by Nick Fisher
In Robbie’s varied lines of work, he’d met very many very wealthy men, and consequently seen some of the most appalling and unattractive vinegar-soaked meanness. Too much money made too many men into poisonous penny-pinching scrooges, who could see no further than investment-versus-return. Robbie didn’t care how flash and how crass and stupid he looked – splashing his cash around like a Pools winner – he just didn’t want to ever look mean.
Robbie never intended to become a drug smuggler or runner, but Elsa’s Polish friend needed an equal share investment partner who could handle, and preferably who also owned, a boat. One fast enough and seaworthy enough to pick up drops made in the English Channel by a Dutch freighter. One that made regular runs from Zeebrugge to Milford Haven and Cork, carrying fishmeal on the outward bound and live mussels on the inbound.
Elsa’s Polish friend, Lech, would set up the transaction, and pay the supplier – half with his money and half with Robbie’s. The drop would be arranged, the collection then actioned by Robbie. Lech would take delivery of the dope as soon as it hit soil, and sell it on, in one single sale to his London connection.
After which, Robbie and the Pole would split the profit. They would, he was guaranteed, double their investment at least, on every transaction. The selling was to be kept simple: one sale, one customer, in order to minimise the length of time the dope was held. Bigger profits could be made by multiple sales, but Lech, was all about speed and simplicity. “Clean and quick,” he said. “Clean and quick.”
It wasn’t until Robbie’s maroon Arvor was lowered into the water by a huge fork-lift truck that zoomed backwards and forwards across the dock at Blue Haven marina, taking rich men’s playthings from the enormous storage racks to the slip way, that Robbie fully realised the significance of the numbers.
As his two-litre VW marine inboard engine warmed up at 1000 rpm, Robbie switched on all the electronics and punched the lat-long numbers from the A4 sheet into the NavMan. And sure enough, when he stabbed the right buttons in the right sequence, it did give him a ‘Distance to Waypoint’ reading. At first Robbie assumed he’d made an error. Typed a wrong number. It told him there was a total of 39.6 miles between his current location and the selected destination. He read the lat-long figures again. Everything checked out. Fuck a duck. Robbie didn’t think it was possible to travel 39 miles south out of Poole Harbour, without ending up practically in Paris. Dover to Calais is only 20 miles for fuck’s sake!
So, he looked at the chart on the screen. Zoomed out so he could see where it was he was supposed to be heading. And sure enough, it was right out around the corner past Old Harry’s Rock and way, way down south nearly to Jersey. Fuck.
Twice 39 is 78 miles, plus the two point sixes, that make 80 miles minimum. Plus add another ten percent for bad steering and searching around a bit when he got there. That’s the best part of a hundred miles. Jesus. Did his boat even have a fuel tank big enough to travel over a hundred miles of sea? He looked at the handbook and as far as he could work out, the answer was no. So he’d have to fill the tank and go and buy some carry-on Jerry cans and fill them up too, and just hope to Christ he didn’t run out of fuel half way out in the middle of the English Channel with a load of illegal drugs on board.
He’d thought, when the Polish guy said it’d be dropped in a crab pot, that the run to go get it would be a couple of miles, maybe five tops. What he hadn’t thought was he’d be ploughing through a hundred miles of a rough and choppy sea.
When he looked at the electronic chart again and at the blinking point where the cursor indicated the precise location of the lat-long numbers, he now noticed two parallel lines running an inch apart all the way down through the centre of the Channel, and then turning a sharp left, when they got just past Dover. The selected destination was just south of the centre of these parallel lines.
Robbie stared at the lines a full 30 seconds before the penny dropped. Shipping lanes! The space between the two lines is the shipping lanes. On the electronic chart, a faint dashed line running down the middle of the lane marked the central reservation. The Shipping Traffic Separation Scheme. Like a motorway. The freighters and tankers and container ships heading west, were kept in the south lane while the ones heading east were up in the north lane.
