The Stealers (3 page)

In the distance, cumulus clouds piled up ominously in the sky as the traffic on the main London Road wound its way steadily towards a busy junction. Ahead, Crane saw the Mondeo, which held Andrew captive, make a turn towards Rayleigh and then take the road towards Chelmsford.

*

Penny scanned the car parking area looking for Andrew. Her only task that day, had been to delay a man in the entrance foyer to the offices, which she did by asking him about employment. Panic began to set in when she could not find Andrew and she dashed into the supermarket, looked swiftly along the packed aisles and then rushed out again. The unfortunate man whose car had been stolen spotted her and called out.

‘I've had my car stolen.'

‘My child is missing,' she replied hastily and reached for her mobile phone.

*

Crane's mobile phone buzzed two or three times and then it stopped. He glanced at it lying on the passenger seat; flat battery. It was one of the few things he seemed to neglect. One minute you cannot do without one, and then for weeks on end it has is no use at all.

Crane was thankful that the road twisted and turned; at least he could keep the much faster Mondeo in sight. The man in the Mondeo felt satisfied. He had got away with it. Despite the man's friendly banter, the child sat, without a seat belt, wide-eyed in the back seat; staring into the interior mirror at the stranger's face. After the initial shock of being taken, his tears had dried up, leaving stained trails across his cheeks.

Crane was now lagging some distance behind, but he managed to see the Mondeo turn off into a lonely wooded area near the country area of Danbury. Crane felt somewhat elated as he realised that there was now only one way in and out – the Mondeo was trapped. Crane pulled his Transit right up to the rear of the Mondeo and jumped out. The stranger and the boy were still in the car. Crane rattled on the passenger door window.

‘Whadda yuh want?' The stranger called out.

‘Open up and let the boy out.'

‘Whad's the idea? He's my nephew and we're gonna have a picnic, now bugger off.'

Crane was getting impatient, ‘I saw you snatch the kid at the supermarket, now open up and let him out.'

The stranger quickly got out of the car. He was a big man with slicked back hair that seemed to flop either side of his face. He looked about thirty years old, a couple of inches taller than Crane's six foot frame and a little broader. Considering his size, he was nimble on his feet.

As Crane walked round to the other side of the car to confront him, the man's hand groped in his jacket pocket and came out holding a stiletto. A scowl spread across his face as he waved it wildly in the air and pressed a button; the blade sprang out of the handle with a metallic swish. ‘Get out of here or you'll get some of this,' he said waving the knife around.

Crane paused, and stood facing him about four metres away. A relaxed, confident smile spread across his face. His right hand quickly dipped into his jacket pocket and came out holding the toy pistol that the boy had dropped at the supermarket car park. The fat man's eyes widened; the scowled expression disappeared and was replaced by fear. From that distance, it seemed like the real thing. Suddenly there was a deep menace in Crane's voice as he took careful aim at the stranger's head and said calmly, ‘Well now, I believe this is something a little better, and I'll put one right between your eyes if you don't drop that knife right now. I'm very good with one of these, you'd better believe me!'

The man's face whitened and his jaw sagged. He loosened his grip on the knife and let it slip to the ground. Andrew, the young boy had been watching the drama unfold with interest. His face was pressed against the inside of the car window; eyes darting from one man to the other.

Keeping the toy gun trained on the stranger, Crane walked slowly towards him until they were about two metres apart. Andrew let himself out of the rear door of the car; his head continually turning from one man to the other. His young mind became confused as it experienced the animosity between the two men. Then, suddenly his gaze rested on Crane and he became animated; he immediately found his voice. ‘Hey, that's my gun!'

The stranger stared at the weapon and his face broke into a smile as he began to reach down for his knife, but he was far too late. Like a sprinter at the starting line, Crane thrust himself forward, and lashed out with his right foot. It made contact with the stranger's stomach. The man went down like a felled tree and remained there; curled up and gasping for breath on the ground. Crane picked up the knife and closed the blade. He crouched down and handed the little boy his toy pistol. ‘What's your name, son?' he enquired.

