Pulling open a door that led off the main living area, he came upon a toilet and shower room – Meade had told him it was called ‘the heads’ on a boat. Beyond that, another door led through to a cabin at the front of the vessel that contained the master sleeping area.
A vanity sink in an ornate marble surround was mounted in a cubby hole just to the left of the door. On the right, there was a good-sized storage locker Ahead of him a double cot hugged the boat’s contours, tapering gently inwards the nearer it got to the prow. As in the living area, the walls were mainly covered in oak panelling, giving the place an expensive and very classy feel.
Winston noticed there was an access hatch right above the bed. Secured with steel clasps, it presumably led up onto the deck and provided an escape route for the occupants in an emergency.
To his relief, not only was the boat completely empty, it bore no signs of recent occupation, and he got the distinct impression that it had been put into a state of hibernation for the duration of the winter. The owners hadn’t secured it properly when they’d left it, but that was the trouble with having so much money; it made you sloppy and complacent.
Returning to the saloon, he pulled all the curtains so that no one could see in, and then he set about checking the galley cupboards for provisions. Unfortunately, as he’d expected, there were no supplies on board, apart from a tin of instant coffee and some sugar. He poured some water into the electric kettle, plugged it in and turned it on, hoping a hot drink would warm him up. He was so cold that his teeth were chattering.
As soon as he’d caught his breath, Winston returned to the heads and started pulling off his wet clothing, dropping each item on the shower floor. He would wring them all out and then hang them up to drip-dry wherever he could find a space.
The bandage around his torso was also waterlogged. Removing it carefully, he was both pleased and relieved to see that the stitches had held. Old Horace had done a good job with the repair, he grudgingly conceded.
After a quick rummage in one of the cupboards, he emerged carrying two thick towels and a huge bathrobe. The white towelling robe only just about fit him, but it would have to do. Standing on the first towel to keep his feet warm, he sat on the toilet and began vigorously drying his hair with the second.
Winston decided that the safest thing he could do at the moment was to remain exactly where he was and wait until the heat died down. He wondered what had happened to Garston, Meade and his son-in-law, the wannabe tough guy with the shotgun. With any luck, he’d offed a couple of pigs before they’d taken him down with their return fire.
Winston wasn’t sure what to do next. He had plenty of contacts back in the Big Smoke, but none of them were people smugglers. As a last resort, he could always approach that no good
weasel, Flogger. The man was an unprincipled cut-throat, but he seemed to have his gnarly fingers in all sorts of pies and he had certainly helped his nephew out by sourcing the medical attire and name tags. Maybe he could put him in touch with someone who could help.
As the kettle boiled, he heard the yelp of approaching sirens. There were lots of them, and they seemed to be converging on the quay from several different directions.
Killing the lights, he pulled back the pilot house curtain and peered out onto the road at the end of the jetty. Almost immediately, several marked police cars came hurtling into view, travelling in convoy along the road that bordered Rock Channel Quay.
◆◆◆
Dillon was furious with himself for having lost sight of Winston as he’d floundered his way across the river towards Rock Channel Quay. The gangster had been making for a cluster of boats that were moored quite a way downstream, and although Dillon had run like the clappers to try and head him off before he reached land, by the time he’d arrived, the fugitive seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
Half hoping that he’d got into difficulty and gone under, Dillon spent the next few minutes frantically sprinting up and down the quay searching for Winston.
Feeling utterly deflated, he rang Bull to organise some back up. Annoyingly, there was no reply, so he tried calling Jack instead. When that didn’t work, he tried Susie, but even she wasn’t picking up.
He stared at the phone in disbelief. “What the hell are they all playing at?”
Relief flooded through him when a column of Sussex units raced along the quay on blues and twos before pulling into a big car park that adjoined a row of warehouses.
As he ran towards them to enlist their help, Dillon spotted Jarvis and Evans standing beside a bedraggled looking man in handcuffs. From his sodden state, it was clear that this was the first of the two men who had jumped overboard.
Some of the Sussex uniforms stared at him warily as he bore down on them. As their hands instinctively gravitated towards their batons, he hurriedly produced his warrant card and shouted out that he was a Met officer, which seemed to alleviate their fears.
“What happened to Winston?” Evans shouted.
“He’s gone to ground,” Dillon replied, gathering everyone around him to explain what had happened.
“We need to search this side of the river as a matter of urgency,” he said, breathlessly. “We’re looking for an IC3 male in his thirties. He’s a big ugly fucker with dreadlocks, so you can’t miss him. I’m pretty sure he’s gone to ground by that long line of boats over there, so as long as we can contain the area, we should be able to flush him out.”
After directing them to start the search
