Plummer looked at his watch again and sighed.
10.48.
There were still nearly three hours to go.
The other staff had gone home. Jim Scott had locked up. Now he stood in his office drinking from a paper cup, swilling the Southern Comfort around, staring into the liquid.
***
The knock on the door was at precisely one minute after midnight.
He went upstairs and opened it, allowing John Hitch inside.
'You set?' Hitch asked him.
Scott nodded.
'Show me,' Hitch insisted.
Scott pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster and handed it to Hitch, who held the weapon for a minute before returning it to its rightful owner.
'You've got good taste, Jim,' he said, smiling, pulling his own pistol into view.
Like Scott's it was a 92S. He holstered it and motioned towards the door.
'Let's go,' he said. 'Car's waiting.'
Scott followed him out.
***
It was a small boat, less than thirty feet from stem to stem. It moved quietly up the River Thames, hidden by the darkness, only its warning lights visible on the black swirl of the water. The Sandhopper moved evenly and unhurriedly through the water.
The river was quiet. Many of the small boats which usually travelled its waters were moored for the night and The Sandhopper passed a number of them as it made its way up river. Lights from the banks reflected off the water like a black mirror. One of the crewmen of the small boat stood looking out at the city all around him, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the myriad lights.
'I can see one of them.'
Martin Bates adjusted the focus on the binoculars, trying to pull into sharper definition the man moving about on the deck.
'Where's the boat now?' John Hitch asked, his voice breaking up slightly on the two-way.
Bates picked up the radio, still holding the binoculars in one hand, following the progress of the boat.
'Just passing Hay's Wharf,' he said.
'Tell Wally to keep his eyes open and let me know when they pass him,' Hitch instructed.
'Will do,' said Bates. He put down the radio for a moment, taking one last look at the boat as it chugged slowly up river. He leant on the car and lit a cigarette, puffing at it before he picked up the radio again.
'Wally, come in, it's Martin. You awake or having a wank?' He smiled to himself.
'I'm awake, you cunt,' a deep Scots voice thundered back.
'They'll be with you in about ten or fifteen minutes, mate,' Bates told him.
'Right,' muttered Wally Connor.
From his own vantage point he moved forward, leaning on the parapet of Blackfriars Bridge, peering down into the murky blackness of the river. Waiting.
Waiting just like the other four men Hitch had positioned at various places along the Thames.
Scott looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Lancia and sighed.
'How much longer?' he said irritably, gazing through the windscreen, out across the Thames. It looked like a swollen black tongue licking its way through the city.
'Not long,' John Hitch told him, looking first at his own watch then at the dashboard clock.
'I'd just like to know why I'm here,' Scott murmured.
'I told you, Scotty, it wasn't my idea. I get paid for doing what I'm told. It's as simple as that.' He looked at his watch again. Then he pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide.
It jammed.
'Shit,' muttered Hitch.
Scott seemed unconcerned by his companion's problem and looked to his right. The four giant chimneys of Battersea Power Station thrust upward into the night sky like the upended legs of a gigantic coffee table. Below them was a pier, accessible by a set of stone steps. The steps were green with mould where the rising tide lapped against them. At the end of the pier another small boat was moored. Scott couldn't see the name painted along one side of it but he'd already been told it was called The Abbott. Not that he really cared.
Hitch was still struggling with the Beretta.
'Bloody slide's stuck,' he grunted, pulling back hard on it.
'Why do you need a gun, anyway?' Scott wanted to know. 'You intending to use it?'
'Just call it insurance,' Hitch said, still tugging at the pistol. 'Fuck it,' he snapped finally. 'Give me yours.' He held out one gloved hand.
Scott hesitated.
'Give me yours,' Hitch repeated. 'Come on, you're going to be up here in the car. If things get too complicated, just drive off.' He sat there with his hand still open. 'Let me have your gun, Jim.'
Scott reached slowly inside his jacket then pulled the Beretta free and handed it to Hitch, who gripped the automatic in his fist and checked that the magazine was full, slipping it from the butt. Satisfied that it was, he slammed it back into place and holstered the weapon, sticking his own pistol in the belt of his trousers.
On the dashboard in front of him the radio crackled and he picked it up.
'John, can you hear me?' a voice enquired.
'Yeah, Rob, go ahead,' Hitch replied.
'The Sandhopper just passed under the Vauxhall Bridge. Should be with you any time now.'
'Cheers,' said Hitch and snapped off the radio. He pushed open the passenger side door and clambered out, turning to look back at Scott. 'This shouldn't take long,' he said, smiling, the wind ruffling his long blond hair. 'Just sit tight.'
Scott nodded, watching as Hitch scuttled across the road and disappeared out of sight as he began to descend the embankment steps towards the pier.
Scott switched on the radio, heard pop music, twiddled the frequency dial past classical and reggae and finally found a discussion programme. He listened for a moment then switched off again, content with the silence inside the Lancia. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited.
***
He couldn't sleep.
He knew he wouldn't be able to and now, as he swung himself out of bed, Ray Plummer wondered why he hadn't just sat in front of the television until the time came.
He pulled on his dressing gown and padded through into the sitting room.
'What's wrong, Ray?' Carol asked, rolling over.
He ignored her enquiry so she hauled herself out, slipped on a long T-shirt and followed him into the other room. She found him standing in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the clock.
'Are you all right?' she wanted to know. 'You've hardly spoken since we got back.'
'I've got something on my mind,' he said sharply, sipping at the drink he cradled in his hand.
'Anything I can help with?'
'No, it's all right,' he said. 'Thanks for asking, though. It's just a little bit of business that's got to be done.'
She knew better than to ask what kind of business.
Plummer turned to face her, running appraising eyes over her long slender legs, her nipples taut against the thin material of the T-shirt.
'Get yourself a drink,' he said, nodding towards the cabinet. As she did he glanced at his watch once more.
Nearly time.
Carol crossed to him and slipped one hand inside his dressing gown, stroking his stomach. 'Are you sure I can't help?' she said, smiling a practised smile.