by Alan Judd
‘Don’t worry about the radiation,’ said James. ‘That’s all taken into account. For one thing, it’s at the end of its half-life so it’s nothing like as powerful as it was, which is why it’s being replaced. For another, all the time you’re in the lorry it’ll be in its container, so you’re perfectly safe. It’ll still be in its container when we get it out and lower it into the water, where it’s also safe so long as you don’t get too close, go swimming round it or anything daft like that. Then we release it from the container and drive off. All it’s going to do is kill a few hundred fish through its natural toxicity, which is all we need it to do to make everyone think it’s the nuclear submarines and their missiles leaking radiation.’
‘And then there’ll be such a bloody great outcry,’ said Rob, ‘they’ll have to move the whole lot out o’ Sco’land and take them down south where they can bloody keep them if they want.’
‘Which they won’t, so they’ll have to get rid of them altogether and we’ll have a nuclear-free Britain without anyone being hurt or harmed except a few fish,’ said James.
‘And independence for Sco’land. Irresistible,’ said Rob.
Zac seemed unmoved. ‘What if the police don’t believe me?’
‘Why shouldn’t they?’ said James. ‘They can’t prove anything. All you have to do is stick to your story and they have to let you go.’
‘What if I get the sack?’
‘You won’t. They can’t, not under modern employment law if it’s not your fault.’
‘But if they did who’s gonna find me another job?’
‘We’ll see you all right, Zac,’ said Rob, quietly now. ‘Dinna worry y’sel’.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Present
Bob Shea had gained weight and lost hair during the years since he and Charles had last met. He had transferred to Northumbria Police and his office was still in the detached inter-war house at police headquarters outside Newcastle, albeit that he now had a room to himself.
He shook hands with Sarah. ‘Hope he’s not dragged you out on a wild-goose chase like the last time he was in this part of the world.’
‘He didn’t need to drag me. I’m combining this with a visit to my mother in Hexham.’
‘At least he’s had the good sense to marry a local girl. I don’t have to call him sir, then.’ He chuckled.
Over tea, Charles explained their visit, neglecting only to mention that Robin Cleveley had accompanied them. Bob’s round, good-natured face looked perplexed. ‘Well, I can see why the DDG might be cautious about committing resources, given he’s got this female political commissar looking over his shoulder. But I don’t see why he couldn’t have picked up the phone to us. We could check things out, make sure everything’s OK, keep tabs on James Micklethwaite for him. Must say I wouldn’t mind a chance to feel James’s collar again. He’s got no better as he’s got older, then?’
His phone rang. He listened for a minute or so, said he’d ring back on another line, excused himself and left the office. When he returned he looked more serious. ‘Charles, it seems to me the best thing would be to make sure we’ve got each other’s numbers and for me to know where you’re staying and that sort of thing, and for you to keep me in touch with what you’re doing, what you’re planning. I’ll get someone to check out Deep Blue in the meantime and keep an eye out for young – not so young now, is he? – James and his oppo, Rob Roy or whatever he calls himself. See if we’ve got anything on him. So all you need do is sit tight and I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’
Afterwards, as they drove away, Sarah said, ‘What do you think that was all about, that call he took? His manner was quite different afterwards, much less relaxed and helpful, quite apart from saying “don’t call us, we’ll call you”.’
‘He didn’t actually say that.’
‘As good as. I think he’s been warned off you.’
Charles thought so too but didn’t like to admit it. ‘We’ll manage without him, then.’
They and Robin, who had come by train, were booked into a hotel on the rebuilt waterfront, overlooking the Tyne’s famous bridges. It was expensive and hardly inconspicuous but Charles had insisted on somewhere with safe garaging for his Bristol. It was also, he argued, a part of town unlikely to be visited by James and Rob S. Ready.
‘Presumably the Office is paying for us and Robin?’asked Sarah.
‘Only if I turn out to be right.’
‘And if not?’
‘I guess I pay. I’m on leave, remember. Same as you. No win, no fee. Now commonplace in your profession.’
