SAMPLE CHAPTER

David’s whole body was drenched with sweat. The cold of the morning and the enveloping mist made him shiver. Turning, he looked at the boat’s wake. Mirage’s speed was in excess of twenty knots on a mirror-flat surface. Holding on tightly, he glanced forward, asking himself. "What the hell am I doing?"

His six foot frame towered over the others as he braced his feet against the boat’s movement. With his left hand he brushed away the dark hair covering deep set blue eyes which strained to see the shore. He was a good looking man, well built and strong. In the crook of his right arm he held a sub-machine gun against his chest and felt his heart pounding. "Chris, Stop. Stop this boat," he screamed.

There was no response; the noise of the twin Johnson outboards at full power drowned out his cries. He noticed Jack was shaking and sensed an undercurrent of fear between them.

David knew that due to the mist, Chris had to rely on the boat’s magnetic compass to steer the required course. Resigned to his lot, he remained silent as they sped into the white veil. The mist lifted for an instant, just enough for him to catch sight of the shore. A fleeting look at Chris and Jack confirmed they were committed. The point of no return was now a distant memory and he let his mind wander. Why had his wife cheated on him and then to rub salt into his wounds, taken him for every penny? Gambling had, for a time, appeared to be the answer but had merely created three desperate men. This stupid idea had been Jack’s but the more hopeless his life had become the more rational it seemed. Sleepless nights had created a scenario that would eventually become fact. Only a few weeks had elapsed since they had visited South Queensferry, checked out the location and its surroundings. Hadn’t anyone wondered why three men were timing themselves running up and down steps from the shore to the high street? Now, what had been a bad idea became plausible. Carried away by their naivety, it had been so easy to plan. The stealing of Mirage and obtaining weapons had been straightforward. The Royal Navy had trained these three non-commissioned officers well. The savage screeching of a gull returned him to reality.

Chris eased the throttle back, cruising parallel with the coast until the pebble beach came into view. Swinging Mirage to port, he closed the shore, veered to starboard then stopped, allowing the port side to nestle gently on the shingle.

"Right, Jack, in exactly three minutes I want to hear that Thunder-Flash erupt. Okay?"

Jack nodded.

Scared but fuelled with a wild energy, David sprang onto the beach with Chris following close behind. Pebbles crunched noisily under their feet as they ran towards the steps. In seconds they were on the ancient cobbled High Street of South Queensferry. He glanced left and right; the street was empty. To their left was the entrance to the Clydesdale Bank. Stopping for a moment, he said to Chris, "Let’s do it."

He grinned, shrugged resignedly, accepting the decision.

He pushed the door open wide, allowing Chris to toss two smoke bombs inside. When they erupted, a woman screamed hysterically.

As one, they rushed in. Chris brandished his machine gun, fingers trembling on the trigger. He yelled at three middle-aged female customers. "Get down on the floor and shut the fuck up." His features altered, his mouth tightened and eyes became cruel. "I said, get fucking down, now, move yourselves."

With harshness in his voice, David, pointing his weapon, spoke to the staff, an older man and young girl. "Get your hands in the air, touch nothing and get out here." The man visibly shook, but the girl, a pretty little thing possibly straight out of school, in some way retained her self control. As they left their refuge, Chris shoved the girl to one side causing her to tumble to the floor.

She shook her head and shouted. "Bastard."

Chris gave her a glaring look which silenced her. Grabbing the man, he held him tightly. The barrel caught his face; split lips bled profusely down onto a pristine white shirt. Without compassion, he cruelly thrust the gun into the man’s side. Looking wretched, he whimpered and pointed. "The money’s over there under the counter. Take it, take it all. Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot. I have a wife and family."

Four women, mouths agape, edged their way into a far corner.

David moved fast, knowing the whole process relied on exact timing. There, neatly stacked, were boxes full of money. Quickly, he shoved all he could hold into black bin bags whilst Chris covered him. He had filled two when the roar of a Thunder-Flash grenade filled his ears.

