Rego was frustrated.
And feeling nauseous.
Why the hell had he thought that being a DI in a county where there was 400 miles of coastline was a good idea? When just stepping onto this boat had made his stomach lurch and salvia pool in his mouth. Well, it was anyone’s guess because he had no clue.
Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, he thought sourly as he leaned over the side of the small boat, hoping he looked nonchalant, not like he was about to revisit his lunch.
Nope, too late. His stomach lurched upwards and Rego was violently sick. He felt as if his entire insides were trying to surge up his throat. He hung over the side, wheezing, his eyes watering.
“It gets better, boss,” said Jack Forshaw, looking annoyingly healthy, a recruiting poster for the RNLI.
“What does?” he coughed, wiping his mouth with his hand.
“The seasickness,” Forshaw replied cheerfully. “Even Nelson got seasick for the first few days of a voyage. O’ course, he wasn’t Cornish either.”
Rego didn’t even bother to try and answer.
They’d already searched four small pockets of remote beaches framed by towering granite cliffs that apparently smugglers had used before Napoleon had even thought of taking on the British at Trafalgar, but when Rego had asked where they were and had received the reply ‘Piskies Cove’, he was fairly sure that the crew were taking the piskie out of him.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he struggled to pull it out from under his bulky lifejacket.
Fighting with his borrowed overalls and heavy slicker, he finally managed to extract his phone.
Two texts from Tamsyn had come in together, and he wondered if it was her signal that was spotty or his own.
Trying to read the small print made the seasickness worse. He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw shut.
“If you focus on the horizon, sir,” said Forshaw, gesturing into the darkness, “it’ll help.”
Rego grit his teeth, snarling out a response that had the younger man backing away, as far as was possible in a boat that was less than 6m wide.
“Firstly, DC Forshaw,” Rego said, churning out words like a concrete mixer, “I’m trying to read a text; and secondly, it’s night time – there is no horizon.”
“Sorry, boss,” the young DC muttered, shuffling even further away.
Rego felt too ill to regret his sarcasm.
As he squinted at his phone, his stomach gurgled and he had to swallow down a mouthful of bile. He didn’t miss the amused glances exchanged by the crew.
The boat slowed as they rounded a small headland, and Rego risked glancing at his phone again.
“Bloody hell,” he swore, making Forshaw look across and ask a question, probably against his better judgement.
“Problem, boss?”
Rego grimaced.
“PC Poldhu has taken it into her head to go to Newlyn Harbour. She wants to check on her Uncle George. What the hell was she thinking? Until Domi is caught…”
Rego was too furious to finish the sentence.
There was CCTV at the harbour, a surveillance team were on their way, and the night watchman, plus who knew how many fishermen were getting ready to go out. She’d be safe enough.
But … they hadn’t caught Domi or Subject F who still remained unidentified. They didn’t even know if either man was still in the country. They weren’t certain that anything would happen tonight, despite the NCA’s latest intelligence, and being out here at night scouring the numerous small coves that made up Britain’s southwest, it was all beginning to feel like searching for a needle in a haystack.
With rubbery fingers, Rego typed out a short text telling Tamsyn, no, ordering her to go home, and to message him when she got there.
Then he changed his mind and decided to call her and give her the bollocking she deserved. He put his phone on speaker so he could hear over the helmet he’d been forced to wear. The phone rang three times then stopped.
He called her again, but this time it went straight to voicemail.
A sliver of unease worked its way down his spine.
Was she deliberately avoiding him? Or was there another reason that her phone had been turned off.
He contacted the Control room, yelling too loudly into his phone as he asked them to radio PC Poldhu, or failing that, to speak to the surveillance team at Newlyn, or the night watchman. And if that failed, they’d have to send up a bloody great flare.
While he was waiting for their response, he was surprised to receive a call from DC Eagling. He loosened his helmet, wedging it uncomfortably between his knees
“Mimi, I’m with the Coastguard; now’s not a good time.”
“Boss, I think this might be important – I’m fairly sure it is.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“So, I finished with the vic’s burner phone because that was the priority, and I finally got around to working through the list of calls from her personal phone – and there’s one call that stood out – received from George Mason, a fisherman down at Newlyn.”
“Mason?”
Rego was surprised and felt like he’d missed a step somewhere. Tamsyn had introduced the man as her ‘Uncle George’.
“I met him,” Rego said tersely. “He’s related to Ozzie Poldhu, I think. Or a good friend.” He paused. “Just the one call?”
“Yes, during the day – 15.27 on the 17th March.”
“A week before Ruçi disappeared. Did she ever call his number?”
“No, but they talked for nearly three minutes.”
“Not a wrong number then.”
“I doubt it, boss.”
“Just like her burner phone.”
“Exactly the same.”
