TOP HARD
Stephen Booth
Published by Westlea Books
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Stephen Booth 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views expressed by characters in this book are not those of the author.
Our ebooks are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be resold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Smashwords edition: ISBN 978-0-9569027-4-0
Westlea Books
PO Box 10125, Tuxford, Newark,
Notts. NG22 0WT. United Kingdom
www.westleabooks.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Author's Note
Other books by the same author
The Devil's Edge extract
About the author
TOP HARD
September 1998
Nottinghamshire, England
1
This lorry I'd been watching was a brand new Iveco with French registration plates. All tarted up with flags and air horns and rows of headlights, it was like a space shuttle had just landed in a layby on the A1.
I'd got myself a position no more than thirty yards away, slumped in the driver's seat of a clapped-out six-year-old Escort that had last been driven by a clapped-out brewery rep. Or that was the way it looked, anyway. It was one o'clock on an ordinary Friday afternoon. And all I had to do was wait.
The trouble was, this lorry hadn't been doing very much. I had nothing to look at except a red and white sticker on the Escort's dashboard thanking me for not smoking, and a little dangling plastic ball that told me what direction I was heading in. I might have been facing the soft south, but at least I was nicotine free.
I already knew a few things about this truck by now, of course. I'd counted its sixteen wheels and admired the size of its tail pipes. I'd seen the sleeping compartment behind the cab, with its ten-inch colour telly, a fridge, and even a microwave oven for warming up the driver's morning croissant. I knew that its forty-foot trailer was packed full of leather jackets, jeans and denim shirts - all good stuff that's really easy to shift. I also knew that somebody was going to be really pissed off about that trailer very soon.
Well, it definitely looked like a solid job so far - good information, and a plan that might actually come together for once. That's saying something in this part of the world. So all I needed to do was sit tight and wait for the action. But it's funny how things can start out really good and solid in the morning, and then turn totally brown and runny by tea time. It's one of my own little theories, this. I call it the Stones McClure Vindaloo Lunch Rule. It's as if the bloke up there with the beard likes a bit of a joke now and then. And today was going to be one of his joke days. Well, I might just die laughing.
Meanwhile, sitting in a tatty motor was in danger of ruining my image. The Escort just wasn't worth looking at. Well, that's the point, I suppose. But you can take low-profile a bit too far. There were an incredible eighty-five thousand miles on the clock of this thing, which proved it hadn't been handled by a used car dealer recently. The floor was covered in empty sweet wrappers, the mouldy debris of a cheese sandwich, and dozens of screwed-up bits of pink tissue. The inside panels looked as though they'd been trampled by a gang of miners in pit boots. The cover had fallen off the fuse box, and a tangle of wires and coloured plastic hung out of it, for all the world as if I'd just botched a hot-wire job. The car smelled of stale beer, too. Maybe a pack of free samples had split open some time. Or maybe a brewery rep just goes around smelling like that.
In a word, it just wasn't the sort of motor that folk round here are used to seeing Stones McClure in. My style is more poke than parcel shelf, if you know what I mean. More turbo charge than towbar. Not to mention a spot of F and F across the fake fur covers. That would be me, definitely.
So for the last few minutes, I'd been dozing a bit, clutching my plastic bottle of Highland Spring in one hand and a half-eaten Snickers bar in the other. Don't believe that means I had no idea what was going on. I've got this trick of keeping one eye half open at all times, like an old tom cat. It's saved me a lot of grief on jobs like this.
One-fifteen. I sat up to take a quick look round. Along the road was a roundabout where traffic was heading into the service area or grinding its way west on the A57 into Lincolnshire. Apart from a roadside cafe, there was nothing around me in the layby - just empty fields on one side, and a bit of Sherwood Forest on the other. I mean there was nothing apart from four lanes of traffic thundering by on the A1, obviously. But the drivers weren't taking notice of much. They were busy fiddling with their carphones, or counting the miles ticking off as they hurtled towards their next meeting or their latest delivery of widgets. This is what vehicle thieves rely on. Nobody sees anything happening around them when they're on the road.
Well, people never learn, do they? That's my second rule. And thank God for it, because this is what keeps blokes like me in beer and Meatloaf CDs for life.
I glanced at the clock again. Shouldn't be long now. Half an hour ago, I'd watched the driver who brought the lorry disappear into the cafe, shrugging his shoulders at the smell of hot fat drifting from the window of Sally's Snap Box. He was a short, thickset bloke wearing blue overalls and a five o'clock shadow. You could practically hear him singing the Marseillaise. This bloke's load might be headed for Leeds or Glasgow, or anywhere. But it wouldn't make it to its destination. Not today.
It's the load that's important, see. Thieves don't target brand new trucks for their own sake. If you're planning to cut a vehicle up for spares, you go for an ancient Bedford or something. There's a big export market for old lorry spares. But if you're nicking the load, it's a different matter. That's where the real business is - at least £1.6 billion worth a year, they say. And people will do anything to tap into dosh like that.
