‘Nothing.’
‘Well, what happens when he returns to Dubai empty handed?’
‘He won’t.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘There was no courier, the sheik is dead.’
Maxime shrugged. ‘Please spare me the gory details. Is that why we’re collecting the bullion ourselves this time?’
‘Don’t worry, you worry too much.’
They spent the following half hour lifting the crates from the boat, and stacking them on the wharf. When they had finished, Trembath went to collect the lorry from the adjacent car park, and reversed it down to the marina.
They had only completed half the load when the skipper shouted, ‘gendarme!’
‘It’s too late to move the vehicle,’ he whispered to Maxime, pulling out his automatic.
‘What’s going on here? You can’t load at this time of night!’ the gendarme called out.
‘The boat was late in,’ Maxime explained.
‘Yes,’ the skipper concurred, ‘I was held up at Ostend.’
‘I’m going to phone the station to ask for advice.’
Trembath put his gun to the gendarme’s head. ‘Drop the phone.’
The gendarme obeyed.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and then shot him dead.
The skipper gave a gasp.
‘Had no choice,’ he explained, as Maxime helped him lift the body into the back of the lorry.
They finished loading up, and then the skipper got back into the trawler. Maxime pressed a wad of money into his hand.
‘That’s for your silence, okay?’
The skipper nodded, and then steered the tug back out of the harbour.
Rob and Andrew were already at the small airfield when Trembath and Maxime arrived in the lorry.
‘We made the drop, sir. Everything go okay with you, sir?’ Rob asked, about to help unload the vehicle.
‘No.’
‘Why, what’s happened, sir?’
‘He shot a gendarme,’ Maxime volunteered, handing around cigarettes from his packet.
‘How is he?’
‘He’s dead,’ Trembath confessed.
Rob looked horrified. ‘What have you done with the body, sir?’
Maxime silently pointed to the lorry.
‘It’s flying home with you, Rob.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Rob shouted. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you ditch it at sea? We’ll all be fucking incriminated now. I never agreed to participate in cold blooded murder.’
‘Watch your mouth, Corporal Mylor. You were happy enough to participate in the drop, I don’t recall you voicing any objections. And remember, you’re easily replaceable.’
‘Yeah, good, ’cos after this job I’m off, sir.’
‘You can fuck off now!’ Trembath smacked the Corporal across the face. Rob fell backwards and then steadied himself. Now lunging forward, he punched Trembath in the stomach. Suddenly fists were flying, boots kicking and blood was being spilled. The scuffle seemed to go on forever, until Maxime had had enough.
BANG!
‘Whew, what did you kill him for? I could have handled it,’ Trembath said, wiping himself down.
‘Well, we were getting rid of him after the last drop. It may as well be sooner than later.’
‘Yeah, but I needed him to help load up and fly her back. Now I’ll have to fly her myself, and loading will take twice as long.’
Andrew hid behind the lorry, he was in shock. But no one had even noticed him standing in the shadows. Trembath was bleeding, his lip and eye cut. Maxime was busy mopping the blood from his face.
‘A touch of a friend is worth two in a bush.’ Maxime kissed him on the lips, the blood transferring onto his own mouth.
*****
It was dawn when the Sea King eventually took off, piloted by Trembath. Maxime had remained in Belgium and Andrew had disappeared. The two corpses were sitting upright next to him in the cockpit, as if they were co-pilots. They were wrapped in blankets and polythene sheets, to help stop the blood and body fluids from leaking all over the helicopter.
‘Okay there, Alexandre Mertens, okay there Rob Mylor? I hope you’re both comfortable,’ he jested macabrely. ‘Alexandre, the photo on your identity badge doesn’t do you justice. You look much better dead.’ Trembath threw the badge to the floor. ‘Have you always been a cop, Alex? I’d once toyed with the idea of becoming a cop. You don’t mind me calling you Alex, do you?’
