Cold Kill dss-3

by Stephen Leather

  ‘They don’t speak English,’ said the Chinese woman, scornfully. ‘Why are they going to England if they cannot speak the language?’

  Corke swung himself through the hatch and felt for the metal ladder. His boots found the rungs and he lowered himself into the belly of the boat. The stench of fish was almost overpowering and he had to fight to stop himself throwing up. He went over to the two women and knelt down beside the sick one. He felt her forehead with the back of his hand. It was hot and her skin was wet with sweat.

  ‘Do you know what’s wrong with her?’ Corke asked her companion.

  She said something in a language he couldn’t understand and shrugged.

  ‘She is seasick,’ said a man in the shadows.

  Corke beckoned him closer. He was in his thirties, olive-skinned with pockmarked cheeks and a thick moustache. An Afghan, maybe, or Iranian. ‘She’s your wife?’ Corke asked.

  The man nodded. ‘She is seasick,’ he said. ‘That is all.’

  ‘No, she has an infection,’ said Corke. ‘She’s burning up.’

  ‘If she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here,’ the Chinese woman hissed. ‘We could all get sick.’

  Corke ignored her. ‘Does anyone have any water?’ he shouted. He had given them a pack of twelve litre bottles of mineral water before they had left port.

  ‘It has all gone,’ said the man.

  ‘That’s why I said we needed more,’ said the Chinese woman. ‘They drank it all. I said we should ration it, but they wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Corke. He felt the woman’s head again. She was way too hot. ‘I’ll see if we’ve got some medicine too.’ He had no idea what was wrong with the woman, but such a high temperature suggested an infection, and with any luck Pepper would have antibiotics in the boat’s medical kit.

  The boat swayed hard to the left and Corke stumbled against three black men who were squatting on the floor. They had been speaking French and Corke figured they were probably West Africans. He apologised, also in French, and they waved dismissively.

  Corke straightened up. ‘Look, a few hours and we’ll be in the UK,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll get you some more water. Just relax, and you’ll soon be on dry land.’ He repeated it in French, then climbed back up the ladder and closed the hatch.

  Pepper glanced over his shoulder as Corke walked into the bridge. ‘Now what?’ he said.

  ‘They need more water, and there’s a sick woman down there.’

  ‘Fuck them,’ said Pepper. ‘They’re paying for passage, not a bloody cruise.’

  There was a first-aid kit on the wall by the door. Corke opened it and rifled through the contents. Bandages, plasters, antiseptic ointment, an emergency dental pack and a few plastic pill bottles. Corke read the labels. They were all painkillers of one form or another, aspirin, paracetamol, codeine. ‘There’s no antibiotics,’ said Corke.

  ‘What the fuck do you need antibiotics for?’ snarled Pepper.

  ‘She’s got a temperature.’ Corke took the paracetamol. It would be better than nothing. ‘I need more water.’

  ‘There’s some in the galley,’ said Mosley, ‘and sodas in the fridge.’

  Corke flashed him a thumbs-up. The ship rolled to the right and he staggered against the door, hard enough to wind him. He swore and rubbed his ribs.

  ‘Where’s your sea legs, Corke?’ Pepper laughed.

  Mosley frowned and twisted a dial on his receiver panel. ‘Keep it down,’ he said. ‘I hear traffic.’

  ‘What sort of traffic?’ said Pepper.

  ‘Coastguard, I think,’ said Mosley. ‘Talking to the navy.’

  He pulled on his headphones and twisted another dial. Corke stood behind him.

  ‘Shit!’ hissed Pepper. ‘That’s all we need.’

  Mosley’s face screwed up as he concentrated. Then he took off his headphones. ‘A navy frigate is looking for us as a possible drugs boat,’ he said.

  Pepper swore again.

  ‘And there’s a spotter plane on its way,’ said Mosley.

  ‘What’s the radar show?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  Pepper looked at his GPS and did a few calculations in his head. ‘There’s no way we’re going to make it,’ he said. He slapped his gloved hand against the wheel.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Mosley.

  Pepper consulted his watch, then the GPS again. ‘This is my nineteenth run,’ he said. ‘Eighteen without a hitch. Now this.’

  ‘Can we outrun them?’ asked Corke.

