by Shaun Hutson
Plummer allowed her to rake her fingernails across his stomach, feeling her probing lower, encircling his penis with her hand. Then he took a step back, a slight smile on his face.
'No,' he said flatly. 'You can't help. Not yet.'
Again he looked at his watch.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The engine of The Abbott sounded deafening in the silence, the loud spluttering replaced rapidly by a rumble as the boat moved away from the pier.
John Hitch wandered towards the cabin, where Terry Morton was steering the boat, peering out over the river.
'How come you know how to drive these fucking things?' Hitch asked, looking for the first sign of their quarry.
'You don't drive a boat, you ignorant cunt,' chuckled Morton. 'You pilot it.'
'Whatever,' Hitch shrugged.
'My old man worked the river all his life, doing deliveries, pick-ups. They used to use it like a canal; anything that couldn't be moved easily by land, they'd stick it on a boat. My old man worked the length of it. He had a pleasure boat for about ten years before he died, used to run fucking tourists down to Hampton Court, that sort of stuff.' Morton moved the wheel slightly, bringing the boat around. 'He made a ton of money ripping them off. I used to go along with him a lot of the time.'
'John, check it out, mate,' called Adrian McCann from the small foredeck. 'Coming up on our right.'
Both Hitch and Morton looked and saw the warning lights of a small boat approaching. As yet it was a little over two hundred yards away. Hitch reached for the binoculars and peered through them. He read the name on the side of the boat.
'The Sandhopper,' he said, smiling. 'Bingo.'
Morton guided the boat towards the centre of the river, then towards the oncoming Sandhopper.
Still peering through the binoculars he could see movement on the other boat: two men looking ahead, one of them pointing towards The Abbott.
'They'll signal us to turn aside,' Morton observed.
'How do you know?' Hitch asked.
'Rules of the river,' Morton told him. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Bring us up alongside them,' said Hitch, and glanced across at his companion. 'You set?'
Morton nodded and inclined his head in the direction of an Ithaca Model 37 shotgun on the bench beside him.
Red warning lights were flashing the bridge of The Sandhopper as the two boats drew closer, Morton now angling The Abbott so that it was heading directly towards the other craft. Hitch reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta he'd taken from Scott.
The two boats were less than one hundred yards away from each other now.
Morton slowed the speed a little, preparing to bring the boat to a halt when he needed to.
Eighty yards.
Adrian McCann stood by the prow of the boat, one thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans, his other hand gripping the butt of a Uzi sub-machine gun.
Sixty yards.
Hitch could hear shouting from the other boat, though most of the words were indistinct. He saw one man motioning animatedly with his arms, as if to deflect the other boat from its route.
Forty yards.
'Steady now,' Hitch said and Morton slowed up a little more.
Twenty yards.
They seemed to be the only two vessels moving on the dark water; The Abbott was almost invisible in the gloom. The red warning lights of The Sandhopper glowed like boiling blood in the blackness.
Ten yards.
Hitch could hear the men shouting now, see them gesticulating madly towards The Abbott in an effort to divert it from what appeared to be a collision course.
Morton cut the motor.
The boat floated the last few yards until it actually bumped the side of The Sandhopper. One of the crew immediately crossed to the side of the smaller boat and pointed a finger angrily at Hitch.
'What the fucking hell are you playing at?' he bellowed. 'You could have sunk us. You haven't even got your lights on…'
The sentence trailed off as Hitch pulled the Beretta free and aimed it at the crewman.
'Cut your engines,' shouted Morton, swinging the Ithaca up into view, working the pump action, chambering a round.
McCann stepped forward too, the Uzi held in both hands the stubby barrel pointed at the deck of The Sandhopper.
'All of you get out where I can see you,' shouted Hitch.
'What the fuck is this?' the first crewman said. 'Are you the law?'
'No,' said one of his companions, looking at the Uzi. 'They ain't the law.' He lifted his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.
