by Ray Clark
It could always be someone else. The DPA team had certainly put enough noses out of joint. The trouble with that last thought was where to start. It could be anyone, from anywhere, from any time.
Anthony bit the bullet and found the site for the safe cyber address and logged in. That wasn’t so easy. The login required a number of different passwords and configurations, some of which were random, requiring a search of the old memory bank.
A skinny waitress in a short skirt and black leggings passed by his booth. “Can I get another coffee, please?” asked Anthony.
“Sure thing,” she replied, without so much as a glance.
Having passed the first test, he typed in the password for another. Eventually the screen led him to the next page, where he typed in the final information.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw he had a message.
The excitement level rose when he noticed it was from Zoe. That meant she wasn’t dead – yet.
He opened it to find a lot of text, which was almost certainly unlike her, but the style pretty much confirmed it was. By the time he finished reading what she had to say, he nearly vomited.
Anthony jumped up. Exiting the booth, he collided with the waitress. The coffee went all over the floor and the cup and saucer smashed. Her expression said it all: wide eyes, mouth open, hands round her head.
“Sorry,” said Anthony, noticing everyone else staring at them.
“No problem, I’ll get you another.”
“No, sorry, no time.” He passed her a five-pound note and ran out so fast he nearly left a trail of smoke.
Chapter Fifty-two
Fail to prepare, and you prepare to fail. The driver wasn’t going to.
He was sitting in one of the offices, staring into the mirror, waiting for what lay ahead.
It was twelve weeks since the Hunters had died. Not died – had been killed in cold blood by a bunch of thieving, murdering, parasitical bastards. It was bad enough that they ran him over but to drag his weakened body over to the electric box, hide him from view and fuck off was completely unforgivable.
The driver had had many sleepless nights since the incident, repeatedly thinking about what they had done. Every time he’d end up thinking, wondering, had David Hunter actually still been alive when they were moving him? Had he known what was happening when one of them dragged him as far away as they could, to cover their mistake? Had he died alone? What were his last thoughts?
The driver felt hollow. When he thought of how he’d passed the last twelve weeks, avenging their deaths, it had all been worth it. He had taken no pleasure in the acts of torture. That was the soldier in him, something he had been trained to do. He simply wanted them to feel a little of what they had dished out.
Each and every one of them had been easy to dispose of. James Henshaw had accepted his death well before the end. Starving someone was quite simple. Watching the realisation and the defeat in their eyes when they knew there was no way out had brought a little satisfaction.
Michael Foreman believed right until the end that he would be forgiven and that the driver really wouldn’t kill him. His demise had been far quicker than James’ – but equally as painful.
As for Zoe Harrison, she wasn’t sure what to think. The driver didn’t know if she had accepted it or not but he really admired her spirit. Right until the final second, ever the fighter. She simply would not give up. Even now she was trying to set him up, pit him against Anthony Palmer, which he found hilarious.
They thought they had a safe cyber address. A place where no one could spy on them, see what they were saying, and what they were doing. The driver laughed to himself. It wasn’t as safe as they had assumed. It mattered not that Palmer had changed his phone, rendering his listening useless. He didn’t need it. Those silly bastards were doing his work for him.
Fail to prepare, and you prepare to fail. That’s what they had taught him in the military. That’s what they were doing now. They thought that together they had the upper hand; that the driver didn’t know what they were up to. They were failing to prepare.
He cracked his fingers. He was tired, but the end was near. He’d spent the entire last week rearranging the unit, making it unrecognisable. He would have the upper hand in the end. He knew Anthony Palmer was on his way. He suspected the man would be feeling pretty smug after the information Zoe Harrison had given him.
What a shock he would receive when they finally met.
Staring into the mirror, the driver realised he was about to play his trump card. He’d spent time on his research. He knew exactly what troubled Anthony Palmer, especially when he had seen it all first-hand at the airport.
The driver laughed. Palmer would shit his own body weight when they met.
Chapter Fifty-three
“What are you doing?” asked Brian.
“Watching him,” replied Sam.
“Why? What’s he up to?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then why are you watching him?”
Sam was sitting on the long wooden seat in front of a unit called Transmech, which was situated on the Industrial Park on Crimbald Cragg Close near Harrogate, opposite one called CDC. Only now, the name had been changed to Blockheads.
“I’ve been watching him a while now,” said Sam. “All those cars sitting outside must have been inside. He’s moved them. He’s been in and out of the place all week in that white van of his, loading and unloading gear, all sorts of stuff; no idea what he’s up to.”
Sam offered Brian a sandwich from a large box, containing four roast beef in granary, two yoghurts, two chocolate bars and a couple of packets of snack tubs containing nuts – not to mention a variety of fruit. Brian had no idea where the hell he put it all because he was as thin as a lathe.
Neither of them had what you called a stressful job, or one that overworked them or provided any exercise. They were both draughtsmen, which involved hours sitting at a desk, staring at drawings all day. If Brian so much as sniffed one of the chocolate bars he’d put a stone on.
