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Garston and Angela were standing on one of the many jetties that protruded from the quay, waiting for the boat to set sail. It was a quarter to twelve, and Meade had been adamant that he was going to cast off before midnight.
Garston wouldn’t be able to relax until he saw it leave with his own eyes.
Angela seemed to have shrunken into herself. “I’m freezing,” she bleated through chattering teeth. Junkies didn’t do well in the cold. “Can’t we go now?”
There was no protection from the elements where they stood, and the wind coming in from the sea was relentless. “No,” Garston snapped. He pulled his collar up and tucked his chin into it, gritting his teeth against the biting cold. He’d found a woollen cap in the cottage and it was now rammed over his head, providing some protection for his ears.
Thoroughly miserable, Angela started hopping from foot to foot. “I’m really busting for a pee,” she whined.
Garston shrugged indifferently. “Should have gone before we left then, shouldn’t you.”
“I did,” Angela whined pathetically, “but this cold is going straight through me and it’s affecting my bladder.”
Pulling off a glove, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a ten pound note. “Go and find a toilet,” he said, “and then see if there’s anywhere open where you can grab us some coffee. While you do that, I’ll try ringing that imbecile, Rodent, again.”
Angela didn’t need to be told twice. She snatched the money from his hand and set off back towards the town without a backward glance. Watching as her hunched up figure was battered by the wind, he wondered how Claude had managed to put up with her for so long without putting a bullet in her feeble brain.
Not long after he’d boarded the passengers, Meade had asked them if they were tooled up. Naturally, both men had said no, but the fisherman clearly wasn’t the trusting type. He had explained that it was his policy to search all of his clients before taking them on trips like this, just to make sure that no one tried any funny business out at sea.
“Just so you know, if you’ve got any guns or knives on you and you don’t hand them over now, I’ll refuse to take you if anything’s found when you’re searched,” he’d warned them sternly.
As he spoke, Gregory had appeared from the locker below, ominously brandishing a pump-action shotgun.
“Not gonna be any arguments, are there, now?” Meade had enquired sweetly.
Winston’s face twisted into a malevolent sneer at the implied threat, and Garston had immediately feared the worst. Thankfully, Winston seemed to have realised that he needed Meade far more than the fisherman needed him and so he had grudgingly surrendered the revolver to Garston for safekeeping.
The actor had seemed genuinely shocked when the firearm appeared.
No real call forguns if you’re only going up against women, Garston had thought, loathingly. It was ironic; he would have happily killed for a lifestyle like the one the soft centred actor had thrown away, whereas Masters had killed to lose it.
Looking onto the boat from the jetty, Garston dialled Rodent’s number and listened to the dialling tone. “Come on, come on… pick up the damn phone.”
After the eighth ring, he gave up and pocketed the mobile. If he didn’t get hold of Rodent soon, he would be forced to find an alternative means of getting back to London, and at this time of night, it might not be that easy.
If Rodent let him down, as was now looking more and more likely, the first thing Garston planned do when he arrived back in London was pay a visit to his slummy Star Lane flat and kick the living daylights out of him.
Chapter 36
Steve Bull was becoming increasingly anxious. The Edna May was moored next to several similar boats on a pontoon quite close to the Harbour Master’s office, but it was in complete darkness and there was no sign of life on board. Paul Evans had gone for a walk around when they had first arrived, and he had reported back that the area was deserted. Furthermore, there was no sign of the green Land Rover Meade habitually drove anywhere in the vicinity. Evans had braved the cold to take another look around a few minutes ago, and he was now on his way back to the car.
“Something’s not right,” Evans said as he slid into the passenger seat after completing his latest prowl around the harbour. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. “If there was anyone on board that boat, I would have seen them, but it’s as dead as a bloody graveyard out there.”
Steve chewed his lip as he thought about this. Tyler had called him a couple of minutes earlier to say that the team were on their way and would be arriving shortly, along with the covert van containing the SFOs. He was beginning to wonder if it might be better to redirect them to another part of the harbour. But what was the point of that? Meade’s boat was here. Surely, this was where he was going to bring the fugitives?
A thought struck him, and he reached for his phone. Dialling the number for the office, he waited impatiently for the phone to be picked up.
Dean Fletcher’s dulcet tone answered after the fifth ring. “Intel Cell.”
“Deano, it’s Steve Bull. Can you do me a favour and check to see if Meade has access to any other boats, only we’re plotted up on his vessel and there’s no one here.”
“Wait one…” Dean said, and Bull could hear him rummaging through papers. Just as Bull was beginning to worry that Dean had been distracted by something else and
