Murphy's Heist Page 14

The wind was rising now, and whistled round the superstructure. Spray from the wave tops was being flung across the deck. Boris braced; his legs wide apart as he opened the first case easily, pulling out two ingots, looking at them carefully, then replacing them in the box, hammering the top back with his huge hand. He took another box at random, did the same, and then nodded his big head. “They are okay,” he said, then raising his voice he shouted at the fishermen on the other boat. The jib of the crane swung over to the aft section of Contessa’s deck. The crane was carrying a large mesh net made from stout rope, supported on the corners to make a large bag. The crane lowered it until it was lying on the Contessa’s deck.

  It was then only a matter of tossing the boxes into the middle of it. With five pairs of willing hands, it was only the work of a few minutes to clear all the boxes off the deck, and into the net. Boris signalled the man operating the crane, who had been watching them.

  They all stood back, as the crane started to haul in the rope, and the net closed into a huge sack, which went up off the deck, and when it was clear of the handrails, was swung across to the rear deck of the trawler. Boris waved, and clutched a rope ladder that had been slung down from the fishing boat, and nimbly climbed it. The ladder was retracted.

  Gerry and Darren undid the mooring lines, and Darren got hold of a boat hook and leaned his whole weight on it, to separate the boats. A large wave completed the task, and the boats were rapidly separating. The trawler engines suddenly surged full ahead, and the boat was moving into the maelstrom of spray and mounting wind.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Gerry hurried into the wheelhouse. Darren ran along the boat, shipping the fenders, and he in turn also entered the wheelhouse. Bobby was there, too.

  “Darren, break out the life vests,” said Gerry, “one for each of us. From now on, until the storm is over, everyone has to wear his life vest, inside or out. Moreover, no-one goes on deck, without using a life line to fasten them. If anyone goes overboard, we’ll never get them back. This is serious. Bobby, take one of these vests to Murphy, and repeat what I’ve said to him.”

  As Gerry had been speaking, the day was darkening, with low clouds racing across the sky.

  Gerry switched the chart table light on.

  He was worried that the sea anchor might well be torn off the chain, or the sailcloth anchor itself might rupture. The sea anchor consisted of a canvas drogue, which keeps the bow to the wind, and in a very heavy swell, the line must be of sufficient length that the drogue and the boat are not being affected by the same wave. The danger would be if the line suddenly fractured, or if the drogue split under the pressure of water being forced through it. If this happened, the boat could broach to, and in a heavy sea, could roll over and sink. So Gerry decided to run both engines at slow ahead, to take the pressure off the sea anchor.

  A quick calculation of the miles travelled on this voyage gave Gerry an estimate of the fuel remaining. It was now approaching three pm, and if the storm lasted ten hours, they would use 2500 litres, and probably be sixty miles from Douglas, another four hours steaming, or maybe a further 1200 litres. It would be close, but he reckoned there would be fuel in hand. He started up the engines, and adjusted their speed that the props were just taking the pressure off the sea anchor.

  Bobby came through to the wheelhouse. Gerry explained what he was doing, and the maths behind the fuel situation.

  “Just when I’ve got the money in the bank, I don’t want to go down with the boat,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I’ve just dumped the guns overboard, and I was going to sink the tender, but maybe we should wait. I mean, in case we have to abandon ship.”

  Gerry said, “It won’t come to that, I can assure you. But wait until the storm is over before you sink the tender. And I mean that because to be on deck is dangerous. How’s Murphy taking the rough weather?”

  “Better than I expected. The wrist band is working. I am amazed by that. I always thought it was a placebo. Anyway he’s in his cabin, probably counting his money. I think he can trust Boris, a true business man, I’ve always found him.”

  Over the next two hours, the wind got worse, and even though it should have been daylight, the sea met the clouds in one continuous tone of black, with the occasional crackle of lightning on the horizon. The Contessa was climbing each individual wave, cleaving through it when the boat was not yet at the top of the breaker, and solid water rushed down the foredeck, obscuring the view from the wheelhouse, and crashing on the rear deck roof, sending cascades of water across the rear deck. Then the boat came charging down the back of the wave, the remains of the water on deck came rushing back to hit the stateroom. The whole boat was a mass of creaking timber, as the hull took the strain.

