by D C Macey
He glanced back. Since he’d sped up the distance between the two boats had been maintained, perhaps even opened up a little. He’d have to get out of the River Avon and into the big river, into the Severn. Then he’d be able to throw them off once and for all. He just needed to get there. With the throttle open full, he felt the push of Bill’s new engine: it was good. He killed the navigation lights as the RIB raced past the docks, beyond the mouth of the river Avon and out into the darkness of the wide Severn Estuary. He formed his third plan in less than twenty minutes. This one had to hold or he was out of options.
CHAPTER 8 - TUESDAY 13th AUGUST
The cross-channel ferry had been much slower than the train or plane but the extra anonymity was worth the time. Now, in the early hours of the morning, Cassiter stopped at the pick-up point outside the ferry terminal and glanced around. A movement caught his attention in the car park as a big man climbed out from the driving seat of his car and stood quite still, staring. Cassiter saw just the slightest movement of an arm as the big man reached into the car to flash his headlights. He had not needed the flashing headlights, even from a distance Robertson’s frame was instantly recognisable - a living bulldozer.
Robertson placed Cassiter’s bag in the car’s boot and closed the rear passenger door once Cassiter had entered. He got himself behind the wheel and drove off immediately.
‘Well?’ said Cassiter.
‘Cameron gave them the slip, boss. He did a runner in Bristol. That Cameron has something about him, still on the run, but the guys reckon they have the measure of him now. They’ll catch up with him soon enough.’
‘And the old man he was meeting with?’
‘Gone. They let him run while focusing on Cameron.’
Cassiter scowled. That was an unnecessary loose end. Then he relented, perhaps it was better the other man was still alive. If questions remained to be answered after he’d established what Cameron was up to, the old man could be tracked down and he might yet prove useful.
‘And?’
‘Turns out Cameron had some inscription; the guys have kept you the old man’s copy. He dropped it on the quayside after he’d explained it for Cameron. Anyway, the guys know the details; they’ll brief you when we link up. Some of it wasn’t for the phone. I’ve arranged to rendezvous with Collette in a couple of hours. Seems the old man set up a meeting for Cameron with somebody at Hereford Cathedral. She heard the whole conversation.’
‘Really? I wonder what that will be about. Cameron has been a busy bee. We’ll have to see.’
Cassiter leant back into the comfortably upholstered seat. He was unconcerned by Robertson’s vague account - he was a good man and loyal but his strengths did not lie in the thinking zone, Cassiter had others for that. Robertson had different though equally as valuable skills. And one thing was certain; this whole business would be an altogether easier proposition once his team had got a handle on what Cameron was up to. He thought about the route to Hereford. With a bit of luck, there would be time for a few hours’ sleep in a hotel bed.
• • •
Sam pushed the engine on a little more; he had been going easy, conserving his fuel while the flood tide in the Severn estuary carried him upstream and exactly where he wanted to go. In the black night, surrounded by black water, it was cold and he was grateful for Bill’s waterproofs. Now, as the tide slackened off, he needed to power on. Avonmouth was way behind him. So was the Second Severn Crossing, carrying the M4 Motorway across the river from England into Wales. Immediately ahead, the original Severn Bridge was close. Tilting his head up he could see the headlights of occasional early morning lorries as they tracked across the bridge. He planned to run the RIB beneath the bridge on the Welsh side of the river, aiming for Chepstow and the River Wye.
The RIB sat low on the water giving him a very short horizon. There was no sign of the larger RIB - he hoped he had shaken it off but couldn’t be certain. If its radar was active and his pursuers knew how to use it, they would be able to hang back, tracking his movements from beyond his limited horizon. He glanced behind, nothing. Here’s hoping, he thought, as he turned the craft into the mouth of the river Wye. The night black of the river mouth was accentuated by the glow of distant shore lighting to either side.
He pushed on; the plan now was to reach Hereford by river. Years before, he and some friends had done the Wye 100, the 100-mile canoe trip from Glasbury to Chepstow. He knew the river, knew that this way he could slip unnoticed into the very heart of Hereford.
