Cherringham--Blade in the Water
Page 8
Kent said he’d argued with Magnusson just a few weeks ago in London, threatened to leave the company and go to the police. Magnusson had come over all chummy, understanding. Invited him up to Cherringham, talked about cleaning up the business, getting back to basics, giving Kent an exit route.
But when Kent arrived, expecting a truce — he found himself facing not just Magnusson but the dealers from London. And they weren’t interested in exit routes.
They gave him an ultimatum.
Stay in — or die.
Kent told them he wanted twenty-four hours to think it through. He took the boat upriver, got drunk, cut the mooring ropes (and himself on the knife) and rowed down to the Foundry to hide.
He thought — if the police declared him dead then he could slip away. He had plenty of money, he could get a new life.
Escape.
But the plan didn’t work. In fact, nobody seemed to notice he was gone …
Except two little old ladies, thought Jack.
Jack looked at Kent and wondered what to do next.
The guy was a mess. He’d pulled his hoodie tight over his head, his face was smeared with blood. He was rocking back and forth against his knees, shaking with fear.
If Jack took him up to the police station they wouldn’t arrest him — on what charge?
And it would take them days to sort out — even if they could figure what crime had been committed. They’d release Kent on bail — and he would probably drift back to London.
And Magnusson would carry on making money and wrecking lives.
“Tell me something,” said Jack. “Where’s ViaVita’s distribution centre, their offices and so on?”
“Hammersmith. Got a place in Birmingham too. A factory. Warehouse.”
“And what about the illegal stuff? How does that fit in?”
“Magnusson runs that,” said Kent. “So — honestly — I don’t know … It’s not done officially of course.”
“But you say the dealers were there the other night, up at the house?”
Kent nodded: “Two gorillas. And they looked like they were right at home.”
“You think maybe the deals go down there?”
He seemed to consider. “It’s possible.”
Jack thought about Sarah’s phone call — the guys in the Mercedes. Were they the dealers? If so, and if they were still around, and if Magnusson wasn’t expecting to leave until after the Regatta …
Then maybe …
A plan was forming.
And the more he rolled it round in his mind, the better it looked.
He got up and patted Kent on the shoulder. Kent looked at him, then levered himself upright with a groan.
“I think I might — just — have a way out for you, Kent,” he said.
Jack saw the guy’s face brighten.
“I wouldn’t start celebrating just yet,” he said. “You got a prison sentence to serve first. One you deserve, I reckon. But longer term — I just might be able to save your life. You interested?”
“Tell me what to do — anything! — And I’ll do it.”
Jack steered him towards the jetty and the little rowing boat.
“First I want you to meet some friends of mine,” he said. “And we’ll take it from there.”
And as he pushed Kent ahead of him along the jetty, Jack for the first time felt he was finally getting control of this strange case.
13. Regatta
Sarah threaded her way through the crowds on the riverbank, holding the cluster of ice creams high above her head.
Then she spotted Chloe and Daniel with a bunch of their friends sitting on a blanket and steered towards them.
“Hey Mum!” called Daniel. “We found a brilliant spot; you can see everything from here!”
Sarah joined her kids. She loved seeing them out socialising together — it was happening a little more often these days although Chloe would still complain that her younger brother and his friends were ‘totally embarrassing’.
But now that Daniel was growing up a little she was prepared — on special occasions like today — to accept him as family …
“Thanks mmm, chocolate’s mine,” said Chloe. “You not having one?”
Sarah licked her finger where the ice creams had already melted in the midday heat.
“Nope, I’ll make do with this.”
“Gross,” said Chloe.
“Privilege of old age, love.”
“You going to join us?” said Chloe.
“I wish — I need to find Grandpa first,” she said.
“I think he’s down at the umpire’s tent,” said Chloe. “I heard him calling out the race line-ups on the loudspeaker.”
“That would be Grandpa! Thanks love,” said Sarah, turning to go.
“Oh, Mum — Jack was looking for you a minute ago,” said Daniel. “He said to tell you he was heading back to the Goose.”
“Really? Thanks Daniel,” said Sarah innocently. “I’ll catch him later, I’m sure.”
She headed off, constantly scanning the crowd now to see if any of her ‘targets’ were appearing.
Targets — well, that was the word Jack used …
Anders Magnusson. Viola Kent. The two goons in the Mercedes …
She could see that some of the sculls races were now under way and the fields alongside the river were full of teeming, cheering crowds.
Pimm’s, beer, lemonade, and tea were flowing and the atmosphere was everything her dad had hoped it would be: a true festive river occasion for the village.
But underneath all this fun there was another event going on, a darker event which these people would probably read about in their newspapers on Monday morning.
That is, if things went as she and Jack had planned …
She felt slightly deceitful pretending to her kids that she didn’t know Jack was here earlier.
But in order for his plan to work this afternoon it was vital that nobody but she and a few select others knew about it.
He’d called her at seven that morning and told her all about finding Kent at the Foundry.
