by Paul Finch
Someone had raised the Trade Fair’s official blimp.
That fifty-metres-by-thirty neoprene dirigible, covered with stroboscopic lighting designed to create a series of colossal brand names and advertising slogans, now hovered above the Showground at a height of forty or fifty feet. This was considerably less than the two hundred feet at which the blimp would fly once the expo team launched it in the morning to signify that the Fair was open, but even so it shouldn’t have been launched at all just yet.
It struck Gus that the blimp probably hadn’t been secured properly after testing during the previous day, or maybe its launch mechanism had developed a fault? At first warily, but with increasing speed, he made his way over there, threading between rows of silent machines. As he did, the blimp’s lights went out – all at once, as if a switch had been thrown, though the blimp itself remained where it was, now in silhouette, framed on the waning moon.
Gus halted again – in a narrow passage between two combine harvesters.
What was going on? Was it something to do with the intruder?
It suddenly seemed highly probable that it was.
He stared ahead, still unwilling to switch on his torch and attract attention, but now feeling very strongly that he owed it to himself, if not to his employers, to at least sneak over there and see what was happening. There was just sufficient moonlight to reveal the narrow alley running on between the machines. So he proceeded, until at last he came to the edge of the caravan park – a vast plain of tarmac, largely empty though, in the very centre of which was the flatbed lorry from which the blimp flew.
Gus squinted in the dimness, half-expecting to see diminutive figures dancing around it; a party of hoodie hooligans rejoicing like some bunch of urban baboons. But though he stared long and hard, he saw no one and nothing. The idea rekindled in his mind that some kind of technical fault might be the cause, and that the intruder he’d seen had left the area. Cautiously, Gus ventured into the open. There was no mistake – the lorry, which was about fifty yards away, looked completely unattended, the blimp swaying high above it on its tensioned cable. His confidence grew as he strode forward. True, it seemed odd that the lights had gone off apparently of their own accord, but they must have come on of their own accord as well – he certainly hadn’t spotted them earlier, so maybe the whole system was misfiring.
He finally felt brave enough to switch his torch on, its powerful beam shooting far ahead of him. He was the security officer here, he reminded himself. He would take charge of this situation. If there was a fault with the blimp, he might even be able to fix it somehow. That would win him a few brownie points; Gus was only too aware that his bosses were developing concerns about his advancing years.
He reached the lorry, his light playing over it. The driving cab appeared to be closed and locked, as it should be. In the centre of the rear deck was the blimp’s launch mechanism, which in appearance was like a large drum spooled with steel cable, a couple of crank handles fixed to it, one on either side. It could be operated either manually or automatically from a transistorised control panel, though in truth that was as much as he knew about it. A creaking of metal and groaning of ropes drew his attention to the vast inflatable overhead, and Gus was surprised to see that its four tether lines were hanging loose, one of their tail ends drifting on the tarmac only a few yards to his right. That was quite an oversight by the operators, though it might explain a few things: for instance how, even though the blimp was still anchored by its central cable, a gust of wind might have caught it and turned the launch-drum around a few times. Gus wasn’t sure if this was actually possible, though he guessed it probably was if the drum hadn’t been secured either. Again, his torchlight roved over the heavy vehicle. The blimp was probably safe – it was purpose-designed to fly much higher than this, and in much stronger turbulence. But it seemed wrong to ignore this situation.
He stood on his toes to peer onto the lorry’s deck, and there spotted another mechanical assemblage. This one looked like a gas cylinder resting upright on a wheeled, two-handled trolley. It had various attachments: loops of rubber hosing connected to what resembled a metallic pistol with a large trigger.
Gus was baffled. Surely that couldn’t be right?
Was that a cutting torch, maybe?
Though on reflection, perhaps this made sense. If there’d been a fault with the blimp’s launch mechanism, maybe they’d been trying to fix it and hadn’t quite finished when darkness came. But shouldn’t security have been informed? And wouldn’t this be a dangerous piece of kit to leave lying around?