She looked at the bleak housing estate by the side of the dual carriageway. ‘That’s usually based on a rather more precise estimate of probability.’
Robin was having coffee and biscuits in the lounge. ‘Sorry, couldn’t wait for lunch.’ He kissed Sarah as if they were old friends. ‘Join me while we sort out a POA?’ He smiled at Charles. ‘Plan of action.’
Coffee and cake were tempting. They sat, and Charles told him what Bob had said. ‘But I don’t think we should hang around waiting to hear if anyone else does anything,’ he concluded. ‘We should act.’
Robin grinned, the last piece of cake still in his mouth. ‘All for that. All for action.’
‘We’ll drive out to the industrial estate where Deep Blue is now kept and talk to the people who guard or look after it.’
‘Saying what – that it may be about to be hijacked?’
‘Perhaps not in quite so many words . . .’
‘Hard to think what others you could use,’ said Sarah. ‘What else have you got to talk to them about? And who will you say you are, anyway? You can’t say you’re the Chief of MI6, unless you want it splashed all over the evening news. Even if you did, what locus do you have, what business is it of yours? It’s a police matter, surely, and they now know about it.’
‘A lawyer speaks.’ Charles smiled but she had a point. He had assumed anything he did would be in conjunction with Special Branch, which would have given him – all three of them – the cover of anonymity at least.
‘And the law will want answers if you’re caught trying to pass yourself off as someone else while on leave and interfering with what should be someone else’s official business. Not to mention the media.’
‘Use me,’ said Robin. He waved to the waitress for more coffee. ‘I could be an investigative journalist looking into nuclear and radiological storage issues.’
‘Working for whom?’
‘Freelance.’
‘Where has your stuff appeared? Where’s your Facebook page? Why aren’t you on LinkedIn? What happens if they Google you?’
‘Pity, I always rather fancied journalism. I’ll be a businessman, then. Possible client. I may want to use Deep Blue for cleaning . . . I don’t know, artificial hips.’
Sarah laughed. ‘For re-use?’
‘Only in China.’
‘Company name, business cards, website?’ said Charles.
Robin held up his hands. ‘Oh, all right, Nuclear Safety Inspectorate. Snap inspection.’
‘Getting there,’ said Charles. ‘But you’ve no telephone number or anything like that.’
‘You could fix that, surely? You must have lots of disposable numbers. Oh no, sorry, we’re not allowed official facilities, are we?’
Charles put his hands palms down on the coffee table. ‘The best lies are closest to the truth. You are who you are, own name, we’re long-suffering friends you’re staying with nearby, no need for our names. You’re researching a book on peaceful nuclear power, have heard about Deep Blue and wanted to check that it is what you think it is and if possible see it in action. In the course of conversation you express concern about security, which, at the very least, might remind them of it and make them more watchful. We, meanwhile, will be discreetly recce-ing the surroundings for anywhere we can hide and watch to see if James and co. try to hijack it again. They’ve got a pretty small time window, essentially t
oday and tonight, if they want news of it to coincide with tomorrow’s Trafalgar Square demo. So we shouldn’t have to wait long.’
‘I’ll go and change,’ said Robin. ‘Look less like a city slicker, more like a dotty author.’
When he had gone Sarah said, ‘You’re not seriously thinking we’ll hang around all day watching the place, are you?’
‘Not all of us, just me. If I can find a dustbin to hide in.’
She looked at him. ‘You know I normally trust your judgement but this time I’m beginning to—’
‘It’s not just me. Robin seems pretty convinced.’
‘Only because he romanticises the intelligence world. He’d soon change his tune if he thought this would make the Foreign Secretary look bad rather than the Home Secretary.’
‘Yes, you can’t trust him.’
She smiled. ‘Maybe not, but he’s rather charming.’