Moving alongside Chris, David yelled, "That’s Jack’s signal. Time’s up; let’s go."

He rushed out of the bank with Chris close on his heels, running recklessly down the steps, stumbling, almost falling, as feet struggled for a grip on the loose shingle. He felt there was a dream-like quality to everything, as if they were moving in slow motion.

Jack had Mirage ready, its engines running. In the distance, a police siren wailed its pitiful cry. Without waiting to see what happened, they clambered on board, flinging the bin bags and guns into the stern as they did so. There was a moment of sober realisation, they’d done it. Then with a roar, Mirage surged forward.

"Let’s get out of here," a relieved David shouted, knowing it had been one hell of a gamble. All their financial problems would now be resolved and they could get on with their lives. Strangely they had only known each other for less than a year but their worlds had overlapped in the frantic need for money.

Jack moved to one side, allowing Chris to slide into the driver’s seat and take over the controls. Mirage raced at twenty-five knots across the flat calm water and the dense mist concealed them once more.

Suddenly, the engines began to screech and with an almighty bang, they stopped. The bow dived deep into the water and a deluge of spray covered them.

Chris continuously pressed the start button.

"Jesus Christ, Chris," shouted David, pushing him to one side. "If you press that any harder it’ll be out the back of the panel. Let me look – after all, I’m the engineer. Raise the engines; I want to check the props."

"Shit," he exclaimed, as his eyes took in the mass of nylon fishing net entangling the propellers.

Using a pair of pliers, he began to hack away at the twisted mess. Only the sound of water lapping about the hull disturbed the silence. For a moment he became lost in his own thoughts until an unearthly sound filled the air.

"What’s that?" asked Jack.

"It’s too bloody close for my liking," bellowed Jack.

"It’s a foghorn," answered David. "More than likely, Beamer Rock. The noise of the engines would have covered it up on the way across."

"Shut up," roared David.

"Oh my God!" shouted Chris. "That’s not Beamer. I can hear a ship and it’s a fucking big one!"

Christ, what’s next? David thought. He would have to work fast. Listening, as a large vessel crashed through the water, he instantly recognised the danger. Chris, as white as a sheet, sat in the stern and bawled like a child whilst Jack prayed loudly to any god who would listen. The mist darkened, defining the vessel’s outline as it headed towards them. He was well aware that a ship underway was an awesome force, thousands of tons of steel guided by its crew. For such a defiant creature of the sea to stop would take miles. In sheer desperation, he tore savagely at the nylon, ripping yards of it away. The officers on the bridge of the approaching vessel would only see a small blip on their radar screen. Its fog horn continued to blast out a miserable cry.

He raised his head, peering into the mist; it was too late. Shrieking "Jump for it," he grabbed one of the bags, winding it tightly round his wrist and hurled himself into the water.

Swimming for all he was worth, as it moved closer, the huge steel hull began to shut out the light. David had covered no distance, when an unassailable wall of water, moving at speed, hit him with a force that drove the air from his lungs. Without flinching from its path, its huge bulbous bow swatted Mirage, smashing its delicate hull, lifting and tossing it uncaringly into the air. The tattered remains fell from the sky and hit the water, disappearing as if they had never existed.

Waves struck his body, lifting him high, only moments later to abandon him as a piece of debris into the depths. He held his breath, his lungs hurt and the pulsating throb of propellers filled his ears. He clawed at the water, frantically attempting to increase the distance between himself and the vessel. The undertow seized hold, dragging him down further. He lost all sense of direction. Blood starved of oxygen throbbed through his veins. His upper body was starting to pound and burn with the need to breathe. His mind spun as he gave one last effort and fought the pull of the water. He struggled, knowing his reserves were gone. His head ached and the thought of clean, fresh air made him delirious. Suddenly, like an express train, his body raced towards the surface. In that moment before blackness shut down his mind, he hit the cold mist-laden air. Life remained only a faint glimmer. The agonizing pain consuming him began to fade; vital bodily functions started to shut down. His battered body floated on the surface. What made him grab the bag with both hands did not matter. Man’s earliest instinct forced his mouth to open and gulp life-saving air.

