by Scott Hunter
He backed away, trying to judge the optimum moment to round the corner. The footfall behind was soft, but audible. Before he could turn, something cold jabbed into the small of his back.
‘Draai je langzaam om.’
A hand grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around. Tattooed overall man, Moran’s acquaintance from his earlier visit, curled his mouth into a grimace that Moran guessed was intended as a sardonic smile. ‘Ah, Detective.’
Now that he was facing the opposite direction, Moran had an unobstructed view. A glance to his left told him that, so far, the workers swarming around the newly arrived truck hadn’t spotted what was going on in the distant corner of their warehouse. He could also see what was going on behind his captor, and so he concentrated on holding the man’s attention for the few seconds it would take. He spread his hands disarmingly. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’ He offered an apologetic smile.
‘Mistake?’ The giant spat the word back at him. In the next moment his expression changed to one of puzzlement as he tried to make sense of Moran’s instinctive grimace of anticipation.
Samantha swung the broom handle in a wide arc, like a baseball player with an outsized bat. It was a long, sturdy length of wood and it struck the back of the man’s bald head precisely at the base of his skull. His eyes rolled up and he sank to the floor like a collapsed balloon.
‘OK, quickly.’ Moran got hold of the arms and between them they dragged the body behind the crates.
Samantha’s phone gave one short beep, and then another. Moran raised his eyebrows.
‘They found me,’ she said simply. ‘That’s all they needed. My phone.’
‘The good guys, you mean?’ Moran was watching the progress of the truck team. One had broken away from the group and was walking purposefully towards them, hands deep in his overall pockets.
‘Yep. There’s an encrypted tracker routine built into the circuitry. But the phone needs to be on for it to work, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Moran replied. They backed away from the crate stack and flattened themselves against the wall. The rear warehouse door was a smaller version of the entrance, and would almost certainly be electronically operated. There was, however, a personnel door built into its metallic frame. It was probably locked, but it looked as though it might be forced, given enough weight and impetus.
The truck team guy was almost at the crate stack now. No, wait. He had made a slight alteration to his course; he was heading towards the forklifts.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Samantha voiced the question in a hoarse whisper.
‘Maybe. But what’s outside?’
‘A smaller yard. Fenced. Tall gate. Topped with wire or glass; I couldn’t see it that clearly.’
‘And beyond that?’
‘A service road. Runs along the sea wall.’
Moran watched as the guy in the overalls started up the forklift. ‘And how urgently are your buddies likely to respond, now they know where you are?’
‘Within fifteen minutes. Maybe faster.’
Moran nodded. ‘OK, so all we have to do is get to the service road.’
‘In theory.’
‘In theory?’
‘They’re good. Just trust the process.’
‘If you say so.’
The forklift was skimming across the floor towards the crates. The operator clearly intended to begin at the side closest to him. Which was logical, and also good news, because tattoo man was lying at the other end. It would take two or maybe three journeys back and forth before the guy clocked that anything was wrong.
Samantha shot him a sideways glance. ‘You any good with forklifts?’
‘If you’d care to reprise your broom routine, I’ll be happy to give you a quick demo.’
‘You’re on.’
Samantha waited until the forklift had manoeuvred to a fresh stack, the rear of the vehicle towards them. She broke cover, crept forward, cat-like, until she was directly behind the machine. The broom handle swung again and the forklift operator toppled out of the vehicle and onto the floor.
Driverless now, the forklift swung to the left and began an unscheduled detour in the direction of the articulated truck. Samantha was busy pulling the body behind the crates. The forklift was gathering pace – the driver’s body must have knocked one of the controls as he fell.
Any moment now and the runaway vehicle would be the centre of attention.
Moran made a dash for it. His leg, never the most helpful asset in situations like these, shot him a bolt of pain from his ankle to his hip. He wasn’t going to break any land speed records but he judged that he was moving slightly faster than the forklift. He increased his pace, gritting his teeth, aware that his damaged limb might simply collapse completely, just shut up shop. He hadn’t moved this fast since the Blasket mortar attack, and his body was letting him know all about it.
