Reg grunted. “Bloody thing is driving me mad,” he said. “Oh, and according to the TIU the 777 phone is now in the vicinity of Rye Harbour, so they might already be on Meade’s boat.”
Jack swore. Had they boarded the boat before Steve and Paul had arrived at the Harbour? That would be bloody typical, the way this job was going. If they went down below without being spotted, how could he ever be certain they were on it?
“Keep monitoring and let me know if the phone moves or there are any calls.” He hung up and redialled Bull’s number.
“Steve, Reg thinks Winston might already be aboard The Edna May. Do you have it in sight yet?”
“We’ve just arrived,” Steve told him. “No sign of any activity on the boat and Meade’s Land Rover is nowhere to be seen.”
“Terrific,” Jack said, despondently. Surely, if they were on the boat, there ought to be lights showing and movement on board, maybe even signs of the engines warming up? And where was the bloody Land Rover?
He couldn’t put his finger on it but things just weren’t adding up.
◆◆◆
Rye Harbour was located one and a half miles downstream of the main town, and about three quarters of a mile inland from where the River Rother joined the English Channel. It was a fully functional commercial harbour that was home to a large fishing and commercial fleet.
Within minutes of setting off from the last hamlet, the two passengers had arrived at the harbour and boarded the vessel that would take them to France.
Meade loved this boat. It was a 1978 Lochin 33 with a ten metre long fibreglass hull, equipped with a Raymarine Hybrid Touch Chart and Radar Plotter, a VHF DSC radio and an Autopilot. Powered by an Iveco 280 hp turbo-diesel engine, it wasn’t exactly the fastest vessel afloat, but then, for what he had planned tonight, it didn’t need to be.
There were berths for five people down below, with a separate head compartment and a hanging locker. There was also a stove and a hob in case anyone wanted coffee or soup, and Meade dropped the supplies off in there while the passengers made themselves comfortable.
The wheelhouse was relatively spacious, and it afforded good all-round visibility from the helm. As Meade stood in it, looking down into the River Rother that would take them out into the English Channel in a few minutes time, he felt more at home than he ever did on land.
The Lochin 33 was a practical, sturdy vessel, capable of crossing the channel equally well in smooth or rough seas. Mainly used as a fishing charter, this particular boat was licenced to carry up to twelve passengers, so his two travellers tonight would have plenty of space to stretch out and make themselves comfortable in.
Meade’s son-in-law, a shaven-headed thug with the broken nose of a street brawler called Peter Gregory, had been waiting for them on the boat when they arrived, and while Meade entertained his guests, Gregory lugged their bags aboard and started the engines.
“Everything’s going according to schedule,” Meade told the two passengers, “and we should be ready to set off in a few minutes.”
The black man grunted at him. He was already starting to look queasy.
“You alright, mate?” Kenny Meade asked.
Winston shook his head. “I don’t travel well,” he said.
Meade sneered. The swell of the sea had never affected him. “Here,” he said, pulling a box of Dramamine from a cupboard and tossing them to Winston. “Take a couple of those and you’ll be right as rain.”
The second passenger was a stocky white man in his late thirties with a tanned complexion, teeth so white that they could only have been veneers, perfectly manicured hands and the sort of fancy layered haircut that TV celebrities often sported. Then again, bearing in mind that he had starred in one of the most popular new soaps on the box until he’d made the mistake of murdering his girlfriend on New Year’s Day, that was hardly surprising.
“Do you need anything for the crossing?” Meade asked Craig Masters.
The surly actor shook his head. “I just want to get going,” he said, his voice low and tense. It sounded like a line from a script, Meade thought.
“Me too,” Winston echoed, looking greener than ever.
“Won’t be long now,” Meade said, studying a chart. As he took a swig of the rum-laced coffee his son-in-law had just handed him, he made a mental note to ask the tosspot actor for his autograph before he got off the boat; his wife liked that stupid show, and if he bought her the star’s signature it might make her go a little easier on him for churning the gravel up when he’d left home earlier.
Access to the English Channel from the River Rother was very straightforward, but navigation was limited by a bar that fronted the entrance and dried to a metre at low tide. There was ample room to clear it at high tide, though, which was due at eleven fifty three. The harbour entrance was forty two metres wide and marked by a red-painted tripod beacon located thirty-metres seaward of the West Groyne.
In strong offshore winds like the ones they were going to experience tonight, the seas in Rye Bay could get very rough, which meant they were in for a lumpy journey when they cleared the harbour. With that in mind, Meade opened a locker and cheeked that he had sufficient sick bags. He didn’t want the black bastard spewing his guts up all over the floor if he got caught short and couldn’t make it to the toilet in time.
Both passengers had been told that they could only bring one holdall each, and he was pleased to see they had adhered to the rule. What they hadn’t been told was that in the event of Meade not being
