by Oliver Tidy
‘Name some,’ said Botha.
Tallis understood that Botha was testing him. ‘Most recently, an investigative journalist for one of the UK broadsheets, Phillip Hatcher. Before that, a fellow named Harper, whose involvement we haven’t been able to connect with the international arms investigation, but who was involved, albeit indirectly, in the disappearance of The Rendezvous, with all hands and passengers, a few of them British citizens – one of whom was Bishop’s son.’ Tallis felt the large frame of the black man next to him shift his position. ‘But you know all about that, of course.’
‘Like I said: regrettable, but not without its results. Bishop is a greedy fool. He also carries around the erroneous assumption that he is an important man, or at least he did when he came to me.’
Tallis held his breath for the information that he believed was about to be imparted to him.
‘Do you know what I do, Mr Tallis? Among other things, I broker arms deals with Third World countries that you First World countries don’t want to dirty your hands with. I’m a middle-man. I supply these primitive-minded African nations with the technology and equipment that they so desire to destroy each other.
‘Someone’s going to do it. While ever there are politically-ambitious men who can afford the hardware they need for a quick route to power and there are First World countries with out-of-date or surplus arms to get rid of there will always be good business to be done. Why shouldn’t it be done by me?’
‘And Bishop’s involvement?’
‘When Bishop was a Minister he was a powerful man to know. No, not powerful, useful. The British Army had several caches of arms, small to heavy, that were just sitting around preparing to rust. The British government were keen to sell them but couldn’t be seen to be offloading the hardware into political hotspots. Imagine the uproar internationally.
‘That’s where Bishop came in. We worked something out that was to be to everyone’s benefit: your government’s, mine and his personally. He received, shall we say, significant inducements and enticements, all in advance, parted with in good faith – and then I’m afraid he let us down rather badly.’
‘So, you had his son and every other poor innocent soul on that boat killed for it?’
‘There was a little more to all that business in the Pacific than simple revenge, Mr Tallis. Do you really think we would go to all that time, trouble and expense to kill his son when we could easily have done that on dry land anywhere?’
‘What more?’ said Tallis, suddenly forced to consider for the first time that perhaps there was something more to the slaughter in the Pacific, something that he had been blind to.
‘Never mind. Let’s just say that Bishop’s son being on that boat was a little bonus. Bishop put me in a rather awkward position with my customers. He’s caused me a great deal of inconvenience and embarrassment and he’s cost me money. He would keep trying to convince us that he was within a hair’s breadth of following through with his promises. I’ve been too patient with him. It seems now, though, that in sending an assassin to silence me that he has either changed his mind or realised that he has no hope of fulfilling his ambitions or his promises. It seems that he has outlived his potential usefulness.’
‘What will you do?’ said Tallis, fighting to suppress the anger that was smouldering within him as he had to sit and listen to this man pontificate and justify the gratuitous murder of his only daughter, not to mention the other innocent people from The Rendezvous.
But the question was not answered. Pulling off the road, they swept up a rough track that in a minute opened up into a floodlit courtyard in front of an old farm complex. The vehicle came to a halt and they got out. The large black man spoke to the driver, who departed quickly.
Tallis was guided towards a set of low outbuildings by the black giant. Botha disappeared towards the house without a word. Tallis approached the dimly-lit whitewashed structures with mounting apprehension.
Had Botha confided all that to him because he knew he had only a short while to live? A terrible feeling of helpless inevitability came over the policeman. What could be out here for him, away from the house, other than a bullet and a shallow grave? His legs grew weightier with each stride. The big man took him under the elbow in his vice-like grip to hurry him along.
They arrived at a single-storey cinderblock animal enclosure. A bright moon illuminated the sturdy studded door, its heavy padlock and the barred unglazed window. The giant retrieved a key hanging on a wall. He snapped open the lock and Tallis felt a hand in the small of his back shove him unceremoniously over the threshold. He stumbled but kept his footing in the darkness. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the only light in the room a patch of latticed moonlight. The heavy steps of the big man retreated, leaving him alone and, he realised, shaking slightly.
***
24
When Sansom was satisfied that they were far enough from the shore, he altered course to follow the coast away from Bodrum to the east. Running without lights or visibility would be courting disaster if prolonged. Not being familiar with the coastline, he had no desire to tear the bottom of the little craft out on some barely-submerged rocks.
He felt strongly that Botha would be acting sooner rather than later to bring some form of resolution to the new situation. His plan was to tuck into the nearest deserted cove at the earliest opportunity, drop the small anchor and play the waiting game.
However, with no specific knowledge of the local coves, he was reluctant to take such risks. His experience of the Bodrum coastline so far gave him to understand that, should he risk the shallows, it would be sheer pot luck whether he would encounter sand, shingle or solid rock. He checked the fuel gauge and was comforted to see that at least the tanks appeared to be near full.
