by Ted Tayler
Sean wasn’t going on the operation. Hugo Hanigan called last night to order him to stay away.
“If it goes pear-shaped, Sean, the fact that you may have been seen in the vicinity of my building could bring unwanted attention to me. I can’t risk that. Can the team handle things without you, Sean?”
Sean knew they were better off without him, he was that nervous. He talked to the driver of the lead vehicle, Tony Simms. He hadn’t like the idea, but as Sean had only been riding in the people carrier, at the back of the crew as extra manpower, Simms could find a replacement.
His sister Colleen had called twice this morning to check everything was ready, and if he was sure nothing could go wrong. He reassured her as best he could. Not because he was super-confident, but he wanted to get her off the phone so he could fix himself a drink.
At ten o’clock, the transport vehicle left Belmarsh. Tommy O’Riordan and his three fellow-travellers were securely handcuffed in their cell. The driver and the escort party were the same as travelled on Monday and Wednesday. The only change to their schedule was an extra stop at a service station ninety minutes into the journey.
This was for O’Riordan to be allowed to stretch his legs and checked out. His injuries were on the mend, but the authorities didn’t want him dying on the way north. The paperwork that would cause would be astronomical. His escorts in the rear compartment had been told in no uncertain terms to handle O’Riordan with care.
The van driver noticed the gradual build-up of traffic as they got closer to the Dartford Crossing. He didn’t see anything familiar about the VW Golf that eased in front of him. His wing mirrors showed he was being followed by a white Transit van that looked as if it had seen better days.
As they entered the tunnel a flatbed truck edged alongside. The line of traffic slowed and stopped for a moment. He glanced across at the cab. The driver and passenger looked straight ahead. Traffic began to move once again.
“Dark hooded jackets in June,” the driver said to his passenger.
“If they’re working outside it’s sensible,” replied his colleague. “We can get four seasons in a day in England, and if the sun stays out labourers are high risk for malignant melanomas.”
“A mine of information, as always, Heather,” said the driver.
“This makes a change for me,” Heather said. “I understand you’ve done this run twice this week? The doctor persuaded the bosses to have a female escort with a nursing background on this trip; just in case O’Riordan is taken ill.”
The lines of traffic crawled through the tunnel, and the minutes ticked by to ten thirty-five. Up ahead lay the Mar Dyke Interchange. Not as complex as Spaghetti Junction, but busy enough on a Friday morning. The driver puffed out his cheeks as the traffic remained solid around him. They were behind schedule already and this traffic jam wouldn’t help. He wanted to change lanes. He searched for a gap. There, he thought he had one, but no, a bloody people carrier closed the gap as soon as it appeared.
Heather looked out of her window as the traffic on the approach road suddenly braked hard. She could see nothing but red lights.
“Blimey, did you see that, Ivan?” she said. “A Corsa changed lanes in a hurry, veered into the inside lane and got shunted by a van. Loads of cars have piled into the back of one another.”
Ivan Newbury wasn’t watching the approach road. His eyes were on the road ahead. He slammed on his brakes. He heard swearing from the cells and the rear compartment.
“Sorry, lads,” he shouted, “it’s an accident fifty yards in front of me.”
The female driver of a foreign hatchback had seemed to slow deliberately so the car behind hit her bumper. She then punched the accelerator and shot forward, clipping the rear of the car in front, spinning her car around. The inside lanes had to come to a standstill.
“Terrific,” said Ivor, “I should have known everything would have gone pear-shaped today.”
“Why,” asked Heather.
“Friday, the bleeding thirteenth, isn’t it?”
Heather had turned her head to view the chaos in front of the van. There wasn’t much to see out of her window now. Any vehicle that hadn’t been involved in the accident was being held up by a JCB joining the M25. It headed the rush to merge with their lane.
The prison van was stationary and likely to be for some time. Its left-hand side was exposed. Ivan glanced out of his window. The flat-bed had dropped back ten yards. The lane next to him stood empty. Typical. As much as he wanted to he couldn’t move out. They were stuck.