“Something about him is obviously bothering you.”
They’d been friends for fifty years. Born around the same time, grew up on the same street, went to the same school and spent a lot of time together after school and outside of work, taking part in similar sporting interests: darts, snooker, badminton. Only difference was, Brian was married but Sam was a confirmed bachelor. He was also very intelligent, loved puzzles and studied people. He couldn’t help it.
“It is, but I can’t say what. Maybe he’s taken over from them four that were in there before.”
“Probably why he’s changed the name,” said Brian.
“But what kind of a company is Blockheads?”
“If it’s anything to do with the uniform it must be some kind of military establishment.”
“If it was anything to do with them surely there’d be a lot more people hanging around.”
“Well, I don’t mean government,” said Brian, “maybe it’s something to do with an Army & Navy store.”
“It’s a big place, and why still only one person?” said Sam, glancing at his friend. “And there’s something else that bothers me – the same bloke was sat here a few weeks back. Middle of the afternoon, not long after we’d finished dinner.”
“What was he doing then?”
“Watching that place. He brought some dinner with him, and a flask, and he was sitting there for about two hours.”
“Then what did he do?” asked Brian.
“Don’t know. I was sitting at my desk so I was able to watch him for quite some time. I went to make a cup of tea and when I came back he’d gone.”
“Well, there you are, then. He’s taken over the place.”
“So if he was taking over, why sit outside observing for an hour or two?”
“Perhaps checking it out. But if you’re that bothered why don’t you report the matter?”
“Who do we tell, and what do we tell them?”
<
br /> “Just a minute.” Brian stood up.
“What’s up?” asked Sam.
“That green four-wheel drive, just inside the fence.”
“What about it?” Sam asked.
Brian adjusted his glasses but he still couldn’t see it. “Can you see the number plate from here?”
“Don’t be stupid, I can only just see the car.”
Brian walked over to the chain-link fence, glanced at the plate and made a mental note, before returning to Sam.
“What was that all about?”
“Before I came out to join you there was a report on the news, from the police, asking to keep an eye out for a dark green Evoque that’s been involved in something.”
“What?”
“I can’t remember now.”
“Is that the one?”
Brian felt odd inside, weak. He sat down on the bench. “I think so.” He stared at Sam. “And there’s another four-wheel drive a bit further back; a white one. All the left-hand side stoved in.”
Sam stared back at Brian. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But now you know who to ring and what to tell them.”
Chapter Fifty-four
What a fucking mess, thought Anthony.
Greed. Self-absorption. Vanity. Call it what you like, it all led to the same thing. Failure.
Anthony reminisced about their humble beginnings, when each of them had nothing. Dead end jobs, where you worked all hours and earned very little but had so much fire, so much energy, so much determination to change the world, and everything in it. Make a name for yourself.
Well they certainly did that but for all the wrong reasons. They started with Zoe’s money, but instead of going down a straight and narrow path they took the road into darkness, which meant they must all have been bad apples. No surprise they ended up the way they did. Michael and James dead; Zoe possibly – he didn’t know, yet. Anthony was on his way to certain death, despite what he had brought with him.
He was sitting on the wooden seat in front of Transmech. He knew the company had been there some years but he didn’t know anyone in it.
Anthony stared over at CDC. What used to be CDC. The Lord only knew why the name had been changed to Blockheads but Anthony could guess. That’s what they were.
All of their vehicles were outside, which surprised him. The white Overfinch that he hadn’t seen since the accident – still damaged. A green Evoque accompanied it, Zoe’s Ferrari Diablo, Michael’s Audi TT, and his own BMW. There was also a big white Mercedes van. Anthony knew nothing about that. He’d never seen it before. Whatever the driver – as Zoe had called him, because that’s what he apparently called himself – was up to, he had really done his homework.
That thought frightened him even more. What did he have in store for Anthony on the inside?
Would it matter?
Not that Anthony was feeling confident at all but he had digested Zoe’s email. She’d told him all about the person who had them, how long he’d had them and what he’d done to James and Michael.
Sitting on the seat, Anthony wondered whether or not he should have called the police. That man had committed murder. Kettle, pot, black came to mind, halting that thought.
Calling the police would have been a bad idea. If he had, they would have been here by now, arresting him for the murder of his uncle and aunt. He would have spent the rest of his life in prison, which might have been easier than going up against the driver, given what he’d heard.
However, self-preservation kicked in, and Anthony decided he would take his chances. If he came out of it alive, he would still be free, possibly penniless, though he suspected he could work on that one. He’d never survive prison. He simply couldn’t do it.
