Underdogs

by Jack Fiske

  “It’s on,” Jim said, adjusting the earpiece that was working loose as the car bounced over an unmade piece of road.

  There were sounds of impatience from the other end as O’Hara fiddled with whatever equipment he had to follow the movements of the GPS unit. Jim heard Trent’s voice in the background as he took over from him.

  “That’s fine. We’ve got you on the screen.”

  Jim glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a green Volkswagen Golf about a hundred yards behind him.

  “God almighty!” he exclaimed. “Your guys are right behind me and if I can see them, then so can anybody else. Get them out of here, or I’m switching this thing off.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” O’Hara replied. “They’re the only people we’ve got with you at the moment.”

  “Well if you don’t pull them back, I’m going to stop and bloody well shoot them. Are they your lot or MI5?”

  Charlie Trent must have taken over the phone. “Neither I’m afraid, they’re from the local force. I’ll call them off. We can get them to stay well back and direct them from here now that we’re getting a signal from the GPS unit.”

  Nothing happened for two minutes, but then the Green VW pulled over and stopped outside someone’s house.

  “That’s better,” Jim said with relief. “I need to go, but I’ll phone you back.” He thumbed the button on the back of the headset; once to disconnect the call and then once more to activate voice dialling.

  In his pocket, the phone dialled Stephen’s mobile number for him. It took a minute to connect and then he was diverted straight to Stephen’s voice-mail. Jim pressed the button behind his ear again to disconnect the call without leaving a message. Stephen wouldn’t leave his phone switched off, which meant that he was speaking to Marion.

  The kidnappers’ instructions had been brief. He was to drive to Poulner and wait for a call on the payphone there at ten-twenty. He was to take the K2 processor with him, wrapped in a black bin bag and he would be directed in stages until he came to the place where they wanted him to leave it. They had given him a list of times, but no locations. The first was Poulner phone box at ten-twenty. The next was at ten-forty, then at ten-fifty-five, and then again at eleven-fifteen. It was a trick Jim had seen on the cinema screen more than once, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. It meant he had to keep moving, it made it difficult for anyone to follow him and it meant the kidnappers would be watching along the way to make sure he was on his own.

  The designated phone box stood on a corner of the street opposite the park. Jim’s watch said ten-eighteen. when he drew up beside it and thankfully it wasn’t in use. He jumped out of the car, taking the rucksack with him, pulled open the phone box door and stepped inside. It smelt of stale urine and tobacco smoke and there was a recently broken pane of glass by his knee. When he lifted the receiver though, there was a reassuring dial tone that said the phone was working. Jim put the receiver back on its cradle and waited. Across the road, a middle aged man wandered out of the park and crossed the road, glancing briefly in his direction – or was he just checking for traffic?

  The phone rang and Jim snatched it up.

  “Turner?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Golf Club in Burley. You’ve got twenty minutes. There’s a payphone in the entrance.”

  The phone went dead. Jim hurried back to the car, climbed in and pulled out onto the main road.

  On the way he tried Stephen again. This time he got through.

  “Stephen, it’s Jim. Has Marion phoned to tell you what’s happening?”

  “Yes,” Stephen confirmed. “Just be careful. Where are you at the moment?”

  “In the car.”

  “Yes I know, but where exactly?”

  “Just coming off the A31 on the way to Burley,” Jim replied.

  “Good. That agrees with what I’ve got.”

  Jim checked his mirror. There was no sign of the green VW and he wondered if O’Hara and Trent’s team had picked him up in some other way. At least he knew Stephen was keeping tabs on him. He realised that Stephen’s question had only been asked to check the equipment. He could imagine his father in law and Mark sitting in Stephen’s office, the computer display in front of them, watching his position change slowly on the screen as he made the short drive to Burley.

  A tone in Jim’s ear told him that someone else was trying to phone. “Have to go. Speak to you later.”

  When he answered the call it was O’Hara.

  “Are you going to Burley?” O’Hara asked.

  “Yes,” Jim confirmed, “I’m to get another call on the payphone at the golf club.”

  “Try to stall,” O’Hara instructed. “We’ve got a police helicopter on the way, but we need at least fifteen minutes.” His voice faded in and out as the mobile phone signal varied.

  “Are you still there?” O’Hara asked.

  “Still here,” Jim confirmed.

  “Signal’s not that good,” O’Hara continued. “We’re on the move as well. We’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Keep your distance,” Jim warned.

  “We will.” O’Hara said. Then the line went dead.

  The golf club at Burley wasn’t busy, but there were a number of people about. Jim left Wolf in the car and walked quickly from the car park to the clubhouse, looking carefully at anyone he passed and mentally filing away their description in case he should see them again. If the kidnappers were watching, it was unlikely they’d use the same person to check on him twice, but he knew from past experience that good observation could sometimes pay off.

  The phone was already ringing when he got there. A woman in a dark blue trouser suit was walking over to pick it up, but Jim beat her to it.

  “Sorry. I think this is for me.”

  “Hi, it’s Jim Turner.”

  The woman looked at him enquiringly.

  Jim nodded and the woman turned away.

