Cold Kill (21 page)

‘I have thought about it, yes.’

‘So?’

‘We should talk.’

‘That’s why I called.’

‘Not over the phone,’ said Salik. ‘We must sit down and talk. You and me and my brother.’

‘The guy with the money was your brother?’

‘I don’t want to discuss anything on the phone,’ said Salik. ‘Today’s Monday. Let’s say we get together on Wednesday. We’ll have dinner. You can tell me about this boat of yours.’

‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where and when?’

‘I’ll phone you on Wednesday,’ said Salik. ‘Where are you?’

‘Dover,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I can come in to London, no problem. Call me when you’re ready.’ He ended the call, pleased with the way it had gone. There was plenty of time for Hargrove to decide how to play the meeting, and Salik had seemed genuinely hooked.

Shepherd put down the Tony Corke mobile and picked up his work phone. He called Hargrove and told him about the conversation with Uddin.

‘Well done,’ said the superintendent. ‘The timing’s perfect because I’ve just got the boat fixed up. Former SBS guy, now lives in Southampton, Gordon McConnell. Ever come across him?’

‘No,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s expecting you tomorrow. I’ll text you his number. He’ll do a couple of night runs with you – that way you’ll be up to speed before your sit-down with the brothers.’

Shepherd went downstairs. ‘I’m going to be away tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Make sure Liam does his homework.’

‘Of course,’ said Katra. ‘Don’t forget you’re going to his grandmother’s this weekend.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said, ‘and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’ He could tell from her blank look that she had made as much sense of his sarcasm as she did of his humour. He winked.

Shepherd drove down to Southampton in the ten-year-old Land Rover. The battered, mud-splattered vehicle was registered in the name of Tony Corke at the Dover address and was full of the sort of gear a sailor might need, including wet-weather clothing, boots, a tool-kit, and various sailing magazines.

He phoned McConnell on the way and they arranged to meet at a pub on the outskirts of the city. ‘Keep an eye open for the big man with the beard and a look of bored contempt on his face,’ said McConnell, in a Northumberland accent.

Shepherd spotted him as soon as he walked into the pub. The self-description was bang on, although McConnell wore an amused smile as he shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘So, I’m going to turn you into a sailor in twenty-four hours, am I?’ he said.

‘That’s the plan,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re Gordon?’

‘Gordy on dry land,’ said McConnell. ‘Skipper when I’m at the helm. Okay, lesson one. We need antifreeze in the system before we go anywhere near the water. What are you drinking?’

‘Jameson’s. Ice.’

‘On the rocks, as the Yanks say,’ said McConnell. ‘Bad bloody omen for a start.’ He pushed himself off the bench seat and ambled over to the bar. He had the rolling gait of a man used to a moving deck rather than solid ground. The beard made it difficult to place his age but Shepherd figured he was probably in his late fifties and that it had been a decade or so since he had last squeezed into an SBS wetsuit.

McConnell returned with a double whiskey and ice for Shepherd, and a pint of beer for himself. They clinked glasses and McConnell drained half of his in one gulp. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘So, from the Sass to the cops. Like paperwork, do you?’

‘My wife wanted me out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Too many nights away.’

‘Ah, wives,’ said McConnell. ‘I’ve had four, bless them.’

‘A girl in every port?’

‘All local, as it happens. Kids?’

‘A boy. Nine.’

McConnell grinned. ‘I’ve got five. Can’t remember how old they are.’

Shepherd could see that McConnell was the competitive sort, but that was generally the way it was with men who had served in the Special Forces. You didn’t get into the SAS or SBS by hiding your light under a bushel.

‘So, what’s your sailing experience?’ asked McConnell.

‘I did a crash course in trawlers, but as I was only a deck-hand I didn’t have to do much. But I’m okay on navigation.’

‘And you’ve used night-vision equipment?’

‘Sure.’

McConnell belched loudly. ‘Then the rest of it is like driving a car,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we have another round and then I’ll show you the boat? We can pop over to France and back to get the feel of it, then do a few night-runs.’

