Fusil hurried across the room to speak to the telephonist. ‘Tell the car to break off and make straight for the marina. If Heywood-Smith’s there, hold him. Find out if any boats have been moved. Get hold of the caretaker, if there is one, and see what he knows about Heywood-Smith. I’ll be there as soon as possible.’
He told the duty sergeant to send Kerr and Rowan down to his car, left, and went out to the courtyard. He backed his car out of its bay and waited with angry impatience for the two detective constables.
Fusil drove brilliantly but selfishly, taking no unreasonable chances but giving no quarter to other motorists. He used the back roads, cut through the industrial estate and crossed the common. A mile beyond the common he came out at the north end of the new docks, just by the beginning of the marina, which was surrounded by a nine-foot-high chain-link fence.
There were two sets of gates in the perimeter fence and the nearer ones were open. As Fusil drove through the gateway, he saw a police car and two uniformed constables standing under an overhead light, talking to a man in a polo-neck sweater.
The uniformed sergeant came across. ‘Sergeant Stemper, sir. Croxley is the caretaker. His place isn’t on the telephone yet. He doesn’t know Heywood-Smith by sight, but two men arrived a short while back, showed a membership card, and rowed out to a large cabin cruiser. The boat was just through the entrance as we arrived.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Does he know the cruiser? What kind of speed it’s got?’
‘He says it looks a fast one, but he doesn’t know anything definite about it.’
‘Have you found the car?’
‘The two men arrived by taxi.’
‘It’s a pity you couldn’t keep contact.’
The sergeant said nothing.
The Mercedes 600 would be parked somewhere in the centre of town — Heywood-Smith was ever cautious. Fusil went over and spoke to the caretaker and the wind was strong enough to make him have to raise his voice to be heard. It smelled wet, as if rain were imminent. The overhead light threw long shadows and in these the caretaker’s face looked rather stupid. ‘Can you describe the men?’ said Fusil.
‘That’s a bit difficult, like. Didn’t take much notice of them, only their card.’
‘What name was on the card?’
‘Didn’t bother to read it. The card was good, that’s all what matters.’
‘Were the men large, small, fat, thin, round, square, clean-shaven, bearded?’
‘One was big, real big, with a booming voice. Bit of a gent. It was him showed the card.’
‘Was he carrying anything?’
‘I didn’t see nothing.’
‘And the other man? What was he like?’
‘Him? Tall, thin, ugly.’
‘Any idea of the name of the boat they went out in?’
‘Couldn’t say.’
Fusil spoke to the uniformed sergeant and told him to spend the next half-hour touring the streets to try to find the Mercedes. Then he returned to his car and Kerr and Rowan. ‘Kerr, get on the blower to the Coast Guards and ask ’em if they’ve a fast boat available, good enough to take us out into the Channel. Rowan, find out the name of Heywood-Smith’s boat and what kind of speed it’s got.’
Fusil waited by the car. He hoped to hell the Coast Guards had one of their two really fast boats handy: there were no separate river police and the arrangement was that the Coast Guards would supply a boat and crew whenever necessary if this was possible.
Five minutes passed. A quick flurry of rain passed over, but the air remained very damp. The wind was strong and it kept flicking at the ends of his hair.
Kerr was the first to return. ‘The boat’ll be ready in ten minutes, sir, at the end of Carter Wharf.’
Fusil nodded, but said nothing. Kerr took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and Fusil asked for one. Surprised, Kerr gave it to him.
Rowan reported back. ‘Pentara, sir. Twin G.M. diesels and a speed of about twenty knots. Two double cabins, two crews’ cabins, and cost a fortune. Full equipment, D.F., radar, the lot. The owner always has a couple of men as part-time crew when he goes out, but doesn’t go out very often.’
Fusil climbed into the car and started the engine. He drove off before Rowan had shut the door.
In the front passenger seat, Kerr lit another cigarette. His future was far more tied up in the outcome of the night than was Fusil’s. Fusil had only his career to lose. The thought of the consequences of failure made him feel sick.