The boy looked happier as he reached out, took the toy gun and replied in a quiet voice, ‘Andrew Barker.'

Crane gave Andrew a reassuring smile and said, ‘Okay, Andrew, I think it's time to take you back home.'

Andrew began fiddling with his toy gun; grinned and simply replied, ‘Alright.'

Crane picked the lad up and carried him over to the Transit van. After adjusting the seat belt around Andrew, he returned to the weighty man; he had not moved and was still lying prone on the ground curled up, suffering from Crane's heavy kick. Crane looked at him without sympathy and said,

‘Who are you? What's your name?'

The man did not answer. Crane asked another question. ‘What were you going to do with the boy?'

The man remained silent.

Crane's easy-going manner was sometimes mistaken for a sign of weakness; and this seemed to be one of those occasions.

‘Don't feel like talking eh?' Crane said casually. ‘Well, I've wasted enough time on you; I don't much care for perverts.' Crane pressed the button on the stiletto and the blade shot out from its handle with a menacing metallic swish. ‘I think I'll just leave you here then; with this knife sticking out between your shoulders; you'll find it very difficult to pull it out.'

‘Ryan – name's Ryan,' he blurted out – in between taking huge lungfuls of air. ‘And I'm not a bloody pervert I was taking the boy for someone… someone who wants him.'

‘Keep talking,' Crane urged, toying with the blade a few inches from his face.

‘That's all I know – honest.'

Crane's eyes hardened as he bent down and scraped the blade against Ryan's whiskery face. ‘No, you're not an honest man Ryan; you're not the type. Tell me and make it quick.'

‘Okay, okay. I'm supposed to be meeting a man right here and hand the boy over to him.'

Crane straightened up. ‘Who is he? What's his name?'

‘Bradley. Bradley Kemp.'

‘What's his interest?' Crane demanded.

‘I don't know.' Ryan gasped. ‘He promised me two hundred quid to make the snatch and meet him here afterwards.'

The sound of a car pulling up at the entrance to the wooded area made Crane and Ryan turn their heads; it was a Jaguar. The car paused momentarily and its driver poked his head out of the car window. Upon seeing Crane and the prone Ryan, the driver put the Jaguar into gear and sped off.

‘That's the guy I'm supposed to meet,' Ryan stated flatly.

Crane turned back towards Ryan, ‘This Bradley, is he into car theft?'

Ryan hesitated, but mindful of the knife Crane held replied, ‘I think he does a bit.'

‘Where does this Bradley live?'

‘I'm not sure. My dealings with him were done at Jim's Cafe in Chelmsford, but I think he's got a place, a farm, around this area, somewhere between Danbury and Maldon. And that's all I know.'

Crane was pensive for a moment before saying, ‘I should be handing you over to the police, but I'm more interested in getting the boy back to where he belongs.'

Crane backed off towards his van. He stabbed the knife hard into a tree; twisting and breaking the blade as he did so. Ryan was tempted to tackle Crane, but satisfied himself with the thought that there may be another time.

*

Penny sat in her bright red Mini Cooper in the supermarket car park. She was feeling tense and anxious. The temptation to report the missing Andrew to the police was great, but she surmised that maybe Crane knew something about it and decided to wait until she had heard from him – if only he had his mobile phone switched on. After an hour, much to her relief, Crane's van pulled into the car park and young Andrew leapt out and ran across to Penny's red mini. She seemed puzzled when Crane explained what had happened, wondering what Bradley Kemp was up to.

‘It's a fair bet that if you find where this Bradley's farm is located, you'll find your sister,' Crane commented.

Penny bit her lower lip and said, ‘It doesn't make sense except maybe getting her son, Andrew, would be some kind of sop to keep her there, after all she hasn't seen him for three months.'

‘There's a lot of farms, all shapes and sizes, in that area. It'll take ages to check them all out and what we don't want to do is to let him know we are on to him,' Crane replied. Crane finished their meeting with, ‘Keep in touch and let me know as soon as you hear of the next theft.'