It was not hard to find the industrial estate, which they had seen signposted on the way into the city. Robin, folded into the back of the Bristol despite Sarah’s protestations, seemed more interested in asking Charles about the car than in what they were doing. ‘You need to focus on what you’re going to say,’ said Charles. ‘Rehearse it now.’ There was plenty of time as they were soon lost in the industrial estate, which appeared to have more to do with storage than industry and in which the buildings, all numbered units, looked alike.
‘God-forsaken place,’ said Robin. ‘What do people do here?’
‘They’re the rest of humanity. Ordinary people, Robin. You may not have met them.’
‘Not many Bristol owners, then.’
Unit 146 was a concrete structure surrounded by a high iron fence with a hoist alongside, as at the power station. It had on it the company logo and name but nothing else. Charles was already signalling to turn in when he cancelled and drove straight past. A white lorry was parked beneath the hoist, which was lowering on to the lorry’s hydraulic ramp a square red container, sealed and with triangular radiation markings. As they passed they glimpsed a youngish, overweight man in the cab, slumped back in his seat and smoking, his elbow on the open window. The body of the lorry lowered as it took the weight of the container on its ramp. There was a small forklift nearby.
‘Looks like we’re too late,’ said Robin.
‘But it’s not them. At least, they’re not in sight. And we don’t know for sure that that’s it.’ Charles stopped when they were out of sight round the corner. ‘Why don’t you walk in now, see what’s happening? We’ll wait here in case James is there after all and he sees us. Don’t linger – if that is Deep Blue and it’s going somewhere, we want to follow it.’
‘Why do you want to follow it?’ asked Sarah when Robin had gone.
‘In case they hijack it. Or in case that was really them, pinching it.’
She stared at him. ‘Charles, are you sure about this?’
‘No. But we’ll know one way or the other soon enough.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re so determined, why you can’t just leave it to the police. You’ve done everything you reasonably can. It’s not because you’ve got some grudge against James, is it? Because he got away with it – or didn’t get caught – last time?’
‘No, it’s not personal. Or not in that way, not with regard to James.’ Charles fingered the wide, two-spoke steering wheel. ‘It’s sentimental, really, more because I – because of those two Russians who led us to the original plot. Both dead now, of course, so it makes no difference. But I feel that I owe it them somehow, we owe it to them, to take it seriously. They took what they did seriously. And if James’s scheme works it could have enormous political consequences for the country. Not to mention lethal consequences if they cock it up.’
‘I’m not sure your Russians would think this was a very serious way of going about it.’
Robin reappeared, walking briskly. He protested as Sarah transferred herself to the back of the car but Charles cut him short. He grinned as he buckled his seat-belt. ‘That’s it, that’s what’s in that container, Deep Blue. It’s being put out to stud, going back to be replaced because it’s tired out with all the work it’s been doing, nearing its half-life. The new one comes in a couple of days. No sign of James or his oppo, just a driver.’
‘Where’s it going?’
‘It’s already gone.’
‘So we’ve missed it?’
‘Not quite.’ Robin grinned again. ‘I had a word with the driver on the way out. Asked him the way to Glasgow. He told me and I asked if I could follow him, pretending I thought he was going there. He said “No, mate, I’m going to Sellafield, you don’t want to follow me there.” Then he drove off. So we can look up the route to Sellafield and catch him up. Does that qualify me for MI6?’
‘Sarah, is the road map under that stuff on the back seat?’
She sighed. ‘What’s the point of following it to Sellafield? It’ll be out of harm’s way there.’
‘I want to make sure it gets there.’
‘Sorry about this, Robin. Best humour him until he’s back on the pills. I’ll do the navigating, you do the pedals and steering.’ She opened the atlas. ‘Back on the A69 and head west.’
The road was busy with lorries that morning and they were not far short of Hexham when they saw the white lorry ahead. Charles stayed a couple of hundred yards back, sheltering behind one of Eddie Stobart’s articulated forty-tonners.
‘How will you know if it pulls off if you stay out of sight?’ asked Robin.
‘Watch and hope. I don’t want to risk tucking in behind him until we have to. This car’s too distinctive.’
‘Told you we should have brought my Golf,’ said Sarah, as their eyes met in the mirror. ‘That has a satnav, too.’
