by JJ Marsh
When he came round, he vomited immediately. Adrian’s companion in the tiny under-deck area was a slim, dark-haired, hard-eyed woman, whose arrival he’d missed. The girl sat opposite, arms folded, giving him the occasional wary look. Eoin came down and offered him water after the puking session. He cleared up without comment, gave him the blanket and untied him long enough for a visit to the toilet. Hoping for a lockable door and the chance of a few minutes alone to assess the damage, Adrian could have cried when he saw he had to piss into a bucket. But after he’d finished, Eoin re-tied his hands behind him, placing his limbs in the same agonising position. Adrian groaned in pain, and without a word, Eoin adjusted the rope so that his arms were slightly more relaxed.
Eoin’s ministrations were discreet, as if it might not meet with Sammy’s approval. Without a word, he offered the girl a bottle of water and once she’d taken it, hurried to return back on deck.
Adrian tried to talk to his fellow captive. “Are you OK?”
She looked away.
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
She kept her head turned from him.
“My name is Adrian.”
Recognition lit her expression and she faced him. “My name is Katya.”
“Hello, Katya. Do you know where they’re taking us?”
She shook her head and waved her hands in a ‘no pictures, please’ gesture, wrapped her blanket around herself and curled up on the bench.
Leaving Adrian to shiver and suffer and second-guess their plans.
The unbearable night of pain, cold and misery had to come to an end sometime. Finally, the sky through the portholes grew lighter. Noise above deck focused his attention, and the movement of the boat slowed. Dull pain and an undercurrent of dread switched places and Adrian’s fear tasted as real as the coppery flavour of his own blood. His stomach heaved again but had nothing left to throw up.
Eoin came down the steps and beckoned Katya, who unfolded and heaved herself to her feet. The careful movements and recognisable stance spelt out her condition even before she turned sideways, giving Adrian a clear view of the bump. Eoin helped her up the steps, which took some time. It was like manoeuvring a heifer up a ladder. As he heaved her onto the deck, Eoin jumped back down and motioned for Adrian to follow. Shuffling forward, Adrian attempted to rise but the awkward position and white heat of his ankle made it impossible. He fell backwards, an excruciating tear shooting across his shoulders as his muscles protested against the forced position.
Eoin stooped to support him by lifting his upper arm, but Adrian’s ankle would not take his weight. Shoving, leaning, struggling and with gritted teeth, the two men navigated the steep steps and emerged onto deck. Sammy waited beside the girl, shaking his head with disbelief.
“Eoin, you idiot, how long does it take?”
Despite his pain, Adrian noted the accent. A hint of Russian in those dark vowels?
Eoin ensured Adrian was stable against the handrail before withdrawing his arm to wipe the sweat from his lip. “Woulda been a lot fucking quicker if you’d not twisted his ankle. Now I’m taking off the rope. Fecker can’t even walk, leave alone run. So shut it, gobshite, and let’s get to the car.”
The release of his arms brought tears to Adrian’s eyes. As feeling returned, as if to frozen fingers, the relief and the pain seemed equally torturous. Sammy leapt into the water, helped Katya down the ladder and escorted her towards the shore without a single look backwards. The light grew stronger and to Adrian’s eyes, the beach seemed hardly different to the one he’d been watching the previous morning.
Eoin watched the retreating back and looked at Adrian. A downward twist of his mouth conveyed an apology as he grabbed Adrian in a fireman’s lift and struggled down the ladder. It hurt like hell. Remember the details, Beatrice had said. Hanging upside down over Eoin’s shoulder, he mentally described the smell. A dampness, slightly meaty, unsubtly disguised by something artificial, like air-freshener. And what good would this do him? Tears of despair, frustration and pain rolled down Adrian’s forehead into his hair.
When they reached their destination, Eoin had to lift him again. Not a pleasant task. Rattling around in the back seat of a Jeep, hands tied in front of him, and wearing some sort of blindfold at Sammy’s insistence, Adrian’s stomach had found something after all. So when he was hefted over Eoin’s shoulder once again, his sense of smell picked up nothing more than his own vomit. He never saw what happened to Katya.