Gus circled the vehicle, and found a narrow aluminium ladder fixed to the nearside flank. He climbed up it and approached the suspect gear, shining his light over it. He’d been correct – this was industrial cutting equipment. It should never have been left insecure like this; that was quite ridiculous. He supposed he’d better take it back to the cabin for safekeeping, but the question was how to lug it down from the lorry. He tried moving it, only to find it heavy and awkward – the cutting torch fell to the deck with a clatter. He picked it up and hooked it back on the trolley, before stepping back, hands on hips – and heard what sounded like a high-pitched titter.
Gus twirled round, blasting his beam of light across the deck.
There was nobody there with him. That much was plain. Another sound distracted him, this one from down on the car park: a light skittering, like the pitter-patter a dog makes when it trots across tarmac. Either that, or someone running on tiptoes.
Before he could react properly, that titter sounded again, this time behind him.
Gus swung back, inclining the torch beam upwards – and now thought he was seeing things, because a figure appeared to be sitting cross-legged on the roof of the lorry’s driving cab. Initially, Gus felt surprise rather than alarm. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed the figure before. Unless it had either been crouching low or lying flat. Shakily, he shone his torch over it. This could not be the intruder from earlier; that had been a large person, tall and burly. This one was slight, even if he was clad in grey overalls, and even if he did have his gloved hands clasped across his face.
‘What … what are you doing here?’ Gus demanded.
The figure didn’t move.
‘Look, I know this place is tempting. Lots of ways to have fun and all that. But it’s not a playground, see. There’s dangerous gear. Particularly this lot …’ Gus waved a hand behind him to indicate the cutting torch. He was attempting a placatory approach because even though the intruder’s smallish stature was encouraging, these bloody kids could supposedly turn nasty. ‘Look sonny, you’ve got to get away from here. For your own good. The police are coming …’
The figure dropped its hands.
Gus audibly gasped.
At worst, he’d anticipated missing teeth, sneering feral features.
One thing he’d never expected was the dim-witted smile of Stan Laurel.
With a dull clank, clank, clank, a second person climbed to the lorry’s deck.
Gus pivoted round, and saw a taller, broader figure ascend into view. When he shone his torch on it, this one also wore grey overalls and a shiny plastic mask. Almost inevitably, that mask bore the plump, mustachioed visage of Oliver Hardy.
Gus turned to flee, though he didn’t know where he could flee to, only to find that Stan Laurel had jumped silently from the cabin roof and was standing directly behind him. This close, Laurel wasn’t particularly small either, and by the firm, no-nonsense way that he grabbed hold of the watchman, he was strong and athletic.
‘Help – help!’ Gus bawled as, together, they dragged him down onto the wooden planking, his torch rolling away across the deck, falling from the lorry and smashing on the tarmac. Grotesque grinning parodies of Laurel and Hardy – those gentle, genial comedians of an age long forgotten – peered soullessly into his eyes as they pinned him there. ‘Take … take whatever you want,’ he gasped as they searched through his clothing. ‘Only
I’ve not got nothing worth pinching, nothing.’
He heard again that eerie, ululating giggle.
Laurel had located a prize, which he held aloft in the spectral moonlight: the half-pint bottle of Napoleon brandy, still three-quarters full. Gus keened helplessly as gloved fingers were forced between his lips and teeth, levering his mouth open. He watched through tear-filmed eyes as the cap was unscrewed and the bottle upended – and hot spirit poured down his throat, wave after spiteful wave. He gulped and glugged and gargled. Laurel tittered again – a truly deranged sound – and even slapped the bottom of the bottle, as one does when attempting to loosen chunks of sludgy ketchup from a plastic dispenser.
Of course he couldn’t drink it all; not even an old soak like Gus. So when his gurgling turned to choking they relented, even though there were still a couple of measures left. Hardy gripped Gus by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him upright so that his leaner partner could pour what remained in the bottle all over their victim’s head. They released him and he fell back, his skull clouting the wooden planking, though he was in such a state by now that he barely felt it.
