by David Carter
Steel narrowboats are heavy beasts and need a lot of oomph to get going; hence the three fat batteries sitting below floor level in a line to one side of the hatch. The first for internal lighting and power was switched on. The other two were off. He turned the red isolator keys on both, did a quick check of the wiring, before closing up and returning to the main cabin.
‘Okay?’ said Doug Fisher.
Gornall sniffed and nodded and said, ‘I bloody hope so. Come outside, Greg, I’ll need some help,’ and he unlocked and went through the doors to the open rear deck.
Moonlight played over the dark water, brighter than before. Their eyes soon grew accustomed to the dark. As far as they could see, back and forth, there were no other craft on the canal, and that suited.
Greg said, ‘How far are we going?’
‘Not far, maybe three miles.’
Gornall switched on the external lights, one white on the bows and stern, and a red and green on port and starboard.
Greg asked, ‘Is it usual to move at night?’
‘No,’ said Gornall, ‘it isn’t. Holiday boat hirers are forbidden to move after dark so the canal will be quiet. But there are no laws against it. We’re not transgressing. We’ll be fine.’
He turned the engine on, but only half way, and it remained silent.
‘It takes a minute or two to warm up. While it’s doing that, you jump off and untie front and back; and get back on.’
Greg nodded and skipped onto the towpath.
Whoever had fixed the ropes sure knew what they were doing. Professional work fore and aft, as Greg released the front ropes from the fat old bollard and tossed them onto the craft’s flat top. He heard the engine being turned full on. The Volvo engine coughed and growled into the night, echoing across the dank countryside. Gossamer thin fine rain came and went, slipping down from the Berwyn Mountains, soaking everything. As the engine settled down, the craft shuddered, the bows chose freedom, and eased away from the bank.
Greg was all fingers and thumbs, trying to release the stern. It was trickier than it looked. But there was no point in panicking. The boat couldn’t go anywhere until he’d set her free. Then it was loose, and the stern began easing away. He threw the rope onto the rear deck and jumped on before it was too late, standing beside a satisfied looking Gornall.
The man nodded, gave Greg a look of approval, and the engine a little more juice. Water spat from beneath the stern, and the Welsh Diviner began her stately progress along the canal, heading westwards into North Wales. Greg was desperate to know Gornall’s plan for Fellday, and couldn’t wait any longer.
‘How’s it going to... what’s the main idea... when do you want me... I mean, what are you expecting me to do?’
‘There’s only one thing you’ll need to do, and you’ll recognise your moment the second it appears.’
‘No gunfire?’
Gornall smirked in the moonlight, patted the pistol deep in his trousers, and said, ‘I think not.’
Greg nodded his obvious relief.
Ten minutes later, Gornall said, ‘Boats ahead!’ and he switched on the main frontal headlight that shot its beam down the waterway like an arrow, picking out two or three similar long boats, moored in a line on the right bank.
He reduced speed from the maximum recommended four miles per hour, steering closer to the left bank, giving the sleeping boats as wide a berth as possible on the narrow waterway.
The first boat they slipped past was dark and asleep. Didn’t resemble a holiday cruiser, not smart enough, and it didn’t look as if it had moved in months. It seemed empty and was maybe for sale. The second was long, sixty foot plus, boasting many square windows, all curtains closed, reminiscent of a thirties railway carriage, contrasting colours, lots of cabins and berths inside, three couples on board, all tucked up, not wanting to be disturbed, real busy with each other. They wouldn’t notice a thing.
The third one was different. A permanently occupied boat, a man and a woman in their late fifties on board, grizzled and tanned, the man unshaven, the woman with long and grey flyaway hair. A white terrier appeared out of nowhere topsides and began running back and forth in the darkness, its bark slicing through the night like a razor.
Gornall and Greg stared at the animal as if looks alone might quieten it, but it didn’t work. The curtains on the second window were thrown back, and the third one too. They saw a man’s aging snarling face at window two, with the ghostlike image of a bewildered looking woman staring back from three.
