The Borough

by Steve Dockray

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Winner was getting cold and cramped. Almost as bad was the slight feeling of nausea induced by the bobbing motion of the boat and a faint but pervading smell of diesel fuel. It was half past eight and he had been there for an hour already.

  Getting past the security gate had been quite easy. The Thursday reconnaissance had confirmed that people came and went from the marina, even on a dark winter evening. There were lights shining out of three of the vessels, suggesting that they were actually lived in. In his thick sweater and anorak, Winner supposed that he looked like a typical marina user who'd come to check his moorings. A few minutes lurking behind a boarded-up boat trip booking kiosk had been rewarded by the arrival of a genuine marina user, who had pulled out a plastic entry card and slid it through the reader beside the gate. Winner had strolled out of the shadows and walked through behind him, the gate swinging shut and locking a few seconds later. To avoid the risk of the other man starting a conversation, Winner had turned off onto the first possible branch pontoon at the bottom of the slope. When all was quiet he had worked his way round to a boat moored opposite La Mouette and climbed into the rear deck well.

  He risked stretching out his legs a few times to keep the circulation going, then pulled his knees back to his chest. The night was dark, totally overcast, but the marina was lit for security reasons by several street light type lamps that kept the pontoons safe for walking. The corner of the deck well that Winner had chosen was lying in the shadow of the boat's superstructure, so that with his dark hood pulled well forward around his face he looked to be no more than a bundled-up tarpaulin or cockpit cover. The sides of the boat provided shelter from the steady cold wind, but still the iciness of the air was seeping into his clothes.

  From his vantage point he could see along the approach walkway and most of one side of La Mouette. Close to, it was larger than Winner had expected, certainly over forty feet long, if not more. There had been no suggestion of anyone being on board yet. The clanking of the rigging on the masts was getting on his nerves, though it would mask any small noises he might make in approaching La Mouette, once the meeting had started. Winner held his digital wristwatch close to his eyes and pushed the light button. Quarter to nine. There was always the risk that Cavendish might reschedule his appointments if he thought Winner knew his plans. How long would it be worth waiting if he didn't show up by nine?

  He was about to stretch out his legs again when he heard the distant clang of the security gate shutting. The sound of footsteps along the wooden slats of the pontoons preceded the arrival of two men. Although their faces were poorly lit, one of them could possibly be Riggs. The other was unfamiliar, but the right sleeve of his coat hung limp and empty, while around his neck there was a flash of white suggesting a sling for an injured arm.

  Winner shrunk back into the shadows as they came close and climbed onto La Mouette. After two or three minutes a steady humming noise could be heard and lights went on in the main central cabin. Presumably they were the advance party to get the boat warm and habitable for when Cavendish or any others arrived.

  Another ten minutes slipped by and Winner ate his emergency rations Mars Bar while he decided what to do next. It looked fairly straightforward to climb onto La Mouette, but would he be able to hear or see anything? If they posted a guard on deck, he wouldn't even get the chance to get that close. There was also the possibility that another marina user might see him climbing about. From time to time there were definitely security patrols as well, though whether they would bother walking so far out on the pontoons on such a cold night was uncertain. The only way he could stay out of sight would be to walk around on the upper level decking and lie on down on the far side, on the narrow part that ran past the windows. Even that assumed that they would have some sort of curtaining at the windows. If the glass was uncovered he'd be spotted straight away.

  Winner's thoughts turned to Sally. She was parked at the end of a small side street that led off the quayside about thirty yards away from the entrance. With no wish to repeat the tea-shop incident, she had chosen a place that was deep in shade and unlikely to be the chosen route for anyone heading for the marina. She had worn dark clothes and a hooded jacket. It would be cold for her, but at least she was out of the wind.

  At first Sally had been adamant that she should be the one to attempt the eavesdropping, but Winner had resisted, his main strength of argument being that it would look far more natural for a man to be visiting the marina on his own on a dark evening. In the end she had agreed, but only on condition that if further risks were involved, she expected to share them.

  The security gate clanged again and Winner peered into the gloom for the first glimpse of the next visitors. A minute later, two figures appeared from behind a boat that concealed part of the walkway. It was Cavendish and another man, deep in conversation as they walked along. Winner watched as Cavendish helped his companion on board. The man looked around, as if this was his first visit to La Mouette. There was a brief murmuring of voices before the door closed, and then it all went silent again.

