Stormfront

by R. S. Sutton

  On the fourth day she left a short note on the kitchen table apologising for taking the Golf and slipped off into the early-morning light.

  Twenty-Two

  Not wanting to speak with anyone, especially Preston, Valerie left her mobile off on the journey down to the river. Ben was the best chance, probably the only chance, of tracking down Jenny Lawson.

  One or two small black clouds were low on the horizon as the little VW drew up next to the harbour master’s office. Along past the main jetties, seagulls waited patiently at Fresh Dawn’s empty berth, the odd one gliding around on the rising breeze.

  ‘Back in a couple of hours,’ the harbour master said in answer to Valerie’s query. ‘They radioed in a while back. Got a good catch on board according to Dan.’

  Pushing her hands deep into her pockets, Valerie left the office and wandered along the estuary embankment. A boat, a little smaller than Fresh Dawn, nudged alongside, and a young man around Ben’s age jumped from the foredeck with the bow line and threw it over the nearest post. Then, bracing his foot against a bollard, he drew the stern in with the other warp. Lighting the cigarette that had been dangling between his lips, he made his way up the newly placed gangplank.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He clapped his hands enthusiastically. ‘I’ve got a pint and girl waiting in the Harbour Arms.’

  Valerie shouted across before he could disappear below, ‘Ben and Dan on the way?’

  The young man turned, pulling in a lungful of smoke. ‘Not far behind. That’s probably them.’ He pointed to a smudge on the horizon, then put the cigarette back between his lips.

  Valerie thanked him and looked out at the steadily rising sea.

  Churning water at the river mouth turned the sea into froth, then, released on the wind, it rolled up the river in large chunks. She took out a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint, raised her collar and pulled the zip high on her jacket as occasional gusts ruffled her hair. The rising tide caused spray and foam to be whipped along the harbour, encouraging Valerie to move back towards an alcove in the wall behind.

  Looking out to sea again, the sun was lower in the sky and Fresh Dawn had turned from a far-off smudge into something that belonged on the sea. The boat in front of her had dropped several boxes of cod onto the quayside, plus two valuable turbot. Again, the young man clapped encouragement as a small, rusty van came along and picked up the catch. A few minutes later, Valerie was on her own.

  ‘Like waiting for Omar Sharif to arrive on his ruddy camel,’ she said as the waiting eventually came to an end.

  Although clearly surprised, Ben managed a smile as he threw a rope for her to catch. While helping to secure the boat, she ignored the questioning of why she was there.

  Dan appeared from the hold and dropped a battered wooden box onto the deck. ‘Hello, beautiful. Look at that, box full of gold.’ Their claws secured by red bands, large lobsters were piled on top of each other.

  ‘Few quid’s worth there, Dan.’

  He pulled another box from below the deck, dropped it at her feet and jammed an unlit pipe between his teeth. ‘I’ll say, and more below. Found one in most pots. Can’t remember a better day.’

  For the next half hour, Valerie helped unload before Dan drove the heavily laden Land Rover away across the car park.

  A hard edge had replaced Ben’s light-hearted manner as he washed his hands under the dockside tap. ‘Out for a daytrip, is it?’

  ‘Oh, you know, Ben, just come around for a visit. A quiet chat.’

  ‘A quiet chat?’ he said as Valerie rinsed her hands and accepted the worn towel, before they both walked slowly along, Ben kicking the odd pebble into the water.

  ‘I can help you,’ she said, breaking the short silence, ‘but only if you help me. If you don’t then you won’t be going fishing for a bloody long time.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He managed to conceal a sneer, but the contempt was clear.

  ‘Ben, for Christ’s sake, wake up.’ She stopped in front of him, blocking his way. ‘I’ve just left the body of a guy tortured to death and then dumped like a piece of garbage. The one on the beach… that was no bloody accident either.’

  ‘Course it was.’

