Stealth

by Margaret Duffy

  ‘There aren’t any. If there were they would have found us by now.’

  Still Sturrock stood there. ‘Sorry, I don’t like dogs. I’ve been bitten before.’

  Patrick got really impatient with her. ‘Look, if there are any I’ll shoot them for you!’

  She threw up her hands in a gesture of despair and successfully managed the gate. Patrick and I followed and he was the only one to encounter the wire, spiking a finger. He swore, sucking it.

  ‘Tetanus jabs up to date?’ I asked, giving him a tissue to wrap around it.

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘Are you OK now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He wasn’t but I desisted with the wifely concerns stuff.

  We walked along an overgrown path, a wide strip of rough grass that had probably once been a lawn on either side of it, dense shrubs and trees encircling them. Rubbish lay everywhere, bits of which Patrick and I had stumbled on as we had blundered our way towards the house those months ago. A matter of twenty yards farther on we emerged through a thicket of wild willows and self-sown ash trees into a wider area, once a garden, the house now in full view. It looked smaller than I recollected but my memories of it were vague, just a darker shape against the night sky. Those windows I could see were boarded up.

  Patrick manoeuvred the pair of us back into the vegetation and we all paused for a moment as we heard the whoosh of tyres on the nearby wet road as several cars went by.

  ‘That’s just an ordinary farm house,’ I said. ‘To be called an estate the property must have originally been much larger with a big house, a mansion. I’m guessing that it was sold off separately.’

  ‘And the mobsters must have been, or are, hoping to demolish everything here for their hotel complex,’ Patrick muttered. ‘It must cover at least twenty acres.’ And to Sturrock, ‘It goes without saying that this place was sealed off as a crime scene for quite a while. What actually was removed, other than obvious things like weapons?’

  ‘Class A and Class B drugs plus bloodstained clothing and other similar potential evidence items,’ she answered. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘No computers or mobile phones?’

  ‘They found one mobile phone, smashed, probably by having been trodden on. I can only guess that the few gang members who got away took any laptops with them. There was a lot of drink but that’s not illegal so we couldn’t touch it.’

  ‘There were only personal possessions and two hands guns in Northwood and Murphy’s car at Hinton Littlemoor.’

  I said, ‘Could Clement Hamlyn have been here that night or beforehand or even in Bath at the party?’

  Patrick stared at me. ‘God, what a thought. I didn’t see him.’

  ‘If he was, is, part of this empire he could have rolled up here at some stage, drunk himself senseless and was comatose that night somewhere in the house.’

  ‘It’s perfectly possible as I was only in a large room at the front for a matter of minutes.’ Patrick brooded for a moment and then said, ‘Stay right where you are for a moment.’ Cautiously, he disappeared into the thicket.

  From where I was standing it was possible to peep through the branches to see that no vehicles were parked at the front of the building. Some work appeared to have been begun as a large stack of tree trunks and foliage was just visible in the dim light beyond one corner of the house. Nearer, there were also piles of rubble, timber, and sheets of rusting corrugated iron that suggested outbuildings had been demolished. Perhaps it was those I remembered. The overall effect was of utter desolation.

  ‘I think I should go back,’ Sturrock said. ‘It’ll be quite a long walk down that other road in the dark. I might phone and ask a friend to pick me up.’

  ‘Just wait here until Patrick comes back,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no need, surely. The drive must start from just over there.’

  ‘Please wait. Now we’re here you’re our responsibility.’

  ‘As you wish,’ she responded stonily.

  We stood there for what seemed to be quite a long time and the DI became more restless. Finally, when she appeared to be on the point of leaving, Patrick reappeared and spoke quietly.

  ‘There’s a very interesting development on the far side of the house.’

  He was still a pale shade of grey.

  ‘Does this concern me at all?’ the DI enquired tartly.

  ‘It might. When were the windows boarded up?’

  ‘I believe it was around a month ago.’

