Here Be Dragons: A Short Story Read Free Page B

Princess Margaret. A nice, unremarkable car driving slowly down a non-residential road in that neighbourhood and someone reports a disturbance. Seriously?’
    There is a heavy sigh, and Joesbury pictures his boss running his hands through his thinning hair. ‘Set-up?’
    Of course it had been a frigging stitch-up. He’d known that the second the blue lights appeared. ‘Find out where the call came from. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all part of the interview process.’
    Down the line comes the sound of a subdued moan. ‘You could be right. Listen, you’ve got to come in until we know where we stand. I’m calling Beenie in too. The kid’s in pieces. We can regroup. Sort this out.’
    ‘No.’ Joesbury braces himself for a fight. ‘I’m staying on the job. I’ll talk to Beenie, make sure he’s OK.’
    ‘You will be arrested. And when you are, it will take the combined efforts of the Met’s highest and MI5 to prevent you being charged with attempted murder.’
    ‘They’ve got to find me first. Listen, Pete, whatever’s going down has to be big. They wouldn’t risk killing a copper if it weren’t. They needed to be absolutely sure of me. Beenie, too. When I become London’s Most Wanted they’ll assume I have nowhere else to turn. I can find out what they’re planning.’
    There is a sound like a strangled scream, as though someone has sneaked up on his boss and taken him in a choke-hold. Joesbury waits it out. He’s heard it before. It is a good few seconds before Philips speaks again and only then through gritted teeth.
    ‘Did we get anything before the entire op went tits up?’
    ‘Something on the river in the next six weeks. They were asking about Westminster, the Tower, the Barrier.’
    He can hear the rapid, heavy footsteps of a stressed man pacing.
    ‘Mark, if we go with this, the number of people who’ll know the truth will be counted on my balls. Your family, your mates, they’ll all believe you’ve gone. It’s a lot to put them through.’
    For a second Joesbury sees the small, pale face of his son and hardens his heart. Huck Joesbury is tougher than his dad. ‘I know that. I’ve got to go. Find out how that daft kid’s doing and who made that phone call.’
    ‘Where the hell are you? We haven’t been able to trace your phone.’
    Joesbury looks around. During England’s industrial revolution, the tributaries of the tidal Thames urbanized, morphing into steel and concrete channels, with towering warehouses and commercial wharves fighting for space along the banks. Deptford Creek, the name given to the last half-mile of the River Ravensbourne before it meets the Thames at Deptford, is a vast mud-filled tunnel at low tide.
    Now, though, the tide is high. Now, Deptford Creek is filled with rushing, swirling, dark water.
    ‘One of the few places I feel safe. Talk to you later, Boss.’
     
    When Joesbury and his brother, Adam, were boys in south London, their grandfather, a sergeant in the Marine Unit, often took them out on police boats. (In those days, the rules were expected to be broken.) One of Joesbury Senior’s young constables was a man called Ray Bradbury, who remained with the unit all his working life.
    Bradbury, retired now but unable to leave the river behind, lives on a boat in Deptford Creek with his wife, Eileen. Moored up next to it is the vintage yellow sailing yacht in which Lacey lives.
    Joesbury drags his eyes away from the yellow boat – time enough for that – and faces the thin, sun-tanned, deeply wrinkled man.
    ‘I was on a job tonight,’ he says. ‘Things escalated.’
    ‘Want to tell me about it?’ Ray has never wasted words, isn’t about to start now.
    Joesbury shakes his head. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’
    ‘That bad, huh?’
    ‘Not as bad as it’s going to sound.’
    Ray registers that with a sharp breath on his cigarette. ‘Anything I can do?’
    ‘Don’t mention you’ve seen me. Don’t notice if your boat gets borrowed