Heather James was thirty-two. Her thirty-third birthday was on Tuesday. When it dawned on Heather the JCB really was rushing to merge with their lane, she turned to see where it was. The grill on the articulated dump truck was the last thing Heather saw. She never had time to scream.
Ivan Newbury knew something was wrong. His van had switched lanes, and there was a roaring noise in his ears. Before he lost consciousness, he thought he saw dark shadowy figures. He was right. Tony Simms and the rest of the crew assembled by Sean Walsh had already set to work.
Inside the van, the other prisoners had been thrown around in their cells. They suffered cuts and bruises. The handcuffs had chafed their wrists. Tommy O’Riordan had known it was coming. It took longer than Sean said, but the van kept slowing. Traffic must have been heavy. He had been braced for the impact. Now, he sat and waited. He was relaxed. They were coming for him. Sean and Colleen pulled it off for him. Freedom was only minutes away.
Outside the cells, the escorts fared far worse. They weren’t wearing seatbelts, so the impact sent them flying. They were stunned, shakily getting to their feet, and trying to get hold of Ivan, or Heather in the cab. The communications system was working, but nobody answered.
“What the hell is going on?” one shouted.
There was a noise from outside the van.
The back door flew open. On the roadway stood six men. They wore black balaclavas and dark clothing. Five were armed with sawn-off shotguns. One carried the oxyacetylene torch that had just made mincemeat of the door lock.
Neither of the escorts could offer any resistance, they were still too dazed. The men clambered into the rear compartment, clubbed the guards around the head and relieved them of their keys. Inside two minutes, four prisoners were hustled along the shoulder of the highway to cars fifty yards ahead.
The high-speed cars Sean had acquired sat in splendid isolation at the front of the queue of traffic in the lanes affected by the second so-called ‘accident’. One prisoner and two gangsters got into each car. The JCB driver was already in the first car.
The cars then sped off, and they reached Junction 29 in four minutes. As they exited the motorway, they reduced their speed and joined the morning traffic on the A127. It was now ten forty-four.
*****
At Larcombe Manor, Giles Burke had monitored the coverage being transmitted by the drones from ten o’clock. Everything had progressed in the smooth manner of the previous four days. There was little change in weather conditions or traffic flow. Each day this week the runs had been accident-free. If there were incidents between London and Durham, they occurred far enough either side of the prison transport as to be irrelevant.
Artemis sat in the next room following CCTV images, keeping Andy Walters updated on what was happening around him. Both agents were in constant contact with Andy, and with Phoenix.
Phoenix had gambled. He drove to a spot near Rayleigh. He and Rusty were lying in wait.
At ten thirty-five, Giles had spotted the first hint of trouble. The accident on the slip-road had happened quickly, but it felt wrong, so he reviewed it.
“Andy, Phoenix, just a heads up. There’s been a pile-up on the approach road. It looks dodgy, but at this stage, I can’t see how it will affect us.”
“Define ‘dodgy’ please,” asked Andy Walters.
“The way the car dived for a space that wasn’t there, it could have been deliberate. The accident has cut the number
of cars moving on the slip-road by ninety per cent. What are you seeing out there?”
“My shadow team are in similar positions to those we’ve occupied all week. Two in front, and two behind. We should be well-placed to respond if anything happens. I’ve noted a few familiar cars and trucks. I’ll pass the details to Artemis. Perhaps she can tell us whether any of them carry our suspects?”
Giles watched as the second fake accident appeared on the screen in front of him.
“Andy, watch out! There’s another prang up ahead. That looked deliberate too. This is it, mate.”
“My god, there’s a JCB hammering up the slip-road,” shouted Artemis, “it’s aiming straight for the cab of the prison van. The van has been hit. It’s been shunted into lane two. Everything’s stopped. There are men on the motorway. I repeat, men on the motorway attacking the prison van.”
Andy Walters ordered his shadow team to abandon their cars. They had been briefed on how to handle this type of assault. Every man or woman was armed, and they wore bullet-proof Kevlar vests. With dozens of vehicles stopped on the motorway it was imperative a fire-fight was avoided, if possible.
