Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘You want to divide the sea into three circles around you,’ shouted McConnell. ‘Far, near, and fuck-me-that’s-close. The far stuff, you have to be aware of where it’s heading and if it’s a potential problem. The near stuff, you need to know its speed and if you’re going to pass it to port or starboard. The other stuff shouldn’t be a problem, providing you’ve got the outer two covered. It’s all about anticipation. The big stuff is easy – you can see it from miles away. It’s the fair-weather sailors in their piss-pot fifteen-footers that you’ve got to watch out for. Or windsurfers who’ve gone out too far. Hit one of them at sixty knots and they’ll rip right through the hull. There’s flotsam and crap all around, too, everything from deckchairs to empty champagne bottles, so you can’t let your guard down for a second.’ He banked left again and increased the throttle. ‘That’s forty knots,’ he shouted, ‘and the engine isn’t even breaking sweat.’ He pulled the throttle back and the boat slowed to a little over ten knots. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘You take the helm, get the feel of it.’

  Shepherd put his left hand on the wheel in front of him. McConnell kept a loose grip on it, but Shepherd could feel that he had control of the boat. It was responsive, with far less play on the wheel than he’d had when he was at the helm of Pepper’s trawler.

  ‘Take it up to fifteen knots,’ said McConnell. ‘Nice and slowly.’

  Shepherd did as he was told. The boat kept slamming into the crests of the waves and the wheel bucked and kicked in his hand. He kept the speed steady at fifteen knots.

  ‘Okay, that’s us just before we start to plane,’ shouted McConnell. ‘We’re slamming into the waves rather than cutting over them. It’s a teeth-juddering ride, right?’

  Shepherd nodded. He was concentrating on the water ahead of the prow.

  ‘Take it up to twenty knots,’ roared McConnell. ‘Smoothly as you can.’

  Shepherd pushed the throttle forward. As the boat accelerated past sixteen knots the juddering stopped and it carved across the top of the waves.

  ‘That’s the planing,’ said McConnell. ‘You feel it?’

  ‘Awesome!’ It felt to Shepherd as if the boat was flying above the water now, barely skipping along the surface.

  ‘Keep it going!’ bellowed McConnell.

  Shepherd pushed the throttle forward until the speedometer registered forty knots. He was finding it harder to concentrate on all the ships in the vicinity. There was a freighter off to starboard that seemed to be on a collision course and he steered away from it.

  McConnell grinned when he saw what Shepherd was doing. ‘We’ll miss him by a hundred yards, he’s only doing twelve knots. The thing to remember is that out here we’re the fastest bastards, by far.’

  It was like driving a motorcycle, Shepherd realised. Fast and furious, not worrying overmuch about what was behind you. Just keep focused on where you’re going and be ready to accelerate out of trouble.

  ‘Ready to put her through her paces?’ McConnell shouted.

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Give it full throttle!’

  Shepherd took a deep breath and pushed the throttle forward. The edge of the seat pressed against the small of his back as the craft surged forward, and the air beat against his face like a living thing. He was panting like a dog and fought to steady his breathing. His left hand ached from gripping the wheel too hard and he forced himself to relax.

  ‘See the branch?’ yelled McConnell, but Shepherd was already steering the boat to port. ‘Nice,’ said McConnell, approvingly.

  Shepherd kept accelerating. The huge Yamaha outboard roared and the waves beat under the hull. The boat felt as if it was bouncing along the surface like a stone that had been sent spinning across a lake. The speedometer went past fifty knots. Fifty-five. Sixty. The throttle was in the full forward position.

  ‘Both hands on the wheel now!’ roared McConnell. ‘At this speed you have to steer your way out of trouble, so you need both hands.’

  Shepherd did what he was told.

  ‘Try a hard to starboard!’

  Shepherd turned the wheel right. The boat banked easily and he felt his body dragged to the left by the force of the turn. His eyes kept scanning the area ahead of the bow. There were a dozen craft close by, all yachts, none going at more than ten knots.

