The Deep Secret

by David Robinson

  Thoughts of Gerry’s plan reminded him of Croft. He would be there, at Helecombe, and he would have plenty of backup, too. Armed police everywhere. But Helecombe had never been intended as the location for the final showdown. The only reason Croft had been sent there was because it was the location of Burke’s boat. Croft could not possibly know where the final confrontation would take place, and by the time he received the next text, it would be too late to get any serious sea-going backup to the area. The nearest coastguard station was in Swansea, the other side of the Bristol Channel, and it would take a good hour, maybe more, to get here.

  And according to Gerry, Croft was that kind of arrogant pain in the arse who would seek confrontation alone. Murdering Trish Sinclair ensured that, and if it didn’t, the threat to Emma Gurney should be enough.

  As the lights on Combe Martin passed on the right, Billy’s thoughts turned to the last possible problem. Suppose Croft had not cracked The Deep Secret? In that case, Billy would miss out on the promised £100,000. Still, it had been fun, and anyway, according to Gerry, when put under this kind of pressure, Croft would come up with the goods.

  A mile and half the other side of Combe Martin, Billy cut the engine, and made to drop the anchor. Lifting up the loose anchor chain, he cursed himself for having dumped both the anchor and the mud weight in Helemouth. Checking the locker, he found a rond anchor, attached a length of rope to it, secured it boatside and dropped it into the shallows. He did not imagine it was weighty enough to keep the boat from floating away, but with luck, it would snag on something and hold him away from the cliffs. If it did not, the ebb tide should carry him away from the cliffs, and if that did not happen, he could always start the engine to take himself a bit further out.

  Returning to the forward cabin, he took his pleasure of Emma once more, then nodded off on the bunk opposite her. It was 5.45am when he woke and with a shock of alarm he hurried out to the deck. If the boat had drifted too close to the cliffs…

  He need not have worried. The seas were flat and calm, and the boat appeared roughly in the same position as she had been earlier, and the rond anchor line was taut.

  In the blaze of the morning sun, bringing with it the promise of another hot day, he unpacked the fireworks and began to set them up, placing them around the deckwell with two of the largest in the cockpit.

  With a curse, he recalled he had not collected fuel. Gerry’s plan had called for five gallons of unleaded fuel.

  Digging into the tool locker again, he found a pump and, removing the boat’s fuel cap, he began to siphon from the tank, spraying the open end of the pump around the deckwell, using a deck mop to force it into the cockpit and down the steps into the cabin. Marine diesel would not burn as well as petrol, but it would ignite and eventually, when the heat got to the mix of air and fuel in the tank, it would blow this tub to bits.

  But the fuel made the deck slippery, difficult to walk on. To avoid it, he unfastened the anchor line and let it drop into the sea. He had no need of it any longer.

  With time coming up to seven, and the orb of the sun rising into the sky, he dragged Emma from her bunk and into the cockpit.

  Settling into his seat near the wheel, he forced her at gunpoint to stand with her back to the starboard side and, keeping the firework remote control trigger close to hand, put a text message together on her phone.

  “Old Croftie won’t be long, chicken,” he promised, and gestured up at the sheer cliffs. “Soon as he works out where Gibbet Point is.”

  41

  Croft’s phone tweeted for attention. He emerged from the bathroom, where he had been shaving, and checked the menu. A text from an unknown number.

  Gibbet Point. I’ll see you there with The Deep Secret or the girl joins all the others.

  “What girl?” Millie asked when he showed her the message to her.

  “I don’t know. I can only assume he’s abducted someone.” Croft chewed his lip. “But no one here has heard of Gibbet Point. I asked the harbourmaster yesterday.”

  “Let’s get downstairs and get something to eat,” Millie suggested. “I’ll ring the local boy, and by the time we’ve had breakfast, the town should be awake.”

  Under the disapproving eye of the landlady, Croft enjoyed a breakfast of toast and butter, and Millie tucked into a full English while she talked with Constable Kneale. When the call was over, she detailed it to Croft.

  “The key. It wasn’t a caravan. It’s for a boat. Goddess Georgina, which is moored in the harbour right now. Been there six or seven years. All mooring and maintenance fees paid by direct debit. Devon and Cornwall will run a check, but the boat is registered to Gerald Humphries. The police have AFOs watching it for our man.”

