Bad Company

It was Murphy, standing by the back door, who exploded. “Real villains, those two. Harry Salter was one of the top guvnors in the East End, big as the Krays. He’s gone legit in the last few years, supposedly. Mind you, the whisper is that he’s into cigarette smuggling in a big way, from Holland. The profit is enormous.”

“It pays better than heroin,” Gibson said.

“You would know.”

“I might. What have you got against Salter?”

Marco said, “Have you ever heard of a fellow countryman of yours, once a big man with the IRA, called Sean Dillon?”

Gibson said, “Everyone in our business knows Dillon, that bloody Fenian bastard. Works for the Brits now.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. Charles-bloody-Ferguson. He’s been the scourge of the IRA for years, but he doesn’t do the Loyalist side any favors, ould Charles, and with Sean as his good right hand, he’s a difficult man to deal with.”

“You sound like you know Dillon personally.”

“We’ve exchanged shots. We were once in the same sewer in Derry after a riot – the British army always had difficulty in telling the difference between the IRA and the Prods. It was Dillon who got me out to the river. He said, ‘Keep running. Only don’t run back to me or I’ll kill you.’” He poured another whiskey. “He kills everyone, that’s what they say about him.” He stared into his glass. “But he got me out of the sewer and I was the enemy. I’ve always wondered why he did that.”

“Don’t ask me, I’m not into philosophy. The thing is, Charles Ferguson and the Rashid family had a huge feud. You may have heard of how the three brothers came to a bad end? Dillon killed all of them.”

“And Kate Rashid?”

“Oh, he had something to do with that, too, and so did Ferguson and the Salters. Let’s put it this way. I’d like to cause them a lot of grief.”

“You mean of the permanent variety?”

“Not yet. First, a bit of mischief. I hear that Salter runs riverboats, amongst other things.”

“That’s right, up and down the river,” Murphy said. “ Westminster, Charing Cross piers, better than the bus.”

“Including a boat called the River Queen?”

“That’s his pride and joy. Originally built in the thirties. He’s spent a fortune refurbishing her,” Murphy said. “Lovely boat.”

“Excellent.” Marco turned to Gibson. “Sink her for me. Do that, and the deal arranged with Kate Rashid for your arms shipment goes through. Delivery at Drumgoole on the tenth.”

Derry looked astonished. “That’s only four days away.”

“The Mona Lisa’s already left Spain. I assumed you’d be a sensible man.”

Gibson laughed. “Oh, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rossi. As for this business with the Salters, that’ll be a pleasure, too.”

It was past midnight when Gibson and Murphy drove down to Wapping in a Land Rover, past The Dark Man and along Cable Wharf, where the River Queen was berthed. It was an area still undeveloped, mainly decaying warehouses. It was dark, a few lights on the other side, but no traffic on the river because of the hour. No one was around, or so it seemed.

Unfortunately, life being as uncertain as usual, there was a movement from one of a stack of packing cases, where an old drunk, a street person named Wally Brown, habitually kipped with his few wretched possessions. Disturbed by the noise, he crept out and listened.

“Jesus, Derry, I don’t like it.”

“Murphy, it’s as simple as hell. I go down through the engine-room hatch and open the sea-cocks. Water pours in and the boat sinks. Now, do as you’re told and we’ll be out of here before you know it. Fuck me up and you’ll end up in the river, too.”

“There’s no need for that, Derry.”

“Yes, well, this arms deal with Rossi means a lot to me. With that final arms shipment, I’ll be ready to take on the IRA for real. It’ll be just like the old days, the great days.”

“I’m your man, Derry, I won’t let you down.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

They went up the gangplank to the River Queen, and Wally Brown, having heard everything, crept back and cowered inside his packing case.

Murphy stayed on deck to stand guard, Gibson slid back the engine-room hatch, only switching on his light when he’d descended the steel ladder. The engines were beautiful, everything was beautiful, and as an Irish boy raised in a fishing port, he felt genuine regret.

“What a beauty,” he said softly. “Still…”

He knew there would be at least four sea-cocks and checked them out, sturdy circular wheels in bronze. The first one turned very smoothly, then clicked to a halt. He hurriedly moved to the second. By the time he was working on the fourth, water was already sloshing along the floor of the engine room and he was ankle-deep.

He came out and joined Murphy. “You cast off forward and I’ll see to the stern line, quick now, then get ashore.”

They did that, then pulled up the gangplank and stood back from the edge of the wharf and watched the River Queen drift out a little and settle.

“A sad sight,” Gibson said, as water poured across the deck. “But we’ve done our worst. It’s me for the early morning flight to Belfast. If I need you, I’ll be in touch.”

“I know one thing,” Murphy said, as he got into the Land Rover. “Harry Salter won’t be pleased.”

He wasn’t. Dillon, on his morning run, answered his mobile and heard Harry say, “Some damn bastard’s sunk the River Queen at her moorings.”

“What do you mean?” Dillon asked.

“Well, the bleeding boat didn’t just sink on her own! Billy’s got his scuba-diving gear out. He’s going down to take a look.”

“Ah, Harry, he shouldn’t be doing that, not after having been shot to hell in Hazar only a few months ago. I’ll come straight down.”

He switched off, thought about it and then rang Ferguson at Cavendish Place.

At the end of Cable Wharf, he found Harry, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall looking across at the part of the River Queen that was sticking out of the water. Billy’s Shogun was parked nearby, the rear door open to reveal various items of diving equipment and a couple of air bottles.

“Where’s Billy?” Dillon said, as he got out of the Mini.

“He’s been down there for fifteen minutes.”

“Dammit, Harry, he shouldn’t have gone down there. Leave it to the salvage experts.”

Then two things happened. Ferguson and Hannah arrived, and Billy surfaced. He slipped off his air bottle and Dillon reached for it. Billy started up the ladder to the wharf and Baxter and Hall pulled him up. Billy took off his mask, his face blue with cold.

“You bloody idiot,” Dillon said.

“Well, I learned it from you. It was the sea-cocks, all four of them were wide open. I’ve closed them. It was hard going.”

Dillon said, “The salvage people will need to pump her out. She’ll float again.”

“Which leaves us with the problem of who did this.”

There was a pause, and then a quavery old drink-sodden voice said, “I know, Mr. Salter. I saw them, I heard them.”

It was Joe Baxter who said, “Wally Brown. He dosses down in the packing cases.”

“And you heard them?” Harry demanded.