Captives

SIXTY-SEVEN

There was an explosion of blood and the nose seemed to burst.

The coloured man fell backwards, his legs buckling under him, a look of pain on his face.

As he fell the spectators rose, a chorus of shouts and cheers ringing around the arena.

'Good punch,' Ray Plummer shouted approvingly. The coloured boxer looked into the referee's eyes, then watched his fingers; he was raising them one at a time as he counted. His opponent was dancing about in a neutral corner, one eye on his quarry. The other eye had been closed for most of the fight by a left hook that had caused a large amount of swelling both above and below the brow. He was older, pale-skinned and looked too thin to be a welterweight, but the right cross that had put his younger opponent down had belied his looks.

As the referee reached the mandatory eight the black fighter rose quickly to his feet.

'Come on, Robbie,' shouted Plummer, cupping one hand to his mouth.

Beside him Carol watched the modern-day gladiators as they came at each other. She was wearing a tight red dress which showed off her shapely legs. It clung to her so tightly that she wore no underwear beneath. Plummer liked that. He also liked it when he saw other men around the ringside looking at her approvingly. Look all you want, he thought. She's with me. She ran a hand through her hair and glanced up at the fighters again, one arm linked through Plummer's.

She saw him look at his watch again. He'd been doing it all evening.

'Are you expecting someone?' she asked. 'You keep looking at your watch.'

He shook his head, smiled at her briefly then returned his attention to the fight.

The younger fighter seemed to have recovered from the knockdown. Despite the blood streaming from his nose, he was driving in a series of combinations which looked to have his opponent in trouble.

'Work the body!' one of his cornermen shouted.

'Cover up!' the other fighter's trainer responded.

'Get away from him!' Plummer bellowed, watching gloomily as a body punch brought down his fighter's guard and a thunderous uppercut lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the canvas. 'Oh, fuck it,' murmured Plummer, as the referee started counting.

'If he counts until tomorrow night your boy won't get up, Ray,' said the tubby man sitting on Plummer's left.

Plummer nodded and glanced at his watch again.

10.46 P.M.

The referee made a sweeping gesture with his arm over the prostrate figure of the white fighter. It might as well have been the last rites.

Some members of the crowd moved away towards the bar between contests. Others were content to sit and wait, reading their programmes or gazing around. Television cameras were covering the bill and a number of those opposite the prying lenses spent the time waving at the cameras. Two men passed by and looked down at

Carol, who crossed her legs, dangling one high-heeled shoe from her toes.

She noticed with disgust that there were several droplets of blood on the patent leather. One of the perils of sitting ringside.

Plummer looked at his watch again and sighed.

10.48.

There were still nearly three hours to go.

The other staff had gone home. Jim Scott had locked up. Now he stood in his office drinking from a paper cup, swilling the Southern Comfort around, staring into the liquid.

***

The knock on the door was at precisely one minute after midnight.

He went upstairs and opened it, allowing John Hitch inside.

'You set?' Hitch asked him.

Scott nodded.

'Show me,' Hitch insisted.

Scott pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster and handed it to Hitch, who held the weapon for a minute before returning it to its rightful owner.

'You've got good taste, Jim,' he said, smiling, pulling his own pistol into view.

Like Scott's it was a 92S. He holstered it and motioned towards the door.

'Let's go,' he said. 'Car's waiting.'

Scott followed him out.

***

It was a small boat, less than thirty feet from stem to stem. It moved quietly up the River Thames, hidden by the darkness, only its warning lights visible on the black swirl of the water. The Sandhopper moved evenly and unhurriedly through the water.

The river was quiet. Many of the small boats which usually travelled its waters were moored for the night and The Sandhopper passed a number of them as it made its way up river. Lights from the banks reflected off the water like a black mirror. One of the crewmen of the small boat stood looking out at the city all around him, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the myriad lights.

'I can see one of them.'

Martin Bates adjusted the focus on the binoculars, trying to pull into sharper definition the man moving about on the deck.

'Where's the boat now?' John Hitch asked, his voice breaking up slightly on the two-way.

Bates picked up the radio, still holding the binoculars in one hand, following the progress of the boat.

'Just passing Hay's Wharf,' he said.

'Tell Wally to keep his eyes open and let me know when they pass him,' Hitch instructed.

'Will do,' said Bates. He put down the radio for a moment, taking one last look at the boat as it chugged slowly up river. He leant on the car and lit a cigarette, puffing at it before he picked up the radio again.