  Croft shook his head. “We have the key, and he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t go to the boat. He’s taken another from somewhere, and he’s taken a woman with him.”

  “We’ll see,” Millie said and returned to her breakfast.

  After the meal, they walked out of the hotel into a warm morning filled with the promise of a searing hot day. There was no cloud in the sky for as far as they could see, and the air had a fresh summer tang to it. The tourists were already out, beginning their day’s exploration of the town. Local traders were putting out their call signs, large, sandwich board placards inviting the potential shopper to open his wallet. Delivery vehicles choked the narrow street; beer to the pubs, frozen food to the restaurants and shops, the pavement decked with trolleys upon which drivers stacked the cartons, and checked them against consignment notes.

  And in the harbourmaster’s office, an earnest conversation between two local officers.

  “Problems, Constable?” Millie asked.

  “Local stuff, ma’am,” Kneale reported. “I need to get on with my routine duties, and anyway you have an entire mob of AFOs here watching the boat and ready to move the minute our boy shows his face. I was just talking over another bit of business with Peter.”

  “Boat missing from Helemouth, and the owner found drowned in the sands at low tide,” Orville explained.

  “Thing is,” Constable Kneale took up the tale, “Ivan Gurney, the boat’s owner, was tied hand and foot, and gagged. I really should be over there waiting for the detectives from Barnstaple.”

  Millie opened her mouth to speak. Croft guessed she was about to order the constable back to Combe Martin, but, his senses coming to full alert, Croft got in before her. “The dead man, was he married?”

  “Hmm,” Orville replied with a nod. He eyed Millie cautiously. “I’ve seen him here. Townie, he was. Londoner. Young bitta stuff, his missus. Emma, she’s called. Very, erm, tasty if you’ll pardon me, ma’am.”

  “That’s all right,” Millie said, frowning her disapproval instead. “Felix, what is it?”

  Croft addressed the two men as much as Millie. “Prather is at Gibbet Point and has a woman hostage.”

  “I told you yesterday, sir, I never heard of the place,” Orville insisted.

  A thoughtful look crossed Kneale’s young face. “You don’t think he means the Hangman Hills, do you, Pete?”

  Croft switched his attention back to the policeman. “Hangman Hills?”

  “Pair of hills a mile or two east of Combe Martin, sir,” Orville explained, and Croft’s head snapped back to him. “Little Hangman and Great Hangman.”

  “Sheer cliffs?” Croft demanded.

  “Over a thousand feet, the tallest in Southern Britain,” Orville reported with some pride.

  Croft reached into his briefcase and took out Zepelli’s biography. Thumbing quickly through the pages, he opened it at the photograph of the Burke family, and showed it to the constable. “Would it look like that from the beach?”

  Kneale screwed up his face. “Could be. Hard to say, sir. That’s an old photograph and it could be anywhere on our bit of the coast.”

  “Felix,” Millie asked, “is this it?”

  “Yes. I think so. Zepelli was not a local man, remember. Maybe he dreamt the nam
e up, maybe he heard it from someone else and assumed that was what it was called. I don’t know, but it’s too close for it to be anywhere else. Remember Burke, how he disguised the name of Cromford Mill in a riddle. This has the same signature. A cliff his father called Gibbet Point, but there is no such place. Burke planned all this, and he used that to keep us guessing until he was in place and ready for us.” He fumed. “And he’s done it again.”

  “You mean Prather has done it.”

  “Prather is following Burke’s plan.” He rounded on Kneale. “How quickly could you get your armed team out there?”

  The constable left it to Orville who frowned. “We’d need to get a boat, sir. Nearest Coastguard is Swansea. Take ’em more’n hour to get here. Then they’d have to board the policemen, and get out again. And there’s the tides to consider.”

  “All right,” Croft said, “how quickly can you get me there?”

  “Felix, no,” Millie argued.

  “Millie, we knew all along it would come to this. It’s me he wants, not you. Me and The Deep Secret. And if he doesn’t get me, another innocent woman will die.” Rounding back on Orville, he demanded, “How long?”

