A Perfect Likeness (19 page)

‘You know me, Tom, no clouds and I get the idea I’m being watched by the whole world.’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off the radar screen since taking to open sea and nervously tapped the glass where he could see two other craft. One east of their position and the other west south west, both on the limit of Blue Star’s radar coverage.

‘Relax,’ said Rawston, ‘they haven’t moved since we picked them up. Probably on a night-fish and found some good bites for their punters.’

‘I’m sure you are right, but it doesn’t stop me being nervous.’

The two surveillance officers in the back of the unmarked van parked in the marina car park had photographed the arrival of Page and Rawston and already had the registered keepers of the three cars that had accompanied the Star Boats van. The occupants of these cars were sitting at the stern of Blue Star enjoying the final bites of salad rolls prepared by Sylvia Page.

Edward Page looked over his shoulder towards the men before speaking. He lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, Tom, today is a bad day for me, it is the anniversary of the death of my wife. It was thirty-four years ago today that she was killed by a hit and run driver. We had only been married three months and I’ve never got over it. It gets harder for me every year. They never caught the person responsible, but I live in hope.’

‘Christ, Edward, sorry. I had no idea.’ He placed an arm around Page’s shoulder appreciating he was a very private man and would never talk this freely to others, particularly an employee. Despite working outside the law, Rawston felt privileged to be in the position he was. He had an affection for Edward Page that he never had for his own father, or any member of his family.

Both men looked skywards as a large jet flew overhead.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Rawston, ‘it’s full of lucky families off in search of some decent weather. Nothing more.’

Page managed a hint of a smile and slapped his colleague on the back. ‘Glad you are with us, Tom.’

‘Me too.’

Thirty minutes before delivery time Page gave the instruction to
set engines to idle. Rawston allowed the boat to drift, making
occasional corrections to ensure they remained in their required holding area.

Page had been following a large blip since it appeared on the screen, travelling east to west it was now only three nautical miles from where Blue Star waited.

‘Must be our man,’ said Page again tapping the glass. ‘It should be offloading any time now.’

The crew of a third surveillance craft, to the south of Blue Star and not showing on its radar screen, had already picked up the suspect ship and were busy checking it out. All three surveillance crews had instructions to monitor only, maintain radio silence and not give any passing vessel cause to believe they were under suspicion. A clear distance was to be maintained at all times.

Rawston switched on the direction finder and waited for the response. It didn’t come.

Page was anxious and reset the frequency. ‘It should have been activated by now, what the hell’s gone wrong?’ he said checking his watch for the third time. ‘It’s now ten minutes since delivery.’

Rawston, too, was uneasy and toyed with the Blue Star’s throttle controls as if he was astride the Harley Davidson he would love to own.

‘Another five minutes and we go hunting, with or without the signal,’ said Edward Page. He was feeling the strain. Rawston had never seen him so distressed.

Within two minutes the signal came through, Rawston sighed and Page issued his instruction. ‘Okay, Tom, go. Heading one-nine-zero degrees. Full throttle.’

Rawston’s response was immediate. He pulled back on the throttles prompting the twin Volvo 370 hp diesels to react instantly and lift Blue Star’s bow clear of the water. Rawston was stimulated by the action; it never failed to bring back his SBS days which were the happiest of his life, especially when on active service. Ten more minutes with a minor change of heading and he had found what they were looking for. The three packages were clearly visible some fifty metres ahead. Throttles closed, the bow dropped and the three men in the stern struggled to retain their balance.

‘Right, get them aboard without delay and let’s get out of here,’ said Edward Page without taking his eyes from the screen. He considered this the most critical time.

The final two surveillance boats had disappeared off the screen and all that remained was the delivery ship now well to the west. Page turned in anger, the direction finder signal was still being transmitted from the packages. ‘Tom,’ he screamed, ‘get that bloody transmitter shut down.’

‘Fuck it,’ shouted Rawston handing the controls over to Page. Within a minute he was back at the controls having appropriately chastised the ‘fisherman’ who had the responsibility to switch it off. ‘Sorry, Edward, he won’t do it again.’

‘Okay, Tom, let’s go home.’ Page took a final look at the radar screen which was now clear of any contact and went on deck to supervise the next stage.

The individual packages were released from the netting and placed in three custom-built plastic drums. One package in each drum. The deeply recessed lids were secured and filled with crushed ice and fish.

Rawston had turned on to an easterly heading as instructed and now waited for Page’s next change of course. He knew exactly when and what it would be and had begun his turn as Page spoke.

‘Zero-one-zero, Tom, should be about right.’ He stood erect, stretched his arms wide and arched his back. He began to half whistle and half blow a tune that Rawston could not place. The same tune he always whistled at this stage of the operation.

Rawston grinned. He assumed it meant Page was satisfied that it had all gone well, despite the delays in receiving the signal and switching it off. Approaching five nautical miles from the marina they picked up the harbour light positioned on the western breakwater. Thirty minutes later he tuned to channel fifty and made radio contact.

‘Draycliffe Marina Control, this is Blue Star, we’ll be entering the harbour in five minutes, over.’

‘Roger, Blue Star, message received. Hope the fish were biting well. Out.’

‘That means he wants his usual couple for dinner,’ said Rawston. We need to be careful as he will be lurking nearby.’

Blue Star berthed at 4. 20am. The ‘catch’ was loaded on to the trolleys along with three sets of fishing equipment. The marina’s night security officer just happened to be waiting at the end of pontoon eleven, as Rawston had predicted.

‘Morning, Jack,’ said Rawston, ‘how’s your night been so far?’

‘Very quiet, Tom,’ he reported as he peered into the leading trolley with eyes targeting the catch. ‘You are the only person I’ve spoken to. One day something exciting may happen here, like a drugs raid for example. Anything to break the monotony. Were the fish biting well tonight?’

