A Perfect Likeness

by Roger Gumbrell

  ‘Of course, Mr Rawston.’

  He checked the fuel hoping it would be sufficient. Too risky , he thought. He made his way around to the fuelling pontoon. He couldn’t understand why Sylvia had not been at the marina to meet him or why she hadn’t, at least, returned his call. She always did. He dialled her mobile as Blue Star was refuelling. Strictly against marina rules. He wasn’t thinking about rules. Her mobile was turned off. Impossible , he thought. It was never off. He tried Edward Page in the office. It rang five times then leapt on to the answer phone. He tried Edward’s mobile: turned off. He scanned the marina and saw two men hurrying along the marina promenade towards the lock, not twenty-five yards from where he was. Three more were at the entrance to the east jetty. He couldn’t make out the west jetty, but guessed that too was guarded. He was sure they were police, and now he was equally sure they already had Edward and Sylvia Page. He looked around the boats in the hope of seeing a friendly face, but he saw nobody. He didn’t like it; there should have been people on their boats at this time of day. He planned as he removed the nozzle from Blue Star’s tank and returned it to the pump. But maybe he was overreacting. Maybe she was there, by Red Star, waiting for him. She had to be , he thought, and Edward is there with her. But why are their mobiles turned off? He tried to catch sight of her through the confusion of gently bouncing masts, but his view was not clear. He thought he caught a glimpse of her, but he wasn’t sure. Rawston wanted to believe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what was going on, but he had a bad feeling in his stomach and that was good enough for him. His instincts had served him well in the Falklands and the Gulf. So why not now. He went into the cabin and took a small hand gun from the storage space under one of the bench seats. The gun was a gift from Edward Page, to be used in a real emergency only . This could be the time , he thought.

  He kept close to the eastern breakwater so he would have a better view as he rounded pontoon sixteen. Was that Sylvia by Red Star, he hoped, and relaxed. A little closer and he realised it was Trish, accompanied by his clients. His heart was racing, what if he’d got it all wrong and there was a simple explanation to it all? He adjusted the throttles and slid perfectly, at right angles, across the end of the pontoon.

  ‘Mr Rawston, I found your three customers.’

  ‘Okay, Trish, hold on to the ropes while they board.’

  ‘Come aboard, gents,’ he said, hiding all signs of apprehension. But he was full of suspicion. He held out his left hand and as the first man reached out, his jacket opened enough for Rawston to catch sight of a shoulder holster and gun. He didn’t hesitate. Rawston’s right fist flew, smashing hard against the jaw of the officer. He screamed as the bone shattered. He fell, struck his head on the edge of the pontoon and slid into the sea. He floated face down and a second officer dived in to save his colleague.

  ‘Don’t move, Rawston, you’re under arrest,’ said DC Kensit as he struggled to take his gun from the holster. It was the first time he’d been required to use the gun in anger and he knew he was up against a professional. He was nervous and it cost him valuable seconds.

  Even before Kensit had time to take a proper aim, Rawston had removed his own gun from his pocket, aimed and fired.

  Kensit dropped without a sound. Trish, in total shock, screamed as Rawston lifted her into the boat.

  ‘A little insurance policy,’ he said forcing her to the deck as he turned Blue Star into mid water. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Trish. And to think I was beginning to like you. You took us both in. What fools we’ve been.’

  Deckman and Fraser raced from the marina reception as soon as the arrest started to go wrong.

  ‘Hostage on board, do not fire,’ commanded Deckman over the radio.

  ‘Look after the two in the water,’ ordered Fraser to the officers who had run from the promenade. ‘I’ll deal with Bob.’

  Bob Kensit lay still, eyes wide open. ‘Sorry, Sarge. I blew it.’

  ‘No, son, don’t talk rubbish. You did fine.’ He placed his jacket under Kensit’s head. ‘The medics are on the way, they’ll be here any time now. You’re going to be alright, and that’s an order.’

  Despite his pain Kensit forced a smiled. ‘Whatever you say, Sarge.’

