by Chris Simms
Doku crossed the kitchen, stepped through the door on the other side and turned right. She trailed behind, finding herself in a corridor that stretched down the entire side of the property. Doorways to her right led into a utility room, a store room and a study. A narrow set of stairs rose to the first floor. Three en-suite bedrooms, if she remembered the print-out rightly. After the stairs was a downstairs bedroom. The end room was a living area, complete with local interest books, board games and a few packs of cards. The hearth was as huge as she suspected, though within it sat a relatively small wood-burning stove, with neat piles of chopped wood on either side.
Doku had knelt before the TV in the corner. Using his right hand, he dragged the cabinet out from the wall so he could disconnect an ancient DVD player. He got back to his feet and retraced his steps out of the room.
She moved to the main window and saw they really were beside the ocean. The tide was out, exposing the green and furry legs of the wooden jetty she’d seen in the photo. Brightly coloured buoys dotted the smooth expanse of sand. The walkway led back to a structure which she guessed housed the motorboat.
Not far across the water, she could see heavily-wooded land and she realised they were on some kind of inlet. To see the actual ocean, she had to look through the window of the adjacent wall. The view consisted of two elements: dolphin grey sea and an eggshell sky.
The sound of a car engine drifted to her. She walked back to the kitchen and looked out. He’d opened the garage’s double doors and was parking the Yaris inside. Next to it was a large trailer. For towing the boat, she guessed. Back in the front room, she went to the window and stared nervously out towards the open sea.
He reappeared with the Xbox and laid it like an offering before the TV. Rather than plug it in, he pointed to the boat house and beckoned. A flagstone path led round the cottage to a short flight of steps. He had the set of keys with him and selected a bronze Yale to open the side door of the boathouse. Inside held the faintly sulphurous smell of rotting mud.
The boat was massive; she guessed about thirty feet in length. It was some type of inflatable: tubular rubbery sides narrowing to a blunt point. Crouching down, she felt the material. Rock hard.
At the front were two padded seats that looked more suited to being in a racing car. A steering wheel was before the one on the right. Behind them were two rows of bench seats, each wide enough for three or four people. The rear of the vessel was more open – for bags and other luggage, she guessed. Diving gear, maybe. Mounted at the very back was a large black engine. Lettering on the side of it said, Mariner 200. She imagined the thing could go ridiculously fast.
Doku had leaned in to remove a thick vinyl bag from the passenger seat. Opening the heavy zip, he started to remove items. A rubber torch. A coil of rope. A green pack that said Crewmedic First Aid Kit. A compass and whistles. A packet of four red tubes with bright yellow handgrips near the base. Each was about a foot long and she leaned down to examine one. Block-like text down the side read, “Hand-held rocket propelled flare distress signal. Caution! Stand with back to wind and point away when igniting.’’
She looked up to see Doku had removed a booklet. He handed it to her and she had to tilt the cover to the light in order to read it.
Operating manual. XiC 700 Rib.
Surely, she thought, he doesn’t expect me to...drive this thing, if that was even the right word. She realised it was the first time she’d ever seen him smile. Strong teeth in his tanned face. He fished the phone out, touched the screen a couple of times and spoke. The voice sounded after the usual delay. ‘You look worried.’
‘Correct,’ she replied, trying to hand the manual back.
He thought for a moment. ‘That big truck on the road, it is easier to drive than that.’
‘You could drive that truck?’
He waited for the Russian words and gave a knowing nod. ‘Of course. I can drive many things. This boat, it is very simple.’
‘But how will I kn – ’ She snatched the phone from his grasp and spoke into it properly. ‘Where will we go?’
From the bag, he produced a device that looked a bit like a mobile phone, only chunkier. Its narrow screen was blank. Taking the handset from her, he spoke again. She waited for the robot voice. ‘When we know where they want us to go, we use this to guide us.’ With a straight arm, he gestured towards the open sea, curving his wrist as if reaching beyond the horizon.