*

Two hours later Crane headed back towards his home in Palmers Rise, Canford. He had bought the cottage from his parents years ago with a view to getting married but things did not work out. In between army life he had spent his spare time renovating the cottage. Since his retirement from the army, most of his time had been taken up looking after his garden as well as several others in the area. The extra cash earned from doing this supplemented his army pension.

Crane turned his white Transit van into the lane. On either side lay coils of bramble interspersed with blackthorn bushes. They gave the lane an untidy, but natural appearance. It was not quite scrubland; in between the bushes sprouted a number of tall, willowy ash and sturdy oak trees.

Deep in thought, Crane parked the van on the drive adjacent to his double garage, jumped out and headed towards the front door of the cottage. As he turned the key in the door, the latch snapped back and then all went black.

Crane slowly opened his eyes whilst lying face down in the entrance hall. His mind was a-whirl as consciousness began to return. Slowly rising to his feet he gingerly touched a sore lump on the back of his head. A sharp pain shot through his ribs as he moved; especially whilst taking a deep breath. He guessed that he had suffered a kicking whilst lying unconscious and checking his watch, realised an hour had passed. He assumed whoever did this would not hang around – they were long gone. Crane looked around inside; nothing seemed to be missing. The quiet was interrupted by a sharp warble drilling into his head. It was the phone. Crane moved painfully towards it, and with fumbling outstretched hand, managed to scoop it up.

‘Mr Crane, it's me, Penny.'

Crane managed to grunt an incoherent reply.

‘You okay?'

‘Just about.'

Penny's words sounded urgent. ‘It's your car, the Mustang; they've got it again.'

‘That must have been the reception committee that I've just suffered,' Crane groaned. ‘Is it there at your place?'

‘It was, but only for five minutes or so; it's been whisked away in their big van. What happened?'

Crane explained that he had only just regained consciousness and can only surmise that they found his address through the car's registration number.

‘I thought you couldn't get that kind of information from the number plate.'

‘There are ways and means. It can be done,' Crane sighed.

‘Are you sure you are alright? I mean, I could come over and… '

‘No,' Crane interjected, ‘I'll be fine, besides you never know whether someone is going to keep tabs on you. Best stay where you are for now. Let me know if anything new turns up.'

Crane hung up the phone and wandered into the bathroom. Rummaging through the medical cabinet he found a roll of crepe bandage and proceeded to wind it tightly round his damaged ribs; this eased the pain, giving him a great deal of relief. He went to the freezer, took out an ice pack, in the form of a packet of frozen peas, placed it directly over the lump at the back of his head and eased himself down on his most comfortable armchair.

After some while, Crane went outside to find the garage door wide open and the tyres of his van slashed. The local tyre dealer could not send out replacements until later on the following day. The only wheels that he could make use of were on a rusty old bicycle which leant against the wall at the back of the garage. It had been a year since he last resurrected it, but now it seemed that it would be put to use once more. First he needed to fix one of the tyres; the last time he used the machine he punctured one of them and had not bothered to fix it.

Crane walked a mile or so down to the village shop in the hope that they still sold puncture outfits. Mrs Trent, the shopkeeper cast her eyes around and saw what she was looking for. ‘You're lucky, Mr Crane; it's the last one. Don't seem to have had much call on them lately. By the way did the man – who said he was a friend of yours – manage to find you? Said he couldn't find it on his satnav.' The shop was often a centre for local gossip, with Mrs Trent at its head, but Crane never felt inclined to add to this.

He just mumbled a quick, ‘Yes thanks,' as he was about to leave, when suddenly, he noticed a CCTV monitor fixed on the wall displaying four mini screens. He nodded towards it and said, ‘Is that something new?'

Mrs Trent couldn't hide her satisfaction that it had been noticed. ‘Had it installed last week,' she stated proudly. ‘Security and all that, it will help keep the insurance bill down, so I'm told.' Crane thought this to be a real stroke of luck. ‘I'm impressed. Can you show me how it works?'