The flashing destination dot was right in the middle of the south lane. Now, it made sense. A freighter from Holland heading west down the Channel, would have to travel in the south lane, and that’s why the drop was where it was. Fucking Jesus wept, thought Robbie. He was expected to cross right through the centre of the busiest shipping lane in the world, dodging in between tankers that were hundreds of yards long in a little maroon play-boat that’d hardly been further than the harbour mouth.
This is a suicide mission. Right this minute, staring at the chart, feeling his sphincter crimp with fear, Robbie would’ve happily paid 25 grand not to have to go. But, this wasn’t just his dope floating under a buoy way out in the Channel. It was Lech’s dope too. And Lech was definitely counting on Robbie coming back with it. In fact he’d probably be somewhat pissed off if Robbie didn’t.
Of course Robbie didn’t come back with it. And that is why Lech was now helping himself to one of the most expensive cars on Robbie’s inventory. Trouble was, of course, it was Robbie’s inventory but not Robbie’s car. The car was stock, for which he’d borrowed capital from the bank. And Robbie had since borrowed cash on his credit cards and from a private loan firm, to pay the interest he owed the bank. Interest on the red ‘Vette – and the Maserati, and the Aston Martin. On all the cars, in fact. None of them were really his. If he sold all of them today – which was never going to happen – even if he sold them at his list price, he’d still owe money to the bank and to the private loan people.
Robbie never came back with the green buoy attached to the rope, attached to the crab pot, which was full of black hash, because Robbie couldn’t find it. He thinks he found the spot, though he can’t be sure. He was so physically sick by the time he reached the position of the lat-long numbers, his hands were shaking so hard, and he was practically hallucinating from being so dehydrated, on account of the almost continual vomiting taking place during the five-and-a-half most miserable hours of his entire life.
When he got there, Robbie could barely focus on the plotter. It had an alarm, that sounded as he reached the destination, but he found nothing. He stared at the sea. He even climbed on the roof, clutching onto both rails until his knuckles went white and looked all around the boat as far as he could see. And all he could see was big black waves and tankers the size of small industrial towns bearing down on him like they were the Death Star and he was a fucking canoe.
That day he decided to sell the boat and never set foot on any vessel that wasn’t big enough to have its own dance floor, spa and casino – ever again.
Even though Robbie was pretty sure the Polish guy believed his story about heading into the centre of the shipping lanes looking for a needle in a fucking haystack, there was a principle to be settled – a principle of trust and partnership.
Which is why Lech was taking the ‘Vette.
Robbie pointed the bread knife at him. Over the Polish guy’s shoulder Robbie could see another guy unbolting the showroom doors. They concertinaed as they opened, folding back on each other, as they ran on a steel track. They were sticking because they hadn’t been used much in the last couple of months, because Robbie hadn’t sold any cars, or even given any test drives, because he’d been too busy shopping with Elsa, sleeping with Elsa, eating with Elsa, getting high with Elsa, driving Elsa to rehab, visiting Elsa in rehab, driving a tiny boat across a huge ugly ocean, or lying in his crib sweating like a pig with the mumps.
The other guy was probably Polish too, because he said something to Lech in a language which Robbie couldn’t understand. He thought it was probably something about the bread knife, because they both looked at it at the same time.
Lech didn’t say anything directly to Robbie. He just ope
ned the door to the red Corvette, revved a couple of blips on the throttle, making the engine stutter with that classic Chevy gurgle, before slipping it into drive and easing it out onto the forecourt. He stopped to let the other guy get in and then he drove away, brake lights blinking, as he reached the junction, leaving a white muslin square on the shiny floor and a big hole in Robbie’s inventory.
Robbie stood there wondering a moment, why Lech took the ‘Vette. Sure it was a great example, stunning calf-skin leather, but the Aston Martin was worth way more money. Then it dawned on Robbie, they took the Chevy because it was nearest the door, the easiest to drive away, and the most practical one to remove, if you intended to empty the showroom one car at a time.
What is it about boats? Tug had never been able to see the fascination. He’d grown up amongst boats. At school other boys’ dads had boats, worked on boats, helped man lifeboats, built boats, delivered boats, even drove cranes that lifted boats – in and out the water. Tug didn’t do boats.
