Captives

FIFTY-THREE

Ray Plummer looked at his watch, checking the time against the clock on the marble mantelpiece.

11.24 P.M.

He crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured himself another large measure of whisky, glancing at the phone every few seconds as if willing it to ring.

Perhaps it was a wind-up, he thought. There would be no phone call from the mysterious informant. The whole fucking scheme was somebody pissing him about.

Wasn't it?

He downed what was left in his glass and thought about pouring himself another. He looked at the phone again. What if the caller rang and couldn't be bothered to hold on?

Someone pissing about.

It was a hell of an elaborate plan just for a windup.

Could it be true about the twenty million?

He crossed to the drinks cabinet once more and tipped the bottle.

The phone rang.

Plummer spun round, almost dropping the bottle and his glass. Whisky slopped onto his hand as he hurried to pick up the receiver.

'Hello,' he said.

Cool it. Don't let the bastard think you're too interested.

'Ray?' said the voice.

First name terms, now, eh?

'Yes. What have you got for me?'

'Ray, are you okay?'

Plummer frowned.

There was something wrong here.

'Who is this?' he said, some of the tension leaving his voice.

'It's Jim Scott. What's wrong?'

Plummer exhaled deeply and gripped the receiver tightly in his hand.

'What the fuck do you want?' he snapped.

'We've had the law round here tonight,' Scott told him. 'That girl who was killed the other night, they've been checking the area.'

'Some girl was killed, was she?' Plummer muttered irritably. 'Jim, I couldn't give a toss if the Queen Mum has been gang banged.' The anger returned to his voice. 'I'm waiting for a very important call. Get off the line, will you?'

'I just thought you should know,' Scott said. 'They spoke to all the staff here. I know everything is covered with the running of the club, but I didn't think you'd be too happy about the Old Bill sticking its nose in.'

'I couldn't care less, get off the fucking line,' shouted Plummer and slammed the receiver down.

He stepped away from the phone, angry with Scott for disturbing him but also angry with himself for being so jumpy. He'd been in the penthouse flat since about nine that evening, trying to watch TV, trying to listen to music but with no success. All he could think about was the impending phone call. If it came. John Hitch had seemed convinced that it would and Plummer trusted the instincts of his colleague almost as he trusted his own. And yet.

11.36.

Fuck it. No one was calling, he thought.

He's six minutes late. That's all. Six lousy minutes.

He turned his back on the phone.

The strident ringing startled him again, but this time he turned slowly, gazing at the phone.

Plummer finally plucked up the receiver.

'Where the fuck were you?' the voice rasped. 'I said I'd ring at half past. Your phone was engaged.'

'What am I supposed to do, apologise?' Plummer snapped. 'Say what you've got to say.'

'It's on.'

'What's on?'

'The shipment is on its way, you stupid cunt. What do you think I mean?' the voice hissed.

Plummer gripped the receiver tightly.

'Listen…'

The caller cut him short.

'No, you listen. Perhaps you have a pen and paper with you, or will you be able to remember what I'm going to tell you?'

'Get on with it.'

'The shipment of cocaine will arrive two days from now. It's going to be on board a small boat called The Sandhopper. The coke will be in among a load of porn mags and videos, right?'

'Where is it being unloaded?' Plummer wanted to know.

'Chelsea Bridge.'

'What about that warehouse in Tilbury that Connelly bought? You said it was going to be there.'

'I never said that. I told you Connelly had bought a warehouse. I never said for sure that's where the stuff would arrive.'

'Chelsea Bridge,' Plummer murmured, more to himself than the caller.

'Yeah. The drop is scheduled for two in the morning. -There'll be a lorry waiting to pick the stuff up. It'll look like a refrigerated lorry carrying beer.'

'How many of Connelly's men are involved?' Plummer wanted to know, i'm not sure.'

'How the fuck are they going to get the stuff up the Thames without the river police tumbling them?'

'What am I, an information service? That's your problem. That's all I've got to say now. I won't call again. Things are starting to get dangerous now.'

He hung up.

Plummer replaced the receiver slowly, massaging his chin thoughtfully with his other hand.

He was about to phone John Hitch when there was a knock on the door.

Plummer swallowed hard and froze for long seconds.

The knock came again, harder, more insistent.

He moved stealthily to the bedroom, to the wardrobe close to his bed. There was a small safe in the bottom which he hurriedly opened.

Plummer pulled the Delta Elite 10mm automatic from inside the safe and slid one magazine into the butt. He worked the slide as quietly as he could, chambering a round, then he moved back out into the sitting room towards the door.

The knock came again.

'Yeah, all right, I'm coming,' he called, unlocking the door with infinite slowness. He left the chain on, the words of the caller flashing into his mind: Things are starting to get dangerous.

Precisely how dangerous, Plummer was about to find out.

He turned the door handle slowly, the automatic gripped in his fist, held high so that he could swing it down into a firing position if necessary.

He opened the door, allowing it to reach only the length of the chain.

The Delta Elite was ready as he peered through the gap.

His voice was coloured with surprise as he gazed at the newcomer.

'What are you doing here?'