Running Scared (DI Mike Nash Book 10)

by Bill Kitson

  Shakila risked another look, and saw the man she had heard called Stanley. She recoiled in horror at what he had in his hand. It was a tool used for DIY; a wickedly sharp knife with a short, retractable blade. He was waving this in front of the woman’s eyes. Almost like a caress, he passed the Stanley knife along her forearm, and Shakila saw blood immediately begin to spill from the wound.

  His victim pointed towards the storage space below the bench seats in the wheelhouse.

  The gunman nodded to Stanley, who walked over and lifted the lid. ‘There’s only three parcels,’ he reported. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I expected six.’ The gunman turned towards the woman. ‘Where’s the rest?’

  ‘There isn’t any more,’ she stammered. ‘I swear that’s all he got.’ She was shaking violently, staring at the gun, the knife, and her husband in turn.

  ‘That has saved me some time and you a lot of pain. Now, I feel sure you’re anxious to join your husband.’

  He might have been inviting her to a cocktail party for all the expression in his voice, but as he finished speaking, Shakila heard two more shots, and then saw the woman fall to the deck alongside her husband. At the same time, a wave caught both vessels and swung them round. Shakila saw the gunman’s face clearly for the first time, illuminated by the stark beam of the searchlight.

  The man with the knife climbed back on the second boat. ‘What are you going to do about the boat – and them?’

  ‘We can’t leave it here, the water’s too shallow. We’ll have to take her out to sea and scuttle her. With luck they’ll have been eaten away beyond recognition by the time they’re found. If they’re found,’ he added. ‘Help me stow the packages onboard and then you’d better check out the cabin, just to be on the safe side, make sure she was telling the truth.’

  Shakila saw they had their backs to her as they loaded the cargo. Before Stanley climbed back onboard and headed for the cabin, his progress impeded by the bodies, Shakila had already slipped from the cabin and climbed into the empty storage locker where the drugs had been hidden. She lay trembling, her eyes screwed tight shut, her fists clenched, holding her breath. After what seemed an age, she heard him shout. ‘It’s all clear, I can’t find anymore and there’s no one else on board.’

  He returned to the wheelhouse and attempted to start the motor. ‘You’d better come here. We’ve got a problem. One or more of the bullets has smashed the console. I can’t get the engines to fire. We’ll have to tow her out to sea before we scuttle her. I’ll have to stay on board and steer her.’

  Shakila listened keenly. She had to get away, get off the boat before they towed the Blooming Rose out of range of land. But she knew there was no chance of her escaping detection with one of the killers at the wheel. She had to move now whilst they were in the bows securing the rope.

  She crept across the wheelhouse, trying to keep low enough to avoid the glare of exposure from the searchlight. As she moved, the beam was swung towards the bow where the killers were still attempting to secure the line. This was her chance. She stepped over the bodies and reached the afterdeck. Without pausing to think, she slipped over the low stern into the water, gasping as the cold hit her, unawares. She was only just in time, for as she trod water, acclimatizing herself and getting her bearings, she heard the engine sound of the killers’ boat change, and seconds later, the Blooming Rose, like some seaborne hearse, began to move slowly out towards deeper water.

  She began to swim, slowly at first, then more powerfully as the urge to survive pumped adrenalin through her system. As she swam, tears coursed down her cheeks to be lost in the salt water of the ocean. Tears for the couple who had rescued her and tears for herself. Even if she survived and made it to the shore, her future beyond there had suddenly become more desperate than ever. On top of the existing threats, there was now an even more potent one. She was the sole witness to a double murder. If that was discovered, the ruthless men who had killed two people without any more thought than if they were swatting flies, would not hesitate to put an end to her too.

  If she managed to make it to the distant beach, Shakila knew there could be danger. She had overheard the couple talking, in the course of which it was said that there would be people there watching for the boat, waiting for the drugs. If they had heard the shots, and seen the searchlight, which she knew they must have done, what would they do to her if they found her?