Eoin yanked the material off his head and Adrian’s eyes adjusted quickly. He’d been dumped on a pile of straw in some sort of stable. Stone walls and floor, a damp chill and precious little light. Through the open door, Adrian saw a rutted farm track and more outbuildings. Eoin released his hands, fetched a towel from outside the door and threw it onto Adrian’s lap. The large wooden door slammed closed, bolts shot home and Adrian was left alone. He rubbed his face and lay on his side, shivering and sore, knowing that sooner or later, he had to start thinking. But not yet. Not just yet.
During his doze, the top half of the door opened several times. He squinted against the sunlight and saw backlit silhouettes staring in. The door closed again. Adrian kept his eyes closed, concentrating on his pain and the smell of sick all over him. But each time someone came to look, another stink seeped in through the open door. It was foul and rotten with chemical overtones. He’d never smelt anything like it before, but somehow he recognised the stench of death.
When he next awoke, he felt a presence. He looked around the room. Apart from some sort of hay-holder and a metal bucket, the room was empty. The sound of someone sucking their teeth came from above. The wall to his left did not reach all the way to the ceiling. It ended some three feet below, and in the gap sat a large girl, legs either side, as if astride a horse.
She pressed her fingers to her lips and whispered, “I’m not allowed in here.”
Adrian stared, unable to speak.
“But they’re all arguing in the kitchen, so who’s to know?” She dipped her hand into her pinafore pocket and drew out a carton of Ribena.
“I brought you a drink. And a sandwich. Well, it’s not a sanger yet, you’ll have to put it together yourself. But I brought bread with butter on it, and some rashers. The Mammy usually sees everything, but today her head is somewhere else so you were lucky. Are you ever coming over here, or what?”
Adrian’s mouth was dry and sour and he craved liquid. His voice sounded cracked. “Thank you. You’re very kind. But I don’t think I can move. I hurt my ankle.”
“Is that right? I did my wrist a while back. I had bandages and one of them yokes goes round your neck. Maybe I can make one for you. Right so, if you can’t walk, you’ll have to drag yourself over here. I can’t just chuck this food on the floor, there’s bound to be some horseshit down there. Come here to me, like this ...”
She demonstrated a buttock walk along the wall, looking precarious.
Adrian lifted his swollen ankle off the floor and began a painful shuffle across the six feet of stone floor to sit beneath her.
“Good man yourself! You ready now? I’ll chuck your drink down first, and when you finish, lob it back up here, or they’ll find the packet and know it was me.”
She dropped the carton down into his lap, followed by two large slices of bacon wrapped in kitchen roll, and two thick slices of bread. The latter had been wrapped in nothing at all, but simply stuffed into the girl’s apron pocket. Fortunately, the buttered sides stuck together but they were still covered in bits of grey fluff. Despite the nauseating smell seeping through the air, it was the most delicious food Adrian had ever tasted. The girl kept up a cheerful monologue as he ate his sandwich and gulped down the blackcurrant drink.
“... been to the hospital that often they say I should have a season ticket. Clumsy’s her middle name, that’s what the Mammy says. You finished already? Jaysis, you musta been hungry. Well, I don’t know your name so I think I’ll call you Gannet. Suits you right enough.”
/>
“My name’s ... you can call me Gannet if you like. Thank you so much for bringing me some food and drink. Can I ask your name?”
“Sure you can, Gannet. I’m Teagan. Pleased to meet you. Now would you throw that old carton back up here to me? I have to push off before I’m missed. I’ll pop back after dinner, maybe. Bring you something else.”
Adrian panicked, terrified of being left alone. “Teagan, can I ask you something?”
“Putting in requests now, are you? Look, I’ll get what I can. Could be steak and chips, could be dog biscuits. But I promise not to bring fish, I understand why you’re sick of that.”
Adrian looked up at the open face, taking in her bunches, thick calves, work-boots and cleaner’s pinny. This was no child. She had crows’ feet, distinct jowls and a tell-tale delta of lines across her décolletage. This was a large-breasted, middle-aged woman, who talked and dressed like a child.
