Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) (22 page)

DI Henderson was tearing along the outside lane of the A23. He was in his own car with no blue light, no siren, and no Day-Glo stripes and giving other road users, rare on this calm Thursday night, the impression of a young tearaway, filled with his own importance and believing his two hundred quid road tax gave him sole ownership of the tarmac.

He passed the two stone pylons erected either side of the southbound carriageway to mark the northern boundary of Greater Brighton, known to locals as the Brighton Gates, when his phone rang.

‘Angus it’s me,’ DS Carol Walters said. ‘Control have informed me they’re on the look-out for a light-coloured Subaru Impreza, yeah?’

‘Aye, Larner's car and the one he was driving when he drove away from his house in Bolnore Road.’

‘Don’t you remember, this is the same type of vehicle Suki Markham told us she saw on the night Sir Mathew was murdered?’

‘Bloody hell, so it was. I’d forgotten.’

‘One other thing, I’ve been told by the petrol heads around here that it’s a fast motor so it’s not beyond the bounds of credibility to suggest it might have been used to knock David Young off his motorbike, if his death was, as you said, somehow tied up in all of this.’

‘We’ll know for sure once we get hold of the car. An accident like that is bound to leave a mark on the bodywork even if he’s cleaned it, but somehow I doubt it as Larner’s a bit of an untidy sod.’

‘There’s our guy Locard rearing his ugly head again.’

‘What?’

‘You know, the criminal psychologist you’re always banging on about. Criminals always leave something behind at the scene and always take something away with them.’

‘I’m astounded, not because you remembered Locard, but you were actually listening to what I was saying in those meetings.’

‘Cheeky beggar, talk to you later.’

He didn’t know too much about cars but there were few in the CID division of any police force who didn’t know about the Subaru Impreza. At one time, they were the getaway vehicle of choice in numerous jewellery shop snatches, security van heists, post office and bank robberies, in fact any crime requiring a fast getaway. Just about every modern car is capable of breaking the speed limit but few cars could touch the Impreza for its 0-60 acceleration. This coupled to a four-wheel drive system, meant it didn’t fishtail all over the tarmac when the gas was applied, including much of what could be found in the average police garage.

The junction with the coast-hugging A27 lay up ahead. He made it on to the road, but to his dismay found it choked with slow-moving traffic. This was not unusual in Brighton as numerous, large scale-events took place all year round, at the Amex Community Stadium, the Racecourse, the seafront and at numerous theatre and concert venues. As luck would have it, he didn’t need to stay on the road long and a few minutes later, turned off and headed towards Brighton Marina.

He knew the route well as his own boat was anchored in the same place, although it was still shored-up for winter with the sails packed, the hull tied to embedded rings at the side of the harbour and tarpaulins covering all exposed areas, as he hadn’t found the time to sort it out.

Soon, he eased the car down the familiar concrete-sided marina slip road, which on bleaker nights than this felt more like a tunnel. He abandoned the car on thick yellow lines close to a barrier, erected to prevent riff-raff from straying too close to the exclusive apartment blocks, some of which had their own parking space for their car and a berth for their yacht, and ran towards the boats.

He didn’t have any idea what sort of boat Larner owned and wouldn’t have a cat’s chance in hell of finding it without some help, as there was almost fifteen hundred berths in the marina and even to a sailor like him, many boats looked the same. Instead, he headed towards the reception area, hoping against hope that one of the berthing masters was around.

It was after nine o’clock and dark and it was unlikely that many yachts or speedboats would be out on the water, but the berthing masters ran a twenty-four hour service. Even though the Marina was used in the main by leisure craft, plenty of commercial fishing boats sailed from there, working all-year-round to land lobster and mussels, and it was not unknown for the odd yacht to turn up, part-way through a long-distance voyage or a group of kids out on the water practising night-time drills.

He pushed open the door to the office and felt a surge of heat and coffee aroma hit his face like a warm Sahara breeze. To his relief, a man was seated behind the desk, someone he had seen several times before. He was staring at his computer screen while drinking from a large mug with the logo of one of the local yacht chandleries on the side. Given the temperature of the room, it was no surprise to see him dressed in a light coloured polo shirt and denims, but with a thick anorak hanging from the peg behind him for those times when he had to venture outside. The name badge was, ‘Bill Haversome - Berthing Master.’

Henderson put his police ID on the table. ‘Good evening, Bill. I’m trying to locate the berth of a boat belonging to a man named Gary Larner. Can you tell me where I can find it?’

‘No problem detective.’ He paused to look at him. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’ve got a boat on the west side, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t tell me.’ He looked at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Yep,’ he said smiling, ‘it’s a Moody 32 and named after a place in Scotland. Am I right?’

‘Well done. It’s called 'Mingary', it’s a district of Ardnamurchan on the west coast of Scotland.’

‘I’ve got a good memory for boats, me,’ he said tapping the side of his head with his finger. ‘Bloody hopeless with people’s names but boats are a doddle. There’s not much else to do around here in the winter, you see.’

