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.”
“What?” Emily demanded. “What the hell are they doing?”
“Anti-terrorist exercises. Been in the planning for six months, they said. They'll radio the chopper, but they can't guarantee it'll get here in time. You want the Coast Guard?”
“What bloody good is the Coast Guard going to do us?” Emily shouted. “D'you think Malik's going to surrender like a good boy just because they pull alongside and ask him?”
“Then all we can hope is that the chopper gets out here. I gave them our compass reading.”
Emily gave the boat more throttle in reply. Fogarty lost his balance. The carbine slid from the seat with a clank. Emily glanced back at the weapons. “Give me the holster,” she called. She slung it over her shoulder, one hand on the wheel. She said to Barbara, “See anything?”
Barbara scanned the horizon. They weren't the only craft on the sea. To their north, the rectangular forms of ferries made a squat line from Harwich and Felixstone harbours, stretching towards the continent. To their south, the Balford Pleasure Pier cast lengthening shadows on the water as the sun drew lower in the afternoon sky. Behind them, wind surfers cut colourful triangles against the shoreline. And before them …before them was the endless stretch of open sea, and hulking at the horizon of that sea the same bank of dirty grey fog that had hung off the shore for as many days as Barbara had been in Balford.
There were boats out there. In the height of summer even towards the end of the day, there would always be boats out there. But she didn't know what she was looking for, aside from a craft that appeared to be heading in the same direction as they were taking. She said, “Nothing, Em.”
“Keep looking.” Emily gunned the Sea Wizard. The boat answered with another wild leap from the water and another pounding return to the sea. Barbara grunted as her unhealed ribs took her body's weight. Inspector Lynley, she decided, would not be chuffed with the manner in which she'd spent her holiday. The boat rose, smashed, and rose again.
Yellow-beaked gulls soared above them. Others bobbed on the swells. These burst into flight at the approach of the Sea Wizard, their angry screams obscured by the roar of its engines.
For thirty minutes they held the same course. They powered past sailing boats and catamarans. They flew by fishing boats that sat low in the water, their day's catches made. They drew ever closer to that low grey band of teasing fog that had promised the coast of Essex cooler weather for days.
Barbara kept the binoculars trained ahead of them. If they didn't catch Muhannad up before they reached the fog bank, their advantage of speed would do them little good. He would be able to outmaneouvre them. The sea was vast. He could change his course, taking himself miles beyond their reach, and they wouldn't be able to catch him because they wouldn't be able to see him. If he reached the fog bank. If, Barbara realised, he was even out in the open sea at all. He could have been hugging the coast of England. He could have another hideout altogether, another plan set in place long ago should the gaff be blown on his smuggling ring. She lowered the binoculars. She rubbed her arm across her face, removing not sweat this time but a sheen of saltwater. It was, she decided, the first time she'd been cool in days.
PC Fogarty had crawled to the stern, where the carbine had slid. He was checking it over, adjusting its setting: single shot or automatic fire. Barbara guessed he was opting for automatic. From her coursework, she knew that the weapon had a range of about one hundred yards. She felt the bile rise in her throat at the thought that he might actually fire it. At one hundred yards, it was as likely that the constable would hit Hadiyyah as he'd hit Muhannad. A completely non-religious woman, she sent a fleeting prayer heavenward that one shot aimed well above his head would convince their killer that the police were pursuing him in deadly earnest. She couldn't imagine Muhannad surrendering for any other reason.
She returned to her watch. Stay focused, she told herself. But she couldn't keep her mind's eye from seeing the little girl anyway. Plaits flying joyously round her shoulders, standing flamingo-like with her small right foot scratching at her thin left calf, nose scrunched with concentration as she learned the mysteries of a telephone answer machine, brightly putting the best possible face on a birthday party with a single guest, dancing with happiness at the discovery of a near relation when she'd thought she had none.
Muhannad had told her that they'd meet again. She must have been bursting with delight at how soon again had actually occurred.
Barbara swallowed. She tried not to think. Her job was to find him. Her job was to watch. Her job was to—
“There! Bloody hell! There!”
The boat was a pencil-smudge on the horizon, rapidly approaching the fog. It disappeared with a swell. It reappeared again. It was on an identical course to theirs.
“Where?” Emily shouted.
“Straight on,” Barbara said. “Go. Go. He's heading into the fog.”
They roared onward. Barbara kept the other boat in sight, shouting directions, reporting what she saw. It was clear that Muhannad hadn't yet twigged that they were behind him. But it wouldn't be long before he realised that fact. There was no way they could silence the scream of the Sea Wizard's engines. The moment he heard them, he'd know capture was imminent. And the desperation factor would weigh in like a boxer.
Fogarty moved up to join them, carbine in hand. Barbara scowled at him. “You don't intend to use that thing, do you?” she shouted.
“Sure as hell hope not,” he replied, and she liked him for the answer.
The sea round them was vast, an undulating field of murky green. They'd long ago left the lesser pleasure craft behind them. Their companions remained only the distant ferries that were making for Holland, Germany, and Sweden.
“Are we still on him?” Emily shouted. “Do I need to correct?”