  ‘In view of who still appears to own this place I think you ought to remain with us for your own safety. You interrupted me before when I was about to remind you that this house is a criminal bolt-hole. Daniel Coates, wanted by the Met and in connection with Operation Captura, has a boat registered as being owned by the same company, Jones Enterprises. Is that enough evidence to keep you here?’

  Sturrock nodded. ‘All right.’

  He turned. ‘Move as quietly as possible.’

  ‘Why, is someone here?’

  ‘There’s a car parked at the back.’

  ‘Perhaps I ought to call up help.’

  ‘No, this is going to be done properly.’

  Thunderstuck, she turned to look at me. I shrugged. She wouldn’t understand.

  It was comparatively easy to reach the other side of the house as, after getting through the various thickets of self-sown trees and long grass we were able to drop down into a sunken lane. It was inches deep in a mixture of mud and ancient manure in places but even in the gloom we made quick progress and soon arrived, having climbed a bank, at the entrance to the drive. With all due care, we crossed it, finding ourselves in what was quite likely a continuation of the same historic way but it was not so deep and muddy here. It met another track rutted by vehicles which both petered out at a farm gate, this a sturdy metal one clearly in fairly constant use. Patrick opened it and led the way. The farm’s boundary, an old brick wall here, was on our left. At a section that was broken down we climbed over it at the rear of a very large new-looking wooden shed. From my limited view – there was very little room to move here – it appeared to be at least three-and-a-half times longer than it was wide. There were no windows on this side.

  Making our way through tussocks of coarse grass and thistles we reached the end of the shed that turned out to be the rear. There were no windows here either. It was a very cheaply-made building, staple-gunned together, the wood full of knots, the sawn edges of the overlapping thin slats rough and splintery. One of these had been levered up at a join until the staples lifted. Patrick now got hold of it again and bent it up and back, muffling the sound with his body, until it snapped. There was now a hole roughly a foot long by three inches wide.

  ‘Take a look,’ he invited Sturrock in a whisper.

  ‘I hope you can put that back,’ she muttered and peered through. ‘It’s a boat.’

  ‘How many outboard motors?’

  ‘Eight. Eight?’

  ‘It’s a RIB, a rigid inflatable boat. This one’s a stealth boat. They can do around eighty knots and outrun everything else on the water. As you can see it’s painted black or dark grey and is a rather unusual shape. That makes it practically invisible to radar. You must know what these have been used for.’

  ‘Drugs running.’

  ‘That’s right, from North Africa to Spain. It was rumoured a while back that one had been glimpsed in the English Channel but I don’t think it was this one as it appears to be brand new, smaller that the one Ingrid and I saw in Cannes. This is only around thirty feet long.’

  Sturrock moved aside for me to have a look. There was just sufficient light within, what there was coming through three small windows in the other long side, to make out the boat, the stern of which was facing me. The smell of petrol wafted through the hole, no doubt emanating from a row of jerry cans along the wall beneath them. What looked like a very large tarpaulin was dumped in a large heap at this end, the top of it just beneath our spyhole.


  ‘The next move is up to you,’ Patrick told Sturrock.

  ‘I will need to consult with the DCI,’ she responded, sounding surprised.

  ‘Will he ask you what the hell you’re doing here and anyway see him about it in the morning?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘If you’d rather forget about that I’m happy to escort you to the road if you want to leave now.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Find out who’s in the house.’

  ‘But . . . I can’t just walk away and leave you here. I mean, you wouldn’t actually need me but . . .’ She petered out a little sadly.

  ‘So you’re willing to accompany the Serious Organised Crime Agency in a surveillance operation.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  I kept a very straight face. She would be able to write that in her report, no bother.

  Sturrock and I stayed out of sight while Patrick looked around the corner of the shed. The rain had eased off, a gap in the clouds making the sky a little lighter. Patrick stayed where he was and I could hear the strange way he was breathing: he was still suffering from nausea.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. Then quickly came back into hiding as the sound of another vehicle approached. The gears crashed as it swung into the drive, too fast, the tyres squealing and then the engine roared as though the wheels on one side had gone on to the grass and skidded. The headlights swung away over towards the house and as it did so there was brighter illumination, as if security lights had come on. After a brief silence following the car coming to a halt a car door slammed.