Ages seemed to pass as they let him lie there, two featureless shadows busying themselves around him, still chuckling and tittering, highly amused by their own actions. But it was only when an intense red light spurted into view that Gus groggily realised he had to take action. He shook his head to clear it; blinked to try and focus – but the alcohol was sinking through his body like a strong narcotic.
The red light intensified to a blinding white, and sparks flew from it – illuminating the head of the taller of his two attackers, who now wore a pair of black goggles over his Oliver Hardy mask.
Good Christ … were they doing what Gus thought they were doing?
Oh, good Christ!
The revelation galvanised him to dig his heels into the deck, bend his knees and try to raise himself on his elbows – only for a trainer-clad foot to slam down on his shoulder and knock him flat again. Laurel, who had briefly vanished, presumably having descended from the lorry, was back, now with something hanging from his hand, and tittering again, insanely. Gus couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if he was holding a length of rope, almost certainly the end of a tether line.
Chapter 15
‘The problem is,’ Heck said, ‘until you admit that your load was insecure, sloppily packed … whatever, there’ll be no chance of parole. That means you’ll serve your full sentence.’
Gordon Meredith shrugged. ‘Some things are worth doing time for.’
‘What about your wife and kids? Don’t they want you home?’
Meredith looked startled. ‘You think that’s a reason to lie? To tell the world I’m a criminal no-mark when the truth is the exact opposite? If I do that, my real sentence will start when I get home. Because they’ll think I’m a lesser bloke.’
Meredith was a short, pear-shaped man in his late thirties, with thinning blond hair, a pinkish complexion, and a vaguely fishy look – fat lips, a flat nose and wide watery blue eyes. When he’d first come waddling across the otherwise empty exercise yard, where they now sat facing each other over a bolted-down plastic table, he’d looked more than a little ridiculous in his baggy grey sweats.
‘Fair play,’ Heck said. ‘If you think you can stick it.’
Meredith shrugged again. ‘I can stick it. I’ve only got another year and a bit to go. This place isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.’
This place was Wayland Prison, in Norfolk. Even under a blue sky and bright sunshine, its admin buildings and housing blocks had the usual air of no-frills functionality, while its exercise yard was enclosed by a twelve-foot wall and beyond that several extra layers of electrified fencing. But Heck had seen worse.
‘Low-risk offenders, you see,’ he said. ‘Play your cards right, they might move you to open prison in a couple of months. You may even qualify for home leave.’
Meredith regarded him curiously. ‘Are you here to offer me some kind of inducement?’
‘What? No way. I’m not going to try and persuade you to change your story. You want the truth, Gordon, I’m starting to believe your version of events.’
The prisoner looked perplexed. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
Heck flashed his warrant card. ‘Heckenburg. Serial Crimes Unit.’
‘Serial Crimes? Sounds a bit heavy.’
‘It may be that I’m completely wasting my time here – and yours. But anything that could help us get to the actual truth has got to be worth looking at, don’t you think?’
‘Well, yeah, obviously.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, though. Because I’m telling you, this is the long shot of all long shots.’
‘Okay …’
‘Tell me about the accident again. Exactly what happened?’
Meredith leaned forward onto his elbows. ‘I was delivering scaffolding between the depot at Leatherhead and a site down in Horsham. I was on the A24. It was late morning and busy. I’m telling you …’ and he clenched his fist on the table, ‘I categorically assure you that before I set out the scaffolding was secure.’
‘You checked it yourself?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Anybody else check it with you?’
‘No; that was a mistake on reflection. But … I trust myself, you know.’ Meredith screwed up his face as he relived the memory. ‘I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I’m not a novice.’