  ‘We’re not built for speed,’ said Pepper. ‘If the plane flies below the cloud layer we’re sitting ducks.’ He slapped the wheel again. ‘I’m not going down for a hold full of asylum-seekers. Screw them.’

  ‘We could say they’re stowaways,’ said Corke, ‘that they sneaked on board before we left.’

  ‘They’d talk,’ said Pepper. ‘They’d spill their guts to do a deal with Immigration. As soon as they set foot on UK soil all they have to do is say the magic word “asylum” and it’s a free council house and cash in their hands while we go down for seven years.’ He waved at Corke to step forward. ‘Take the wheel,’ he said. ‘Keep her on this heading.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Corke.

  ‘To talk to them,’ said Pepper. ‘Andy, you come with me.’

  Mosley put his headphones on the metal table and followed him out on to the deck.

  Corke bit down on his lower lip. He had a bad feeling about what was happening. A very bad feeling. He looked over his shoulder at the radar screen. There were several blips on the monitor but, to Corke’s untrained eye, they meant nothing.

  The boat lurched up, crashed down, and water surged over the prow. Corke turned the wheel to keep into the waves. He leaned forward and craned his neck to peer up through the windshield. He recognised several of the constellations overhead, but there was no sign of a spotter plane. Down below he saw Pepper walking along the deck, Mosley close behind.

  He was drifting to starboard so he turned the wheel to the left. The trawler was responsive despite its bulk. An autopilot unit was set into the roof of the bridge, a simple enough piece of equipment that would keep the boat on whatever heading was keyed in. This stretch of water was too busy for boats to travel on autopilot, but he had no choice. He keyed in the heading, then hurried across the bridge and hauled open the door.

  Half a dozen passengers had climbed out of the hold and were huddled together on the deck. Three men, two women and a little girl. East Europeans, by the look of them. The child couldn’t have been more than ten and was clutching a blanket over her shoulders. One of the women had an arm around her. The mother, maybe.

  Pepper had his back to the bridge. Mosley was standing a few feet away from him, his hands out to the side as if he was trying to soothe a panicky horse. Pepper was shouting down through the hatch, yelling at the rest of the passengers to get on to the deck.

  Mosley saw Corke first. Pepper saw his reaction and turned. He was holding a large handgun. An automatic. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he shouted.

  ‘What’s going on?’ yelled Corke. The wind tore away his words.

  ‘Get back to the wheel,’ roared Pepper.

  Corke walked towards the captain but stopped when he levelled the gun at his chest. Corke spat out his chewing-gum and the wind whipped it over the side of the boat.

  ‘You heard what I said!’ screamed Pepper. ‘Back!’

  A face appeared at the hatch. One of the Iranians. Pepper ordered him to climb out and join the others on the deck.

  ‘Andy, you can’t let him do this!’ shouted Corke. The boat lurched to starboard and water spilled over the deck, soaking the legs of his jeans. The door to the bridge slammed behind him.

  ‘He’s the one with the gun!’ bellowed Mosley.

  ‘It’s not about the gun,’ said Corke. ‘It’s about throwing innocent men, women and children into the sea. That’s murder, Andy. Cold-blooded murder, gun or no gun.’

 
; ‘They’re scum!’ shouted Pepper. ‘I’m not going to prison for scum. The navy are on the way – they’ll pick them up.’ He grabbed the Iranian by his coat collar. ‘You! Over the side!’

  ‘Even if they can swim the cold’ll kill them in five minutes,’ protested Corke.

  Pepper waved the gun in his face. ‘Do you want to join them? Because I’m easy either way.’

  ‘I’m not going to let you kill them,’ said Corke, taking a step towards him.

  Pepper’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Corke stared at him. ‘You’d better be good with that thing,’ he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves hitting the side of the boat. ‘Hard enough on a range, but hitting a target on a moving ship takes some doing. Doubt you’ll do it with one shot. What’s the clip hold? Thirteen? Thirteen shots, thirty-four people. Plus me, of course. The numbers don’t work, Chilli.’

  The captain grinned and reached into his pea coat with his left hand. He pulled out a loaded clip.

  Corke’s face tightened.

  ‘Not so confident now, are we?’ said Pepper. ‘Now, you’ve got two choices. Back on the bridge and keep us heading west, or you take your chances over the side with them. With or without a bullet.’

  Corke looked at Mosley, who was staring white-faced at the gun.

  ‘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 cliche, 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.