'All of you,' Hitch shouted, watching as the third man joined his companions on the foredeck. He was the youngest of the trio, in his early twenties, with short black hair. His companions were both in their forties, one of them greying at the temples, a squat, powerfully built man; the other was a tall gangling individual with deep set eyes which remained fixed on Hitch the whole time.
'Who the fuck are you?' the second man asked as Hitch stepped aboard The Sandhopper.
Hitch ignored the question.
'Get the hold open,' he said sharply, pushing the barrel of the pistol towards the tall man's face. 'Do it,' he rasped when the man hesitated.
The younger of the trio looked at McCann and Morton and decided he would be better advised not to try and reach the.38 he had jammed into his belt.
The tall man opened the hold and Hitch peered down into it, glancing at dozens of crates all of roughly the same size.
'Bring one out,' he said, watching as the tall man struggled with it, finally dropping it on to the deck. 'Open it,' Hitch told him.
'You're making a mistake,' said the second man.
'You're the one making a fucking mistake,' Morton snapped, raising the Ithaca and pointing it at his head, if you open your mouth once more I'll blow your fucking head off. Got it?'
There was a creak of splintering wood as the tall man prized off the lid of the crate. Hitch told him to back off, then moved across. Beneath a layer of foam rubber there was a dark brown carpet of coffee beans. He dug his hand through the aromatic blanket and his fingers closed round an unmistakeable shape. He pulled the video-cassette free and gripped it in his free hand, the pistol still trained on the tall man.
Hitch slammed the cassette hard against the crate. Once. Twice. It cracked, then split open.
Yards of video tape spilled onto the deck, along with pieces of broken plastic.
And a small plastic bag full of white powder.
He tore it open, moistened the end of one gloved finger then dipped it in the substance and touched it to his tongue. It felt cold as the powder reached his tastebuds. He smiled thinly and motioned the tall man back. Morton looked across expectantly.
'We've got it,' said Hitch, smiling. 'Now let's get it loaded and get out of here.'
SIXTY-NINE
He was beginning to get cramp in his right leg.
Jim Scott massaged his calf for a moment, then pushed open the driver's side door of the Lancia and clambered out. The chill night air hit him like a fist. He recoiled, but the iciness in the breeze freshened his skin and helped to dispel the lethargy he had been feeling sitting in the car. He walked around the vehicle a couple of times, stretching his legs, stopping by the bonnet to squat down on his knees. As he straightened up he heard the joints pop and winced.
The river was silent. From where he stood, Scott could see nothing but the curling black tongue of water cutting through the centre of the city. He crossed the road, pausing on the kerb and looking back towards the Lancia. The two-way radio Hitch had been using was still on the passenger seat. Perhaps Scott should take it with him in case someone tried to make contact.
Fuck it. They knew where he was if they wanted him.
He strode across the road and headed towards the quayside, leaning against the black metal fencing that ran along the embankment. He gazed down river but could see nothing.
Behind him a car passed and he
turned to look at the occupants. It was a young couple, who both looked at him for a second before driving on.
The girl was blonde.
A little like Carol?
He rested one foot on the fence and leant forward, hawking loudly, sending a projectile of sputum into the river below.
Where the fuck was she?
Why hadn't she called him? All he wanted to know was if she was all right. Just a phone call would satisfy him.
Would it hell.
He needed to see her, speak to her, touch her. He felt anger and concern in equal measures. It was the uncertainty that was so infuriating, not knowing where she was. His whole life had become a series of unanswered questions in the past few days. First Carol and now this.
This? This fucking job?
He asked himself again why they needed him here. He still could not begin to imagine why, as Hitch had told him, Ray Plummer had specifically asked for him to be included. He kicked irritably at the metal fence and then turned and headed back towards the car, hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket.
Behind him, the river flowed by.
***
It took just over forty-five minutes to unload the crates (sixteen in all) from The Sandhopper to The Abbott.