A long way out, then, she thought, eyes straying nervously to the lifejackets in the rear. I hate the sea. Even on a thousand-ton cross-channel ferry, I hate the bloody sea.
‘But,’ he added. ‘The co-ordinates will be sent through the Xbox.’
Of course, she thought. Without that, nothing happens.
‘You will be content to drive this ship?’ He kept looking at her, concern shadowing his eyes. ‘Yes?’
‘I think so.’ She stepped back out into the daylight, as if to see the booklet properly. Staring down at the cover, she tried to make sense of it all. It must have been Uncle Bilal’s job then, to drive the boat. He had been ready and willing to play a far more active role than she had guessed. Now she would be taking his place, following Doku’s instructions so they arrived at a pre-arranged point. They had to be meeting another vessel.
CHAPTER 36
Every now and again, Jon sought out the reflection of the ledge that stretched behind the passenger seats. He pictured the weapons boot just inches below it. Second day taking an ARV out, and it still seemed utterly surreal. As soon as they passed the turn-off for Manchester Airport, the flow of traffic thinned. Jon relaxed back in the driver’s seat, wondering whether to put the radio on and, if he did, which station to choose. He couldn’t stomach Radio 1, which would probably be the one Iona would want.
Beside him, she continued studying the page of a road atlas that covered the Wirral. ‘Could they be aiming for Liverpool?’ she mused, almost to herself. ‘Drive to the tip of the Wirral and take a ferry across the mouth of the Mersey into Liverpool itself?’
‘Weird way to do it. Why not just stick to the motorways? More direct, much faster.’
‘You’re right,’ she sighed, head still bowed over the page. ‘There can’t be that many boatyards and other places to check. Did you say you’ve been there before?’
‘I did. Just to play rugby.’
‘Played quite a lot, did you?’
Jon contemplated the years he’d spent in the first team for Cheadle Ironsides. For much of that time, he’d also been representing, and eventually captaining, Greater Manchester Police’s rugby team. Everyone seemed to relish taking on a load of police officers; some of the games he’d played towards Liverpool had been among the most violent he ever experienced. ‘Yeah, I played a fair bit.’
‘Is that how you lost that bit of your ear?’
His eyes cut sharply to hers. He detected nothing other than curiosity in them.
‘Sorry, if you’d rather not say...’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s fine. I lost that over in Ireland. Not that long ago, actually.’
‘How do you lose part of an ear? In Ireland?’
He glanced at her again, searching for anything to suggest her innocent tone was an act. ‘No one’s said anything to you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I wasn’t sure if it was common knowledge, or not. The WIO knew all about it before I met him yesterday morning.’
‘Well, if it is, no-one’s let me in on it. Wouldn’t be the first time, either.’
He let the implications of her comment settle. ‘People don’t involve you with all that’s happening?’
She injected regret into her voice. ‘I guess if you’re not male, down in that gym, getting punched in the face, you miss out on all the good gossip.’
‘Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?’
‘How many females have you counted in the unit? One’s that aren’t just there to fetch and carry.’
‘Well…not many.’
He smiled briefly. ‘Someone tore the top of it with a pair of pliers.’
‘Pliers?’ She looked horrified. ‘Pliers? That’s gross. Why did they do that to you?’
‘I’d been pissing his boss off. Deliberately.’
‘Were you over there – no, you wouldn’t have been.’
‘What?’
‘Over there on a job.’
‘No. I was trying to find someone. A relative, of sorts. I’d been told she’d been working at a business owned by this boss I mentioned. When I couldn’t find her, I started acting the maggot, as they explained to me.’
‘Acting the maggot?’
‘Being a general pain-in-the-arse.’
‘So they assaulted you?’
‘They planned to do a lot more than that. I wasn’t meant to leave the country alive.’ He turned to look properly at her for a second. ‘That’s why I moved to the CTU. I was a DI in the Major Incident Team. Had been for years. But what happened in Ireland – the way I lied to my bosses about where I was, what I was doing, the trouble all that caused – they kicked me out.’