  ‘This is amazing!’ shouted Shepherd. ‘It’s as if everything else is standing still.’

  ‘Compared to us, they are! Come on, let’s go to France.’ McConnell pointed at the GPS screen mounted between the two wheels. ‘Just follow the dotted line.’

  Shepherd put a pint of beer in front of McConnell, who grunted his thanks. It was a little after six o’clock and McConnell had insisted that they retire to a pub ‘for a drop more antifreeze’ before nightfall. He had a sketch-pad in front of him and was drawing a rough map of the south coast and the French shore with a Biro whose end had been well chewed.

  Shepherd sat down and took a sip of Jameson’s. ‘That is one hell of a boat, Gordy.’

  ‘State-of-the-art.’ McConnell sat back and swallowed a good third of his pint, then belched.

  ‘Explain the planing thing to me,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s what gives the rib its edge. That boat lifts up on to plane at between fifteen and sixteen knots, depending on the load being carried. The tilt lever on the wheel sets the angle of the propeller compared with the hull and that has to be right to get up on plane. I’ll run you through that tonight. It’s a matter of feel more than anything.’

  ‘But what’s the science behind it?’

  ‘A rib boat is built like an arrow so that it cuts through the waves rather than bouncing over them. The semi-inflatable bit keeps it out of the water, and they have a very shallow draught. Mine’s just eighteen inches, which is nothing. Boats that are built with a displacement design slow to a crawl in rough seas but a rib just punches through. Your old mob has one that’s made with metal collars rather than rubber and has an internal diesel engine with a range of four hundred miles. It’s all hush-hush, covered with radar-deflecting paint with an electromagnet on the front that lets it stick to hulls until the guys can offload. Now, that bugger is one hell of a boat.’

  He took another deep pull on his pint and another third disappeared.

  ‘The shallow draught also gives you an advantage if you want to play hide and seek. The rib can go where most other craft would run aground. If you’re being chased you can slip into the shallows off Norfolk or the Thames estuary. It helps with loading and unloading, too. I’ll show you tonight. You can run right on to the beach, load and unload at the bow while the engine’s still in enough water to pull her away when you’re ready. No need to go anywhere near a dock if you don’t want to.’

  ‘And no one can keep up with us?’

  ‘You couldn’t outrun a fast sports boat with surface piercing props,’ said McConnell, ‘but only flash bastards who want to be noticed have them anyway. They throw a huge plume of white water out of the back so you can see them for miles. I’ve had a few races with the local Customs boys for fun and they couldn’t come close. The navy have some faster stuff but you’d be bloody unlucky to have them on your tail. Mind you, even if they had the speed, they’d have a bloody tough time tracking you. The beauty of the rib design is that it’s virtually impossible to follow. It won’t show up on radar, unless it’s stern on. Then the engine might give off an echo, but even that’s not guaranteed.’

  ‘You keep calling it a rib,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Stands for rigid inflatable boat. Basically an inflatable with a hard hull.’

  ‘It’s the perfect smuggler’s boat,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Good job I’m one of the good guys, isn’t it?’ said McConnell. He winked and laughed, a bellowing guffaw that had several heads turning in his direction.

  ‘Do you get asked to bring stuff over?’

  ‘All the time,’ said McConnell. ‘Usually by guys in sharp suits down from London who think I’ll drop my trousers for a
few grand. If they really piss me off I pass them on to an undercover Customs guy I know, otherwise I just let them ply me with drink then bid them farewell with a few choice words.’

  ‘What about being followed by planes or helicopters?’

  ‘On a daytime run they could pick you out of all the rest of the cross-Channel traffic maybe, but not at night.’

  ‘Range?’

  ‘At a steady ten knots the engine burns through eight gallons of fuel an hour. Once you’re up on the plane, you burn eleven gallons an hour but you’re doing forty knots or more. Pretty much four times more efficient. The fuel tank holds fifty-five gallons so you can do two hundred nautical miles or thereabouts. More than enough for a Channel run. And it’s no trouble to carry another fifty-five gallons in cans.’