  “The old boat is doing well,” said Gerry. “There’s plenty of plastic tubs would be in trouble in this weather.”

  “I think this is the worst weather we’ve sailed her in,” said Bobby, “I hope there’s no big ferries heading for us.”

  Gerry glanced at the radar, which was specked with small dots as it picked up the spray. “I can’t see anything round here,” he said, “I would think the ferries will have cancelled their timetable until the weather improves. I’ll rouse Darren in a while, and we’ll get some food. It will have to be sandwiches, I think. We can’t cook until the weather improves. That’s the best thing.”

  “Bobby said, “What’s the best thing?”

  “That the weather always improves eventually”

  “And how long is it going to be like this, do you think?”

  “Well the forecast was for it to have blown out at about one in the morning, so I would think it will stay like this for maybe four or five hours, and then begin abating, but maybe so slowly that you will not notice for an hour or two.”

  Gerry busied himself with the chart, and Bobby looked forward at the waves coming over the bow.

  Suddenly there was a new sound on the boat, slow thudding. “The bilge pump” said Gerry, “I hope we haven’t sprung a plank in the hull.”

  Bobby listened to the steady heartbeat of the automatic pump. It was triggered to start pumping when a float in the bilges made an electric connection. And then he heard, above the wind, an irregular noise, a crashing sound. Just like a door hitting something. He turned round staring through the stateroom window which was at the rear of the wheelhouse. There were no lights on in the stateroom, but there was one light on over the rear deck, and, of course the riding lights casting a green and a red tone over the boat. And then he couldn’t see the deck light. Then a loud noise, and he could see the light again.

  It suddenly got through to Bobby what he was seeing: the stateroom door to the deck. It was unlatched, and swinging on its hinges every time the boat moved with the violent swell.

  He shouted to his brother: “Gerry, the stateroom aft door is open I’m going to close it,” and raced through the stateroom. He could see now where the bilge water was coming from.

  The door opening again to crash back against the bulkhead, was allowing all the water collected on deck to gush through into the stateroom, and immediately down the companionway in a cataract of gigantic proportions. Bobby caught the door as it swung forward again, and latched it securely. As he did so he glanced through the glazed portion of the stateroom bulkhead, and saw a bundle in the far corner of the deck, and seawater was draining from what looked like a yellowish mass. Again his brain was late in recognising what he was seeing, and then he opened the door, hooked his lifeline to the railing, and edged his way quickly round the deck, battered by the wind, which was gusting violently, carrying with it sheets of cold sea water.

  Murphy lay on his stomach, legs stretched out, his fingers clawing to stay in contact with the deck. In one hand he clutched the briefcase of money.

  “Eamonn” shouted Bobby, bending down and shaking his shoulder, “Are you all right?”

  Murphy groaned, and reached up with his free hand and clutched at Bobby’s soaking wet jeans.

  B
obby gripped him with both hands and began to drag him towards the stateroom door. Every time the boat met a wave, the water crashed over the deck, washing them backwards and losing a few inches of forward movement that he had attained during the time the boat slid down the other side of the wave. It seemed to take a long time to get Murphy to the doorway, but eventually he was able to open the door and literally push him through. Bobby pulled himself into the stateroom, and forced the door shut against a fresh surge of seawater.

  “Stay there a moment,” commanded Bobby, and latched the door, against the possibility of it opening again, then strode rapidly through the stateroom and into the wheelhouse.

  “What’s happening?” asked Gerry, still concentrating on the boat’s helm. “The door was open, and after every wave the water was rushing down the companionway, hence the pump starting. At least I hope that’s the reason. And Murphy was lying on the aft deck, clutching his briefcase. I’ve dragged him inside, and locked the stateroom door. If I’m right, the pump should cut off in a few more minutes. I’ve left Murphy lying on the stateroom floor.”

  Gerry said: “Get Darren out of bed, and he’ll give you a hand”

  As he finished speaking there was a relative silence, apart from the sound of the storm outside.

