Five minutes later they arrived at the junction where the roadblock was supposed to be. The place was deserted. Gardner stood, legs astride the frame of his bike. Sullivan laid down his bike, broke out his torch, and shone it over the area. First he saw the tire marks, then the shattered glass.
Sullivan shouted, "Over here! Quick!"
Gardner climbed off his bike and pushed it over to where Sullivan was standing.
"Christ Almighty!"
"Look at the tracks. Two vehicles, the one they were driving and ours. When they turned around, the tires were muddied on the apron of the road. They've left us a nice set of tracks to follow."
"Aye. You see where they lead. I'll ride back to the station and alert Lockwood. And for heaven's sake, be careful."
Sullivan pedaled along the road, holding his torch in one hand, watching the tracks gradually fade away. One hundred yards after leaving the site of the roadblock, the trail was gone. Sullivan rode for another quarter mile, looking for any sign of the police van.
He rode a little farther and then spotted another set of tire tracks. These were different. The tracks became more clear and defined the farther he pedaled. The vehicle that made them had obviously come from the other direction.
He followed the tracks to their point of origin and found the small path leading into the trees. He turned his torch down the path and saw the pair of fresh tire tracks. He turned the beam horizontally down the tunnel of trees, but the light was not powerful enough to penetrate the darkness. He looked at the track--too rutted and muddy to handle his bike. He climbed off, leaned the bike against a tree, and started walking.
Two minutes later, he spotted the back of the van. He called out but there was no reply. He looked more closely. It was not the police vehicle; it had London plates and was a different model. Sullivan moved forward slowly. He approached the front of the van from the passenger side and shone his torch inside. The front seat was empty. He turned the beam toward the storage area at the back.
It was then he spotted the bodies.
Sullivan left the van in the trees and rode back to Louth, pedaling as fast as he could. He arrived at the police station and quickly raised Chief Superintendent Lockwood at the RAF base.
"All four of them are dead," he said, out of breath from the ride. "They're lying in the back of a van, but it's not theirs. The fugitives appear to have taken the police van. Based on the tracks on the road, I'd say they came back toward Louth."
Lockwood said, "Where are the bodies now?"
"I left them in the wood, sir."
"Go back and wait with them until help arrives."
"Yes, sir."
Lockwood rang off. "Four dead men. My God!"
"I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent. So much for my theories about them going to ground. They're obviously here and they'll do anything to escape, including murder four of your men in cold blood."
"We have another problem--they're driving a police vehicle. To get word to the officers manning the roadblocks is going to take time. Meanwhile, your spies are dangerously close to the coast." Lockwood walked to the map. "Louth is here, just to the south of us. They can now take any number of secondary roads to the sea."
"Redeploy your men. Throw everything between Louth and the coast."
"Indeed, but it's going to take time. And your spies have a jump on us."
"One other thing," Vicary said. "Bring those dead men back here as quietly as possible. When this is all over, it may be necessary to concoct another explanation for their deaths."
"What do I tell their families?" Lockwood snapped and stormed out.
Vicary picked up the telephone. The operator connected him with MI5 headquarters in London. A department operator answered. Vicary asked for Boothby and waited for him to come on the line.
"Hello, Sir Basil. I'm afraid we've got big trouble up here."
A stiff wind drove rain across the Cleethorpes waterfront as Neumann slowed and turned into a row of warehouses and garages. He stopped and shut down the motor. Dawn was not far off. In the faint light he could see a small quay, with several fishing boats tied up there and additional boats bobbing at their moorings in the black water. They had made excellent time up the coast. Twice they had approached roadblocks and twice they were waved through with no question, thanks to the van they were driving.
Jack Kincaid's flat was supposed to be over a garage. There was a wooden exterior staircase with a door at the top. Neumann climbed out and walked up the stairs, reflexively pulling out his Mauser as he approached the door. He rapped softly but there was no answer. He tried the latch; it was unlocked. He opened the door and walked inside.
He was immediately struck by the stench of the place: rotting rubbish, stale cigarettes, unwashed bodies, an overwhelming smell of alcohol. He tried the light switch but nothing happened. He removed his torch from his pocket and switched it on. The beam caught the figure of a large man sleeping on a bare mattress. Neumann picked his way across the filthy room and nudged the man with the toe of his boot.
"You Jack Kincaid?"
"Yeah. Who are you?"
"My name is James Porter. You're supposed to give me a lift in your boat."
"Oh, yes, yes." Kincaid tried to sit up but couldn't. Neumann shone the light directly into his face. He was at least sixty years old, and his craggy face showed the signs of heavy drinking.
"Have a little bit to drink last night, Jack?" Neumann asked.
"A little."
"Which boat is yours, Jack?"
"The
Camilla.
"
"Where is she, exactly?"
"Down at the quay. You can't miss her."
Kincaid was passing out again.
"You won't mind if I just borrow her for a bit, do you, Jack?"
Kincaid didn't answer, just started snoring heavily.
"Thanks awfully, Jack."
Neumann went out and got back inside the van.
"Our captain is in no condition to sail. Drunk out of his mind."
"The boat?"
"The
Camilla.
He says it's right down there on the quay."
"There's something else down there."
"What's that?"
