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recently,
but, given time, he would guide their conversations in that direction. And he had plenty of time, it seemed.
    He took one last drag from the cigarette, then crushed the stub with his foot. It was pointless to get angry again, but it was hard to contain the resentment he felt. They couldn’t sack
him – he was a good cop – but they had put him where they considered he could do the least harm. His reputation, apparently, had followed him into the Drugs Squad; now he was on loan to
the undermanned Suffolk Constabulary, attached to the drugs team based in Lowestoft. A perfect solution for his boss in London: send him out to assist the yokels, let them have some of his bad
luck. Cook and his counterpart in Drugs had made a deal, probably not unkindly. Cook wanted him away from the Yard for a while, away from the hostility growing around him, giving it a chance to die
away; Detective Inspector Wainwright of the Drugs Squad had provided the answer. Kelso wondered how many bottles of booze it had cost Cook.
    And yet there might be something to the case he was now on. The coastline, with its vast deserted stretches of shingle, marshlands and natural inlets, was perfect for a certain kind of criminal
activity. A more than keen vigilance was kept on the sea port of Harwich by Customs and Excise, but the same observation could hardly be maintained all along the coastline. In the old days, the
area, like Devon and Cornwall, had been notorious for smuggling and piracy. Now drugs had become the main, illicit, merchandise because Britain had become a clearing-house for them since Spain had
clamped down. Deals worth millions of pounds were negotiated along the Algarve, a natural trading-post for such transactions, for it was close to the major cannabis production areas of North Africa
and the Middle East; from there to Britain, then onwards to countries like Holland, Belgium, Scandinavia and America. The authorities suspected that this part of the coast was being used, but so
far had made no major hauls.
    The quayside itself was small, more of a jetty, but big enough to allow the two drifters that used it to load up their catch directly onto waiting lorries. Now the fishing boats were silent and
brooding, straining against their moorings, waiting for the pre-dawn when they would thrum with life again. Kelso turned away, the cold breeze making him ache for somewhere warmer, the dark
emptiness of the night increasing his need for human companionship – the rumble in his stomach for something inside it.
    His cover was that of an ornithologist working on a project for a certain London-based conservation society. The paper he was to write (which, he had told locals interested enough to ask, might
eventually be turned into an illustrated book) was on the increasing pollution in the waterways of East Anglia and its danger to the many species of wildfowl inhabiting the marshes and woodland
sanctuaries. It had seemed a reasonable cover, giving him a good excuse to move freely around the area and talk to people, but although he had gone out of his way to be friendly to the natives,
particularly those of his age or younger, he was getting nowhere. As yet, no one had even mentioned the strange happening at the Preece house.
    The police had been called to the Preece house just a month ago by neighbours who had become alarmed at the strange screams coming from inside. When the local policeman had arrived – it
was early evening – he had been surprised to see the youngest member of the Preece family, a boy of seven, standing on the windowsill of the upper floor, his arms outstretched as if he were
about to dive into the garden below. The constable called to the boy, who informed him that he was about to fly over the town. And he had attempted to do so.
    Fortunately, the house was not very tall and the small garden consisted mainly of soft flower beds. The boy only dislocated his shoulder and sprained an ankle.
    As the