He gently motored the RIB up stream and cruised quietly beneath the imposing walls of Chepstow Castle, where he realised a thin layer of mist was forming over the river.
He watched the last of Chepstow’s urban lights fade away as the RIB followed the course of the river into open countryside. He cursed his luck as the mist thickened further, filling to a fog, and finally he had to stop his regular scanning of the river behind him and concentrate all his senses on what lay ahead. Running slow, always striving to keep one riverbank in sight, he edged on as quickly as he dared.
Metre by metre he took the great horseshoe loops in the river; and one by one, they were left behind, unseen and unappreciated. For the umpteenth time he wiped the fog’s water droplets from his face and eyes and, gradually, he began to relax. He must have given his pursuers the slip out in the estuary. Sensing the slightest change in the light he guessed it would soon be dawn.
It was very early to make a call, but this was the first moment he had found in the chaos of the chase to contact Helen, to flag up this latest round of danger. He wasn’t even sure if her plane would have returned from the States yet, but he could leave a message. Moments later, he shoved his phone back in his pocket, disgusted, a flat battery. He would need to find a phone somewhere soon.
Continuing the journey up river, the darkness above the fog blanket began its lightening into the dawn. But the persistent fog meant visibility improved only marginally and it was still cold and wet, though he could just about make out the riverbank on both sides now. He noted a narrow band of grey muddy flank was clearly visible above the waterline - telling him he was still within the tidal range. He opened the throttle a little more, knew the tide must have started to turn in the estuary by now and needed to get away from the pull of the sea that would already be stretching its reach up stream.
The early morning sun was slowly cutting through the blanket of fog to let him glimpse hints of things beyond the riverbanks. Then, to his left hand, a dark shape appeared out of the fog. It grew, rising into the sky, floating over the fog bank. High spans of a building showed, reflecting the rising sun; then disappeared into another layer of the shifting fog only to reappear stronger, brighter and more solid before vanishing once more. Reaching up were great arches, towering walls, a majestic ruin. Tintern Abbey. Its grey stones, old before Columbus reached America, still stood defiant against the destructive efforts of time and kings.
Sam weighed his options. He should push on, get up river as fast as possible, and certainly get beyond Monmouth before people were up and about. Then he could make the gentle and anonymous run up stream to Hereford. But his first priority must be to alert Helen and a public telephone kiosk would do the trick. The village of Tintern was as good a bet as any, provided he could do it quickly before the water level dropped too much with the ebbing tide.
He eyed the banks cautiously. Here the muddy slopes were not safe to scale so he pushed on a little. Just past the abbey, he found a lighting spot close to the village car park. It would do for a little while, but not too long or the RIB would be left stranded, dangling by its mooring line against an inaccessibly muddy tidal riverbank. He nudged in and secured the RIB. With some relief, he pulled off his waterproofs and felt fresh cool air against his body. He dropped them on deck and jumped ashore, scrabbled up the bank and headed across the car park towards a pub or, no, maybe it was a café, hard to tell at first in the half-light.
Sam was focused on a familiar shape that was
emerging from the shadow of the café - a public telephone kiosk. He couldn’t recall Helen’s mobile number so decided to leave a message on the manse’s answering machine. Even if Helen did not pick it up herself, with all the carry on over getting the property ready for market he knew Elaine was there every day for one thing or another. She would make sure Helen got the message.
Call completed, Sam hung up and paused for a moment; he leant back against the clear Perspex panels of the phone kiosk and took a couple of long slow breaths. It had been a long night. The dawn chorus had started filling the air with tweets and chirps, and with every passing moment the warming sun was thinning more of the chill fog.
Then in a rush, the ancient abbey appeared in its full glory, bathed in light as the sun finally burst through to sweep aside the fog. Beyond it, on either side of the river, green wooded valley-sides now rose up. The air was still, cold and suddenly crisp in his lungs while the early morning sun warmed his face - nature at its best.