He turned back to the computer and started tapping away on the keyboard. ‘Ah here we are,’ he said, turning the screen towards Henderson for him to have a look. ‘Larner wasn’t it?’

‘Yes it is.’

‘I assume you know how the jetties are numbered.’

‘Treat me like an imbecile. I only know the place where my own boat is moored.’

‘Ok. There are two jetties in this Marina, they're the two floating walkways coming up from the Promenade, and the place where we are now is called the West Jetty,’ he said pointing at a map of the Marina laminated to his desk. ‘You need to make your way to the East Jetty.’

‘Fine.’

‘Now we’re four pontoons, from the shore, they are the floating walkways, perpendicular to the jetties and lead out to where the boats are located. To find Mr Larner, go down the West Jetty outside this office and head back to the Promenade, the place where all the restaurants are. When you get there, take a right and go past the apartment blocks, Neptune, Merton and Collingwood Courts until you get to Sovereign Court and then turn right into the East Jetty. How am I doing?’

‘I’m still with you.’

‘Count up three pontoons and go right, count six berths along and on the right there, you’ll find your Mr Larner. I passed by that way twenty minutes or so ago and there were a few people about. You might be lucky.’

Henderson walked over the bouncing jetty as fast as he could, but in truth he couldn’t run even if he wanted to as his ankle protested every time he put any weight on it and the swaying motion was playing havoc with his balance.

The walkways were lit by large sodium lamps as there was little else to stop the unwary falling into the water. The biggest danger lay with night-time boozers, owners who came here in the evening to sit on the aft deck of their boat and enjoy a drink, and on some of the larger vessels, he had even heard the sounds of a party going on.

He walked along the Promenade until he reached Sovereign Court and turned up the East Jetty. The water looked dark and murky and the restaurants and bars became smaller and more distant as he was sucked into the gloomy morass of gently swaying yachts, large and small motorboats, and all manner of rowing boats and sailing dinghies.

It was a strange sensation to be walking on the floating jetty, riding the surface of the water and moving when he moved, but despite his reason for being there, it reminded him of something he missed, as he hadn’t been out in his boat for months. At the third pontoon he turned right, the noise of his approach masked by the loud ambient background sounds, ever-present in this marina and every other one he had ever visited.

It was in part caused by water slapping against hulls and boats straining against mooring ropes, but a more intrusive noise was caused by loose or ill-fitting lanyards as they smacked against hollow aluminium masts in the breeze, creating a loud metallic, clanking sound. Many travel and sailing brochures eulogised about this sound, describing it as authentic and soothing, but it was nothing but a bloody nuisance to any knackered sailor or anyone living nearby who craved a good night’s sleep.

He counted six boats along and stopped alongside ‘Tempest’, a twelve-foot long speedboat. It had a single outboard engine and small canopy to protect the skipper, with a small cabin up in the bow for storage and the occasional overnight stay, but no sign of anyone. His spirits dipped, perhaps his hunch was wrong. He reached for his phone to call Carol and tell her the marina was a dead-end and they needed to search elsewhere, when he picked up the distinct smell of diesel.

He bent down. He could smell it stronger now and it meant someone had recently filled up the fuel tank. It wasn’t a smart thing to do if the boat wasn’t going to be used for any length of time, as it could present a fire risk and in time the fuel would go stale which could lead to engine problems, something not welcome when out in the open sea. This could mean only one thing, this boat was getting ready to sail.

He moved to the bow and peered through the window of the little cabin. A small wind-up light sat on the table, and from its weak illumination he could see a zipped-up holdall bag and a box of groceries, and inside milk, bread and cheese. The food and diesel were indicative of recent activity and providing he followed the Berthing Master’s directions correctly, Larner was planning to scarper.

He was about to jump on-board and take a closer look, when he heard a noise behind him and turned to see the blade of an oar coming straight for his head. It hit him with an almighty slap, knocking him to the ground, and more by luck than judgement, he fell on the pontoon and not into the water. Unable to rise, he watched helplessly as Larner undid the mooring, threw the oar on the boat and jumped aboard.

‘Bye bye matey,’ he said. ‘Just be thankful I don’t have time to kill you but Gary’s got jobs to do, people to see.’ He gunned the engine and a minute later, he turned the bend at the end of the pontoon and headed straight for the gap in the sea wall that led out to the open sea.

Henderson levered himself up. It took a few moments to realise the beautiful stars he could see were not part of the night sky but his head’s own celestial show. He shifted into a sitting position and waited until the wave of nausea passed and his personal view of the heavens melted away like summer zephyrs, before trying to stand.

A stream of blood trickled down his face but he couldn’t decide what was worse, the befuddled feeling in his head, which felt like the mother of all hangovers, or the ringing in his ears. It sounded like the bells of St Michaels, a church close to his flat in Seven Dials where the spiteful campanologists of the parish, always did their thing early on a Sunday morning when all he wanted to do, was have a leisurely lie-in.

He staggered over to a tap and splashed water on his face. Feeling better, he pulled out his phone and called Walters.

‘You stay there,’ she said, after he told her what had happened, ‘and I’ll call an ambulance and scramble the helicopter.’

