The Jonah Read Online Free PDF Page A

good town, its residents preparing for the early summer rush and grateful to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth, the two big holidays resorts further up the coast, for taking the main brunt
of the holidaymakers. It was quiet – after eight o’clock in the evening, three people walking down the high street constituted a crowd – so quiet that Kelso thought he was wasting
his time. There was no drugs pushing here; there were hardly any young people to push drugs on to. The incident of a month before had to be a freak, or maybe someone playing a particularly nasty
trick. It didn’t merit a lengthy undercover investigation. Three weeks and he’d discovered nothing. He continued walking, the narrow strip of road bordered by closely huddled houses on
one side, the sea-wall on the other. Windows glowed with friendly lights, increasing his feeling of being an outsider. Or worse – a snooper.
    A middle-aged couple strolled by, arm in arm, their mutual affection spreading a little to include Kelso when they bade him a good evening. He guessed they were from the hotel just ahead, out
for sea air and stars before an early bed, perhaps a freshening of their marriage. If they were married. The woman giggled like a schoolgirl when the man whispered something, and Kelso wondered if
the joke was on him. Easy to get paranoid when you were on your own. Even easier when things happened that you couldn’t explain.
    He passed by the hotel, its exterior brilliantly lit by floodlights. The restaurant, open to view through a wall of glass, was almost empty, the diners existing on separate islands,
communication between them restricted to occasional side glances, only the waitresses puncturing their reserve. The summer trade would change all that. There were very few lights ahead: the tiny
coastguard tower was in darkness but, just beyond, stood a curious windmill-shaped building, its sails missing, every window lit up. After that, there was only the muddy track leading to another
strangely shaped building, a round fortress left over from the Napoleonic wars, this, too, a private residence. The old defensive Martello tower faced water on either side, for a wide river ran
parallel to the sea, its estuary several miles further down the coast. The fortress stood on the strip of land that divided sea and river, the river itself widening out into a natural, protected
harbour as it turned inland and cut a decisive path through the marshlands towards less yielding territory. High banks on either side strived to contain the waterway, the waterlogged fields behind
them giving evidence to their lack of success.
    The ground on which he stood had once been an opening into the natural habour, but centuries of silt had built up to block the entrance, the locals eventually using the land as it became more
firm. Now boats that moored inside the inland harbour had to travel down the coastline and enter through the estuary, avoiding the treacherous sandbanks around its mouth, then wind their way back
along the calmer waters. A small quay had been built for the two fishing boats that were too large to haul up onto the beach. Kelso could just make out their bulky shapes among the more elegant
sailboats and motor launches as they stirred on the gentle waters. He had spoken to one or two of the fishermen over the past few days, careful not to mention the incident that had dismayed the
townspeople a month ago, talking only of the nature reserves in the area and the scavengers that awaited their catch. True to their image, the fishermen were brusque but friendly enough, finding
some inner amusement at his questions. They were well-used to ornithologists visiting the many bird sanctuaries in the area and, if they found him a little different to other bird men they had met,
they gave no indication. It would have been totally out of context to ask them about the constant flow of river traffic, whether they had noticed any unfamiliar boats using the estuary