by Ru Pringle
It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to him. Coira’s rockpool eyes hold his intently for a moment. Then she kisses him on the mouth. Her lips seem too cold to be alive.
‘You should probably go below, Coira – put on extra layers. It’s going to be a long evening.’
CHAPTER 56
______________
Feeding Pigeons
‘LORNA.’
‘Sebastian. News?’
‘Jesus. Where do I start? Fan is a veritable turd-magnet today.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘You go first.’
‘Very well. I have some good news, actually. We got our fingerprints off the car.’
‘Really? Derek Planter came through?’
‘He did. I must say it seems to have been a very thorough piece of investigative work, with little to go on. With perhaps a dose of luck. He traced it to a recycling yard. The car was scheduled for compaction, but fortunately a power-cut …’
‘Sorry Lorna: short version please.’
‘Very well. Our kayaker is one Marcellus Ungar. Son of immigrants from Romania. Ex- army Special Forces Reserve. For the last ten years, very much a merc.’
‘Nice work.’
‘Wait: this is where it starts getting interesting. Soo-Ling’s been busy. I suspect she’s been relishing a chance to slip back into old habits. Anyway, it turns out that Ungar was part of a loose group of ex-military contractors with a history of government work. The kind who get called by people who would rather not get their hands dirty. And get this …’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s CCTV and other evidence that no less than ten of this group – that we know of – were on the coast between Benderloch, just north of Oban, and Tayinloan, south of Craobh Haven, the night Coira Keir fled from Edinburgh.’
‘Bloody … hell. Lorna, get off this ’phone now. Destroy it. Do you … remember a warm January evening five years ago? Feeding pigeons with soggy chips?’
‘I … I think so.’
‘Meet me there. Fifteen minutes.’
SEBASTIAN BLAKESLEE turns the ’phone off and rips out the battery. He realises his heart is going like a sewing machine. He cuts the SIM into four with the knife from his ankle holster, pulls out the ’phone’s electrical innards, smashes them as thoroughly as he can with the butt of his pistol, flushes half the pieces down the toilet, and pockets the rest. Having checked the pistol is in good order and the magazine is full, he pulls on the cargo jeans and warm hoodie he keeps for emergencies, shoves his tablet in one of the jeans’ oversized pockets and goes down to the lobby.
He doesn’t look about as he exits the hotel. His best defence, assuming that he’s not being completely paranoid, is staying inconspicuous. He affects the slouching swagger of a man decades younger than the fifty-five-year-old any watchers will expect. His physique at least is up to the challenge, and if he keeps his head down, his hood’s enough to hide his grey hair and well-used face.
Streets near the hotel are busy enough to offer decent cover. He pushes through scrums of pedestrians, each time allowing a piece of ’phone to fall from his pocket. He backtracks twice and stops at a couple of second-hand shop windows, but he can’t see any obvious tails.
As the crowds dwindle, he finds himself passing the North British Headquarters building. Its front is still blackened, and the police presence is conspicuous. In the corner of his vision, as well as an armed riot bus, he counts fifteen battlesuited officers with carbines.
He walks on, gaze lowered.
Beyond the old Palace of Holyrood he reaches a roundabout where he angles off through unofficial allotments and the plastic-roofed shacks of the Radical Road slums. Even on a cool day like this, the smell of sewage and decomposing waste is overpowering. Exotic faces watch him from polythene windows and lanes of mud lined with corrugated sheet.
Soon he’s above the highest roofs. Waiting for him on a bench below the paint-daubed escarpment of Salisbury Crags is a tall, middle-aged woman with elegant raven eyebrows, wearing a maroon hijab. The wind is gusty, and she has a hand on her headscarf to stop it flapping.
‘Salaam Alaikum.’
‘Were you followed?’
Lorna’s look lets him know exactly how stupid this question is. He sits beside her. It’s a grey and raw late afternoon, but at least it’s not raining. Bass rhythms and smoke waft up from the slums below.