For the sake of authenticity, I was tuned in to a local radio station on the Escort's battered old Motorola. The presenter had just stumbled off into one of those endless phone-in segments they seem to like so much. Grannies from all over the county were passing on tips for getting cocoa stains out of acrylic armchair covers, or offering to swap back copies of People's Friend for a second-hand budgie cage. It was dire enough to kill my remaining brain cells – I mean, the few that last night's booze had left intact.
And then – bingo! An unmarked white Transit van left the inside lane of the A1 and pulled slowly into the layby in front of the French truck. Action at last.
I have a really good memory for registration numbers, but the plate on the Transit was a new one to me. That was no s
urprise, though. It would have been nicked from a car park in Worksop or Mansfield during the past hour, and that was someone else's worry.
From my position, I could just see a bloke jump down from the passenger side of the van. He had the collar of a red ski jacket turned right up and a woollen hat pulled low over his face, making it impossible to get an ID on him. As soon as he'd slammed the door shut, the Transit pulled out into the traffic again and disappeared south.
I stayed low in my seat and ate a bit of my Snickers. The chocolate was starting to melt and my fingers were sticky. I rubbed them on a windscreen wipe from a little packet I found in the door well. I would have stuffed the used wipe into the ashtray, but it was already jammed with crumpled tissues, all yellow and crusty. Anonymity is fine, but I draw the line at catching some disgusting disease for the sake of camouflage.
The bloke in the cap was fiddling with something I couldn't see, right up close to the near side of the Iveco's cab. No one took any notice of him, except me. Then he looked round once, took a step upwards, and was gone from sight.
I speed dialled a number on my mobile, then waited a minute or two more until I heard the rumble of a diesel engine and the release of air brakes. As I started the Escort's motor, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a large figure emerge from the cafe. It was a bloke so big that he had to duck and walk out of the door sideways to avoid bringing the side of the portakabin with him. He lumbered up to the side of the car, hefting something like a lump of breeze block in his left hand. And suddenly it was as if the sun had gone in. Oh yeah, meet my sidekick, Doncaster Dave. He's my personal back-up, my one-man riot squad. A good bloke to have watching your arse.
Dave had been stuffing himself with sandwiches and cakes in Sally's at my expense. Well, it's better than having him sit in the car with me. He gets twitchy when there's food nearby, and he'd probably enjoy the phone-in programme and laugh at the DJ's jokes. And then I'd have to kill him.
"Come on, Donc. Come on."
Dave was starting to go into the monkey squat necessary for him to manoeuvre his way into the passenger seat, when the door of the cafe flew open and a second figure came out. This one was dressed in blue overalls, and he was gesticulating and shouting. The sight of the lorry pulling onto the A1 seemed to infuriate him, and he ran a few yards down the layby, yelling. Then he turned and ran back again, still yelling. This was far too much noise for my liking. And definitely too much arm waving. Even on the A1, he might attract attention.
I put my foot on the brake. The bloke came eagerly towards me, and I sighed as I wound down the window.
"Mon camion," he said. "My truck. It is being stolen."
"Let him in, Donc, why not?" I said.
So Dave opened the back door of the Escort without a word. The Frenchman climbed in, and Dave squeezed into the front. The breeze block in his hand turned out to be the biggest sausage and egg butty you've ever seen, dripping with tomato sauce. The car filled with a greasy aroma that would linger for days. It didn't go too well with the stale beer either.
The Iveco was already a few hundred yards away by now, and the Frenchman began bouncing angrily.
"What's up, monsieur?" I said, as I indicated carefully before pulling out. I was waiting until I spotted some slow-moving caravans to sneak in front of. Getting onto the A1 from a layby is a bit dicey sometimes - you can end up with a snap-on tools salesman right up your backside, doing ninety miles an hour in his company Cavalier.
"We must follow the thieves. They steal my truck."
"Dear, oh dear. It happens all the time, you know. You can't leave anything unattended round here."
"Hurry, hurry! You are too slow."
I shook my head sadly. Well, there you go. You give somebody a lift, do them a favour, and the first thing out of their mouths is criticism of your driving ability. The world is so unfair.
"It's always been like this," I said helpfully. "This bit of the A1 was the Great North Road. You know, where Dick Turpin used to hang out? You've heard of Dick Turpin, have you, monsieur?"
"Comment? What?"
"Highwayman, you know. Thief."
This is straight up, too. Well, the original Great North Road is a bit to the east, but it's well and truly bypassed now. Some of it has deteriorated to a track, fit only for horses and trail bikes. But make no mistake. This whole area is still bandit country.
"Then there was Robin Hood," I said. "Robbing from the rich to give to the poor. Oh, and we had Mrs Thatcher, of course, who got it the wrong way round."
The Frenchman wasn't listening to my tour guide spiel. He was gesturing towards the bottom of the fascia, where my mobile phone sat under a pile of music cassettes and the world's worst in-car stereo system.
