Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘They don’t speak English,’ said the Chinese woman, scornfully. ‘Why are they going to England if they cannot speak the language?’

Corke swung himself through the hatch and felt for the metal ladder. His boots found the rungs and he lowered himself into the belly of the boat. The stench of fish was almost overpowering and he had to fight to stop himself throwing up. He went over to the two women and knelt down beside the sick one. He felt her forehead with the back of his hand. It was hot and her skin was wet with sweat.

‘Do you know what’s wrong with her?’ Corke asked her companion.

She said something in a language he couldn’t understand and shrugged.

‘She is seasick,’ said a man in the shadows.

Corke beckoned him closer. He was in his thirties, olive-skinned with pockmarked cheeks and a thick moustache. An Afghan, maybe, or Iranian. ‘She’s your wife?’ Corke asked.

The man nodded. ‘She is seasick,’ he said. ‘That is all.’

‘No, she has an infection,’ said Corke. ‘She’s burning up.’

‘If she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here,’ the Chinese woman hissed. ‘We could all get sick.’

Corke ignored her. ‘Does anyone have any water?’ he shouted. He had given them a pack of twelve litre bottles of mineral water before they had left port.

‘It has all gone,’ said the man.

‘That’s why I said we needed more,’ said the Chinese woman. ‘They drank it all. I said we should ration it, but they wouldn’t listen.’

‘Okay,’ said Corke. He felt the woman’s head again. She was way too hot. ‘I’ll see if we’ve got some medicine too.’ He had no idea what was wrong with the woman, but such a high temperature suggested an infection, and with any luck Pepper would have antibiotics in the boat’s medical kit.

The boat swayed hard to the left and Corke stumbled against three black men who were squatting on the floor. They had been speaking French and Corke figured they were probably West Africans. He apologised, also in French, and they waved dismissively.

Corke straightened up. ‘Look, a few hours and we’ll be in the UK,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll get you some more water. Just relax, and you’ll soon be on dry land.’ He repeated it in French, then climbed back up the ladder and closed the hatch.

Pepper glanced over his shoulder as Corke walked into the bridge. ‘Now what?’ he said.

‘They need more water, and there’s a sick woman down there.’

‘Fuck them,’ said Pepper. ‘They’re paying for passage, not a bloody cruise.’

There was a first-aid kit on the wall by the door. Corke opened it and rifled through the contents. Bandages, plasters, antiseptic ointment, an emergency dental pack and a few plastic pill bottles. Corke read the labels. They were all painkillers of one form or another, aspirin, paracetamol, codeine. ‘There’s no antibiotics,’ said Corke.

‘What the fuck do you need antibiotics for?’ snarled Pepper.

‘She’s got a temperature.’ Corke took the paracetamol. It would be better than nothing. ‘I need more water.’

‘There’s some in the galley,’ said Mosley, ‘and sodas in the fridge.’

Corke flashed him a thumbs-up. The ship rolled to the right and he staggered against the door, hard enough to wind him. He swore and rubbed his ribs.

‘Where’s your sea legs, Corke?’ Pepper laughed.

Mosley frowned and twisted a dial on his receiver panel. ‘Keep it down,’ he said. ‘I hear traffic.’

‘What sort of traffic?’ said Pepper.

‘Coastguard, I think,’ said Mosley. ‘Talking to the navy.’

He pulled on his headphones and twisted another dial. Corke stood behind him.

‘Shit!’ hissed Pepper. ‘That’s all we need.’

Mosley’s face screwed up as he concentrated. Then he took off his headphones. ‘A navy frigate is looking for us as a possible drugs boat,’ he said.

Pepper swore again.

‘And there’s a spotter plane on its way,’ said Mosley.

‘What’s the radar show?’

‘Nothing yet.’

Pepper looked at his GPS and did a few calculations in his head. ‘There’s no way we’re going to make it,’ he said. He slapped his gloved hand against the wheel.

‘What do we do?’ asked Mosley.

Pepper consulted his watch, then the GPS again. ‘This is my nineteenth run,’ he said. ‘Eighteen without a hitch. Now this.’

‘Can we outrun them?’ asked Corke.

‘We’re not built for speed,’ said Pepper. ‘If the plane flies below the cloud layer we’re sitting ducks.’ He slapped the wheel again. ‘I’m not going down for a hold full of asylum-seekers. Screw them.’

‘We could say they’re stowaways,’ said Corke, ‘that they sneaked on board before we left.’

‘They’d talk,’ said Pepper. ‘They’d spill their guts to do a deal with Immigration. As soon as they set foot on UK soil all they have to do is say the magic word “asylum” and it’s a free council house and cash in their hands while we go down for seven years.’ He waved at Corke to step forward. ‘Take the wheel,’ he said. ‘Keep her on this heading.’

‘Where are you going?’ said Corke.

‘To talk to them,’ said Pepper. ‘Andy, you come with me.’

Mosley put his headphones on the metal table and followed him out on to the deck.

Corke bit down on his lower lip. He had a bad feeling about what was happening. A very bad feeling. He looked over his shoulder at the radar screen. There were several blips on the monitor but, to Corke’s untrained eye, they meant nothing.

The boat lurched up, crashed down, and water surged over the prow. Corke turned the wheel to keep into the waves. He leaned forward and craned his neck to peer up through the windshield. He recognised several of the constellations overhead, but there was no sign of a spotter plane. Down below he saw Pepper walking along the deck, Mosley close behind.

He was drifting to starboard so he turned the wheel to the left. The trawler was responsive despite its bulk. An autopilot unit was set into the roof of the bridge, a simple enough piece of equipment that would keep the boat on whatever heading was keyed in. This stretch of water was too busy for boats to travel on autopilot, but he had no choice. He keyed in the heading, then hurried across the bridge and hauled open the door.

Half a dozen passengers had climbed out of the hold and were huddled together on the deck. Three men, two women and a little girl. East Europeans, by the look of them. The child couldn’t have been more than ten and was clutching a blanket over her shoulders. One of the women had an arm around her. The mother, maybe.

Pepper had his back to the bridge. Mosley was standing a few feet away from him, his hands out to the side as if he was trying to soothe a panicky horse. Pepper was shouting down through the hatch, yelling at the rest of the passengers to get on to the deck.

Mosley saw Corke first. Pepper saw his reaction and turned. He was holding a large handgun. An automatic. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he shouted.

‘What’s going on?’ yelled Corke. The wind tore away his words.

‘Get back to the wheel,’ roared Pepper.

Corke walked towards the captain but stopped when he levelled the gun at his chest. Corke spat out his chewing-gum and the wind whipped it over the side of the boat.

‘You heard what I said!’ screamed Pepper. ‘Back!’

A face appeared at the hatch. One of the Iranians. Pepper ordered him to climb out and join the others on the deck.

‘Andy, you can’t let him do this!’ shouted Corke. The boat lurched to starboard and water spilled over the deck, soaking the legs of his jeans. The door to the bridge slammed behind him.

‘He’s the one with the gun!’ bellowed Mosley.