The Brink of Murder Read Free

the beach disappeared from view, Amling climbed up to the next level of foundation forms and tried to locate them again. The boy must have found cover in the scraggy brush that lined the cliff above the strand. Neither he nor his pursuer could be seen. But no more sounds of music came from the old house and the police cars, nosed like so many hunting dogs with quarry at bay, sat silent with only the flashing of their roof lights to indicate a raid was in progress.
    Narcotics, probably. The pleasures of youth weren’t as innocent as they used to be. The plague of the ghettos now reached every stratum of society, and Barney Amling was grateful that Kevin was safe at home. From the staggered skeleton of the villas-to-be, he watched the doors of the old Beach House open and a group of frightened young people, hands clasped over their heads, marched by the police into the waiting cars. He watched for several minutes before he heard the sound of dislodged gravel somewhere behind him.
    Amling turned about quickly. The man he had come to see stood only a few yards away. He might have been there all the time, or he might have just arrived. That detail was no longer important. The important thing was the gun Barney Amling was pulling out of his coat pocket because now there was time for only one shot.

CHAPTER TWO
    I T WAS LATE afternoon when the
Wanda Lust
nosed into her berth at Marina Beach harbour. The low clouds that were bringing early twilight to the November sky were edged with burgundy and the air carried a pungent promise of approaching rain. Simon Drake, his bright-blue poplin jacket open and flapping in the wind, scrambled out of the cabin and ran forward to the bow. The rubber soles of his canvas shoes had barely touched the deck before he saw a pair of black hands scoop up the rope and execute a firm hitch to the docking. The hands belonged to a tall black male of about 25 who was uncharacteristically attired in a sombre grey suit.
    “Chester,” Simon called, “you look like a professor.”
    Chester Jackson completed the hitch and stood to full height. Smiling, his face became instant inspiration for an advertising agency with a dentifrice account.
    “That’s what I am—almost,” he answered. “I just came from an interview. After the first of the year I start teaching in a private college near Riverside.”
    “Congratulations! But Hannah won’t be happy.”
    “No sweat with Hannah. We’ve got it all worked out. I bought one of those little cars that makes 30 miles to the gallon and I’m staying on at The Mansion as long as she needs me.”
    When Wanda climbed out of the cabin Chester whistled appreciatively. She wore a jacket identical to Simon’s, except that hers was zipped up to the throat of her turtle-neck sweater. White Levis were rolled up to her knees. Barefoot, she carried a well-packed sea-bag over one shoulder while the wind teased her long, blonde hair that had gone the way of all hair over-exposed to sun and sea. She wore no make-up and her nose was peeling.
    “Now that’s what I call a well-trained bride,” Chester said. “You’ve got her barefoot and toting the gear.”
    “But not pregnant,” Wanda laughed. “At least, I hope not until I finish my next recording session.”
    “You could handle it,” Simon said. “Any woman who can turn out a perfect soufflé on the kind of seas we’ve been navigating could give birth to triplets at a rock festival without missing a beat.”
    “Rough weather?” Chester asked.
    Simon took the sea-bag away from Wanda and gave her an affectionate slap on the bottom. “It hasn’t been a sea of glass,” he admitted. “Hey, what kind of vehicle is that?”
    Chester opened up the trunk of the little car that was parked alongside the dock and it looked as if the chassis had split in the middle. After Simon tossed in the sea-bag, Chester closed the trunk lid that included the rear-view window and a pair of side vents. “Lots of storage space,” he