Long Reach

by Peter Cocks

  It was a peaceful scene. They looked like three businessmen, strolling across the wet grass in their suits and smart shoes. Hopefully, I thought, they would sort something out, like old friends.

  But some instinct kept me watching. I took out my iPhone and set the video camera rolling, up on the patio.

  Then they did sort it out.

  Saul offered no resistance. He knelt down on the wet grass and Dave grabbed both his hands from behind, pulled his arms backwards and planted a foot in the middle of his back, pushing his head down.

  Then Tommy Kelly pulled out a gun and shot him in the head.

  I staggered back behind the vines that tumbled down the wall of the house, my camera still rolling. I saw the blood spurt from Saul’s skull as he lurched forwards, limp in Dave’s grip. Saw the terrified ducks take to the air, squawking as Saul died.

  I threw up violently into a plant pot: coffee, biscuits … my disgust.

  For Tommy, clearly this one had been personal. But as sure as if I’d held the gun myself, I’d killed Saul Wynter.

  SIXTY-TWO

  I got back to Deptford early afternoon.

  I was numb with the shock and horror of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. I walked around like a zombie for a while, feeling light-headed, then realized I was starving. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. I went into a café but walked straight out again. Couldn’t stand the noise or the laughter of the hairy-arsed workmen who seemed to be able to eat gigantic fry-ups at all times of the day. I walked around, looking at the pavement, not wanting to meet anyone’s eye. I was traumatized, I suppose. I bought some fried chicken from a takeaway and ate it on a bench by the river.

  I didn’t taste a thing. Just fuelled myself, watching the river flowing by, cold and metallic, like the taste in my mouth. Foggy and grey, like the feeling in my head. I went back to the safe house and slept for a couple of hours.

  My phone rang about half four. It was Paul Dolan. I didn’t feel like talking to him.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Don’t blame yourself. He had it coming.”

  He gave me my orders. I was to be at the house the following afternoon. I would be going with Tommy. Paul filled me in on the movement details, ending up at Biggin Hill airport, the little airfield that the Battle of Britain pilots had flown from. He asked me again if I was OK. Said I sounded groggy.

  “I’ve just had a kip,” I said. “I’m cream-crackered.”

  He made me repeat the details back to him. “Can’t afford any more cock-ups,” he said.

  I put the phone down and lay back on the bed, exhausted. An hour later it rang again. It was Sophie. She sounded stressed. Said she needed to see me. I told her I was too tired to do anything tonight. She agreed, said she had things to do. We arranged to walk the dogs in Greenwich Park the following morning.

  I dragged myself to the kitchen and made strong, black coffee. I wanted out of all this, but I would have to get to work first. I sat at the computer for an hour, then called Baylis.

  “Nimrod, Elgar,” I said. “RV is at 8 pip emma tomorrow off A233, Jewels Wood, near Biggin Hill. TK will meet JK with at least two associates: DS, DM and PD tbc.”

  I had Google-satellite-mapped the area where Tommy had said we would be meeting and worked out in advance what to say to Baylis, writing it down in ministry jargon so I wouldn’t make any mistakes. I was trying hard to get it right. I had stopped thinking about the personalities involved and was now trying to think clearly, coldly and professionally about tomorrow’s schedule. Like they were all chess pieces. I wanted to toe the line and then get out. Quick.

  “Good work, Elgar,” Baylis said. “Will you be in attendance?”

  “Yes.” Tommy wanted me with him.

  “Plan of action?” Baylis demanded.

  “JK will be moved from RV to Biggin Hill, where light aircraft tbc will transport to Bembridge airport, Isle of Wight.”

  “Got that, Elgar. Anything else?” I had the feeling Baylis was enjoying himself. In his element.

  “Second RV: fishing boat in Bembridge Harbour, where a second boat will pick up at the Nab Tower in the Solent for onward journey to Brittany. Then by sea or overland to Santiago de Compostela, Spain.”

  I was saving my trump card.

  “Tommy Kelly’s got his hands dirty,” I said.