20
Heywood-Smith sat in the saloon and cursed as the boat moved to the water. They were still in the estuary and only pitching slightly, but his stomach exploded on a ripple. He’d bought the boat because it was a smart way of showing he was a rich man, but he normally used it only when the water was a mill-pond because the sea frightened him and tied his stomach up into a thousand vicious knots.
He reached across and picked out the bottle of whisky from the storm holder. He poured himself another very stiff whisky. Only the gold, strapped round his waist in a special waistcoat, could possibly be worth the torments he was soon going to suffer when they reached the open sea. He imagined waves twenty feet high, pounding the boat into matchboarding, drowning him and presenting him to the crabs for food. Only for gold would he have faced such appalling risks.
The boat pitched a trifle more heavily than before and his stomach lurched in sympathy. He felt the sweat gather on his forehead. He stared through the nearest porthole and saw, some two hundred yards away, a liner ablaze with lights, slowly making her way towards the harbour. Her passengers wouldn’t even know the water was rough.
Water lashed against one of the large portholes. The boat pitched quite heavily and his stomach was squeezed, but he didn’t vomit. He tried to console himself with thoughts of the gold and the increased profits he’d get from it because there were no middlemen this time, but even the thought of money couldn’t overcome his stomach.
He drank again. Leery had been so right. They should never have touched this last lot of gold. Then he would have remained ashore, on land which didn’t pitch one’s guts to death.
*
Carter Wharf was at the eastern end of the old docks. It had not been modernised at the same time as other wharves and in the dim overhead lights, set on the sides of the wooden cargo sheds, it looked three parts tumbledown. As the car braked to a halt, the detectives saw several mangy rats scurry away from a large pile of rotting vegetables.
They got out of the car. The wind was stronger and it had begun to rain. They turned up their collars and cursed the weather.
There was a shout. ‘Hullo, there.’
Fusil answered, then led the way along the side of the shed to the end of the wharf. A man, in oilskins, was waiting at the head of an iron ladder that led down to the water. Tied up alongside was a large launch, smooth and sleek in lines. The detectives clambered down the ladder, swearing as their hands or feet slid on the seaweedy rungs and their clothing was covered with filth.
The launch had flush foredeck, square superstructure, and flush after-deck. Rowan and Kerr were told to go below and get themselves some hot cocoa, which they did with pleasure: Fusil remained on the bridge, hunching his shoulders to try and protect his neck from the rain. He spoke to the captain of the launch. ‘Our chap’s on a boat called the Pentara and they say she’s fast. Twenty knots. She’s got something like half an hour on you. Any chance of catching up on her?’
The captain — a man almost square in build — laughed. ‘We’re fifteen knots on diesels, Mr. Fusil, and fifty on diesel gas turbines. D’you think they’ll do the trick?’ He shouted at the man on the foredeck to cast off, rang dead slow astern starboard, switched on navigation lights, and ordered the wheel to starboard.
‘Then we’ll reach her in half an hour, or so?’ enquired Fusil.
The other didn’t answer until the launch had drawn away from the wharf, the lines
were inboard, and the engines had been put to slow ahead. ‘Until we’re in open water we can’t make more than ten knots and my guess is the sea outside won’t allow us to steam at full speed. But we’ll do all we can for you.’
As they reached the middle of the channel, the captain rang full speed ahead and used a voice-pipe to ask for main engines in about twenty minutes. The rain became heavier and the wind blew it at them in a curve. Fusil leaned against the for’d dodger to gain all the cover he could and dismally wondered what chance of success they had. The Pentara must reach the open sea before they did. In which direction would she head? The Channel was always thick with ships: how could they hope to pick out one relatively tiny boat? He looked back at the radar aerial, just visible in the reflected light of the steaming lights. It was turning endlessly round and round. Would the operator, somewhere below, be able to pick out the blob of light that would be the Pentara? Even if the sea allowed them to do most of their fifty knots, could they possibly identify and reach the right boat before Heywood-Smith had done whatever he had set out to do?
