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Evie looks at me. ‘It’s that way.’
‘Never play poker with her,’ I tell the guard. ‘You’ll always lose.’
The police teams have disappeared, searching the different buildings. I call Carlson’s number. It’s busy.
‘Let’s take a look,’ says Evie.
‘We should stay here.’
‘Come on. The cops are close by.’
We set off, ignoring the complaints of the guard.
‘He won’t be here when we get back,’ she says.
‘Probably not.’
Railway lines criss-cross the broken concrete docks and stop abruptly at an old slipway that has silted up and become a wasteland of weeds and thistles. Beyond that, there are acres of industrial decay, crumbling walls, rusting machinery and mounds of rubble. We pass a gutted factory, five storeys high, with every window shattered or boarded up. Beneath the graffiti is a faded sign for a long-defunct trawler company. The brown water of the Humber estuary ripples in the wind. Dredgers and tugboats are at work, as well as a freighter floating so low on the water that it might be stuck on the bottom.
We reach the edge of St Andrew’s dock gate. Rusting. Defunct. I look down. A trawler is moored twenty feet below us. Inflatable buffers protect it from being smashed against the gates. A rope ladder hangs down the nearest stone wall.
Carlson answers his phone.
‘It’s here,’ I say. ‘Below the gates.’
The message is relayed.
At that moment, a man emerges onto the deck, a phone in hand. Bearded and dressed in dark overalls, he glances up and notices me. He yells to someone below and a second man appears. Immediately, they run. The first man tosses his mobile phone into the water and jumps over the railing into a dinghy with an outboard. He presses the ignition and unhooks the tether rope, steering away from the trawler.
The second man jumps for the rope ladder and scrambles up, hand over hand, scaling it easily. He’s heading for a car, a Land Rover parked beside the old engineering shop.
I begin to move. Evie grabs my arm trying to stop me. I pull loose and run across the metal gates between the water and the silted-up dock. The safety railings are rusted and the gates groan under my feet.
The man in the dinghy has reached open water, but a police launch appears at speed, dual engines churning. A loudhailer cuts through the air, telling him to stop.
His mate gets to the Land Rover and jumps behind the wheel, searching for the ignition. I grab at his wrist. The keys slip from his fingers into the footwell. We both reach for them. He swings his elbow at my head but hits the door frame. Cursing.
I have the keys and fling them behind me. He’s out of the car and we’re grappling, rolling on the ground. He grabs my hair and drives his fist into my stomach. I double over and drop to my knees, sucking for air.
His hand reaches into his jacket. As if by magic, he’s holding a black polished rod. A steel blade snaps from the handle. He twirls the knife over his knuckles like a juggler. He’s in his late thirties with dark curly hair and a large scar running down the side of his neck and across his cheeks where the skin bubbles and puckers like melted plastic.
‘Gimme the keys,’ he says in a Scottish accent.
I crab-walk backwards, my arse dragging in the dirt.
‘You can’t get away,’ I say.
‘Gimme the fookin’ keys.’
They’re lying ten feet away. I pick them up. He motions with his free hand, wanting me to toss them. I do just that. High over his head. His eyes follow them as they arc, out of reach, and hit the water with a satisfying plunk twenty feet below him.
‘I’m gonnae gut you like a fish,’ he says, pointing the knife and crouching in an attacking pose.
I back away. He moves with me, smoothly, gracefully, and the blade sweeps through the air. Misses. He grins. I hear Evie yelling and officers shouting. I feint one way and go the other, skipping past the knife, but I feel it brush against my clothes.
‘You missed,’ I say.
‘If you say so.’
