Стелла Римингтон - The Moscow Sleepers

‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘But I knew something was up. They had a bonfire in the grounds at the back; they were burning papers, I think. I thought that was strange, so I went downstairs. That’s when I heard them talking and realised something was going on.’

‘Did you hear where they were going?’

‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘But it couldn’t have been far from here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I heard Mr Sarnat say they would take Cicero’s car. Cicero said it only had a quarter of a tank of petrol in it, but Mr Sarnat said that would be more than enough. He even laughed.’

Liz looked at Pearson. ‘It can’t be Stansted then. Or Norwich airport. And if they were staying in the UK, they wouldn’t stay close by. Which must mean the coast. They’re going out by sea.’

‘Singh, we need to alert Border Force. Better get on to the Coastguard too,’ Pearson said. ‘This young man can give you their description. Though even with just a quarter of a tank of petrol, there’s still a hell of a lot of coastline to cover and they’ve been gone several hours already.’ As he stopped speaking, his mobile phone began to ring.

Geoff Gumm was used to waking early, usually when the seagulls started screaming as the first hints of light filtered through the darkness in the east. This morning, though, he woke even earlier than usual and it was still pitch dark. He lay in bed for a while, then, realising he would never get back to sleep, he rolled over, swung his legs out from under the blankets and stood up. He went downstairs in his pyjamas and put the kettle on. Then, shivering in the cold, he went back upstairs and dressed in thick trousers and a warm fisherman’s sweater. Downstairs again he brewed coffee in a jug. Out of the window he could see the first faint hints of daylight in the eastern sky and that there had been a very early frost. The leaves of a sage bush in the herb bed were etched with white. As he stood warming his hands on his mug and watching the light gradually increase, his sheepdog Judy gave a low bark. He took no notice but a few seconds later she barked again and, thinking she needed to go out, he opened the kitchen door. She rushed out and he followed her and stood just outside the door, taking deep breaths of the ice-cold sea air.

It was the hazy time between night and sunrise. He watched Judy rush down to the track and into the tall, gently waving grass. It was then he saw the car parked on the verge of the track a hundred yards away. That it was there didn’t surprise him; early bird fishermen keen on surf casting for bass often left their cars on the lane near his cottage. There were three men in the car, as far as he could make out, and he wondered why they weren’t up and out by now, putting up their rods and lines, ready for the early morning advent of the bass. And how on earth did they get all their fishing gear into a Mini?

He whistled for Judy, who did a long tour of the front garden then came into the kitchen again, where he fed her, finished his coffee and got ready to go down to his workshop. He was looking forward to getting a good morning’s work done with such an early start. As he came out Judy rushed ahead, but she didn’t bark, and he could see that the men were no longer in the car.

He left his garden and made his way through the feathered grass and the powdery sand along the path between the dunes until he saw the sea spreading out in front of him like a blanket under a low layer of cloudy sea fret. He was about to turn towards his workshop when something caught his eye in the other direction. Turning, he saw three figures huddled together at the base of a dune. There was no sign of any fishing equipment. Gumm stared at them, but from that distance, and with fret, he couldn’t make much out. Part of him wanted to go closer, but he sensed that could be dangerous, though he didn’t quite know why.

He went on to his workshop, unlocking the door he padlocked every evening – otherwise he’d find a tramp there in the morning, keeping warm. As he started to close the door behind him he heard a mild hum, out to sea, and made out a fishing boat about a quarter of a mile out, illuminated by the first ray from the rising sun. The boat was motionless and must be anchored there; the noise was coming from a large inflatable dinghy with an onboard motor, moving swiftly towards the beach.

Gumm watched as the dinghy grew close, its motor cutting out only as it reached the shallows. The figures hunched on the beach had stood up and now they ran across the strip of shore. When the dinghy hit the pebbles with a thud, the men were already up to their knees in the water. He watched the three of them clamber into the dinghy, the last one pushing the little boat off and turning it to face the sea. It took off at high speed, heading directly back towards the fishing boat.

Geoff Gumm wondered what was going on. Why the hurry? These couldn’t be illegal immigrants – they were leaving, not arriving. But there was something odd happening. He remembered the last time Inspector Singh had come down to see him, when he’d brought his boss, the Chief Constable. They’d said to contact them if he saw anything strange. Well, this was strange. He had Singh’s number pinned on his noticeboard, so he picked up his phone, walked over to it and dialled the number. Engaged. He tried again a few minutes later. Still engaged. Geoff was getting worried now. He could see through the window of his workshop that the dinghy had reached the fishing boat and was being hauled on board. He remembered the Chief Constable had talked about possibly wanting to buy a boat and he’d left his card. It must be somewhere on the table. Throwing a Chinese takeaway menu and a Norfolk Today magazine on to the floor and pushing some bills and invoices out of the way, he uncovered it: Chief Constable Richard Pearson. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for his phone. wondering if it was too early to disturb such a high-powered person, but then he remembered what they had said: If you see anything unusual again, ring any time. Day or night.

‘We should be hearing from them soon.’ Pearson drummed two fingers on the tabletop and frowned. ‘I’m surprised it’s taking that long. There’s not a lot of traffic off this part of the coast. I know they’re short of boats and crew but I would have expected a quicker response than this. We flagged it up as urgent.’

He and Liz were in a spare office back at the Southwold station. Liz had a view of the street. The window was covered with burglar-proof mesh that made a tractor, crawling along the road, oscillate surreally as Liz gazed out.

They had left two armed officers at Bartholomew Manor on the off chance that Sarnat, Cicero or Gottingen might return, though Liz thought that given what they’d heard from Geoff Gumm it was unlikely. While Pearson spoke to his HQ and ordered them to contact Border Force, Liz had accompanied Aziz to the farm annexe. She announced to the students that he was in charge and they were all to remain where they were for the day. Their initial puzzlement had turned to glee at the prospect of a lesson-free day. Leaving two policemen on guard she was driven over to join the Chief Constable in Southwold.

Gumm had been extremely precise in his description of the boat that had picked up the escaping trio and clear about the direction it had taken as it left the coast. At first it seemed simple enough, and at nine thirty Border Force had contacted Suffolk Police HQ to report that their own craft had set off an hour before from Great Yarmouth. On its way south, it communicated with a large tanker, which reported seeing a fishing boat matching the description Gumm had given – and also supplied its name. Fortunes High had been spotted about five miles offshore, moving north towards Lowestoft. The tanker estimated it was travelling at no more than 10 knots.