  ‘No way, Ben. You’re mixed up with a right load of bastards. Money and power is the god, nothing else. They use fear like a fuel, bloody high octane at that. They’ll sell their so-called friends, anyone they’ve paid off, even the country’s security. And if you think they’ll look after you, you’d better well think again. You want to know my theory?’ Before he could say anything, she continued, ‘I think the poor sod on the beach was held over the back of Sun Dancer while the prop was still turning. There’s also a girl in hospital lucky not to have joined the dead ones, plus,’ she said quietly, ‘another was tortured and warned off.’

  Ben retreated from the tough persona he’d tried to hold on to. ‘I only supplied dope, and maybe some Columbian marching powder. That’s it. I don’t know nothing about no fucking murders.’

  ‘Smuggling?’

  ‘Okay, okay, I was given some packages to take up to London, but that’s it, honest to God.’

  ‘So, you knew Preston?’

  Ben hung his head and looked at the ground. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alan Preston? What about his brother, David?’

  ‘Once or twice, when we was racing. He said thanks after the races, but that’s all. We all lined up as he shook our hands. Don’t think he knows me from Adam.’

  ‘Jenny Lawson?’

  ‘Not out racing, that was serious, strictly men. But otherwise, always around Alan Preston.’

  ‘Was she the one who told you it wasn’t Preston on the beach?’

  Looking like a poor innocent caught up in something way above his head, Ben nodded. ‘Yeah, she called. I had to go and pick Alan Preston up. Took him along to her place.’

  ‘Where is he, abroad?’ She raised her voice in an effort to get through. ‘Ben, for crying out loud, I’ll do all I can to help. Otherwise you’re looking at drug dealing, conspiracy to murder, helping to pervert the course of justice, treason and Christ knows what. The judge will send you down for thirty years, and instead of time off for good behaviour he’ll probably put in an option to extend. You’ll be an old man if you ever get out, and your mother will be long dead of a broken heart.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘They thought it risky to go overseas too soon. Let the dust settle. He’s got obscene amounts of money; he could hide away for ever.’

  ‘Best bet, Ben?’

  ‘Her place.’

  Valerie shook her head. ‘No, they’ve bailed out of there.’

  ‘Where’s the wheels?’ said Ben as they got to the car park.

  ‘Friend’s.’ Valerie pointed to the dark blue Golf. ‘Mine’s locked up.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better find a cave or I’ll be the next one on the beach… and not licking no bloody ice-cream neither.’ He paused, clenching his fists in frustration. ‘Christ, Mum! Coming here you’ve put me mum in danger!’

  ‘Steady, steady,’ said Valerie, putting a hand on his arm. ‘They’re cruel and ruthless. They’re not stupid. They know you won’t have told her anything. They’ll go nowhere near her; it would draw attention with no return.’

  ‘How did you guess I was mixed up with them?’

  ‘Oh, something Dan said, but don’t go blowing off at him; he was just making conversation. Besides, I knew you were involved before, or rather, guessed. Something quite innocuous.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the back of the yacht, its name: Sun Dancer. You called it the same as David Preston: The Sun Dancer.’

  ‘You’re kidding, that’s bloody stupid.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, stupid, but it stuck in my mind.’ Valerie stood there as another penny, or maybe only half a penny, dropped. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus. Claude was right, I’ve been hung ou
t to dry. Come on, Ben, where are they likely to be? I’ll do all I can.’ He was on the point of saying something, so she carried on with the only ammunition she had: ‘Think of your mother.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Ben, ‘Preston and Jenny, er, Lawson.’ More frightened than reticent, he stopped. Valerie took out the packet of Wrigley’s and handed him a piece. Thinking it better to let him give up the information without further threats, she kept quiet while peeling the wrapper from her own stick of gum. ‘Bringing in one, or maybe two, tomorrow. They’re being dropped off at the fort and Lawson is doing the pick-up.’

  ‘What kind of time?’

  ‘One in the morning, when it’s quiet and still enough darkness left to come ashore unnoticed.’

  ‘You involved?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No. I just run around when they’re ashore, get anything they need… bottles of scotch usually.’

