Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense by Simon Brett

thing. He doesn’t know what he wants to do.”
    â€œBut he can’t pull out at this stage. The television time’s been contracted and the newspapers and—”
    â€œHe can get out of most of it, if he doesn’t mind paying off the contracts. He’s stuck with the magazine stuff, because they go to press so far ahead, but he can stop the rest of it. And, insofar as he’s capable of making a decision, he seems to have decided to stop it. Call came through just before lunch—Hold everything—The NUGGY BAR will not be launched on the tenth of September!”
    The Mercedes had never gone faster than it did on the road down to Cornwall. In spite of the air-conditioning, its driver was drenched in sweat.
    The motor-boat, too, was urged on at full throttle until it reached “Stinky Cove”. Feverishly Hector Griffiths let out the anchor cable and, stripping off his jacket and shoes, plunged into the sea.
    The water was low, but not low enough to reveal the opening. Over a week to go to the spring tide. He had to dive repeatedly to locate the arch, and it was only on the third attempt that he managed to force his way under it. Impelled by the waves, he felt his back scraped raw by the rocks. He scrambled up on to the damp sand.
    Inside all seemed dark. He cursed his stupidity in not bringing a flashlight. But, as he lay panting on the sand, he began to distinguish the outlines of the church-like interior. There was just enough glow from the underwater arch to light his mission. Painfully, he picked himself up.
    As he did so, he became aware of something else. A new stench challenged the old one that gave the cove its name. Gagging, he moved towards its source.
    Not daring to look, he felt in her clothes. It seemed an age before he found her pocket, but at last he had the NUGGY BAR in his hand.
    Relief flooded his body and he tottered with weakness. It’d be all right. Back through the arch, into the boat, back to London, Hamburg tomorrow. Even if he’d been seen by the locals, it wouldn’t matter. The scrap
of Daily Telegraph
and the dry state of Janet’s clothes would still fix the date of her death a week ahead. It’d all be all right.
    He waded back into the cold waves. They were now splashing higher up the sand, the tide was rising. He moved out as far as he could and leant against the rock above the arch. A deep breath, and he plunged down into the water.
    First, all he saw was a confusion of spray, then a gleam of diluted daylight ahead, then he felt a searing pain against his back and, as his breath ran out, the glow of daylight dwindled.
    The waves had forced him back into the cave.
    He tried again and again, but each time was more difficult. Each time the waves were stronger and he was weaker. He wasn’t going to make it. He lay exhausted on the sand.
    He tried to think dispassionately, to recapture the coolness of his planning mind, to imagine he was sitting down to the Desk Work on a cleaning fluid problem.
    But the crash of the waves distracted him. The diminishing light distracted him. And, above all, the vile smell of decomposing flesh distracted him.
    He controlled his mind sufficiently to work out when the next low tide would be. His best plan was to conserve his strength till then. If he could get back then, there was still a good chance of making the flight to Hamburg and appearing at INTERSAN as if nothing had happened.
    In fact, that was his only possible course.
    Unless . . . He remembered his lie to Janet. Let’s climb up the pile of rubble and see if there’s an opening at the top. It might lead to another cave. There might be another way out.
    It was worth a try.
    He put the NUGGY BAR in his trouser pocket and climbed carefully up the loose pile of rocks. There was now very little light. He felt his way.
    At the top he experienced a surge of hope. There was not a solid wall of rock ahead, just more loose stones. Perhaps they