‘They were staking out the coast,’ he says, slightly breathlessly. Hell. Not as fit as you thought.
‘Seems that way, doesn’t it?’
‘But have you thought through the implications, Lorna? The logistics don’t stack up. Even with insider knowledge, I can’t see how they could have got all those personnel into position in the time it took Keir to flee the crime scene. A couple of hours?’ He shakes his head. ‘And that’s if they knew where she was going. Why would they know where she was going?’
‘This occurred to me, too.’
‘But it’s not just that, is it?’
‘No. It means … It means they knew about the bombing before it happened.’
‘Exactly. Bloody hell.’
‘And if they knew about it before it happened …’
‘Yeah. Why the hell didn’t they stop it?’
They sit in silence for a few moments, staring at the rutted tarmac of the path. Sebastian is kicking himself for failing to join all the dots earlier. Maybe it’s forgivable. The picture had simply been bigger than either of them expected – or wanted – to see.
‘Before we get excited,’ Lorna cautions, ‘is it possible Keir’s cell was infiltrated, or under surveillance, by this … hypothetical group, whoever they are? What if measures were in place for containing the conspirators, but then Teith, McCoull and the others became spooked? Caught their watchers off-guard by bringing their schedule forward?’
Sebastian tugs at his lips. ‘It’s possible,’ he concedes. ‘But it still raises the question: who are these bastards? The Service is supposed to be the last line of inland security. Why have we known nothing about this operation?’
‘What was your other news?’
He leans back, suddenly exhausted. ‘Let’s see how this affects your take on everything. Okay – item one.’ He swallows. ‘This morning, Kenneth McCoull was found in his cell, hanged from the edge of his bed by his trousers.’
Lorna’s head snaps round. ‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Wish I was. I don’t have to say this gives us a major headache. Or ten. This may be it for me. Certainly is as head of this taskforce. I’ve decided to do forensics off the books just now; keep the body on ice for as long as I can. But I expect word will reach Thames House tomorrow if we’re lucky. You’ll need to take over, Lorna. I’ll shield you as much as I can, and I need you to promise you’ll play along, at least until we’re on top of this mess.’
‘My God. Of course, Sebastian. I …’
She looks away.
‘When will forensics be done?’
‘This evening. The people we’re dealing with aren’t amateurs, though. Now Derek Planter’s found that car, they’ll know they can’t afford another slip-up. I’m not expecting forensics to find anything on McCoull that’s inconsistent with suicide.’
‘But how? Who knew?’
‘Moles at the prison? Who knows? Want my other bit of cheer?’
‘Not really, but go on.’
‘Prime Minister John Faulkner is dead.’
For a while Lorna just looks into the distance, at the black spires of Edinburgh’s Old Town. ‘When?’
‘Three this morning. It’s not official yet, of course. Word is that there won’t be an announcement for a while. “In the interests of stability”.’
He snorts.
‘In the meantime, Peter Coaker is apparently drawing up his replacement cabinet. Early indications are that Vernon Jones will be his deputy. A couple of inside sources are saying a new permanen
t position’s being created in the civil service. A non-party Special Advisor to the PM. Rumour has it the appointment will be filled by a friend of ours.’
She looked nonplussed. Then her eyes widen. ‘Sir Trevor Bolton-Clemens.’
He’s nodding. Lorna frowns.
‘Somewhat irregular, don’t you think? He’s a peer. And –’
‘Permanent secretary for the MoD. Would you believe it if I told you as well that an unusual number of cabinet positions are rumoured to be going to military officers, or politicians with personal military connections?’
Lorna seems to crumple. It’s like watching an inflatable doll with a leak. The daylight’s grown increasingly dim, but he thinks her eyes are welling up.
She squints at him.
‘Is this a coup, Sebastian?’
He can’t answer. Just shakes his head. Christ, it’s chilly up here. Rubbing his hands, he turns at the sound of footsteps, nodding as a pair of body-armoured armed police pass on patrol. The nearest responds with a tip of his helmet, and the two bobbies continue down the hill towards the slums.
