Captives (32 page)

    

    

    The knock on the door was at precisely one minute after midnight.

    He went upstairs and opened it, allowing John Hitch inside.

    'You set?' Hitch asked him.

    Scott nodded.

    'Show me,' Hitch insisted.

    Scott pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster and handed it to Hitch, who held the weapon for a minute before returning it to its rightful owner.

    'You've got good taste, Jim,' he said, smiling, pulling his own pistol into view.

    Like Scott's it was a 92S. He holstered it and motioned towards the door.

    'Let's go,' he said. 'Car's waiting.'

    Scott followed him out.

    

    

    It was a small boat, less than thirty feet from stem to stem. It moved quietly up the River Thames, hidden by the darkness, only its warning lights visible on the black swirl of the water. The Sandhopper moved evenly and unhurriedly through the water.

    The river was quiet. Many of the small boats which usually travelled its waters were moored for the night and The Sandhopper passed a number of them as it made its way up river. Lights from the banks reflected off the water like a black mirror. One of the crewmen of the small boat stood looking out at the city all around him, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the myriad lights.

    'I can see one of them.'

    Martin Bates adjusted the focus on the binoculars, trying to pull into sharper definition the man moving about on the deck.

    'Where's the boat now?' John Hitch asked, his voice breaking up slightly on the two-way.

    Bates picked up the radio, still holding the binoculars in one hand, following the progress of the boat.

    'Just passing Hay's Wharf,' he said.

    'Tell Wally to keep his eyes open and let me know when they pass him,' Hitch instructed.

    'Will do,' said Bates. He put down the radio for a moment, taking one last look at the boat as it chugged slowly up river. He leant on the car and lit a cigarette, puffing at it before he picked up the radio again.

    'Wally, come in, it's Martin. You awake or having a wank?' He smiled to himself.

    'I'm awake, you cunt,' a deep Scots voice thundered back.

    'They'll be with you in about ten or fifteen minutes, mate,' Bates told him.

    'Right,' muttered Wally Connor.

    From his own vantage point he moved forward, leaning on the parapet of Blackfriars Bridge, peering down into the murky blackness of the river. Waiting.

    Waiting just like the other four men Hitch had positioned at various places along the Thames.

    Scott looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Lancia and sighed.

    'How much longer?' he said irritably, gazing through the windscreen, out across the Thames. It looked like a swollen black tongue licking its way through the city.

    'Not long,' John Hitch told him, looking first at his own watch then at the dashboard clock.

    'I'd just like to know why I'm here,' Scott murmured.

    'I told you, Scotty, it wasn't my idea. I get paid for doing what I'm told. It's as simple as that.' He looked at his watch again. Then he pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide.

    It jammed.

    'Shit,' muttered Hitch.

    Scott seemed unconcerned by his companion's problem and looked to his right. The four giant chimneys of Battersea Power Station thrust upward into the night sky like the upended legs of a gigantic coffee table. Below them was a pier, accessible by a set of stone steps. The steps were green with mould where the rising tide lapped against them. At the end of the pier another small boat was moored. Scott couldn't see the name painted along one side of it but he'd already been told it was called The Abbott. Not that he really cared.

    Hitch was still struggling with the Beretta.

    'Bloody slide's stuck,' he grunted, pulling back hard on it.

    'Why do you need a gun, anyway?' Scott wanted to know. 'You intending to use it?'

    'Just call it insurance,' Hitch said, still tugging at the pistol. 'Fuck it,' he snapped finally. 'Give me yours.' He held out one gloved hand.

    Scott hesitated.

    'Give me yours,' Hitch repeated. 'Come on, you're going to be up here in the car. If things get too complicated, just drive off.' He sat there with his hand still open. 'Let me have your gun, Jim.'

    Scott reached slowly inside his jacket then pulled the Beretta free and handed it to Hitch, who gripped the automatic in his fist and checked that the magazine was full, slipping it from the butt. Satisfied that it was, he slammed it back into place and holstered the weapon, sticking his own pistol in the belt of his trousers.

    On the dashboard in front of him the radio crackled and he picked it up.

    'John, can you hear me?' a voice enquired.

    'Yeah, Rob, go ahead,' Hitch replied.

    'The Sandhopper just passed under the Vauxhall Bridge. Should be with you any time now.'

    'Cheers,' said Hitch and snapped off the radio. He pushed open the passenger side door and clambered out, turning to look back at Scott. 'This shouldn't take long,' he said, smiling, the wind ruffling his long blond hair. 'Just sit tight.'

    Scott nodded, watching as Hitch scuttled across the road and disappeared out of sight as he began to descend the embankment steps towards the pier.

    Scott switched on the radio, heard pop music, twiddled the frequency dial past classical and reggae and finally found a discussion programme. He listened for a moment then switched off again, content with the silence inside the Lancia. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited.

    

    

    He couldn't sleep.

    He knew he wouldn't be able to and now, as he swung himself out of bed, Ray Plummer wondered why he hadn't just sat in front of the television until the time came.

    He pulled on his dressing gown and padded through into the sitting room.

    'What's wrong, Ray?' Carol asked, rolling over.

    He ignored her enquiry so she hauled herself out, slipped on a long T-shirt and followed him into the other room. She found him standing in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the clock.

    'Are you all right?' she wanted to know. 'You've hardly spoken since we got back.'

    'I've got something on my mind,' he said sharply, sipping at the drink he cradled in his hand.

    'Anything I can help with?'

    'No, it's all right,' he said. 'Thanks for asking, though. It's just a little bit of business that's got to be done.'

    She knew better than to ask what kind of business.

    Plummer turned to face her, running appraising eyes over her long slender legs, her nipples taut against the thin material of the T-shirt.

