Cold Kill (6 page)

‘Andy?’

He said nothing.

Pepper snarled and took step towards Corke. One of the men was pleading in a language that sounded like Russian. Pepper ignored him and kept the gun aimed at Corke. He knew the man was about to fire and that there was nothing he could do to stop him. He had no weapon, nothing to fight with, nothing to throw as a distraction, and the heavy clothing and boots he was wearing meant there was no way he could reach Pepper before he pulled the trigger.

His stomach heaved as the deck slammed upwards. He staggered back against the bridge door. Pepper almost lost his balance but stayed on his feet and kept the gun on him. The bow pointed almost straight up into the night sky and, for a second, Corke was weightless before it crashed into the sea. He fell to the deck and rolled over, slipped as he tried to get to his feet and hit the deck again.

The boat tipped to starboard and Corke slammed into the guardrail. He grabbed for it and hauled himself up.

‘Get back to the bridge!’ screamed Pepper. ‘The sea’s too rough for the autopilot!’ He fired the gun and a bullet cracked through the air. ‘The next one is in your head!’

‘Do as he says!’ howled Mosley. ‘He means it!’

The ship rolled to port and Corke gripped the rail, fighting to stay upright. Pepper laughed. ‘Call yourself a sailor,’ he sneered.

One of the male passengers yelled and Corke turned in time to see the little girl fall over the guardrail. Her mother shrieked and lunged for her but it was too late. The child was gone.

Corke rushed across the deck as the bow rose again. Pepper fired at him but the boat lurched and the shot went wide. Corke hit him with his shoulder, knocking him off-balance, then kicked out at his left leg, catching him behind the knee. As Pepper went down, Corke slashed him across the throat with the edge of his hand. Pepper pitched face down on to the deck.

The two women were screaming, eyes wide with horror. Corke reached them and looked over the side. He saw a flash of white. The child’s face. Two white blurs. Her hands. He swore. Then he ripped off his pea coat and jumped over the side, arms flailing.

He hit the water, which engulfed him, so cold it numbed him immediately. He kicked for the surface, feeling his boots fill with water. He kicked harder, but his jeans were sticking to his legs, dragging him down. He took in a mouthful of water, then broke through to the surface and spat fiercely. He saw the child several metres away, kicked hard and swam towards her.

A wave crashed over him and his mouth filled with water again. He spat and gasped for breath. His pullover was hindering his movements so he trod water and pulled it off. The weight of his wet trousers was pulling him down. Despite the cold his leg muscles were burning. He let go of the pullover and swam on towards the little girl. Every stroke was an effort and his chest felt as if a clamp was squeezing the life from him.

He trod water again, trying to see where she was, then glanced over his shoulder at the trawler. Mosley was pointing at him, a woman at his side – the child’s mother, maybe. Corke saw Pepper pull Mosley back, then lost sight of the boat in the swell.

He carried on swimming. The child was thrashing around in the water and as he drew closer he heard her scream. It was cut short as she disappeared beneath a wave. Corke took a deep breath as a wave carried him up, then dropped him. His right hand slapped into something – the child. He grabbed her collar and pulled her to him. ‘It’s all right!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got you!’

She was in shock. Her mouth was moving soundlessly, eyes blank and lifeless. Corke turned her so that her back was to him, then pushed his arm round her waist and kicked to keep himself upright in the heaving water. He could feel the strength draining from his legs and took a quick look over his shoulder. Through the swell he saw the trawler. Fifty metres away, maybe more. In a swimming-pool, he’d make it with ease, but in the freezing water, weighed down with wet clothing, he knew it might as well have been fifty miles. The current was carrying him away from the boat. And even if it hadn’t been, it was all he could do to keep the child above water. There was no way he could swim for them both.

Water crashed over them and Corke pushed the child up, trying to keep her in the air.

