Brute Force (23 page)

Fatman caught the waiter's eye and they were led to a table not far from the bar, still holding hands. I grabbed a stool, picked up a menu and pretended to check out the wine-list. The other tables were all heaving with glitterati picking away at bread, olives and cheese, sipping at their wine and not paying me the least attention. Candy Girl started to speak with a high, nasal American twang. She was still holding Fatman's hand, but looked around the room, checking out the other diners, maybe hoping to spot an even richer target, while he stuck his nose into the menu. Her gaze swept my way and for a brief moment our eyes met.

The spell was broken when, like a dickhead, Fatman clicked his fingers for some waiter-attention. When he opened his mouth, he confirmed what I'd already suspected: he was a Brit.

66

'Pack up, we're moving.'

Lynn sprang to his feet as if a firework had gone off under his arse. The thought crossed my mind that he'd been sleeping while on stag, but that wasn't Lynn's style. He wasn't a skiver; he did his bit. Which made me think it was more likely he'd slipped into one of his daydreams – so deeply he never even heard me come back into the flat. Fuck knew where he went when he drifted off, but my guess was that it involved Hannibal, the Romans and, somewhere in amongst it all, his wife.

'What do you mean, pack up?'

'What does it sound like? Fatman is stuffing his face. He's hoovering it up. We don't have long. When he leaves the bar, I want us to be ready. So pack, go to confession and stand by.'

I told him what I knew: that the girl sounded American, possibly Canadian, and Fatman was a Brit. Then I asked if there had been any movement on the boat – some sign that there might be somebody else on board. Lynn grunted. Negative.

He was standing with his back to the window, eying me suspiciously as I fished under the bed for my day sack. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to swim aboard.' I twisted my head to talk to him. 'Kitchen knives?'

He pointed to a drawer on the far side of the stove.

My fingers brushed the edge of the day sack; I grabbed hold of it and pulled. It slid out from under the bed.

'Pack everything – and I mean everything – you're going to need: clothes, cash, passport – even though it's compromised. Bung it all in a plastic bag. Tie it up. Make it waterproof. And you can do the same for mine.' I chucked my day sack at him.

I picked myself up, ran into the kitchen and opened the drawer. I soon found what I was looking for: a couple of cooking knives – the two biggest ones – and shoved them down the back of my jeans.

'Do people carry weapons on those things – to ward off pirates, that kind of shit?'

'Depends.'

'On what?' I really didn't have time for Twenty Questions.

'He didn't look like the kind of chap who'd carry a gun.'

I wasn't so sure. In my experience, blokes like Fatman loved guns. Guns were almost as good as Viagra – they made them feel big and important. 'Tell me one more time, because this is the last time I'm going to hear it: can you drive that boat?'

Lynn finally hauled himself into action. He walked past me, heading for his bedroom. 'Yes, I can drive a Sunseeker. And yes, Nick, if it isn't full of fuel, I can take care of that too. How will I know when you've got control of the situation?'

'I'll signal you by torch, possibly flash some headlights – or whatever it is that boats have. Don't worry, when you see it, you'll know.' All he had to do then was lock up the apartment, make his way down to the shoreline and steer his little dinghy out to the Predator.

He disappeared into his room and I took my seat by the window. Ten minutes later, he reappeared and sat down again. We lapsed into silence.

After forty-five minutes, I clocked our unlikely couple as they made their way back along the dock towards the tender. Fatman was all over the girl like a wet dress.

Time to go. No ceremony. I simply told Lynn I'd see him on the Sunseeker.

Down by the harbour people were still strolling, talking, staring. I walked across the road, hopped over the wall and hit the shingle. I glanced back. Nobody seemed to have paid me any attention.

Moving between the boats, I approached the water's edge. The sea was calm. The hubbub from the cafés and bars drowned out the sound of the waves lapping against the shingle. I fixed the position of the Sunseeker, checked the knives were secure in my pocket and stepped into the ice-cold water.

67

The Predator had a platform at the back that was almost level with the water's surface. I pulled myself aboard and listened. All the lights on the upper deck were off. The interior, visible behind two thick glass double-doors, was bathed in a soft glow filtering up from a stairwell to the left of the driver's station. I heard the hum of an electric motor from somewhere below – some pump or other doing its thing. I caught what sounded like a cross between a groan and grunt from the middle of the boat, followed by a high-pitched moan. It sounded like I'd walked onto the set of a bad porn film.

I picked myself up and walked slowly towards the doors. It had taken me fifteen minutes to reach the Predator – in a steady breaststroke, to avoid being heard or seen from the shore, or by anyone who happened to be on the decks of the gin palaces I had to swim past.

Lynn told me that almost all the boat owners he'd ever known kept their keys somewhere on the outside of the vessel. He kept his in one of three small lockers on the rear deck of his yacht. Many didn't bother with locks at all; some even left their keys in the ignition.

With a nice puddle gathering around my feet, I grabbed the doors and pulled.

They slid apart and I was greeted by the smell of leather and polished wood. The boat equivalent of that new car smell.

I stepped into the warmth and stood stock still, taking in my surroundings.

To my left were two large leather armchairs and a drinks cabinet; to my right, an L-shaped leather bench seat and a table.

I moved forward. The thick carpet cushioned my footsteps and absorbed the water that still dripped off me. I reached the top of the stairs and pulled out the bigger of the two knives.

I stepped down and passed through a galley. The sound of grunting and moaning grew louder. It was coming from directly ahead of me – the Master Stateroom. There wasn't any point stopping to listen; I was deafened as it was. I opened the door.

