La Rochelle had an air of tranquillity belonging to a port and city that had been rich for millennia, a sort of bastion of a more conservative France.
The harbour reflected this longevity, dominated as it was by three medieval towers; they formed as well as narrowed the entrance to the inner anchorage, which made it easy to imagine how the locals had come by their wealth, with, over a millennium, ancient galleys and sailing ships needing to pass through that gap and pay for the privilege, an entry point for goods from all over the world, including at one time, highly profitable African slaves.
Little of that passed through now; the inner port had long been replaced by a large exterior commercial dock. It was now home to the fishing fleet and leisure craft: the yachts and motor vessels of affluent Frenchmen, the less significant craft of the weekend sailors as well as the bobbing small boats of indeterminate ownership that featured in every anchorage. The quayside reflected that change from commerce to leisure, being lined now with cafés and restaurants instead of the warehouses and ships’ chandlers of the past.
What had not changed was the noise created by the women who descended on to the quay of a morning to buy the fresh catch of silver-bodied fish, as well as to poke at the piles of still-live crustaceans – crabs, langoustines and lobsters – that were sold from sturdy tables. Such a sight reminded Cal of what he had witnessed as a growing child in Marseilles; his formative years had been spent in France, which allowed him to act and feel as relaxed as a native.
If he stiffened at all – and he tried very hard not to – it was brought on by the surprise, bordering on actual shock, of seeing a one-time fellow army officer, and more recently something of a comrade in a clandestine venture, approaching along the cobbled quay. What the hell was Peter Lanchester doing in La Rochelle?
As was Peter’s habit, he presented the picture of the perfect Englishman abroad, very erect in his cream linen suit and panama hat, with an MCC hatband and a matching red and yellow tie. The highly polished malacca cane he was carrying was an affectation, there for no other purpose than to beat out a tattoo on the pavement to complement that of his heels, or perhaps to swipe a less-than-respectful Johnny Foreigner.
Fearing he might approach and call out his name, Cal slowly raised his copy of Le Temps and pretended to read the front-page story about the continuing crisis in Czechoslovakia, though without being too obvious and hiding his whole face. He need not have worried; Peter might look and act the part of the typical ‘milord’ on his travels but he was anything but a foppish fool and that raised newspaper seemed enough to tell him to mind what he said.
He stopped a few feet away and leant on his stick, looking around the harbour with an air of obvious frustration, as though the whole place had been built and designed to in some way thwart his purpose, a pose he held until the waiter emerged with a tray bearing two tiny coffee cups and a pair of morning stiffeners, probably brandies. That the fellow was about his occupation and there were two people waiting for their order impinged on Peter not at all.
In a loud voice and with an execrable French accent he demanded to be told the whereabouts of the Place du Maréchal Joffre. The waiter was naturally offended both by his peremptory manner and the level of his demand, which caused Peter to add in an even louder voice and more intemperate manner, and one carrying the implication he was addressing a complete dolt, ‘Je cherche l’Hôtel Henri Quatre.’