‘I feel …’
‘I know. Me too.’
‘What can we do?’
‘Long-term?’ Sebastian purses his lips, pushing air between them with a hiss. ‘God alone knows. Short-term, we do our jobs. And we do them well. Our only surviving lead is Keir. She has all the answers now. So, we interrogate her, we shield her as best we can. And if she’s responsible for any of this, we bring her to justice.’
He shrugs.
‘What else can we do?’
He doesn’t like how plaintive he sounds.
CHAPTER 57
______________
Foundered
TIED TOGETHER, every length of scavenged rope on the boat stretches barely sixty metres. Coira can see in Alistair’s eyes that he doesn’t think it’s enough.
They say little as Alistair cleats one end to a winch and she ties the other to the little inflatable dinghy. As she wrestles to get the thing past Alistair’s head, it’s ripped from her grip and takes off like a kite, slapping into the water upside down a couple of boat-lengths away. She hauls it laboriously back in, struggling to right it as Alistair works the sails and the tiller to keep them holding position.
They’re perhaps half a kilometre from the stricken vessel. She can feel Otter’s Pocket being driven relentlessly towards the shore by the swell and the wind.
Aboard the container ship, a long line of people is watching from the perimeter railing. She waves. Gets waves in return. Making her movements as big and deliberate as possible, she points at the dinghy. Holds up two fingers. To underline the point, she points at herself and Alistair.
‘Think they’ll understand?’
‘If they can see.’
‘You think anyone on board knows Morse code?’
His face lights up. ‘Worth a try! There’s a card with an alphabet on it in the drawer under the desk. Should also be a hand-torch. Simple on-off switch.’
It takes her seconds to find them. Back in the spray-raked cockpit she starts flashing a halting message with the torch. Her fingers are numb, and she can barely hold the plastic card still enough to read it in the low light. Twice she makes mistakes and has to start again.
She can see animated discussions taking place on the boat. There seems to be jostling.
‘I can’t hold us here forever, Coira! It’ll be dark before long. We have to get this started.’
She tosses her Morse kit into the cabin as Alistair thumbs the ignition switch. With a belch of diesel smoke the engine stutters to life, resuming its steady clatter.
‘Okay – main down.’
Alistair points the bow into the wind, causing both sails to flap hellishly. Coira releases the clutch for the mainsail, using her weight to manhandle armfuls of heavy sail fabric onto the boom. She can barely contain it. ‘Tidy it up with the straps!’ Alistair’s yelling, hauling on the furler to coil the jib round the forestay. ‘If you can’t, wrap that sheet around it to calm it down!’
It’s a relief when the flapping stops, but without the stabilising effect of the mainsail, the boat wallows wildly. Alistair’s having to wrestle the tiller to keep the bow steady. The engine note falters and then rises as he pushes the little throttle lever backwards.
‘I’m reversing us in. We’ll be too fast otherwise, and I won’t be able to control her.’
He’s not exaggerating. Even with the engine at half speed, the ship approaches rapidly. She watches the dinghy vanish into troughs before being spat up like a cork as the next wave rolls through. The sea is dashing itself to foam against the blue and brown cliff of the container ship’s side. Its sound is thunderous. With each assault, the massive vessel rocks in a way that suggests it’s been impaled. On something that’s probably sawing into its hull with every surge.
As the hulk looms closer, it’s clear that a crack has opened in its side. The deck above is flexing like a hinge. At the nearest point of the railing, the line of people has become a knot. She sees fat ropes being tied around narrow chests.
‘They’re going to lower people down the side.’
Alistair clamps his lips together. He’s not enjoying any of this. ‘I’ll need to concentrate on keeping us straight,’ he shouts, pulling his oilskin hood back. ‘It’s game over if we get pushed side-on and a wave breaks over us. We’ll roll and lose the mast.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Watch the dinghy. Tell me “left”, “right”, “forwards” or “back”. I’ll watch our depth.’
‘Got it.’
