about before. This one seemed to be in use, judging by the well-kept, heavy-duty steel door that covered it.
I spoke about it to a man who was walking his dog along the beach.
‘Yes, it’s an old tunnel,’ he agreed, ‘but I couldn’t tell you what it was for. We never knew it was there till this lot uncovered it, and claimed it. Bloody Russians!’ He nodded at the boat alongside the jetty.
‘Is that what they are? Russians?’
‘The bloke that owns the boat, Meridion , is. He bought Meridion House, as well. God knows what he wants with it. It’s a mouldy old dump.’
‘What do they use the tunnel for?’
‘It’s just a storage shed, apparently. They keep spare gear for the boat there. So they say, anyway. I haven’t seen inside, myself.’
‘Does the tunnel go anywhere?’
‘It must have done at one time. That’s quality stonework around the entrance. It won’t go anywhere now, though. Either it’ll have been filled in or, more likely, it will have collapsed.’
I nodded and let him go on his way. He was probably right – about everything. On the other hand, he might not be. If he’d told me the tunnel led to Meridion House I wouldn’t have been astonished.
I wondered if Bill Peart knew about all this. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to think coming into possession of an old tunnel leading down to a jetty could be useful to all sorts of people. It could even explain why someone with an oligarch’s boat and an art centre had bought into a dump like this.
I turned to watch some new activity on the jetty. Newcomers were loading heavy items onto the boat. The rear end had opened up like a car ferry, and they were rolling their stuff inside on trolleys. Very simple and easy. I wondered what the cargo was, but from a distance the wooden crates gave nothing away.
I glanced at my watch and realized time was running out on me. I had less than an hour to get to Middlesbrough for my appointment with Jac Picknett. I’d better get back to the house first.
Bill Peart was still on my mind. As I was debating whether to phone him before I set off, the man himself arrived.
‘If you want coffee,’ I told him, ‘we’ll have to be quick. I’m on my way out.’
‘Suits me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m a busy man.’
I switched the kettle on, reached for the mugs and said over my shoulder, ‘Have you heard of a place called Meridion House?’
He shook his head.
‘A mile or so outside Port Holland? That’s where I’ve been this morning.’
He looked up, a calculating look in his eye. ‘Why is that, I wonder?’
I ignored his sad attempt at clever humour.
‘It’s a strange place, and a bit of a mystery. Supposed to be an art centre. Owned by some Russian. At least, I was told that’s what he is. He’s the guy with the big boat in Port Holland, as well.’
‘The Meridion ?’
I nodded.
‘Another one with more money than sense. He should have bought a football club, like the rest of them.’
‘You’ve been talking to Jimmy Mack,’ I said with a grin. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Bill, but there’s a lot of old tunnels along this coast. They date back to the days of mining.’
‘That right?’
‘I’ve been having a look around the beach at Port Holland.There’s a couple there – one I knew about. It connected to the Old Park ironstone mine. It’s blocked off now, of course.
‘But I saw one today I wasn’t aware of. It’s in use, as well. The guy that owns the big boat has had it uncovered, and he uses it as a sort of boat shed. So I’m told. Might be worth looking into?’
‘Why ever would I want to do that?’
‘Big house, tunnels, a Russian with a big boat? It’s not hard to imagine all sorts of reasons.’
Bill chuckled. ‘You want me to see what I can find out?’
‘It might be an idea. It’s an unusual situation.’
‘Aye, well.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘Let’s solve these murders first.’
I made no further comment. Let
I spoke about it to a man who was walking his dog along the beach.
‘Yes, it’s an old tunnel,’ he agreed, ‘but I couldn’t tell you what it was for. We never knew it was there till this lot uncovered it, and claimed it. Bloody Russians!’ He nodded at the boat alongside the jetty.
‘Is that what they are? Russians?’
‘The bloke that owns the boat, Meridion , is. He bought Meridion House, as well. God knows what he wants with it. It’s a mouldy old dump.’
‘What do they use the tunnel for?’
‘It’s just a storage shed, apparently. They keep spare gear for the boat there. So they say, anyway. I haven’t seen inside, myself.’
‘Does the tunnel go anywhere?’
‘It must have done at one time. That’s quality stonework around the entrance. It won’t go anywhere now, though. Either it’ll have been filled in or, more likely, it will have collapsed.’
I nodded and let him go on his way. He was probably right – about everything. On the other hand, he might not be. If he’d told me the tunnel led to Meridion House I wouldn’t have been astonished.
I wondered if Bill Peart knew about all this. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to think coming into possession of an old tunnel leading down to a jetty could be useful to all sorts of people. It could even explain why someone with an oligarch’s boat and an art centre had bought into a dump like this.
I turned to watch some new activity on the jetty. Newcomers were loading heavy items onto the boat. The rear end had opened up like a car ferry, and they were rolling their stuff inside on trolleys. Very simple and easy. I wondered what the cargo was, but from a distance the wooden crates gave nothing away.
I glanced at my watch and realized time was running out on me. I had less than an hour to get to Middlesbrough for my appointment with Jac Picknett. I’d better get back to the house first.
Bill Peart was still on my mind. As I was debating whether to phone him before I set off, the man himself arrived.
‘If you want coffee,’ I told him, ‘we’ll have to be quick. I’m on my way out.’
‘Suits me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m a busy man.’
I switched the kettle on, reached for the mugs and said over my shoulder, ‘Have you heard of a place called Meridion House?’
He shook his head.
‘A mile or so outside Port Holland? That’s where I’ve been this morning.’
He looked up, a calculating look in his eye. ‘Why is that, I wonder?’
I ignored his sad attempt at clever humour.
‘It’s a strange place, and a bit of a mystery. Supposed to be an art centre. Owned by some Russian. At least, I was told that’s what he is. He’s the guy with the big boat in Port Holland, as well.’
‘The Meridion ?’
I nodded.
‘Another one with more money than sense. He should have bought a football club, like the rest of them.’
‘You’ve been talking to Jimmy Mack,’ I said with a grin. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Bill, but there’s a lot of old tunnels along this coast. They date back to the days of mining.’
‘That right?’
‘I’ve been having a look around the beach at Port Holland.There’s a couple there – one I knew about. It connected to the Old Park ironstone mine. It’s blocked off now, of course.
‘But I saw one today I wasn’t aware of. It’s in use, as well. The guy that owns the big boat has had it uncovered, and he uses it as a sort of boat shed. So I’m told. Might be worth looking into?’
‘Why ever would I want to do that?’
‘Big house, tunnels, a Russian with a big boat? It’s not hard to imagine all sorts of reasons.’
Bill chuckled. ‘You want me to see what I can find out?’
‘It might be an idea. It’s an unusual situation.’
‘Aye, well.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘Let’s solve these murders first.’
I made no further comment. Let
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