Hitch, Morton and McCann stood over the other three men while they transferred the precious cargo, guns trained on them at all times.
'And there's twenty million quid's worth in there?' Morton said quietly, watching as the tall man lowered the last crate into the hold.
'Twenty million quid's worth of coke,' Hitch said.
'That's all of it,' said the tall man, wiping perspiration from his forehead. Beside him, the youngest of the three was trying to pull a splinter from his palm.
Hitch motioned them back onto The Sandhopper.
'Thanks for your help, fellas,' he said, smiling. Then, looking across at Morton, 'Start the engine, Terry, we've finished.'
'You're making a fucking big mistake,' said the second man, his teeth clenched in anger. 'When Connelly finds out about this…'
The sentence was interrupted abruptly as Hitch fired.
The first bullet hit the man in the chest, staving in the sternum, cracking two ribs and ripping through a lung. Gobbets of pinkish-grey matter exploded from the exit wound below the right shoulder blade. The man pitched backwards, blood spouting from the wound.
'What the fuck…' shouted McCann as he saw Hitch turn on the other two men.
The younger of the two ran for the side of the boat, perhaps in an attempt to dive over the side. A last desperate attempt to escape into the murky waters.
The first bullet hit him in the back, severing his spine. He crumpled to the deck, his sphincter muscle giving out. The soft sound of voiding filled the air as he rolled over in agony like a fish out of water.
The tall man fared no better.
Hitch shot him in the face, watching as he toppled backwards, most of his bottom jaw blown off by the close-range blast.
Hitch moved swiftly from one body to the other, firing another shot into the head of each man. Into the nape of the neck of the youngest, who was lying on his stomach with part of his spine exposed, the flesh and muscle ripped away by the 9mm bullet.
Hitch jumped back aboard The Abbott and slapped Morton on the shoulder.
'Get us away from here,' he said sharply, and the other man guided the smaller boat away, allowing it to pick up speed.
'What the hell did you kill them for?' shouted McCann.
'They saw our faces,' Hitch said flatly. 'They knew we were with Plummer.'
'That's bullshit,' snapped McCann.
if word of this had got back to Connelly there'd be gang war,' Hitch told him. 'We couldn't have left them alive.'
'Bollocks,' McCann roared. 'You didn't have to kill them.'
Hitch grabbed him by the lapels, pulling him close.
'And what the fuck would you have done with them, hot shot? Invited them out for a drink?' Hitch snarled. He pushed his companion away. 'We leave the boat to float there now. By the time somebody finds them there'll be nothing to link us to the killings.'
McCann sighed and banged his fist against the side of the boat.
'Shit,' he murmured. 'Fucking shit.' He let out a long breath then turned to look at Hitch. 'I suppose you're right.'
Hitch nodded.
Morton was already guiding the boat in towards the quay.
Hitch moved closer to the prow.
'What now?' McCann wanted to know, i'm getting off here. I've got to let Plummer know it went okay. You carry on down to Putney Bridge, get this lot unloaded. You know what to do with the boat.' He looked at McCann then at Morton. 'Sink it.'
Morton nodded.
Hitch was about six feet from the edge of the pier when he jumped, landing with surprising agility. He brushed dust from his sleeve and headed towards the flight of stone steps that led up to the embankment. The boat was already chugging away towards Putney. Hitch smiled and crossed the road to the Lancia, pulling open the door and sliding into the passenger seat.
'Let's go,' he said.
'I heard some shooting,' Scott told him, starting the engine. 'What was it?'
'Nothing for you to worry about, Scotty,' Hitch told him. 'Just get me to a phone, will you?'
Scott started the engine and drove off.
Hitch fumbled inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta free. He passed it to Scott.
'Take it,' he said sharply.
The driver did as he was instructed, slipping it back inside the holster, feeling the slight warmth in the metal.