  ‘There’s just the one engine?’

  ‘The biggest outboard on the market. Three hundred horsepower. A beast. Fifteen grand’s worth of motor.’

  ‘Reliable?’

  ‘Just don’t run over anything and it’ll be fine.’

  ‘What if it breaks down?’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Have you got a manual I can read?’

  ‘If anything does go wrong, I don’t want a bloody amateur tinkering with it,’ growled McConnell. ‘You have a problem, you call me. Now, I’ve a question for you. What will you be carrying?’

  ‘Hargrove didn’t tell you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking if he had,’ said McConnell. ‘I don’t play silly mind games, life’s too short.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd, not wanting to offend the man. ‘I just assumed he’d filled you in. Cash. Counterfeit euros. Maybe a couple of passengers.’

  McConnell nodded. ‘At least it’s not drugs.’

  ‘Does it matter? Doesn’t Hargrove give you a “get out of jail free” card?’

  McConnell chuckled. ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ he said, ‘but you know as well as I do that villains who deal in drugs are at the nasty end of the spectrum. The people-smugglers are a bad bunch, too. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Or my boat.’

  ‘I’m a big boy, Gordy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Besides, the guys at this end are sweethearts.’

  ‘And the ones in France?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘Could be Albanians.’

  McConnell grimaced. ‘Now they can be heavy bastards,’ he said. ‘Albanians and Serbs are worse than the Russians.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s currency, not drugs.’

  ‘Still worth killing for,’ said McConnell. He gestured at the notepad. ‘Okay, let’s run through a few things and then I’ll go over the charts with you.’

  After two runs across the Channel in close to complete darkness, then seeing the dawn come up as they brought the boat back into Southampton, McConnell decided they needed refuelling, which meant going back into a pub for a full English breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, black pudding, beans, potato pancakes, tomatoes and two slices of fried bread.

  ‘So, have you got any questions?’ asked McConnell, through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

  ‘How do you earn a living down here?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘I meant about handling the rib,’ said McConnell. He twisted the top off a bottle of HP sauce and poured it over his fried bread.

  ‘I’m fine on the boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m trying to work out where you stand in the grand scheme of things.’

  McConnell scratched his ear. ‘I’m a sort of consultant,’ he said. ‘Your old mob uses me from time to time, and I’m a regular visitor to Poole.’

  Poole in Dorset, headquarters of the SBS. Shepherd had twice been on courses there during his days as an SAS trooper.

  ‘Ribs are used for all sort of things these days – interception of craft at sea, boarding oil-rigs, getting people into places with the minimum fuss. I do a fair bit of training.’ He grinned. ‘And in my spare time, I take merchant bankers out deep-sea fishing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Pays well and I get stock tips to boot. You wouldn’t believe the size of my portfolio.’

  As Shepherd laughed, his work phone rang and he fished it out of his pea coat. It was Hargrove. ‘How are you getting on, Spider?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. He nodded an apology to McConnell and went outside the pub. ‘Gordy’s a good teacher,’ he continued. ‘Hell of a crash course he’s given me.’

  ‘Think you can handle the boat?’

  ‘I can’t guarantee a smooth crossing, but I can get there and back,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘On your own, or do you want him with you?’

  ‘I think the brothers are more likely to be spooked if I bring in someone else,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’ll play it by ear when I speak to them. He’s a character, though. No way they’d think he was any sort of law-enforcement official.’

  ‘A maverick?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘You’re probably getting on like a house on fire, then,’ said Hargrove. ‘Are you done there?’

  ‘We did two trips in the dark. We’re going back out this morning and then I’ve asked him to give me a rundown on maintenance and stuff in case I get asked awkward questions.’

  ‘Did he tell you there’s a tracking unit on the boat?’

  ‘He didn’t, but that’s good news.’