  Patrick took another look and swore softly. ‘It’s Hamlyn!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ I simply could not believe what he had said.

  ‘There’s no mistaking him. God, he must have escaped somehow.’ In an undertone he explained to the DI who Hamlyn was.

  ‘We ought to arrest him,’ she said.

  ‘That might be difficult.’ He turned to me as another door slammed, this one of those on the house by the sound of it. ‘I’m going to make for that tree over there before I do anything else. Watch from here and cover me if you can, don’t move away from here. I mean it! Don’t move from here!’

  Then he had gone and, whoever was over by the house and whatever they were doing, they did not notice him.

  I peered around the corner of the shed. Already aware that some kind of security lighting had been activated by the arrival of the car I was unprepared for how bright it was, the yard to the rear of the house lit in a circle of light, like a stage. Clement Hamlyn was standing facing the building talking to another man who must have emerged from it, the latter carrying a firearm that looked like a sub-machine gun. They were talking in low voices, not loud enough for me to hear what was being said.

  I could see Patrick by the tree, this a mature specimen with a usefully wide trunk. Then he moved again, bent low, obviously endeavouring to get himself into a more favourable position and went from my sight. The actual choreography of this kind of thing is a mystery to me, I simply do not understand the tactics of warfare. His one huge advantage was that those by the house would be virtually blinded by the blazing security lights, unable to see anything in the near darkness beyond.

  ‘You bloody animal, you can’t deny it, you raped her!’ the man with the gun suddenly yelled. I was fairly sure it was Daniel Coates.

  ‘How was I to know she was your trollop?’ Hamlyn’s voice boomed back.

  ‘This is Sonya we’re talking about, not some tart I picked up in the street! She rang me and told me you’d not only raped her but pushed her out of the car in some God-awful slum.’

  ‘Look, all I want is somewhere to stay for a couple of days.’

  ‘Not only that, you took it into your thick head to act alone and blackmail the Trents, forcing them to let you use their house to hide stuff in. What the hell for? You know damned well I have plenty of storage. And you killed Hereward, didn’t you?’

  ‘He was bloody useless!’

  ‘Get out of my sight! This is where you and I part company – for good.’

  ‘At least let me have a drink!’

  ‘You’re still not listening. I wish to God I’d shot you on the boat instead of just making you grovel for your money. Clear out or you’ll end up in that nice little hole in the ground over there.’ The weapon jerked, presumably pointing at where it was for a second or so.

  ‘Shall I call up help?’ Sturrock hissed from behind me.

  ‘There’s no time,’ I said. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Just give me a bottle and I’ll go away,’ Hamlyn pleaded hoarsely. ‘We used to be chums, Danny. You know that.’

  ‘You used to do as you were told but now you’re a complete shit!’ Coates bawled.

  Patrick’s voice cut through Hamlyn starting to reply.

  ‘Armed police! You’re under arrest!’ he shouted. ‘Put that weapon down and lie face down on the ground or we open fire!’

  The weapon made a quiet but rapid coughing sound and Clement Hamlyn was flung backwards as though a rag doll. It carried on firing, Coates spraying the entire area before him in a large parabola with hundreds of shots scything through the greenery. I flung myself down, succeeding in thumping Sturrock on the head with the palm of my hand as I did so, the pair of us ending up more or less flat on the ground. Bullets tore and smashed into the woodwork above our heads, showering us with splinters. Seconds later I crawled to the end of the shed to look out but was forced to stand upright again in order to see as long grass blocked my view.

  Gingerly – he probably could not see anything as it was almost dark – Coates was walking over to the spot roughly where I had last spotted Patrick, only a matter of fifty yards from me. I heard him say something; he then quickly aimed the weapon as he appeared to detect a sudden movement and fired a short burst.