The ship had moved on but the ebb tide was now at its peak. It had taken a firm grip and he was drifting, half-blind from the salt, down river. Cold air and seawater entered his mouth and lungs, causing him to vomit violently. He retched again and his senses began to return. Knowing he was alive spurred him on and his eyes attempted to focus. He had to get to the shore or hypothermia would rob him of the chance fate had given him. All at once, his feet touched something; when it happened again he knew it was mud. He pushed himself towards the shore in spite of the excruciating pain wracking his body. His legs did not want to work but gradually he moved forward, step by painful step, until he was only able to crawl on his hands and knees. The soft sand of the beach was the best sensation he had felt in a long while. He could barely believe the Grim Reaper had lost his grip.

. In time, salt-encrusted eyes opened but he did not know how long he had been lying there. With a huge effort, he began to think and at once realised the open beach revealed him to the world. His chest hurt and his head throbbed. Slowly and stiffly, he made his way forward. Little by little, he crawled towards a tree-covered area. Every nerve end pulsed with pain. Out of view of anyone passing, he curled up and sank into unconsciousness. His right hand still gripped the bag.

He woke with a start and gazed automatically at his wrist; his watch was gone. His blue eyes had a problem focusing. After a few minutes he stared up at the moon, realising midnight must have come and gone. He had to get his act together; this foolishness had been his fault. Regrets and recriminations were useless. There was no point in going back; he was up to his eyes in debt, in the middle of a protracted divorce and now, a man on the run. The robbery and the likely loss of two comrades would be impossible to explain. He wondered if they’d survived. If so, where were they? Maybe they’d been rescued or swam ashore further down the River Forth. Right now, he was in no condition to search for them.

His eyes saw the bag he had used as a pillow and he opened it. He could only feel bundles of notes still sealed in their wrappers. He wanted to count them but it was dark and there were far too many; it would have to wait. There must be hundreds, enough to get away and start a new life. He attempted to control his thinking through a confused mind. What did he need? Clothes – he couldn’t go anywhere in a day-glow-orange dry suit. Where should he go? London would be a good place to hide; no one knew him and with this amount of money, he could disappear without trace.

He tried to get up. It took a supreme effort to move from sitting to kneeling and, with the help of a tree for support, to stand. Cautiously, still gripping the bag, he began to stagger along the beach, using the tree line to conceal his progress. After what felt like a mile, he came across a cottage. In there, he thought, would be clothes.

He had never broken into a house before. It seemed empty; he wasn’t sure. An idea came to him; toss a stone through a window and wait. If the lights go on or the police arrive within half an hour, move on. He picked up a rock and hurled it. The noise of glass shattering resounded in the night air. Laying flat on his stomach, he remained watching and waiting in the darkness of the trees, immobile as a shop window manikin unlit in the moonlight. The time dragged by and nothing happened. He forced himself up and warily approached the cottage, grimacing like an old man but ready to flee if need be. In the light breeze, the curtains were moving in and out of the frame. This was it; he broke the remaining glass and entered.

Moving through the house, he came across the bathroom, turned on the light and stared at his reflection. Black mud caked his hair, face and hands. Stripping off his dry suit he had a cold shower. After drying himself, he soon discovered a pair of navy overalls, a jacket, both of which were on the big side and some ill-fitting shoes. Lastly, he found two suitcases, one large and one small. In the larger he placed his torn and tattered suit and in the other, the money. His eyes widened as bundles of five, ten, twenty and fifty used bank notes fell into the case. Taking out one packet of tens he began to count. On reaching a hundred he knew the case contained thousands. All he had needed to pay off his debts was fifteen thousand and now he had more than he had ever seen in his life. Removing a wad of fivers, he shoved them and the tens into his jacket pocket.