“Fish? Why would I be sick of fish?”
She laughed with a hoot and clapped both hands over her mouth. “Sugar! I forgot I was supposed to keep quiet. Fish!” she hissed, more quietly. “Samir and Eoin just hooked you out of the sea, so you must be sick of them. First time they ever come back off one of their trips with a catch like you. Plenty of girls, and today, for the first time, a fine-lookin’ fella. But never a single fish.”
Samir? What kind of name was that?
“Teagan, can you tell me where we are?” Adrian pleaded.
She cast a worried look over her shoulder. “OK, Gannet. I’ll tell you where we are. But then I have to go. Don’t run away, I’ll be back before you know it.”
One more glance behind her and she leant down further than was safe.
“We’re on the farm.”
She swung her leg over the wall, landed with a thump the other side and was gone.
Chapter 38
Beatrice stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in the bathrobe and yawned. Four hours’ sleep. The average woman usually indulged in at least eight. Unless she was Margaret Thatcher. Well, a normal woman usually indulged in at least eight. Beatrice frowned. She was too old for all this, and the only thing likely to get her through the morning was a full-strength espresso.
The machine bubbled and spat as she dressed and gave up on styling her hair. She poured the coffee, already invigorated by the smell, and added a drop of cold milk. The telephone rang. Taking her first sip, she returned to the living room and spotted the flashing light indicating messages. Had she slept that deeply? The incoming call number was unfamiliar.
“Hello?”
“Beatrice, it’s Matthew. How are you?”
“Matthew. At long bloody last. I’m absolutely fine. I’ve been worried about you two, so it’s a relief to hear your voice. But the good news is that last night we got him! He’s now in custody. The nasty part about it ...”
“Sorry to interrupt, Beatrice, but the thing is, I’ve lost Adrian.”
“What on earth do you mean by that? Lost him how?”
“He went to the pub alone last night and didn’t come back to the B&B. I waited up till gone midnight, so I presumed he’d gone off with his barman. He seemed rather keen on the chap. But the young man in question came round here this morning, determined to have it out with Adrian. According to Lyndon, they arranged to meet after the pub closed. But when he got down to the harbour, there was no sign of Adrian at all.”
The cold grip of dread tightened Beatrice’s scalp. “You’ve checked his room?”
“I’m an amateur, Beatrice, not an idiot. He’s not there, and we’ve looked everywhere we can think of. Lyndon is worried. So am I. Apparently Adrian lifted the wallet of our ponytailed smuggler last night. Lyndon thinks he may have fallen into the sea, but my fears are more prosaic.”
Beatrice dropped her head into her palm. “He lifted a wallet? I don’t believe it. The man is an arse. Didn’t I tell him? This was such a stupid idea. Why didn’t you go to the police? I should have forced you. Matthew, we have to find him, fast. If the men from the boat have him, they also have evidence they’re being watched. That is dangerous for everyone, but Adrian as the messenger is in genuine physical peril. Stay at the B&B, keep Lyndon with you. I’ll mobilise the local force who will interview you first. Tell the truth, Matthew, and impress upon Lyndon the importance of doing the same. I will be there as soon as I possibly can. Is this the number of the B&B?”
“No. We’re at the pub. The landlord has been most helpful now he knows of our connection. Gary sends his regards.”
“In that case, stay there. The police will be there soon. Have you tried Adrian’s mobile?”
“Naturally. Lyndon’s been calling all night. It says number unobtainable.”
“Hellfire! Stay where I can reach you and I’ll call as soon as I know more.”
Mobilising both Met, Welsh and Irish local forces needed authorisation from the top. Hamilton. She dialled the emergency number with unsteady fingers, her other hand clenched into a fist. Trying to get anything out of him under ordinary circumstances was like pulling teeth from a stone. She had her trump card – Bennett in a cell with a willing confession. Hamilton had his rule book – one job at a time. But he had to help. With a normal human being, the personal involvement would tip the balance, but Hamilton’s view of emotions was similar to his attitude to foreign languages. Highly suspicious. The phone clicked and buzzed, and began ringing. If he didn’t agree to providing assistance, she’d go it alone. Simple as that. And then she’d file an official complaint against him when she got back, regardless of the consequences.
