The Jonah by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page A

combination for someone who had spent the day trudging
along footpaths and swallowing lungfuls of sharp, sea air. Boredom with his assignment didn’t help, either.
    He rose from his seat and strolled to the door, glancing at the man at the bar to see if his departure had caused any reaction. The man seemed engrossed in a story being told by one of the group
he had joined. Kelso left the pub, coldness leaping at him as though it had been waiting for fresh prey.
    Back inside the pub, the man in the leather jacket watched the doors close in the long mirror behind the bar.
    Kelso walked down the quiet high street, making for the opposite end of the town where the caravan site was situated. It was a discreet location, for the town council went to great lengths to
prevent any eyesores from spoiling the charm of their seaside resort, much of which was protected by a charter designating it as an Outstanding Conservation area. The site was tucked away behind
buildings on the very fringe of the town and was mostly empty of occupants, the holiday season not having yet begun. He had rented the caravan for an indefinite period, telling the site manager,
who was rarely there, that it all depended on how long his project took. The caravan, itself, was small but not uncomfortable – he’d had experience of far worse quarters on other
operations – and had most of the conveniences to make life bearable. His budget for the investigation did not allow for anything much better and the isolation and self-catering aspect
certainly gave him more freedom of movement.
    Tomorrow, he knew, he would have to give a report concerning his progress (or lack of it) to HQ in Lowestoft, and his dilemma was whether or not to inform his superiors that the case was a
complete waste of time. All reason told him that it was, that there was no organized drugs ring in the area, but he had an uneasy feeling . . . He had come to rely on irrational instincts, for they
had been justified in the past, and there was something about this place that disturbed him. Perhaps it was because the town was too quiet, the outlying areas too peaceful. In many ways it was
ideal for smuggling of any sort, and the fact that he had found little indication, let alone evidence, of such illegal operations aroused the contrary side of his nature. He was suspicious because
he had, as yet, found nothing to be suspicious of. The darkness closed in around him as he left the high street and entered the narrow lanes of the town. Soon there was not even the friendly glow
from windows for company.
    He entered the caravan park. There were nearly twenty similar types of trailers in the grounds, only another two occupied as far as he knew. His was to the rear of the site, its back close to a
bushy hedge, with open fields beyond the natural boundary. He could hear the waves rolling in onto the shingle and feel the wind cutting across the land between the caravan park and the sea to
rattle fiercely against the fragile frames. He reached his temporary home, looking forward to some good, strong coffee and a soft, warm bed. He was too tired to eat. As he searched for the key in
his jeans’ pocket, he thought he heard a movement inside the caravan. It may have been the wind whistling around its structure.
    But when he carefully pushed the key into the lock, he discovered the door was already open.

5
    The bearded man’s pace was brisk, almost a run. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulder. Near the edge of the town now, he should have turned off to his right to reach
the small terraced house in which he rented an upstairs room; but someone was waiting for him on the corner just ahead. The dark figure stepped into view when the bearded man was no more than ten
yards away.
    Trewick stopped dead, his mouth suddenly dry, the ale he had consumed an uncomfortable and shifting weight in his stomach. Hurried footsteps from behind confirmed his fear that he was being
followed.
    The man in front