D A Kent [Kent - Dateline Haifa

How it all began

In London, in the summer of 1948, with the Olympics in full swing, Mark Gunn and Sylvia Fordred, two young Private Investigators, who have set up in business together, are given an assignment which is very different from the usual fare of errant spouses and routine debt inquiries. It takes them across the Channel to France and on by boat to Naples and Haifa, and has them reaching into their past, separate and collective, to face an uncertain future.

About the authors

DA Kent is a pen name, a name chosen with reference to the county of Kent and the initials of two writers.

Both authors have drawn on their extensive travels and experience within the field of private investigation and probate research. They came together with a story to tell, and, using their skills and knowledge, have brought Dateline Haifa, the first of the Clements Chronicles, to life.

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Wealden Strand Publishers @wealdenstrand

Copyright@Wealden Strand 2019

The right of DA Kent to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Paper Edition ISBN 978-1-9161801-1-6

eBook Edition IBAN 978-1-9161801-0-9

DA Kent

Dateline Haifa

WEALDEN STRAND

Dateline Haifa

Jonathan Jones had lived in Chartrettes, a little town caught on the curve of the Seine, as long as he had lived anywhere. He often told people that. He had made good friends there. Despite the Occupation, and the occasional little unpleasantness, he had no especial cause for concern when he wandered into town for his accustomed drink with Jean-Paul Bossis at the bar and tabac. With his newspaper under his arm, he kissed his wife, Louise, the love of his life, and set out in the sunshine. He never saw her again.

He knew something was amiss immediately he arrived home. The gates were wide open. He had closed them; they always did, nowadays. Her voice was stilled. Two cigarette butts were on her clean kitchen floor. A cup lay on its side, cradling the dregs of her coffee, on the counter. He knew instantly that she had been taken and that he was alone. In years to come, he would torture himself with thoughts as to whether, if he had been at home, they would have taken her. The truth was, the house had been watched carefully, their movements monitored. There was nothing either of them could have done.

Chapter 1

Sylvia Fordred fiddled in exasperation with the unwieldy lock at Number 3, Clements Court, and bounded up several flights of ill-lit, narrow stairs, cursing the treacherous holes in the matted carpet, summoned by the imperious clamour of the telephone, catching it just before the caller rang off, trying not to sound out of breath. London was impossible to get around at the moment, with the Olympics in full swing, surging, jolly crowds and searing heat. In this weather, it was a mercy that the bunker, as the office was affectionately dubbed, never got any sunlight. It was perishing cold in the winter but that seemed some time away. Good morning, Clements Enquiry Agents, how may we help? Sylvia fiddled with a pencil stub as she listened to Edward Cumberland, her attention gradually narrowing from the office surrounds to the sheet of paper and sketched notes she was making, bent over the desk. Periodically, she lifted a hank of tawny hair out of her line of sight, caught by the unusual element of excitement in Edward's normally measured and calm tones. Mr. Jones was booked to arrive on the Night Ferry at Dover two nights ago and he did not keep an appointment for dinner at Simpsons last night?

That's correct. Edward's voice hinted at puzzlement. Utterly out of character for Mr. Jones. Cumberlands have handled his affairs for over forty years, even after he married and moved his farming business over to France. He has never missed an appointment. Absolutely punctilious. I have to say, we're worried.

This sounded rather different from the usual fare of errant spouses and recalcitrant debtors, entertaining though that often was. Sensing the note of urgency, Sylvia suggested:

We could come over this afternoon if that suits?

Edward's relief was almost tangible. That would be marvellous. As soon as possible, really. I've got a completion to do now, just round the corner, then lunch with the old man. I'll rustle up Louis as well. Shall we say three oclock?
Sylvia held her hand over the receiver as a whirlwind burst through the door, weighed down by a heavy holdall and a camera. The inevitable string of curses rang out in the background as the door to what was known as the props cupboard was wrenched open and kicked shut. It had seen better days, like the rest of the bunker; those hinges needed replacing. An afternoon in Edward's more civilised surroundings sounded tempting.

Sorry about that. That was Gunn. Three o'clock is fine. We'll see you then.
Replacing the receiver, she turned to face her colleague. She always liked hearing about his exploits. What a night, he groaned. Met up with the old Free French crowd. Only meant to have a quick snifter. And before you ask, yes, I did get round to the Imperial this morning. Caught the lecherous old sod in the act. Got him bang to rights. Better get these developed this morning. Who was that just then?
Mark Gunn and Sylvia had met some years ago, sheltering from pounding rain in a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road. They had been friends ever since, although he drove her to distraction as regularly as the morning pips on the wireless, and partners in crime at Clements, as they liked to tell people, for the past couple of years.
Come on, let's have a cigarette and a coffee and I'll fill you in, she smiled, liberating one of his cigarettes. Continental adventures had given both of them a taste for coffee and on his way from the Imperial, Gunn had picked up a pound of the precious stuff from a merchant in Old Compton Street. One of their first acquisitions for the bunker had been a decent coffee pot; a necessity rather than a treat, as they often worked late on cases.
Right. Sylvia sipped at her cup, savouring the taste. Despite his foibles, Gunn made an excellent coffee. In a nutshell, elderly gentleman, English, lived in France for thirty years or more as a farmer. Highly respectable. Managed to survive the war; should have been in London for an appointment at Cumberlands and then dinner with his bankers at Simpsons last night a celebration for the opening ceremony apparently. He didn't show up for either. Not a sign, not a word.
Must have been something serious to duck out of dinner at Simpsons, Gunn grinned. Assuming he even arrived in London of course.
And Edward sounded decidedly ruffled. Not like him at all. I'll give you a hand with your photos and the report and then we'll head over to see him and Louis.
Sylvia noted Gunn's raised eyebrow; he had picked up on Edward's departure from the norm too. Nothing usually perturbed that Battle of Britain flying ace. In the dark room, she cast an appraising, perfectionist eye over Gunns handiwork. Their dark room was at the back of the office in an alcove to which Gunn had added some doors and panelling he had found on a bomb site in Whitechapel last year. There was barely room to swing a cat in there, but tolerance and experience of working in even more cramped and dangerous conditions allowed them to work together like gears meshing in a decent car. Gumshoes on a shoestring, they often quipped.