  ‘Right, time to earn some brownie points, might even keep you out of the slammer. Come with me and we’ll follow them to wherever they’re holed up. It’s all right,’ she said, reacting to the dread on his face, ‘we’ll keep our distance.’

  Twenty-Three

  Resigned to his fate, Ben’s expression had hardened.

  ‘Glass is dropping,’ he said as they walked along the harbour side towards Fresh Dawn. Beyond the river mouth, wave tops were starting to break.

  ‘Won’t stop your friends,’ she replied, throwing her grip on deck.

  Below in the small crew cabin, Valerie pulled on a sweater, glad that she had also brought the small belt holster along with the Glock. She pushed it into the small of her back. Then, balancing two mugs on a tray, she came back up into the wheelhouse.

  ‘Coffee?’ Ben pressed the starters and nodded to the chart table, before going on deck and releasing the mooring ropes.

  Holding the top of the doorjamb, he swung back into the wheelhouse and picked up a mug in one hand while easing Fresh Dawn out into the river with the other. The light drizzle had now given way to a steadier fall as he silently sipped at the coffee.

  ‘How long?’ said Valerie, lighting up a cigarette.

  Ben looked at his watch. ‘We’ll be there by midnight. I was hoping we could hide amongst a few other boats out fishing, but with this weather we’re on our own.’

  Valerie followed his eyes to the radar screen. The coast and river mouth echoed a green return. But out to sea there was nothing.

  ‘We don’t have to be on top of it, do we?’ she said. ‘We’ve got your box of tricks. We just sit off a mile or two, then follow them in.’

  ‘And how do we follow them when ashore?’

  ‘Me. Not you. You can drop me ashore then take the boat back; I’ve got transport sorted.’

  Valerie had been in touch with Claude. He was waiting with a few trusted officers, roughly where she thought they would likely land. She could fine-tune the final position by mobile as things developed. Ben kept to saying as little as possible.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Valerie, ‘I’ve got some help.’

  Rounding Portland Bill, the force of the building easterly storm broke over Fresh Dawn’s bow.

  ‘Cripes!’ Valerie instinctively ducked as the spray hit the wheelhouse. ‘Wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Kept us in Lyme Bay as much as possible, but we had to come out sooner or later.’ He jammed his foot against the wheel housing as a large wave hit the side. ‘Currents all over the place here.’

  ‘Wind over tide, yes?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Makes a right mess of the sea state. Like we’re in a bloody washing machine.’ Spinning the wheel, Ben kept Fresh Dawn between the troughs. ‘We’ll be out of the tide race in a few minutes, but I can’t do anything about the wind.’

  The pushing and pulling gave way to regular crashing of waves over the foredeck as they rode up and down the increasingly large waves.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Valerie, ‘anything’s better than not knowing which way it’s going to throw you.’ She braced herself into a more comfortable position and lit another Disque Bleu. Ben concentrated on keeping the little boat on course through a wind that was climbing rapidly.

  ‘You ever going to give those up?’

  ‘Not today.’

  She looked out through the spinning Kent Clearview screen, but only the bow was visible, then blackness. Splintered glass suddenly flew across the cabin as a rogue wave hit the side of Fresh Dawn. Water rolled along the deck and poured into the cabin. They lurched into the following trough and the wheel was ripped from Ben’s grip.

  ‘Life jackets on that side and some towelling over there.’ Ben pointed behind her as he regained control. ‘Grab anything you can and shove it in the bloody hole.’

  Slipping on the flooded floor, Valerie crashed against the side. Then, on hands and knees, she pulled the locker door down. Two yellow jackets, along with rags and a towel, stopped the worst. She took a sodden cigarette from between her lips.

  ‘Keep the bloody sea where it belongs.’ She hit the bent window frame with a heavy spanner, then wedged herself in the engine room hatchway and pulled a disintegrated pack of Disque Bleu from her pocket. ‘Hell.’ Rubbing bits of tobacco and paper from her hands, she lobbed the remains down the steps.