  Rawston opened the throttles of the powerful twin Volvo engines as he passed through the inner entrance of the marina. He saw armed officers positioned around the perimeter walls. He applied more power as he turned towards the outer entrance, the open sea and his escape. What he saw made him close the throttles instantly and Blue Star was left floundering. They’d closed the marina. A customs launch and two fisheries protection vessels blocked the exit from the end of the eastern breakwater across to the western breakwater. Escape from the harbour appeared impossible, but he assessed the gap between the fisheries vessels might just be enough to squeeze Blue Star through, if all else failed.

  ‘Bastards,’ he screamed. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got a hostage?’ He turned Blue Star back towards the inner marina and increased speed rapidly, sending Trish sliding over the deck to the stern of the boat. Rawston had changed. He had become reckless. He sped back through the inner entrance and passed the eastern jetty before closing the throttles. He wasn’t concentrating and grazed Blue Star against the refuelling pontoon. He turned the boat towards the exit, looked around and considered his position whilst keeping the boat moving at all times. Escape appeared out of the question. His mind was reeling, recalling flashes of the past, trying to come up with a solution. Like that time in the Falklands when he had found himself trapped behind enemy lines.

  Twenty-five enemy soldiers had set up a temporary camp within fifty feet of where he was. There was no way he could get away. He’d inched his way into a slight opening in a rock face and waited. He sent out a single message but wouldn’t risk more for fear of giving his position away to the enemy. At one point a single Argentinean soldier approached to within feet of his position. He heard the urine splash on the dry ground. A moments silence was followed by the unbuckling of his webbing and a dropping of trousers. He emptied and threw the soiled paper even closer to Rawston’s position. The smell was nauseating and took hours to lose its strength. He suffered in that poky hole for twenty-six hours before the enemy were all taken out by a platoon of Brits. It was of no help to Rawston, for today there was no back-up force to come to his rescue. He was on his own, and surrender was not an alternative he chose to consider.

  The marina’s water was at boiling point as a result of Rawston’s high speed run. A mini tsunami. Boats were bouncing and smashing against pontoons, rigging twanged and played out a tuneless melody as waves crashed onto the promenade. The peaceful tranquillity of life within the marina walls had been shattered.

  Trish Lister struggled to her feet and made her way forward holding tightly to the gunwale. ‘This is crazy, Tom. Give yourself up, it is the only way out for you. They have Mr Page and Sylvia. Don’t make things any worse than they are. Please. Look, Tom, I’m not police. Yes, I am a private investigator, but I had no idea it would lead to this when I took on the case. I’m sorry, Tom. Please believe me.’

  Rawston turned sharply and pointed the gun directly at Trish. ‘I ought to kill you now. I warned Sylvia not to trust you. She was too friendly from the start. But I can’t kill you, Trish, I’m not a murderer.’ He lowered the gun. ‘In the wars I had to kill. It was for my country and I was proud to serve. That was then. I could easily have killed that copper I shot. I know he’s okay, just a shoulder wound. The guy with the broken jaw will suffer more. I’m glad his mate dived in for him. I have nothing now. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but what did my country do for me when I needed help. Stuff all. Just kicked me out without so much as a thank you. Edward saved me from the demon drink, gave me a bloody fantastic job on the boats and then there was Sylvia. It was a good time. The best I’d known. Ever. I have nothing to live for, Trish.’

  ‘I believe you, Tom. I know you’ve had a raw deal,
but like you said, what you have been doing is wrong and nothing can change that. Look, the police are all over the place. There’s no way out.’

  ‘Just be quiet and let me think. I don’t give up that easily and they won’t try anything while you are here. Get closer, but don’t think of trying to be a heroine because I might just change my mind. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Tom, I understand. I’m scared and I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Good, then do everything I say.’

  ‘Tom Rawston, this is Detective Inspector Deckman.’ He spoke through a megaphone. ‘Please give yourself up. You know you cannot get out so don’t make things worse for yourself. Place the gun on the deck and come back to the pontoon. You will not be harmed so long as you bring your hostage back safely. Come on, Tom, be sensible.’

