Dead Line

Looking through binoculars, Harrison spoke to the sailor at the helm. ‘Time to move. But take it easy at first.’

The pin light was now well into the cove and Liz could make out the shape of a small trawler. Almost a quarter of a mile from shore it stopped, and sat motionless in the water.

Harrison tapped Liz on the shoulder and handed his binoculars to her. ‘Have a look.’

She peered through the infra-red glasses, and could see the trawler clearly in an eerie greyish light. It was a fishing boat, with a flat-backed stern and a hoist to haul its nets up. The bow was snub-nosed, and she could read its name on the side – The Dido. The entire vessel couldn’t have been more than forty feet long. There was no sign of anyone on board, though the wheel house was sheltered, so whoever was steering was hidden from view.

She handed the glasses back to Harrison. ‘She’s sitting pretty low in the water, isn’t she?’

He nodded. ‘Whatever she’s carrying must be heavy. Or else there’s just a lot of it.’ He turned to the helmsman. ‘Okay, let’s move in.’

The Clacton surged forward, and Liz felt the sting of salt spray and cold wind against her cheek. Her nausea had turned into a familiar rush of excitement. About one hundred yards short of The Dido, The Clacton slowed, and at a command from Harrison, a pair of spotlights positioned on her bow suddenly pierced the darkness, throwing out penetrating streams of light, illuminating the trawler against the background of night like a film set.

Harrison was ready in the bows with the loud hailer. He had just shouted, ‘This is her Majesty’s Customs and Excise,’ when the engine of the trawler erupted and the boat suddenly turned sharply and headed at speed toward the open sea.

‘Go!’ ordered Harrison, and The Clacton accelerated in pursuit. Liz clung on to a brass rail as the boat surged forward. But they didn’t seem to be gaining on the trawler, and she feared they would lose her once they were out in open water. Then ahead of them, heading in an intercepting line, appeared another boat.

‘Who is that?’

‘One of ours,’ Harrison reassured her. He gave a short laugh. ‘It always helps to have some back-up when the buggers cut and run.’

As the other Customs boat drew near, the trawler was forced to turn and slow down, allowing The Clacton to draw ahead of The Dido on its port side. The trawler gave a sudden burst of speed, and for a moment Liz was convinced it would cut through the converging Customs boats and get away. But a rapid sequence of flashes crossed in front of the fleeing boat, and Liz heard the sound of an automatic weapon firing.

‘Tracer bullets,’ explained Harrison. ‘That should get their attention.’

The Dido seemed to hesitate, as if trying to make up her mind, then she slowed almost imperceptibly. As they sailed further out into the open sea, Liz realised that The Clacton and the other Customs boat were forming a ‘V’, which held the trawler trapped between its arms. The two then began to turn almost imperceptibly to port, perfectly in synch, keeping the trawler nestled between them, until Liz saw that they were heading back into the quieter water of the cove.

‘Keep alert,’ Harrison called out to the men on the bow. ‘They may try it again.’

Now down to idling speed, The Dido was covered by searchlights from both Customs boats. There was still no sign of anyone on deck. Harrison stepped to the outside rail. Lifting his hailer he called to the trawler.

‘We are armed, and will board you by force if you don’t come out. You have thirty seconds to show yourselves.’

This is like a Western, thought Liz, as they waited tensely. After about fifteen seconds, a man emerged from the wheelhouse; he was followed almost immediately by another man. They both wore black souwesters, with knee-high gumboots.

‘Stay where you are,’ Harrison commanded. ‘We’re coming aboard.’

In a moment The Clacton drew alongside. The two armed Customs men stood with their rifles pointed at The Dido, and a third man moved forward, holding a rope in his hand. Carefully judging the gap, he suddenly jumped and landed on the deck of the trawler, then moved to the bow, out of the line of any possible fire. Pulling hard, he brought The Clacton towards him until it bumped the trawler gently. In the stern another officer jumped onto The Dido and between them they brought The Clacton parallel.

Harrison turned to Liz. ‘You’re welcome to come aboard, but please stay behind me. You never know what they may have waiting below.’

Following Harrison, Liz jumped from the gunwale and landed lightly on The Dido’s deck. The other Customs boat had drawn up on the far side, and soon there were a dozen officers on board, though Liz noticed that an armed man remained on each Customs boat, covering them. Three of the Customs men on board were also carrying weapons -Glock 9 mm pistols.

The two men who stood in the glare of the spotlights were Middle Eastern in appearance. The older one was heavy-set with a thick stub of moustache. He looked to be in charge.

‘Do you speak English?’ Harrison asked him

He shrugged, feigning incomprehension. When Harrison turned to his companion, he received the same response.

There was a broad hatch on deck that clearly led below, though it was bolted shut. Harrison pointed. ‘What’s down there?’ he demanded.

The moustached man spoke for the first time. ‘Is nothing below.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. I swear.’

‘You are the only two on board?’

The man nodded.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Harrison. He gestured at the hatch. ‘Open it.’

They waited tensely while the younger man moved grudgingly across to the hatch. If there is someone below who’s armed, this guy will get the first bullet, thought Liz. The man reached down and slowly pulled back the hatch bolt, then lifted open the square hinged top, letting it fall with a loud bang on the deck. He stood back, and looked away toward the sea, with a resigned expression on his face.

Suddenly up the ladder a figure emerged – a head first, wrapped in a plain brown scarf, then a cloth coat. A woman, Liz realised, as the figure climbed the last rung and stepped out on the boat’s planks. She looked absolutely terrified.

Another figure appeared, also female, and then another and another… There were seven in all, all blinking in the bright searchlights, some shaking with fear or cold, though the sight of Liz seemed to calm them.

All of them were young. Liz was certain they were not from the Middle East -though they were dark, they had high cheekbones that were more European than Arab. Romanian, Liz guessed. Maybe Albanian.

Harrison said to them, ‘Who are you and why are you on this boat?’

Silence. Then a plump younger girl with dyed blonde hair stepped forward. ‘I speak English,’ she said. She pointed to the other women. ‘They don’t.’

‘What are you doing on this boat?’

‘We come for work,’ she declared.

‘What kind of work?’

‘Modelling,’ she said seriously, and Liz winced. Is that what she really thought? Had a woman like this really believed the lies told her back in her village – the vision of a glamorous life in the West, high wages and innocent work?

Liz thought of what had been lying in store for this ‘cargo’- the journey to some strange English city in an overcrowded van, the squalor of their new accommodation, the coercive threats, the ‘initiating’ rapes, until they were sufficiently degraded to be put to work in the sex industry. What industry? thought Liz angrily. This was white slavery.