  “What?”

  “He killed Saul Wynter.” I corrected myself. “TK has killed SW. I have video evidence.”

  I heard Baylis swear on the end of the line.

  “You’re joking.” In his shock he forgot his professional tone. “Mail it to me.” I heard him muffle the phone and say something to someone before recovering his composure. “Any indication that TK is travelling?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “But I doubt it. He will try to keep clear. He’ll be with me.”

  “We’ll cover all bases, Elgar,” Baylis said. “I suspect we’ll have to strike while the iron is hot. At Biggin Hill. For Christ’s sake, act surprised when you’re arrested too, Elgar.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Of course I’d be bloody surprised.

  “I won’t need to act, Nimrod.”

  “Good luck, Elgar.”

  Sophie was on time. I met her by the café in the park and we had a latte before walking the dogs. Starsky and Hutch knew me by now; jumped up and licked me when I arrived, sure of my loyalty. Part of the family.

  I sensed Sophie’s mood and we didn’t talk much. The weight of Jason’s crime hung heavily between us, unspoken. Neither of us was going to mention it; that wound was too raw to reopen.

  She said that she and her mum were going away for a week or so. Leaving this afternoon. A quick break, she said, somewhere sunny.

  I didn’t need to ask why they were going away at such short notice. She said she’d see me as soon as they got back. We walked across the park and the hounds ran off, bounding across the grass. I saw that Sophie was blinking back tears and I put my arm around her shoulder. She leant into me.

  “Eddie,” she said, “was that really your dad the other night?”

  “No, babe. Nutter. My dad’s long gone.”

  She looked me in the face and her eyes took on that cold, blue Tommy Kelly look that I hated. She knew I was lying.

  “I’m confused. Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all,” she said.

  I pulled her to me to avoid her eyes. I was confused too. I fancied her to bits and I wanted to be with her, but I hated that she turned a blind eye to all sorts of things she didn’t want to know about. Like class-A drug dealing and murder. So she could have a comfortable life without counting the cost to anyone else. Just like Mummy.

  I kissed her hair, which smelt as good as usual, and she turned to kiss me back. We hugged each other tight and she put her mouth to my ear.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too.” I think I meant it.

  In truth, I didn’t really know what I felt any more.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Donnie got the call nearly a day later than he’d expected. He preferred these things to move fast; to keep a step ahead of the machinery that pulled policemen from their beds and got detective inspectors out of pubs and back to their incident rooms. Twenty-four hours could bring a lot of things together. He knew that the mood in the firm wasn’t happy and it made him jumpy.

  He’d got the rods out and they’d fished in the muddy dykes that bordered the campsite. Killing time. The fatty bacon they’d used for bait had lured one, thin eel from the stagnant water. It had tied itself into slippery S-bends on the line and they couldn’t unhook it. Donnie had beaten it to death with a shovel to stop its writhing. They didn’t intend to eat it.

  “Endangered species, eels,” Jason had said.

  “That one was,” Donnie said, throwing the limp, slimy body back into the water as a warning to the others.

  Later, they had got in the Merc an
d ventured inland as far as a grotty pub, where they sank fizzy lagers, smoked outside and watched Deal or No Deal on Sky Plus. The Nokia ringtone tinkled, muffled in Donnie’s pocket, and he fished out the mobile.

  “Hugh Jarsole,” he answered. It was Dave Slaughter, who was in no mood for funny names. Dave gave him his instructions and rang off.

  Donnie locked up the caravan, got Jason into the car and drove up to Chatham, where they switched the Merc for an undistinguishable silver Rover and headed on up the motorway.

  The daylight was fading by the time I got to Kelly Towers. Paul Dolan was waiting for me, standing next to an anonymous Volvo. Dave Slaughter was sitting in another car, a BMW, with a young bloke next to him in the passenger seat. He looked like, but wasn’t, Jason. A decoy.

  I’d never seen either of the cars before. They were all newly hired and, more to the point, didn’t have tracking devices planted in them.

