“Oh,” Jack said sheepishly. He hadn’t expected that.
“Shame on you,” Susie said with a wry smile, “bad mouthing those poor County Mounties when all they wanted to do was help us out. Tut-tut-tut!”
◆◆◆
Kenny Meade reversed out of his gravel drive, sending stones spraying everywhere. No doubt, his wife would give him an ear full for doing so when he got back home, but he was in too much of a rush to care.
He drove his old Land Rover along the narrow winding lanes at reckless speeds, figuring that he would see the headlights of an approaching vehicle in plenty of time to stop. Unlit, some of these narrow roads were barely more than tracks. There were some nasty bends in them, too, and, over the years, he had seen many an unsuspecting motorist misjudge them and end up in the hedge. Luckily, only locals tended to use this route during the hours of darkness. Meade wasn’t remotely worried about having an accident; he had lived around here all his life and he knew these roads and all their danger spots like the back of his calloused hand.
Not long after setting off, he had noticed headlights a little way behind him. It was unusual to see another vehicle on the back roads at this time of night and he had thought it strange, but they had long since disappeared, so it couldn’t have been anything to worry about. Dismissing the thought, he concentrated on negotiating the last sharp bend and then he was at the A259. He signalled left, pulled out when there was a gap, and set off towards the cottage to pick up the first of his passengers.
◆◆◆
Dick Jarvis unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the driver’s door with a shaking hand. He got out gingerly, placing his weight on legs that felt like jelly. He didn’t think he was injured, but he was badly shocked by the crash. He had been driving too fast, he knew that, but the smuggler had been going like a bat out of hell and he had been in danger of losing him. He hadn’t even had time to put it up over the radio.
The impossibly tight bend had appeared out of nowhere and, as Jarvis had stamped on the brakes and desperately tried to steer the Astra around it, the vehicle had locked up and skidded straight into a great big bush. There had been no warning chevrons or anything to alert him to its presence, and he was furious with himself for having misread the road so badly. Now Meade had got away and it was all his fault.
He walked around to the front of the car and shone his torch on the bonnet, expecting to see it mangled. He was pleasantly surprised to see that it appeared intact. Maybe he would be able to reverse out and get after Meade? First, though, he needed to let Steve Bull know what had happened.
Jarvis pulled out his mobile, but he was in a dip and the signal was rubbish. Cursing, he ran back to the car and searched for the Cougar radio, conscious that with every passing second, Meade was getting further away. The radio had slid under the passenger seat and become wedged, and he had to open the back door and wriggle his arm underneath to reach it. Finally, panting from his exertions, Jarvis had it.
“Jarvis to Bull, urgent message, over.”
“Go ahead,” Bull responded almost immediately.
“Steve, Meade’s on the move. He’s in his green Land Rover,” Jarvis reeled off the registration number from memory. “I’m sorry mate, but I’ve lost him in the back roads. He was heading towards the A259, so presumably, he’s on his way into Rye. Can you and Paul get to the boat ASAP?”
“How the hell did you lose him?” Bull demanded, sounding very angry.
“I stacked the car on a tight bend,” Jarvis confessed, feeling incredibly stupid. He cringed in anticipation of the scathing comments that were sure to follow.
“Are you injured?” Bull asked, surprising Jarvis. He had expected to be shouted at.
“No, just a little shaken,” he admitted.
“What about the car – is it drivable or do you need a garage skipper to report the POLACC?”
A POLACC was police speak for a police accident.
“No, miraculously, I can’t see any damage at all to the car. I just slid off the road onto the verge and ended up stopping with the bonnet buried in a bush. There might be a few superficial scratches, but this car is so old and battered anyway that it’ll never notice.”
“Okay,” Bull said slowly, and Jarvis could hear the cogs turning as his sergeant thought things through. That was one of the things he really liked about Steve Bull. He was so mellow, and always calm under pressure, unlike Charlie White, whose default setting tended to be one of ranting and raving in such an unintelligible Glaswegian accent that no one could understand a word he said. Invariably, he had to repeat everything again when he had calmed down.
“Right,” Bull was saying, and Jarvis could tell that he was walking quickly as he spoke from the change in his breathing pattern, “me and Paul are hot-footing it over to Meade’s boat now. I’ll let the boss know what’s happened. See if you can get the car out of the bush. If you can, meet us at Rye Harbour.”
“Will do, “Jarvis said, sounding relieved that Bull hadn’t apportioned blame on him for losing the target.
“And Dick?”
“Yes, Steve?”
“Drive carefully.”
Chapter 35
At precisely 11:07 p.m. the SFOs set off towards the property. Dressed all in black like Ninjas, they were carrying an assortment of carbines, ballistic shields, and a red battering ram.
Tyler and Susie had arrived just as they were getting kitted up to move in, and they now waited with Dillon and the rest of the team a safe distance back from the property where there was no danger of them collecting a stray round if the situation
