Hunting for Crows (25 page)

The more Carol Walters downed the fruity Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, the more relaxed she became, but with it surfaced the regret of her earlier outburst. She was a cop and even though she hadn’t been working late these last few weeks and didn’t often go into the office on weekends, there were times when she needed to cry-off a date. Therefore, it was childish for her to throw a flaky with her new friend Simon when he put in an appearance forty minutes behind the agreed time because his boss wanted a word about his up-coming pay rise.

Her main problem with relationships was she didn’t understand how they worked. Was she supposed to be on the lookout for someone who would be one hundred per cent compatible in character, humour, sexual preferences and their choice of job, or was ‘true love’ the only criteria and when she found it, everything else would fall into place? In her experience, it never seemed to work either way and she was coming to the conclusion that she was a lousy compromiser.

What Simon didn’t know, her hair was at the heart of the problem. For more years than she cared to remember, her hair was cut to shoulder-length and parted in the middle. Based on a whim or on something he might have said on their last date, it was now short, only covering her ears, and, another first, coloured with a parting to one side. When she first came out of Coco’s in East Street, feeling self-conscious and ninety-quid poorer, it wasn’t an exaggeration to say she felt violated and regretted parking the car so far away in Churchill Square.

Simon’s first mistake was to call round after she had bumped into her friend Melissa. Using a deadpan expression Melissa last used when she re-told the story of when she caught her son masturbating, she said her new look was ‘interesting’ and ‘a bit of a change,’ with no mention of the years it took off her age or how it suited her pretty, rounded face.

Simon’s second mistake occurred when he didn’t say anything about her hair. Whilst he apologised for being late and prattled on about his boss and the size of his next pay rise, he failed to notice a woman in need of massive reassurance and a healthy dose of TLC. A quick altercation later, he returned to his car and was on the way home before she could say, ‘re-modelled’, ‘re-styled’ or ‘meet the new me.’

She started watching a film on television but she couldn’t concentrate and decided to stop boozing as the alcohol was making her feel melancholy. With some difficulty, she rose from the chair and walked into the kitchen. She made a mug of coffee and carried it back into the living room with a bag of crisps, a vain attempt to try and soak up the booze.

Friday night television, as usual, was a load of crap. She flicked through the channels looking for something not involving answering asinine questions against a ticking clock, trying to imagine a bygone age with actors who sounded modern in voice and with hairstyles that wouldn’t look out of place now, or an action film with crash-bang pyrotechnics designed to wake the kids upstairs and with hard-to-hear, mumbled American dialogue.

She started watching a stupid comedy about two straight guys living together, but the jokes sounded familiar. The phone rang. Keep calm girl, she said to herself, if it’s Simon, he’s the one who needs to apologise.

‘Carol, it’s Angus,’ he said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper.

‘Where are you? Have you been drinking? You sound like you’ve been drinking?’

‘I could say the same to you, but no, I haven’t had a drink all night. I’m on a ship at Shoreham Harbour–’

‘Bloody hell! Was it something I said? You’re not thinking of emigrating are you?’

‘Shut up, Carol and listen. There’s a ship docked in Shoreham Harbour, the east side of the harbour, called the
Baltic Star
. Mathew Street and his mate Ace have abducted Derek Crow and brought him here. They’ve bashed Derek around and I think they’re about to kill him.’

‘Derek Crow? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I know what Derek Crow looks like, I’ve been watching him being tortured for the last fifteen minutes. They think he stole their gold.’

‘What gold?’

‘Don’t you start. It doesn’t matter about the gold, I’ll tell you later. What’s important is you need to get our people down here, armed and plenty of them.’

‘Right ok, I understand. Where’s Derek now?’

‘He’s lying on the deck. He’s unconscious.’ He paused. ‘I think they’re going to dump him in the hold.’

‘Why would they do that? Are they not just going to dump him overboard?’

‘I think, although I haven’t seen inside it yet, the hold is full of grain and his body will end up–’

She heard scuffling, a yelp, and a series of soft thumps, which to a suspicious copper sounded like repeated blows from a fist or a boot. Seconds later, the line went dead as if the phone network had failed or someone had stamped on Henderson’s phone.

The Sauvignon Blanc haze disappeared as the copper inside seized her attention. Still holding the phone, she called Lewes Control and resolved to speak with as much poise and clarity as she could muster, not wanting to sound like a hysterical teenager or a drunken bum who called in for a laugh. All calls were recorded and often played back in court where they were picked over by a team of defence lawyers, sober as judges and as thorough as crows picking over carrion.

She identified herself and said in a voice less pissed than she felt, she needed the armed response team down at Shoreham Harbour, and to her surprise, the operator responded. If the call to Lewes Control sounded business-like and went according to plan, there remained a high probability the next one wouldn’t. She gathered her thoughts, dialled the number and took a deep breath.

‘Edwards here.’ In the background Walters could hear the clinking of glasses and raucous, drink-infused laughter.

‘Good evening, ma’am, DS Walters here. Sorry to disturb you.’

‘DS Walters, you’re not still on duty are you? It’s after ten on a Friday night.’