  Tommy came out of the house and slammed the door behind him. He looked solemn in his long, black coat, grey scarf and black cap. All the lights were off inside and there didn’t appear to be anyone else at home. Cheryl and Sophie had gone and there was no barking – the dogs must have been kennelled. The house looked gloomy and dark. Sad and dead.

  Tommy nodded at me and we got into the Volvo. I sat in the back and Paul drove down the lane. Dave followed in the BMW. No one spoke.

  We headed towards Biggin Hill. I could see the airport lights and the woods where we were supposed to be making the rendezvous. I knew Jewel’s Wood. I’d walked the dogs there with Sophie. But we drove straight past.

  My stomach dropped. Already plans were changing, and I didn’t know what they were.

  We carried on along the country lanes, then took a fork to the left. More woodland appeared and we slipped off into the trees, down a muddy path. It was pitch-black and we were way off the beaten track. Dave turned off the engine and the lights, and we sat in darkness and silence. Five minutes later another car pulled up behind us and the driver killed the lights.

  “Donnie,” Dave said.

  Everyone got out of the cars and grouped together by torchlight. Jason got out of Donnie’s, wrapped in a blanket. He looked sheepish in the pale beam.

  “Jason, get in the Volvo,” Tommy said. There was clearly going to be no discussion or hugs and kisses. Dave opened the tailgate and Jason’s shadowy figure hesitated. “In the boot,” Tommy said. “Can’t risk you being seen. There’re some pillows in there. Keep your head down.” Jason obliged and Dave gently shut the tailgate behind him. Locked it.

  “You all sorted, Don?” Dave asked.

  “Sorted,” Donnie repeated. He walked over to the silver car and opened the boot. Tommy and Dave took a step forward and Dave shone the torch in. I craned my neck to see. Curled up in the boot was Saul Wynter. Or rather the twisted body of Saul Wynter, wrapped in clear plastic; I recognized him by the suit I’d seen him killed in just a day before.

  “Right,” Tommy said. He looked at his watch. I checked mine: 7.30 p.m. “You go and sort Saul out, Donnie, and we’ll get off.”

  Donnie got back in the car and drove off through the woods, taking Saul Wynter to his final resting place. At the bottom of some wet concrete, I imagined, with Donnie as his priest and chief mourner.

  “Give us about half an hour, Dave,” Tommy instructed. “Wait here, then head for Biggin Hill airport. We’re not coming with you.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  “You’re with us, Eddie,” Tommy said. Paul Dolan opened the door for me and I climbed back into the Volvo. Tommy and Paul got into the front and started the engine. Jason was silent in the boot.

  I was really beginning to panic now. If Tommy was prepared to sacrifice Saul, his oldest and closest advisor, no one was safe.

  Based on my information, Ian Baylis would have a team waiting – at Jewel’s Wood and Biggin Hill. All the details I’d given Baylis were what I’d been told after the meeting.

  And we were going in completely the opposite direction.

  We drove without talking, the radio tuned quietly to Classic FM. I couldn’t tell where we were going and I could hardly ask why we hadn’t met up at the appointed place, where we could be conveniently ambushed. We could be heading for Dover … or anywhere.

  Ten minutes later we turned off the A20 and whipped round a couple of junctions on the M25 before exiting at Dartford. Suddenly the landscape became familiar again. We cut down towards the river and through the industrial area, and instantly I knew where we were heading.

  I slipped my hotline phone from the inside zip pocket of my puffa jacket and tried to feel it in the dark, praying that I had turned the keypad sounds off. I had, but the screen would light as soon as I pressed anything.

  It would have to be a stab in the dark.

  I held the phone to my leg while looking out of the window. I found the 5 with my fingertip, picked out in a Braille dot, then pressed the shortcut to text message. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the keyboard, trying to work out my message by counting the number of times I’d need to press each key. I pressed 7 three times: R. Then 8 three times: V. I continued until I thought I had spelt out: Rv chng long reach.

  It was a long shot, but I knew that tonight, any message from me would be carefully scrutinized. I pressed send and made a wish.