Kids at school had dinghies or rowboats or kayaks and stuff, so Tug was unique by not doing boats, not liking boats and dissing the kids who did. It didn’t make Tug popular exactly, but then he didn’t want to be popular, Tug wanted to be different.
Far as Tug could see boats were just a lot of grief. Take this morning, it wasn’t even 7 am and already boats were messing up his hair. Tug had planned to go to the gym before work. Do some free weights. Do some treadmill. Maybe do 15 minutes on the cross-trainer. Hit the shower and do his hair. They had proper heavy duty hair dryers in the changing rooms, perfect for getting it just how he liked it, before work.
Only his phone rang on the way to the gym. It was one of the skippers at the harbour, ‘Leaky’ Caines, a cousin on his mother’s side. Leaky was a top bloke; they played a lot of footie together when they were teenagers. Anyway, Leaky called because he thought Tug should know all the police tape had been ripped off the ropes of the Kitty K. He’d seen it when he was loading fish boxes off the back of his van and he knew Tug’s chaps had spent hours sealing it all up yesterday. Leaky wasn’t sure, but it looked to him that the seal they’d wired to the wheelhouse door was off too. Leaky reckoned Tug should come and have a look. Thought it might be important.
Tug himself wasn’t too fussed. Though he knew his boss would shit a bunch of kittens if he thought a possible crime scene had been contaminated, before the crime scene lads had finished with it. Tug wasn’t too fussed, because he didn’t really think any crime had been committed. Just another stupid tragic accident. And in Tug’s opinion the teenager in question was a pain in the arse. So the tragedy might not be all that tragic after all.
Seemed to Tug that if the little shit-bag fell off the roof while the boat was steaming along, then he was kind of asking for it. And yeah, of course Tug could see how the boat might probably not be fully insured and how there might be some sort of compensation claim down the line. None of which was his business. But, taking into account how windy his boss could get about inadmissible or contaminated evidence, Tug reckoned Leaky was right and he should get himself down to the Kitty K, to see what’s occurring.
Which was a pisser, because when he left his flat he didn’t do his hair, because he was intending to do it at the gym. Only now he doesn’t have time to go to the gym because he ought to suss out the Kitty before his boss gets a whiff, which means going straight to the harbour. He could always stop in a lay-by and put a bit of gel on his hair. He’s got it in his gym bag. Could do it in the rear view mirror. Wouldn’t have a drier of course. Although he could put the car heater on max and point the air vents towards his head.
Tug pulled up in the lay-by by the Radipole reed beds half a mile away from the harbour and was just reaching into the rear seat to grab his Adidas bag when his mobile rang again. This time the ID said it was Sara Chin’s mobile calling.
Still barely 6 am in the morning. What was she calling him about? Really, Tug should’ve guessed: boats. More fucking grief with boats.
“You read the night duty log?” she says. Not big on small talk. Jesus, thinks Tug, all he wants is to put some product in his hair, but everyone else seems to think he should be doing something else.
“Aah … no,” he says. Slowly. Sure, he might have a quick scan at the night duty log some time during the day, see if any of the names or places that crop up, chime with any of his ongoing investigations. But he sure as shit wasn’t in a hurry to read it before he’d even done the morning essentials.
“Boat was broken into in Blue Haven Marina…” she says. Like it was news. “Last night. Security guard rang it in. Wants someone to come and check it out. Give him a crime number.”
“I’m sure he does,” says Tug. “Not exactly high on my list of things to do today, though.”
“Oh.”
“No.”
“We got other boat grief on the Kitty K. One the lad died on–”
“I know what the Kitty K is,” she says. Tug thinking he could hear a note of ‘snotty’ in her voice, now, like she didn’t like him reminding her of something she already knew.
“Just that the owner’s name jumped out at me,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Robbie Rock,” she says. “The guy with the headless cat and the broken window …” Chin says. Her voice going up at the end, like she was asking a question. Like she’s saying to Tug, ‘You remember who that is?’ Like she’s having a dig right back.
“Showroom broken into. Cat decapitated. Now his boat’s been broken into,” she says, one at a time, like she’s making a shopping list. “Think we should go back and say hello?”