The sea spray blew across his face like a light shower and Shepherd narrowed his eyes. High overhead, seagulls soared on the breeze coming in from the English Channel. Whichever way he looked he saw other boats. A huge cross-Channel ferry heading for France, as big as a skyscraper turned on its side. Flotillas of small sailboats, some barely bigger than bathtubs. Freighters caked with dirt. Gleaming white executive toys with massive outboard engines. Fishing boats with rusting hulls.

‘It’ll be quieter at night,’ shouted McConnell, over the roar of the massive outboard engine behind them. He was standing up, leaning back against his seat, legs planted like trees, shoulder-width apart. His right hand was on the wheel, his left on a chromium-plated throttle lever. ‘This is us doing thirty knots.’ He banked to the left to avoid a twin-masted sailboat ahead.

Shepherd was standing next to the skipper, his left hand on a grab rail at the side of the boat. Even at thirty knots he could see the high degree of concentration necessary to keep the boat away from trouble. All the craft around them were heading at different speeds in different directions. Working out where they were all going in relation to one’s own boat was like some huge mathematical problem that required constant computations.

‘You want to divide the sea into three circles around you,’ shouted McConnell. ‘Far, near, and fuck-me-that’s-close. The far stuff, you have to be aware of where it’s heading and if it’s a potential problem. The near stuff, you need to know its speed and if you’re going to pass it to port or starboard. The other stuff shouldn’t be a problem, providing you’ve got the outer two covered. It’s all about anticipation. The big stuff is easy – you can see it from miles away. It’s the fair-weather sailors in their piss-pot fifteen-footers that you’ve got to watch out for. Or windsurfers who’ve gone out too far. Hit one of them at sixty knots and they’ll rip right through the hull. There’s flotsam and crap all around, too, everything from deckchairs to empty champagne bottles, so you can’t let your guard down for a second.’ He banked left again and increased the throttle. ‘That’s forty knots,’ he shouted, ‘and the engine isn’t even breaking sweat.’ He pulled the throttle back and the boat slowed to a little over ten knots. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘You take the helm, get the feel of it.’

Shepherd put his left hand on the wheel in front of him. McConnell kept a loose grip on it, but Shepherd could feel that he had control of the boat. It was responsive, with far less play on the wheel than he’d had when he was at the helm of Pepper’s trawler.

‘Take it up to fifteen knots,’ said McConnell. ‘Nice and slowly.’

Shepherd did as he was told. The boat kept slamming into the crests of the waves and the wheel bucked and kicked in his hand. He kept the speed steady at fifteen knots.

‘Okay, that’s us just before we start to plane,’ shouted McConnell. ‘We’re slamming into the waves rather than cutting over them. It’s a teeth-juddering ride, right?’

Shepherd nodded. He was concentrating on the water ahead of the prow.

‘Take it up to twenty knots,’ roared McConnell. ‘Smoothly as you can.’

Shepherd pushed the throttle forward. As the boat accelerated past sixteen knots the juddering stopped and it carved across the top of the waves.

‘That’s the planing,’ said McConnell. ‘You feel it?’

‘Awesome!’ It felt to Shepherd as if the boat was flying above the water now, barely skipping along the surface.

‘Keep it going!’ bellowed McConnell.

Shepherd pushed the throttle forward until the speedometer registered forty knots. He was finding it harder to concentrate on all the ships in the vicinity. There was a freighter off to starboard that seemed to be on a collision course and he steered away from it.

McConnell grinned when he saw what Shepherd was doing. ‘We’ll miss him by a hundred yards, he’s only doing twelve knots. The thing to remember is that out here we’re the fastest bastards, by far.’

It was like driving a motorcycle, Shepherd realised. Fast and furious, not worrying overmuch about what was behind you. Just keep focused on where you’re going and be ready to accelerate out of trouble.

‘Ready to put her through her paces?’ McConnell shouted.

‘Sure!’

‘Give it full throttle!’

Shepherd took a deep breath and pushed the throttle forward. The edge of the seat pressed against the small of his back as the craft surged forward, and the air beat against his face like a living thing. He was panting like a dog and fought to steady his breathing. His left hand ached from gripping the wheel too hard and he forced himself to relax.

‘See the branch?’ yelled McConnell, but Shepherd was already steering the boat to port. ‘Nice,’ said McConnell, approvingly.