Attached to his paperwork Heck had a few glossies, all taken at the scene of the accident. He flipped through them again. They depicted a large section of road, which Traffic cops had cordoned off with cones and incident tape. A drop-sided truck was standing skew-whiff in the middle of the carriageway, numerous scaffolding poles, each one twelve to fifteen feet of gleaming, cylindrical steel, which had clearly been propped up over the driving cab, were scattered all around it or hung over the windscreen. Evidently, they had all pitched forward at the moment of the emergency stop. Some ten yards in front of the truck sat a silver Renault Megane. Two scaffolding poles had slammed into it, one from above, punching down through its roof and now standing vertical like a flagpole, the other smashing through its rear window. Only five or six feet of this second pole were exposed outside the car, but interior shots revealed the rest of it. They also portrayed a male figure in the driving seat, though now he lay slumped across the steering wheel. He wore what looked like a white shirt and black waistcoat, though both of these were drenched with blood. The scaffolding pole had pierced him through the middle of the back, a position from which it must have sheared his spine and torn clean through his cardiovascular system.
‘How long did the overall journey take?’ Heck asked.
‘An hour to an hour and a half,’ Meredith replied. ‘Not what you’d call long-haul.’
‘And yet you stopped en route?’
‘Only for a cup of tea and a bacon sarnie. It was a driver’s caff near Dorking, close to the Pixham roundabout.’
Heck continued to scan the photos. Even though the driver’s head lay sideways on the wheel, a mass of longish curly hair hung down, obscuring his face. From the accompanying notes, the guy had been completely transfixed, the front of the pole embedding itself in the steering column.
‘And you think that’s when someone might have interfered with your load?’
‘They must have done.’ Meredith scratched confusedly at his balding scalp. ‘Must have loosened some of the straps at least. I was in the caff about twenty minutes. More than enough time. Okay, I’ll admit that when I came out again, I didn’t check my load. I know I should have done. I know that was remiss of me, but you don’t think someone’s going to try and pinch a load of scaffolding at a truckstop in the middle of the day, do you? I mean, I’ve never heard of that before.’
‘This whole thing’s got some pretty unique aspects to it.’
‘Yeah … trust it to happen to me, of all people.’
‘And to Freddie Upton,’ Heck re
minded him. ‘I’m sure his family would want you to remember that.’
‘Yeah – point taken.’ Again, Meredith grimaced. ‘Poor bastard, eh? He was in the motor in front of me. A Megane. Didn’t really notice him at first, but it’s imprinted on my bloody brain now. Everything was fine. Traffic was too heavy for anyone to be driving dangerously. We probably got up to about fifty at times, but mostly it was between thirty and forty. And then this fucking cyclist!’ Meredith shook his head. ‘I don’t know where he came from. I’m driving along and suddenly he’s on the nearside, between me and the kerb. And absolutely tonning it, like he’s trying to stay abreast of me.’
‘He was overtaking you on the inside?’
‘Fucking right, he was. You’ve seen these fucking gypsies of the road. Talk about one rule for us and none for them. Weaving between vehicles, sailing through red lights. And they’re always the first to quote their fucking rights if there’s an accident.’
‘Can you describe the cyclist?’
Meredith slumped back on his bench. ‘I only saw him properly when he got ahead of me, when I had to slow down a bit. He was on a green Boardman’s racing bike, I know that much.’
‘And what did he look like?’
‘As I say, only saw him from behind. A lad, by the looks of him. Lean, rangy frame, fit – you know. He had all the gear on: blue vest, black shorts, blue racing helmet with silver flashes on it. I remember he had short, dark hair. It’d got so I just wanted him gone. Traffic was too heavy for me to get past him, so I just sat behind, hoping he’d veer off somewhere. But he didn’t. Just stayed there, ten yards in front, going like the clappers. Then the traffic opens up a bit. And I’d said “here we go, I’m sorted”. I can see this red light about a hundred yards ahead, but I thought I’ll get up to that, leave this idiot behind once and for all, and clear on through as it changes. And then …’ Beads of sweat burst on Meredith’s forehead. ‘Just as I hit the accelerator, he swerved right – like he was going to swing across in front of me. Deliberate, like. He must have had a fucking death wish. It’s a miracle I didn’t cream him …’ He chewed his lip, his words tailing off.