‘No moving at night!’ the man yelled, his voice barking through the open window. ‘Bloody holidaymakers! No freaking idea! No consideration, either,’ as he closed the curtains with a bad-tempered swish.
Gornall wanted to yell back but restrained himself, satisfying himself by raising his nose and turning away to the left side. Greg didn’t look away. Locking eyes with the guy before the curtains came across, wondering what his story was. Why was he bunked up on an old and dilapidated boat? Maybe their house had been repossessed, and this was their last resting place. It wasn’t uncommon.
The woman always displayed a gentle smile to passing people slipping by in the night, as if she hadn’t had contact with another human being all day. They heard her coo to the dog, ‘Boris! Be quiet, come in darling, be a good boy,’ and the little dog obeyed and disappeared.
Minutes later, the sleeping boats were well aft, as the Welsh Diviner slithered forward through the mirror-like water, roach and tench and rudd sleeping beneath their flat bottom, as the propeller muddied the water and threw it away behind. Ten more minutes and the ground began falling away on both sides, the canal perched high on an embankment.
Gornall said, ‘Tell Doug to come out.’
Greg knew better than to ask why, and obeyed.
Inside, Fellday was sitting on the floor, looking uncomfortable, one arm shackled to the cooker, while Doug was sprawled on the long bench seat, studying his mobile, seeking a better signal.
‘Gornall wants to see you,’ muttered Greg, nodding at the door.
Doug bobbed his head and stood up and said, ‘Watch him,’ beckoning at Fellday, who looked close to sleep.
Doug went outside to take the tiller, and a moment later Gornall came in and closed the door.
‘Not long now,’ he said, glancing at the others.
Fellday opened his eyes and mumbled, ‘What are you going to do? Scupper the boat and leave me in it chained up to drown?’
It wasn’t a bad idea, thought Gornall, though thinking about it, no one would ever drown in that section of canal for the water was only three feet deep.
‘Stand up,’ Gornall ordered, nodding Greg to come closer in case he needed help. Gornall unclipped the cuffs from the cooker. Fellday saw a chance to make a break for it. He pushed Greg hard away. Greg fell back onto the opposite bench seat. In poor light, Shane Fellday looked slim and athletic. The truth was, his body had been attacked and decimated through years of substance abuse, leaving him weak and shaky, and no match for Gornall, who, though older, was a broad and powerful man. He grabbed Fellday round the shoulders and by the time Greg was back in the fray, Gornall had clipped the cuffs on Fellday’s wrists behind his back.
‘Behave yourself!’ ordered Gornall, tap slapping Fellday’s face.
The guy didn’t reply, contenting himself with spitting on the floor.
‘Keep an eye on him a sec,’ said Gornall, and he disappeared up the boat, returning a moment later with a dark blue pillowcase. He tore it into long narrow strips, perhaps five inches wide, as Greg and Fellday both slouched on the same bench seat, staring at the guy, and wondering.
When he’d finished, Gornall said, ‘We have something to show you, Shane, but it has to be a surprise.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see. I think you’ll like it. Stand up.’
Greg was surprised to see Fellday do as he was told. Gornall went behind him, slipped the blue cotton strip around his head and eyes, tied it tight i
n a bow, and stood back and admired his work.
‘What the hell are you playing at? Blind man’s frigging bluff?’
‘I told you, we have a big surprise for you. We’ll be stopping in a few minutes. Be patient. The night is young. You’re going to love it. I’ll be back before you know it,’ and Gornall disappeared again.
Forty-Five
In Cornucopia in Mayfair, Howard Meade was pondering how best to proceed. He’d left word the moment Ricky appeared: he must go to the office. As he waited, he thought again about that ridiculous letter. What did the cretin think he was doing?
It must be a trap. But was there anything to be lost in going to see if Liam Banaghan was standing alone in the centre of the large forecourt? Go or not to go? That was the question. And if they didn’t attend, what would be the ramifications of that?