  Winner listened for the sound of any other people about, then slowly unwound himself from his hiding place and climbed stiffly out onto the walkway. He moved slowly towards Cavendish's boat, partly through caution and partly because he was seized up from the cold. He stepped softly onto the rail surrounding the deck well, then eased himself up onto the higher level that ran round the edges of the main saloon. Just as he got there, the sound of the entrance gate closing was carried across on the wind.

  It was too late to go back.

  Winner worked his way round as fast as he dared, relieved to find that the windows were covered and his feet would not be seen from inside. He moved in a crouched position to keep a low profile, his fingers taking some of his weight and helping him to keep his balance despite the gentle rolling motion of the boat. He could only hope that the vessel was sufficiently solid and well built to conceal the sound of his movements. Precious seconds were ticking away as he eased himself down into a lying position outside the far side saloon windows. It was essential to avoid being seen by the latest arrival. He didn't dare look up as he heard footsteps in the deck well and the opening of the saloon door.

  "Where have you been?" Cavendish could be heard asking.

  "I'm sorry, Mr C. The motor wouldn't start. I had to run down."

  "Well now that you're here, just keep watch. If you see anyone approaching or anything odd, come and tell me. No listening at the door, either. You sit at the far end of the deck."

  The door closed and Winner wriggled about to get more comfortable. His hasty arrival had left him slightly short of a window and he wormed his way forward on his stomach until his head was next to the glass. There was a small gap in the window covering, no more than half an inch, but enough for him to see part of the interior by swaying his head slightly from side to side.

  Cavendish had his back to the window and appeared to be pouring out some drinks. The others were seated, but only Riggs' face was visible. Frustratingly, Winner could only hear the odd word, the rest being drowned out by the outdoor noises of the marina. Worse still, the presence of four people in what must still be a rather cold cabin was already starting to steam up the windows. He had put himself at risk, and now he couldn't hear and he couldn't see.

  As a last resort he tried to press his ear against the window, but it was painfully cold. He pulled his right hand from the warmth of his coat pocket and held it against the glass. Once his hand had warmed it a bit, he found he could touch it with his ear. He squashed up close to the window and pulled his hood over to block out the background noises. There was no way he could see in now, but the voices were clear enough to hear if he concentrated.

  "Are you sure about that, Miles?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

  "I'm confident. We'll keep an eye on them, of course, but I think we've probably frightened them off. The cash was John's idea. Those sort of people never have two penni
es to rub together, whatever their salaries. They won't want to jeopardise their chance to hang on to it."

  "That's right." Winner recognised the voice of the telephone caller who had tried to frighten him off. "We don't think they really know anything at all. All they've got is a list of Miles's companies, but they won't be able to make the connection with him. That man Stewart had got some inside information about the Prince of Wales Estate supply contract and they don't seem to have any of the details. Besides, that's all in the past. We've moved on to new things that they know nothing about."

  Winner eased his weight about to relieve the pressure on his hip bones. The speaker must be Riggs. He was the one who met with Cavendish the most, the only one who would be likely to talk as if they were in partnership.

  "How are things looking on the superstore front." Another voice, but fairly high pitched for a man. Probably not the large man that Winner had pushed down the stairs.

  "Rather amusing, really," said Cavendish. "The developers think we're having to lobby everyone to get a positive vote, but truth to tell there's very little opposition. Avery's kicking up a bit of a fuss, but nobody's taking much notice. The newspaper didn't seem to think that Avery's opinion warranted the front page. As far as I can see we should sail through the committee and get the approval rubber stamped by the full Council on the ninth of February. After that it's all systems go to make sure that we win the materials supplies contract. If you can let me have the true basic costs, Raymond, I'll talk with my inside man and see what he thinks we might be able to charge. After that he'll make sure that the tendering procedure produces the right results."

  "How much will he want for helping?"

  "Not a great deal. You can leave that to me. By the way, Mr Riggs will have quite a quantity of bank-notes to dispose of after February the ninth. Some of it is earmarked for your personal cash bonuses, but I shall be looking for your assistance to filter the rest back into legitimate funds."

  "What sort of amounts are we talking about?" asked 'Raymond'.

  "If you could personally process, say, a hundred thousand over two or three weeks, it would be a help."

  "I'm regularly offered container loads of supplies for cash, no questions. A cash float to enable me to carry a bigger un-booked stock would be very useful."

