Brute Force

67

The Predator had a platform at the back that was almost level with the water's surface. I pulled myself aboard and listened. All the lights on the upper deck were off. The interior, visible behind two thick glass double-doors, was bathed in a soft glow filtering up from a stairwell to the left of the driver's station. I heard the hum of an electric motor from somewhere below – some pump or other doing its thing. I caught what sounded like a cross between a groan and grunt from the middle of the boat, followed by a high-pitched moan. It sounded like I'd walked onto the set of a bad porn film.

I picked myself up and walked slowly towards the doors. It had taken me fifteen minutes to reach the Predator – in a steady breaststroke, to avoid being heard or seen from the shore, or by anyone who happened to be on the decks of the gin palaces I had to swim past.

Lynn told me that almost all the boat owners he'd ever known kept their keys somewhere on the outside of the vessel. He kept his in one of three small lockers on the rear deck of his yacht. Many didn't bother with locks at all; some even left their keys in the ignition.

With a nice puddle gathering around my feet, I grabbed the doors and pulled.

They slid apart and I was greeted by the smell of leather and polished wood. The boat equivalent of that new car smell.

I stepped into the warmth and stood stock still, taking in my surroundings.

To my left were two large leather armchairs and a drinks cabinet; to my right, an L-shaped leather bench seat and a table.

I moved forward. The thick carpet cushioned my footsteps and absorbed the water that still dripped off me. I reached the top of the stairs and pulled out the bigger of the two knives.

I stepped down and passed through a galley. The sound of grunting and moaning grew louder. It was coming from directly ahead of me – the Master Stateroom. There wasn't any point stopping to listen; I was deafened as it was. I opened the door.

A moment before Candy Girl rolled off the bed, I saw everything – far more than I wanted to, in fact. Fatman was lying on his back, groping away, but she, of course, had been doing all the work. Nobody had bothered to turn out the lights, so in the full glare of the spots, there really wasn't anywhere to hide. A tattooed phoenix reared up from between her cheeks to the small of her back as she rolled into a ball between the bed and the cupboard, gaping like a fish.

Fatman tried to grab some duvet. 'What? What the fuck d'you want?'

But in all the excitement the duvet had long since left the bed and he ended up staring at me, naked as the day he was born.

'Shut the fuck up, dickhead!' I pointed the knife. Aggression with just a hint of insanity. They needed to think they were about to die, so anything else was a bonus.

The girl slunk deeper into the corner.

Fatman – pumped up on Vitamin V, sex, or just flapping so much he didn't really know what he was doing – tried to stand up. It wasn't a pretty sight. I lunged forward and punched him in the face. He fell back and hit his head on the wood panelling behind the bed. Blood trickled from his nose. It had to be over the top: I wanted to dominate the room from the word go.

Tears cascaded down her face – as they do when you think your nose is going to be fucked up. 'Please, just let me go . . .'

'Get on the bed.'

She crawled onto it and sat shivering next to Fatman.

Blood dribbled from between his fingers as he held them against his face. He put one hand up and stared at the results. Then he started to sob.

'Please, whatever it is you want, just take it, take it . . .'

The voice was estuary English – Kent, maybe, or Essex. I wondered how he'd made his money. Cars, perhaps. Swimming pools? I'd soon find out.

I put the tip of the knife to his throat and asked who had given him permission to speak, but he was in shock; I wasn't even sure he heard me.

'Listen, mate, if it's money you want, you can have it – all the money I've got, OK? OK, mate . . .?'

I applied some pressure with the knife; not enough to break the skin, but enough to get his attention. For a moment or two he stopped jabbering, long enough for me to ask if he had any weapons.

His eyes widened. 'No, mate, no weapons here. Honest. I swear. No, oh please, dear God, no . . . Look just take it all – anything you want . . .'

'Shut it.'

He fell silent again.

'The boat – how full are the tanks?'

'The boat? It's the boat you want . . .?' Relief flooded into his eyes. 'Take her, mate. Take her. Just let me go, OK? Please. She's half full. There's almost a thousand gallons of diesel in the tanks. Enough to get you well away from here. Only leave me, OK? Let me go. I got a wife, kids. Lovely girls. Fifteen and thirteen. Please. Let me see 'em grow up, eh? I'm begging you. Let me go and I won't tell anyone. The keys are under the dash. Just take the fucking thing . . .'

I prodded him again. Like a lab-monkey with an electrode up its arse, Fatman was beginning to associate pain with obedience.

'What's your name?'

'Gary.'

'Gary who?'

'Spratley. Gary Spratley.'

'Where are you from, Gary Spratley?'

'Barking.'

Barking, London. Noted for its world-class marinas and jet-set living. 'Who's this?' I nodded towards Candy Girl.

When she looked at me her eyes were as hard as the lacquer on her exquisitely manicured nails. 'My name's Electra.'

I might have guessed.

'What do you do, Gary?'

'I'm a yacht-broker.'

'Not your boat, then?'

'Mine? Fuck no. I'm handing it over to a client. A Russian. He was meant to be here to take delivery last week, but the bastard hasn't showed. I was looking after it till he turned up . . .'

Electra's kiln-hardened glaze just got harder. 'What? This isn't your boat? I'm wasting my time with a fucking salesman?'

I left them to it and opened the door of the en suite and took a peek inside. The porthole was about ten inches long and five inches wide. The only way off the boat was the way I'd got on.

Both their mobiles were on a shelf behind the bed. I grabbed them and shoved them in my pocket, then gestured with the knife.

Electra stood and let her hands fall from her perfectly enhanced breasts, eying me defiantly. I bundled her into the bathroom and told her if she made a sound, I'd be back to give her some fresh tattoos.

Gary, meantime, was coming with me.

'Please.' I thought he was going to start crying again. 'Wh-What are you going to do?'

He bent down to pick up his black Speedo-style underpants.

'You got an account or credit card for fuel?'

Gary's Adam's apple bobbed like a yo-yo. He looked like he was about to be sick again. 'Sure. Company card.'

He produced his wallet and I nodded. A platinum Amex. That would do nicely.

'Get dressed and clean your face up. Then you're going to fill up the boat.'

'Yeah, sure. Just don't hurt me, OK? Please.' He started hopping around on one leg, trying to get the Speedos on.

Spratley was an idiot who'd give me no trouble at all.

The girl, though, I wasn't so sure about.