The Shroud Maker (38 page)

Then there was Andre Gorst. The cog had been moored there for a while so he would have recognised the man from the
Queen Philippa
when he’d dumped Kassia’s viol in the bushes. Then he’d made his clumsy attempt at blackmail, assuming that he was dealing with a man who’d killed a woman in a fit of passion. It probably never occurred to him that he was entangling himself with someone who thought nothing of taking a life, who even took pleasure in it.

Wesley sat in the shelter of the cabin, his guts churning, praying silently that he wouldn’t bring up his breakfast and make a fool of himself. The words of ‘For Those in
Peril on the Sea’ began to whirl through his head as he yearned for dry land. They were at the Bar now, the hinterland between the haven of the river and the vast open sea. From the spray-spattered porthole he could make out the castle on his right, perched on the towering cliffs guarding the river mouth. His stomach lurched as the boat shot over the waves with all the instability of a fairground ride but he tried hard to concentrate on what was going on around him.

One of the Marine Unit officers was talking on the radio and above the noise of the engine Wesley strained to hear, fingering the unfamiliar bulk of his life jacket. He could just about make out what was being said. A yacht answering the
Queen Philippa
’s description had been spotted half a mile away rounding the headland, sailing in the direction of Bloxham. The port authorities at Bloxham were being alerted in case Wentworth decided to head there. Wesley suddenly felt hopeful that his ordeal might soon be over.

He decided to venture out of the cabin, hoping the fresh air might make him feel better. The nausea rose with each movement of the boat and he couldn’t help envying Gerry who was now striding around, sharing grim quips with his fellow sailors.

They were travelling fast across the water, steering past dark glistening rocks protruding from the waves like lethal obstacles in a computer game. One false move, one overzealous turn of the wheel, and the rocks would tear through the hull like a knife through flesh.

Wesley closed his eyes for a moment but that seemed to make the sickness worse. When he opened them again he could see a white vessel ahead, in full sail, cutting through the water. The launch was slowing now as it approached and Wesley heard one of the officers call out an amplified order to stop. He could see two men on the deck, standing, ropes in hand, frozen with astonishment.

But the men were both middle-aged, most likely professional men indulging their expensive hobby. Neither of them bore the slightest resemblance to Rory Wentworth, and one look at the name of the yacht confirmed that this wasn’t the
Queen Philippa
, although the two vessels were remarkably similar. As soon as the error was realised radio contact was made, apologies given and inquiries made as to whether the
Queen Philippa
had been spotted. To Wesley’s surprise, the answer was yes. She had passed the unsuspecting sailors about half an hour before, heading in the direction of Morbay. She’d sailed very close and when they’d tried to hail her and make radio contact this was ignored.

At least now they knew they were on the right track.

Wesley returned to the cabin and sank down again, taking deep, gulping breaths, the only thing that seemed to ease the nausea. He looked up and saw Gerry descending the steps, a determined look on his face. Dressed in weatherproof gear, he resembled a giant orange. Wesley suspected he was rather enjoying himself.

‘How you feeling, Wes?’

‘Not good.’

‘They’ve just radioed the harbour master at Morbay and he says the
Queen Philippa
’s just entered the harbour. Back-up’s being organised but I’ve told them to lie low. The last thing we want is to scare him off before he moors up and sets foot ashore.’

They were shooting round the headland now and through the porthole Wesley could see Fortress Point lighthouse up to his left. The towering grey cliffs gave way to stretches of red sand and the land of a thousand childhood holidays. There were funfairs and caravan parks on this part of the coast and today the sunshine had lured bathers on to the beaches and into the sea. He summoned the courage to follow Gerry up on deck and shielded his eyes against the glare of the sky. Soon the golden sands of Morbay itself came into view. They were approaching the harbour, once home to a substantial fishing fleet but now largely used for leisure craft. The launch slowed down as it glided into the haven.

‘Any sign?’ Gerry called out as the radio crackled to life.