    'Get yourself a drink,' he said, nodding towards the cabinet. As she did he glanced at his watch once more.

    Nearly time.

    Carol crossed to him and slipped one hand inside his dressing gown, stroking his stomach. 'Are you sure I can't help?' she said, smiling a practised smile.

    Plummer allowed her to rake her fingernails across his stomach, feeling her probing lower, encircling his penis with her hand. Then he took a step back, a slight smile on his face.

    'No,' he said flatly. 'You can't help. Not yet.'

    Again he looked at his watch.

    

    

    The engine of The Abbott sounded deafening in the silence, the loud spluttering replaced rapidly by a rumble as the boat moved away from the pier.

    John Hitch wandered towards the cabin, where Terry Morton was steering the boat, peering out over the river.

    'How come you know how to drive these fucking things?' Hitch asked, looking for the first sign of their quarry.

    'You don't drive a boat, you ignorant cunt,' chuckled Morton. 'You pilot it.'

    'Whatever,' Hitch shrugged.

    'My old man worked the river all his life, doing deliveries, pick-ups. They used to use it like a canal; anything that couldn't be moved easily by land, they'd stick it on a boat. My old man worked the length of it. He had a pleasure boat for about ten years before he died, used to run fucking tourists down to Hampton Court, that sort of stuff.' Morton moved the wheel slightly, bringing the boat around. 'He made a ton of money ripping them off. I used to go along with him a lot of the time.'

    'John, check it out, mate,' called Adrian McCann from the small foredeck. 'Coming up on our right.'

    Both Hitch and Morton looked and saw the warning lights of a small boat approaching. As yet it was a little over two hundred yards away. Hitch reached for the binoculars and peered through them. He read the name on the side of the boat.

    'The Sandhopper,' he said, smiling. 'Bingo.'

    Morton guided the boat towards the centre of the river, then towards the oncoming Sandhopper.

    Still peering through the binoculars he could see movement on the other boat: two men looking ahead, one of them pointing towards The Abbott.

    'They'll signal us to turn aside,' Morton observed.

    'How do you know?' Hitch asked.

    'Rules of the river,' Morton told him. 'What do you want me to do?'

    'Bring us up alongside them,' said Hitch, and glanced across at his companion. 'You set?'

    Morton nodded and inclined his head in the direction of an Ithaca Model 37 shotgun on the bench beside him.

    Red warning lights were flashing the bridge of The Sandhopper as the two boats drew closer, Morton now angling The Abbott so that it was heading directly towards the other craft. Hitch reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta he'd taken from Scott.

    The two boats were less than one hundred yards away from each other now.

    Morton slowed the speed a little, preparing to bring the boat to a halt when he needed to.

    Eighty yards.

    Adrian McCann stood by the prow of the boat, one thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans, his other hand gripping the butt of a Uzi sub-machine gun.

    Sixty yards.

    Hitch could hear shouting from the other boat, though most of the words were indistinct. He saw one man motioning animatedly with his arms, as if to deflect the other boat from its route.

    Forty yards.

    'Steady now,' Hitch said and Morton slowed up a little more.

    Twenty yards.

    They seemed to be the only two vessels moving on the dark water; The Abbott was almost invisible in the gloom. The red warning lights of The Sandhopper glowed like boiling blood in the blackness.

    Ten yards.

    Hitch could hear the men shouting now, see them gesticulating madly towards The Abbott in an effort to divert it from what appeared to be a collision course.

    Morton cut the motor.

    The boat floated the last few yards until it actually bumped the side of The Sandhopper. One of the crew immediately crossed to the side of the smaller boat and pointed a finger angrily at Hitch.

    'What the fucking hell are you playing at?' he bellowed. 'You could have sunk us. You haven't even got your lights on…'

    The sentence trailed off as Hitch pulled the Beretta free and aimed it at the crewman.

    'Cut your engines,' shouted Morton, swinging the Ithaca up into view, working the pump action, chambering a round.

    McCann stepped forward too, the Uzi held in both hands the stubby barrel pointed at the deck of The Sandhopper.

    'All of you get out where I can see you,' shouted Hitch.

    'What the fuck is this?' the first crewman said. 'Are you the law?'

    'No,' said one of his companions, looking at the Uzi. 'They ain't the law.' He lifted his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.

    'All of you,' Hitch shouted, watching as the third man joined his companions on the foredeck. He was the youngest of the trio, in his early twenties, with short black hair. His companions were both in their forties, one of them greying at the temples, a squat, powerfully built man; the other was a tall gangling individual with deep set eyes which remained fixed on Hitch the whole time.

    'Who the fuck are you?' the second man asked as Hitch stepped aboard The Sandhopper.

    Hitch ignored the question.

    'Get the hold open,' he said sharply, pushing the barrel of the pistol towards the tall man's face. 'Do it,' he rasped when the man hesitated.

    The younger of the trio looked at McCann and Morton and decided he would be better advised not to try and reach the.38 he had jammed into his belt.

    The tall man opened the hold and Hitch peered down into it, glancing at dozens of crates all of roughly the same size.

    'Bring one out,' he said, watching as the tall man struggled with it, finally dropping it on to the deck. 'Open it,' Hitch told him.

    'You're making a mistake,' said the second man.

    'You're the one making a fucking mistake,' Morton snapped, raising the Ithaca and pointing it at his head, if you open your mouth once more I'll blow your fucking head off. Got it?'

    There was a creak of splintering wood as the tall man prized off the lid of the crate. Hitch told him to back off, then moved across. Beneath a layer of foam rubber there was a dark brown carpet of coffee beans. He dug his hand through the aromatic blanket and his fingers closed round an unmistakeable shape. He pulled the video-cassette free and gripped it in his free hand, the pistol still trained on the tall man.