It was a slow journey, which was just as well because the car was running low on fuel. A truck in front prevented them seeing the white lorry pull off into the Little Chef until they were almost on it. Charles signalled right to turn into the Henshaw BP service station slightly beyond, on the other side of the road. ‘I’ll join the queue to fill up, you two get out and keep an eye on what he’s doing.’
Sarah and Robin wandered back along the verge, feigning interest in the cattle in the adjacent field. Sarah leaned against the fence as they talked, which gave her a clear view of the Little Chef. ‘He’s parked in the corner,’ she said. ‘The driver’s got out and is heading for the restaurant.’
‘Hope he’s not too long,’ said Robin. ‘Black and white cows aren’t my favourite. They don’t match the English countryside. Too stark. Cows should be brown or reddish brown or tan.’
‘Two men have just come out from behind the trees in the corner. One of them is James, I’m almost sure. Don’t look round.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘I said don’t look now, they’ll see you. They’re getting in the cab. They must have keys or he left it unlocked.’
‘Maybe they’re pinching it.’
‘The driver’s coming back now with a bottle of something. Don’t move, he’s looking straight at us.’ She glanced down at her feet. ‘He’s getting in the cab now, in the passenger door. It’s reversing, they’re leaving. We’d better tell Charles to stop filling up. Don’t move yet, they’re facing us.’
When the lorry was back on the A69 and heading west again they walked quickly back to the forecourt. Charles had reached the front of the queue and had just started to fill up. He stopped and replaced the nozzle. ‘I’ll have to pay for what I’ve had.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Robin ran into the shop.
By the time they got back onto the far side of the A69, the white lorry was out of sight. ‘I suppose you feel vindicated now,’ said Sarah, smiling this time as their eyes met in the mirror.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Present
‘Use your bloody mirror!’ Zac’s tone was unusually assertive. He was still crouching in the footwell of the cab, trying to avoid contact with Rob’s long legs. Rob was sitting in the middle seat and Ja
mes was driving. The rear wheels had nudged the kerb. ‘Change up, you’re all right in top now,’ said Zac. ‘Just aim for a steady two thousand revs in whatever gear you’re in.’
‘Where’s the . . . ? Oh yes, got it.’ James sat upright, his arms almost straight at ten-to-two on the wheel, staring ahead as if pursuing a vision.
‘Didn’t drive like this on your HGV test, did you?’continued Zac.
‘Never took it. Just had some lessons.’
‘What if the police stop us, want to see your licence?’said Zac.
Rob’s laugh was a mixture of bark and cough. ‘That’s really likely, that is. Stealing the most radioactive thing in Britain and they worry about your HGV licence. Is your passport up to date? What about your telly licence?’
Zac was silent for a few moments, before adding in a more muted tone, ‘They stop you if you bash kerbs and things, ’specially HGVs.’ There was another pause. ‘OK if I come up now?’
‘What’s the matter, don’t you like the smell of my trainers?’ said Rob.
‘Should be OK now,’ said James, ‘so long as you sit well back and don’t thrust your mug at the cameras.’
At the M6, they turned north, trundling at a steady 60mph on to the M74 towards Glasgow. Conversation was sparse, a few remarks about places they passed or people who overtook them in luxury cars. Rob and Zac smoked, James relaxed a little, punctiliously flashing his headlights to signal to overtaking lorries that they could pull in. ‘I could get used to this,’ he said. ‘More comfortable than cars.’
‘Get bloody fed up with it, too,’ said Zac.
They skirted south of Glasgow on the M8. Rob said they could call on his mother for a cup of tea. When they crossed the Erskine Bridge to head north and west on the A82, Zac said, ‘What if the police stop us now, now we’re heading for Faslane? They watch traffic round there, I bet. I bet they do.’
‘Easy,’ said Rob. ‘Faslane is where we’re going. That’s why we’re carrying a container with radiation warning signs all over it. They won’t want to inspect that too closely, will they?’
