Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

were sure to be police and fire engines on their way from Stanley coming to the sound of the explosions, and there was only one way in and one way out.

He had seen a farm on the map down the other way towards Two Sisters Mountain, and some help could be coming from there, too. There was no way the moped could make it over the peat bog the way the SUV had, and he was running out of time.

Mounting the moped, Sebastian kicked the engine into action. In the distance, he could hear the sirens screaming towards him. He drove a hundred yards down the road towards Stanley and turned around towards the burning field. He drove the moped at ten miles per hour and aimed for the untouched fixed guardrails that notify you that there is a minefield adjacent. The moped hit the barrier, and the helmetless Sebastian flew over the moped and over the barrier, landing in the mesh of the minefield fence.

Sebastian moved his hands to ensure he had not damaged the means to his living, and to his murderous hobby. New blood oozed from a deep cut over his eye and his left ankle was broken, then he passed out.

Sebastian awoke in the hospital several hours later with his ankle in plaster and several stitches to the gash above his eye; he also awoke to the tall, gangly policeman, Inspector Green.

The inspector had been employed by the Falkland Government and had previously been a detective in the London Metropolitan Police. He had been encouraged to accept the post, and there had been hints from his chief constable of fast-track rise through the ranks after his two-year stint, of which he had only served one month.

Several days and three interviews later, the inspector was still not satisfied. The Classical Expedition, like all cruise liners, waited for neither man nor mouse. If you were not back on-board on time, staff or not, it sailed. The company’s agent, on hearing Sebastian’s plight, had passed the information to the company headquarters, and they authorized payment of the hospital bill. They also gave him the services of a local attorney when it became apparent the inspector believed that Sebastian had something to do with the deaths of Ned and Mona in the minefield.

“It doesn’t make sense; you hire a bike with two helmets, yet you say you were out there alone. The young lady was off your ship, and we know she liked to watch your performances. Ned had been on the mountain for two days, and we checked the mileage on the SUV. There was no way the distance indicated that he had been back to Stanley to pick up Mona, and no connection between them,” the inspector said accusingly.

“It’s all ifs, buts, and maybes. And wasn’t the soldier guy suffering from some mental defect? You have nothing to connect my client with the accidents apart from the fact that he witnessed the car go through the fence and lost control of the moped,” said James White, the rotund attorney the company’s agent had hired.

“That may be at present, but I want your client’s fingerprints, DNA, and passport. We’re sending the remains back to a crime lab in the UK to see what they come up with.”

“But that could take months! Are you going to keep my client here, in a jail cell, for several months?”

“No, there are enough hotels and bed and breakfasts on the island, and your company is more than capable of funding that. But till I get the DNA tests back, he is not going anywhere, and certainly not out of Stanley. I want him tagged as well, as a condition of his release.”

“It’s an outrage!” the sweating attorney said.

Police Inspector Green said he especially liked that comment, as he sat down in the Globe Pub with the attorney and the island’s only two magistrates later that night to enjoy a very special Johnnie Walker whisky the management had flown in. The bill was on James White, as the retainer the agent had put him on would pay off very handsomely if this case lasted a few months.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cutler, Hoagie, and the German accountant Richter took the train across from Glasgow’s Central Station. Two and a half hours later, the trio emerged from Newcastle’s Central Station into the cold breezy northern air.

Richter bemoaned the walk down from the station towards the quayside and across the Millennium Bridge towards Gateshead.

“The bridge looks like a giant bear trap without the teeth,” Richter spluttered out, with puffs of vapour.

“Shut up and concentrate on walking, Richter. The last thing we need is for you to collide with one of these cyclists and cause an incident,” Hoagie said.

Cutler walked behind the pair, scanning the area, making sure they were not being followed. Newcastle, although a busy city, consists of a small and compact town centre. They would need a couple of days here for the passports, and Cutler didn’t want to be so centrally based. Better to keep a low profile and stay off the radar.

Appearing in such a public place was an open invitation for Werner’s henchmen. Cutler was under no illusion that Werner would have put the word on the street, a description of Richter, and a hefty bonus to anyone who gave him up. Werner’s contract on Richter would have circulated in the underworld from Scotland down to Lands’ End and across the Irish Sea.

Obscurity was the number one priority. Cutler had decided to walk the short distance to the Millennium Bridge from Newcastle to the Quays at Gateshead. The distance from the station at Newcastle to the Quays took less than fifteen minutes to walk.

Gateshead Quays were in a transitional stage; old warehouse buildings, once housing the fruits of the empire brought from the entire world to the Tyne, now museums and