by Iain Cameron
‘Treat me like an imbecile. I only know the place where my own boat is moored.’
‘Ok. There are two jetties in this Marina, they're the two floating walkways coming up from the Promenade, and the place where we are now is called the West Jetty,’ he said pointing at a map of the Marina laminated to his desk. ‘You need to make your way to the East Jetty.’
‘Fine.’
‘Now we’re four pontoons, from the shore, they are the floating walkways, perpendicular to the jetties and lead out to where the boats are located. To find Mr Larner, go down the West Jetty outside this office and head back to the Promenade, the place where all the restaurants are. When you get there, take a right and go past the apartment blocks, Neptune, Merton and Collingwood Courts until you get to Sovereign Court and then turn right into the East Jetty. How am I doing?’
‘I’m still with you.’
‘Count up three pontoons and go right, count six berths along and on the right there, you’ll find your Mr Larner. I passed by that way twenty minutes or so ago and there were a few people about. You might be lucky.’
Henderson walked over the bouncing jetty as fast as he could, but in truth he couldn’t run even if he wanted to as his ankle protested every time he put any weight on it and the swaying motion was playing havoc with his balance.
The walkways were lit by large sodium lamps as there was little else to stop the unwary falling into the water. The biggest danger lay with night-time boozers, owners who came here in the evening to sit on the aft deck of their boat and enjoy a drink, and on some of the larger vessels, he had even heard the sounds of a party going on.
He walked along the Promenade until he reached Sovereign Court and turned up the East Jetty. The water looked dark and murky and the restaurants and bars became smaller and more distant as he was sucked into the gloomy morass of gently swaying yachts, large and small motorboats, and all manner of rowing boats and sailing dinghies.
It was a strange sensation to be walking on the floating jetty, riding the surface of the water and moving when he moved, but despite his reason for being there, it reminded him of something he missed, as he hadn’t been out in his boat for months. At the third pontoon he turned right, the noise of his approach masked by the loud ambient background sounds, ever-present in this marina and every other one he had ever visited.
It was in part caused by water slapping against hulls and boats straining against mooring ropes, but a more intrusive noise was caused by loose or ill-fitting lanyards as they smacked against hollow aluminium masts in the breeze, creating a loud metallic, clanking sound. Many travel and sailing brochures eulogised about this sound, describing it as authentic and soothing, but it was nothing but a bloody nuisance to any knackered sailor or anyone living nearby who craved a good night’s sleep.
He counted six boats along and stopped alongside ‘Tempest’, a twelve-foot long speedboat. It had a single outboard engine and small canopy to protect the skipper, with a small cabin up in the bow for storage and the occasional overnight stay, but no sign of anyone. His spirits dipped, perhaps his hunch was wrong. He reached for his phone to call Carol and tell her the marina was a dead-end and they needed to search elsewhere, when he picked up the distinct smell of diesel.
He bent down. He could smell it stronger now and it meant someone had recently filled up the fuel tank. It wasn’t a smart thing to do if the boat wasn’t going to be used for any length of time, as it could present a fire risk and in time the fuel would go stale which could lead to engine problems, something not welcome when out in the open sea. This could mean only one thing, this boat was getting ready to sail.
He moved to the bow and peered through the window of the little cabin. A small wind-up light sat on the table, and from its weak illumination he could see a zipped-up holdall bag and a box of groceries, and inside milk, bread and cheese. The food and diesel were indicative of recent activity and providing he followed the Berthing Master’s directions correctly, Larner was planning to scarper.
He was about to jump on-board and take a closer look, when he heard a noise behind him and turned to see the blade of an oar coming straight for his head. It hit him with an almighty slap, knocking him to the ground, and more by luck than judgement, he fell on the pontoon and not into the water. Unable to rise, he watched helplessly as Larner undid the mooring, threw the oar on the boat and jumped aboard.
‘Bye bye matey,’ he said. ‘Just be thankful I don’t have time to kill you but Gary’s got jobs to do, people to see.’ He gunned the engine and a minute later, he turned the bend at the end of the pontoon and headed straight for the gap in the sea wall that led out to the open sea.
