Read Online Isvik by Hammond; Innes - Free Book Online Page A

the dockside and dumped there.’
    We were still discussing the various possibilities when his secretary came in to say the Admiral was waiting for him and all the members of the ship model group were assembled. He nodded and got to his feet. ‘Bad business,’ he said again as we went to the door. ‘And bad luck on you. Could have made your name on a project like that. But perhaps you’re best out of it.’
    â€˜How do you mean?’ I asked. And when he didn’t immediately reply I added, ‘Because of that postscript to her letter?’
    We had paused in the corridor outside. ‘No, because of Ward.’ He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, ‘There was no pools win, you see. He came by his money some other way.’ And when I asked him how he knew, he gave a little deprecating laugh and said, ‘Simple. I just phoned a couple of the main operators.’
    â€˜You mean he hasn’t got a million?’
    He shrugged. ‘Can’t answer that. All I know is, if he’s got that sort of money, it didn’t come to him through a pools win.’ The words hung in the air as he stood there smiling at me. ‘Too bad it turned out this way.’
    He had nothing else to offer me, of course, but before he went off to discuss ship models he was kind enough to say he’d continue to bear me in mind if he heard of anything that required a wood preservative consultant.
    I had a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the Museum cafeteria, then walked back through the foot tunnel to the Isle of Dogs. I didn’t take the train. Instead, I decided to walk along West Ferry Road until I reached Mellish Street. There were houses at first and a few trees, but at the Lord Nelson, on the corner of what the developers had left of East Ferry Road, the hoardings began. From then on it was all hoardings, dust and heavy machinery, and all that was left of old Millwall were the pubs. They stood, solitary and splendid, waiting for the coming of the yuppies – the Ship, the Robert Burns, the Vulcan, the Telegraph, the Kingsbridge Arms. By Cyclops Wharf and Quay West a long stretch of hoardings advertised Greenwich views, gymnasium, restaurant, swimming pool, running track, squash, water sports, leafy squares, cobbled streets, bakery, the Island Club, the river bus – a you-name-it, we’ve-got-it development.
    And then I came to Tiller Road and the vestige remains of Tower Hamlets’ cheap-looking post-war housing. Mellish Street began like that, too, breeze-block two-storey tenements with rusty metal windows and concrete slab porches, and behind the tenements several tower blocks climbing the sky. But halfway up the street, from Number 26 on, it was the old original terraced houses with front parlour windows that jutted out into front garden patches.
    The house in which she had lodged was one of these, right at the end of the street by a solitary tree.
    I don’t know what I expected to learn from this visit, but though I rang the bell several times, there was no answer. A black kid was trying out a skateboard down by the tenements, otherwise the street was deserted, a few parked cars, that’s all. I hammered on the door. There was no sound, not even from the dog, but a curtain twitched in the house next door and I had a glimpse of a cotton dress and a sharp, lined face with eyes full of curiosity.
    She must have been waiting for me there behind the door, for she opened it as soon as I rang the bell. ‘Good morning.’ I hadn’t thought what I was going to say and we stood there for a moment facing each other awkwardly in silence, her eyes grey and slightly watery. ‘I was wondering about the dog,’ I said hesitantly.
    â€˜Mudface? She took it with ’er, ter Poplar ter stay with ’er brother. You the perlice? She got fed up wiv the perlice.’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘I know Mrs Sunderby.’
    Her eyes brightened. ‘’Er as was