Alone for a moment in a world of tranquillity, he allowed his mind to properly take in the scene. The ruined abbey; abandoned since the closing of the monasteries by Henry VIII, yet here it still was, solid, permanent. He wondered what would remain of modern buildings if left untouched for five hundred years. Not many would match this.
His moment’s peace was disturbed by a slight disruption in the birdsong, then by human sounds coming from the riverbank. Time to go he thought. As he headed back across the car park towards where he had moored the RIB, a man’s head appeared rising from below the level of the riverbank. He spotted Sam and shouted a warning to somebody beneath the bank. Then he scrambled up and immediately broke into a run, charging straight at Sam.
Sam saw the man produce a pistol from his jacket and raise it, stretch his arm out and take aim as Sam turned and ran. He felt the whizz of a round passing close by, heard the crack of the shot and ahead of him heard a faint crumping sound, saw the rear window of a car frost over as it was punctured. Another round flew past him, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. Sam darted past the telephone kiosk and threw himself over a waist high stone wall that defined the boundary between café and car park. He landed flat on the damp lawn of the café garden. Voices were approaching fast, two, perhaps three people.
Sam cursed himself; he had dallied too long. Now it wasn’t just a changing tide he had to deal with. Well, he wasn’t going down without a fight. He crouched low, and hurriedly followed the line of the stone wall. At the end was a gate leading back into the car park. He cautiously looked out. He could hear the men calling to each other as they started a search, but he couldn’t see anyone. Knowing he would be quickly found if he stayed in the garden, Sam slipped out of the gate and broke cover, running for a higher stone wall directly ahead. It was only a few metres’ distance. Before the hunters spotted him, he had covered the ground and was heaving himself up the wall.
Gunfire sounded as Sam rolled over the top of the wall and let himself drop down on to the grass below, unhurt. Getting up quickly, he glanced around and realised he was in the abbey grounds. He hurried towards the ruined buildings. Then heard a thud behind him as somebody dropped, close to where he had landed only moments before. Fast steps closing from behind, this one was an athlete. Sam was fast but was suddenly not sure he would make the shelter of the abbey.
Throwing himself over a low broken wall, he worked his way amongst the remains of worn and weathered walls, the remnants of ecclesiastical support buildings: perhaps a hospital, a kitchen, some such. Then he found himself stepping into a square of lush green grass. The shape and suggestion of privacy created by the surrounding walls screamed cloister, though any covered walkways were long gone. He sprinted across the grass making for a modest arched doorway on the far side. He could see it led into the main body of the ruined abbey; from there he might be able to slip out and away, unnoticed.
Sam didn’t quite make it. Just as he reached the doorway, he felt contact from behind. A hand grabbed him round the neck, bringing him to a halt. He could sense the assailant’s other hand sweeping round; instinct told him it held a knife and it was intent on meeting his belly.
Ignoring the chokehold he was in, Sam stretched out both hands in an attempt to block the incoming knife. His right hand managed to catch the attacker’s knife hand and slow the impetus of its journey; his left caught up and jointly they began exerting force to stop the blade. But the chokehold around his neck meant he was weakening by the moment. With the other hunters closing in, Sam needed to act.
While his hands grappled with the knife, slowly, determinedly, he gritted his teeth and bore the resulting extra pressure on his Adam’s apple as he pushed his head forward into the chokehold. Then with all the force he could manage, he jerked his head backwards to make hard head contact with his assailant. He heard the crack, felt it sore on his skull, knew it would be worse for the man’s face. The chokehold loosened slightly and as it did he forced his head forward against the slackening arm, then instantly jerked it back a second time. He felt the flood of something warm running down the back of his neck and the attacker’s arm slide away; releasing him as the man recoiled clutching at his nose. It was flattened into his face.
Sam stepped ahead, deeper into the doorway. Gasping for breath, he braced to fend off the attacker who had quickly regained his composure to ignore a broken face and flood of blood; the man prepared to come again with his knife. The low morning sun was now shining directly into the abbey behind Sam. It flooded through doorways and arches and poured down through roof spaces long since left open to the weather; all combined to form a backlight, to silhouette Sam in the doorway.