Then the two of them had gone together to her parents’ house to explain the situation — and set Jack’s plan in motion.
As she’d expected, her father had raged that ‘scum like Magnusson should be dragged through the streets, hanging’s too good for ’em, bring back the stocks, should be a life sentence …’
But at the same time he’d made it clear that any plans Jack and Sarah had for arresting ‘the drugs monster’ mustn’t be allowed to impinge on the Regatta in any way.
“Minute the last race is over old chap — the river’s all yours,” Michael had said.
Jack had assured him that if the timing went as planned, Magnusson would be plucked from the village with hardly a stir.
“Here’s how it goes,” Jack had said, using Michael’s own model of the Regatta to explain.
And to make it even clearer he’d used some of her father’s war-game soldiers as representatives in the afternoon’s little escapade …
“We know — thanks to your schedule Michael — that Magnusson is in the last of the sculls races. And the finish line is just here,” he pointed to the model of Cherringham Bridge. “From what I’ve seen, I think his bodyguards will want to be at the start line — here …”
“So, they’ll probably come by car with Kent’s wife Viola to watch,” added Sarah, moving some figures and a vehicle across the model.
“Race starts at four-thirty, so I expect Magnusson to row down from his house at about four p.m.,” said Jack, pushing a tiny model of a King’s Hussar down the river.
“Um … Magnusson’s house …” said Michael, scanning the model.
“Use the salt cellar, Dad,” said Sarah, knowing her father wouldn’t be happy until he’d found something.
“Perfect,” said Michael, plonking the salt in a field. “So the rascal’s house will be empty — and that’s when you’ll get the police in?”
“I know the way these guys work,” said Jack. “They’ll hit Magnusson’s house hard and if there’s drugs there, they’ll find it fast.”
“And that means that Magnusson can be picked up by the bridge when the race is over, eh?” said Michael.
Sarah watched him lift the Hussar then flick him in the air and deftly catch him.
“What could possibly go wrong?” her father had said.
Sarah had caught Jack’s eye and knew from experience he’d been thinking the same as her: everything could go wrong, and something unexpected usually happened …
*
Sarah headed down the river bank towards the umpire’s tent. The tent’s high balcony overlooked not just the river, but also the fields and marquees: she reckoned that from there she’d easily be able to spot Magnusson or his guards when they arrived.
Or the two guys that had pulled up outside her house the night before …
Timing was everything — and Sarah knew her role was crucial.
As she slid through the crowd she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned — expecting Jack.
But it wasn’t him.
It was Carl — Donna’s boyfriend.
Instinctively she backed away, but then he grinned at her.
“Sorry, sorry — I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “We met — remember? Up at Donna’s place.”
“Carl.”
“That’s right. You’re Sarah.”
Sarah nodded.
“Yeah. Donna said you were helping. That you were all right.”
Sarah tried to smile: “Trying to, you know …”
She looked at him. He was in a white singlet and shorts.
“You rowing?”
“Yeah, I am — next event. Ha, you sound surprised. But you don’t have to be posh to row.”
“No, that’s not what I meant –”
“S’all right, I get that all the time. I row for the Army — you know? Fours. Know what they are? Even got medals.”
Now Sarah realised — the green T-shirt, the aggressive haircut. It was obvious — Carl was a soldier.
“That’s wonderful.”
“Anyway — I just wanted to say thanks. That bloke’s a total bastard and needs bringing down, so good on you.”
Sarah smiled — she didn’t really know what to say. She could see that Carl didn’t know what to say either.
But over his shoulder, she spotted three guys also in white singlets, laughing, and joking.
“Come on Carl, leave her alone!” one of them shouted.
Carl leaned forward: “They think I’m chatting you up,” he said with a grin.
Sarah felt herself blushing.
As if! she thought.
“See you around, anyway,” he said.
“You too,” said Sarah.
Then she watched as he turned and headed back to join his mates. They gave her a cheery wave — she waved back.
And as she carried on down the riverbank, she had to admit the idea of being chatted up was suddenly quite attractive …
And by a twenty-five-year-old six-foot-five soldier too.
I’ll take it … she thought.
*
Jack opened the wheelhouse door of the Grey Goose and peered down into the saloon.
He could just see Martin Kent sitting patiently at the dining table, staring, it seemed into space.
“Everything all right, Ray?” said Jack.
“All under control Jack,” came Ray’s voice from within the boat.
Ray actually sounded sober.
Guess he was taking this ‘mission’ quite seriously.
Jack went down the steps, past the galley and into the saloon. Now he could see Ray.
The old hippy was sitting opposite Kent in Jack’s rocking chair, gently moving back and forth. On his lap he cradled his air rifle, one hand flat on the stock. Jack could see he wasn’t going to take his eyes off Kent even for a single second.
All he needs is a hat and a sheriff’s badge and it could be John Wayne come back to life, thought Jack.