  Orville shrugged. “I could get the inshore lifeboat out. They’d have you there in twenty minutes.”

  Croft switched back the Kneale. “Get your armed people up on this cliff, and all over the surrounding area. They may be able to pick him off from there, but if not, they may get him if he tries to escape on land.”

  “Right, sir.”

  He turned on Orville again. “Call the Coastguard, tell them to be ready in case Prather tries to make a run for it across the Bristol Channel, but first call your lifeboat out. If there’s any hassle, I’ll pay for it.”

  “It’ll take ten minutes to get the crew out and ready to launch,” Orville agreed.

  “Tell them to move it,” Croft barked. “They can pick me up here.”

  Millie dropped her bag on the counter, dug into it and drew out her pistol. “Pick us up here.”

  ***

  The tiny dinghy skipped over the slight swell leaving a broad wake as she sped past the toweringNorth Devon cliffs.

  Just before they left Helecombe quay, Constable Kneale had radioed in to say that the armed units were on their way by road to the landward end of Great Hangman.

  “Take ’em half an hour or so to get there, ma’am,” he had said, “and we’ve had reports of the boat missing from Helemouth, Marion 34, floating offshore. Looks like it could be your man.”

  Half a mile ahead, Croft could see the blue and white, thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser stationary in the water, stern towards them, two hundred yards from the shore. There was no sign of life or movement aboard her, but as they neared, two figures appeared in the cabin.

  Croft and Millie sat in the prow of the inshore lifeboat, behind them were two crewmen and the helmsman, who was technically in command of the boat, but now seconded to Millie’s orders.

  Croft had baulked at their insistence on wearing a lifejacket and helmet. “I may need to move fast.”

  The helmsman had insisted. “Safety, young fella. If we turn over at sea, you’ll bloody need ’em. Now put ’em on.”

  Approaching Marion 34, Croft wanted to take them off, but Millie stopped him. “Wait until we’re close enough. Let’s see what Prather’s going to do.”

  As they closed in on the boat, Millie studied it through field glasses. “One of the two people is moving around. The other is stood still as if she daren’t move.”

  “Ease your speed,” Croft ordered the helmsman. “Let’s not get too close until we know what he’s doing.” Alongside him, Millie dropped the binoculars and cocked her automatic pistol. Croft chuckled humourlessly. “You don’t think he’s going to let you get a clear shot do you?”

  “If I do…” Millie checked the safety was on.

  Without warning, Prather emerged briefly from the cabin, raised his arm, and fired a single shot into the air. Millie was too slow to take advantage and he disappeared back into the cabin.

  A moment later, the morning air was ruptured by the sound of Prather’s voice coming through Marion 34’s loudspeaker.

  “I have a young woman with me. Her name is Emma Gurney. If you come any closer, I’ll kill her. Tell them, Emma.”

  After a brief pause, the girl’s frightened voice came from the speaker. “Please do as he says. He’s… he’s already k-killed my husband and he’s g… g… got a gun. He’ll sh… shoot me.”

  “Listen to me carefully,” Prather said a moment later. “This boat is wired with explosives, and I’ve swabbed the decks with fuel. One move out of place, and the whole fucking thing goes up. Me, her, the fucking lot. From now on you do as I say.”

  “I told you he’d have it arranged, didn’t I?” Croft muttered to Millie. He pointed to the lifeboat’s megaphone and snapped his fingers. A crewman passed it to him. He switched it on and pressed it to his lips. “Prather, this is Croft. I have The Deep Secret. If you hurt that girl, we turn and go, and as we leave, I’ll fire a flare at your boat and fry you in hell. And if the fire doesn’t get you, Inspector Matthews will blow your head off when you try to bail out.”

  “I won’t harm her, as long you do exactly what I tell you,” Prather returned. “You, Croft. Only you. Over here, now.”

  “How do you propose I get there without us drawing alongside.”

  “You can swim, can’t you? If the lifeboat moves, you’re dead meat.”

  Croft tossed the megaphone back to the crewmen, unclipped his helmet and removed it.

  “Felix, you can’t,” Millie protested. “He’ll kill you and the girl. You know what he’s like.”

