‘Early start, gentlemen,’ the driver said.
‘Yes, we’re just in from Paris,’ Turkin told him. ‘Private flight.’
‘Oh, I see. Where can I take you?’
Turkin, who had spent much of the flight examining the Jersey guide book Irana had provided, particularly the town map of St Helier, said, ‘The Weighbridge, isn’t that right? By the harbour.’
The taxi drew away. ‘You don’t need an hotel, then?’
‘We’re meeting friends later. They’re taking care of that sort of thing. We thought we’d get some breakfast.’
‘You’ll be all right there. There’s a cafe close to the Weighbridge opens early. I’ll show you.’
The roads, at that time in the morning, were far from busy
and the run down to Bel Royal and along the dual carriageway of Victoria Avenue took little more than ten minutes. The sun was coming up now and the view across St Aubin’s Bay was spectacular, the tide in so that Elizabeth Castle on its rock was surrounded by water. Ahead of them was the town, the harbour breakwater, cranes lifting into the sky in the distance.
The driver turned in by the car park at the end of the esplanade. ‘Here we are, gentlemen. The weighbridge. There’s the tourist office. Open later if you need information. The cafe is just across the road over there around the corner. We’ll call that three pounds.’
Turkin, who had been supplied with several hundred pounds in English banknotes by Irana, took a fiver from his wallet. ‘Keep it. You’ve been very kind. Where’s the marina from here?’
The driver pointed. ‘Far end of the harbour. You can walk round.’
Turkin nodded to the breakwater stretching out into the bay. ‘And the boats come in there?’
‘That’s right. Albert Quay. You can see the car ferry ramp from here. Hydrofoils berth further along.’
‘Good,’ Turkin said. ‘Many thanks.’
They got out and the cab moved away. There was a public toilet a few yards away; without a word, Turkin led the way in and Shepilov followed. Turkin opened his holdall and burrowed under the clothing it contained, prising up the false bottom to reveal two handguns. He slipped one in his pocket and gave Shepilov the other. The weapons were automatics, each gun fitted with a silencer.
Turkin zipped up his holdall. ‘So far so good. Let’s take a look at the marina.’
There were several hundred boats moored there of every shape and size: yachts, motor cruisers, speedboats. They found the office of a boat hire firm easily enough, but it was not open yet.
‘Too early,’ Turkin said. ‘Let’s go down and have a look round.’
They walked along one of the swaying pontoons, boats moored on either side, paused, then turned into another. Things had always worked for Turkin. He was a great believer in his destiny. The nonsense over Tanya Voroninova had been an unfortunate hiccup in his career, but soon to be put right, he was confident of that. And now, fate took a hand in the game.
There was a motor cruiser moored at the end of the pontoon, dazzlingly white with a blue band above the watermark. The name on the stern wasL’Alouette, registered Granville, which he knew was a port along the coast from St Malo. A couple came out on deck talking in French, the man tall and bearded with glasses. He wore a dark reefer coat. The woman wore jeans and a similar coat, a scarf around her head.
As the man helped her over the rail, Turkin heard him say, ‘We’ll walk round to the bus station. Get a taxi from there to the airport. The flight to Guernsey leaves at eight.’
‘What time are we booked back?’ she asked.
‘Four o’clock. We’ll have time for breakfast at the airport.’
They walked away. Shepilov said, ‘What is Guernsey?’
‘The next island,’ Turkin told him. ‘I read about it in the guide book. There’s an inter-island flying service several times a day. It only takes fifteen minutes. A day out for tourists.’
‘Are you thinking what I am?’ Shepilov enquired.
‘It’s a nice boat,’ Turkin said. ‘We could be in St Malo and on our way hours before those two get back this afternoon.’ He took out a pack of French cigarettes and offered one to his companion. ‘Give them time to move away, then we’ll check.’