Banaghan must still be seething and hurting about one of his daughters being killed and eaten; and by both houses at that. Howard chuckled. It was deserved payback for Grahame’s death, and one thing was certain, the manner of Eilish’s passing would be remembered forever.
A tap came to the open office door, and young Ricky put his head round the corner.
‘You wanted to see me, father?’
‘Yeah, come in, sit down,’ and the slight Ricky did as he was told.
Howard sniffed and stared across at his least favourite child.
‘What went on with Candy Crosthwaite?’
Ricky shifted in his seat.
‘You know what happened, dad. I needed the bog. When I got back, the guy was knocking ten bells out of her. I called Merv, but he’s a useless article and didn’t come straight away. I don’t know why you employ him.’
‘I employ him because he’s reliable. He doesn’t slope off to the khazi when he’s on duty. He gets things done, and he gets results, all traits that you could do with taking on board.’
‘Sorry, father, but you know I don’t enjoy the work.’
‘The work feeds, clothes, and houses you. If you don’t like it or want it, you can always leave and provide for yourself,’ and Howard pointed in the vague direction of the main front door. ‘There’s a big wide world out there.’
‘I want to be a photographer, dad.’
Howard repeated the remark, mimicking Ricky’s effete voice.
Richard shook his head and pulled a face.
‘This is your last warning, Richard,’ said Howard, standing up and going round the other side of the desk. ‘Shape up or ship out.’
‘I’m doing my best, dad,’ said Ricky, standing and turning away, keen to get out of there.
Howard slapped him hard across the right ear.
Ricky stumbled, but didn’t go down. His hand went to his ear and rubbed hard in an effort to stop the painful stinging and zinging. The kid thought of saying there was no need for that, but knew it was pointless, and he hustled out through the door, his father’s voice trailing after him, ‘No more chances, boy!’
Howard grinned and went to the photocopier and ran off ten copies of Liam’s crap.
An hour later, dinner was cottage pie with peaches and ice cream to follow. Everyone was there, and all through the meal Howard thought of telling them of the letter, but figured it was best done at the end. Cynthia noticed Richard’s red and swollen ear, and give the kid credit, he brushed it off by saying he received it while dealing with a rowdy customer.
‘Poor love,’ sympathised Cynthia, as the last pudding spoon went down.
Howard glanced round at his brood. Johnny, Billy and Ricky on one side, Roger, Suzanne and Caroline opposite, with Cynth at the far end, looking round for coffee.
Suzanne and Caroline were making small talk, gossiping and giggling about Madonna’s latest cheeky video. John and William were talking about Arsenal FC, while the others seemed miles away, or half asleep.
‘I’ve received a puzzling letter,’ said Howard, his deep voice booming down the table, demanding attention.
‘Who from, love?’ said Cynthia, as everyone tuned in.
‘That’s the amazing thing, it’s from Liam Banaghan.’
‘Banaghan?’ spat out Johnny. ‘What does that bastard want?’
They all waited for the answer.
‘He wants a meet, this Sunday morning at his warehouse.’
Five different questions were fired at Howard in one bout of family chatter.
He held up his palm and said, ‘One at a time. I’ve made a copy of the letter, but I want them back,’ as he reached under the table and grabbed the papers and sent them down the line.
A couple of minutes total silence followed before Johnny tossed his copy on the table, saying, ‘It’s a trap. I hope you’re not thinking of going.’
The “trap” word was echoed again several times, before Howard said, ‘What’s he going to do? Kill us all on the forecourt in broad daylight on a Sunday morning? I don’t think so, and anyway, we’re capable of massing firepower of our own. Banaghan doesn’t frighten me. I’m thinking of going, and I’m wondering which of my family are up for supporting me.’
After much heated discussion, they all were, except Cynthia and Ricky, who said, ‘Someone ought to stay behind and mind the house, and anyway, mother can’t be left alone if there’s anything dodgy going on.’
That was a fair response, albeit a typical one, though taking the two girls along was maybe a step too far. Howard had previously alerted the two guys who’d sorted out Eilish, and they were preparing themselves, oiling their weapons, taking some practise in the firing range downstairs, and looking forward to a fun weekend.