"Yeah, you're right, it's crap, this local radio. Le crap, eh? I don't know why I listen to it. What do you fancy then, mate? Some Sacha Distel maybe?"
I poked among the cassettes as if I was actually looking for Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head. It wasn't likely to be there. Not unless there was a cover version by Enya or UB40. Whoever normally drove this Escort had different tastes from mine. No doubt about it.
"How about this? This is French." I held up a Chris Rea tape. "Auberge. That's French, right?"
I slipped the cassette into the deck, and Rea began to sing about there being only one place to go. It's funny how you can always find Chris Rea tapes in sales reps' cars. I reckon they have them so they can play The Road to Hell and feel all ironic.
"No, no. You must call for help," the trucker shouted in my ear over the music. "Police. Stop the truck."
And then he reached forward, trying to make a grab for the phone. Dave barely moved. He gave the Frenchman a little flip and the bloke hit the back of his seat like he'd bounced off a brick wall.
"Sorry, mate, but the signal's terrible round here," I said. "It's all the trees. Sherwood Forest, this is."
The lorry driver called me a cochon. I failed French ‘O' level, but even I know that isn't polite.
"Look, I'm really sorry it's not Sacha Distel, but I'm doing my best, right?"
As we approached the big roundabout at Markham Moor, the Iveco was already halfway up the long hill heading south, growling past the McDonald's drive-thru and the Shell petrol station. I could catch up with the lorry easily. No need for lights and sirens - which was lucky, because we didn't have any.
But the sight of those yellow arches by the carriageway put me in mind of something.
"Hey, it's a bit like a scene in that film, what's it called? You know, with John Travolta and the black bloke in a frizzy wig? What do they call a Big Mac with cheese in France?"
Dave's ears pricked up at the Big Mac, but he didn't know the answer. He has no culture, see.
The Escort's steering juddered and the suspension groaned as I twisted the wheel to the right and we swerved into the roundabout, across the A1 and towards a little B road that leads past the Markham Moor truck stop. As we passed, I couldn't resist a glance for professional reasons. On the tarmac stood two orange and white Tesco lorries, a flatbed from Hanson Bricks, and a Euromax Mercedes diesel, all backed up against a couple of Cho Yang container trucks. There was a load of NorCor corrugated boarding, and even a Scania full of Weetabix. To be honest, though, I couldn't see anyone shifting fifty tons of breakfast cereal too easily. Not in these parts.
The Frenchman started gibbering again and pointing to the main road, where the back of his lorry had just vanished over the hill.
"Non, non. Turn round. That way. The thieves go that way."
"It's a short cut, mate. What do they call a Big Mac with cheese in France?"
"Merde!"
Then he began to poke his finger at Dave's shoulder. Well, that was a mistake. Dave stared at him, amazed, like a Rottweiler that finds a cat pulling its whiskers. His immense jaws opened and his teeth came down on the round, stubby thing in front of his face. It disappeared into his mouth with a little spurt of red, and he began to chew. The Frenchman pulled b
ack his finger fast, in case it went the same way as that sausage.
We passed through a couple of villages before I turned onto a road that was more mud than tarmac. A track led us over the River Maun, past a few derelict buildings, through some woods, over another river and into more woods. The trees closed all around us now, dark conifers that wiped out any hope of a view.
But in the middle of the trees a space suddenly opened up. It was a vast expanse of wasteland - acres and acres of black slurry and weed-covered concrete. There were old wheel tracks in that slurry, and some of them were two feet deep. This was one of our dead coal mines, whose rotting bodies lie all over Nottinghamshire these days - a memory of the time when thousands of blokes and their families lived for the seam of coal they called Top Hard.
Finally we ran out of road and pulled up by a series of lagoons. These lagoons are pretty deep too, and I wouldn't like to say what the stuff is that swirls about down there.
"Okay, Monsieur Merde. Out."
The Frenchman looked from me to Dave, who helpfully leaned back to unfasten his seat belt. The trucker flinched a bit, but looked relieved when the belt clicked open. He got out and looked at the devastation around him, baffled.
Well, this bit of Nottinghamshire is no picnic site, that's for sure. We were on the remains of an old pit road, where British Coal lorries once trundled backwards and forwards all day long. In some places, wagons have been dragged off the underground trains, filled with concrete and upended to stop gypsies setting up camp in the woods. But there are always ways in, if you know how. Up ahead was a bridge where you could look down on the railway line that carried the coal trains. The lines are rusted now, but the coal is still there, way below ground. Top Hard, the best coking and steam coal in the country. It made a lot of the old mine owners very rich.
Yes, this was once the site of the area's proudest superpit. A few years back, when it was still open, a report came up with the idea of making it a Coal Theme Park, preserving the glory days of the 1960s. There would have been visits to the coal face, a ride underground on a paddy train, and maybe a trip to the canteen for a mug of sweet tea. They had a dry ski slope planned for the spoil heap. I kid you not.
Top Hard Page 1