  “Next one Turner,” the voice said. “Take the A 35 to Lyndhurst. Go through Bank and watch for the next turning on your left. There’s a signpost there for Emery Down. Your instructions will be there.”

  It didn’t take long and Jim got there on schedule. The road was quiet as he pulled the Land Rover onto the verge beyond the sign and got out . At the bottom of the signpost, a sheet of paper was wrapped around the metal post and tied with string. Jim bent down, untied it and read the words that were typed on it.

  ‘Junction 1 M27 at Cadnam’

  Jim climbed back into the car and phoned O’Hara.

  “What’s happening?” O’Hara asked.

  “Just outside Lyndhurst. I’ve to go to Junction 1 on the M27.”

  “That’s fine. The helicopter will be with you in a couple of minutes. He’ll fly past to get a visual and then he’ll stand well off. Phone me when you get to the motorway.”

  Jim drove through Lyndhurst and followed the signs for Cadnam. As he drove out of town, a low flying helicopter passed overhead and continued east towards Southampton.

  A mile further on, Jim’s phone rang. He was expecting Stephen or O’Hara again, but when he answered, it was the Irishman. He’d forgotten they’d given him their mobile numbers.

  “Change of plan,” the Irish voice said coolly. “Take the next left and keep going for half a mile. You’ll find a car park on the left hand side. Leave the car and take the path that leads through the woods. After you’ve gone fifty yards you’ll see a wooden bench with a beech tree behind it. Leave the processor unit in the black bag at the bottom of the tree and walk back to your car. Leave the phone on until you get there.”

  Jim cursed. O’Hara and the police helicopter would be heading towards Cadnam and it would take precious minutes to realise that he’d turned off. That was probably all the kidnappers needed to complete the drop. He’d been told to stay on the line, so he couldn’t phone O’Hara to let him know.

  “Leave the dog in the car,” the voice in his ear said as he pulled into the car park.
/>   Jim looked around, but there was no one there. If they’d seen that he had Wolf with him, it must have been earlier, when he was in Poulner or Burley.

  There was no one to be seen in the car park, so before he got out Jim took the revolver from the rucksack and pushed it into the waistband of his trousers beneath his jacket. Taking the K2 unit, he wrapped it in one of the two black bags that Marion had provided and set off down the track.

  Only minutes behind Jim on the Lyndhurst Road, O’Hara and Trent were closing up on him. O’Hara was at the wheel of their white Renault Espace, whilst Trent sat in the back with the communications equipment and a screen in front of him, which showed Jim’s position.

  Trent was on the radio to the helicopter.

  “Have you got a visual? Over.”

  There was static from the radio and then the helicopter responded.

  “Negative. Are standing off as instructed. Over.”

  “Stand by,” Trent replied, and then turned back to the phone link that connected him with the local police.

  “Control?”

  “Control here,” came the reply.

  “Can you give me an update on your mobile units? Where are they now?”

  A voice came back over the speaker in the back of the car, which let them both listen to the conversation.

  “One is at junction one of the M27 outside Cadnam, one is on the A35 coming towards you about two miles outside of Lyndhurst. The other is parked up on the Beaulieu road.”

  Armstrong’s voice cut in from Operations Control in London.

  “Trent. Make sure that everyone keeps their distance. We don’t want to show our hand yet.”

  “Will do,” Trent confirmed.

  Armstrong’s voice came over the speaker again.

  “He’s turned off. Be careful, this might be it.”

  The advantage of the tracking system they were using was that everyone could access the same information on Turner’s movements. Trent had a PC in the back of the people carrier, but Armstrong and the police control room could also see his movements from where they were directing operations.

  Trent tapped O’Hara on the shoulder.

  “Try phoning him again and see what’s happening.”

  Jim’s mobile number was already programmed into O’Hara’s phone and he pressed the button that dialled it.

  “Can’t get through,” O’Hara said, glancing at Trent in the rear view mirror. “He’s on another call.”

  Armstrong’s voice interrupted again.

  “We’re trying to tap into Turner’s calls at this end, but we’re not getting anything at the moment. Keep your distance and see if the helicopter can get a visual on him.”

  “Will do,” Trent confirmed.

  A few hundred yards up the road, the entrance to a field provided O’Hara with a convenient stopping point and he pulled off the road, leaving the engine running.

  In the back, Trent was on the radio, asking the helicopter to do a fly past and report back. A moment later the helicopter itself passed a few hundred yards from them, banked in a long slow loop and turned back towards the target.

  The radio crackled into life again.

  “We’ve got him. The car’s been left in a car park at grid 429,108. We’ve got one man on foot walking through the woods. Over.”

  “Good job,” Trent replied. “Stand clear again please. Out.”

  O’Hara turned round from the driver’s seat. “What do you think?” he asked. “Is this it?”

  Trent turned his attention back to the computer screen.

  “Looks like it. This thing is still moving, but he must be on foot now. Try his phone again.”

  O’Hara glanced down and thumbed the appropriate button.

  “Still engaged.”

  Trent turned to the phone link for instructions.

  “This looks like it sir. We’re going to sit tight and let him hand over the unit, then follow it from there – unless you want us to play it differently?”