The attacker came again. Knife outstretched, mindful this time to ensure his blade made contact with its target; with a shout, he lurched forward, knife high, arcing down towards Sam’s chest, a trajectory that Sam recognised he could not deflect. In that moment, as he braced for impact, a shot rang out. The assailant seemed to pause in mid-air as a puzzled look flashed across his face then lapsed into expressionless death. The knife dropped to the ground as the man’s momentum carried him on into Sam’s arms. Sam felt the man’s last breath ease out across his cheek and he was supporting a corpse.
Peering over the dead man’s shoulder, Sam realised what had happened. On the far side of the cloister was the gunman; he had caught up and shot at Sam just as the knifeman lunged into the path of the shot. Thank the gods for friendly fire thought Sam, as he held tight to the dead body. The gunman fired again and again. Sam felt the thud and reverberation as rounds powered into the corpse. He needed to get away before the shooter got lucky. Holding the body upright, he dragged it with him, using it as a shield as he backed away under the doorway and into the abbey. A few steps in and he let the body drop, ducked behind a pillar and ran. Suddenly, all around him were great stone pillars, impossibly high arches and thick stone walls. They bounded broad open spaces that had once housed so many worshipers - now they just defined a clear killing field. This was no place to hide for long. He heard the gunman shout and then Sam knew for certain that there was a third man, but where?
Sam slowed down, he was eager to be away from the chasing gunman but cautious not to run from one gun into another. Stepping quietly between the pillars, he took his bearings, realising he had entered the abbey near the northern transept. He suddenly felt dwarfed by the building as he moved into the nave proper and the building’s imposing power struck him. Yes, a ruin, but a magnificent ruin, and he did not intend to end his days here.
Sam moved, working east along a row of pillars. His feet silent on the covering of dew soaked grass that carpeted the abbey. He could hear boots slapping on the stone steps leading from the cloister into the abbey, laboured breathing. The gunman was not so fit; perhaps he could give him the slip. Sam turned left, saw a flight of worn steps leading up to a mezzanine entranceway and took them, silently, leaving his pursuer to search cautiously amongst the pillars.
Passing through the mezzanine entrance, he came
to an abrupt halt. He was on a balcony and progress was barred by a guardrail that protected visitors from an abrupt drop back to ground level. He could see the line of the river a hundred metres distant. In between were more of the abbey outbuildings, a series of smaller ruins: some half remnants, others just knee-high stone ridges, stumps of what had once been. He looked down over the balcony guardrail; it was a fair drop to ground level. Swinging his legs over the rail, he climbed down, taking advantage of stones jutting out from the fabric of the abbey, the remnants of some long demolished support building. He let himself drop the last metre down to ground level and immediately wove a course amongst the ruins, making for the river and his RIB, and all the while keeping a wary eye out for the third attacker.
The abbey grounds were shielded from the river by a hedge, a low wooden access gate set near its midpoint. Sam climbed over the gate to reach the riverbank. He could see the water level had already started to drop, and it was going down quickly. Glancing upstream, he saw his RIB at its makeshift berth. Tied to its stern was his attackers’ larger RIB, sitting further out in the river flow, clear of the riverbank and tugging on the line tethering it to his own RIB. Crouching down he hurried as best he could for the boats. In only a minute or two, his boat would be completely stranded. It was only clear of the bank now because of the pull of the larger RIB behind it, preventing his from settling into the rapidly emerging muddy riverbank. No amount of tugging would keep his RIB off the mud once the river levels dropped much further.
As he reached the mooring, a shot rang out. He glanced back to see the gunman coming from the abbey. A little further distant, the third man appeared, running for the riverbank. The bow of Sam’s RIB was already suspended above water level as he jumped down on to it. It bounced against a large rock that was settled into the muddy bank, and he fought for his balance. The stern dropped and the bow tilted yet higher with his weight on board. He needed to get away but couldn’t outrun a gun - he’d be a sitting duck out on the river. He needed a weapon.