*
Heywood-Smith vomited, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and then, with a gesture of repugnance, threw the handkerchief over the pool of vomit. The boat staggered to a sea that caught her out of rhythm and he gagged, but was not sick. He reached for the glass of whisky, was caught off balance and was thrown to the deck. Cursing, he pulled himself back on to the seat.
Leery entered the saloon, oilskins dripping water, his uncovered hair slicked down. He stared with contempt at Heywood-Smith. ‘I think they’re following us.’
‘They can’t be.’ The other’s voice was high and his fear apparent.
Leery shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t begin to understand a man who was scared of the sea. ‘I’ve been watching the radar. There’s something coming up astern very fast and our altering course didn’t change things.’
‘They can’t know I’m here.’
‘Maybe you weren’t as clever as you thought.’
‘It can’t… Look, do something. You’ve got to do something.’
‘We’re making maybe fifteen knots and that’s our limit in this sea. They’ll be better equipped for speed when there’s a bit of choppy water around.’
Heywood-Smith groaned.
‘The automatic pilot’s on, but I must get back.’
‘Do something,’ Heywood-Smith said plaintively. The ship pitched and he was suddenly sick.
‘What d’you suggest, always remembering he’s at least twice as fast as us?’ asked Leery sarcastically.
Heywood-Smith moaned, robbed of almost all his senses by the agony of seasickness. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead as he tried to will himself into pulling his thoughts together. If the police were — though God knows how — following them in a faster boat, there could be little hope of escape. What could the police discover? He and Leery had gone for a trip on a wet, windy night. That proved nothing. The police had no proof before and this trip would give them none… Provided they didn’t find the gold.
He stared blearily up at Leery, who was automatically and seemingly easily balancing himself against the boat’s movements. ‘Make dead sure if they’re following us.’ He spoke reluctantly, afraid all the time that he would vomit again.
Shortly after Leery had left the saloon, the boat swung round and the movement changed to a quick roll as the seas came in from the beam. Something loose in one of the cabins began to crash backwards and forwards: a drawn-out creaking noise started in the after-end of the saloon: as water thudded against the hull, he became terrified that the hull was going to be stove-in.
He was sick again, but by using every ounce of willpower left to him, he forced his mind away from the terrors surrounding him and back to the question of evidence. He must be right. The only evidence against him was the gold. Then, obviously, if it became certain they were being followed with no chance of escape, he must throw the gold over the side. His mind was flooded with the bitter knowledge that if he had to do that all his present agonies would have been for nothing.
He got to his feet, clutching the edge of a table for support. His legs seemed to have become india-rubber, but he managed to stagger out of the saloon, climb the short ladder, and go into the wheelhouse.
Leery had come down from the flying bridge and was standing at the wheel. As Heywood-Smith entered, he was caught off-balance and thrown against the small flag locker: the pain was immediate. He stared through the clear-view window, revolving so fast it threw aside all rain and spray.
He turned, holding on to the flag locker for support, and stared at Leery, who was dividing his attention between the compass and the small radar screen which was next to the D.F. equipment.
Leery put the helm to port. ‘There’s no doubt,’ he said. ‘They’re following us and closing fast.’
Heywood-Smith went to speak, but was sick again. When he had overcome the spasm, he staggered across to the port door and opened it. Water — whether rain or spray he didn’t know and didn’t care — beat about his head and shoulders. Fear of the sea filled him with icy, trembling dread, but fear of the police kept him moving. He stepped out on deck.