‘Like there was no tomorrow. How would you like a couple of nice ones to take home for your dinner?’ Rawston took the two largest from ‘out’ of the drum and gave them to Jack in the plastic shopping bag the night-man conveniently had handy in his pocket.

‘Great, cheers, Tom, you’re a pal. The missus will appreciate these.’ And
he
appreciated he didn’t need to visit the supermarket on the way home.

Thirty minutes later the van and the three cars had travelled the six miles along the coast road to the rural village of Dersfield. They waited while the two large, electronically operated, metal gates opened. It allowed sufficient time for the officer, uncomfortably installed in a dense thicket diagonally opposite the entrance, to log details of who and when. He’d been positioned since 11pm and had only made note of one other arrival, Sylvia Page at 11. 58pm. Nobody had departed the premises.

The Page’s house was impressive. Large, with five bedrooms and sitting in around two acres of land that had been designed for easy maintenance. The front and sides were laid to lawn with an assortment of small flowering trees and shrubs. The roadside boundary wall was constructed of sand coloured bricks and stood six feet high. Halfway along this wall was the entrance gate. The wide gravelled drive, with an established privet hedge on either side, fanned out as it approached the house, forming a large turning circle with a central pond and fountain. The fountain had not been used since the Pages moved in. A four car garage was to the right of the house and two further outbuildings, smaller than the garage, were to the left. At the rear of the property were an orchard, an enclosed swimming pool and a summer kitchen with BBQ area. Wire fencing and tightly woven conifer hedging stood high, protecting the side and rear boundaries. There were no immediate neighbours; the surrounding land being a mixture of private and common woodland. Edward Page considered the house perfect for his purpose.

Sylvia Page had opened the larger of the two outbuildings and covered the central work-bench with a clear plastic sheet. The building was the Star Boats scuba equipment store. On metal racks along the two side walls were oxygen bottles. Full bottles were green tagged and the empty ones, red. On the higher shelves were torches, two underwater cameras, underwater note pads, snorkelling equipment and harpoon guns. On the floor were a selection of weights, and all-in-one wet suits and flippers were hanging from rails across the end wall.

The first of the three packages was removed from the drum and placed on the work-bench. Page used a Stanley knife to remove the hermetically sealed outer plastic covering, then the triple layered inner to reveal twenty, one kilogram packets of top quality South American cocaine.

Page made two random checks to confirm the quality and they were re-packed with ten kilos in each package. Both destined for London. The same procedure for the second package. This time half each to Birmingham and Manchester. Both sent via London. The final package was for southern England and would be taken by the three men who had been out on Blue Star. These were Page’s initial link in the distribution network that he had established. The men, like everyone involved in the operation, knew the risks, but the rewards were too high to be ignored. In a matter of days they would be many thousands of pounds better off and that was all that concerned them. They were also aware that their payments to the organisation must not fail to arrive on time. They were part of a group from which there was no way out and any attempt to cheat them would be dealt with in the most permanent of ways.

The three cars departed at 6. 34am, turning left from the house towards the A27. All went to the addresses the surveillance team had obtained. Rawston departed 7. 34am in the hired Ford Escort van positioned at the house the previous afternoon. On reaching the A27 he headed west and joined the A23 to London. The London police team, warned less than one hour earlier, assumed responsibility for this vehicle from the M25 and were able to video Rawston transferring his load to a waiting vehicle in Camden Town.

*

Deckman arrived at his office early, wanting to be informed immediately of how the overnight surveillance had concluded. He sat at his desk attempting to complete the paper on Neighbourhood Watch he’d been instructed to have ready by the end of the week; in two days time. It was not possible, his mind was one-tracked. Cooperation between the public and police would have to be put on hold. As he returned the folder to the in-tray the phone rang, but it was not the call he had hoped for. The news was bad. Deckman had slipped up again.

‘Terry, for goodness sake, what’s the matter with you?’ said Deckman’s wife. ‘It’s Richard’s birthday and you always wait until the kids get up before you leave for work on
their
day. And you never told me you were leaving early nor did you re-set the alarm. I’ll be glad when this wretched case has been resolved.’

Deckman cursed himself. ‘Sorry, Jens, no excuse. Is Richard okay?’

‘Yes, I’ve told him there was an emergency. It
is
this Michael Campbell business isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is, but it should not be getting to me like it is. I need to talk about it tonight, if I’m allowed back home.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling, you know I understand, but the boys are not so tolerant and have noticed the change in you, as I have told you before. Of course we can talk about it. Well, you do the talking and I’ll just listen, as always.’

‘I know, Jens, but you listen so well.’

‘Just one thing, promise me you will be home for Richard’s party tonight. Just the family, he doesn’t want any friends but he does want his father.’

‘I’m going to Nunhouse prison this afternoon, but I promise I
will
be back.’

As soon as he had replaced the handset the phone rang again. This time it
was
Fraser. ‘Guv, Customs reckon they may have a lead on the delivery ship. If it is the one they think it is it could be Columbia bound. It’s being tracked and as soon as they have any information they will contact you.’

‘What about our own surveillance, did anything come of it?’

‘Looking positive, Guv. I’m with some of the lads now waiting for their reports. I’ll be back in about half an hour or so.’

Deckman wanted detail now, not in half an hour, but you didn’t rush Fraser. He was old school and did things his way. Deckman checked his watch and shook his head. It was stomach time and he guessed Fraser would be having another greasy breakfast. With a bit more effort and a change of mentality he knew his sergeant could have been a DI. Deckman was full of respect for the man, his mind was an encyclopedia and he got results out of nothing. Fraser played out his ‘simple-cop’ role to perfection and Deckman was more than happy to go along with it. He reached to the in-tray and opened the Neighbourhood Watch folder.