A moment before Candy Girl rolled off the bed, I saw everything – far more than I wanted to, in fact. Fatman was lying on his back, groping away, but she, of course, had been doing all the work. Nobody had bothered to turn out the lights, so in the full glare of the spots, there really wasn't anywhere to hide. A tattooed phoenix reared up from between her cheeks to the small of her back as she rolled into a ball between the bed and the cupboard, gaping like a fish.

Fatman tried to grab some duvet. 'What? What the fuck d'you want?'

But in all the excitement the duvet had long since left the bed and he ended up staring at me, naked as the day he was born.

'Shut the fuck up, dickhead!' I pointed the knife. Aggression with just a hint of insanity. They needed to think they were about to die, so anything else was a bonus.

The girl slunk deeper into the corner.

Fatman – pumped up on Vitamin V, sex, or just flapping so much he didn't really know what he was doing – tried to stand up. It wasn't a pretty sight. I lunged forward and punched him in the face. He fell back and hit his head on the wood panelling behind the bed. Blood trickled from his nose. It had to be over the top: I wanted to dominate the room from the word go.

Tears cascaded down her face – as they do when you think your nose is going to be fucked up. 'Please, just let me go . . .'

'Get on the bed.'

She crawled onto it and sat shivering next to Fatman.

Blood dribbled from between his fingers as he held them against his face. He put one hand up and stared at the results. Then he started to sob.

'Please, whatever it is you want, just take it, take it . . .'

The voice was estuary English – Kent, maybe, or Essex. I wondered how he'd made his money. Cars, perhaps. Swimming pools? I'd soon find out.

I put the tip of the knife to his throat and asked who had given him permission to speak, but he was in shock; I wasn't even sure he heard me.

'Listen, mate, if it's money you want, you can have it – all the money I've got, OK? OK, mate . . .?'

I applied some pressure with the knife; not enough to break the skin, but enough to get his attention. For a moment or two he stopped jabbering, long enough for me to ask if he had any weapons.

His eyes widened. 'No, mate, no weapons here. Honest. I swear. No, oh please, dear God, no . . . Look just take it all – anything you want . . .'

'Shut it.'

He fell silent again.

'The boat – how full are the tanks?'

'The boat? It's the boat you want . . .?' Relief flooded into his eyes. 'Take her, mate. Take her. Just let me go, OK? Please. She's half full. There's almost a thousand gallons of diesel in the tanks. Enough to get you well away from here. Only leave me, OK? Let me go. I got a wife, kids. Lovely girls. Fifteen and thirteen. Please. Let me see 'em grow up, eh? I'm begging you. Let me go and I won't tell anyone. The keys are under the dash. Just take the fucking thing . . .'

I prodded him again. Like a lab-monkey with an electrode up its arse, Fatman was beginning to associate pain with obedience.

'What's your name?'

'Gary.'

'Gary who?'

'Spratley. Gary Spratley.'

'Where are you from, Gary Spratley?'

'Barking.'

Barking, London. Noted for its world-class marinas and jet-set living. 'Who's this?' I nodded towards Candy Girl.

When she looked at me her eyes were as hard as the lacquer on her exquisitely manicured nails. 'My name's Electra.'

I might have guessed.

'What do you do, Gary?'

'I'm a yacht-broker.'

'Not your boat, then?'

'Mine? Fuck no. I'm handing it over to a client. A Russian. He was meant to be here to take delivery last week, but the bastard hasn't showed. I was looking after it till he turned up . . .'

Electra's kiln-hardened glaze just got harder. 'What? This isn't your boat? I'm wasting my time with a fucking salesman?'

I left them to it and opened the door of the en suite and took a peek inside. The porthole was about ten inches long and five inches wide. The only way off the boat was the way I'd got on.

Both their mobiles were on a shelf behind the bed. I grabbed them and shoved them in my pocket, then gestured with the knife.

Electra stood and let her hands fall from her perfectly enhanced breasts, eying me defiantly. I bundled her into the bathroom and told her if she made a sound, I'd be back to give her some fresh tattoos.

Gary, meantime, was coming with me.

'Please.' I thought he was going to start crying again. 'Wh-What are you going to do?'

He bent down to pick up his black Speedo-style underpants.

'You got an account or credit card for fuel?'

Gary's Adam's apple bobbed like a yo-yo. He looked like he was about to be sick again. 'Sure. Company card.'

He produced his wallet and I nodded. A platinum Amex. That would do nicely.

'Get dressed and clean your face up. Then you're going to fill up the boat.'

'Yeah, sure. Just don't hurt me, OK? Please.' He started hopping around on one leg, trying to get the Speedos on.

Spratley was an idiot who'd give me no trouble at all.

The girl, though, I wasn't so sure about.

68

Hurtling across the ocean at speeds in excess of fifty miles per hour was an unnerving experience when your entire view forward came courtesy of Jack Shit. The sea was like treacle beneath the gunmetal sky. We'd been pounding through it for almost seven hours. At least there was no wind to speak of, and the mild conditions were forecast to stay with us at least as far as our refuelling stop: the port of Cagliari in southern Sardinia.

Every available headlight and spotlight on the Predator was switched on and angled forward, but at the speeds we were travelling, we'd only have a split second's reaction time if anything appeared out of the gloom.

Lynn sat at the wheel, in the big leather seat in the helm station, staring past the wipers into the blackness. Other shipping didn't worry him – he seemed confident the radar would take care of whatever was out there – but the other crap – the odd tree carried into the Med, or the occasional container washed off the deck of a cargo ship – transformed him into Colonel Doom and Gloom.