  “I have to,” Croft retorted. “If I don’t, he’ll kill her anyway. Besides, he won’t hurt me until he has The Deep Secret.”

  “But you haven’t got it.”

  “Oh yes, I have.” Tossing the helmet to one side, he began to strip off the lifejacket. “Well, I know how to find it. And I don’t mean the secret of Gerry Burke killing Reiniger, either. I mean the real Deep Secret. Walter’s spontaneous somnambulism. It really is hidden in the manuscript.”

  Millie frowned. “How? What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I know how to find it, that’s all. It will be enough for him because he’ll have a copy of the manuscript somewhere.”

  “Felix, please…”

  He shushed her. “It has to be this way, Millie.”

  “You won’t be able to talk him round,” she insisted.

  “I don’t plan to. I’ll have to beat him physically, the way I beat Burke at Cromford Mill.” Throwing the lifejacket to the crew, he asked of the helmsman, “Any currents I need to worry about?”

  “Not really, sir. Tide’s on the ebb, but the sea’s gentle today. There may be rocks as you get closer to the shore, but he’d have found them if there were.”

  “How cold is the water?”

  “Nippy, sir,” the other reported as Croft emptied his pockets and passed his belongings to Millie. “Your clothing will weigh you down, and at best you’ve got maybe three or four minutes before the cold starts to get to you.”

  Croft gauged the distance at about thirty yards. “I’ll be all right.” He picked up the megaphone again and glared at the dark figure moving around behind the glass of the cockpit. “I’m coming over, Prather. Behave yourself or you’ll never get The Deep Secret.”

  He prepared to jump, feet first, into the sea.

  Millie stayed him and when he faced her, she kissed him. “I love you.”

  He grinned. “I’ll keep that thought in mind.”

  Facing away from the dinghy, he took a breath and slipped off the side, into the water.

  The helmsman had not been kidding when he said the waters were chilly. A shock of cold struck through him, and took his breath away. To combat it, he kicked his legs out, and began swimming with powerful strokes, his feet frothing the sea as they propelled him towards the Marion 34.

 
A short ladder hung over the side. Croft hauled himself up slowly, his muscles complaining at the additional weight of his wet clothing. A powerful smell of diesel assaulted his nostrils when he gripped the side rail and hauled himself over. Putting his feet on the deckwell, they slipped from under him, sending him crashing to the deck, where the fuel began to seep into his wet shirt and jeans.

  From inside the cabin, Prather aimed his revolver. “In here.”

  Teeth chattering after the cold swim, treading warily, holding onto first the side rail, then the cockpit frame to prevent him slipping again, he made his way into the cockpit, where Prather stood behind the helm and Emma Gurney off to one side.

  Young and pretty, a head of tastefully arranged chestnut hair, her blue eyes were stark with unmasked terror.

  Prather grinned at him. “If you’re wondering, she’s an excellent fuck.”

  The words filled Croft with fury. He rounded on Prather, but the waving pistol forced him to rein in his anger yet again. “Let her go,” he insisted.

  “She stays.”

  Ignoring him, Croft asked, “Can you swim, Emma?”

  She nodded.

  Looking around the cab, Croft picked up a life jacket and turned her back to him to unite her bindings.

  “I said—”

  Croft whirled angrily on Prather. “NO! I know you, you bastard. You’re just like Burke. When we’re through you’ll kill me, and then after you’ve raped her again, you’ll kill her too. Well, the killing stops. Right here. Now. You want The Deep Secret, then she leaves. It’s that simple. The alternative is I’ll go for you, force you to kill me, and you’ll NEVER have the secret.”

  Prather sneered. “Do you think you’re the only one with a copy of the manuscript?”

  Pure hatred beamed from Croft’s eyes. “No, but I know I’m the only one who’s broken the code. Burke tried for over thirty years and he never did it because he didn’t have the brains, and you have less intelligence than him. How long have his other puppets been at it? Have they done it? No, they haven’t, or we wouldn’t still be talking about it. I did it, Prather. Me. The only man smart enough to read The Great Zepelli’s mind, and I did it in less than a week. You want the secret, you deal with me, and this girl goes back to the lifeboat.”