  “Is that your phone, Paul?” Tommy asked. The interference of my message being sent cut across Classic FM. Paul wrestled his mobile out of his pocket.

  “Not me,” he said. I hurriedly pulled out my iPhone and waved it at Tommy and Paul in the front.

  “Me neither,” I said, and thankfully he let it drop.

  We pulled into the industrial estate and stopped at the Specialist Paint and Varnish Co. Paul Dolan unchained the gates and drove in. On a trailer, just inside on the forecourt, was an RIB: a rigid inflatable boat about fifteen feet long, with a big outboard on the back.

  “Give us a hand,” he said to me. I got out and we attached the trailer to the back of the Volvo. “You all right in there, Jason?” he asked. Jason grunted a muffled reply. We got back into the car and headed down the bumpy track I had taken before, on towards the river.

  We stopped half a mile further, alongside a wooden jetty. We all got out and Paul gave me the keys to let Jason out of the boot. Jason swore and shook his limbs, stamping his feet to return the circulation.

  “Put on your waterproofs,” Tommy told him. It was like he was telling a five-year-old Jason to put his coat on to go out and play. Jason did as he was told. Paul and I unhooked the RIB from the back of the car and swung the trailer round to the water’s edge. “Right. Don’t hang about,” Tommy said. “The Dutch boat’s leaving at high tide, so you’ve got about half an hour to get down to Denton Wharf and find it in the dock. It’s the MS Annette Danielsen, a cargo ship from Rotterdam. They’re waiting for you.”

  Tommy stood in his long, black coat, looking out across the slow, tarry river like a figure in a painting. Then, with the first sign of emotion I had seen from him in days, he hugged his son, patted and kissed him on the cheek while Paul struggled into waterproofs.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Jason said.

  “I’ll catch up with you on the flip side,” Tommy said. “Once it’s died down.”

  Paul Dolan and Jason got into the RIB and I helped push the trailer further into the water, launching the boat as soon as it was deep enough. I didn’t have waterproofs and my feet slipped around in the thick, black mud, freezing water seeping into my shoes. It was a clear night and there was no traffic on the river; all that could be seen was the steady red and white twinkle of the necklace of cars crossing the Dartford bridge in the distance. Paul turned the fuel tap on the outboard.

  Then his phone rang.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Paul struggled with the zip on his waterproof, trying to get at the phone, finally pulling it from inside. He answered it and looked serious.

  “Dave Slaughter’s been pulled in at Biggin Hill,” he said. “The place is crawl
ing with armed filth.” Tommy looked at me, then back at the boat.

  “Go,” he ordered. “Now.”

  Paul pulled the starter cord on the outboard. The motor spluttered in the damp air and failed. He pulled again, then again.

  “Hurry up!” Tommy shouted. Paul was panting with the effort and Jason stepped forwards to have a go, rocking the RIB from side to side.

  The tide was pushing the boat back to the shore and into the mud.

  “Help me, will you?” Tommy snapped. I slopped through the mud and walked alongside him, trying to float the boat. My fingers were numb as I pushed against the wet hull and my feet slithered around beneath me. The boat caught a wave and we pushed it back into the shallow water. Paul pulled hard on the cord once again and the motor finally roared to life.

  “Go, go, GO!” Tommy screamed, pushing the RIB into the water, almost up to his knees in river mud. Paul cranked the throttle and the outboard churned up smoke and sulphurous green water before skidding off across the river.

  Tommy turned and looked at me. We were both stuck in the mud, panting with the effort of pushing the boat out. He looked weak and defenceless without everyone around him. Like a tortoise out of its shell.

  “It’s you!” he shouted. “It’s you, Eddie.”

  He looked as if he was about to cry. I had nothing to say.

  “You’re the only one who could have told them Biggin Hill. You’re the only one we told. You grassed us up.”

  I had.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I don’t know why. But part of me did feel sorry.

  “They say you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he growled. “Looks like I let you get too close. Left myself wide open because I liked you. I was training you up and you’ve thrown it all away.”