FORTY-ONE
Henderson levered himself up. It took a few moments to realise the beautiful stars he could see were not part of the night sky but his head’s own celestial show. He shifted into a sitting position and waited until the wave of nausea passed and his personal view of the heavens melted away like summer zephyrs, before trying to stand.
A stream of blood trickled down his face but he couldn’t decide what was worse, the befuddled feeling in his head, which felt like the mother of all hangovers, or the ringing in his ears. It sounded like the bells of St Michaels, a church close to his flat in Seven Dials where the spiteful campanologists of the parish, always did their thing early on a Sunday morning when all he wanted to do, was have a leisurely lie-in.
He staggered over to a tap and splashed water on his face. Feeling better, he pulled out his phone and called Walters.
‘You stay there,’ she said, after he told her what had happened, ‘and I’ll call an ambulance and scramble the helicopter.’
The thought of giving up the chase, just when he had come so close, seemed to galvanise his senses and at that moment, he knew what he needed to do. ‘No way Carol, I’m going after him. I’m off for a wee sail, bye.’
He moved three berths along to a vessel he noticed earlier where the owner was doing a bit of spring cleaning. He was a portly man and wearing a yachting sweatshirt, unbecoming jeans and wielding a large yellow duster. ‘Police!’ Henderson said in what he thought sounded like an authoritative voice but it must have been louder than he realised as the man jumped.
‘I’m commandeering this vessel.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Get off the boat sir. I’m chasing a murderer.’
He had a podgy face with thinning grey hair, and behind gold-framed spectacles, his eyes stared back at him in shock and disbelief. Henderson pocketed his police ID and climbed aboard. He must have looked a wild sight in dishevelled clothes with heavy swelling to one side of his face, and if it could be seen in the dim light, one bloodshot eye and a blood-streaked face.
The man continued to protest but Henderson ushered him out and then spent the next few minutes becoming familiar with the cockpit layout. It was simpler than it looked as each dial and switch was labelled. He turned the ignition key and the big twin diesels of the ‘Anna Mitchell’ roared into life.
He didn’t know too much about power boats and failed to see what enjoyment there was in bouncing over a choppy sea at thirty knots, in contrast to the pleasure gained from a leisurely cruise in a yacht which progressed through the skill of the skipper and not by the brute force of the engines. However, he was sure of one thing, this was a lot more powerful than Larner’s.
‘Cast off. Please.’
‘Bloody hell. You’ll be asking me to crew for you next.’ He bent down and pulled the mooring rope away from the bollard and threw it on deck. ‘Look mate, I’ve see the movie too when all I get back is a couple of bits of wood and a piece of the rudder. But let me tell you this, Mr Policeman, I don’t expect to find a scratch on her when you get back. I’m a lawyer and I’ll sue the pants off Sussex Police if you do.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll be careful,’ he said easing the throttle back and pulling away from the mooring, but cursing his luck. Why did it have to be owned by a litigious lawyer and not a lottery
winner or a rich businessman, someone who didn’t give a toss what happened to it?
‘There’s not much fuel on board,’ he shouted, ‘so make sure you leave enough in the tank to bring her home.’ He said something else but his voice was lost as Henderson opened the throttle. He ignored the five-knot speed limit as he guided the boat away from the pontoon and out towards the gap in the marina sea wall.
Out on the open sea and away from the millpond inside the marina, the ‘Anna Mitchell’ started to bounce over the waves but as soon as he opened the throttle a bit more, it sliced through them as if they didn’t exist. He couldn’t see in which direction Larner was headed but he had the choice of east to Kent, or west to Dorset, but Henderson headed straight across the Channel towards France, the closest point to mainland Europe and the way he would go if he was being pursued by the police.
For a few moments, he savoured the novelty of a night-time sail in someone else’s boat, although well aware that crossing the English Channel was not a voyage to be undertaken by the foolhardy or the unprepared, especially after dark. Container ships as high as office blocks made their way directly across his path to Felixstowe and Antwerp while oil, ore, and grain tankers, many of them as long as football pitches, did a similar run but heading towards the giant terminals at Rotterdam and Hamburg.