The aircraft was over the North Sea when it went onto automatic pilot. Trembath climbed into the fuselage. He began to prepare the two corpses, wrapping them up in tarpaulin and rope, and then tied them to a large, hydraulic jack.
Moving the bundles to the edge of the open door, he said, ‘I hope your families don’t miss you too much. Parting is such sweet sorrow. . . so fuck off!’
Thrashing out with his foot, he kicked both the corpses off the helicopter.
The mummified bodies fell down through the clouds like bombs. The Belgian police would search high and low for the gendarme, but they would never find him. The hydraulic jack would ensure that Alexandre Mertens and Rob Mylor would sink to the very bottom of the ocean bed. Their only mourners — a few jelly fish and an anemone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was a five-hour journey back from Paddington. Luckily the evenings were light, so that Guthrie could enjoy the scenery through the grubby, second class carriage windows.
A woman and her three noisy brats were sitting across the aisle; shouting, crying, and spilling their drinks everywhere. He was glad he did not have children at times like this. Perhaps he had more in common with those unmarried philosophers like Immanuel Kant, Søren Kierkegaard and Friedrich Nietzsche, than he cared to admit.
It was less than a week since the Eden Project disaster, but, when his elderly friend, Solly Stein, had phoned to say that he had arranged a meeting with a professor of Egyptology in London, Guthrie had no choice but to go. Although, the meeting had been all too brief, and it was a long journey back to Cornwall.
He had first met Solly 15 years earlier in the Congo during one of his clandestine missions. They had both been staying at the same hostel with agents from Mossad, they were in search of a Nazi war criminal. The old man had known the inside of Bergen-Belson, and retained not only an East European accent, but also a number tattooed on his arm.
The meeting with the professor had taken place at the British Museum in Great Russell Street. The professor, surrounded by a variety of Egyptian mummies and artefacts, had briefly mentioned both the mythological and Biblical links to the bee. This had included an explanation about the prophetess Deborah from the Book of Judges, whose name meant Bee in Hebrew, and Apis, a Mesopotamian bee-god.
He also told them about a group of German scientists who had discovered traces of cocaine, hashish and nicotine inside an Egyptian mummy, Henut Taui. The professor had explained that cocaine was used in ancient Egypt and was somehow linked to their bee-god. Apparently cocaine affected the passage of octopamine, a neurochemical in the brain of the honey bee. But, it was when the professor had mentioned that bee venom was used to treat arthritis and Parkinson’s disease, that Guthrie wondered if that was why Treliske was involved.
It was around 9 o’clock when he arrived back at Redruth, already regretting not calling on his mother when he had been in London. After all, she only lived in Ilford, 30 minutes on the train from Liverpool Street. How he longed for the taste of her cooking; jerk chicken, rice and peas, followed by homemade ginger cake. Never mind, it was still early enough for a pint.
The London Inn was thick with smoke. A sardine can of bodies were focussed on a third rate rock band playing at full volume. After ordering a lager he tried to find a seat, but they were all taken.
‘Sit on this, mate, if you want.’ An orange haired biker wearing shabby leathers offered him a stool that had been hidden in the corner.
‘Thanks.’ Guthrie gave a nod and sat down. The biker was with his orange plaite
d girlfriend. Both had teeth missing.
‘I’ve seen you before, don’t you live near the chippy?’
Guthrie nodded, busy sipping his drink.
‘You’re the guy who’s just out of nick. I recognise you from the photo in the paper. I’ve been inside a couple of times for scoring and selling,’ he confessed. ‘But I have to say I felt sorry for you, mate, when I read about it. I mean, you were innocent.’ The man stretched out his hand, ‘Name’s Chas.’
Guthrie obliged and shook his hand, ‘Guthrie. I doubt I’m the first they’ve done it to, but thankfully we no longer have capital punishment or there’d be many more miscarriages of justice. So what do you do now?’
‘Got a part-time job with Kerrier Council cleaning the streets.’
‘Sounds like a dream,’ Guthrie laughed, holding out his packet of Marlboro to them.
‘I could get you a job if you’re looking, always want street cleaners.’