Shepherd kept accelerating. The huge Yamaha outboard roared and the waves beat under the hull. The boat felt as if it was bouncing along the surface like a stone that had been sent spinning across a lake. The speedometer went past fifty knots. Fifty-five. Sixty. The throttle was in the full forward position.

‘Both hands on the wheel now!’ roared McConnell. ‘At this speed you have to steer your way out of trouble, so you need both hands.’

Shepherd did what he was told.

‘Try a hard to starboard!’

Shepherd turned the wheel right. The boat banked easily and he felt his body dragged to the left by the force of the turn. His eyes kept scanning the area ahead of the bow. There were a dozen craft close by, all yachts, none going at more than ten knots.

‘This is amazing!’ shouted Shepherd. ‘It’s as if everything else is standing still.’

‘Compared to us, they are! Come on, let’s go to France.’ McConnell pointed at the GPS screen mounted between the two wheels. ‘Just follow the dotted line.’

Shepherd put a pint of beer in front of McConnell, who grunted his thanks. It was a little after six o’clock and McConnell had insisted that they retire to a pub ‘for a drop more antifreeze’ before nightfall. He had a sketch-pad in front of him and was drawing a rough map of the south coast and the French shore with a Biro whose end had been well chewed.

Shepherd sat down and took a sip of Jameson’s. ‘That is one hell of a boat, Gordy.’

‘State-of-the-art.’ McConnell sat back and swallowed a good third of his pint, then belched.

‘Explain the planing thing to me,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s what gives the rib its edge. That boat lifts up on to plane at between fifteen and sixteen knots, depending on the load being carried. The tilt lever on the wheel sets the angle of the propeller compared with the hull and that has to be right to get up on plane. I’ll run you through that tonight. It’s a matter of feel more than anything.’

‘But what’s the science behind it?’

‘A rib boat is built like an arrow so that it cuts through the waves rather than bouncing over them. The semi-inflatable bit keeps it out of the water, and they have a very shallow draught. Mine’s just eighteen inches, which is nothing. Boats that are built with a displacement design slow to a crawl in rough seas but a rib just punches through. Your old mob has one that’s made with metal collars rather than rubber and has an internal diesel engine with a range of four hundred miles. It’s all hush-hush, covered with radar-deflecting paint with an electromagnet on the front that lets it stick to hulls until the guys can offload. Now, that bugger is one hell of a boat.’

He took another deep pull on his pint and another third disappeared.

‘The shallow draught also gives you an advantage if you want to play hide and seek. The rib can go where most other craft would run aground. If you’re being chased you can slip into the shallows off Norfolk or the Thames estuary. It helps with loading and unloading, too. I’ll show you tonight. You can run right on to the beach, load and unload at the bow while the engine’s still in enough water to pull her away when you’re ready. No need to go anywhere near a dock if you don’t want to.’

‘And no one can keep up with us?’

‘You couldn’t outrun a fast sports boat with surface piercing props,’ said McConnell, ‘but only flash bastards who want to be noticed have them anyway. They throw a huge plume of white water out of the back so you can see them for miles. I’ve had a few races with the local Customs boys for fun and they couldn’t come close. The navy have some faster stuff but you’d be bloody unlucky to have them on your tail. Mind you, even if they had the speed, they’d have a bloody tough time tracking you. The beauty of the rib design is that it’s virtually impossible to follow. It won’t show up on radar, unless it’s stern on. Then the engine might give off an echo, but even that’s not guaranteed.’

‘You keep calling it a rib,’ said Shepherd.

‘Stands for rigid inflatable boat. Basically an inflatable with a hard hull.’

‘It’s the perfect smuggler’s boat,’ said Shepherd.

‘Good job I’m one of the good guys, isn’t it?’ said McConnell. He winked and laughed, a bellowing guffaw that had several heads turning in his direction.

‘Do you get asked to bring stuff over?’

‘All the time,’ said McConnell. ‘Usually by guys in sharp suits down from London who think I’ll drop my trousers for a few grand. If they really piss me off I pass them on to an undercover Customs guy I know, otherwise I just let them ply me with drink then bid them farewell with a few choice words.’

‘What about being followed by planes or helicopters?’

‘On a daytime run they could pick you out of all the rest of the cross-Channel traffic maybe, but not at night.’