‘I imagine so.’
‘OK, thanks for your help. I won’t say anything to him, leave it all to the big boys. One last thought: is anything being done about Guy’s safety?’
‘Yes, we’re keeping a discreet eye on him.’
‘Smashing. I’m very grateful.’
So, somebody was trying to pop off an MP. Speculation was pointless – I didn’t even know which party he belonged to, though I could have a good guess. I’d never heard of him, so he can’t have held particularly outrageous opinions about anything. I wondered about the group who’d claimed credit for the fires, but the name wouldn’t come to me. TLC? No. The Struggle Continues, that was it – TSC. They were probably the favourites. I picked up Annabelle’s letter and started to read it again, from the beginning, and all thoughts of St Ives and MPs and terrorists went from my head.
When I’d had lunch with Kevin he’d said that he was expecting some work in the next few days. Presumably he didn’t mean laying tarmac on the M62 extension. I needed to know what he did mean, and if possible become involved. In cases like this you have to think while you are running, take advantage of any little snippet that comes your way.
I was switching round the TV channels, trying to find something worth watching. It was a choice between a couple arguing in cockney accents; a couple arguing in Liverpudlian accents; a pair of giraffes mating; and a commercial for a car, designed to appeal to elderly vineyard owners with plain but wilful daughters. Someone should have a word with their advertising agents. I stayed with the giraffes until the news came on. Then I grabbed the van keys and my jacket and drove the ninety miles to the cottage.
First item on the news, read out over the introductory fanfare, was details of a drugs bust, up in Tyneside. A ton of cannabis and an estimated million pounds’ worth of heroin and cocaine had been found on a Russian fishing boat. Gleeful Customs Officers were interviewed, claiming that this was their biggest-ever haul. A lot of dealers were going to be disappointed; prices would soar.
It was nearly midnight when I reached the cottage, but there was still a light on downstairs at Kevin’s. I made a lot of noise with the van, then knocked softly on his door.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Charlie,’ in a loud whisper.
He slid back a bolt and opened the door. ‘What’s the matter, Charlie?’ he asked.
‘Not sure,’ I told him. ‘But if anyone comes asking after me, you never spoke to me. And you never saw the Jag, OK?’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘You never saw the Jag. Remember?’
‘I got it. Don’t worry.’
‘Fair enough. I might see you at the weekend. If not, you can come and visit me at one of Her Majesty’s holiday camps. They say the food’s good. Take care.’
‘Yeah, thanks, and you.’
He closed the door and I climbed back into the van. It had been a long drive to deliver a short message. I hoped I hadn’t wasted my time.
CHAPTER NINE
Shawn Parrott picked up the mobile phone at the first ring. ‘’Ello?’ he said tersely.
‘It’s me,’ Frank Bell told him. ‘I’ll be on the seventeen thirty-five. Meet me at Huddersfield at twenty twenty-seven, but stand by just in case I decide to catch a taxi from Leeds.’
‘Understood,’ Parrott replied, and folded the phone, breaking the circuit. ‘C’mon,’ he ordered Darren Atkinson, the third member of the gang. ‘You’ve nearly three hours to get us to Huddersfield. Even you should be able to manage that.’
In the car, Atkinson asked: ‘So what’s ’appening?’
‘The Skipper’s followed Noon on to the Leeds train at Kings Cross,’ Parrott told him. ‘He’ll probably catch the connection from Leeds to Huddersfield, where we’ll pick him up. If he catches a taxi from Leeds, Frank will ring us with the number. Then we’ll just have to watch out for him.’
Atkinson grinned across at him. ‘Me and you should do this one, eh, Shawn? Make a better job than you and the Skip did in Cornwall.’
‘Yeah, well, we were disturbed. A stupid kid jumped up out of nowhere.’
‘So why didn’t you just kill them both?’
Parrott pulled a folded magazine from within his jacket and started to look at the pictures. It was called Viet Vet Monthly, and was filled with lurid details of the killing power of the accoutrements of war. ‘Because, Darren, old son,’ he explained, ‘there’s no point in killing anyone unless it looks like an accident.’
‘Dead’s dead. What difference does it make?’
