Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(220)

The boat was berthed bow-in. Emily reversed it into the harbour, in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Charlie paced the narrow space of the pontoon, biting the knuckles of his index finger. “Take care of her, for God's bloody sake,” he yelled. “She's all I have, and she's worth a ransom.”

A shiver ran down Barbara's spine. She's all I have echoed in her head. Even as she heard the repetition, she saw Azhar's Golf bearing down on the car park of the marina. He parked haphazardly in the middle of the tarmac. He left the car door hanging open. He ran to the pontoon. He didn't attempt to intercept them. But his eyes were fixed to Barbara's as Emily steered the boat into the deeper water of the Twizzle, the tributary that fed the tidal marshes to the east of the harbour, taking its source from the Balford Channel to the west.

Don't worry, Barbara told him mentally. I'll get her, Azhar. I swear it. I swear. Hadiyyah won't be harmed.

But she'd been round murder investigations long enough to know that there was no guarantee of anyone's safety when a killer was being run to ground. And the fact that Muhannad Malik had no compunction about enslaving his own people while wearing the guise of their ardent advocate suggested that he'd have even less compunction when it came to the safety of an eight-year-old girl.

Barbara raised a thumbs-up at Azhar, knowing no other sign to send him. She turned away from the marina then, and faced the tributary that would take them to the sea.

The speed limit was five knots. And in the late afternoon, returning boats filled with holidaymakers made the going treacherous. But Emily ignored the warnings. She fumbled her sunglasses to her face, braced her legs for balance, and took their speed up as high as she could take it and still continue to navigate the waterway in safety.

“Turn on the radio,” she told PC Fogarty. “Get on to headquarters. Tell them where we are. See if we can get a helicopter to sight him.”

“Right.” The constable set his weapons on one of the boat's vinyl seats. He began flipping switches on the console, calling out arcane letters and numbers. He pressed a switch on the microphone as he spoke. He listened earnestly for a response to crackle back.

Barbara joined Emily. Two seats faced the bow. But neither woman sat. They stood, the better to have a wider scope as they scanned the water. Barbara grabbed the binoculars and looped them round her neck.

“We need a reading for Germany.” Emily interrupted Fogarty, who was still shouting into the radio but bringing up no one. “The mouth of the Elbe. Find it.”

He turned up the sound on the radio's receiver, set the microphone down, and gave himself to the charts.

“You agree that's what he'll try for?” Barbara called to Emily over the boat's motor.

“It's the logical choice. He's got partners in Hamburg. He'll need documents. A safe house. A place to lie low until he can get back to Pakistan, where God only knows—”

“We've got sand banks in the bay,” Fogarty cut in. “Watch for the buoys. After that, set your course for zero-six-zero degrees.” He tossed the chart into the galley below.

“What's that?” Emily cocked her head as if in the need to hear.

“Your reading, Guv.” Fogarty went for the radio again. “Zero-six-zero.”

“My reading on what?”

Fogarty stared at her, nonplussed. “You don't sail?”

“I row, goddamn it. Gary sails. You know that. Now, what the hell's supposed to be at zero-six-zero?”

Fogarty recovered. He slapped his hand on the top of the compass. “Steer to zero-six-zero on this,” he said. “If he's heading for Hamburg, that's the reading for the first leg of the journey.”

Emily nodded and gunned the motor, sending a wake throbbing towards both sides of the channel.

The west side of the Nez was on their right; the tidal islands of that stretch of marshland called the Wade was on their left. The tide was high, but the hour was late for sailing, so the channel was congested as recreational sailors headed for their berths in the marina. Emily kept to the centre of the channel, pushing the speed as much as she dared. When they sighted the buoys marking the point at which the channel gave over to the greater channel that was Hamford Water and the outlet to the sea, she pushed forward on the throttle. The powerful engines answered. The bow of the boat lifted, then slapped against the water. PC Fogarty briefly lost his footing; Barbara grabbed onto the handrail as the Sea Wizard leapt into Hamford Water.

Pennyhole Bay and the North Sea yawned ahead of them: a sheet of green the colour of lichen, incised by whitecaps. The Sea Wizard shot towards it eagerly, Emily pushing ever more on the throttle. The bow hurtled out of the water, then slammed down against it with so much force that Barbara's unhealed ribs shot fire from her chest, up to her throat, and into her eyeballs.

Jesus, she thought. The last thing she needed was to beg out now.

She lifted the binoculars to her face. She straddled her seat and let its back support her as the boat jounced viciously. PC Fogarty went back to the radio, shouting over the roar of the engines.

The wind whipped them. Spray flew up from the bow in sheets. They rounded the tip of the Nez, and Emily opened the throttle wide. The Sea Wizard exploded into the bay. It hurtled past two Jet Skiers, and its wake tossed them into the water like plastic soldiers swept off a battlefield.

PC Fogarty had assumed a crouch in the cockpit. He continued to shout into the radio's microphone. Barbara was sweeping her binoculars across the horizon, when the constable finally roused someone on shore. She couldn't hear what he said, much less what was said in return. But she got the jist when he shouted to Emily, “No go, Guv. The divisional chopper's been called as back-up for exercises in Southend-on-Sea. Special Branch.”