  After an hour of being thrown around, Ben slowed the engines to tick over and put the bow head on into the now-storm-force winds.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, pointing to the instrument binnacle. Valerie looked at the black screen illuminated only by a green flash as each rotation of the radar sweep pinpointed the fort.

  Around one-fifteen, Valerie pointed to the screen as a blip approached the fort. ‘That’s them coming in with the drop-off, I presume.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Ben. ‘They won’t be there together in this kind of weather, too dangerous. They’ll drop them off and go. We’ve about fifteen minutes before they come and pick them up. They’ll have been in touch by radio and watching on radar. Just hope that when they see our contact, they’ll think it’s just some brainless idiot out fishing.’

  Valerie watched as another boat came from the shore side of the screen, before phoning Claude. She gave him the position from where it had seemingly departed, then hung up.

  Ben was down using the toilet as the blip moved off course.

  ‘Why are they doing that?’ she asked as he returned.

  ‘Christ,’ Ben spat out with real venom. He swung the wheel around, opening the throttles. Although hard against the stops, he kept pushing at the chrome levers. The Fresh Dawn was a good boat with powerful engines, but they were built for low-end grunt, not speed. ‘Bollocks. Why did I ever get fucking mixed up with you?’

  The blip on the radar came down, closing the distance between them at an alarming rate. ‘Should’ve gone off into hiding, stupid bugger that I am.’ He looked across at Valerie as the big ex-navy gunboat came out of the filthy weather. ‘We’re dead, Valerie. We’re both fucking dead.’

  Towering above them, the grey boat slewed up to their port side, spewing cooling water from the large exhaust outlets on the stern. The roar of powerful engines, giving out their own violent message, was momentarily overpowered by a loudspeaker.

  ‘Well, well, Miss Stone, out for an evening’s fishing, are we?’ The voice was distorted through the ancient Tannoy but was instantly recognisable. On board was the woman that had been wielding the cigarette with such perverse pleasure.

  Four men jumped onto the small fishing boat and entered the wheelhouse. Two of them, holding handguns, soon had Valerie and Ben stumbling onto the other boat.

  ‘Take it into the channel and sink it,’ the woman yelled through the window of the small, enclosed command bridge. ‘I’ll send someone out to pick you up when we get to the fort.’ She pulled the window shut and yanked on the lock as Valerie and Ben were kicked inside. ‘Don’t give up easily, d
o you!’ The woman brushed raindrops and sea spray from her sleeve. ‘The fort,’ she said to the man at the helm. ‘Can’t waste time on shit like this.’

  Valerie’s Glock rubbed temptingly into her back. But with two pistols pointed at them, pulling it out would only result in both herself and Ben ending up on the wrong side of any disagreement.

  The high, derelict structure was soon towering above them.

  ‘After you,’ said the woman as they stood on deck next to the rusting ladder. Ben nervously climbed, followed by Valerie. Halfway up, a large wave broke, sending heavy spray across. Valerie almost lost her grip. ‘Might as well get acclimatised,’ said the woman peering into the blackness, ‘you’ll be down there soon.’

  They were pushed, pulled and kicked into the first tower where two men were waiting. Both were around thirty years of age, unshaven and, to Valerie’s eyes, eastern European.

  ‘What’s all this?’ The accent was definitely not from the west. Slavic, maybe.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the woman, waving an automatic pistol around, ‘just come across a couple of cross-channel swimmers. Thought we’d give them a little rest before they resume their journey.’

  ‘Not until I’ve had a little word,’ said the man, now minus his braces, entering with a little help from a walking stick.

  ‘Not my lucky day,’ said Valerie.

  ‘Now that’s an understatement if ever I heard one,’ he said, before striking her across the face.

  The woman took hold of his wrist as he went to hit her again. ‘Not now, Max. Later. Tie them up. And you,’ she said to one of the gun-hands, ‘take our two eastern friends to the boat. Get them a scotch, make them comfortable.’

  Hobbling around, Max searched them both and threw Valerie’s gun to the floor. Taking cable ties, he bound their wrists and ankles.

  ‘Try to soap your way out of that,’ he said, pulling the last one tight.