Five minutes later, he spotted another boat dead ahead. It was only a speck in the distance but it was also heading to France. He propped his knee up against the wheel, trying to keep the ‘Anna Mitchell’ on a steady course, and pulled out his phone. He called Lewes Control for what would be the last time as he was sure the signal would disappear in a couple of minutes.
While speaking to the operator and giving them update of his movements, he glanced at the fuel indicator. The needle was nudging just below the quarter full mark, enough to take him to France but not enough to bring him back and certainly not in the inefficient way he was powering those big engines. For this reason, he took the decision he would try and stop Larner soon and not allow him to travel to France.
The moon was bright and free from clouds and as he closed the gap between his boat and the craft in front, he could see beyond doubt, it was Larner’s little speedboat. A few minutes later, he guided the ‘Anna Mitchell’ out on a wide semi circle and approached him from the port side, aiming to block his path and encourage him to return to Brighton.
He was about twenty-metres away and heading for a point just in front of him, when Larner opened fire with a handgun. Henderson pulled away, less worried about a direct hit than a lucky shot as he knew it was nigh-on impossible to shoot straight from a bouncing boat as they did in the movies, especially when trying to hit someone on another boat who also moving in a way that was equally unpredictable.
He kept out of range but he couldn’t sit out there all night, fuel or no fuel. With a determined scowl, he turned the wheel, opened the throttle and once more aimed for a patch of sea just in front of Larner’s bow. Larner fired two more shots, both wide of the mark and from the silence that followed, he was sure the magazine of the gun was empty or he was having trouble re-loading, not an easy thing to do while trying to steer a fast moving boat.
Henderson eased the engines back as the ‘Anna Mitchell’ rammed into the side of the speedboat. It cut through ‘Tempest’ like a hot knife through butter and moments prior to impact, Larner leapt overboard.
FORTY-TWO
Henderson steered his commandeered powerboat, ‘Anna Mitchell’ in a wide arc as he approached the spot where Larner’s speedboat had sunk and reduced the engine tone to a soft burble. The silence that descended was oppressive, as gone was the rumble of large twin diesels, the slap and bang of waves against the hull, and the shrill whining of Larner’s Yamaha outboard. Now, all he could hear was the gentle lapping of waves, the bellowing of a ship’s foghorn somewhere in the distance, and the garbled shouts of a man panicking in the water.
He switched on the searchlight, mounted on the roof of the cabin, and scanned the sea while gently coaxing the powerboat through the waves. A few seconds later, he spotted him, bobbing in the water. Henderson smiled to himself as now the crazy bastard wasn’t holding all the cards. It was fortunate for him the ‘Anna Mitchell’ was equipped with a searchlight, as he wouldn’t have found him otherwise, since he wasn’t wearing an easy-spot life vest and there wasn't much left of his speedboat to mark the spot where it disappeared into the blackness.
Another noise broke the silence, low and steady. He turned to look, and in the distance he could see a boat approaching and judging by the foam displaced by its hull, it was travelling at speed. In his head he praised Carol Walters and Lewes Control for having the sense to scramble a police launch or a Customs powerboat, boats well used to intercepting suspect ships and drug runners. Either way, they were a welcome addition to this little scene, as Larner would need warming up when rescued as he didn’t have a clue what safety kit was stored aboard his commandeered craft.
Larner shouted in a rasping, gurgling voice, ‘get me out of here Henderson, it’s bloody freezing, I’m not...a good swimmer.’
‘Why should I show you any mercy, Larner?’ Henderson shouted back. ‘You never showed any mercy to Mathew Markham or David Young, did you?’
‘They fucking deserved it. They shafted me and stole my designs. I’d be famous and making millions if it wasn’t for those thieving bastards.’
He ranted and blabbered about the injustice of it all as Henderson tied a line to a lifebelt and threw it over to him. The noise from the other boat was louder now and he turned to see its searchlight illuminating the water two or three hundred yards behind him. Larner ducked under the lifebelt and gripped the line.