Out in the open, exposed expanse of water the temperature, encouraged by a gentle sea breeze, dipped several degrees below that on land. Already he was beginning to feel the chill of the night. He noticed that the woman had found a blanket and draped it around her shoulders. In his indecision, he shut down the engines to a gentle idle. It was serene to be floating at the whim of the current under the clear skies and reminded him with a pang of a time when he had lain side by side with Alison looking up at a similar starred tapestry from the deck of a sailing-boat they had been fortunate enough to borrow for a week before Abigail was conceived.
The idling engine nagged him. He was using valuable fuel that might be needed that night or the following day. There was little chance of replenishing the tanks if they needed it. The woman had lain down across the rearmost of the bench seats with the blanket fully covering her. Like that, he saw no threat in her any more.
Sansom made the decision that he had to try to find some seabed that would be able to hold the anchor and enable him to cut the engines completely but that would mean getting closer to the land. Slowly, using the moonlight and the lights of the shore, he eased the craft inshore, his eyes constantly scanning the surface for any sign of obstructions.
Feeling close enough and being as sure as he could be that Botha’s wife was subdued and had no intention of taking advantage of his diverted attention, he clambered on to the prow of the little craft and hefted the anchor over the side.
It hit the water with a resounding splash, the chain paying out after it like some skeletal snake in pursuit. He watched and waited as the links rattled past in a blur of reflected moonlight. And then it hit, dragged along the floor of the sea and finally caught on something that swung the boat around, secured.
He breathed a sigh of relief and shot a look over his shoulder to where the woman lay. But she was gone. The blanket, her discarded sweatsuit pants and hooded top lay on the bench.
Cursing himself for his carelessness, he pulled off his jacket and trainers and, in his still-damp shorts, braced himself on the fibreglass prow. Sweeping the area between the craft and the shore, he strained his vision and hearing for the tell-tale signs of her escape.
He located her
already some fifty yards distant, her head rising and falling rhythmically as she breast-stroked away from the boat. He arrowed himself into the water, surfacing moments later to power after her. After a dozen strokes, he adjusted himself to catch a glimpse of her position. Aware that he had realised her flight and located her; with no further use for secrecy and quiet, she had changed her own style to a crawl.
He put his head down and soon found his rhythm. Another twenty strokes and he had to alter his technique to get sight of her. She was maintaining a direct route to the shore, throwing all her energy at one crude but clearly effective attempt to escape.
As he pushed himself after her, he could tell that she was no slouch in the water; he’d barely dented the gap between them. Probably something to do with those long legs, he thought – and his lengthy earlier immersion in the water wasn’t helping.
He ploughed on, feeling the strain in his breathing and limbs. Another quick glimpse showed him that she too must be tiring as the gap had closed slightly. He also realised with a spasm of frustration that she would reach the shore several seconds before him.
Digging deep and kicking hard, he managed another twenty or thirty big strokes before he smashed his knee on something. Pain shot through his leg, causing him to call out. He scrambled to his feet on the shingle bed to see the woman also on her feet wading ahead of him.
He soon understood that the rough seabed was to his advantage. A year of being mostly barefoot had toughened the soles of his feet to the extent that he was able to move quicker across the jagged covering of the shore. In contrast, she appeared to be picking her way painfully, hobbling over the terrain of the shallows. With such an advantage, he was able to close the gap between them further.
Still she made dry land before him. To his dismay, he saw her take off in the direction of what looked like dunes banking the beach. His legs were leaden and his breathing heavy and laboured as he splashed through the remaining shallows. She was clearly very fit and on the sand she had increased the speed of her movement.
He limped in pursuit, spurred on by his desperation, his knee smarting with every stride. He could feel the warmth of his blood running down his shin. The thought of losing his prize was not to be contemplated. In the faint light, he saw her trying to scramble up and over the face of the dunes, heard her cry out in her frustration and desperation. Twice, as he closed the final gap, she fell backwards, unable to find a hold with either feet or hands.
Aware of his closeness, she gave up and turned to face him. Her breathing was deep, rapid and furious. As he approached, she dropped to her knees and scrabbled about in the sand for something to fend him off with. He slowed to an exhausted walk and stopped ten feet from her. She crouched, adopting a stance that conveyed to him that she was not to be taken a second time without a struggle.
Fighting his exhaustion and breathlessness, he said, ‘You tried. You’ve failed. Turn around, come back to the boat, and I promise you that I won’t hurt you for this.’
She laughed then, a harsh laugh born of the surprise of something unexpectedly funny. ‘You’re a bigger fool than I took you for. You won’t get me back out there. Realise that I’m a dead end for you and leave. Look at you. You’ll barely manage to get yourself back to the boat, let alone me.’
‘As you like,’ he said. He took a step towards her and she flung something at him. It whistled past his ear in the darkness. She bent to pick up something else and he charged her. She was almost upright, her arm in the air above her head, poised to bring something down on his, when he hit her, smashing into her midriff with his shoulder, forcing an animal grunt from her. She was flung back against the wall of the dune. He sprawled on top of her, wrenching a small rock from her grasp.
As well as the wind being knocked out of her, so was the fight. She squirmed for a moment and then submitted entirely to his strength and dominance. He lay on her for several moments, catching his breath and his senses, ignoring the fact that she was naked apart from her skimpy sodden underwear.