‘No, ma’am, I’m at home. I’ve just received a call from DI Henderson–’

A loud voice faded in, then out, but she couldn’t make out the words. ‘It’s my husband telling me I’m neglecting my supper guests. Will this take long DS Walters?’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner party, so I’ll cut straight to the chase. Derek Crow, he of the Crazy Crows rock band and the Prime Minister’s businessman friend, has been kidnapped. DI Henderson followed him and now believes Derek Crow is in mortal danger.’

‘Have you been drinking, DS Walters?’

‘Yes, I have. As you say, ma’am, it is Friday night, but this isn’t me telling you all this. DI Henderson told me before the phone went dead and we were cut-off.’

‘Why was he calling you? Did he ask you to do something?’

‘Yes, he told me to send back-up as he’s sure Derek Crow is about to be killed.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, I’ve instructed Lewes Control to give me as many cars as they can find and an armed response team.’

‘I’m on my way. Where am I going?’

‘To the east side of Shoreham Harbour. He’s on a ship called the
Baltic Star
.’

The phone went quiet for a moment and she heard the muffled sounds of CI Edwards talking to someone. ‘Right,’ she said when she came back on the line. ‘I’ll go back in and say goodbye to my guests but I bet they’ll be well chuffed to see me leaving as I haven’t yet served dessert.’

‘I’m sorry about the interruption ma’am, but thank you. There’s just one other thing. Could you pick me up on the way
?
’

Henderson could see the night sky as he reached the top of the ladder, ascending out of the ship’s bowels and welcoming the clean, night air, a change from the stale atmosphere below decks.

In the shadow of the funnel, he pulled out his phone and called DS Walters. He was two minutes into the phone call when he fell on the deck in a heap after receiving a whack on the head which turned his knees to jelly. He dropped his phone and heard a crunch as his attacker stood on it.

Kicks came in but he’d been in this position enough times to realise he couldn’t just lie there and take a beating otherwise he’d be finished, as it seemed this guy meant business. When the next kick came in, he grabbed the leg and pushed it back with as much force as he could muster. The guy staggered backwards, more in surprise than from the force of the shove, and fell against a rail.

Henderson got to his feet but to his amazement, the other guy leapt up in a flash, like a fairground target felled by an air rifle, and turned to face him. He now adopted a martial arts stance, his hands in karate-chop shapes and walking towards him in cautious steps. Whoa, fists and kicks he could deal with, but oriental stuff was out of his league.

The attacker edged closer, his movements stealthy for such a big man.

‘Police!’ Henderson said in a voice as strong as he could muster, the last desperate attempt of a man with a groggy head and a ship’s funnel at his back.

‘What!’ he said, his face incredulous. ‘Show me your ID.’

Henderson reached into his pocket and pulled out his warrant card.

He leaned over and grabbed it, took a quick look before handing it back.

‘Ah fuck, sorry man for whacking you on the nut. I thought you were Mat Street’s big mate. It was dark like.’

‘I’ll live,’ Henderson said, rubbing his head where he felt a large lump. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Don Levinson, Derek Crow’s personal protection specialist, bodyguard in old money. What are you people doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘I followed Derek to this place but–Hey, look out!’

Henderson turned to see Ace’s impassive face and the cosh he’d been bashing Derek Crow with swinging towards him. There was little he could do to get out of the way and it caught him straight across the temple. On this occasion, there wasn’t time for knees to buckle, his lights suddenly had no power.

He woke up, his cheek resting on a lumpy rivet, adding more pain to the rhythmic bass playing in his head. He eased himself up into a sitting position. The cons had pulled back the cover of the ship’s hold and he was lying close to the edge, and even though he considered himself a strong swimmer, he didn’t fancy his chances in a pool full of wheat or oats or whatever the stuff down there might be. Up close, the space looked cavernous and gauging by the height of the ship, ran to a depth of about thirty or forty feet.

His head was spinning and he felt nauseous, but a few moments later everything cleared, except for the rhythmic thumping of a mini bass player performing inside his head. He didn’t know if he had been out for one minute or five, but he could still see Don. He must have squared up to his attacker, Ace didn’t take him by surprise, as the cosh was no longer in Ace’s hand, no doubt felled by one of Don’s karate kicks. Instead, Ace held a knife. This was no cheap punk, jabbing and slashing as if trying to clear a path in a dense jungle, but taking a calm, measured approach, receiving a kick to the head in return for a better opening. Henderson stood and was about to go over and lend a hand when he remembered Derek.

He turned. At the far end of the ship, close to the bow, Mathew Street was pulling the motionless figure of Derek Crow towards the edge of the hold, a job made more difficult due to the absence of his big mate. Henderson staggered and limped the length of the ship, the noise of his exaggerated movement drowned by Street’s puffing and wheezing and the shouting and grunting of the two men fighting behind him, so Street didn’t look up. A look of triumph appeared on the old geezer’s face as he wound up to make a last, final heave when Henderson’s fist smacked him in the jaw and he staggered back.

Henderson bent down to help Derek. He looked a mess, his face covered in blood, drifting in and out of consciousness. He tried sitting him up but he flopped back down like a rag doll. Henderson gripped his shoulders and pulled him away from the edge but he was a dead weight, his body snagging on every rivet and seam.