Barbara raised the binoculars. She winced as the jouncing boat rattled her ribs. “Left,” she shouted in return. “More to the left. And Jesus. Hurry.” The other boat looked inches away from the fog.
Emily guided the Sea Wizard to port. A moment later, she gave a cry. “I see him! I've got him!”
And Barbara lowered the binoculars as they roared closer.
They were some one hundred and fifty yards away when it became apparent that Muhannad had realised that they were on him. He rode a swell and looked back over his shoulder. He bent his attention to the wheel and the fog, since he couldn't possibly hope to outrun them.
He powered onward. The boat cut into the swells. Water spit over its bow in great froths. Muhannad's hair, free from the ponytail he'd worn since the first moment Barbara had seen him, flew about his head. And next to him, indeed so close that from a distance they looked like one person, Ha
diyyah stood with her hands hooked into her cousin's belt.
No fool Muhannad, Barbara thought. He was keeping her close.
The Sea Wizard charged forward, climbing the swells, plunging into the whitecaps. When Emily had closed the gap between the two boats to forty yards, she decreased her speed and grabbed the loud hailer.
“Shut down, Malik,” she called to him. “You can't outrun us.”
He kept moving. Steadily. No decrease in speed.
“Don't be a goddamn fool,” Emily called. “Shut down. You're done for.”
No decrease in speed.
“Goddamn,” Emily said, loud hailer at her side. “All right, you bastard. Have it that way.”
She opened the throttle and advanced on the smaller boat. She closed the distance to twenty yards.
“Malik”—into the loud hailer again—”shut down. Police. We're armed. You've had it.”
He gunned the motor in reply. His boat shot forward. He swung the wheel to port, away from the fog. The sudden change in direction threw Hadiyyah against him. He caught her round the waist and lifted her quickly.
“Put the kid down,” Emily shouted.
And in a horrifying instant, Barbara realised that that's exactly what Malik intended to do.
She had only a moment to see Hadiyyah's face—stricken with terror where an instant before the joy of a boat ride with her cousin had been. Then Muhannad had her balanced on the edge of the boat. He threw her overboard.
“BLOODY HELL!” BARBARA cried.
Muhannad spun back to the wheel. He swung the boat away from his cousin and directly towards the fog. Emily gunned the Sea Wizard's motor. And in a flash that seemed like an eternity of comprehension, Barbara saw that the DCI fully intended to give chase.
“Emily!” she shouted. “For God's sake! The girl!”
Frantically, Barbara searched the swells and found her. A bobbing head, thrashing arms. She went down, resurfaced.
“Guv!” Constable Fogarty cried.
“Fuck it,” Emily said. “We've got him.”
“She'll drown!”
“No! We've goddamn bloody got him.”
The child went down again. Resurfaced. Thrashed wildly.
“Jesus Christ, Emily.” Barbara grabbed her arm. “Stop the boat! Hadiyyah'll drown.”
Emily shook her off. She shoved forward on the throttle. “He wants us to stop,” she shouted. “That's why he did it. Throw her a life jacket.”
“No! We can't. She's too far away. She'll drown before it gets to her.”
Fogarty dropped the carbine. He kicked off his shoes. He was on the edge of the boat when Emily shouted, “Stay where you are. I want you on the rifle.”
“But, Guv—”
“You heard me, Mike. Goddamn it. That's an order.”
“Emily! Jesus!” Barbara cried. They were already too far away from the girl for Fogarty to swim to her before she drowned. And even if he attempted it—even if she herself attempted it with him—they would accomplish nothing but drowning together while the DCI relentlessly pursued her quarry into the fog. “Emily! Stop!”
“Not for some goddamn Paki brat,” Emily shouted. “Not on your life.”
Paki brat. Paki brat. The words throbbed in the air. While in the water, Hadiyyah flailed and went under yet another time. That was it. Barbara dove for the carbine. She grabbed it up. She levelled it at the DCI. “Turn this fucking boat around,” she cried. “Do it, Emily. Or I'll blow you straight to hell.”
Emily's hand went to the holster she was wearing. Her fingers found the butt of the gun.
Fogarty shouted, “Guv! Don't!”
And Barbara saw her life, her career, and her future pass before her in the second before she pulled back on the carbine's trigger.
MILY FELL. BARBARA DROPPED THE GUN. BUT where she expected to see blood and intestines all over the DCFs tank top, she saw only water from the spray that continued to soar up on either side of the boat. The shot had gone wide.
Fogarty leapt forward. He jerked the DCI upright in her seat. He yelled, “She's right! Guv! She's right!”
And Barbara went for the boat's controls.
She didn't know how much time had passed. It seemed like several eternities. She brought the boat about with such speed that they nearly capsized. While Fogarty disarmed Emily, she wildly scanned the water for the girl.
Shit, she thought. Oh God. Please.
And then she saw her, some forty yards off their starboard side. Not thrashing, but floating. A floating body. She shouted, “Mike! There!” And she gunned the motor.
Fogarty was over the side the instant they were close enough to the child. Barbara killed the engine. She flung the life jackets and seat cushions into the water, where they bobbed like marshmallows. And then she prayed.