It was hopeless. With every kick he felt weaker and he knew he was dying of hypothermia. The freezing water was sucking the life out of him, second by second. He held the child with his left arm and thrashed around with the right. His head went under and he coughed, spluttering. He didn’t want to die, but he was so tired that he couldn’t fight the water any longer. He held the child tighter. She was crying now, great sobs that racked her body. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Corke. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He couldn’t feel his legs now, couldn’t tell if they were moving or not. He was impossibly cold, and more tired than he’d ever been before. He was breathing fast and shallow, and he knew that was bad because the stale air would stay deep in his lungs. His head went under and he closed his eyes. He knew that all he had to do was take in a lungful of water and it would be over. Drowning wasn’t so bad. There was no panic, just tiredness and a gradual acceptance that he would die. It was the little girl he felt sorry for, with her whole life ahead of her. He’d been married, had a child, travelled the world. He’d lived a full life, and death was a natural part of it. But she hadn’t even begun to live. It was so damned unfair. Corke roared and kicked with all the strength he had left. He didn’t want the child to die but there was nothing he could do to save her. In his heart of hearts he’d known that from the moment he’d followed her into the water, but he’d had to try. And now he would die with her.

He leaned back in the water, holding her to his chest. Water washed over his face, stinging his eyes and filling his ears.

Suddenly a light shone on his face, so bright that it was blinding. He closed his eyes. His whole body was numb and he had no energy to swim. His body went limp in the water. At least he had tried. He felt totally relaxed, at peace with what was happening to him.

The blood was draining from his extremities, retreating to the body’s core – the final stage of hypothermia. He would feel nothing in the final seconds. There were worse ways to die, he decided.

The light was still there, so intense that it burned through his eyelids. And now there was a roaring, thudding noise. He opened his eyes and gasped as a wave washed over him. He coughed, retched, then blinked up at the light. It was as bright as day. Brighter. An intense white light filled the night sky. Then he saw the figure dropping down towards him. A figure in orange with a white head like a giant insect. Corke smiled. It was an angel from heaven. He wanted to tell the angel that he didn’t believe in heaven. Hell, maybe, but there was no such place as heaven. And if there was no heaven, there were no angels. The figure kept descending. An orange jumpsuit. Black boots. Corke’s face went under the water, his eyes still open. It didn’t sting any more. Nothing hurt. There was no pain, and no fear. Just acceptance.

The figure hit the water, and Corke felt arms surround him in an enveloping bear hug. He closed his eyes and slid into unconsciousness.

Sam Hargrove walked quickly along the hospital corridor, heels squeaking on the linoleum. His shoes were handmade and they shone under the overhead fluorescent lights. He was wearing a black wool overcoat over a dark blue pinstripe suit and a pale yellow shirt; his red tie was decorated with miniature cricket bats. He was carrying a bulging leather briefcase, scuffed at the corners, and he swung it in time with his walk. A middle-aged nurse stepped out of a side room and blocked his way. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m here to see Anthony Corke,’ said Hargrove. He brushed his greying hair across his forehead. ‘He was brought in about six hours ago.’ He spelt out Corke’s surname slowly, as if she had learning difficulties.

She frowned. ‘And you are?’

‘His solicitor,’ said Hargrove, the lie coming as naturally as his smile.

‘Visiting hours are between five and seven,’ she said curtly.

Hargrove continued to smile, but his eyes hardened. ‘My client has been arrested on a serious charge, and he has a right to legal representation. Any interference with it would result in a claim for damages laid against this hospital. I’m sure your NHS trust’s administrator wouldn’t want that, now, would he?’

‘There’s a policeman with him,’ said the nurse.

‘Which is why he needs my counsel,’ said Hargrove. He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘I don’t have all day, Miss . . .’ He peered at the nurse’s name-tag. ‘Miss Longworth. I know it’s a frightful cliché, but my time really is money.’

The nurse pointed down the corridor. ‘It’s the third room on the left.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hargrove, and headed along the corridor. He opened the door without knocking. A young uniformed policeman was leaning against a large cast-iron radiator. As the door opened he jolted upright and straightened, hands behind his back. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here,’ he said.

Hargrove looked round the room. There was only one bed. The occupant’s eyes were closed, his hands at his sides. He was wearing a pale blue surgical gown. There was monitoring equipment on the table next to the bed but it wasn’t switched on. A thin chain ran from the man’s ankle to the metal rail at the foot. ‘I’m Mr Corke’s solicitor,’ said Hargrove. ‘Can you explain to me why he’s chained to the bed?’