A shout. Someone pointed, heads turned. He was a metre or two shy of the forklift. It seemed to be speeding up; with a final effort, Moran drew alongside, hoisted himself into the seat, jabbed at the pedals, searching for the brake. He guessed right on the second attempt, and the truck slewed to a standstill. Four levers. Which one? Moran spun the wheel, engaged the first lever. The truck span on its axis, pointed to the rear.
Good guess, Brendan…
He stamped on the accelerator. If it was an accelerator…
It was. The truck lurched forward. Moran kept his foot flat on the floor.
Samantha was standing by the personnel door. She was making signals. Two hands, raised, jabbing forward.
The forks. That’s what she meant, the forks…
He fumbled with the second lever. Nothing happened. Behind him, the sound of feet slapping on the warehouse floor.
The third lever.
A grinding noise of hydraulics. The twin forks lifted. He waited until they were roughly at the height of the centre of the personnel door, leaned on the lever a second time.
He was, what, ten metres away?
Samantha moved aside as he hurtled towards her. The door loomed. He made a slight correction. Just before impact the thought occurred to him that the door might be reinforced. If that was the case, he was surely headed for Rotterdam’s A&E department – if van Leer’s employees felt generous enough to call an ambulance.
Which was doubtful.
The twin forks struck the door dead centre. Moran was pitched forward against the wheel and a terrible rending noise preceded a cloud of plaster, brick dust, wood splinters, a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder … and then fresh air against his cheeks, someone shaking him.
He was lying on his back and someone was shaking him.
Shouting, confusion.
‘Get up.’
Samantha’s voice.
He stumbled to his feet, Samantha’s arm supporting him.
A car engine, revving. A second impact, screech of tyres. Someone got hold of both shoulders, hauled him up, shoved him hard. His head bumped glass – a window. He felt leather beneath him. A door slammed. More revving, his stomach left behind as the vehicle reversed, skidded, righted itself, hurtled away. Voices yelling, protesting, fading away.
Moran dragged himself upright. They were in a four-by-four. A driver, himself and Samantha in the back. The vehicle was breaking every traffic regulation in the book, but Moran didn’t care. He let his head flop back on the headrest, watched the lights of Rotterdam whizz past, like a blurry trail of multicoloured fireworks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘She recognised the name, I’m telling you.’ George paced up and down, back and forth, next to Bola’s workstation.
‘George, keep still, for crying out loud. I can’t concentrate.’ Bola screwed up his eyes, picking through the onscreen table, one row at a time.
‘It’ll be in there, somewhere. Has to be.’
Bola sat back in his chair, clasped his hands together behind his head. ‘George, I’ve been through the list ten times, at le
ast. I’ve searched all the permutations of Chan I can think of.’
‘Let me take a look.’ George gestured impatiently. ‘I’ll find her.’
‘Be my guest.’ Bola got up. ‘Look, man, it’s six-thirty. I’m knackered. We can carry on tomor–’
George seized the arm of Bola’s chair, spun it round, sat down. ‘You want to go home? Fine. I’m staying.’ He turned to the screen, made a selection, pressed the enter key.
‘All right, all right. But let’s think about this.’
George gnawed his fist. ‘Think what? Tess knows the name. It’s a cold case. Ergo, it’s got to be on file, right?’
Bola nodded, was silent for a moment. ‘But not necessarily here.’
‘What?’
‘When did Tess get posted? Where was she before?’
George furrowed his brow and withdrew his fist from his mouth. Angry indentations studded the flesh of his left hand. He snapped his fingers. ‘Southampton.’
‘Although technically, it should still be on the generic database,’ Bola said.
‘Whatever, yada yada, as our American friends might say.’ George was already flipping through the online directory. ‘Here we go. Southampton. General enquiries, Serious Crime, Archives…’ He picked up the phone, tucked the receiver under his chin.