“Metropolitan Police, DI Rangarajan speaking. How can I help?”
“Ranga? Where’s Hamilton?”
“Hello Beatrice! Good to hear your voice. And well done on that arrest. That was a nasty one. Hamilton’s in hospital. Silly old sod wouldn’t go to the dentist and now he’s got an impacted wisdom tooth. They’re taking it out today. So I’m his substitute.”
“Thank God. Oh, that is such good news. Ranga, listen. I need a favour.”
On leaving home for the office, Beatrice’s mind raced so hard she was almost able to ignore her fear. But she’d forgotten she had to pass Adrian’s flat. The pain of not knowing where he was, not knowing what they were doing to him, not knowing how he felt, not even knowing if he was still alive cut into her like a Stanley knife. The memory of his proud message Elementary, my dear Stubbs relating the Irish address twisted the blade. She practically ran to the Tube station, listing through the positives as she went. She had all the photographic evidence Adrian had sent on her memory stick. Clear images of these men and this woman, who had to be somehow identifiable. Ranga had not only authorised Met involvement with the case, but offered a senior detective to assist – Dawn Whittaker. Beatrice could have cried with relief. Inspector Howells, fully cooperative, had mobilised the Dyfed-Powys police, who were currently searching the area around Porthgain. Her apologetic phone call to BTP had resulted in both Virginia and Grant offering their services and accepting no refusal. She welled up with gratitude once more and gave herself a light tap on the cheek. Emotional exhaustion was no excuse. Next time, she warned herself, it would be a slap.
Ranga assumed the role of coordinator with diplomacy and intelligence. With typical efficiency, he rapidly indicated names and roles of the assembled personnel, before beginning his presentation.
“I’d like to say that I appreciate your being here, especially as I know some of you had very little sleep last night. As you’ve heard from Beatrice, two men appear to be smuggling packages onto a remote beach in South Wales. We have every reason to believe the contents of these packages could be children. Babies, to be precise. From what we already know, four locations require investigation.
“One is already in hand. The Welsh police are searching the area around the beach and the village of Porthgain, assisted by Professor Bailey and the last people to see Adrian Harvey. The next two are connected. Marie Fisher, based in Cardiff, is the woman
who receives the ‘merchandise’. And the couple in this photograph, who seem to be the end clients. Their vehicle ID gives us an address in Chepstow. One team could deal with both of these. Finally, the farm in Ireland, believed to be the home of one of the supposed smugglers. There’s a strong possibility that Mr Harvey was taken there. In my view, the Irish farm is potentially the most dangerous. I’d recommend DS Grant accompanies DI Stubbs on a flight to Cork.”
Four heads nodded, absorbing the implications.
Virginia stated facts. “Leaving DI Whittaker and myself to handle the Chepstow and Cardiff line of enquiry. That makes perfect sense to me. Dawn has an outstanding reputation with sensitive situations such as this. I’d be happy to assist.”
Blinking in surprise, Dawn took a moment before agreeing. “Sound logistics, Ranga. I presume you’ll be involving the Garda at the Irish location? I mean, I’m glad DS Grant will be beside Beatrice, but they’re going to need backup from the local force.”
Ranga smiled. “No need to worry, Dawn. You get out there and I’ll make sure you’ve got every kind of support there is. Don’t forget, I’m one of you.”
In an effort to swallow the lump in her throat, Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut and vowed to slap herself later, in the privacy of the bathroom.
Chapter 39
“Gannet? You awake?”
Adrian jumped. For such a hefty female, Teagan could creep around. He’d been straining his ears for any sound and heard nothing.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I have no idea what time it is.”
“Nor me. I never do. It’s either before-breakfast or after-breakfast, before-dinner or after-dinner, before tea...”
“What is it now?”
“Before-dinner. That’s why I can’t stay long, but I got you some of last night’s leftovers. Let’s see here. An apple, two fine floury spuds, a lump of pork, and a drink of juice. Peas are too difficult to sneak out, you know what I mean?”