Mrs Trent bubbled with delight. ‘Of course, Mr Crane, I can show you your friend arriving if you like.'

Crane smiled and replied, ‘That would be nice.'

The monitor gave a clear view of a Jaguar parked outside the shop, with fat Ryan sitting in the passenger seat. Also on the monitor was a good image of a man, whom Crane assumed to be Bradley; it showed him entering the shop. Crane made a mental note of the car number; he thanked Mrs Trent and, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, bid her good day. Elation rippled through him as he made his way back home. The spring in his stride caused a few extra aches, but he did not care – it now seemed all the more bearable – it was nearing payback time.

Within a few minutes of entering his cottage, Crane phoned an old army colleague at Whitehall. If the Jaguar had been stolen then it would have scuppered things; but a search found that it was legitimate, and he soon had the name and address of the Jaguar's owner; it was Bradley Kemp, living on a remote farm on the other side of the River Crouch – no more than forty-five minutes away. Crane scanned the used-car pages of the
Southend Echo
and soon found the set of wheels that he wanted; a vehicle that was cheap and reliable. He had to act quickly to stand a chance of recovering his Mustang. His limbs ached as he cycled through the back streets of Southend where he had purchased the car and, with his cycle hanging from the car boot, he rode back in the old, tatty white Mercedes saloon; its five-litre heart was all there as it roared through Rochford back to Canford.

Dusk began to surround the area as Crane neared Bradley's farm, and after two passes in front of the property, he parked his newly-acquired, old, inexpensive white Mercedes near some bushes and approached the entrance gate on foot. Still aching from the kicking he had suffered earlier in the day, he did not want to encounter further confrontation at this stage. He eased himself past the five-barred wooden farm gate and crept silently, sidling like a ghost, along the grass edge of the gravel driveway until the house came into view. A pheasant suddenly fluttered noisily across the path ahead; it was soon followed by a fox, picking and sniffing its way across the gravel surface, until they both disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

The Jaguar was parked at the side of the thatched house. Crane stopped for a moment. From his position, by a hedge in the drive, it was difficult to see whether floodlights were installed. His caution proved right. Suddenly the area was flooded with bright light as the front door opened. Bradley and Ryan stepped outside and walked towards the Jaguar. Crane strained his ears and could only just make out part of their conversation which was carried by a slight breeze. A voice, which he presumed to be Bradley's, said, ‘I'll run you back to your place on the way to Southend.' He recognised Ryan's voice answering and a harsh laugh ensued and what may have sounded like a reference to Crane, ‘Should've broken a few limbs.'

Within seconds they were in the car and heading out of the drive. Like a rabbit, Crane quickly dropped down on hands and knees, painfully hopping and squeezing through the small gap in the hedge, through which the fox had disappeared a few moments earlier, just as the Jaguar's headlamps swung round, splashing the vegetation with its bright halogen beams. The car disappeared into the lane and Crane eased himself back through the gap. To avoid any of his movements being detected by the external floodlight sensors, he crept forward in a wide arc stealthily towards the rear of the house. It worked – the floodlights remained off. Although the curtains were drawn, a diffused glimmer could be seen filtering through them, together with the faint glow and the muffled sound of a television. It reminded him to remain cautious.

Through the grey light of dusk, Crane saw the outline of a huge barn, sited some twenty metres away from the rear of the house. The front of the building was covered by a wide dull-grey steel-ribbed shutter, with a small Judas door set in one corner. The Judas door lay partially open. He walked towards it, peered through the opening and saw that the inside was pitch black. Standing by the entrance, he groped in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small pencil beam torch; its shaft of light stabbed into the darkness. He turned his wrist and the narrow beam revealed several car-sized dust covers. He was about to move further into the barn when a bat flickered erratically into the ray of torchlight; its wings flapping audibly as it flew across the barn. But, another sound made him freeze. It was the unmistakable hollow metallic sound of a shotgun's barrels snapping shut against the stock and the menacing, barely audible click of the safety catch being released.