He heard a noise behind him and turned. The warning was enough to prevent Street burying his knife somewhere between his shoulder blades, but not to avoid him sticking it into his left shoulder. Street pulled the knife out, but before he could make another lunge and finish him off, Henderson let go of Derek and rolled away. The pain in his arm began as a serious sting and then it hit him in waves of torment, making him sweat, nauseous and distorting his sense of balance.

Henderson staggered to his feet and moved away before Street realised where he was and dodged into the shadows. He bent down on his knees and took a succession of deep breaths. ‘C’mon Henderson,’ he said to himself, ‘you’re not going to die here.’

Enveloped in darkness, in the shadow of a large piece of winding equipment, he felt safe for the moment, as Street didn’t look like he fancied diving in after him. He stood on the deck waving the knife from side to side, urging him to come out. He might be a sixty-seven-year-old man, but by the way he handled the knife it looked like his weapon of choice, wielded by his hand many times in the past.

Henderson reached out around him, feeling for a weapon. His hand touched a thick, coiled rope, and never taking his eyes off the demonic face of his armed assailant, in case he felt emboldened and ventured after him, felt for the end. He found it and pulled a section free. Street, realising he might be up to something, decided to go for broke and stepped into the shadow.

He came closer, slashing at Henderson’s chest, the blade parting the material of his shirt and leaving an untidy line of blood in its wake. Before he could strike again, Henderson lifted the rope with two hands and swung a length at Street’s face, as if chopping a tree. The rope was heavy, as thick as his wrists and wet from rain or seawater and it made a satisfying ‘thurump’ noise as it made contact with the side of Street’s head. The swipe took a huge effort from his damaged shoulder, the pain surging with a constant throb as he tried to put his arms down, almost forcing him to black out.

Street had stepped backwards into the light, shaking his head, trying to clear it, but before he could come at him again, as Henderson knew he couldn’t keep this up, he pulled more rope free and swung it again. It hit Street full-force on the side of the head and he stumbled backwards as if drunk. He lurched towards the hold but he couldn’t control his own momentum. His foot snagged on a raised edge and he tumbled headlong into the abyss.

Henderson waited for a sudden bolt of pain to ease and then lurched over to the edge of the hold and looked down. Street flailed around like a drowning man, but the consistency of the ‘pool’ was more like quicksand than water and his strokes only seemed to make the situation worse. Henderson looked around for help and then he spotted Ace coming towards him. On the other side of the hold, under the harsh scrutiny of a security light, Don’s immobile body was lying in a heap, blood pooling around him.

Henderson moved back to the dark place where he’d found the rope, and started searching around for something else; he knew he couldn’t lift it again and a wet rope wouldn’t stop this guy. His hand touched something heavy and he picked it up. It was a heavyweight chisel or riveter, he couldn’t be sure, but too short to use against Ace. When he moved closer, he threw it towards his face. It was crap shot with a tool as un-aerodynamic as a Dodo and missed the intended target but bounced off his shoulder. It didn’t seem to bother him much as after a quick rub, he kept coming.

Henderson moved in the direction of the bow and put all stupid thoughts of jumping overboard or climbing down a mooring rope firmly out of his mind when he found a large box and pulled it open, hoping for a fish-gutting knife or a gun. It took him a few seconds to realise he wasn’t looking at a box of fireworks but distress flares. He knew enough about sailing to appreciate the different types of flares and if these were the warning or smoke variety, he would be as sunk as a capsized yacht.

In the past, he had fired one or two in practice drills but could he remember how? On the side of the tube, he saw helpful multi-language instructions, just the ticket for the owner of a sinking boat, seconds away from jumping for his life into the grey water, or a panicking detective trying to stop a psychopath. He picked out a flare, pulled off the cap and pointed it at Ace who was about ten feet away. Nothing happened. If the light was better he would have a chance of seeing what he was doing, as there was also a little picture-diagram on the side, necessary as there were many types of flare. He turned it towards the light, spotted the hanging tape, pointed the flare at Ace and pulled the tape. The flare kicked in his hand and a bolt of white light shot out from the end and rocketed towards the ship’s control tower.

He bent down and reached for another but when he turned, Ace was almost upon him. He yanked the cap off, pulled the tab and Ace’s face exploded in an intense white light, temporarily blinding Henderson. He felt for another, just in case Ace could see better than he could, but when his sight cleared, Ace was backing away, clutching his face.

Henderson moved towards him, aiming to pick up Street’s abandoned knife from the deck, but as he got closer, Ace, his face blackened and marked, straightened and charged towards him. Henderson lifted the flare in his hand and fired it. It hit Ace smack in the face and he roared in agony and staggered backwards clutching his eyes. He started to run, perhaps thinking he could find water in the crew’s quarters, but instead of running down the length of the ship, he ran across it. Before Henderson could shout a warning, he hit the side rail and toppled into the dark waters of the canal.

Henderson ran over, expecting to see this seemingly indestructible man stroking for the shore but no, a few minutes later he spotted his body; face down and motionless.