by Alfie Robins
The village of Blacktoft on the north bank of the River Humber, or as Warren had been corrected, the River Ouse, was deserted as he drove up in the Fiesta, more like a hamlet than a village. A few scattered properties stood back from the river frontage protected by a high grass bank. The public house however, The Hope and Anchor was perched high on the bank with splendid views across the river.
Warren drove the Fiesta into the pub car park. He manoeuvred the vehicle between a Range Rover and a VW Beetle, switched off and reached into the back for his jacket and boots. Dressed in the borrowed jacket and boots he walked up the high banking and admired the view. It was low water and the river ran in fast streams between the mud banks that were occupied by the feeding gulls. He fastened the jacket and pulled on the woollen hat and with his sketch of the area in his pocket he set off south down the foreshore looking for the timber jetty.
It was a tricky hike along the riverside, the supposed path became a sodden bog every few metres or so, with saltwater reeds growing to waist height hampering his progress. Ten minutes into the journey and Warren was stopped by a barbed wire fence. The security fence led off the land to the river’s edge, there was no chance of going around without ending up waist deep in Humber mud. A plywood sign lay at angles with the fence, the words faded and weathered, Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
‘Yeah right, so much for ramblers having the right to ramble,’ he said as he took of his jacket and laid it across the top wire strand. Carefully he put his weight on the jacket-covered wire and climbed over, then with a couple of good tugs retrieved his jacket – only now it had non-designer rips.
The terrain started to get rougher, with the reeds thickening and ground becoming even boggier and he found himself halfway up his wellingtons in muddy sludge. The field had little protection from the river at high water, even less protection from the easterly wind blowing down river. After a further five minutes tramping though the mire he eventually reach a small man-made inlet, its sides shored up with timber and a dilapidated wooden landing stage that straddled the inlet and slightly reached out into the river.
He’d found the spot.
The jetty was actually in better condition than he expected, made from ‘Greenheart’, a tough all weather timber used for structures that stood in water and were exposed to the elements all year round. Warren put one foot on the jetty, testing the safety of the boards – they creaked a little but seemed safe enough – and he stepped out over the mud below. He tucked his hands deep into his jacket pockets as the penetrating wind blew down the river. I’m definitely a townie, he thought to himself, as he hunched his shoulders and looked around. He looked up towards the sky, thinking that rain didn’t seem very far away. It was a desolate place, there didn’t look to be any occupied habitation for miles, although he knew the farmhouse couldn’t be too far away.
Warren checked the sketch of the area looking for the location of the farmhouse, and set off inland along the edge of a ploughed field. The going was heavy, his boots stuck and the mud attempted to suck them off his feet with each step he took. He climbed a rickety stile, left the field and chose a route through a wooded copse, brushing away the branches as he went. The detached farmhouse stood 100 metres further on beyond the trees, a number of outbuildings looked to be derelict. Warren wondered what type of farm it was, no crops and no livestock, but then again if you were in cahoots with Mick Conway you were more than likely to be involved in something other than farming.
It looked as if the farmhouse was reached by a single lane track which led off a narrow road, Warren assumed the road led to the river at some point. He was happy, if happy was the correct word to use, the location was perfect for Conway and Douglas’s needs, miles from anywhere.
‘Bugger,’ he said out loud when he realised he’d have to retrace his steps through the mud back to the car. Twenty minutes later, splattered with mud, he arrived at the Hope and Anchor and debated with himself whether to call in and have a pint and a bite to eat, but thought better of it. He put the muddy boots in the boot of the Fiesta, and was pleased to be back in the car as the rain came.
An old-fashioned real coal fire burned in the hearth of Mick Conway’s living room. The heat from the fire was making Warren feel drowsy after his trip into the countryside.
‘So, what do you reckon?’ Conway asked as he passed over a cut glass tumbler of single malt.
‘No tequila?’ he asked, but pleased at the prospect of the malt.
‘Fifteen years old this, it’ll put hairs on your chest. Cheers!’ He held the glass in a mock salute.
‘As far as locations go, I’ve never seen such a dreary, isolated, uninhabited place in my life. Even the seagulls looked pissed off. It’s perfect.’
‘Hoped you’d say that.’
‘Yeah, I had a good scout around and couldn’t see any problems with the place as long as the transaction is carried out on board the yacht and quickly.’
‘It will be, to be on the safe side the landowner has been told to make himself scarce for twenty-four hours,’ he looked at his watch, ‘from now. What I want to know is, are you in?’
‘Thought you just wanted me to check it out?’
Warren sipped the malt, it was like nectar compared with the Mexican stuff.
‘There’s a lot riding on this one, I can’t think of anyone better suited to the job.’
‘Who else knows the details?’
‘Me, Big Jim, you obviously and the Dutch.’
‘What about the bloke who owns the jetty?’
‘Na, just knows something’s going on, he’s happy as long as he gets his dosh.’
‘Not even your lad Jimbo?’
The heat from the open fire was getting to Warren, he stood up and went to sit by the window.
‘He’s a good lad, but only gets told what he needs to know.’
‘Ok I’m in, but let’s keep it small scale, just me and the lad.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Cheers,’ he said raising the glass once more. ‘Let’s get some details sorted, first a top-up.’