After a few moments one of the Marine Unit team called out. ‘Harbour master says the yacht’s just moored up near the landing stage. Hasn’t made contact yet.’

Now they’d reached calm waters and the launch was cruising slowly into the harbour, Wesley’s nausea abated. The engine slowed to a stately pace and they chugged up to the harbour wall, just out of sight of the landing stage. Gerry had been hoping to take Wentworth by surprise but Wesley thought this was optimistic in a marked police launch.

One by one they climbed up the metal ladder fixed to the sheer harbour wall. Wesley had ascended the sides of a trench at an archaeological dig dozens of times but the thought of all that deep water beneath him made him nervous. As he stepped on to the quayside he felt a little unsteady and Gerry took his arm, muttering something about sea legs. Wesley said nothing: he wasn’t going to lose his dignity now.

They’d arranged to meet the uniformed back-up who were waiting for them some way off. Gerry hurried over to where they were gathered, Wesley following in his wake. If Wentworth hadn’t spotted them, it’d be a miracle.

Gerry seemed to have read his thoughts. ‘Looks like the bloody policeman’s ball around here. Couldn’t you get any high vis jackets, just in case he’s short-sighted?’

The uniforms exchanged puzzled looks. Clearly the dose of Liverpudlian sarcasm was wasted on them.

After instructing the back-up to stay where they were till Gerry gave the signal, the two detectives strolled over to the landing stage fifty yards away. The
Queen Philippa
was tied up there at the end, nestled between two larger vessels. As they approached, Wentworth emerged from the cabin and stepped out on to the deck. He was dressed in shorts and a blue polo shirt and he looked completely relaxed, which was just how they wanted him. Unprepared.

‘Do we go in now?’ Wesley whispered as he saw Wentworth retreat into the cabin.

‘We wait.’

A chill wind had started to blow in off the sea and for a while the only sounds Wesley could hear were the lapping of the water and the crying of the seagulls overhead, punctuated with the metallic clinking of halyard against mast and the odd distant splutter of an outboard motor.

The wait couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes but it seemed a lot longer. Then, just as Wesley’s patience was starting to wear thin, Wentworth appeared on deck again. Wesley watched, holding his breath, as the man jumped from the deck on to the jetty, sure-footed as a cat, as at home on the water as Wesley was on dry land. He began to saunter towards the harbour office, hands in the pockets of his shorts. As soon as he reached the entrance, they’d take him.

But then he changed direction and started to head for the street. Wesley wondered why he was surprised that the man wasn’t doing things by the book. After all, he’d broken the ultimate law. He’d killed.

Gerry signalled to the officers who were waiting at the other side of the harbour office before breaking into a run. Wesley followed but, being younger and fitter, he soon overtook him. He could see Wentworth walking purposefully towards the promenade which was crowded with half-term holiday-makers, families with buckets and spades heading for the sand. Catching up with Wentworth had suddenly become urgent.

They were closing on him but Wentworth didn’t appear to have noticed them.

‘We’ve got to stop him before he gets lost in that crowd,’ said Gerry, who was panting a few yards behind. The other officers had caught up now so he gave the signal and they began to run, their boots pounding on the promenade like drumbeats.

Wentworth swung round. Wesley was now close enough to see his face but where he’d expected to see panic, instead there was cold calculation. He saw Wentworth reach into his pocket and draw out something small and dark. It took a few seconds for his brain to register that it was a gun and he was pointing it straight at them.

Wesley stopped, putting out a hand to warn Gerry and the others. The gun looked small, almost like a toy. This had to be stopped before it got out of hand. He heard one of the back-up team on the phone to the Armed Response Unit. But it would take a while to arrive.

‘Don’t be daft,’ Gerry said, raising his voice to be heard over the raucous seagulls wheeling overhead. ‘Don’t make this any worse than it already is.’

‘Stay back.’ Wentworth sounded jumpy now. Wesley knew that nerves and firearms were a lethal mixture.

‘This can only end one way, Rory,’ he said. ‘Place the gun down on the ground and put your hands on your head.’

