The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

desk and he’d not have time to clear it away, but the following morning it would go on the wall alongside the beast’s head and shoulders, and below the map of Dorset camping sites. The study of the second picture was momentary.

Jonas rarely used profane language; did not say, “And don’t waste my fucking time again, you little shit face”. Did not need to. The picture showed an expanse of water, could have been from the Amazon forests, or from a wildlife park in the Australian north. A pretty picture, with a multi-coloured butterfly floating on a strand of reed. No nostril and no eye . . . A cheap trick; would have raised a laugh among the team when they were in the gardens behind Thames House for a fag break, a taking down of the Wise Old Bird, of Wobby. He tore the picture in half, then tore the halves into more pieces, and then dropped the segments so that they fluttered down to the floor beside Tristram’s shoes. The flush was crimson on the boy’s cheeks and his wretched spot was highlighted. Jonas accepted unpopularity: was uncertain whether he actively courted it, or whether his character, his demeanour, his limited communication skills, gave him that image.

“Enjoy your evening,” he said. Allowed himself a wintry smile at both of them, and was gone. Always took the 5.49 from Waterloo, and would reach Raynes Park 26 minutes later, and then the brisk walk along his street, and home for tea. As he crossed the atrium, he fastened the attachment to his wrist, tugged at the chain to make certain the link was strong, and carried his briefcase out of the building.

It had been a quiet day, and quiet days were those that most unnerved him.

Chapter 3

The map covered half the table.

One of the several skills Jonas Merrick had perfected during his professional life was to manage a compartmentalisation of his days and his evenings. But that evening he picked at his food, a pie that Vera would have picked up from a local butcher, a bit of a speciality and a favourite, and his concentration on the map was forced. Normally he would have eaten his meal with enthusiasm, and would have pounced on the detail of the map with almost excitement. It showed an area of the south Devon coast, the section along from the promontory of Berry Head, taking in the coastal path that stretched to Kingswear and Dartmouth, and then edged close to the estuary where Salcombe provided a sheltered boat haven.

He was disturbed and his judgement seemed challenged: his own fault.

The attempts she made to cheer him largely failed, but her efforts were sincere and he felt churlish that he could not respond with the enthusiasm she was owed. An old one, that always seemed to lighten him, was his ability to reverse with the caravan hooked to the tow-bar. Always some unhappy man who was suffering family embarrassment who had locked the caravan behind his car and could not manage the manoeuvre; often, then, Jonas would sidle up and quietly offer to do the business. Never triumphant, usually a little excuse about having “just been on a course and managed to get up to speed – pretty difficult – and where that idiot’s parked doesn’t help”, and she would remind him of successes. Managed a laugh, a little chuckle between them . . . There had been a caravan site east of Exmouth where the ground was sodden after a fortnight’s solid rain and he had reversed six caravans in a row and could have had enough beer from the grateful owners to last him a month – but had not accepted, just shrugged. “Glad to be of help, always tricky when the field’s saturated.” She had tried to drag him back by mentioning that day, but had been rewarded with no more than a wan smile. They were planning their next excursion. Needed to plan their next excursion because if decisions were not taken soon then the best sites would be fully booked. They liked the possibility of a new place outside Stoke Fleming, and another at Harbertonford, but he was unable to concentrate.

The old adage resonated through Thames House. The Fivers had to be lucky every time, the opposition had to be lucky once. A statement of the Irish Republican Army, the Provisionals. Jonas had no objection to their declaring the obvious, and it was a truth . . . as certain as were death and taxation was also the guarantee that “they” would be lucky once.

He pushed away his plate. Apologised with his eyes and with a little gesture of a hand, and tried to pull the map forward and over his plate, and made a remark about the qualities of a site at Bigbury-on-Sea they had been to four years before. She took the plate, carried it to the food waste bucket, and he lifted his phone from his pocket. He found his contact, the newest on the list, hit the button. Jonas could not remember the last time he had interrupted a meal with Vera. At least the cat would get the meat that he had abandoned. He typed the message, sent it.

He had not seen the nostril, nor the eye.

What if they were there, in the picture, what if he had not spotted them? He had considered that the two young persons, sent to him for mentoring, both probationers, intended to tweak his nose, show a bit of mischief. It was, perhaps, an indication of the pressure he felt – self-imposed – that he had considered their printout of the picture to be between cheek and impertinence. He had made a rare gesture of pique, had torn the image into pieces.

The cat yowled behind him, grateful for the extra rations. What if he had missed both a nostril and a glint of an opened eye? What if the turgid dark water had hidden the uneven mess of upper and lower teeth?

The message had been sent. Nothing he