‘My chief inspector’s orders, sir,’ said the constable.

‘My client has just been dragged out of the North Sea,’ said Hargrove. ‘He almost drowned.’

‘I’m told he has to be restrained,’ said the constable.

‘It’s an infringement of his human rights,’ said Hargrove. ‘My understanding is that Mr Corke hasn’t been charged.’

‘I’m just doing as I was told, sir,’ said the constable.

‘I need a word with my client,’ said Hargrove. ‘In private.’

‘I’m supposed to stay with him,’ said the constable.

‘How long have you been in the job, son?’

‘A year,’ said the constable, defensively.

‘That’s long enough to know that lawyer–client conversations are confidential,’ said Hargrove. ‘He’s not going anywhere with that chain on his leg. You can wait on the other side of the door. Or you can do the smart thing and take the opportunity to have a quick smoke or a coffee outside. Up to you.’

The constable held Hargrove’s eye for several seconds, then left the room.

Hargrove put down his briefcase and stared at the man on the bed. ‘Shepherd, do you always have to be so bloody heroic?’ he asked. ‘You almost gave me a heart-attack, throwing yourself into the sea. You’re an undercover cop, not a bloody lifeguard.’

Shepherd opened his eyes. ‘She was a kid,’ he said.

Hargrove shook his head. ‘I suppose I’m going to have to put you in for another commendation,’ he said.

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s in ICU but she’ll be fine.’ Hargrove sat down on the metal chair and straightened the creases in his trousers. ‘If the helicopter hadn’t spotted you . . .’

‘I couldn’t let her die.’

‘Pepper was going to throw them all into the sea. What was your plan? Save everybody?’

‘She was a kid,’ said Shepherd again.

‘And what if the helicopter hadn’t been there, Spider? What if I’d had to go and tell Liam his father wasn’t coming home?’

‘It was instinctive.’

‘It was foolhardy,’ said Hargrove. ‘Brave, but foolhardy.’

‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Shepherd. He sat up and pointed at the chain. ‘Can you take that off me so I can get out of here?’

‘We need to talk first,’ said Hargrove.

‘That sounds ominous.’

Hargrove examined the room. ‘Not bad, considering it’s NHS,’ he said. ‘Floor even looks as if it’s been cleaned some time this century.’

‘Do we know what went wrong?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t send the navy to intercept us.’

‘We were waiting to pick you up on Holy Island as planned. The local drugs squad had an informant in the French port. He thought the trawler was leaving with drugs and called his handler in Europol. By then it was in international waters but Europol were on the ball for once. They called Custom House and the night man took a decision. There was a Royal Navy frigate in the area, and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘What a cock-up.’

‘Just one of those things,’ said Hargrove. ‘There was no way we could have tipped off everyone in advance.’

‘What about Pepper?’

‘He’s under arrest for trafficking and attempted murder. The illegals are lining up to give evidence. If nothing else, it means they’re guaranteed to stay in the country until the trial.’

‘Mosley was going to help toss them overboard, but Pepper didn’t give him much choice.’

‘He’s co-operating. Pepper pulling a gun on him changed his viewpoint and he’s giving us all the info we need on the French end. Job well done, Spider. Not the way we planned it, but we’ve smashed their operation.’

Shepherd jiggled his leg, rattling the chain. ‘So, I’m out of here, right?’

‘Let me run something by you first,’ said Hargrove. ‘The parents of the girl you rescued were from Kosovo. They had a couple of suitcases with them. One contained three large cooking-oil cans filled with a hell of a lot of cash. Just under a million euros in five-hundred euro notes.’

‘They could have gone first class for that,’ said Shepherd, bought passports, new identities, the works.’

‘The money’s counterfeit, which is why we think they’re couriers. They don’t know that we’ve found it.’

‘But why run counterfeit euros from Europe into the UK? The UK’s about the only country left that doesn’t use the euro.’

‘Good question,’ said the superintendent.

‘You want me to talk to them – me being the hero and all?’

Hargrove flashed him a tight smile. ‘They’ve been asking for you. They want to thank you. It’d be an opening.’