As Andy made his way forward, and his colleagues joined him, they spread out across the inside lanes and used the stationary vehicles for cover. Andy received a message in his earpiece from the driver of one of the cars that had been in front of the prison van.
They were unable to help. They had become aware something happened two hundred yards behind them, and although they slowed, they were committed to staying on the M25 until the next junction. The two cars had now left the motorway and had parked by Gallows Corner, on the A127, awaiting instructions.
“I’m twenty-five yards behind the prison van,” Andy said. “I can see drivers and passengers on the side of the road, right in front of me, chatting and smoking. I can see a man in dark clothing by the rear of the van. He’s holding a shotgun by his side. Hang on, the prisoners are out of the van now, there are at least five armed men and they’re leading them forwards. I can’t get close enough without endangering the public. Can you tell where they’re headed, Giles?”
“They ran past the car that spun across the inside lanes and climbed into waiting cars. They’ve just sped away, and I’m now tracking them. Stand by.”
“Got it,” said Andy, “I can hear sirens behind us, moving up fast in the outside lane. Help is on its way.”
“Andy,” said Phoenix, “you and your people get back to your vehicles. As soon as you can get moving, make for the next junction and get to Gallows Cross. Giles and Artemis use the drones to track the cars the gang and the prisoners just left in. Can you pick them out?”
“Yes, Phoenix,” said Artemis. “I’ve got them, they’ve left the motorway at twenty-nine, the same junction as those two cars from the shadow team.”
“Send the details to the cars at Gallows Cross. Tell them to follow, but do not attempt to intercept. Keep us informed.”
“Why aren’t we heading over there?” Rusty asked Phoenix.
“Because they won’t all be going the same way. It would make things too easy for the police They’ll split up at some point.”
“It will at least twenty minutes before we can get to the turnoff, Phoenix,” said Andy. “The emergency services are here now, but they didn’t appreciate the scale of what they were facing. The place will be crawling with police in the next few minutes after they send for back-up, but the prisoners will be long gone before we can join the chase.”
“Don’t give up yet, Andy,” said Phoenix. “Get on the A127 as soon as you can, and be ready to drive in whichever direction Artemis or Giles tells you. The eye in the sky is our best hope from here on in.”
“Andy, it’s Artemis again. You were right. The flatbed you had on your list was driven by Tony Simms, a nasty piece of work, he’s been done for robbery with violence, grievous bodily harm, and assault with a deadly weapon. His passenger was Jeff Melvin, another career criminal. The drivers of the VW Golf and the Peugeot people carrier are also well-known to the police. What’s interesting is, they come from all over the south-east of England. They have no connection to O’Riordan’s former gang. His second-in-command, Sean Walsh is reputed to have assumed command since his brother-in-law went to prison. As yet, there’s no sign of him being involved in the breakout.”
“Could he be driving one of the getaway cars?” asked Phoenix.
“It’s not recorded as being one of his talents,” said Giles, “he’s more likely to be used for muscle.”
“OK, I’ve got an update,” said Artemis. “It’s ten fifty, and three of the cars have turned left, off the A127. That road will take them through Hacton. Andy, your guys at Gallows Cross need to get after them.”
“Will do,” replied Andy. “What happened to the fourth car?”
“I saw four cars as they let the motorway, then with the intermittent feed from the CCTV and the drones there are gaps. I missed one car that must have turned off. Giles, can you help me find it? I don’t want to stop tracking the other three.”
“Could they be heading my way?” asked Phoenix.
“Give me a minute,” said Giles.
“Where does the Hacton road take them?” asked Phoenix.
“Rainham, Hornchurch, Dagenham, any one of a number of places, why?” asked Giles.
“Railway stations,” replied Phoenix, “which is closest?”
“Hornchurch, I’m diverting a drone there immediately,”
“Any news on the fourth car?” asked Phoenix.
“It’s doubled back to the other side of the motorway, heading for Basildon.”