Leaving the cottage before it became light; he made his way along a narrow path. It took him half an hour to find the main road to Edinburgh. He stopped in the shadows of a lane, staring out at the empty thoroughfare before him. Fear made him cautious; in the open there would be no hiding place. If a passing police car stopped, that would be the end. Glancing both ways, he left the cover of the lane and walked out into the brightly lit road. To him the only sound was his heartbeat thundering in his ears. A hundred yards away was a bus shelter: sanctuary. He could wait there until a bus came along. His body ached and it was all he could do to maintain a steady pace. Someone had already smashed the light in the shelter. He sighed heavily as he sat on the only serviceable seat.

In the quiet of the early morning, the sound of a diesel engine could be heard a long way off. Carefully, he peeked out; the lit For Hire sign was a gift from the gods. He moved out and flagged it down. The cabbie swerved into the kerb and stopped. David clambered in, holding the cases tightly.

"Don’t normally get many fares this time of the morning. Where to?"

He thought quickly. "Do you know anywhere cheap and cheerful that does food?"

The driver was young man, freshly shaven and reeked of Boss aftershave. "Ah, yes. The Greasy Spoon in Leith is where us cabbies go. Good nosh and a lovely brew of tea. Won’t cost you an arm and a leg either."

"Thanks, mate. That’ll do. How far is it from Waverly Station?" He was aware of the mans eyes watching him through the rear view mirror.

"It’s a good walk but you can get a bus or cab."

Turning around in his seat, he gazed out of the rear window. Other than the morning milkman, the street remained deserted. Unhindered by any traffic and moving through streets unknown to him, the cab turned into Dock Street, braking to a halt outside the café. That’s you. Seven quid, please."

Removing a roll of fivers fro his pocket, David peeled of two, telling him to keep the change.

Picking up his cases he walked slowly into the café. The smell of freshly cooked bacon made his mouth water. Only then did he realise he had not eaten for twenty-four hours. A full Scottish breakfast, along with several mugs of hot tea, soon disappeared. No one seemed to take any notice of the stranger who wore ill-fitting clothes.

When the shops opened, he purchased a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, a blazer, a pair of Hush Puppies and toiletry items to meet his immediate needs. Having changed into his new clothes, he made his way to Waverley Station and purchased a single ticket to London King’s Cross.

***

Having slept fitfully, David got off the train half-asleep.

"From behind him a voice shouted, "Excuse me, sir."

Suddenly, his stomach went into freefall. Turning, he stared at a guard holding the suitcase he had deliberately left behind.

"Is this yours, sir?"

Swallowing hard, he shook his head. "No, it’s not mine. Sorry."

The man rolled his eyes and walked past him muttering, "Thanks anyway. I’ll take it to lost property. God knows how anyone can forget a suitcase this size."

David remained where he was, breathing heavily for a few moments. King’s Cross Station was very familiar. He had passed through it enough times, travelling from Portsmouth to Scotland. But something was wrong; there appeared to be police everywhere. As uncontrolled panic gripped him, he searched frantically for somewhere to hide. Refuge behind a slow-moving line of mail wagons seemed the thing to do, which, to his alarm, turned, leaving him standing in the middle of the concourse. They don’t know me,

they can’t know me, I could be anyone, he reasoned. Don’t run, keep cool, act normally he told himself. Sweat began trickling down his spine as his heart raced. He felt the world could hear him breathing as he waited for a hand to rest on his shoulder. Why are they staring at me? His body shook as a policewoman started towards him, only to stop and help a young mother. Making his way to the nearest exit he stopped and leant against the wall. Breathing became difficult as bile flooded his throat, filled his mouth causing him to vomit. Jesus Christ, he thought, if I feel like this every time I see a copper, I might as well give myself up now. People passed unseeing, no one stopped or even glanced at him. It was what he wanted: anonymity. After taking several deep breaths, his senses returned. Leaving the station behind, he started to think logically. All of his life had been in a controlled environment. Now suddenly he was alone and felt vulnerable. There was no doubt in his mind, like it or not, he had to come to terms with this predicament or give himself up as a deserter and criminal. As a man with an undetermined future, the thought of ending up in a jail mortified him. He had to be strong or he’ spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. The only solution that made any sense was, for the moment, to continue one day at a time. He needed somewhere to stay. Nothing over the top, a bed and breakfast would suit him fine until he decided where to go and what to do next. He began walking along York Way until he reached Agar Grove. Turning left, he wandered on; drab-looking terraced houses filled every street. Gardens that had once boasted cultivated flowers were now practical concrete slabs. He came across a corner shop that had cards in the window advertising rooms to let. There were no customers waiting. Behind the counter stood a bald Asian man, about five feet tall and very fat. He may have had the appearance of Buddha but his dark eyes were cautious and watchful.