Anthony stared into the carrier bag he’d brought with him. On Zoe’s instructions, in case everything went tits-up, he’d obtained a can of mace pepper spray. He had a rope and a gag. The other two items had been much harder to come by and had cost him most of the money he had left. He stared at the largest syringe he had ever seen in his life; not that needles bothered him but the one in the bag sent a shiver down his spine; it would certainly fucking bother the driver. Next to that was the empty vial; what it had contained, he had no idea. He didn’t ask any questions when he’d bought it.
The syringe was fully loaded.
He was as ready as he ever would be. If he was correct in his assumption as to who the driver was, Anthony was up shit creek without a boat, never mind a fucking paddle.
He grabbed the bag and stood up, staring at the industrial unit, wondering what was ahead, and how the hell it was going to finish.
He could only hope.
Chapter Fifty-five
“Here you go, get that down you.” Reilly passed Gardener his tea.
The SIO scrutinised the porcelain cup. “You made this yourself?”
“Well Briggs didn’t, and you can tell by the cup it’s not that crap out of the machine.”
“Well done,” replied Gardener. “Didn’t realise you were house-trained.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“There’s a lot I’d rather not know,” said Gardener.
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
“Maybe.” Gardener laughed. “But not for your tea-making abilities.”
The door to the incident room was open and Gardener noticed members of his team flashing by, carrying documents, holding conversations. Something was happening.
Most of his team slipped quietly into the room, pretty dejected if their expressions were anything to go by. He didn’t much fancy chairing the incident room meeting because they had very little to go on. God knows they needed a break but when and where it would come from he had no idea.
Most of them poured a cuppa and took a seat, spreading folders around, opening chocolate bars. Before anyone said anything, Sergeant David Williams rushed in, waving a file.
“Sir? Need to speak to you.”
“Sounds urgent.”
“It might be.”
All eyes faced the front and all ears were pinned back.
“Just taken a call from a man called Sam Coulthard. He’s a draughtsman, working for a company called Transmech. They have an office on an industrial park in Harrogate.”
At the mention of those magical words, everyone stopped eating.
“Go on,” said Gardener.
“About six weeks ago, Sam and his colleague, Brian Thatcher, noticed a man in military uniform sitting on a bench outside of Transmech, watching the unit at the opposite side of the road, called CDC.”
“What was he doing?” asked Reilly.
“Apparently nothing. He had some dinner with him and a newspaper. Sam Coulthard watched him for quite some time…”
“Alright for some,” said Rawson, “when he’s supposed to be working.”
“Lucky for us he did,” continued Williams. “Anyway, he got up to make some tea and when he came back the man was gone. Same bloke was at the unit yesterday, doing exactly the same thing. He is also at the unit today. For the last week he’s been in and out of there with a white van, loading and unloading gear.”
“What sort of gear?” asked Colin Sharp.
Williams appeared flustered. “I don’t know, and will you shut up while I’m trying to get on with it?”
“Get you,” said Bob Anderson.
“Yeah,” said Thornton, “what’s eating her?”
Williams ignored him. “Anyway, apart from the van there are another five or six vehicles in that compound. One is a white Overfinch. The other is a green Evoque. I asked him for the registrations of all the cars.”
Williams spread his paperwork around on the desk. “It’s definitely them: a Ferrari Diablo, an Audi TT, and a BMW. Registrations all match up and are on the list for the DPA team.”
“Have we finally found them?” asked Reilly.
“Looks like it,” replied Williams.
“At last,�
� said Gardener. “Address and postcode, please, David.”
“Do you want me to arrange some backup, sir?”
“No need, we’re all going.” Gardener faced his team. “Coffee break over. Grab your coats.”
DCI Briggs walked through the door. “Gardener, Reilly, my office now!”
With that he disappeared.
“What’s eating him?” Gardener asked Reilly.
“No idea, but it must be catching because Williams is in the same mood.”
“What do you want us to do, boss?” asked Rawson.
“Hang fire while we sort this out,” replied Gardener.
Chapter Fifty-six
“Sorry about that,” said Briggs, “but I needed you in here immediately.”
Reilly glanced around, sharply.
“What are you looking for?” Briggs asked him.
“The fire.”
“Sit down, smart arse, I’ve got some stuff here that’s going to make your hair fall out. Did you find out anything in Burley, by the way? Williams told me he’d given you a lead.”
“We know it’s not Alan Braithwaite,” said Gardener.
“Same car but different registration,” added Reilly.
“And he’s been really busy for the past two weeks moving his sister into a care home,” said Gardener. “She has advanced dementia.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Briggs. “Anyway, given what I’ve just heard, I know it’s not Alan Braithwaite, either.”
“What have you heard?” asked Gardener, glancing at the document Briggs had in front of him, which must have been a hundred pages long.
“My friend from Porton Down finally called me back,” said Briggs. “I explained what our problem was and he went off to check the stocks of this HN-3 stuff.”
“And?” asked Gardener.
“He was pretty bloody cagey when he called back. He wouldn’t exactly admit that anything was missing.”
“What did I tell you?” said Gardener.
“What did he say?” asked Reilly.