“Thanks, Giles. That will be O’Riordan,” said Phoenix, thumping the dashboard. “The stations are a smokescreen. They’ll drop the others off, to make the police think they’ve used a train to escape. O’Riordan needs to get abroad tonight. He’s not safe anywhere in Europe in the long term, but as a stop-off for several hours before a much longer journey, Holland is convenient.”
“They intend to get him on a boat from Harwich then?” asked Rusty. “Now I know why we’re sitting here. I should have known.”
Phoenix allowed himself a smile.
“It’s an eight-hour crossing, and from here it’s a ninety-minute drive at the most.”
“Phoenix, the first prisoner has been dropped at Hornchurch station. He’s wearing a light grey hoodie, blue jeans, and white trainers. They’ve given him a change of clothes in the car.”
“Are the others still on the move?” asked Phoenix.
“Yes,” said Artemis, “if you’re right, they might be in Rainham, and Dagenham in ten minutes.”
“That will be the same time you’ll meet the fourth car, with O’Riordan on board coming into Rayleigh,” said Giles. “If you’re right.”
“We’re ready,” said Phoenix, “and I’m right. They can forget about catching a boat.”
*****
Tommy O’Riordan was in a car with Tony Simms, Jeff Melvin, and a driver who could give Lewis Hamilton a run for his money. He felt good. Even in this clobber, they made him wear.
“What’s all this about?” he asked Simms.
“Sean insisted the four of you wore the same kit. With your hoods up, the cops couldn’t be sure who they were following. The other three went in the opposite direction. It didn’t matter if they got caught as long as you got clear.”
“Far too clever for Sean to have dreamt it up himself,” said Tommy, “where are the other lads headed?”
“That’s up to them. The station they’re being dropped at can get them to London, Tilbury, or even up north with a few changes. We gave them five hundred quid each in cash to help.”
“Did Sean give you anything for me?” asked Tommy.
“There’s more clothes, wash-kit, a passport, plane ticket, and a few grand in cash in that bag under your seat.”
“I need a gun,” said Tommy.
Simms shook his head.
“Sean never suggested that,” he
said.
“Look, I’m begging you mate, I need a gun. Things have gone great so far, but there’s no way I’m going back inside. If I have to shoot my way out of this bloody country, then I will. I’ll get rid of it once I’m in the clear.”
Simms shrugged and handed Tommy a handgun wrapped in a towel.
“There you go, it can’t be traced back to me. It’s got a full magazine.”
The car had now reached the outskirts of Rayleigh.
*****
At Larcombe, Artemis and Giles continued to track the movements of the getaway cars and checking what was happening to Andy Walters and his team. The two lead cars were hot on the heels of the two remaining prisoners. The first car that dropped a passenger at Hornchurch headed north. Its work was done for the day.
Giles contacted Andy Walters.
“Where exactly are you, Andy?”
“We’ve made it onto the A127, and we’re three minutes from the Hacton turning.”
“I’m forwarding details of a car that’s making for Stevenage. Three bandits inside, you should assume they’re armed. Could you cancel their lunch appointment, please?”
“Glad to have a part to play in this, Giles,” said Andy. “You can count on us.”
Almost simultaneously the other two prisoners were dropped at the stations in Rainham, and Dagenham.
“Light grey hoodies and jeans again,” said Artemis. “It's dress-down Friday I guess.”
“It matches what O’Riordan will be wearing, I bet,” said Phoenix.
“You’ll be able to see for yourself soon,” said Rusty. “This is them coming towards us now.”
Giles Burke’s timings had been near perfect. It was two minutes past eleven.
CHAPTER 13
In three locations across London, those with more than a passing interest in what was unfolding in Essex had been waiting anxiously for news.
Colleen had got fed up with calling her brother. Sean must have turned off his phone. He was useless. What if the team needed to ask him for help? What if something had gone wrong? She sat in her sparsely furnished lounge and bit her nails. The radio was tuned to the local station. News reports came on the hour. As the DJ linked the same mindless music with light-hearted banter, she imagined what might have gone wrong.