Parrott lowered the magazine. ‘This first one is just the bait – sprat to catch a mackerel, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning. Then we go for the big one. That’ll make Operation Nimrod look like a bunch of girls’ blouses at a tea party.’ Operation Nimrod was the freeing of the hostages by the SAS in the Iranian Embassy Siege in 1980.
Atkinson looked confused. ‘What’s Operation Nimrod?’ he asked.
‘Just fuckin’ drive,’ Parrott ordered, burying his face in the magazine.
They stopped for a burger at the Birch services on the M62, but still made it to Huddersfield station with nearly an hour to spare. ‘How about that?’ Atkinson boasted, nodding towards the station clock as they came to a standstill. ‘Fast but safe, that’s what the Skip calls me.’
‘Not bad,’ Parrott grudgingly admitted. It was a fact that Atkinson had a flair for driving fast, but with the minimum of fuss, never attracting attention. He was the slowest of the three in other ways, but a useful asset. And every gang has to have a driver. At twenty-five minutes past seven the phone rang again.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. I’ve decided to catch the connection.’
‘Understood.’ Parrott turned to his colleague: ‘He’s coming on the Huddersfield train, making it easy for us.’
Parrott wandered inside the concourse to check the arrivals. ‘Be here in three minutes,’ he said when he returned.
A better parking place became available, one that gave them a good view and a decent getaway, so Atkinson manoeuvred into it. A trickle of people began to exit through the ticket barriers.
‘There’s Frank.’ Atkinson gave a single flash on the headlights, attracting his attention. Bell saw them and sprinted over.
He climbed into the back of the Sierra. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Third in the queue, in the light coat, carrying the big pilot’s briefcase.’ The two in the front focused their eyes on Tom Noon, Member of Parliament, for the first time, and recorded the appearance of the man they intended to kill.
The taxis shuffled forwards and picked up their fares. The Asian driver of the second one recognised the man who represented him in Her Majesty’s Government. ‘Hello, Mr Noon,’ he said, enunciating his words. ‘Have you had a busy week?’
Noon muttered a silent curse – now he’d have to give a big tip. ‘Yes, thank you, we’re always busy. And you?’
‘Oh, so-so.’
‘Wife and family well?’
The car slid into the traffic flow, the driver hardly noticing the red Sierra that pulled out behind him. ‘Yes, very well, sir, thank you.’ He smiled. Now he’d be able to go home and tell his wife that his friend Tom Noon, Opposition Spokesman on Foreign Affairs, had asked after the welfare of her and the children.
Noon lived in a select new housing development on the outskirts of Heckley. Just before the last General Election, the seat he’d held for fifteen years vanished in a vindictive reorganisation of the constituencies. With characteristic grit he’d contested a nearby Government held seat and overturned a 9000-vote majority to win the place at Westminster by the slenderest of margins. At the next election, due in less than a year, he was confident of consolidating his position.
The taxi stopped outside his five-bedroomed executive-style house, complete with its two-point-four en suite bathrooms. A Land Rover Discovery stood beneath the carport at the side of the house, glistening like a funeral car. A hundred yards away, Darren Atkinson sw
itched off his headlights.
Tom Noon fumbled with his wallet and handed over a twenty-pound note and a fiver. ‘Call that right,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you,’ the taxi driver gushed.
‘And remember me to your wife. Good night.’
‘Yes, sir. Good night.’ As he drove away he radioed his controller to say that he was available for hire. It was fifteen minutes past nine.
‘What now?’ Atkinson asked.
‘Watch and wait,’ Bell told him. Parrott tried to sleep.
Periodically another vehicle would drive into the development. Three men sitting in a darkened car looked suspicious, so Atkinson would start his engine and turn on the lights, as if they were about to drive off. Once, they did a tour round the immediate district, and saw a pub, the Royal Oak, about a quarter of a mile away.
‘I could murder a drink,’ Parrott said.
Atkinson agreed. ‘Not here,’ Bell told them. ‘We’d be noticed. We’ll find somewhere later, if we get chance.’