Tug did. Definitely. But after they’ve seen the Kitty. And after he’s done his hair.
Matty is sitting on Rich’s head. Sitting right on top of it. Crushing it sideways between his arse and the filthy truck seat. Wasn’t any other way he could think of to keep Rich quiet and still. And to be fair, he isn’t achieving either of those. Matty and Rich are both covered in slime and weed and stink from the crab pot. There’d been a Morrisons shopping trolley caught up in the fight too. On the pier. The trolley coated in green weed and black sediment from the harbour mouth. The sediment black from all the gearbox oil that’s leaked out from the knackered crabbing boats and congealed on the seabed inside the harbour, where the current goes slack.
Matty guessing Rich must’ve hooked out the trolley by accident before he got his grapple into the pot. Asking himself how the fuck the scrawny little bastard knew the pot was there?
Matty shifting his weight, his two buttocks now spread evenly across the side of Rich’s face. Right across his jaw. Must hurt like a bastard. Must be stopping the air getting in his face and down to his lungs. Still he’s bucking and twisting like a conger on a gaff hook. Matty’s own head crushed now against the roof of the truck every time Rich arches up his shoulders.
Adrian shouting at Rich now to shut the fuck up. Worst thing for Adrian is he doesn’t know where he’s driving. Plan’s all messed up. It needs to be somewhere he can think. There’s green slime on his hands and now it’s all over the steering wheel. Green slime splattered down the inside of the door and the windscreen’s misted up from the heat of the three men’s adrenalin-spiked bodies warming up the stinking damp slime.
Now as they drive past the Radipole reed beds, Adrian considers stopping. Just pulling up to the kerb, opening the windows, cranking up the demister, and help Matty get Rich under control. Maybe crack him a good one in the solar plexus, shut him up until they get out of town.
Adrian can feel Matty’s knees jabbing into his back through the seat, as Rich bucks again and Matty has to shift his weight, to subdue him. So, Adrian decides to pull over. It won’t take a minute to get themselves sorted. Be worth it. They need to. What with Matty now needing to push his hands against the roof of the truck just to get some downward thrust, on top of Rich’s head.
Adrian slowing down, hand on the indicator, when he sees a car parked on the other side of the road, next to
the reed beds. Car pulled up in the lay-by, a guy inside it, fiddling with his hair.
Matty lunges down hard on Rich’s head, trying to squeeze the fight out of the fucking scrawny ferret, just when Adrian’s eyes meet the eyes of the hair gel cop. Fuck. Just sitting there in his car.
Tug now turning his head away from the mirror, watching the blue dirty Nissan Navarra drive past. Windows all steamy. Tug can see the big brother at the wheel and the slippery one, Matty, sitting in the back, like he’s got himself a chauffeur. What’s weird is he’s kind of bouncing too, like some toddler, on his way to a birthday party.
Something’s going on, thinks Tug as he checks his watch, and then his hair.
Max the Sikh sits in the back office of his Bristol Cash Converter transferring a digital video file from the hard drive of his CCTV computer onto a DVD disc. There were three chunks of footage he needed to transfer, so he gave them each separate file names: ‘Entrance’, ‘Kelvin & Friend’, ‘Friend Offer’.
Max really loves the techie part of his job. Many of the other guys don’t, but when technology functions well, is beautifully designed and reliably efficient, it practically makes Max moist. His iPhone 6S makes him moist. He loves it. He doesn’t think it’s that much better than the iPhone 6. The ‘S’ part, the voice-activated command thing, feels like a bit of a dead-end to Max. Sure it’s clever, but intrinsically wrong as far as Max is concerned. He doesn’t want to be able to talk to his computers. He likes the silent interface. Just the clean sharp clicks of the keys on his keyboard. Talking to computers feels like some sci-fi hangover from Star Trek, where the crew of a spacecraft chat to the onboard computer like it’s another crew member. None of that bakes his cake. Max doesn’t want to verbally interact with his computers, he wants to control them with his long, slim, neatly-manicured fingers.