  "I can see you're learning our working methods well. This little bonus is a token appreciation of your early efforts. We always look after the loyal team members. Mr Vale will see you safely ashore."

  Winner wondered if the meeting was over, because there was some movement inside and the sound of the door being opened. They had been there hardly more than five minutes, barely worth the trouble. Even so, he felt he had learned quite a lot, despite the shortness of the meeting. He pulled his ear away from the glass to look inside. The window was even more steamed up, but Cavendish was still there with Riggs. Reluctantly he leaned his painfully frozen ear back against the glass.

  "I didn't want to say anything else while Raymond was here. There's no need for anyone to know about things that don't concern them. He doesn't know anything about my arrangement with Farrier and we'll keep it that way. How are you getting on with the cash?"

  "You'll have it by mid evening on the eighth."

  Cavendish spoke again. "I've got a dinner function that evening. Make sure to have it delivered by seven thirty, before I have to go out. I can always get Farrier to come up later to have a look, once I'm back home."

  Far in the distance a klaxon horn sounded. It filtered through to Winner that some unfortunate seamen must have had to call the lifeboat out. Strange, really, since the estuary was quite calm. Of course, out at sea it could be quite different. Riggs and Cavendish seemed to have drifted on to social chit-chat. Winner listened for a few minutes, but the pain of lying on the hard surface in the freezing cold was getting too much for him. He put his hands down on the deck and eased himself upwards, to see if the sentry guard was still at his post. At first he couldn't see him, so he got onto his feet in a low crouch and gradually straightened up. His legs were so numb that he felt distinctly unsteady.

  Just at the point when Winner had raised himself into a half standing position, the Sharmouth lifeboat drew level with the end of the marina. Alone among the vessels that used the estuary, the lifeboat was permitted to exceed the general five knot speed restriction. On a summer day, with a busy marina, the lifeboat captain would have taken his vessel on a course much further out into the main channel. On a dark January night there was nobody to upset in the marina, and the helmsman steered a course that passed within twenty feet of the pontoons.

  The powerful diesel engines clawed their way through the water, driving out a large bow wave on either side. The sudden lurch as the wash caught La Mouette was too much for a frozen legged Winner. As the surface below him jerked unexpectedly he grabbed for the rooftop rail, but his fingers swept through the air just short. For a moment he teetered on the edge, half balanced, but a second thump from the lifeboat wash tipped him over the edge.

  The shock of the cold water was almost heart stopping. Winner gasped as it rushed in through the front of his coat. August was a more usual time of year for him to take a dip. His head went under the water and he got a mouthful of mixed river and sea-water. He bobbed back to the surface, his body buoyed up by the air still trapped in the multiple layers of his clothing. Some water must have got to his lungs and he coughed and spat out. There were voices. They must have heard the impact of his body on the water. He twisted his head from side to side looking for something to grab hold of as he forced his arms and legs to start treading water.

  "Over here," someone shouted.

  Winner struck out for the rear of the boat, just reaching the corner as the beam from a torch shone out over the water. For a moment he was safe under the overhang of the rear-hung tender. How long could a man survive in water of this temperature? Fat people went swimming in ice covered lakes, but only for short periods. He wasn't fat, but at least he had some clothes on, which ought to protect him like a wet suit, just so long as the weight of them didn't drag him under.

  The voices seemed to be moving away from him. He took a chance and swam towards the pontoon, his progress painfully slow with the drag of his clothes in the water. The side of the pontoon was lined with old car tyres. Hand over hand he pulled himself along from tyre to tyre, his insensitive fingers somehow managing to get a grip. There was the rattle of rapid footsteps on the walkway decking as the search widened out from La Mouette. Winner ducked down as a shaft of light suddenly cut across the water in front of him. His hand went out to grab the next tyre, but met only empty space. There was a gap between the pontoons, bridged by the walkway decking.

  He pulled himself round the corner, and for a moment he found sanctuary under the bridge, but to keep alive he knew he had to keep moving. Footsteps ran overhead and he waited a few seconds before moving out on the opposite side of the pontoon. At least he was now away from the main channel, less at risk from being washed out to sea. It was still a long way back to the safety of the quayside, but for the moment the men on the walkways were searching in the wrong place. He kept moving as quietly as possible, though he could easily have cried out with the pain of the icy cold. Without the tyres for handholds, he would have quickly been exhausted by the weight of his clothes and shoes dragging in the water. It seemed to be taking ages to make any progress at all. Twice he had to duck down low in the water to avoid detection when the men passed by.