'Wally, come in, it's Martin. You awake or having a wank?' He smiled to himself.

'I'm awake, you cunt,' a deep Scots voice thundered back.

'They'll be with you in about ten or fifteen minutes, mate,' Bates told him.

'Right,' muttered Wally Connor.

From his own vantage point he moved forward, leaning on the parapet of Blackfriars Bridge, peering down into the murky blackness of the river. Waiting.

Waiting just like the other four men Hitch had positioned at various places along the Thames.

Scott looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Lancia and sighed.

'How much longer?' he said irritably, gazing through the windscreen, out across the Thames. It looked like a swollen black tongue licking its way through the city.

'Not long,' John Hitch told him, looking first at his own watch then at the dashboard clock.

'I'd just like to know why I'm here,' Scott murmured.

'I told you, Scotty, it wasn't my idea. I get paid for doing what I'm told. It's as simple as that.' He looked at his watch again. Then he pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide.

It jammed.

'Shit,' muttered Hitch.

Scott seemed unconcerned by his companion's problem and looked to his right. The four giant chimneys of Battersea Power Station thrust upward into the night sky like the upended legs of a gigantic coffee table. Below them was a pier, accessible by a set of stone steps. The steps were green with mould where the rising tide lapped against them. At the end of the pier another small boat was moored. Scott couldn't see the name painted along one side of it but he'd already been told it was called The Abbott. Not that he really cared.

Hitch was still struggling with the Beretta.

'Bloody slide's stuck,' he grunted, pulling back hard on it.

'Why do you need a gun, anyway?' Scott wanted to know. 'You intending to use it?'

'Just call it insurance,' Hitch said, still tugging at the pistol. 'Fuck it,' he snapped finally. 'Give me yours.' He held out one gloved hand.

Scott hesitated.

'Give me yours,' Hitch repeated. 'Come on, you're going to be up here in the car. If things get too complicated, just drive off.' He sat there with his hand still open. 'Let me have your gun, Jim.'

Scott reached slowly inside his jacket then pulled the Beretta free and handed it to Hitch, who gripped the automatic in his fist and checked that the magazine was full, slipping it from the butt. Satisfied that it was, he slammed it back into place and holstered the weapon, sticking his own pistol in the belt of his trousers.

On the dashboard in front of him the radio crackled and he picked it up.

'John, can you hear me?' a voice enquired.

'Yeah, Rob, go ahead,' Hitch replied.

'The Sandhopper just passed under the Vauxhall Bridge. Should be with you any time now.'

'Cheers,' said Hitch and snapped off the radio. He pushed open the passenger side door and clambered out, turning to look back at Scott. 'This shouldn't take long,' he said, smiling, the wind ruffling his long blond hair. 'Just sit tight.'

Scott nodded, watching as Hitch scuttled across the road and disappeared out of sight as he began to descend the embankment steps towards the pier.

Scott switched on the radio, heard pop music, twiddled the frequency dial past classical and reggae and finally found a discussion programme. He listened for a moment then switched off again, content with the silence inside the Lancia. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited.

***

He couldn't sleep.

He knew he wouldn't be able to and now, as he swung himself out of bed, Ray Plummer wondered why he hadn't just sat in front of the television until the time came.

He pulled on his dressing gown and padded through into the sitting room.

'What's wrong, Ray?' Carol asked, rolling over.

He ignored her enquiry so she hauled herself out, slipped on a long T-shirt and followed him into the other room. She found him standing in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the clock.

'Are you all right?' she wanted to know. 'You've hardly spoken since we got back.'

'I've got something on my mind,' he said sharply, sipping at the drink he cradled in his hand.

'Anything I can help with?'

'No, it's all right,' he said. 'Thanks for asking, though. It's just a little bit of business that's got to be done.'

She knew better than to ask what kind of business.

Plummer turned to face her, running appraising eyes over her long slender legs, her nipples taut against the thin material of the T-shirt.

'Get yourself a drink,' he said, nodding towards the cabinet. As she did he glanced at his watch once more.

Nearly time.

Carol crossed to him and slipped one hand inside his dressing gown, stroking his stomach. 'Are you sure I can't help?' she said, smiling a practised smile.

Plummer allowed her to rake her fingernails across his stomach, feeling her probing lower, encircling his penis with her hand. Then he took a step back, a slight smile on his face.

'No,' he said flatly. 'You can't help. Not yet.'

Again he looked at his watch.