‘I heard you were made to leave the MIT. But I didn’t know why.’
‘Well, now you do. And you got it direct from me.’
‘Was the person who did that to your ear, was he arrested?’
‘No.’
‘And the boss who ordered it?’
‘He vanished shortly after. I can’t say what really happened...I’m not totally sure myself. But the person I went over to find, she’s fine.’
‘A happy ending, then. Sort of.’
‘Sort of.’
She turned her head to look out the side window. What a weird story. One that raised more questions than answers. It must be so hard for him, she thought. Dropping two ranks and having to take orders from people younger and less experienced. He was handling it all very well.
‘So you feel left out of some stuff that goes on in the CTU?’ he asked.
She looked across at him now, checking for any hint she was being mocked. ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘No, not really.’ He kept his eyes on the car in front. ‘A few in the unit seem stuck at the Neanderthal stage. Someone said your nickname’s The Baby Faced Assassin.’
‘That’s right. What’s yours?’
‘I don’t really have one. Some people call me Slicer. As in Spicer the Slicer – a tackling thing.’
‘You’d slice people? What, with your studs?’
‘My shoulder. Hit them really hard in the tackle; slice them in half. Baby Faced Assassin came from you playing hockey, didn’t it?’
‘Yes. How do you know?’
‘One of the lads – I asked someone I get on with. When it looked like we were being paired up. I asked him then.’
‘Who?’
‘Kieran Saunders.’
She smiled. ‘He’s all right, Kieran. Not sure he’s all there, in the head.’
‘No, me neither.’
‘When were you talking to him?’
‘Funnily enough, after that sparring session down in the gym.’
‘There you go; my point proved. It’s where all the good gossip takes place.’
‘Kieran seems straight-up. Friendly. Not everyone is.’
‘No. Too many alpha males. Or people who think they’re alpha males.’
‘I agree. Baby Faced Assassin: because of your impressive scoring ability?’
She spoke as if reciting from a script. ‘Paired with a deceptively innocent appearance that lulls defences into a false sense of security, is how the name works – I believe.’
‘And you’re OK with it being used in the office, too?’
‘Most people have a nick name of one sort or another.’ She lowered her voice to a bloke-ish level. ‘Stevo. Dano. Wellsy. It goes with the territory.’
‘And you’re OK with yours?’
Second time you’ve asked that, she thought. Her eyes flickered across the side of his face. ‘Come on, Jon. Spit it out.’
‘It’s...it’s just the sort of name that can work two-ways, isn’t it? Or the Baby Faced bit of it, anyway. I can imagine some in the unit using it, you know, they could turn it into a negative thing.’
She leaned her head against the rest, partly to move out of his peripheral vision. This person, she thought, is a lot more perceptive than he looks. Her mind went back to a headline – taken from an old local newspaper report – which someone pinned to her monitor when she’d first joined the unit. It read: The Baby-Faced Assassin. But it hadn’t taken long before the other words were snipped away to just leave Baby.
She sneaked a look at the wedding band on his finger. ‘Have you got kids?’
His face immediately brightened. ‘Two. Holly and Doug.’
That’ll be it, then, she thought. A wife who’s trained him well. ‘It did get shortened by someone. Like I was the mascot of the unit or something.’
‘How did you put a stop to that?’
‘By earning their respect, I suppose. Doing something that took some bollocks, is probably how they’d describe it.’
‘What was that?’
‘Remember the thing to do with the Labour Party Conference the other year? All that kerfuffle?’
‘The bomb plot? The group trying to get into the tunnels?’
‘They weren’t trying. They were in. They found a tunnel not on the council plans; it had got them very close to the politicians. It was almost a total disaster for us.’
‘Almost?’
‘Minutes away from mass fatalities.’
‘Jesus. And – of course – that never made the papers.’