‘Okay,’ said Johnny, seeing which way the wind was blowing. ‘We go, we listen, and we get out of there and ponder our next move.’
‘I’m definitely coming,’ said Suzanne, because she wanted to see Eamonn again, as Caroline added, ‘Me too. I will not be left out this time.’
NONE OF THEM COULD have known that Walter had reassembled the letter from a spent carbon ribbon. Or that Sergeant Vairs had grabbed it from him to set off to see the bosses. Two minutes later he returned, muttering something about, ‘I always intended on insisting you were there, Darriteau. I just had to get permission first.’
‘Of course,’ said Walter, recognising a lie when he heard one.
When they were all back in the Chief Super’s office, being rewarded with top coffee, the main man kicked things off.
‘The big question is, will Meade take the bait, and what do we do about it?’
‘Another question that interests me,’ said DCI Grimsdale, ‘is do we have enough evidence to arrest the whole bloody lot of them?’
Forty-Six
On the canal, deep into the night, as the narrowboat slipped silently along, the ground fell away until there was no land on either side. They were cruising through the air in a metal bath akin to a long and wide cattle trough.
Twelve feet across, three hundred yards long, built over two hundred years before, perched on eighteen vast brick and stone stilts, sweeping over eighteen arches, 126 feet above the River Dee.
At its highest point above the river, Gornall cut the engine and stopped the boat, switched off all lights, and called Doug Fisher from the cabin. He came out to keep watch as Gornall went inside.
‘It’s time,’ he said, inspecting Fellday. ‘In a minute you’re going to see something you have never seen before.’
‘What? Like cows mating at the dead of night? You a perv, or something?’ replied Fellday, as he let go a stupid laugh.
Gornall didn’t answer, but checked the blindfold was good, before nodding at Greg to take an arm.
‘What about my gear?’
‘You’ll get it back later.’
Fellday grimaced behind the cloth as they led him out into the damp night. At least the fine rain had cleared away, heading east towards Wrexham to give the town its customary soaking.
Outside, on the small deck, Fellday said, ‘Bloody cold out here,’ shivering in his skinny T-shirt.
�
�We’ll only be a minute,’ said Gornall. ‘You’ll be back inside in a jiff.’
Greg glanced round at the fab view. Far away, lights were twinkling in some small Welsh town. In the distance a big dog barked once but fell silent. Way below, the Dee burbled its way down towards Chester fifteen miles distant, where he hoped his son and daughter were sound asleep.
Atop the aqueduct, in their exposed position, the wind was getting up. Within the breeze, a faint man-made smell brought in by the prevailing wind reminded them they weren’t far from the chemical works.
The boat had settled in the centre of a huge bridge, though on second take, not quite in the middle, a tad towards the near side. The river level was low, exposing rocks glinting in the moonlight. Not smooth pebbles or crazy jagged brutes, but angled boulders washed down from the mountains over millennia.
On the right side of the aqueduct was a narrow pedestrian pathway with a tall iron-railing fence on the side, protecting bold hikers and dog walkers and the downright curious. But there was no one about. On the left of the narrow trough of a canal, there was no pathway or fence. The narrowboat was stuck there to the metal bank, as if attracted by magnetism. Maybe it was too, steel hull, metal trough, it was possible.
Gornall tugged Shane closer and said, ‘I’m taking off the cuffs.’
‘About frigging time!’
‘I’m going to show you the sight I wanted you to see. But first, you need to take a step up. About a foot, we’ll hold you, you’re perfectly safe,’ as Gornall and Doug tightened their iron grip on the man’s skinny arms.
‘I don’t know what you weirdos are up to, or what gives you a high, but the sooner this nonsense is over the better.’
Gornall said, ‘Step up now.’
Fellday did, stepping perfectly onto the gunwales.
‘Spot on,’ encouraged Gornall, ‘bear with me one minute,’ and he reached for the blindfold with his free hand and tugged the bow. The cloth came free and sailed away on the breeze.