  Bobby said “The bilge pump’s stopped.”

  “So it has,” said Gerry. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

  Bobby said, “I’ll get Darren out of bed now, and between us we’ll get Murphy down below, and sorted.”

  Murphy was still lying on the stateroom floor where Bobby had left him. He was shivering, and lying in a big pool of water.

  “Just hang on in there for a few moments, and we’ll have you back in your cabin, in some dry clothes.” He dashed down the companion way, made his way forward to the crew quarters, having to brace himself with both hands on any available part of the boat to stay upright.

  He flung the door into the crew quarters open, and shouted: “Darren, can you give me a hand with Murphy, he’s been on deck, and I’m trying to get him back in his cabin.”

  Darren’s head poked round the edge of the door, hair a tousled mess. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know, my watch seems to have stopped working. About seven, I would think. I’m sorry to have to get you up.”

  Bobby turned and led the way back to the companion way. “Are things okay up top?” asked Darren, yawning.

  “We’re still afloat,” said Bobby, climbing the stairs ahead of Darren. Back in the stateroom, he bent over Murphy. “Darren and I are going to carry you back to your cabin, and then get you some dry clothes to wear, and some hot tea. Okay?”

  Murphy, still shivering said “Yes, thank you.”

  Between them, Darren and Bobby got Murphy to the head of the companion way, then Darren went down first, taking Murphy’s feet, Bobby leaning over from the top, lowering Murphy by his shoulders, then Bobby was sitting on the top step, and Darren had Murphy’s feet on the floor.

  “Murphy,” Bobby shouted down, do you think you can stand up now?”

  “I am doing, for God’s sake,” he shouted back. Bobby rattled down the steps.

  “Get in your cabin,” Bobby said, getting hold of his shoulder and pushing him through the door that Darren held open. “Now strip those wet clothes off, and I’ll fetch some spare clothes of mine.” He turned, went out of the door, entered his own cabin, got a shirt and chinos from his wardrobe and a large bath towel, and came back.

  “Now get yourself completely dry, and put the clothes on, then your life jacket on as well,” instructed Bobby.

  “I’ll get some tea from the galley,” said Darren, and vanished up the companion way. Bobby fetched a large whisky from the bar, which Murphy downed in one. “That’s better,” he said

  Bobby became aware of the noise down below decks, now that he wasn’t urgently attending to things. Apart from the creaking of timber, there was the rush of the sea, and the pounding on the hull, as the waves broke. Frome above came the sound of the howling wind. It was less frightening topsides.

  “Why did you go up on the deck?” Bobby asked Murphy, who looked up from putting a leg in the fresh chinos.

  “I had a bad dream that the boat was sinking, and woke up believing it. I grabbed my money and went on deck, ready to swim for it.”

  “You would have lasted about ten minutes in the sea, and you’re lucky you weren’t washed off the deck.”

  “I nearly was, I was so terrified, I daren’t move.”

  “If you go back outside while this storm is blowing, you use your line to clip on to the deck rail, you promise? And don’t leave hatches or doors open. That sound like a heartbeat was the bilge pump trying to get the water out, that you were letting in through the stateroom door. We’re lucky the door wasn’t blown off the hinges.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Darren came down with tea in a thermos. “No good putting it in a cup,” he said, “wouldn’t be anything in it by the time I got down here. Can you sup it straight from the flask?” He looked at Murphy, who nodded and took the flask from him.

  Bobby returned to the wheelhouse with Darren, and reported to Gerry that the patient appeared to have survived, and was back in his cabin. “It’s a bit damp below decks, but the water hasn’t got into the cabins, because of the fiddles in the entrances. It’s just run down into the bilges, as it is supposed to do.”

  They had to shout now, to be heard above the wind even in the confines of the wheelhouse, but Gerry was pleased with the handling of the boat, and easing the strain for the sea anchor by use of the engines was working, and Gerry privately reckoned that they could survive at least twelve more hours in this storm intensity. After that he only problem would be running out of fuel.