It didn't matter that her skin was dark, that her mother had abandoned her, that her father had allowed her to live eight years believing they were alone in the world. What mattered was that she was Hadiyyah: joyous and innocent and in love with life.
Fogarty reached her. Hadiyyah was floating face down. He flipped her over, caught her under the chin, and began swimming back to the boat.
Barbara's vision blurred. She whirled on Emily. “What were you thinking?” she shrieked. “What the goddamn hell were you thinking? She's eight years old, eight fucking years old!”
Emily turned from the sea back to Barbara. She raised a hand as if to fend off the words. Her fingers curled into a fist. But above that fist, her eyes narrowed slowly.
“She's not a Paki brat,” Barbara persisted. “She's not a nameless face. She's a human being.”
Fogarty had the child at the side of the boat.
“Christ,” Barbara whispered as she dragged the fragile body inside.
As Fogarty clambered into the boat, Barbara stretched the little girl out on the floor. Scarcely breathing herself, without thinking about its use or futility, she began CPR. She moved rapidly between the kiss of life and the cardiac massage and she kept her eyes on Hadiyyah's face. But her own ribs ached from the pounding she'd taken. And every breath she took seared her chest. She grunted. She coughed. She pounded the heel of her hand beneath Hadiyyah's breast.
“Get out of the way.” It was Emily's curt voice. Next to her, right into her ear.
“No!” Barbara closed her mouth around Hadiyyah's.
“Stop it, Sergeant. Get out of my way. I'll see to it.”
Barbara ignored her. And Fogarty, panting heavily from his exertions, reached for her arm. He said, “Let the Guv, Sarge. She can do it. It's okay.”
So Barbara allowed Emily to work on the child. And Emily worked in much the same way that Emily Barlow had always worked: efficiently, seeing that there was a job to be done, allowing nothing to get in the way of her doing it.
Hadiyyah's chest gave a monumental heave. She began to cough. Emily rolled her onto her side, and her body convulsed once before it began to expel saltwater, bile, and vomit all over the bottom of Charlie Spencer's prized Hawk 31.
Hadiyyah blinked. Then she looked stunned. Then she seemed to take in the three adults who were hovering over her. Face perplexed, her glance went first to Emily, then to Fogarty, then found Barbara. She smiled beatifically.
“My stomach went whoop-dee-do,” she said.
THE MOON HAD risen by the time they finally made it back to Balford Marina. But the marina was awash with light. It was aswarm with spectators as well. As the Sea Wizard rounded the point at which the Twizzle met the Balford Channel, Barbara could see the crowd. They were milling about the Hawk 31's berth, headed by a bald man whose pate glittered in more lights than were natural or necessary on the pontoon.
Emily was on the helm. She squinted over the Sea Wizard's bow. She said, “Brilliant,” in a disgusted tone.
In the boat's back seat, Barbara held Hadiyyah in the curve of her arm, the child swathed in a mildewed blanket. She said, “What's going on?”
“Ferguson.” Emily said. “He's p
honed the bloody press.”
The media were represented by photographers wielding strobes, reporters carrying notebooks and cassette recorders, and a newsvan getting ammunition for ITV's ten o'clock broadcast. Together with Superintendent Ferguson, they surged forward and scattered down the pontoons on either side of the Sea Wizard as Emily cut the engines and let the boat's momentum carry them into the berth.
Voices were shouting. Strobes were popping. A video cameraman jostled his way through the crowd. Ferguson was yelling, “Where is he, goddamn it?” Charlie Spencer was crying, “My seats! What the hell've you done with my boat seats?” Ten journalists were shouting, “Can I have a word over here, please?” And everyone in sight was searching the boat for the obvious—and unfortunately missing—celebrity, promised to be brought to them in chains, head bowed and repentant, just in time to avert a political disaster. Except they didn't have him. All they had was a shivering little girl who clung to Barbara until a slender dark man with intense black eyes pushed past three constables and two teen-aged gawkers.
Hadiyyah saw him. She cried, “Dad!”
Azhar reached for her, grabbed her from Barbara's arms. He clutched her to him as if she carried the only hope of his salvation, as indeed she probably did. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “Barbara. Thank you.”
WPC BELINDA WARNER kept the coffee coming through the next few hours. There was much to see to.
Superintendent Ferguson had to be dealt with first, and Emily saw to him behind closed doors. To Barbara's ears, their meeting appeared to be a cross between a round of bear baiting and a vicious colloquy on the position of women in the police force. It seemed to consist of raised voices hurling nasty accusations, aggrieved remonstrations, and angry imprecations. Much of it centred round the superintendent's demanding to know what he was supposed to report to his own superiors about “this monumental cock-up of yours, Barlow,” and Emily's responding that she didn't give a fuck what he reported to anyone just as long as he did his bloody reporting away from her office and let her get back to the business of nabbing Malik. Their meeting ended with Ferguson storming off with vows that she'd do well to prepare herself for disciplinary action and Emily shouting that he'd do well to prepare a defence for harassment, which is what she intended to charge him with if he goddamn well didn't let her get on with her job.