  After a few minutes, and maybe a third of the way to the shore, the way forward was blocked by a boat moored tightly against the tyres. He looked around, wondering whether to risk climbing onto the walkway. The trouble was that even if he wasn't immediately spotted he would still leave a trail of water that they could easily follow. How on earth was he going to get out of the locked gate without being intercepted? There was no way. He rested for a moment, then set off to swim round the outside of the boat, though by the time he was able
to reach the next pontoon his shoulders were burning from the exertion and he was having trouble keeping above water.

  Under another walkway bridge and almost totally exhausted by the cold and the effort of swimming fully clothed, he reached a straight run of vacant moorings that led most of the way to the shore. He tried not to think of the pain in his shoulders as he hauled himself from tyre to tyre.

  Miraculously, he managed to reach the end of the floating pontoons without being spotted. It must have been that there were too many walkways and too few searchers to have pinned him down, just luck for Winner that they only seemed to have one torch between them.

  There was only a final fifty feet of water to cross before he would be at the foot of the quayside. Fifty feet of safe water, with almost no chance of being seen because of the sloping access-way overhead, but fifty feet nonetheless. Winner wasn't sure that he had the strength, but what was the choice? He used his feet to push away from the pontoons, but immediately the drag on his clothes slowed him down and his legs were sinking. Less than half way there and he was fighting the water, rather than making forward progress. He took a deep breath, meaning to sink down and pull off his shoes, but as he dipped down into the water, one of his feet touched the bottom and to his relief he found that he could stand with the water lapping round his chin.

  Slowly he waddled forward towards the wall, never before so grateful for the timing of low tide. It was slow, but effective, and after a few minutes he reached the stonework.

  The water at the foot of the quayside wall was shaded from the street lights above and out of the area that the marina lights were designed to illuminate. With the breeze blowing up the estuary there were small waves lapping at the masonry blocks. Under the cover of the darkness and the lapping water, Winner edged his way along the wall away from the marina, finding handholds on the old rough-cut blocks. Part of the way he could touch the bottom with his feet, though in other places it was slightly deeper. Once he lost his grip and slipped low in the water, the buoyancy of his clothes now gone. He made one last effort to swim the remaining few yards towards the old iron ladder that was bolted to the face of the wall.

  Any further and he just wouldn't have made it. He grabbed at the rungs and heaved himself up out of the water. His body seemed leaden as he pulled himself up the ladder, a steady stream of water pouring from his clothes back down into the river below. As he climbed over the quayside railings he almost lost his balance. For a moment, dizzy with fatigue, he fought to stop himself falling backwards into the river.

  "Over there," a voice shouted. He had been spotted.

  Winner stumbled down from the railings and landed on all fours. He forced himself to his feet and set off for where Sally was parked. His legs would barely respond to the need to run, his water sodden clothes making him feel obese, like a Michelin man. He staggered across the road leaving a continuous trail of water. In the distance he could hear footsteps pounding up the slope to the marina exit. The gate was sure to slow them for a few seconds.

  Sally was rudely awakened from her half sleepy state by the sight of a sopping black blob weaving its way towards her. She leapt out of the car.

  "They're after me," Winner gasped out. "Open the back."

  Sally rushed round and opened the tailgate. Winner jumped in and she pulled it down. The marina gate was opening as Sally started the engine. Rather than let them see her in the full glare of the quayside lights, she took off in reverse as the pursuers raced across the road to where she had been parked. Sixty yards down the back street she came to a T junction at the same moment as the runners reached the end of the road. Moments before, she had flicked her headlights to full beam. For the seconds before she drove off from the junction, the pursuers were dazzled by the lights, unable to see what sort of car had escaped from them.

  Sally drove quickly through the back streets, putting a good distance between herself and the quayside. She kept looking in the mirror, but there was no trace of anyone following. Satisfied that they were safe, she pulled into a quiet side road and parked. There was a muffled whimpering coming from the back. Opening the tailgate she found a bedraggled Winner shaking violently.

  "I'll tell you later," he said, the words slurred by his frozen face muscles. "Just get me home. Go by the side road and drop me off at the rear entrance, then park at the front and go in and let me in."

  "Do you want to get into the passenger seat?"

  "No, I'd ruin the upholstery and someone might see me."

  Reluctantly Sally closed the tailgate on Winner and hurried back to the driving seat.