"Can you recommend any of those rooms to let?"

The man smiled. "What do you want; a room to play, or a decent place to stay?"

David returned the smile. "I’m in town for a few weeks."

"Try Mrs Evans. She’s a good sort. Keeps a clean house and her rates are reasonable."

"Sounds good to me. Where do I find her?"

The man moved from behind the counter to the shop entrance and pointed. "It’s in Camden Town, not far. Straight down there until you reach Camden Road. Turn left and keep walking until you find Mortimer Street and she’s number sixty-seven, on the right."

Thanking him, David bought the Daily Mail and left.

When he finally found the house, he looked for any sign that stated rooms to let but there wasn’t one. It was not the prettiest of houses; the wall in front leant inwards and was crumbling from lack of repair and the front garden no bigger than a postage stamp full of weeds. The original wooden sash and case windows were now of modern plastic. However, this was the right place so he pressed the bell push on the royal blue painted door. After a minute or so a small, shapely brunette opened the door. "Can I help you?" she asked in a soft, pleasant voice. From inside a radio blared out its programme of music.

"Hi, I’m looking for a room to rent."

"Please come in. I’m Mrs Evans. My two rooms are empty at the moment."

As he followed her up the stairs his fear began to subside. It felt strange but there seemed to be an overwhelming sense that he had entered a safe haven. He noted she was an attractive woman for her age, which he gauged to be about forty. The house was about eighty years old and had at one time been a two up, two down railway terrace. Now after some extensive building works the upstairs contained a bathroom, a separate toilet and two bedrooms. There was a hint of attraction in her eyes as she showed him the rooms; one was a single at the back of the house and the other, at the front, a double. He thought for a moment and opted for the larger of the two. He went in and felt the firmness of the mattress. The décor was faded but the room was spotlessly clean and suited his needs. "Very nice. Just the job."

"Are you a traveller?" she asked.

Not ready, he merely nodded his head. Her lipstick was too bright a red and her blue blouse revealed more than it should. As they had moved from room to room, he was convinced at least two buttons had come undone and her ample breasts were now more out than in.

"I’m definitely travelling."

Her brown eyes sparkled as she spoke. "The room’s twenty-five quid a night, including breakfast. Cash only. I don’t do credit or cards."

Removing a wad of notes from his pocket, he counted out three hundred and fifty pounds, and gave it to her. "There you are, fourteen days’ worth. I might even stay for a bit longer, but I’ll let you know. Okay?"

Her eyes lit up as she noticed there was much more.

"Oh, by the way, everyone calls me Emma. For five quid you can have an evening meal but I do need to know in advance. Breakfast is in my kitchen, which is down the stairs; turn right along the hall, and it’s the second room on the left. When you come down, sign the visitors’ book and here’s your keys. While we're on the subject, what’s your name?"

Without a moment’s hesitation he answered, "David Jones." And before she could ask any more questions he began to close the door. "Been a long day."

His body ached, his mind was in turmoil and he needed sleep. For the first time in many hours, he felt safe. Lying fully clothed on the bed, a moment later he was asleep.

He woke up and it was dark. Removing his clothes, he left them where they fell and slid under the sheets. Sleep recaptured him in seconds.

Incessant banging on the bedroom door brought him rapidly to his senses. Stiff and sore, it took him a few moments to remember where he was before getting out of bed.

"Where’s the fire?" he shouted, opening the door. On the small landing stood Emma, holding a breakfast tray.