“Glad to see it, Ray,” he said. “I’m heading up to Pat’s now.”
“Don’t you worry about us,” said Ray. “You just bring that Magnusson fella to justice.”
Jack nodded seriously.
“Good to know I can rely on you, Ray.”
He smiled at Kent, who looked bemused by the whole situation, then headed up the steps. For a second he wondered where Riley was — then he remembered that Sarah’s mother had offered to look after him ‘in case there’s any little problems’.
He hoped there wouldn’t be.
He checked his watch.
Three-thirty.
Time to get into position.
And he walked downriver towards the bridge, and Pat’s barge.
14. The Last Race
Sarah watched the afternoon races from the umpires’ balcony, cheering and clapping like the rest of the Saturday Regatta crowd.
Her father had been so busy organising and commentating that he’d hardly noticed her in the end.
She was glad — he was clearly having a fantastic day.
He’s probably forgotten why I’m here, she thought.
And in a way, she hoped he had.
Down below the umpires’ tent, a growing crowd of oarsmen who’d finished for the day had gathered to drink and celebrate. She could see Carl and his army crew among them, looking so young: the idea of him chatting her up still made her smile …
But then Sarah suddenly felt anxious.
They’d nearly worked their way through the race card already. Where was Magnusson?
Had someone tipped him off about the police raid? Had he been scared off by Jack’s visit to the house? Had those goons reported back about her trip to talk to Donna?
She checked her watch. Four p.m.
There were just two more sculls races left before the final race of the day.
The one that Magnusson was in.
Then she saw him.
Half a mile down river … but unmistakeable as he rowed, his blond hair and tall physique exactly as Jack had described, his single scull bright yellow.
Sarah watched as he glided closer and closer to the starting area, eating up the yards.
She texted Jack, then turned to scan the crowd.
Raising the binoculars she’d borrowed from her father, she trained them on the gate that led from the main car park.
If Magnusson’s bodyguards were coming with Viola, they had to come right through there.
But there was no sign.
Should she just phone Alan anyway and get him to move in on the house?
No. She couldn’t risk someone alerting Magnusson before his race was over. She couldn’t risk spoiling the Regatta, taking the shine off her father’s perfect day.
So she waited, growing more anxious by the minute.
*
“Come on Jack, sun’s way over the yardarm! Teeny gin and tonic, just what you need to see you through,” said Pat, standing host over a massive tray of drinks.
Jack smiled and shook his head. “Never on duty, Pat. Do appreciate it though.”
He watched Pat roll his eyes theatrically and pour a large double for his wife Fran who lay sprawled on a sun lounger on the deck of the Brunhilde.
Like a lot of the other guests still on board, Pat looked decidedly … Jack tried to remember the word Pat would use … Ah, yes — squiffy.
Jack had taken Pat up on his invitation for a ‘snifter’ on race day, knowing that this would be the perfect vantage point for the final stretch of the race.
Indeed, all afternoon the rest of Pat’s crowd (‘my crazy gang’ as Pat called them) had had a ball, cheering and shouting and drinking the boat nearly dry.
At one point Fran had been despatched in Jack’s rowing boat to get more gin from a pal up river.
But Jack had stayed sober — and in constant contact with Sarah.
If everything went to plan …
Magnusson would cross the finishing line just as Alan and his police support came down onto Cherringham Bridge.
Jen and Joan had already been alerted — on a signal from Jack they would hit the ‘Bridge Closed’ signs which stopped traffic half a mile away and sent it round the village on a diversion: thus clearing the way for a high speed police convoy.
This operation was near military.
Magnusson would be plucked from his boat before most of the Regatta crowd knew the police had even turned up.
If everything went to plan …
But now — planning done, just waiting — Jack started getting nervous.
*
Then — it was time.
From her vantage point on the umpires’ balcony, Sarah watched Magnusson confidently manoeuvre his yellow scull towards the starting line.
Beyond him, downriver, she could see a little flurry of yachts take to the water. She recognised them as Oppies — the tiny training boats used by kids to learn to sail.
She remembered — now the adult rowing races were nearly over, Cherringham school was hosting its own competition.
She scanned the crowds — still no sign of her ‘targets’.
With the race about to start, she couldn’t wait — she was going to have to text Alan to start the raid.
But then her phone bleeped.
A text — from Alan. ‘House secure. Result. On way.’
They hadn’t waited …
She looked down at Magnusson, sitting coolly in his scull, waiting for his opponent to come up to the line beside him.
As she watched he reached down and took a phone out from under his seat. His phone must have bleeped too.
She could see he was reading. A message? An email? He looked up alarmed — clearly checking the riverbank, the crowds.
Someone’s warned him, thought Sarah. Damn …
She saw him check downriver — as if looking for an escape route.
But the Oppies — twenty of them now at least — were blocking the way. She knew he could never row through those — and he would know it too.
The only way out for him was to head upstream towards Cherringham Bridge — the full length of the course.