‘You’ll be lucky to get anyone this time of the week,’ Bola muttered. His eyes tracked the progress of a pretty admin girl on her way out. ‘All right, Jane?’ Bola shot her his best smile. She coloured, hurried off in the direction of the lifts.
George cupped the receiver. ‘Can’t you think about anything else?’
‘Yeah. Dinner. A pint of lager. I could go on.’ Bola sat on the corner of the desk, ruefully watched the double doors click shut behind the departing girl.
‘Ah. Hello. This is DC George McConnell, Thames Valley. I was wondering if you could help with an enquiry. A cold case.’ George listened intently. ‘There is? Great – mind putting me through?’
Bola sighed. It was shaping up to be a long evening.
Chris Collingworth snapped awake. He lay quietly, trying to work out what had disturbed him. His bedside clock was ticking softly, his wife’s breathing regular and easy on the ear. Three o’clock. All quiet.
He swung his legs out of bed and went to the window. A nearby street lamp bathed his front garden in an orange glow. A cluster of parked cars, the dark shape of a cat crossing the road, sleek and elegant in the artificial light. Collingworth went to the bedside table, picked up his phone. One unread text message. No name, a number only. Five words.
Same place. One o’clock sharp.
Collingworth got back into bed. His wife moaned in her sleep, turned over, muttered something unintelligible. What did they want now? He’d done what they’d asked him to do. It had been pretty straightforward, although the CSI guy had given him a penetrating look when he’d produced the burned credit card.
‘Where did you find it? We’ve been over that vehicle with the world’s finest-toothed comb. Literally.’
Collingworth had shrugged. ‘Easily missed. Almost missed it myself. All right if I pass it straight to the guv’nor?’
And if Collingworth’s new friend was to be believed, his little plant would stir up the mother of all crises for DCI Brendan Moran. The Irish connection. Collingworth allowed himself a quiet chuckle. Who’d have thought it? Brendan Moran, the paragon, with a dodgy background in the Irish troubles. Well, this would sink Moran once and for all, or so the smartly dressed young man had assured him. A poisoned connection to his chequered past. Collingworth was intrigued, eager to cut to the chase, see the thing to its conclusion.
He allowed his mind to fill with pleasant images. Moran’s swift and sudden removal. A replacement, someone who would recognise Collingworth’s potential. Promotion, and then…
Who knew? The world was his oyster, and with new friends in high, if secretive places, as far as Collingworth was concerned, there were no limits.
One o’clock sharp, then.
‘Mate, the sun’ll be up soon.’
‘When I’m sure we’ve got what we need, we’ll call it a day,’ George replied.
The Southampton storage facility was bleak and colourless, and Bola’s eyes were twin circles of grit.
‘Here we go.’ George tapped the file with a grubby stub of pencil. Bola leaned over the desk, poorly lit by a flickering misalignment of spiderweb-crusted strip lighting, and tried to concentrate.
George read aloud. ‘Zubaida Binti Ungu, native of Malaysia. Wanted by Malaysian authorities. Suspected of killing her uncle and absconding with worldly goods. Arrived in the UK 1990 or thereabouts. Wanted in connection with the unexplained death of a seventy-four-year-old man in Bursledon. Not enough evidence–’ George looked up. ‘This is it, the cold case Tess worked on. They never found her – look, assumed left country. Last known alias… Connie Chan, or Connie Chandra.’
‘Bingo. Game, set and match.’ Despite his fatigue, Bola felt a flutter of adrenaline kick in.
George snapped the file closed. Motes of dust puffed upwards and outwards.
Bola sneezed.
‘I’m taking this with me.’ George tucked the folder under his arm and they headed for the exit, thanking the weary uniform at the door on their way to the car.
The M3 set a new record for roadworks and fifty-mile-an-hour limits. George ground his teeth and feathered the accelerator. ‘Zubaida Binti Ungu,’ he said. ‘In Malaysian, Binti means daughter-of.’ He turned to his passenger. ‘Did you know that?’
