1990 by Wilfred Greatorex Read Free Book Online Page A

accusingly at Tasker, but unable to prove anything.
    Frustrated, she declared, 'I'll raise this at the staff meeting.'
    Skardon's voice was hard and final. 'You had better not.'
    He crossed to the door to let in Jack Nichols. 'Can we take it that you have enough of your lads round that ship?'
    'They're in it, on it, all over the quay and in two boats, should anyone make a dive for it,' Nichols said proudly.
    'Dive! In this weather?' Skardon smirked. 'Where to?'
    'How about the bottom?' Delly Lomas said, still angry. 'Maybe they'll think it the best place.'
    Skardon threw her a disapproving look, then walked round his desk to Nichols.
    'No slip ups,' he warned. 'I want this lot, every man-jack. Getaways. Helpers. The lot.'
    He clapped Nichols firmly on the shoulder, checked his watch and strode from the room, leaving his three subordinates scowling at each other.
    Despite his strategic harrying of Delly Lomas, he was relieved that Kyle's story had been killed. And the prospective arrest of a boatload of illegal emigrants would go a long way towards appeasing the Home Secretary. Besides, there had been an air of hostility and tension in the office, which was always good for the appetite. The Controller approached his lunch with a feeling of well-being.
    The men had been in place since early morning: Emigration Officers ambled with apparent inattention along the quay, languidly leaned on bollards, tucked themselves away into poky side offices. A parked grey van housed a group of four, stiff-boned and aching. Two motor launches crouched behind a rusting tanker, their occupants huddled uncomfortably together.
    Jack Nichols was there, too, entrenched behind a pile of crates with the practised ease developed from his days as an Immigration Officer. The one original thought in his life had been the realisation that priorities were changing. He had applied for transfer from Immigration to Emigration, where his natural discipline and a curiously successful 'nose' for fugitives had brought him regular promotion. Now he dug in doggedly to another familiar wait.
    The trap was set and everyone in dockland knew it. Stevedores worked on sullenly, not speaking much, resenting the influx of the Law. Some would have passed the word to the seamen, but Nichols had been right. No-one could have reached within fifty yards of the ship without authority, and the neighbourhood was crawling with E.Os. - earwigging.
    Drizzle had settled into the afternoon by the time Tasker climbed to the cabin of a crane overlooking the scene. The East End stretched beneath him, an untidy mess of 60s' tower blocks and century-old terraces, punctuated by one or two church squares of rare beauty and the occasional clump of prefabs, incredibly still inhabited. Up river, ancient, unused warehouses had crumbled into gaunt ruins on lots once pirated by developers as prime sites of London, but since taken over by the government and left to decay.
    Tasker remained oblivious to it all, his powerful binoculars fixedly trained on the figure of Harper checking crew boarding the freighter below.
    Had he scanned the city to the north, he could almost have focused on the freight and scrap yard where Alan Vickers was waiting, looking out of place and very unsure.
    The doctor had found the instructions in his medical bag that morning. They were precise. Be at the town's largest department store by 11 a.m. Go in through the front entrance. Leave immediately by the second side exit on the left from where goods lorry number 38689XB would take him to the station in time to catch the 11.50 to London. The message concluded with the address of the yard.
    He was now wondering whether he had been mad to come. What would happen? Who would appear? It could all be a Public Control Department trick...
    Kyle materialised, looking business-like, and Vickers laughed aloud with relief.
    'I thought you'd written me off. I thought you were on their side.'
    Instantly sensing his insecurity, Kyle asked,