  Gerry said, “How about rustling up some sandwiches for us all? There’s some ham in the fridge, and a tube of mustard in one of the cupboards. If you fill two thermos flasks with coffee, that will be good. Bobby might help you. Be careful with the knives, you don’t want any wounds.”

  Both men were back in the wheelhouse in thirty minutes, bearing two thermos flasks and a large bowl of sandwiches.

  “The sandwiches are in a bowl, because they would slide off a plate,” explained Darren. Everybody tucked in, surprised that they were so hungry, not having thought about food during the hours of the storm’s intensity. They passed the flasks round amongst themselves, quenching their thirst with long swigs of the dark liquid.

  Gerry checked the instruments again. The GPS showed that they were holding their position, in fact very slowly they were moving in the direction of the Isle of Man, but only by half a mile or so. There were still no ships on the radar, but the screen appeared clearer than it was an hour ago. Gerry didn’t tell the others. If the storm was abating, there would be further signs. It was best to wait, rather than raising false hopes.

  “How about you taking over, Darren, and I’ll have a kip in the stateroom,” said Gerry, “Then I’ll be on hand, if you need me.” He knew he would not have suggested that if he thought the storm would get worse, and this gave Bobby confidence. Whether Darren had picked up on this, he did not know.

  Two hours later, when Bobby went into the stateroom to have a nap, he found Gerry hard on in one of the easy chairs, and sat down in an adjacent chair, and was soon deeply asleep.

  At 10pm, Darren realised that the weather conditions had improved. The boat was still mounting big waves, but the water being shipped over the bows had definitely eased. He had to throttle back slightly, as he was afraid they might overrun the sea anchor, which then might foul the props. After a further hour, the storm had abated to such an extent, that he had the engines set at idle, and decided to wake Gerry.

  Gerry came awake the moment Darren touched his shoulder. “Eh, what’s wrong?” Darren explained that conditions had improved, and they may as well haul in the sea anchor. And commence to motor towards the Isle of Man. Gerry went into the wheelhouse, checked the instruments, saw
that the boat was just about stationary without the engines in gear, and agreed with Darren’s summing up.

  “You’re right, Darren, we need to get the sea anchor in. Can you do that? Keep your lifeline attached while you’re on deck.” Darren darted out on to the foredeck, clipped his lifeline to the railing, and pulled the anchor rope, and the line to collapse the canvas drogue. Once the drogue was collapsed it was easy to winch the anchor rope on to the drum. Gerry watched him from the wheelhouse door, and was soon urging him back into the dryness of the wheelhouse. Although the storm was easing rapidly, it was raining hard. He switched on the rain wipers, and put the engines into gear, initially cruising at eight knots. He aimed to speed up the boat to about its maximum cruising speed of seventeen knots, once the storm had eased well back. He did some calculations, and estimated that they should reach St Maryport at about five o’clock, and drop off Murphy there. They would then motor a fair distance off shore, and finally enter Douglas marina, where he guessed the police would be waiting to interview them. It had initially been Bobby’s plan to drop off Darren as well, but this would cause suspicion, because it was unlikely that they had used only a two-man crew.

  “Hey, Darren, go and wake up Bobby, I need a word with him,” said Gerry.

  Bobby, yawning and rumpled came into the wheelhouse. “What’s the situation?” he asked Gerry. “My God, the storm’s nearly over.” He looked out of the wheelhouse door at the racing waves, and closed the door.

  “We need to do several things before we get to the island in the morning. Getting rid of the tender has high priority. And Darren needs some rehearsing about where we’ve been. I don’t think we shall be able to drop Murphy off in Castleton, the tide is wrong. We’ll make for St Maryport. You can get in there at all states of the tide. But I don’t think we should drop Darren off there. The police will know that the two of us couldn’t have survived the storm two-handed. No need to cause even more suspicion. Do you agree?”

  Bobby stroked his hair. “Yes, makes sense, so we just drop off Murphy in St Maryport. “Now,” he said, turning to Darren. “If you’re questioned, and you will be, the story is this: we just sailed up the Scottish coast, moored off Oban the night before last, ate on the boat, went out on the town, a couple of pubs, and were back about ten o’clock to sleep on the boat.