'Tell me what happened,' he demanded. 'This fucking gun has been fired.'
'I had to frighten one of them,' Hitch lied. 'Fired above his head.'
Scott looked across at his companion.
'You better be telling me the truth,' he said threateningly, 'or I'll use the fucking thing on you.'
Hitch looked at him and saw the anger in Scott's eyes. He had no doubt at all that Scott meant what he said. He persisted with the lie, nevertheless.
'I had to frighten them, Scotty, I told you,' he said quietly.
'I heard six fucking shots,' Scott said. 'Why so many?'
'Just drive,' Hitch said.
Scott pulled the car over to the kerb, his right hand slipping inside his jacket. He pulled the pistol free and shoved it against Hitch's cheek.
'How many shots did you fire?' he snarled. 'Tell me or I'll blow your fucking head off.' He thumbed back the hammer.
'Six,' Hitch said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled his own pistol free. 'Here, take the mag out of my gun, replace it with the one from yours.'
Scott seemed satisfied by this and slipped the magazine free from his own pistol, jamming in the full one he'd taken from Hitch's Beretta. The two men glared at each other for a moment.
'That temper of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Scotty,' Hitch told him. 'You ever pull that on me again and I'll fucking kill you.'
'You'll have to be quicker than you were a minute ago, then,' Scott hissed and pulled the car away from the kerb.
'Just get me to a phone,' Hitch said irritably.
Scott drove on.
'There.'
Hitch pointed to the pay phone on the corner of the street and Scott brought the Lancia to a halt, watching as his companion walked across to the phone, picked it up and dialled, feeding more money in.
'Ray, it's me,' said Hitch. 'It's done. Yeah, everything. Well, nearly everything.' He smiled. 'Scott's going to drop me off. No, didn't need him.' He listened for a moment, glancing round at his companion in the car. 'Right. I'll call you tomorrow.' He replaced the receiver, scooped his change out of the slot and walked back towards the car, clambering into the passenger side.
Scott drove on.
Ten minutes later he dropped Hitch off close by Clapham Junction Station then drove away, heading home. The traffic was light at such an hour. He might make it back by four in the morning, once
he'd dumped the car.
***
Hitch watched the tail lights of the Lancia disappear and headed for the public telephones nearby. He fed more money into the machine, smiling as he dialled.
SEVENTY
He fumbled with the key, trying to push it into the lock, cursing when it wouldn't turn. Finally the door opened and Scott stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, catching his breath.
He'd dumped the car a mile away and walked back to his flat, passing less than half a dozen other people along the way. He'd gone over the car with a cloth, wiping fingerprints from the steering wheel and the door handles, then he'd tossed that into the Lancia, locked it and hurled the keys away. Scott stood motionless for long moments, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. His body ached mainly through lack of sleep, he told himself, reluctant to admit he was so unfit that a mile walk had drained him of energy. Finally he wandered through into the kitchen, pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He hastily unfastened the shoulder holster, too, and laid it on the table, then crossed to the fridge, found a can of 7-Up and drank deeply. He carried the can with him into the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. He sat on the toilet, watching the spray, waiting for the water to warm up, sipping his drink.
His head was pounding. It had been ever since he'd dropped Hitch off. Scott reached up and massaged his own shoulders as best he could.
He needed someone to do this for him. Someone to soothe away the ache.
Like Carol?
For once he pushed the vision of her to the back of his mind, his thoughts focusing instead on the events of that night. Most particularly on the six shots that Hitch had fired. Six shots just to frighten the crew of The Sandhopper? Scott shook his head.
He got to his feet and thrust a hand into the spray, satisfied that it was warm enough. He stepped under it, enjoying the feel of the water on his skin, his eyes closed, still confused about what was going on. About Carol. About what had happened that night. Christ, things were becoming a mess and he could see no way of sorting them out. He had to speak to her. Even if it meant sitting on her doorstep until she either came out of her flat or came home from wherever she was.