  In spite of her despair, she continued to swim. Better to survive. Survive as long as she could. Even if it was survival without hope.

  Chapter fifteen

  The watchers on the cliff top were beginning to feel the cold. They had been waiting for what seemed an eternity, obscured from view by a bank of bushes. Their eyes and ears strained for what was happening out to sea. The first sound they heard was that of diesel engines. ‘This sounds like the boat,’ one of them said. Even as he was speaking, the sound was augmented by more engine noise. They looked at one another, aware that this wasn’t what they expected. They saw the powerful beam of the searchlight capture the cabin cruiser. ‘A patrol boat? That could ruin our plans.’

  He had his night vision binoculars trained on the scene out to sea. ‘Check this out.’ He passed the glasses to his companion. ‘I’m not sure that is a patrol boat. See what you think.’ In the distance they heard the echo of distant shots. ‘That sounds bad. What’s going on out there?’

  They waited. Moments later they heard more shots, the sound carrying clearly over the water. ‘This is very bad. I think they’re taking our boat in tow. Yes, they’re moving, going out to sea. Hang on, I thought I saw something. It might have been someone going off the stern of the cruiser. I can’t be sure, and don’t know if they went overboard or were tipped over.’

  ‘Might it be the packages? Can you still see the boats?’

  ‘No, they’re too far out now. Moonlight would have helped. Listen!’ Much fainter, but still distinguishable, they heard the distant rattle of more gunfire. It continued for some time. ‘Now what’s going on?’

  ‘Scuttling the boat, I guess. Those cabin cruisers are pretty sturdy. Puncturing the hull with a load of bullet holes is the quickest way to sink them. That’s what I’d do to hide the boat and what happened on board.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. We don’t know what’s going on and we don’t even know for sure if they’ve put the drugs over the side, or if that was a dead body. I’d guess whoever was in the second boat has snatched the delivery so I don’t see that there’s much we can do. We better make ourselves scarce. Someone else might have heard those shots.’

  ‘What if the other boat comes back and they decide to land the drugs on this beach? Maybe we ought to hang around in case they send an inflatable inshore. See if we recognize anyone.’

  ‘You really fancy meeting up with them, after what we’ve just seen and heard?’

  ‘Not really, but let’s wait quarter of an hour. If nothing happens by then, we scarper.’

  ‘OK, have it your way. I think we should be doubly careful though.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of walking up to them and confronting them, demanding the drugs, or else. I just thought it would be useful to find out who they are before we report back.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll come ashore here.’

  ‘You mean you hope they don’t.’

  ‘That as well.’ He pointed to the binoculars. ‘As you’re so keen to identify them, those might help – if they do come within range.’

  Scanning the ocean, sweeping the bay with slow, rhythmical searching movements yielded nothing. They were on the point of conceding the futility of their wait, when he was nudged in the ribs and the binoculars thrust at him.

  ‘Have a look over there, towards the headland. Concentrate on the water, close to the tideline near those jagged rocks. I thought I saw something moving, but I couldn’t be certain, not with the shadow of the headland behind it.’

  He searche
d the area indicated. As minute followed minute, he expected to dismiss what could have been a trick of the light – or the dark. A moment later he said, ‘You could be right, there might be something there. It could be driftwood, or wreckage from the boat. I’ll try the zoom and see if I can make out what it is.’

  ‘Wreckage from the boat would hardly have drifted this close to land yet, would it?’

  ‘True.’ He was still scanning the shallows close to the rocks. ‘I think it could be a body.

  ‘A body?’

  He lowered the binoculars. ‘Whatever it is, I think we should take a dekko. Come on. There’s nobody else around. They would have been here by now if they’d heard the shots.’