Water dripped down his neck and his back. He began to shiver. The boat suddenly rolled heavily and he lost his grip on a stanchion and for one awful second he was certain he was being thrown into the sea. As, sobbing from fright, he desperately caught hold of the stanchion once more, he saw a green light flash three times and momentarily wildly thought this must be the police launch. Then, when it repeated the sequence, he realised it must be some sort of buoy. He reached under his coat and fingered the quick release buckle of the waistcoat in the special pockets of which was the gold. He imagined that gold, smoothed by melting and re-casting, a deep, rich colour, electrifyingly alive to the touch, more beautiful than anything else. Cursing wildly, he pulled the release catch and the waistcoat dropped down his right side to the deck. He kicked it over the side.
He returned to the wheelhouse and was thrown off-balance to go crashing into the flag locker once more. For a while, he thought something inside him had ruptured.
‘They’re almost up to us,’ said Leery.
As if to underline his words, a blinding beam of light sprang into being, swung across the water illuminating the curtain of rain as it did so, and found the Pentara. The wheelhouse was flooded with a light so strong that the two men had to half-close their eyes.
Heywood-Smith suddenly tried to be sick, but there was little or nothing left in his stomach and he just kept impotently retching. He’d never known such complete mental and physical misery.
*
Fusil walked out of the first of the two interview-rooms at Eastern Division H.Q., shut the door, and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 11.58 p.m. Heywood-Smith’s solicitor was due at any moment and then the other would have to be released. His, Fusil’s, carefully worked out plan, his reading of the other’s psychology, his anticipation, had all been excellent: there was just one trouble — no result. There had been no gold on Heywood-Smith, no gold on Leery, no gold anywhere in the boat. The two men claimed they’d been on a pleasure trip and since when was that illegal?
Fusil lit a cigarette. He had staked his all, had been winning until the very last moment which was the only one that really mattered, and had then lost. Heywood-Smith would make certain that he suffered all along the line.
He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of defeat and went along to the second interview-room. Kerr and Captain Leery sat on opposite sides of the battered wooden table, under the single unshaded light. At the beginning, Fusil had hoped that Leery would break easily, but that soon proved to be mere wishful thinking.
Fusil drew up a chair, which squeaked as the legs dragged across the floor, and sat down. He tried hard to suggest confident triumph. ‘Mr. Gregory Heywood-Smith’s at last become chatty.’
Leery made no reply.
‘He’s admitted to almost everything. Th
at puts you in the mud — right in the mud.’
Leery remained silent.
Fusil leaned forward and spoke in a friendly manner. ‘Captain Leery, you’re so deep in the mud that the only thing that can begin to help you is a full confession. The courts take into consideration — when giving sentence — a man who, on his first offence, confesses.’
‘Do they?’
Fusil’s voice rose. ‘Maybe you think just now you don’t give a damn whether you do three years or six. D’you know something? Prison kills part of a man like you, after a time. You’re not hard. You’ve lived soft, in a world where you can buy what you want, including protection. But there’s no protection in prison: no protection from the boredom, the bullying, the sadistic warder, the claustrophobia, the steel bars, the stink, the snout barons, the lying trusty… It’s there, day and night. A man as soft as you can’t last too long. Not as long as you’ll get if you play it hard all the way.’
Leery took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one.
Kerr thought with a sick, bitter anger, and an ever-growing fear, that Fusil was failing, dismally failing to get anywhere. Try as he might, his manner was that of a beaten man, who knew he was beaten. So where did that leave him, Kerr? In a bloody sight deeper load of muck than ever anyone else was in. He’d been the pawn, ordered this way and that and given no chance to step out of line and now he’d be sacrificed. If Fusil really had thrown aside Walker’s offer to confess… Fusil would sacrifice his own wife to buy success… There was just one small, very small chance left. One faint hope that was so faint perhaps it never really existed. Ever since he had searched Leery and seen the photograph in the wallet, he’d wondered.
Fusil resumed his questioning. His manner was now harsh and lacking in finesse. ‘It’s your last chance to make things a bit easier for yourself. Have you got that? Your last chance.’
‘We went for a pleasure trip,’ said Leery tonelessly.
‘On a wet, dirty, winter’s night.’
The C.I.D Room Page 16