The thought of giving up the chase, just when he had come so close, seemed to galvanise his senses and at that moment, he knew what he needed to do. ‘No way Carol, I’m going after him. I’m off for a wee sail, bye.’

He moved three berths along to a vessel he noticed earlier where the owner was doing a bit of spring cleaning. He was a portly man and wearing a yachting sweatshirt, unbecoming jeans and wielding a large yellow duster. ‘Police!’ Henderson said in what he thought sounded like an authoritative voice but it must have been louder than he realised as the man jumped.

‘I’m commandeering this vessel.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Get off the boat sir. I’m chasing a murderer.’

He had a podgy face with thinning grey hair, and behind gold-framed spectacles, his eyes stared back at him in shock and disbelief. Henderson pocketed his police ID and climbed aboard. He must have looked a wild sight in dishevelled clothes with heavy swelling to one side of his face, and if it could be seen in the dim light, one bloodshot eye and a blood-streaked face.

The man continued to protest but Henderson ushered him out and then spent the next few minutes becoming familiar with the cockpit layout. It was simpler than it looked as each dial and switch was labelled. He turned the ignition key and the big twin diesels of the ‘Anna Mitchell’ roared into life.

He didn’t know too much about power boats and failed to see what enjoyment there was in bouncing over a choppy sea at thirty knots, in contrast to the pleasure gained from a leisurely cruise in a yacht which progressed through the skill of the skipper and not by the brute force of the engines. However, he was sure of one thing, this was a lot more powerful than Larner’s.

‘Cast off. Please.’

‘Bloody hell. You’ll be asking me to crew for you next.’ He bent down and pulled the mooring rope away from the bollard and threw it on deck. ‘Look mate, I’ve see the movie too when all I get back is a couple of bits of wood and a piece of the rudder. But let me tell you this, Mr Policeman, I don’t expect to find a scratch on her when you get back. I’m a lawyer and I’ll sue the pants off Sussex Police if you do.’

‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll be careful,’ he said easing the throttle back and pulling away from the mooring, but cursing his luck. Why did it have to be owned by a litigious lawyer and not a lottery winner or a rich businessman, someone who didn’t give a toss what happened to it?

‘There’s not much fuel on board,’ he shouted, ‘so make sure you leave enough in the tank to bring her home.’ He said something else but his voice was lost as Henderson opened the throttle. He ignored the five-knot speed limit as he guided the boat away from the pontoon and out towards the gap in the marina sea wall.

Out on the open sea and away from the millpond inside the marina, the ‘Anna Mitchell’ started to bounce over the waves but as soon as he opened the throttle a bit more, it sliced through them as if they didn’t exist. He couldn’t see in which direction Larner was headed but he had the choice of east to Kent, or west to Dorset, but Henderson headed straight across the Channel towards France, the closest point to mainland Europe and the way he would go if he was being pursued by the police.

For a few moments, he savoured the novelty of a night-time sail in someone else’s boat, although well aware that crossing the English Channel was not a voyage to be undertaken by the foolhardy or the unprepared, especially after dark. Container ships as high as office blocks made their way directly across his path to Felixstowe and Antwerp while oil, ore, and grain tankers, many of them as long as football pitches, did a similar run but heading towards the giant terminals at Rotterdam and Hamburg.

Five minutes later, he spotted another boat dead ahead. It was only a speck in the distance but it was also heading to France. He propped his knee up against the wheel, trying to keep the ‘Anna Mitchell’ on a steady course, and pulled out his phone. He called Lewes Control for what would be the last time as he was sure the signal would disappear in a couple of minutes.

While speaking to the operator and giving them update of his movements, he glanced at the fuel indicator. The needle was nudging just below the quarter full mark, enough to take him to France but not enough to bring him back and certainly not in the inefficient way he was powering those big engines. For this reason, he took the decision he would try and stop Larner soon and not allow him to travel to France.

The moon was bright and free from clouds and as he closed the gap between his boat and the craft in front, he could see beyond doubt, it was Larner’s little speedboat. A few minutes later, he guided the ‘Anna Mitchell’ out on a wide semi circle and approached him from the port side, aiming to block his path and encourage him to return to Brighton.

He was about twenty-metres away and heading for a point just in front of him, when Larner opened fire with a handgun. Henderson pulled away, less worried about a direct hit than a lucky shot as he knew it was nigh-on impossible to shoot straight from a bouncing boat as they did in the movies, especially when trying to hit someone on another boat who also moving in a way that was equally unpredictable.

He kept out of range but he couldn’t sit out there all night, fuel or no fuel. With a determined scowl, he turned the wheel, opened the throttle and once more aimed for a patch of sea just in front of Larner’s bow. Larner fired two more shots, both wide of the mark and from the silence that followed, he was sure the magazine of the gun was empty or he was having trouble re-loading, not an easy thing to do while trying to steer a fast moving boat.

Henderson eased the engines back as the ‘Anna Mitchell’ rammed into the side of the speedboat. It cut through ‘Tempest’ like a hot knife through butter and moments prior to impact, Larner leapt overboard.