All of a sudden, a wave seems to rise out of nowhere. It buries the front half of Otter’s Pocket in froth, pitching the bow down and bulldozing the boat backwards. Coira keeps her feet only by grabbing the boom. Grimacing as he fights the tiller, Alistair guns the engine. ‘Shit – waves are breaking already. We haven’t long!’
‘Boat coming up fast. Dinghy’s not far from it, I think.’ Waves bouncing off the approaching barrier mean the yacht is being swamped from both sides. The wrecked ship’s railing already feels like it’s directly above her. ‘Go left. Left! That’s it … Straighten up now!’
Two men are being lowered towards the spray. She can’t see how they can possibly reach the dinghy without being dashed to death against the flank of the ship. ‘This is … marginal, Coira!’
‘Just seconds more. We need …’ Shit, she can barely see anything. ‘Maybe another twenty metres? Turn right – starboard. No – right!’
Another wave breaks over the ship. Another backwards surge. For a heart-stopping moment it feels like the yacht has completely sunk, but then water sluices off the deck and she can see they’re still buoyant.
‘That’s enough! Hold us here – Alistair?’
‘Trying!’ he yelps over the roar of water, ramming the throttle lever as far back as it’ll go. He scoops seawater off his face. ‘Oh Jesus – we’re only just holding station here. You’ve got thirty seconds, tops, then we’ll need the sails to get us out. Engine won’t do it.’
She watches the dinghy get hurled against the ship in an explosion of spray. There’s something cartoonish about the sight, but the truth is she’s terrified: it’s clear how out of control things are. Then she sees the dinghy defy gravity. It’s stuck, a third of the way up the boat’s side. It takes her a few moments to realise the two men have a line strung between them. Somehow, they’ve used it to snag the dinghy.
If you two survive, you sure as fuck earned it.
She can see they’re working hard to haul in the rope connecting them. At the same time, people at the rail are lowering them while bringing them towards each other. It’s an inspired plan. It’s going to work. Then another wave buries the deck of Otter’s Pocket, hiding everything but the container ship’s bridge as it rolls past. It hits the approaching hull with a sound like a bomb going off, and when the spray has blown away, the two men are gone.
There’s a clamour of dismay from above. ‘We’re going to hit!’ shrieks Alistair, wildly staring as he pulls at the jib sheet. ‘Help me!’ The boat lurches horribly, accelerating backwards at the man-made precipice as though it’s being sucked down a giant plughole. ‘Coira – untie the furler and crank the jib tight, NOW!’
She doesn’t need telling twice. Fumbling the furler off its cleat, she snatches the jib sheet from him, hauling it taut in a blur of hands before looping it round the winch and cranking the handle, convinced their lives depend on it.
‘Mainsail – haul!’ Gaping at the closing gap, Alistair waits until she’s untied the sail and managed to get it halfway up the mast.
Then he flips the boat sideways.
The jib slams taut, but half the mainsail is still flapping loose. ‘Clutch!’ he bellows. ‘Do NOT drop the sail – jam the halyard in the clutch!’ Otter’s Pocket is picking up speed, but still being driven sideways towards the ship, which now towers above the mast. ‘Hurry – strap down those loose bits of sail!’
Panting, Coira staggers forward and tries to climb on to the heaving cabin roof, but her feet are snatched from under her. She falls, hard. Disorientated, she finds herself wedged against the rail, half underwater. Having clawed her way back onto the roof, she manages to snake a line around the boom and the flailing parts of the sail and tighten it.
Alistair’s face is grey. His eyes are huge. The ship’s side is passing quite fast now, close enough for Coira to see individual barnacles. ‘Wave!’ Alistair’s screaming, and as the tiller creaks and the yacht lurches into the wind she glimpses a chaotic white mass eclipsing the sky …
Then she’s tangled in the rail again, listening to some very un-Alistair-like language as water drains around her. Choking, she looks up. A dripping overhang of rust is racing past. It’s so near her face, she can feel its coolness on her skin.