Conway stood and walked over to the drinks cabinet and brought the malt back with him.
‘You think Jimbo will hold it against me for what I did to his mate?’ Asked Warren.
‘He’s not very happy about it, but he knows which side his bread is buttered.’
‘And another question?’
‘Ask away,’ Conway replied as he topped up their glasses.
‘If there’s not going to be any problem with Customs and Excise why the hell is the deal being done in the back of beyond?’
‘A good question which deserves an answer.’
Conway smiled and with his index finger he gave a ‘knowing’ tap to the side of his nose.
‘Well?’
‘I have a little transaction of my own going down on the side. They’re bringing in a package for me.’
‘For Christ’s sake Mick, you don’t do things by halves do you?’
‘In for a penny in for a pound, that’s what I always say. All you have to do is check the package and hand over the readies.’
‘And the sparklies, how do I know if they’re real and I’m not coming away with a pile of broken glass?’
‘They’ve already been authenticated in Amsterdam. You know the boxes that the security people use? Where a dye explodes if the box is tampered with, or opened without the proper code? Well they’re in one of them. The only people who know the code are me, Big Jim and our contact in Amsterdam. I tell you what the code is and you make sure the rocks are in the box. If you are happy with things, you put the authorisation code into the laptop and transfer the dosh!’
‘And your package?’
‘That’s an easy one, again you check the package is what it’s supposed to be and then pay the man, simple. What can go wrong?’
About a thousand and one things, thought Warren.
‘Names?’ he asked.
‘No names, one guy is Dutch and the o
ther is English, if anybody he’s the one to watch. Know what I mean?’
‘Well I guess I’d better leave you to it.’ Warren said as he stood up and walked into the hallway. ‘You’ll tell Jimbo what’s what?’ he asked as he put on his jacket and boots.
‘I’ll tell him to give you a bell and you can sort out the details between you, ok?’
‘As you said Mick, sounds like a plan,’ Warren replied as he walked down the garden path towards the Fiesta.
Warren headed back to the flat on Great Thornton Street and made his scheduled call to Gemmell Strategies.
‘It’s on for tomorrow, will you be taking any action?’
‘Very short notice Greg, I can’t confirm either way at this stage but probably not.’
The coffee machine gurgled and hissed its dubious contents into the glass jug. Bob walked across the office to the hissing machine, took two fresh cups from the tray and poured the contents of the jug.
‘Well John, what do you think?’ he asked as he returned, putting the cups down on the desk.
‘I think we should leave well alone,’ he replied as he picked up his coffee. ‘We shouldn’t be too hasty.’
‘That’s what I thought – at first, too soon, but I can’t see a more lucrative opportunity like this arising any time in the future.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘You know what I’m saying – we intervene.’
John sat forward in his chair, elbows resting on the desk making a temple with his fingers.
‘Extremely short notice to launch and organise a detailed operation.’
‘Agreed, as there is no time for elaborate planning, we need someone who can think on their feet.’
‘And whoever we choose would have to be expendable should anything untoward happen. Warren’s nobody’s fool.’
‘Have you anybody in mind?’
‘As it happens we do have someone who fits the bill, Peter Stapler.
Stapler had worked for the organisation for the past two years, and had been a very useful asset. Of late he was becoming somewhat of a liability, far more inquisitive than his pay grade and was also nearing the end of his tenure with the department.
‘Where is he now?’ asked John.
‘The French “deal” is now complete and by all accounts he should be back in the country.’
Bob picked up the phone and dialled.
Chapter 20
Warren with Jimbo in tow followed the same route he had taken the previous day from the Hope and Anchor to the rendezvous point. Rain was falling steadily, making the going even harder, Warren was pleased he was wearing the borrowed wax jacket and rubber boots.
‘Fucking hell Ray, if you’d told me what we was up too I’d have worn a pair of wellies,’ Jimbo said as he tried to kick the clinging mud from his trainers.
‘You obviously weren’t a boy scout Jimbo,’ he laughed. ‘What’s the motto? Be prepared! That’s it.’
‘Shit,’ said Jimbo, as he once again got stuck in the mud.
As they approached, over the reeds growing on the creek bank, the tall single mast of the Seabird came into view. She was exactly where she was supposed to be. A further 100 metres on Warren called a stop.
‘Well there she is.’
‘Can’t see anybody, you would have thought one of them would be keeping an eye out for us,’ Jimbo said, pensively.
‘Mmm,’ Warren thought the same. ‘Right matey, this is what we’re going to do. This time you’re the watcher, find yourself a good spot and you keep a good eye on the boat and the area.’
‘Watcher, for fuck’s sake Ray, we don’t need a watcher.’
‘Jimbo, you said it yourself, you thought there should be someone on lookout. There’s a lot more at stake on this job than a piddling packet of “H”, know what I mean? If there’s trouble I want you to get the fuck out of it, understand? I don’t want you taking any chances.’
‘Yeah but…’
‘No yeah buts, pal. If you see anything call me on the mobile, I’ll have it on vibrate. On the other hand, should you think anything’s happened to me, don’t come charging in like the cavalry, just get the fuck out of it, ok?