"Seeing you’re having a lie-in, I thought you might like your breakfast in bed."

He was conscious that she was giving his body the once over. She could not fail to see the bruises covering his tall, lean muscular frame. These were now a variety of shades, varying from yellow to black. The broad grin on her face reminded him he was naked. Retrieving the tray, he thanked her and closed the door.

He ate his breakfast whilst attempting to read the Daily Mail he had bought the day before. With a fork in one hand, he turned the pages with the other. The pictures of three missing sailors made him choke. He read the article word for word but it merely stated that the three men were missing and a full-scale search was continuing throughout the day. Fortunately, the photographs were old and of poor quality. Stroking his chin, he found that several days of black stubble covered his face; now would be a good time to grow a beard.

With any luck he hoped that Chris and Jack had survived. He knew little about their backgrounds, being acutely aware that service life was different to what most considered normal. One lived with men for two years, maybe more, and then moved on. Acquaintances, you had hundreds, true friends very few.

***

Janice Porter, Assistant Editor of the Southampton Gazette, glanced at her watch as she entered her office. Pausing briefly, she checked her appearance in the full length mirror behind the door. From a black leather shoulder bag she removed a pale pink lipstick and skilfully applied it. The new blue dress, its colour matching her eyes, embraced her well proportioned five-foot-six figure. Today she wore her natural blonde hair up, revealing her entire face, the high cheekbones enhancing her appearance. Satisfied, she was ready to face the day, and moved self-assuredly to her desk. It was just passing ten o’clock as she sat back in her chair mentally prepared to examine the pile of national newspapers in front of her. Before starting, she kicked off her high heals, enjoying the comforting moment. Sliding her feet into a pair of sandals that were permanently there, she doggedly began her search, always looking for a new angle; making notes of the stories her paper had disregarded. In every one there was a mention of terrorist attacks. In the seventies there had been the Italian Red Brigade. Later, the drug barons of South America fought governments. Then the constant clash of the Arab nations against Israel. What was happening to the world? She asked herself. Long ago freedom fighters became politicians. Now political correctness in all things resulted in intractable problems; more than the world can solve. She felt it was time people woke up to the fact that they can’t be tolerant of everyone. One day, she thought, terrorists will bring this country of ours to its knees and there will be nothing we will be able to do about it.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Anne, her secretary, entered balancing a cup of coffee on top of a full mail tray. Janice made a face. "Thanks." Returning to The Scotsman. The headline, Royal Navy Loses Three Sailors on River Forth caused her pulse to race. The pictures of the men were poor. Bitter memories flooded back when Adrian, her husband, a Commander in the Royal Naval Reserve, was posted missing. Thankfully, it had all been a carefully planned deception and he had returned safely. It had happened a long time ago, but still the pain of not knowing haunted her. The next page had a few columns on a daring bank robbery in South Queensferry on the River Forth. The report mentioned two men having held the bank staff at gunpoint whilst a third waited in a boat.

"Is that so?" she asked herself, reading both reports again; I wonder? The plot thickens; were there six men on the river that morning in thick fog, or three?

She placed the pages of The Scotsman to one side. A few telephone calls, plus copies of the Dunfermline Press and Edinburgh Evening News might reveal something more.

Whilst studying her list of contacts, Janice did some hard thinking. One name stood out: Hamish McCaig, a freelance reporter. Lifting the telephone handset on her desk, she tapped in the Edinburgh number and waited. It began to ring at the other end.

"Hamish, how are you?"

"That sounds like me old haggis, Janice Porter. I’m fine. What can I do for you?"

"Could you do me a favour? It may be something or nothing but do you know about the robbery at the Clydesdale Bank, South Queensferry?"

For a moment, the line went silent. "Oh that, the police have no clues, no witnesses and no bloody idea."

"Can you send me copies of all the local papers for the next few days? C O D will do."

"What are you looking for?"

"Hamish, I promise if there’s anything, I’ll let you know."

"Okay, the papers are on their way. Talk soon. Bye."

Janice replaced the receiver, knowing he was a man of his word.