Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

Shepherd sat down and took a sip of Jameson’s. ‘That is one hell of a boat, Gordy.’

‘State-of-the-art.’ McConnell sat back and swallowed a good third of his pint, then belched.

‘Explain the planing thing to me,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s what gives the rib its edge. That boat lifts up on to plane at between fifteen and sixteen knots, depending on the load being carried. The tilt lever on the wheel sets the angle of the propeller compared with the hull and that has to be right to get up on plane. I’ll run you through that tonight. It’s a matter of feel more than anything.’

‘But what’s the science behind it?’

‘A rib boat is built like an arrow so that it cuts through the waves rather than bouncing over them. The semi-inflatable bit keeps it out of the water, and they have a very shallow draught. Mine’s just eighteen inches, which is nothing. Boats that are built with a displacement design slow to a crawl in rough seas but a rib just punches through. Your old mob has one that’s made with metal collars rather than rubber and has an internal diesel engine with a range of four hundred miles. It’s all hush-hush, covered with radar-deflecting paint with an electromagnet on the front that lets it stick to hulls until the guys can offload. Now, that bugger is one hell of a boat.’

He took another deep pull on his pint and another third disappeared.

‘The shallow draught also gives you an advantage if you want to play hide and seek. The rib can go where most other craft would run aground. If you’re being chased you can slip into the shallows off Norfolk or the Thames estuary. It helps with loading and unloading, too. I’ll show you tonight. You can run right on to the beach, load and unload at the bow while the engine’s still in enough water to pull her away when you’re ready. No need to go anywhere near a dock if you don’t want to.’

‘And no one can keep up with us?’

‘You couldn’t outrun a fast sports boat with surface piercing props,’ said McConnell, ‘but only flash bastards who want to be noticed have them anyway. They throw a huge plume of white water out of the back so you can see them for miles. I’ve had a few races with the local Customs boys for fun and they couldn’t come close. The navy have some faster stuff but you’d be bloody unlucky to have them on your tail. Mind you, even if they had the speed, they’d have a bloody tough time tracking you. The beauty of the rib design is that it’s virtually impossible to follow. It won’t show up on radar, unless it’s stern on. Then the engine might give off an echo, but even that’s not guaranteed.’

‘You keep calling it a rib,’ said Shepherd.

‘Stands for rigid inflatable boat. Basically an inflatable with a hard hull.’

‘It’s the perfect smuggler’s boat,’ said Shepherd.

‘Good job I’m one of the good guys, isn’t it?’ said McConnell. He winked and laughed, a bellowing guffaw that had several heads turning in his direction.

‘Do you get asked to bring stuff over?’

‘All the time,’ said McConnell. ‘Usually by guys in sharp suits down from London who think I’ll drop my trousers for a few grand. If they really piss me off I pass them on to an undercover Customs guy I know, otherwise I just let them ply me with drink then bid them farewell with a few choice words.’

‘What about being followed by planes or helicopters?’

‘On a daytime run they could pick you out of all the rest of the cross-Channel traffic maybe, but not at night.’

‘Range?’

‘At a steady ten knots the engine burns through eight gallons of fuel an hour. Once you’re up on the plane, you burn eleven gallons an hour but you’re doing forty knots or more. Pretty much four times more efficient. The fuel tank holds fifty-five gallons so you can do two hundred nautical miles or thereabouts. More than enough for a Channel run. And it’s no trouble to carry another fifty-five gallons in cans.’

‘There’s just the one engine?’

‘The biggest outboard on the market. Three hundred horsepower. A beast. Fifteen grand’s worth of motor.’

‘Reliable?’

‘Just don’t run over anything and it’ll be fine.’

‘What if it breaks down?’

‘It won’t.’

‘Have you got a manual I can read?’

‘If anything does go wrong, I don’t want a bloody amateur tinkering with it,’ growled McConnell. ‘You have a problem, you call me. Now, I’ve a question for you. What will you be carrying?’

‘Hargrove didn’t tell you?’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if he had,’ said McConnell. ‘I don’t play silly mind games, life’s too short.’

‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd, not wanting to offend the man. ‘I just assumed he’d filled you in. Cash. Counterfeit euros. Maybe a couple of passengers.’

McConnell nodded. ‘At least it’s not drugs.’

‘Does it matter? Doesn’t Hargrove give you a “get out of jail free” card?’

McConnell chuckled. ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ he said, ‘but you know as well as I do that villains who deal in drugs are at the nasty end of the spectrum. The people-smugglers are a bad bunch, too. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Or my boat.’

‘I’m a big boy, Gordy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Besides, the guys at this end are sweethearts.’

‘And the ones in France?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘Could be Albanians.’

McConnell grimaced. ‘Now they can be heavy bastards,’ he said. ‘Albanians and Serbs are worse than the Russians.’

‘Yeah, but it’s currency, not drugs.’

‘Still worth killing for,’ said McConnell. He gestured at the notepad. ‘Okay, let’s run through a few things and then I’ll go over the charts with you.’

After two runs across the Channel in close to complete darkness, then seeing the dawn come up as they brought the boat back into Southampton, McConnell decided they needed refuelling, which meant going back into a pub for a full English breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, black pudding, beans, potato pancakes, tomatoes and two slices of fried bread.

‘So, have you got any questions?’ asked McConnell, through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

‘How do you earn a living down here?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I meant about handling the rib,’ said McConnell. He twisted the top off a bottle of HP sauce and poured it over his fried bread.

‘I’m fine on the boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m trying to work out where you stand in the grand scheme of things.’

McConnell scratched his ear. ‘I’m a sort of consultant,’ he said. ‘Your old mob uses me from time to time, and I’m a regular visitor to Poole.’

Poole in Dorset, headquarters of the SBS. Shepherd had twice been on courses there during his days as an SAS trooper.

‘Ribs are used for all sort of things these days – interception of craft at sea, boarding oil-rigs, getting people into places with the minimum fuss. I do a fair bit of training.’ He grinned. ‘And in my spare time, I take merchant bankers out deep-sea fishing.’

‘Really?’

‘Pays well and I get stock tips to boot. You wouldn’t believe the size of my portfolio.’

As Shepherd laughed, his work phone rang and he fished it out of his pea coat. It was Hargrove. ‘How are you getting on, Spider?’ asked the superintendent.

‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. He nodded an apology to McConnell and went outside the pub. ‘Gordy’s a good teacher,’ he continued. ‘Hell of a crash course he’s given me.’

‘Think you can handle the boat?’

‘I can’t guarantee a smooth crossing, but I can get there and back,’ said Shepherd.

‘On your own, or do you want him with you?’

‘I think the brothers are more likely to be spooked if I bring in someone else,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’ll play it by ear when I speak to them. He’s a character, though. No way they’d think he was any sort of law-enforcement official.’