Jimbo wandered off to the left, looking for a good vantage point amongst the tall reeds. ‘Shit,’ Warren heard as Jimbo splashed about in the salt marsh. He smiled to himself and carried on. There was no need for a stealthy approach, Jimbo was making enough noise for the two of them and, after all, he was expected.
The nearer Warren got to the Seabird, the more his police instinct kicked in, something just didn’t seem kosher. Jimbo was right, why wasn’t anybody on deck? Now was the time to adopt a different mindset, he backed away and circled around and approached the yacht from the aft, with the river front behind him. It was quiet, too quiet. The breeze rustled through the reeds, he could hear the waves lapping against the Seabirds hull, the only other sound was the screeching of the seagulls gliding on the wind. Slowly and hesitantly, he approached the Greenheart timber jetty. The wood was slick and wet from the high tide spray, the Seabird was moored to the timber structure.
The spray from the river covered his wax jacket like a fine mist, he contemplated calling out to anyone below decks, changed his mind and reached inside his jacket and released the safety clip on his Sig holster for quick access. Holding onto the bulwark of the Seabird, he placed one leg on board and waited, nothing, now with his full weight on the deck he could feel the Seabird shift against the jetty. Slowly he made his way aft and stopped at the cockpit and listened: silence. His right hand reached into his jacket and rested on the butt of the Sig. Warren placed his hand on the handle of the sliding door leading into the accommodation area, slowly he slid the door aside and stepped down into the galley.
The two crew members were knelt on the floor with their backs towards him, bound at the ankles and their hand behind their backs fastened together with plasti-cuffs. Parcel tape wrapped around their mouths and heads. ‘Shit,’ said Warren as he took another step into the cabin.
He didn’t realise it but he’d stepped into hell.
‘Far enough, Cole, don’t turn around, keep your eyes to the front.’ He didn’t see who the voice belonged to. Warren stopped dead, he hadn’t heard the silent approach, never mind have time to pull out the Sig. ‘Easy now, take your hand out of your jacket, slowly and keep looking in front.’
He removed his hand from inside the wax jacket and let both arms hang by his side. Before he had time to speak or turn around Warren felt a hand grab his neck, a well-practised grip grabbed his neck and found the carotid artery, pressure was applied, suddenly he felt light headed and fell to the floor as the circulation to his brain was cut off. The two men turned to see Warren fall to the deck unconscious.
His assailant removed the Sig from its holster, and placed it on the galley table. Next he went through Warren’s jacket pockets and found the envelope containing the twelve thousand pound drugs payment. The unexpected guest pocketed the cash; he was already in possession of the diamonds and heroin. He turned and with a gloved hand picked up the Sig and released the safety catch. Kneeling close to Warren’s body, he took a hold of his right hand and held the fingers around the pistol grip and trigger. He struggled with Warren’s weight as he manoeuvred him into position, once he was balanced he pointed the Sig at the back of Dutchman’s head and execution style he pulled the trigger. His partner in crime, distraught, tried to twist and turn but no amount of effort was going to save him, BANG, he fell forward onto the deck as the bullet entered the back of his head and exploded through the front splattering brain and bone around the small cabin. As well as Warrens fingerprints on the fired weapon, his clothes were covered with GSR, gun shot residue.
Calmly and quickly he double checked he had left no evidence, it wouldn’t be long before Warren regained consciousness. He was happy, he left the Seabird closing the cockpit hatch behind him. He had never been there.
Three minutes later Warren slowly stirred, from the
prone position he managed to get to his knees, his head felt as if he’d been asleep for a week. He tried to shake the fuzziness away. He lifted his hands to his face, that was when he realised the Sig was in his hand. Warren was confused, until he saw what was left of the small crew and the reality hit him, his weapon had been used for the execution.
‘Ahh, shit,’ he said out loud when he realised he had been well and truly stitched up.
The money was gone from his pocket. ‘That’s all I bloody need,’ he said. There was no doubt in his mind that the diamonds would also be missing. Still on his knees he crawled over to the two bound men, a quick glance told him it was pointless in checking for a pulse, they both had gaping holes in the front of their skulls where the bullets exited.
Warren felt sick. He managed to reach the small galley basin before retching, he ran the faucet and splashed cold water over his face, then he remembered Jimbo was on lookout. Why the hell hadn’t he seen the gunman? But then again he’d told Jimbo to get out fast if trouble started.
On wobbly legs Warren he made it to fresh air of the deck. He pulled himself together and climbed over the side of the Seabird onto the wet timber planks of the jetty. Retracing his route through the mire he headed off to where he had left his watcher. No sign of Jimbo, then he saw a trace of blue denim. Jimbo was amongst the reeds – he lay face down in the mud, barely visible amongst the vegetation. Warren dropped down to his knees and put his fingers to the young man’s neck, there was a pulse.
‘Thank God,’ he said out loud as he turned the younger man onto his back. ‘Jimbo, can you hear me?’ he gently shook him by the shoulders. ‘Come on wake up, we’ve got to get out of here!’ Jimbo’s eyes flickered and opened. ‘Good lad.’