  ‘We’ll know where you are every step of the way. And we’ll have both ends covered.’

  ‘You sound like you’re worried.’

  ‘It’s a big stretch of water and I didn’t want you to think you’d be on your own out there,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘I’ve already proved I can swim,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No question about that,’ said the superintendent. ‘When you get back to London, Charlotte Button wants to meet with you.’

  ‘A job interview?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A chat,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ll text you her number. She’s expecting your call.’

  ‘Have they said when you’ll be leaving?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later.’

  ‘What about this operation? They won’t pull you off it before it’s done?’

  ‘I can’t guarantee that won’t happen, Spider. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m putting my life on the line here, and some desk jockey decides that my safety-net gets taken away?’

  ‘If I’m pulled off, Button will be fully briefed and she’ll take over. I guarantee you won’t be put in harm’s way.’

  Shepherd cut the connection. He waited outside the pub until the text message arrived, then called Charlotte Button. She was brisk and to the point, and asked him to meet her for tea at the Ritz the following day at three o’clock. He smiled as he cut the connection. ‘No time for chit-chat, then,’ he muttered.

  He went back inside. McConnell was waving at a barman and ordering two more slices of fried bread.

  Shepherd was an hour outside London when his personal mobile rang. It was Katra, and she was clearly upset. ‘Dan, you have to go to the school now,’ she said, voice shaking.

  Shepherd’s stomach lurched. ‘What’s happened? Is Liam okay?’

  ‘There’s some problem, but they won’t tell me what it is. The office of the headteacher called and said you have to go to the school right away.’

  ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’

  ‘No, but there is a problem. I think he’s done something wrong.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me because I’m not a relative or his legal guardian. Only you.’

  Shepherd looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Land Rover.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go now. I’m on my way back to London anyway – I can easily swing by the school.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Katra.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll sort it out.’

  Shepherd spent the rest of the drive to Liam’s school running through all the reasons why he’d get an urgent summons to see the hea
dteacher. Liam wasn’t hurt or sick, and anything to do with his work could have been dealt with by letter. Which left only a disciplinary problem, but that didn’t make sense because Liam wasn’t the sort of boy to get into fights. He wasn’t a coward, far from it, but he had a sharp tongue and a wicked sense of humour and generally preferred to talk his way out of trouble. It was a talent he had inherited from his mother. Sue had always been able to cut Shepherd to the quick with a few well-chosen words.

  He had to park several hundred yards from the school and buy a pay-and-display sticker. Then he walked briskly to the school gates, across the playground to the main block and followed a sign that pointed to the administration office. In it he stood at a large wooden counter that bore a strong resemblance to the reception area in many police stations he had been in. The three middle-aged women standing behind it had the same world-weary look of police officers.

  Shepherd told them who he was and that he was there to see the headteacher. He couldn’t remember her name but as he waited to be called through he scrutinised a noticeboard and eventually found a memo that told him she was Mrs Lucinda Hale-Barton. Shepherd pictured a woman in her fifties with permed hair and a tweed suit, but the woman who shook his hand and ushered him into her office was barely out of her twenties, with shoulder-length red hair, a low-cut top and a figure-hugging skirt. Liam had never mentioned what an attractive headteacher he had, but then he rarely spoke to Shepherd about school.

  Suddenly Shepherd realised he was wearing his sea-going gear, that his hands were stained with oil from the outboard engine and that it had been twenty-four hours since he had showered or shaved. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and opened his mouth to apologise for his dishevelled appearance but the headteacher had already started to speak.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have called you in like this, Mr Shepherd,’ she said, as she dropped down on to a high-backed leather swivel chair behind a chrome and glass desk, ‘but we have a problem and I wanted to let you know face to face, as it were.’ She opened a drawer and took out a flick-knife. Shepherd recognised it immediately. ‘Liam had this with him today,’ she said and placed it in front of him. ‘It’s what they call a flick-knife.’