  There was only one path down the cliff, little more than a series of shallow steps cut out of the clay, with loose chippings, which skittered down the slope as they scrambled down. They reached the bottom and began to cross the beach, casting furtive looks round as they ran. Once they were on the level, they found the going much easier, despite the dry sand that slowed their progress. The ebbing tide had left the sand close to the waterline firmer underfoot and once they reached this their progress was swifter. After several minutes they reached the point closest to where they had seen the object and as they paused for breath.

  ‘Look there!’

  The shapeless bundle they’d seen from the cliff top was indeed a body. Together, they waded into the sea, gasping slightly with the cold and soon reached their objective. They lifted the inanimate form between them, and stumbling every now and then on several small rocks hidden under the water, dragged it back to the beach and laid it on the sand.

  The leader took a torch from his pocket and shone it on the face. ‘It’s a young woman,’ he exclaimed as he began feeling for a pulse. After a few moments he looked up. ‘She’s alive! Let’s get her onto her side; she could have swallowed half the ocean.’

  It seemed as if an age passed before the girl finally stirred in response to their ministrations. She gave a choking, coughing sound, and next moment retched violently, spewing a large quantity of sea water onto the sand. They hauled her into a sitting position. This prompted a further vomiting session, which returned another sizeable quantity of the North Sea to its rightful place.

  ‘What shall we do with her?’

  ‘We’ll have to take her with us. We don’t know who she is or what she was doing out there. She’s going to be the only one who can tell us what went on. And we don’t want her falling into the wrong hands.’

  ‘What do you mean by “wrong hands”? You mean if the people from the other boat come back?’

  ‘It isn’t only them I’m worried about. Any of the locals round here could be involved.’ He gestured in the vague direction of Norway, but his companion got the point.

  ‘You mean even the police, or the coastguard?’

  ‘Yes, even them. Remember what we were told; trust nobody.’

  ‘OK, we take her with us, but if we do that it could make things very awkward in more ways than one.’

  ‘We’ll have to deal with that when it happens, but we ought to get moving. Apart from anything else if she starts blabbing, better for her to blab to us than anyone else.’

  ‘It’s to be hoped she’s recovered enough to walk. I don’t fancy having to haul her up that cliff.’

  Shakila had regained consciousness but was afraid to show it. As she listened to their conversation, she knew her worst fears had been realized. These people had been watching and waiting for the Blooming Rose, expecting the delivery. That meant they had to be involved in the drugs trade; had to be part of the trafficking gang. They might even be linked to the men who had murdered the couple on the boat. Shakila had read horrific stories about these gangs, how they were constantly feuding, with different factions struggling for control.

  Even if the two who had found her had not taken part in the murders, or were even involved with the killers, their response to someone who had discovered what they were doing was likely to provoke as violent a reaction. In terrible fear for her life, Shakila decided her only option was absolute silence, and a pretence to ignorance of the English language. Her teacher had taught her many idioms when she learned English. One of these was the phrase ‘from the frying pan into the fire’. Suddenly, Shakila was painfully aware of the aptness of this saying.

  ‘Who do you think she is?’

  ‘No idea, and there’s no way of telling. She’s hardly recovered enough to talk yet. She must have come off the boat, but she seems a bit young for a boat owner.’

  ‘She could be the owner’s daughter or something.’

  ‘Until we get her talking we won’t know. I can’t see where else she could have come from. This is hardly the place for a midnight swim.’

  ‘Get her onto her feet and see if she can stand up, or better still, walk.’

  They lifted Shakila and held her, supporting her between them. She opened her eyes, reluctantly. Not that she could make out much more than the outline of her rescuers in the dark. Then a torch beam shone in her face, blinding her completely.

  ‘Ah, you’re conscious. Good. Can you stand up on your own?’

  Shakila stared back into the torch light, willing her expression to register neither emotion nor comprehension.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you speak English?’

  ‘I don’t think she does. If she was on the boat, she could come from France or Spain.’

  ‘Damn, I hadn’t thought of that. Then how do we find out what language she does speak? We need to find out what went on.’

