The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

phone was back in his cradle. It had taken fifteen minutes to route the call from London through a secure system, and the area of sofas and easy chairs, with a coffee machine, had been abruptly cleared of every other constable, male or female, who might have been enjoying a few minutes’ relaxation. They had been turfed out, and the room given up to Dominic and Babs, their gear still festooned over their uniforms – guns and gas, cuffs and Tasers, spare ammunition, all of it. But had assumed that their initial report, gone into the system, would take a day, maybe a week, to be noticed. No names given, but a man and a woman had shared the grilling down the phone line.

“I don’t reckon we over-egged it . . .” Dominic showing apprehension, like they had played their cards too big. “Said it as we saw it, heard it.”

“Nothing wrong with what you said, what I said. Swear by it.”

A shrug from Babs but pronounced enough to rattle the gear suspended from her shoulders. It was standard procedure for a firearms pair to attend each landing by migrants making it ashore either side of the port city of Dover. Had seemed ridiculous, a waste of time and effort and resources, when confronted with a little huddle of wet, shivering, cringing, people who seemed to think they had made it to some sort of Promised Land. All the firearms units said they felt embarrassed, awkward anyway, to have weapons bouncing on their chests when they tried to help the Border Force unit, or an ambulance crew, and the people who had come off the sea were scared of them and cowering . . . They had come into the rest room and had not yet hooked their boots up on the coffee tables when they had been alerted to the call from London. As if they were both chastened. They had heard from folk on the esplanade that the dinghy had materialised out of a sea mist and then made its final drift to the beach. The Border Force cutter, they’d been told, had never had a visual sighting of the craft, only a radar link had identified it. Must have been the moments before the mist had thinned that the joker had rolled over the side and gone into the water, and would have had to swim hard to get clear of the cluster of well-wishers and supporters and uniforms gathering around the family. Would have gone ashore perhaps 200 yards, or more, further up the shingle, then legged it. They had been up there, had cruised in the car, had not seen a fugitive, then had done their report – had repeated into the phone everything they could remember, done it between them.

It was a sobering moment. The odds were that neither Dominic nor Babs would ever fire a weapon – other than perhaps an incapacitating Taser – in a situation where the intention was to inflict a fatal wound. They were taught that a “disabling shot” was never acceptable, they would fire only to kill – had never done so, nor had any of the other officers who drove the armed response vehicles in that sector of the county. The likelihood was that Dominic and Babs would never be confronted with a situation where the Safety was off, the red laser beam settled on the target, and a finger tightening inside the trigger guard: that was what they had been trained for.

A man who had taken that degree of risk, gone into the sea to avoid being snared in the official net, would have had a powerful reason to avoid them. Would have been a serious player. Would have been a man representing the reason why they were sent on each call out for a migrant landing. Might have been the sort of man that in changed circumstances they would have been required to “take down”, might have been the moment which the endless, repetitive training predicted. Did not know how they would be, either of them, if called upon to kill a guy posing a supreme threat, whether they would take it in their stride, whether they would crumble, whether if either of them fired they would then find the urge for “high fives” irresistible.

He had been out on the London road, going south and west from Deal, and had reached a tree that gave some shelter from the increasingly persistent rain. Already his trousers were soaked at the ankles, and his hair would once more have been plastered down. A van had stopped for him.

Where was he going? Canterbury.

Why was he not on a train or a bus? Had been out the previous evening, had been in a bar in Deal, pocket picked, no money and no cards.

What was in Canterbury? His mum was in Canterbury. Was coming back to see her having been “away”. The van had the wipers going and the central display showed sharp short showers for the rest of the day, and after the forecast a local radio programme had resumed with saccharine tributes to birthdays – and gave the date. The date was the trigger. He told the van driver that the next day was his mum’s birthday. Seemed to give him some credence.

Where had he been? Down on the Mediterranean (which would account for his weathered face). Needed to talk, but only to answer questions. Not being evasive and creating suspicion, but more as someone who was shy. Had worked in bars in the south of France and in Italy at the Adriatic coast resorts. He would have said that it was wise to beware of chatting with strangers; a man could easily be taken into a string of lies that would then trip him. He said the minimum.

The surprise was that the van driver seemed another stranger showing goodwill and generosity. He was not going to Canterbury but would do a short detour – “Not a problem, mate, no problem at all”