“Thanks, Mimi.” He paused. “So, it was Mason all along.”
“I think so, boss.”
But what about the Poldhu family?
He ended the call just as Control got back to him: they couldn’t raise either Tamsyn or the night watchman and the surveillance team weren’t yet in place but were on their way.
Now Rego was seriously worried. Was Tamsyn involved? Had she and her grandfather misled him from the start? Then he thought of all the ways she’d helped the investigation … or had she? Was it luck or prior knowledge that led her to the Tupperware box at the church? Luck or knowledge about how weather conditions affected the drug supply business? No, that last one didn’t fit – it had pointed the finger right at her own grandfather.
Rego hated doubting her because it meant he was doubting his own instincts – instincts that had kept him alive in the job for fourteen years.
He scrolled through his contacts and called Tamsyn’s home.
The phone was answered by an older woman. “Hello?”
“Good evening, this is DI Robert Rego. Am I speaking to Mrs Poldhu?”
Rego was using what his wife called ‘your nice police voice’. It came instinctively these days and was designed to be formal but non-threatening, used mainly with victims or vulnerable witnesses.
“Oh! Hello, Inspector. Are you with Tamsyn and Ozzie?”
He paused.
“No, in fact I was hoping you could tell me where she is … where they are.”
He tried to keep the concern out of his voice because he could already hear it in hers.
“They went to find George at the harbour. George Mason, that is. He was our son’s best friend. Tammy calls him ‘Uncle George’. Sorry, I’m running on. I’m just so … well, Tammy was worried he might be in trouble. He wasn’t answering his phone, see.”
“How long ago was that, Mrs Poldhu?”
“About twenty minutes. I thought you were them calling. I’m worried, Mr Rego.”
Rego was worried, too. But it wouldn’t help to admit that.
“I’m going to send a patrol car over there just to check. I’ll call you back when I’ve heard from them. Or if they contact you first, please call me on this number.” He started to reel off the digits when she interrupted him.
“Oh, just a moment, I need to find a pencil.”
He heard her put the phone down, and while he waited for her to find a pen and paper, he clamped his hand over the microphone and whisper-yelled at Forshaw.
“Jack! Code Zero to the harbour – no sirens. PC Poldhu isn’t responding to her phone and she doesn’t have her AirWave with her; also, the night watchman isn’t answering his phone. I don’t like it. Units to be alert for Domi. And get Armed Response on standby.”
“They’ve gotta come from Bodmin, boss,” said Forshaw. “Seventy minutes, tops.”
“Are you serious?” Rego was flabbergasted. “Seventy minutes for rapid armed response?”
Forshaw nodded.
“Jesus!”
“But we could ask the MoD plods out at Culdrose to help,” Forshaw suggested.
MoD Plod was the slang name for Ministry of Defence Police who patrolled Royal Naval Air Station Culdrose at Helston, twelve miles east of Penzance.
“Whatever you need to do to get them there, do it!”
Forshaw pulled out his phone and sent the urgent requests via Control.
Tamsyn’s grandmother came back on the line, saying that she had her pencil and paper ready. Keeping his voice calm and controlled, Rego reeled off his direct number. She scribbled it down then read it back to him. He was about to end the call, when her she spoke again, her voice trembling.
“Please, Mr Rego. They’re all I have.”
He sucked in a deep breath.
“I’ll do everything I can, Mrs Poldhu. Try not to worry.”
He ended the call then checked that help was on its way to the harbour from the landward side.
“Boss,” said Forshaw, his voice tight. “I spoke to Culdrose’s Silver Commander on the MoD police team, an Inspector Mike Pearson – he’s sending two ARV’s and his Bronze Commander Sergeant Ed Bladen. ETA, fourteen minutes.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirteen.”
Rego nodded his approval then raised his voice over the sound of the ILB’s engine and spoke to the Officer in Charge.
“Ryder, how fast can this thing go?”
“Top speed is 35 knots,” Ryder replied, frowning over his shoulder as Rego re-fastened his helmet. “Why?”
“I think that one of my officers, Tamsyn Poldhu, and her grandfather are in serious trouble. How quickly can you get us to Newlyn Harbour?”
Ryder’s expression hardened.
“Six minutes,” he said. “Hold on.”
The ILB leapt forward and Rego was almost jerked off his feet. He held on with both hands, spray lashing his face as he was tilted back. It seemed impossible that anyone could steer the bucking craft as it raced across the black water towards the lights of Newlyn. The sea that had seemed so calm and flat just minutes before now tossed them around like a cork as the 200hp engine propelled them forwards, bouncing and skittering across Mount’s Bay.
He had no idea how fast 35 knots was, but it felt like they were flying through a hurricane.
And still, it wasn’t fast enough.