‘Of course.’
‘So you were on that op?’
She wondered how much to tell him. How it was only because she’d pieced together the jigsaw of clues that the plan was disrupted. Like bats flitting across a dusk sky, brief snatches of the final chase through the dark tunnels played across her mind. She didn’t want them coming back. Didn’t want to remember that sensation of being trapped, unable to free her arms, as rough fingers yanked her head back, exposing her throat to the dull blade...
‘Iona?’
She looked at him, eyes refocusing. ‘Yes, I was on it.’
After a moment, Jon turned back to the road. ‘You still play hockey?’
‘Not at a serious level. This job, I can never make it to training.’
‘But you turn out every now and again?’
‘Yeah – I play for the second or third team. Firsts if they’re really short. But it’s a nightmare keeping up.’
‘I know that feeling.’
‘You still play?’
He shook his head regretfully. ‘Not for a while, now. I was waking up on Sundays and I could hardly peel myself off the mattress. Like I had rigor mortis. It was getting stupid.’
‘You didn’t want to carry on, but in a lower team?’
‘No. There’s a time to stop. I reached it.’ His gaze lifted to the overhead signs. ‘Here we go, exit for the M53.’
She studied the roadside notices as they neared the turn-off. ‘Cheshire Oaks. That designer outlet place. I wonder if they went there?’
Jon snapped the indicator down. ‘Worth a punt, I reckon.’
CHAPTER 37
Cheshire Oaks had the air of a seaside town in winter. Closed-up shops and abandoned areas of seating. Jon looked at a nearby wooden shack with padlocked shutters. An A-board beside it announced caramelised peanuts. Litter bins were being emptied into the rear of a small lorry by three lads in brown tops while an older man sat at the wheel of the idling vehicle, listening to the radio.
Two seagulls padded officiously along the edge of a planted border, cruel orange eyes scanning between the plants.
Iona studied the layout of shops on the display at the edge of the empty car park. ‘Could have swung in here for any number of these pl
aces. If they even did.’
‘Anything stand out as worth a detour?’
‘Honestly, Jon, the possibilities are endless.’ She realised he had his back to her. Hands in pockets, he was surveying the promenade of unlit shops. ‘Why don’t you have a look for yourself?’
With an air of reluctance, he half-turned and gave the map a cursory glance. ‘What about outdoor gear? Camping or something?’
She realised he wasn’t going to trawl through the shop listings himself. ‘I take it that shopping is a favourite hobby of yours?’
‘Oh, yeah – love it me. Places like this? Heaven.’
Typical bloke, she thought. ‘The closest to camping is a North Face or Timberland, but they’re more for trendy outdoor gear. More your fashion-conscious camper, I’d say.’
‘Fashion-conscious camper,’ he muttered. ‘Ready-prepared yurts and electric hook-ups, you mean?’
Hearing his disdainful tone, she smiled. He was obviously more primer-stove and enamel mugs. Cutlery that folded up. Definitely no inflatable mattresses allowed.
One of the seagulls darted at something. Instantly changing from companion to competitor, the other bird raced over to see what it was. They began shrieking in each other’s faces, wings half-raised. ‘Last tussle before the real shoppers return tomorrow,’ Jon remarked. He stepped back towards the car.
‘Are we not going to check over there?’ Iona gestured to the deserted shopping centre over the road.
‘Nah,’ Jon replied. ‘I can’t see us getting anything worthwhile.’
Back in the vehicle, he slid the key into the ignition but didn’t start the engine. ‘The further we drive into the Wirral, the more I feel we’re going in the wrong direction.’
‘Annoying, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’ He checked the rear view mirror. ‘Five o’clock already and we haven’t even started checking places.’
‘I’ll call in and see if they’ve got our hit list sorted.’ She brought a number up and held the phone to her ear. The instructions came back: drive to Birkenhead and wait in the car park of the McDonald’s at The Rock Retail Park.