  Rawston’s reaction was immediate. He accelerated, weaving recklessly through the inner harbour, throwing Trish off her feet.

  She screamed. ‘Tom, stop. Please.’

  Rawston took no notice and applied further power as he rounded the inner entrance towards the small gap and freedom. He was too late, his escape route had been blocked. A fourth boat had been brought in to fill the small opening he had earlier considered as an opportunity. Enraged, Rawston made another high-speed turn back into the inner marina and sent Trish sliding across the deck and crashing into one of the metal ‘fisherman’ seats at the stern.

  She screamed again, this time in pain as she felt and heard the crack of a bone. ‘Tom, my arm, I think it’s broken. Listen to me will you and stop this stupidity.’ Her shouting barely audible above the scream of the mighty Volvo engines at full throttle.

  Rawston took no notice. He appeared in a trance, but was planning his escape. He turned Blue Star again as he drew level with the fuel pumps. The marina was in total chaos with some of the smaller boats already sunk. Others had been torn from their moorings and crushed against the larger vessels or lifted onto the pontoons. Police marksmen, strategically positioned around the boats, were holding on to whatever was available to avoid being thrown into the water, but were unable to escape the drenching from the sea gushing up through the slatted walkways.

  Rawston closed the throttles and made a rapid appraisal whilst Blue Star floundered in mid-marina. He knew the positions of all marksmen and knew they could take him out with ease, but they were concerned about Trish. He couldn’t afford to remain still and give them time to aim. He circled at slow speed, moving his body continuously whilst making decisions.

  Deckman took an opportunity during the relative quiet. ‘Tom, this is Detective Inspector Deckman again, please listen to me. We don’t want anyone to be harmed so please be sensible. You know it’s impossible to get out so bring back Trish unharmed and we’ll ensure your safety.’

  ‘That’ll be difficult, I’ve already smashed her arm,’ he shouted.

  Trish used all her strength to get to her feet, her left arm no use at all and hanging limply at her side. She winced with pain at every movement. ‘Tom, listen to the Inspector and take me back, my arm needs urgent attention. Please .’

  ‘Shut it, I told you. Remember? Next time I might just use this.’

  ‘Okay, Tom, Okay.’ Trish thought her life was close to ending as she stared at the gun aimed at her head.

  The sea within the marina had now relaxed to a simmer. Just the smallest of the craft were still bobbing gently and tugging at their mooring ropes. Rawston continued observing, he said nothing. A big man, once an unsung war hero, but now a broken man. Or, that is what he hoped the police would be thinking. It would make his chances all the better. Another recollection of his time in the Falklands, remembering how he got caught in a cove off Falkland Sound. Just a fleeting remembrance of a similar situation. But this was a little different. It was daylight and he was surrounded by professionals. Not like the Argentinians, frightened shitless and wishing they were back sitting in their high-chairs being fed by their mothers. He had made the enemy believe he was dead by smashing his dingy against the rocks whilst under fire, diving into the sea at the last moment and using a grenade to create sufficient distraction for him to swim to safety. It might just work, he thought. No grenade and it wasn’t dark, but it might work. His options were limited. Continue and be killed, give up and rot in prison or, again, mislead the enemy into believing he’s dead.

  Rawston was an excellent underwater swimmer and knew places he could reach and hide out for a while, days if necessary. He tested all the underwater equipment inside the marina and, out of habit, noted everything that might be of use one day. He made his decision and finalised his plan. He needed an initial diversion to ‘shock’ his adversary, giving him a split second to jump the boat without being noticed and head for the nearest pontoon where he would surface for breath. A difficult swim and he hadn’t tested himself recently, but was sure he could make it. A second lengthy swim through the mass of concrete and metal piles under the marina offices would bring him to the esplanade wall and a second air stop. He could rest before passing under the four pontoons to reach the arched access through the hotel and the lock-gates that would allow him to reach the secondary mooring and maintenance area. He would need cover of darkness to negotiate the lock, but Rawston knew it was not a problem and he felt confident he could ‘vanish’ for as long as required and pass time by planning his future, hopefully with his beloved Sylvia.