He began to compose his threats in his mind and then abandoned them all. She’d had her chance. Words had no effect on her. His breath was better employed on breathing.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and hauled her to her feet. She yelped. He slapped her hard across the face. He yanked her head back into him, his mouth against her ear. ‘You’re coming back to that boat whether you like it or not. How you get there is up to you. I’ll give you one last chance to make your own way back, or I can put you out and drag you back. But that will come with certain risks – all yours.’
‘Go to hell,’ she said.
With her neck in the crook of his arm, he increased the pressure on her windpipe. She fumbled and tugged at his grip but the strength had flowed out of her and now she was slowly losing consciousness. She patted his arm repeatedly – a signal of submission – and he eased the pressure. She spluttered and coughed but he held her still, ignoring the friction of her bareness up against him.
‘OK. OK,’ she gasped. ‘Get off me.’
He pushed her away. ‘Get back in the water.’
‘I need a rest.’
‘No, you don’t. You’re more than capable. Now move.’
To his relief, she turned and began to plod her way back to the sea. He followed her at a distance as she paddled, then waded and then plunged and began her breaststroke back to the craft. He fell in behind her, watching for any sign of deception, but there was none.
It took them ten minutes to get back to the little craft. Sansom estimated that they had been away from the phone for about thirty minutes and he worried that they might have missed a call from Botha.
At the small set of metal rungs at the rear of the bobbing craft, she made to haul herself up. Realising she would know he had two pistols in his coat, he roughly pulled her back into the water. She splashed, protesting at her treatment.
‘After me,’ he said, clambering up.
‘You have no manners,’ she scowled.
He said, ‘Manners, I save for the ladies that I meet.’
Back in the boat, he took up the blanket that she’d used to keep herself warm and dried himself on it. Then he took her clothes and hurled them into the water, leaving her dripping and shivering on the bench seat. He dressed himself and checked the mobile phone, relieved to see that there were no missed calls. She glared at him and it struck him that the hatred burning inside her was probably enough to keep her warm. Eventually, he threw the blanket at her. She grabbed it and wrapped it around herself without a word.
‘What now?’ she said.
‘We wait. We wait for your husband to show how much he cares. We wait as long as it takes.’ He took the silenced pistol and aimed it at her knee. She shuddered and her eyes widened in horror as she tensed herself against the impact.
‘I don’t have the energy to do that again,’ he said. ‘Try anything similar and you’ll be target practice.’ He waved the pistol at her in emphasis. She huddled herself down into the seat, as far out of the breeze as she could get. The confident, self-assured aura that she had projected before her attempted escape had outwardly been replaced by a posture of defeat and resignation. Her shoulders were slumped and her exertions and exposure to the sea replaced her superior refined exterior of earlier with a bedraggled, conquered look.
He settled himself into the seat behind her, the pistol on his lap, the phone next to him, and began the waiting, determined to pay closer attention to his prisoner. He was not about to let her fool him again.
*
The noise of movement, a gentle rustling in the furthest, darkest corner of the cell, alerted Tallis to the presence of something or someone. Out of the darkness a foreign language exploded at him, nothing of which he understood, yet there was something familiar in the tone.
‘Eda?’
‘Detective Tallis?’ Her response was a release of her pent-up emotions. He found himself pinned in a desperate embrace. Instinctively, he put his arms around her as he would
have comforted his own grown-up daughter, patting her back in that awkward fatherly way.
‘I knew that you’d find me. Where is Acer?’
He eased her away from him by the shoulders. ‘It’s not as encouraging as that, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. Looks like we are both unwilling guests of Mr Botha. But keep your voice down. We’re not supposed to know each other. Do you understand me?’
‘It’s a little late for that, Detective Inspector,’ came the voice that Tallis recognised as the big man’s. Tallis realised that he’d been fooled by the retreating steps he’d heard and his heart sank. ‘A most touching reunion,’ he added, laughing softly.
Eda let out a soft moan of realisation. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and Tallis heard her begin to cry.
‘Ssshh,’ he said. ‘Let’s have none of that. It’s not your fault.’ Accustomed now to the gloom, he put his hand out and touched her shoulder. Turning to the window behind him, he said, ‘So, what now?’ But there was no one there. Moving to the barred opening, he saw the rolling gait of the huge man ambling away towards the house. He turned back to Eda, who had slumped back down on to a straw bale. ‘Are you all right?’ He asked. ‘Have they hurt you?’
‘No, they haven’t,’ she replied, unable to keep the despair out of her voice.
‘They won’t. Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Acer’s been busy on your behalf. He has Botha’s wife. He’s offered them a trade: you for her. I think they’re preparing for it.’
‘How can he win against them? He’s on his own.’
He was sorry to hear the hopelessness in her voice. ‘I wouldn’t underestimate our friend,’ said Tallis. ‘He’s a very determined and resourceful young man. And what’s more, they know it. They’ll take him seriously, I’m sure.’
‘What about you?’ she said.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I have a feeling that Botha has other plans for me involving a certain Member of Parliament in London and former business partner of his. I might just have become more useful to him alive and well than anything else.’