Wesley heard an ominous metallic click. Wentworth’s expression was blank, devoid of emotion. The man wasn’t panicking. He was preparing to kill with the cool efficiency of an executioner.

For a moment there was a silence when even the circling sea birds made no sound. Then the air exploded around him. Wesley fell to his knees and felt a heavy weight pushing his body to one side.

He hadn’t been aware of closing his eyes until he opened them and saw Gerry slumped on the ground beside him, clutching his chest.

‘Officer down,’ they’d shouted as Wesley knelt beside Gerry praying for the paramedics to arrive. Gerry was murmuring but he couldn’t make out the words. He could feel something warm and sticky seeping on to his arm. Blood.

The Armed Response Unit had descended on the scene with a squealing of tyres. But Wentworth had got away, dodging down the promenade through the throng of unsuspecting families. The back-up team had followed at a distance and lost him because they hadn’t wanted to risk getting too close with all those kids about. The last thing they needed was a hostage situation.

Wesley was trying his best to stay calm and professional. But it wasn’t easy when the man who was not only his boss but also his friend was lying in his arms, dying for all he knew. He looked round and saw people standing there, frozen like statues. He shouted to them, asking where the ambulance was. Aware of his own voice cracking with emotion, he suddenly felt lost.

It seemed an age before he heard the welcome wailing of the ambulance siren. He heard himself talking to the green-clad paramedics, explaining what had happened and functioning on some automatic level that he hoped was making sense.

It wasn’t long before they had Gerry in the ambulance, wires sprouting from his chest and an oxygen mask hiding most of his face. As he was lifted in on the stretcher, he managed to talk after a fashion. Wesley couldn’t quite make out what he was saying but it sounded like one of his jokes.

When the ambulance had driven away, Wesley was left there alone. The Armed Response Unit was out looking for Wentworth and everyone had been issued with bulletproof vests. Pity they hadn’t thought to give Gerry one; nobody had considered the possibility that Wentworth had acquired a gun on his travels.

He stood there, a hollow feeling in his heart. Maybe he should have gone in the ambulance with Gerry. On the other hand someone had to co-ordinate the search and Gerry would have told him not to be a sentimental idiot; but the last thing he felt like doing at that moment was carrying on.

A crowd had gathered behind a hastily erected barrier, staring like curious sheep under the gaze of a trio of uniformed constables from Morbay nick. There were children in the crowd and Wesley felt like yelling at them. Didn’t they realise there was a dangerous man at large? Didn’t they realise he had a gun and thought nothing of killing?

His phone rang. Wentworth had been cornered in an amusement arcade on the promenade. Shots had been fired and an onlooker, a young lad, had been injured although not seriously as far as they could tell. Wentworth had then made a run for it, dropping his gun on the arcade’s grubby carpet to be retrieved swiftly by the surrounding officers. He was now heading back to the harbour area.

Wesley retraced his steps. There was a chance that Wentworth might try to return to the
Queen Philippa
and make his escape by water. All available officers would be making for the harbour but he wanted to get there before them.

He ran along the embankment. He could see the
Queen Philippa
at the end of the landing stage and he caught sight of a movement aboard. Someone was on deck, bent down as if playing a game of hide-and-seek. As Wesley drew closer he could see that it was Wentworth and that he was opening a locker, delving inside, searching for something.

Confident that the sound of the gulls overhead would mask his approaching footsteps, Wesley ran down the landing stage and stepped aboard gingerly, steadying himself on the rails. He turned his head and saw that half-a-dozen officers were several yards behind him, making for the same spot. Wentworth wouldn’t stand a chance now.

‘Rory Wentworth. You’re under arrest,’ he said, taking his handcuffs from his pocket as he began to recite the familiar words of the caution.

Wentworth turned slowly and straightened himself up. There was something in his hand; something brightly coloured and the size of an old-fashioned police truncheon. And he was grinning; the merciless grin of a death’s-head.