I kept thinking about the yummy detective. I didn’t even know what his first name was. I had gone to call him several times or the station to contact him. Then lost my nerve. I was just a job to him, thinking he wouldn’t even remember who I was. Who was I kidding? Of course, he would remember, which was the problem. Shame, even so, I had these fantasies about him. The problem was, he may be married for all I knew. I’d tried looking him up on social media, no luck. In the end, I decided I was punching above my weight. And to focus on flat hunting, get my independence, take charge of my life. Then go after a man I could have.
8
Vincent watched as his Vauxhall floated for several seconds before sinking before him. Faced by a chalk cliff, the high tide lapping at the base, and the English Channel behind him, nowhere to swim to. He struggled with his mac dragging him down in the water. With some effort, he slipped his arms out of it, letting it sink with his phone and weapon in the pockets.
He was now treading water. Desperate to keep away from that wall of white cliff and the rocks that laid beneath as the waves swept him ever closer. Above him, the dark clouds were letting their cargo loose. The only good news was he still had the light. He tried to glance at his watch; it was no good it had stopped at six-thirty. He calculated he had about an hour of light left. If he couldn’t get out of this mess by then, he was dead. But damned if he was going to drown, it couldn’t end like this. Not today. Not because of some stupid bitch.
He would have hard choices to make if he survived, knowing the agency would have him blacklisted. He had missed a paid hit, and he was certain Jenna’s husband would give him up. He should have stuck with agency work. If he survived, the only good outcome that might save his life, the agency would assume him dead. He hoped. If not, he didn’t fancy his chances and all because of that woman.
Turning himself around and spitting the salty water from his mouth, he looked out onto the open sea. There he saw hope. A small boat bobbed in the waves loaded with orange life jackets; it floated past. Summoning up the strength he had left, he swam towards it through the waves washing over him. It was his only hope.
As he drew closer, he could see at least eight individuals in the boat, including women and children, huddled together in terror as the sea rocked the boat. It was a child who pointed him out to the others. The sound of Vincent’s cries lost as the rain beat down and the roar of the water surrounded him. His body couldn’t stand much more. He was cold, his legs like led, and he was struggling to keep himself afloat.
The voices were getting closer and calling out to him in a language he didn’t understand. He prayed they didn’t sail past; it would be the end. He had nothing left. His head sunk below the waves. With the last of his strength, he pushed himself back to the surface, where he glimpsed the boat. They were steering towards him.
It was an effort since he was so tired and uncertain whether his leg was broken, the shooting pain dulled by the cold water.
Hands from the boat dragged him in. The same hands turning him on his back were eight pairs of eyes, including two children, stared down at him. Vincent gratefully accepted the water from a bottle pressed to his mouth. A man was saying something in broken English, but Vincent passed out.
A short time later, Vincent didn’t know how long; the light was almost gone. Something was happening as the voices were shouting around him. Lifting his head, the welcome sight of the shore was coming to meet them. Further up, a promenade lined with beach huts. Still early in the season for visitors, so deserted except for the dog walkers. It wasn’t rocket science; Vincent guessed if they hadn’t already been spotted, the group of illegals soon would be. Before that happened, he needed to distance himself from them.
The men jumped out of the boat and dragged it onto the shore. The individual men, women, and children then scattered off the beach, leaving him there alone. In the distance, he could hear sirens. A broken leg or not, he had to get away from there as soon as possible. The last thing he needed was the border patrol picking him up.
Finding a lump of driftwood suitable for using as a crutch, he heaved himself up, ignoring the pain burning inside his leg. Dragging himself towards the slope, his destination the promenade. There he limped to a bench and collapsed as police vehicles sped past. Panting, he crushed the urge to scream, the sharp pain like hot needles piercing his leg from the inside out.
It had stopped raining; in the distance, the sun was sinking. In a few minutes, only the streetlights would illuminate the area. Vincent’s eyes scanned for signs to indicate where he was? He could see none. Opposite, tall guest houses lined the road rising up a hill. It all looked familiar. He knew this place. He was sure he did. He