  ‘Tom, can I speak,’ said Trish, crossing the fingers of her good hand.

  He nodded.

  ‘Come on, Tom, do as the Inspector says. Please give me the gun,’ said Trish with a warmth that made Rawston smile. She’d moved closer and steadied herself against the cabin door. She reached out slowly with her good arm to take the gun from his hand.

  ‘No, Trish,’ he said with equal calmness, ‘I’m not ready yet.’

  ‘But, Tom… .’

  ‘Don’t push your luck. Just shut-up for a moment and do as I instruct, then you might just make it back to your dear friends in one piece. Okay.’

  ‘Yes, Tom. Whatever you say.’ Trish noticed a sudden change in Rawston. The barely recognisable smile, the excitement in his eyes. He was alert and planning. It made Trish even more frightened. He was digging deep into his military experience.

  ‘Right, inside that chest,’ he pointed the gun towards the highly varnished chest on the starboard side, ‘are four sleeping bags. Get them out without making it too obvious what you are doing and then lay them across the deck behind the seats at the stern.’

  Trish stared at him, her face illuminated with pain and fear. ‘How can I,’ she sobbed, ‘my arm is broken.’

  ‘Don’t argue, just do it. Now. You’ve got two arms so use the one that works. Now, Trish, if you wish to go on living. And remember, my gun is pointed at you all the time so don’t expect any help from your friends on shore. They won’t try anything.’

  Trish edged around the boat and placed the sleeping bags as instructed.

  ‘Good girl. Now cover them with that fishing net and the two rubber suits from the other box.’

  Trish struggled with the net, getting it tangled around two deck hooks. She started to cry. ‘I can’t do it, Tom, I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can and you will. Just calm down, you’re almost there.’

  She tugged hard once more with her good arm and managed to release the net which she dragged across the deck and laid it over the sleeping-bags.’

  ‘Now the suits.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘One more job to do. In that cupboard next to the cabin door is a container of fuel, bring it over to me.’

  ‘Tom, you’re not going to set us on fire. No, Tom, don’t do it, I’ve done all you said.’

  ‘Relax, Trish, just do it.’ He quickly took two Very pistols from a drawer and loaded them both with a red flare before placing them out of site of Trish.

  ‘Right, I think I’m ready to go now.’ Rawston offered her the gun.

/>   Trish thought she was going to die. ‘No,Tom, please don’t shoot me.’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘I’m not going to. Look, I’m handing it to you handle first. Just take the gun, but don’t squeeze the trigger.’

  She tensed as she took hold of the gun. ‘I’ve never held one before.’ She felt her heart beats reverberate through her whole body as she gently lowered the gun to her side.

  ‘Don’t think about taking a pot-shot at me, will you, Trish?’

  ‘Hadn’t thought about it. Anyway, I want you to come ashore with me. You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Glad about that because there are no bullets left. There was only the one and the poor copper got that.’

  Now Trish laughed. ‘You fooled ’em, Tom, and me as well.’

  ‘They wouldn’t risk taking a chance at shooting me with you on board. How’s the arm?’

  ‘Broken.’

  ‘Painful?’

  ‘Excruciating. Tom, you didn’t give me an answer. Please come with me, I don’t want you dead. I owe you for not killing me.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. I have to try and get away and I reckon I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance. Good enough for me to give it a shot. I will ask you one thing and that is not to say anything about what you have been doing although I’m sure they’ve been keeping a close eye on us.’

  ‘Not a word, I promise, but can we go now, I’m desperate for the loo. It’s become more urgent than getting my arm sorted.’

  He laughed again and placed an arm gently around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ll be fine, Trish, and so will the coppers.’ Rawston was ready for the final chapter and manoeuvred Blue Star back to the end of pontoon eleven.

  Deckman, Fraser and four armed officers were waiting, their guns raised.

  ‘You get off, Trish,’ ordered Rawston, quietly and calmly. Their eyes met and told her his decision was unalterable.

  ‘Tom, please don’t do it. It doesn’t have to end this way.’