Bola’s mouth was open, but his eyes and ears were closed.
George swung out of the contraflow and muttered a prayer of thanks at the welcome sight of an empty carriageway ahead. His foot hit the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Moran touched his card to the lock outside his hotel room and held the door open for Samantha. ‘After you.’
‘Wait.’ She pointed to his card, and into the darkness of the interior.
Moran leaned into the room and slotted the card into its mount. The lights came on.
Samantha went in fast, dropped to a half-crouch, spun on her heels. Straightened up. ‘Clear.’
Moran pointed to the bathroom. She nodded.
He opened the door, slowly at first, then smashed it back hard against the wall. It hit the rubber floor stop. ‘Ditto.’
Samantha sat on the bed. Her shoulders sagged and she let her head fall onto her chest.
The concierge had paid scant attention to their arrival, despite Samantha’s dishevelled state. Probably used to a variety of nocturnal comings and goings.
‘Chatty guy, your driver friend.’
She raised her head a fraction and Moran saw the exhaustion etched into her eyes. ‘He’s not paid to talk.’
‘Just to drive.’
‘Exactly.’
Moran looked her up and down. ‘You can use the shower if you like.’
‘Do I smell that bad?’
He laughed. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Sure.’
Moran consulted his mobile. ‘We have an hour and twenty, if your colleague’s timetable is correct.’
‘It’s correct.’
They had to be at the main port by five. Arrangements had been made – a merchant ship bound for the Port of London. Slower than air, but safer.
‘Tell me about the Russians.’ Moran went to the window, moved the blind aside. Street lights winked but there was no one about.
‘Before or after I’ve sanitised myself?’
‘Your choice.’
She shot him a weary smile. ‘Give me ten minutes, OK?’
Moran busied himself, examined the photographs he had taken. Russian armaments, no doubt about it. Bound for Ireland, into the hands of the guys who wouldn’t let go. Fanaticism endorsed and supported by the likes of Joe Gallagher – hand-pressing politician, Republican, friend of Ireland’s new breed of terrorist. Well, old buddy, we’re closing down this trade route,
you can bet on it…
Eight minutes later Samantha emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, face flushed and apparently reenergised. She went to the dressing table, sat on the padded stool, examined herself in the mirror, tutted, and began finger-combing her hair. ‘This is personal for you, Brendan, isn’t it?’
He looked up. ‘You know it is. Joe Gallagher was my friend.’
‘It’s never going to stop, Brendan.’ Samantha crossed one leg over the other, pursed her lips. ‘There’ll be other Joe Gallaghers. There’s always someone ready and willing to pick up the baton.’
‘Maybe. But I prefer to deal with things one at a time.’
‘This is way out of your jurisdiction, Brendan. It’s not your responsibility.’
‘What? I should just let it go? No, no no.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘If I can do something about it, I’ll do it.’
‘Persistent. That’s what I read about you. They got that right.’ Samantha discarded the damp towel.
‘I have a file? I’m honoured to be considered important enough to be on record.’
She laughed softly, pulled her damp hair back into a ponytail and tied it. ‘Tell me, what happened after the Russians came for me?’
Moran tucked his phone away. He was beginning to feel the strain of his earlier exertions; his leg ached, as did his ribcage, his shoulder – pretty much everywhere. ‘What happened? I got back to the house expecting … I don’t know what I was expecting, frankly. But Joe Gallagher was sitting on my sofa.’
Samantha froze. ’My God. He had the nerve to actually meet you face to face? What did he say?’
‘Enough.’ Moran bristled again at the memory. ‘In a nutshell, he warned me off.’
Samantha looked at her reflection, made a face. ‘Hell. I still look like death warmed up.’ She swivelled to face him. ‘Did he tell you anything you didn’t already know?’
‘Not really. Anyway, I have a recording of the whole conversation.’
‘A recording? But that’s perfect. We can use that.’