  “No that’s fine,” Armstrong confirmed. “Just make sure you’re ready once it changes hands.”

  In the woods, Jim walked carefully down the path. He’d left the rucksack in the car and the K2 unit was tucked under his arm. The revolver was a cold, hard lump in the small of his back and he was conscious of the shape of the knife, pressed against his side, still wrapped in kitchen roll inside his jacket pocket. Everything was quiet, apart from the sound of the birds and a helicopter in the distance. A hundred yards or more to his right, a few crows rose squawking above the trees and Jim stopped to watch and listen. If he was right, there was someone else moving through the woods down there, but they were a fair distance away and he couldn’t make out anything through the trees.

  Ahead of him Jim could see the bench. It was a simple affair, made from solid timber which had largely escaped the attention of the local youths, having only one or two initials cut into it. Behind it, a mature beech spread its canopy of leaves, rustling gently in the breeze that blew in from open fields beyond.

  Jim stopped and looked around. The place was deserted. A voice in his ear interrupted him.

  “Hurry up. We’ve not got all day. Are you there yet?”

  “I’m at the tree,” Jim confirmed.

  “Leave the bag and get back to your car.”

  Jim lay the black bag behind the tree, close to the trunk, where it couldn’t be seen from the path and turned away. He turned right round, searching through the trees for any sign of someone waiting to collect it, but there was no one.

  “What about my family?” Jim asked.

  “We’ll phone you once we’ve checked the goods and tell you where we’ve released them. Now get moving.”

  Jim turned his back on the spot and walked quickly back to the car. As he went, he put a hand in his pocket and switched off the GPS tracker unit that O’Hara had given him the day before.

  In the back of the Renault Espace, Trent swore.

  “We’ve lost the bloody signal.”

  At the same time Armstrong’s voice burst from the loudspeaker next to him.

  “What the hell’s going on? We’ve lost the signal.”

  “I don’t know,” Trent replied. “It just went dead.”

  “Move in,” Armstrong commanded. “I want all units to close in and I want the helicopter overhead now!”

  Trent busied himself with relaying the instructions, whilst O’Hara put the car into gear and screeched away from their parking spot.

  As Jim got back to the car park the voice in his ear said, “We’ll be in touch,” and the line went dead.

  In the distance a motorbike started, the engine noise sending a handful of crows into the air protesting loudly. Its engine revved repeatedly as the rider took the bike up through the gears. The noise grew louder as the bike approached, apparently on the same track that Jim had just left and then paused, the engine idling at a distance that corresponded with the beech tree and the K2 unit that Jim had left beneath it. A moment later the pitch changed as the rider picked up the revs and ran the bike through the gears once more, this time moving in the opposite direction. The rider was really working the machine. The tone of the engine rose and fell as if it were being taken over a series of obstacles, rather than along a straight path. Gradually the sound faded into the distance and the wood was silent again, except for the protests of the crows who still circled above.

  The telephone earpiece buzzed in Jim’s ear and he pressed the button on the back to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Turner, it’s O’Hara. What’s happening?”

  There was a note of urgency in O’Hara’s voice and Jim knew he’d just lost the signal from the tracker unit. What they didn’t know, was that the tube was still in his pocket and not, as they thought, inside the box of electronics that he’d just left behind.

  “I’ve just left the K2 unit by a tree in the woods,” Jim replied. “I got a phone call on my mobile telling me to turn off the main road and where to
leave it. It sounds as if it’s been picked up already by someone on a bike.”

  Jim heard a voice in the background “Ask him if he saw or heard anything.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Jim said, anticipating the question. “There was no sign of anyone. All I could hear was the motorbike. It started as soon as I got back to the car.”

  Jim heard the voice in the background again, but this time couldn’t make out what had been said. O’Hara came back on the line as a helicopter flew low over the car and continued past him, flying out over the woods.

  “O.k. Leave it with us. We’ll get back to you as soon as we have anything.”

  The line went dead and Jim stood there, listening to the sound of the helicopter slowly fading, just as the motorbike engine had moments earlier.

  In the back of the Renault, Trent was listening to the phone link. The helicopter was liaising directly with police control and they had been patched into the conversation. Trent turned up the volume on the speaker so he could hear it better. As the car sped past the turn off that Jim had taken earlier, O’Hara slowed right down and they both searched the woods on either side.

  “We’ve got him,” a voice from the helicopter said over the speaker. “We can’t see a thing beneath the trees, but we’ve got the bike’s engine on the infrared. He’s moving north, parallel to the road.

  “Has he spotted you?” Armstrong’s voice asked.

  “Can’t have,” the helicopter replied. “If we can’t see him, then he probably can’t see us. Plus, if he’s on a bike under there, he’ll not be able to hear a thing over the noise of his own engine.”

  “Good. If he comes out from the trees, keep your distance. I don’t want him seeing you.”

  There was a pause and then Armstrong’s voice came over the speaker again.

  “Trent. Why have we lost the signal?”

  “Don’t know sir,” Trent replied. “It must be interference from the bike, or maybe the unit’s in something that’s blocking the signal.”