‘Pull me in for fucksake. I’m freezing and I’m knackered. I’ve got no energy left.’
He was in two minds. He could wait until the other boat arrived and they offered assistance, or pull him in now as the Channel could be cold, even in early summer and there was a risk Larner could develop hypothermia. He gripped the rope and pulled. Despite the buoyancy of water, Larner was heavy, his clothes filled of water. If, as he suspected, Larner had spent a lot of time preparing for this moment, why wasn’t he wearing more suitable sailing clothes? He shook his head in dismay. This was a mark of the man, sloppy, ill disciplined, and badly prepared.
Over his shoulder, the engine of the approaching boat scaled back a couple of octaves, indicating it was slowing and close by. A few seconds later, someone on-board shouted, ‘Ahoy there. Are you alright?’
Henderson turned to answer and the next thing he knew, he was flying through the air. Seconds later, his world turned icy cold and the night sky disappeared.
Christ, the water was freezing. It hit him like a punch in the face and in an instant, his eyes were filled with millions of bright droplets, sparkling and jiggling before him like tiny effervescent dancers. He kicked his legs and more by luck than judgement, started to rise to the surface as visibility was non-existent and he had no idea if he was swimming up towards the sky or down towards the depths.
He surfaced and gasped for air, more from the shock of the freezing water than any oxygen deficiency, as he had only been underwater for ten or fifteen seconds. When his vision cleared, he spotted an ‘exhausted’ Larner swimming strongly towards the ‘Anna Mitchell’.
‘Knackered my arse,’ he said as he went after him. Henderson wasn’t wearing a jacket and moved fast and reached the powerboat as Larner began climbing the steps. Henderson reached up and seized his ankle.
Larner held on to the guardrail, trying to shrug the DI off, but Henderson had a good grip and held tight. He placed his legs against the hull and pulled. Both men fell into the water in an ungainly mangle of arms, legs and water spray. Far from being whacked, Larner was full of life because as soon as Henderson reached out to grab hold of him, he lashed out, punching.
One punch hit him full on the face and for a moment his mind went blank. He came to, full of anger. He swam up behind Larner, seized
a handful of his shaggy mop and forced his head underwater and held him there with the other hand. He could feel him flailing and punching at his body but despite the blows and the pain, Henderson wasn’t for letting go. Twenty seconds later, he hauled him up.
‘Who helped you kill Mathew Markham, Larner?’
‘Fuck off copper,’ he gasped, spitting spray into his face.
Henderson pushed him under again. Punches were coming into his midriff but with little or no energy in the movements, and when it seemed he might black out, he hauled him back up to the surface again.
‘Who helped you kill Mathew Markham?’
‘It was…Nicky Heath and Stevie Nolan,’ he spluttered, part crying, part spitting. ‘It’s all on my computer at home. Get me out of here you sadistic bastard, I’m dying.’
‘What about James Nash? What did he do?’
‘He’s a wimpy bastard. Didn’t want to get involved, did he?’
‘What happened to David Young?’ he said, re-tightened the grip of his hair, making him think he was about to duck him under again.
‘It was me, in my car, all right? But it was a fucking accident.’
‘Pull the other one. You’re an evil bastard Larner; you killed him and Markham. You’re going down for both murders.’
The other vessel appeared around the bow of the ‘Anna Mitchell’ and Henderson could see now it was a Customs boat with a four-man crew. They edged closer and threw out two lifebelts. Henderson only used one, as there was no way he was letting Larner go until he was safely on-board and handcuffed to something solid.
FORTY-THREE
As usual on a Monday morning, DI Henderson was seated at his desk by eight, but what was not so usual was how he had spent the weekend.
Friday and Saturday, he was a resident of the Royal Sussex Hospital where he was being treated for hypothermia. Despite the application of blankets, warm clothing and plenty of fluids, he could still feel the symptoms, even after being discharged from hospital on Sunday morning. Rachel made a trip into town and bought him some thermal underwear and even if they weren’t the epitome of sartorial elegance and railed against her stylistic standards, the heat generated by walking upstairs in Sussex House was enough to keep the chills at bay.