They watched the lighted windows of Noon’s house, guessing his behaviour from their patterns. Kitchen, stairs, bathroom, bedroom. A few spots of rain fell on the windscreen, and every few minutes Atkinson gave a short burst on the wipers to improve their vision.
‘He’s either gone to bed or he’s getting changed,’ Bell guessed.
At twenty minutes past ten a beam of illumination from the side door caused all three of them to sit up. ‘He’s coming out,’ Parrott declared.
Tom Noon walked down his drive. He’d changed into casual clothes, and was now wearing a padded jacket with big pockets, in a subdued colour that immediately identified the store from which it came. Trotting in front of him, pulling on its lead, was a pedigree King Charles spaniel. Most MPs agree that owning a dog is good for at least a five per cent swing, providing of course that the Opposition doesn’t own one. Some dog-hating politicians have been known to make a pairing arrangement with their rivals – I won’t buy one if you don’t. Tom Noon, alas, had failed to do so, hence the King Charles.
When Noon reached the pavement he turned up his collar and gazed skywards for a second. It was raining – he’d go in the Discovery. The dog leapt in ahead of him, for he too preferred riding to walking.
‘Shit! He’s driving,’ Bell exclaimed. ‘If he’d walked we might have been able to run him down, here and now. That would have been perfect.’
There were no fences or gates around the houses, demarcation between the properties being indicated by red-paved driveways and large areas of lawn. A few rebels had declared independence by planting hedges of miniature conifers, which would soon blot out their neighbours’ daylight. The large all-terrain vehicle, which, like most of its cousins, never encountered anything more challenging than the speed bumps in Sainsbury’s car park, trickled out into the road. As soon as it was out of sight Atkinson started the engine of the Sierra and caught up with it.
‘He’s going to the pub,’ Parrott guessed, correctly.
The parking area in front of the Royal Oak housed several cars, but Noon drove round the back, where it was quieter.
‘Great,’ Frank Bell declared. ‘He’s playing right into our hands.’
‘Are we going in?’ Atkinson asked.
‘No, we’ve seen enough. Let’s talk tactics, then we’ll have a drink somewhere in the town. Be less conspicuous there. Any suggestions, Shawn?’
‘No problem. If he walks, we run him down. Accidental death, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning. If he drives, we meet him here. Darren and me invite him to take us for a ride in his Land Rover to somewhere quiet. You follow in this. Somewhere along the way he meets with a nasty accident. He really did ought to be more careful.’
‘Good. Well done,’ Bell agreed, ‘Except that Darren drives the Sierra, me and you take Noon.’
Parrott nodded his approval. ‘And we’re talking about next Friday?’
‘Yeah, next Friday.’
‘And where are we taking him?’
‘I know the perfect place,’ Bell said. ‘Boy, do I know the perfect place.’
Darren Atkinson drove the three of them into the centre of Heckley and from there they gravitated, like dross, to the less savoury corner of town. It was just before eleven o’clock, and the youth of the area were making their way from the public houses, which closed at eleven, to the town’s only night club, which didn’t. Two Panda cars were watching the action, and several taxis cruised by. Nobody wore a coat, despite the drizzle. The males swaggered along, anaesthetised by alcohol; the girls folded their bare arms as protection against it.
‘It’s buzzing wi’ cops,’ Atkinson observed.
‘We’re just out for the evening,’ Bell told him. ‘Don’t worry about them.’ It was good advice. The police, hopelessly outnumbered, were looking for a quiet night. They’d only intervene if absolutely necessary.
Two girls, similarly dressed in borderline-obscene mini skirts, white blouses and denim waistcoats, watched the car pass them. One was attractive, in a waiflike way, the other was overweight from a surfeit of chips. They were standing in a shop doorway, self-consciously smoking. Parrott turned to inspect them, and the slim one caught his gaze.
‘Looks like it’s the Copper Banana,’ Bell declared, nodding towards the neon sign above the door of the ex-cinema. ‘Who knows, we might be able to do some business here.’
Once, Randolph Scott and Dorothy Lamour had excited its clientèle, now it was house music and Ecstasy. Atkinson reversed expertly into a parking place, between an elderly Ford Capri with all the trimmings and a Skoda with none, and the three of them got out.