"You'll see in just a minute."
Neumann watched as a constable stepped into view.
"They must be watching the entire coast," Neumann said.
"It's a shame. Another needless casualty."
"Let's get it over with. I've killed more people tonight than I did in all the time I was in the
Fallschirmjager.
"
"Why do you think Vogel sent you here?"
Neumann didn't respond. "What about Jenny?"
"She comes with us."
"I want to leave her here. She's no use to us now."
"I disagree. If they find her she can tell them a great deal. And besides, if they know we have a hostage on board they'll think twice about what steps they take to stop us."
"If you're suggesting they'll hesitate to fire on us because we have a British civilian on board, you're mistaken. There's too much at stake for that. They'll kill us all if need be."
"So be it, then. She comes with us. When we get to the submarine, we'll leave her behind on the boat. The British will rescue her and she won't be harmed."
Neumann understood that to continue arguing would be a waste of time. Catherine turned around and, in English, said to Jenny, "No more heroics. If you make one move, I'll shoot you in the face."
Neumann shook his head. He started the motor, dropped the van into gear, and drove down to the quay.
The constable at quayside heard the sound of a motor, stopped pacing, and looked up. He spotted the police van driving toward him. Odd, he thought, since his relief was not due to arrive until eight o'clock. He watched the van draw to a halt and saw two people getting out. He struggled to make them out in the darkness, but after a few seconds he realized they were not police officers. It was a man and a woman, very probably the fugitives!
He then had a terrible sinking feeling. He was armed with only a prewar revolver that jammed frequently. The woman was walking toward him. Her arm swung up and there was a flash but almost no sound, just a muffled thump. He felt the bullet tear through his chest, was aware of losing his balance.
His last sight was the dirty water of the Humber rushing toward him.
Ian McMann was a fisherman who believed the pure Celtic blood flowing through his veins gave him powers mere mortals did not possess. During his sixty years living near the North Sea, he claimed to have heard distress calls
before
they went out. He claimed to see the ghosts of men lost at sea floating over the quays and the harbors. He claimed to know that some vessels were haunted and would never go near them. Everyone in Cleethorpes accepted all this as truth but in private suggested Ian McMann had spent far too many nights at sea.
McMann had risen as usual at five o'clock, even though the dismal forecast promised conditions that would keep all boats off the water that day. He was eating a breakfast of porridge at the kitchen table when he heard a noise outside on the quay.
The smack of the rain made it difficult to detect any other sound, but McMann could have sworn he heard someone or something falling into the water. He knew there was a constable outside--he had taken him tea and a wedge of cake before turning in last night--and he knew why he was there. The police were looking for a pair of murder suspects from London. McMann guessed these were not ordinary murder suspects. He had lived in Cleethorpes for twenty years, and never had he heard of the local police guarding the waterfront.
The kitchen window of McMann's cottage provided an excellent view of the quay and the mouth of the Humber beyond. McMann rose, parted the curtains, and looked out. There was no sign of the constable. McMann threw on an oilskin and sou'wester, took his torch from the table beside the door, and went out.
He switched on his torch and started walking. After a few steps he heard the sound of a boat's diesel motor firing and sputtering into life. He walked faster until he could see which boat it was: the
Camilla,
Jack Kincaid's boat.
McMann thought, Is he daft heading out in a storm like this?>
He started running, yelling. "Jack, Jack! Stop! Where do you think you're going?"
Then he realized the man untying the
Camilla
from the quay and jumping onto the aft deck was not Jack Kincaid. Someone was stealing his boat. He looked around for the constable, but he was gone. The man stepped into the wheelhouse and opened the throttle, and the
Camilla
nosed away from the quay.
McMann ran forward and shouted, "Come back, you!"
Then a second person stepped from the wheelhouse. McMann saw a muzzle flash but heard no sound. He felt the round whiz past his head, dangerously close. He hit the ground behind a pair of empty drums. Two more shots struck the quay; then the gunfire ended.
He stood up and saw the stern of the
Camilla,
running out to sea.
Only then did McMann see something floating in the oily water off the quay.
"I think you need to hear this for yourself, Major Vicary."
Vicary took the telephone receiver Lockwood handed to him. Ian McMann was on the line from Cleethorpes.
Lockwood said, "Start from the beginning, Ian."
"Two people just stole Jack Kincaid's fishing boat and are making for open water."
Vicary snapped, "My God! Where are you calling from?"
"Cleethorpes."
Vicary squinted to see the map. "Cleethorpes? Didn't we have a man there?"
"You did," McMann said. "He's floating in the water right now with a bullet through his heart."
Vicary swore softly, then said, "How many were there?"
"At least two that I saw."
"A man and a woman?"
"Too far away and too dark. Besides, when they started shooting at me I hit the dirt."
"You didn't see a young girl with them?"
"No."
Vicary covered the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand. "Maybe she's still in that van. Get a man out there as quickly as you can."
Lockwood nodded.
Vicary removed his hand and said, "Tell me about the boat they stole."
"The
Camilla,
a fishing vessel. The boat's in bad shape. I wouldn't want to be aboard the
Camilla
heading out in a blow like this."
"One other question. Does the
Camilla
have a radio?"
"No, not that I know of."