  Two further shots rang out.

  I ran to the spot where Coates had fallen. He was moving, trying to reach out to where the weapon lay on the grass near him. A matter of yards away, I put another shot into the ground near him and he froze.

  There was a rustling sound and Patrick appeared close by. ‘No, you couldn’t see me,’ he said to Coates. ‘That was just my jacket.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked him.

  ‘No, he fired too high.’

  Sturrock arrived, out of breath for at least two reasons.

  ‘I’ve broken all my own rules,’ Patrick told her, flashing his little torch over the man on the ground. ‘I normally shoot to kill a man armed with a weapon like this as they can cause untold carnage even when dying and it’s a huge risk to try to knock the thing out of their hands. Get up, Danny boy, you fell over on impact and it’s only your hands that hurt.’

  Coates scrambled to his feet, muttering and nursing his right hand.

  ‘Nice boat in that shed over there,’ Patrick drawled.

  ‘I like power boats,’ Coates mumbled.

  ‘For a new project running drugs from Northern France to somewhere not too far from here?’

  No answer.

  ‘I have news for you. The cops and navies are using choppers to catch them now. Well, here you are, Detective Inspector,’ Patrick went on. ‘Daniel Coates – far too valuable as a source of info about serious international crime than to be in a body bag right now.’

  ‘He’s SOCA’s suspect, surely,’ she said.

  ‘But you’re the senior officer present. Strictly speaking, I’m only a constable.’

  ‘Then please take charge of that weapon.’

  ‘It’s wrecked and, as I’m sure you’re aware, is a Heckler and Koch MP5 SD, the last letters meaning that it’s silenced.’

  ‘It occurs to me that if I’d called up help he could have shot them all to pieces with it as they arrived.’

  Oh, yes.

  NINETEEN

  ‘I missed,’ I said. ‘It could have resulted in your death.’

  ‘Did you fire from by the shed?’

  ‘Yes, my
husband told me to stay there and for once I did as I was told.’

  Patrick was stretched out luxuriously on one of the sofas in the hotel bar – we virtually had the place to ourselves – a tot of his favourite single malt at his elbow. ‘It was a long shot in next to no light for a hand gun. I’m glad you didn’t hit him.’

  Not surprisingly, Hamlyn was dead, having been shot several times from point-blank range. Only within the past hour had we been informed what had happened. The man’s health having apparently taken a turn for the worse, he had collapsed and been taken to hospital with two of the remand staff to keep an eye on him. But it had all been pretence and as soon as the ambulance doors had been opened on arrival he had made a run for it, knocking the heads together of his escort. Exactly what followed had not yet been established but at some stage he had stolen a car and, presumably, driven it straight to Sussex where he knew there was shelter and hopefully, at the top of his list, alcohol.

  We had left DI Sturrock to deal with the aftermath as soon as her reinforcements had arrived. She had been in reflective mood but I guessed relieved at not having a loose cannon around any longer and had arranged for us to be given a lift back into Steyning. A hot shower and fresh clothing had never felt so good.

  ‘How long have you had that dress?’ Patrick asked, emerging from a reverie.

  ‘About five years. Why?’

  ‘I can’t remember seeing it before, that’s all.’

  ‘I wore it around a week ago.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Absolutely starving.’

  We went in to dinner.

  The following morning Patrick received a phone call from Jessica Sturrock. She had been contacted by Greenway – ‘So pleasant for a commander!’ – who had congratulated her on her arrest of Coates and gone on to say that he would be in touch with her senior officers. Sturrock had reported that the suspect had received hospital treatment for two broken fingers and that she would await orders. She then told Patrick that she had pointed out that she would not have been able to achieve what she had without the support of one of the commander’s own teams. Greenway had brushed aside her thanks, saying it was his personnel’s job: support. All Patrick had to do now was attend the police station and arrest Coates on behalf of SOCA, each police authority dealing with their own specific crimes.