Although they were well above the average age of the majority of customers, they knew what to expect: dim lights, thick smoke, and a constant throbbing beat, as if an aneurism in the brain was about to go critical. Bell pointed to some empty tables at the rear of the hall, and mimed a drinking action. Speech was impossible. He and Parrott sat down while Atkinson fetched three pints of lager.
It was marginally quieter here, the beat reduced to a rumble in the furniture, like on a ship at full speed with a grossly unbalanced propellor. Young men stood around, clutching their pints and swaying. The girls, most of them hardly nubile, dashed to and fro, pulling each other, as if on the most important business in the world. To them, it was.
Atkinson returned, three unappetising pints held between his hands. ‘Two-fifty a bleeding pint,’ he complained.
Parrott took a sip. ‘And it’s watered, if you ask me.’ He pulled a pack of Red Wings from his pocket and fumbled with the cellophane wrap.
‘Here, ’ave one of mine,’ Atkinson told him, throwing an opened pack on to the table. They all took one and lit up.
Bell studied his lager, swilling a good draught of it around his mouth. He swallowed and said: ‘You’re right, this beer’s watered. Maybe we should have a word with the management.’
Parrott grinned. ‘Want me to find someone, Skip?’
‘Yeah, please, Shawn, if you don’t mind.’
He was back in a couple of minutes. ‘One of ‘is penguins has gone to fetch ‘im,’ he said.
When he arrived, the owner of the club looked more Hollywood than Heckley. Above white skin-tight jeans he wore a lilac leather jacket with its sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. The zipper was unfastened, to avoid trapping the blond forest growing on his chest, for he wore nothing under it. His long bleached hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he peered at them through tiny spectacles whose lenses could have been made from the bottoms of iodine bottles. A yard behind him walked a bow-tied bodyguard with a chest like bulldozer pushing a snowdrift. Bell gestured towards a chair, inviting the owner to join them.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, turning the chair round and sitting on it the wrong way, cowboy style. ‘Not having any problems, are we?’
Bell pushed his pint forward. ‘My driver,’ he said, ‘is worried about breaking the drink-driving laws, and wants to know how m
uch of this piss he is allowed. I reckon about eight pints, but he says fourteen. What do you say?’
‘Oh dear,’ replied the owner. ‘If my manager is doctoring the booze again, then I want to know about it. Mister … Smith, I believe your colleague said?’
‘Just call me Frank.’
‘Right, Frank. And I’m Georgie. What would you gentlemen like to drink?’ He’d assessed his three visitors from the first moment he saw them, and come to a number of conclusions: they weren’t the filth; they weren’t here for a night out; and they weren’t complaining about the beer. No, they were here to do business. It might be good business or it might be bad. Either way, he’d listen to what they had to say and act accordingly. The bodyguard was dispatched to fetch four full-strength drinks.
‘Actually,’ Georgie confessed with a conspiratorial wink, ‘we’re doing everyone a favour by serving weak drinks. The police prefer it, the parents approve, and the kids themselves don’t seem to mind. They need the fluid, not the alcohol. Dancing all night takes a lot out of you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shawn. ‘’Specially when you’re zapped on XTC.’
Georgie shrugged philosophically, like a Jewish mother at her son’s wedding. ‘You’re so right,’ he said. ‘But what can we do? How can we stop them bringing these things in? We thought about intimate body searches – I even offered to do them myself – but it wouldn’t work.’ He laughed, and the others joined in.
‘What about stronger stuff?’ asked Bell. ‘Are any of them sneaking anything else past your tame gorillas?’
Georgie shook his head. ‘No. Prices are too high. Maybe some pot, smack now and again, but snow and base are over the roof, even if you can get it.’ He smiled and raised his glass of blue fluid. ‘Even Saturday-night users are having to find alternatives. It’s back to good ol’ sex and alcohol. Cheers!’
Bell looked thoughtful, not sure how forward to be. ‘So it’s a sellers’ market,’ he said.
‘Sure.’
Parrott finished his drink. ‘Do you need me, Skip?’ he asked. ‘I could use some fresh air.’
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