‘No. Thanks anyway.’
‘Well, it’s better than nothing,’ Chas shrugged. ‘I’m saving up at the minute, going to see my sick old ma in East Ham when I get the dosh for the fare. Jo wanted to hitch, but I don’t think it’s safe for chicks these days, do you?’
‘Thanks for the fag,’ the girl offered a gummy grin.
‘So what happened to your teeth?’
‘You know what happened, mate, but that’s all in the past,’ Chas jumped to her defence. ‘I promised Jo if we win the lottery we’ll go to a good dentist and get implants. She used to be a model, you know.’
Guthrie turned to look at her.
‘It’s true,’ she replied. ‘I did loads of covers for magazines, not sleazy ones, but the expensive ones.’
‘Trouble is to keep you skinny they start dishing out speed like they are Smarties, and Jo was only a kid knowing no better at the time. Well, when you’re a kid you do as you’re told, don’t you?’
Guthrie had heard similar stories for years, vile dealers who never took drugs themselves, merely contaminated the innocent.
‘Do you get many dealers come in here?’
‘See that kid over there.’ Chas pointed to a bronze skinned boy with black hair. ‘That’s Kareem, he’s an idiot dealing in broad daylight.’
‘What does he deal?’
‘Just coke and shit, you know, cannabis.’
‘You don’t buy?’
‘No, gave up five years ago when Jo got pregnant, our only vice now is baccy.’
‘Kareem rolls the spliffs himself to make them look bigger,’ Jo laughed. ‘He mixes the cannabis with crushed violet petals.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘St. Ives.’
Chas opened a tin and looked inside, poking his nicotine stained fingers around the stringy strands of brown tobacco.’
‘Well, it will last us to Tuesday,’ Jo said, trying to reassure him.
By now Guthrie had finished his lager. ‘What are you both drinking?’
‘No, it’s okay, mate, we only came in to hear the band,’ Chas winked. ‘Anyway, we’ve got to go soon ‘cos of the babysitter. She earns more an hour than I do.’
‘Well, nice meeting you.’
‘Listen, if you ever want to pop over to ours you’ll be welcome. You know, for a cuppa and a natter. We live in the cottage with a pink door next to the launderette in Chapel Street.’
Guthrie, who was usually unsympathetic to sob stories, found himself dipping into his pocket.
‘This might help you with the fare to visit your mum.’ He handed Chas three £20 notes.
Strolling along Green Lane, he suddenly remembered a letter that Solly had given to him in London. Perhaps he’d read it over a fish supper, but there again, he needed to lose some weight. He was still debating whether to buy a fish supper when he reached his front door. About to put the key into the lock he suddenly noticed that the door was slightly ajar.
Racing up the stairs with his gun prepped he entered the flat. The chaos winded him. The contents from the chest of drawers were emptied out onto the bedroom floor, and the bedding was piled up on the kitchen table. Across the mirror someone had written in red lipstick, YOU’RE DEAD!
The police officer observed Guthrie suspiciously. Everything he said the officer made him repeat twice. But he was used to this sort of interrogation by the police.
‘You should stop them letting these places to emmets!’ a Cornish voice shouted out from the window of a nearby house. ‘All these bloody farn’ers, we never used to have this trouble.’
‘Wallis! Go and take a statement,’ the officer shouted across to a younger man. ‘Also ask her why she failed to report the incident when it happened. Now, Mr Guthrie, can you tell me again why you were in London, have you anyone to confirm you were there?’
‘A professor of Egyptology.’
‘Don’t get smart with me!’
And so the questioning went on. From what Guthrie was led to understand nothing had been broken or damaged, just cupboards and drawers thrown about giving the impression that the burglar was looking for something in particular.
At last, having convinced the policeman that he had indeed been in London, Guthrie left them to get on with taking fingerprints, and went off to find himself a bed for the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a few days later when Guthrie found himself back at Treliske, hiding on the roof of a building called The Mermaid Centre, after receiving a tip-off.