  ‘I think we should just get her out of here and into somewhere warm, otherwise she’ll die of cold and won’t be able to tell us anything in any language.’

  Kovac steered the fishing boat in to Whitby harbour and moored at the dock. Both he and Stanley picked up their deep-sea fishing gear and made a show of stowing the equipment for anyone who may have been watching. They grabbed their holdalls containing the packages, a bucket of fish, and headed along the quay.

  ‘I’m going straight back to the Park with this gear,’ Kovac told Stanley. ‘With this bonus cargo, we can hold our regular supply in reserve when it arrives. Remember what happened earlier this spring, when the sea was too rough to bring anything in? I don’t want that to happen again. After I’ve seen to the distribution, I’m going across to Leeds to the meat factory and check on things there. Here’s the key to the cottage, you can stay on for the next couple of days and wait for our delivery. Once you’ve got it let me know, and I’ll see you at the Park when I get back from Leeds.’

  Kovac paused for a moment. ‘I think I’ll tell the dealers to give our best customers a small discount on this shipment. Seeing we got it for nothing, I think we should share the benefit. A goodwill gesture is always appreciated, and much easier to give when I’m not paying for it. Besides, it will ensure their loyalty to us.’

  The night following the sinking of the Blooming Rose, the fishing boat again left Whitby. Its sole occupant, the owner, was cheerful, looking forward to the night’s catch – and the profit he knew would result from it. Fishing from the ports along the east coast of England had been in decline for many years. Dwindling fish stocks in the North Sea, over-fishing and the resultant imposition of increasingly stringent quotas limiting the amount of fish that could be caught had caused many trawler owners and inshore fisherman to sell up. They had forsaken the sea, and sought a more lucrative way to earn a living. It was a source of great stress, for in doing so they had to forego the life they enjoyed, one that had in many cases been bred into them for several generations.

  The fisherman hired out his boat for visitors to take angling trips and gained only a small seasonal income, but for some like him, there were other ways to keep the wolf from the door. Ways that involved a product that was always in demand, and on which there were no quotas, no catch limitations bar the law of supply and demand. Ways that involved working for a bloke called Stanley.

  Give
n the parlous state of his finances it was easy, when offered the opportunity, to close his eyes to what the product was and what damage it could cause; the wrecked lives, the dependency, the means people had to resort to in order to find the money to feed their habit.

  The fisherman knew all this; knew it and ignored it. Taking drugs, as he saw it, was a matter of choice. Their choice, not one that was imposed on them as catch limits had been imposed on him and others like him. Fishermen’s lives, and the lives of their families, had been wrecked by the actions of others, not by their own frailties.

  The money was good, and easily earned. All he had to do was choose a time when the tide was right, and when he knew the coastguard wasn’t going to be around, then take his boat out, and empty his crab and lobsterpots. Sometimes they would contain crabs, occasionally lobsters too. But often there would be parcels, each parcel worth over a year’s supply of lobsters, even at today’s prices.

  Tonight was no exception, or so he had been informed. It helped that his wife and the coastguard’s girlfriend were pals. Through their friendship he knew that the coastguard would be miles away that evening, helping to intercept a suspect vessel that might be carrying illegal immigrants. The tip-off about the vessel had come via an anonymous phone call. The fisherman knew this because he had placed the call. He didn’t know whether the container ship had illegal immigrants on board or not, but he needed the coastguard out of the way and this was the best way to achieve it.

  It was half an hour after leaving the harbour that he neared the area where he had placed his pots. As he closed in on the first of his marker buoys, he became aware that something was wrong. His night vision was good, even though the night was dark, moonless. He could just about discern the silhouette of a boat alongside the buoy. For a heart-stopping second he thought his trick hadn’t worked and that the coastguard was lying in wait to trap him. But the boat was too small and the wrong shape. Someone was stealing his catch. Not only his catch, but the far more valuable packages the pots contained.