The sky was black with no sign of a moon. Even so, he still risked being spotted on the hospital CCTV, and so he had taken precautions and disguised himself with a rubber Mickey Mouse head. Whilst training with MI6 they had mentioned the name Dudley Clarke. He was a Lieutenant Colonel and worked for British Intelligence during World War 11, and occasionally cross dressed. They had suggested that agents could do the same if a mission deemed it beneficial, but so far he had managed to avoid it.
He had only been on surveillance for around two hours, and yet, he was already exhausted. Not only due to the late hour, or the stress of his flat being burgled, but mainly from having spent the day with Katie at Flambards Theme Park. Although she was stunning to look at she was not really his type, still unable to say philosophy, and came out with other foolish remarks. But there was something about her that fascinated him apart from her beauty, something that he just could not put his finger on.
For the past ten minutes he had focussed his infra-red goggles on the air ambulance helicopter parked in a field beside the hospital, a BOLKOW 105 DBS. It was based at RAF St. Mawgan. Although the pilots, who were currently occupied with unloading boxes from the boot of a BMW and re-loading them onto the aircraft, were not dressed in RAF uniform.
The noise of the rotors were giving him a headache. Perhaps the patients slept on the other side of the hospital, or else were heavily medicated. At least he had managed to install four security cameras that night, and had tapped into their CCTV system. He had even managed to clamber up onto the roof of Mullions Restaurant to install one there, and then connected all the cameras to his laptop. It was lucky for him that he was still in contact with Jill, the nurse, as she had agreed to open up the security room for him. It was inside that room where the CCTV monitoring system was housed.
Three cars were now driving along Penventinnie Lane, a narrow road leading to the back of the hospital.
A man wearing a long overcoat and balaclava climbed out of the BMW, the number plate covered with a cloth. Around 10 minutes later he got back into the driver’s seat, accompanied by another man in uniform.
Guthrie was about to climb down from the roof and jump onto his Harley in order to follow the car, when he saw that the vehicle had driven towards a complex of buildings only a hundred or so yards away, on the other side of the lane. Perhaps it was the nurses’ home, he thought, now following on foot.
When they reached a large portacabin the man removed his balaclava. Guthrie was immediately taken aback by the man’s identity. He had never suspected him
of being involved. Hurriedly he took some photographs.
While they were loading boxes and several attaché cases from the portacabin into the car boot, Guthrie peered in through the barred window. It was a small laboratory, with sinks and cupboards, and other equipment. Odd, why would a scientist or doctor want to work in a portacabin when there were state of the art labs inside the hospital?
Suddenly, something caught his eye. On the grey vinyl floor were the shrivelled bodies of two dead honeybees. Turning his head to check that no one had seen him, he noticed the building behind.
‘Well, well, well, who’d have thought it?’ he mumbled to himself, peering up at the sign on the building:
DUCHY PRIVATE HOSPITAL
As the men drove off towards the helicopter, Guthrie took the opportunity to make a grab for the insects. He would get them analysed, although he could guess the results.
It was around 3 a.m. when the haulage trucks arrived at RAF Portreath.
Lying on the damp grass behind a bunker out of sight, Guthrie was busy clicking his pen-camera. Irritated by the crickets and other wild life, that were playing unmelodious croaking noises in his ear. He was gasping for a cigarette, but dared not risk it.
As the trucks drove past, he heard a voice ask: ‘Who’s the buyer?’
No one answered.
‘What time are we finished?’
‘When the last fucking gun is unloaded and re-loaded!’ a voice shouted back.
A motorbike raced towards the group of men and stopped by a haulage truck. The rider ran towards one of the men.
‘Think he’s here, sir,’
‘Who?’
‘Henry Guthrie, sir. We saw him near Treliske as we flew out. Think he followed us here.’
‘Great, why didn’t you lose him, then, idiot?’
‘We thought of backtracking, but you said to get the cargo here urgently.’
‘Kill him on sight, is that understood?’
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 9