Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (35 page)

Instead, he dispatched WPC Karen McLaughlin to tail her at a discreet distance; though he was sure Anna would be returning to her flat. Then he and the other officers left their cars and took up what Mariner hoped were casual looking positions outside the main entrance of the centre, and waited.

Tony Knox stayed inside the conference hall, having moved to an empty seat along from the one recently vacated by Anna. He’d been puzzled to see her leave, but catching sight of the carrier bag she’d left behind, suddenly he understood what was going on. The boss was right. Knox bided his time. It was just what he wanted, he thought, an hour’s presentation on effective communication. The boss should be here. He might pick up a few tips. The rest of the audience seemed enthralled though, and as the lecture drew to an end it was received with tumultuous applause.

As the clapping died away, people began gathering their things, standing to leave, networking. While appearing to browse his course brochure, Knox kept his eyes riveted to that seat. As it was, he nearly missed the pick-up when it happened. A man shuffling along behind the row, a quick snatch over the back of the seat and it was gone, but Knox had clocked him: medium build, red hair, charcoal suit and white shirt; identical to at least fifty per cent of the other people in the room. This one was going to be tricky, particularly as two hundred delegates surged simultaneously towards the exits.

‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ Knox stumbled his way to the end of the row. Snatcher had moved off at a pace, but Knox caught up and stayed with him, ducking and diving through the mob to keep up. Outside the lecture hall the crowd thinned and his task was much easier. Knox had expected Snatcher to make for the main entrance and the pick-up bays, to a waiting car, so was surprised when he seemed to be heading in the opposite direction. He was making for the rear exit of the Conference Centre, going towards Symphony Hall and the canal, away from where Mariner and the other officers were waiting.

As he ran, Knox put a call through to Mariner waiting outside. ‘I’ve got him sir. IC one male, thirtyish, five-ten, short, stocky, ginger hair, wearing a grey suit and white shirt.’

‘Well done, Knox. We’ll have him. We’ve got cars standing by on all exit routes and he’ll never get out of the city in this traffic’

‘He doesn’t seem to want to. We’re going out the back way, towards the canal.’

‘Where the hell is he going?’

‘Anna Barham’s flat?’ said someone. It was certainly a possibility. They began moving to the other side of the building. But as Mariner ran, Knox’s voice broke in again.

‘We’re down on the canal side sir. Going over Farmer’s Bridge towards the Fazeley Canal. Oh shit! You’d better get round here!’

‘What??’

Knox couldn’t believe his eyes. Approaching the canal side, Snatcher had suddenly broken into a run, at about the same time as Knox became aware of background revving of a high-powered motor. Moored to the side of the canal was a motor-driven inflatable dinghy. It was over in no time.

Snatcher jumped in, and the dinghy roared away, up the canal.

‘Stop! Police!’ Knox shouted ineffectually after the receding vessel. ‘Oh fuck! They’ve got away!’

‘No they haven’t,’ said Mariner arriving at his side, gasping for breath. ‘The canal doesn’t go on for ever. I know where they’re going.’ Knowing the network of canals as well as he did, it didn’t take superhuman powers to work out their destination. They needed a map.

‘This is where they’re heading,’ said Mariner and indicated the point at which the canal met one of the largest road intersections in Europe. Spaghetti Junction. ‘They’re going back up the M6 to the north.’

Traffic around the city ring road was already gridlocked and in an unmarked car, even with the aid of hazard lights and siren, Knox could only stagger through the reluctantly parting lines of vehicles. ‘Move, you pillock!’ he shouted at one driver particularly slow to respond.

‘Let’s find out where big bird is,’ said Mariner. ‘We could use some help.’ Based out at Birmingham International Airport, the Air Operations Unit could be anywhere in the West Midlands in under ten minutes, with a flying time of up to two and a half hours before needing to refuel. It was standing by and only minutes later, the McDonnell Douglas MD 902 Explorer came into view.

‘Alpha Oscar One to Delta Victor Two-Four, awaiting instructions.’ They had airborne support.

Mariner rapidly briefed the crew, and as he and Knox continued to plough their way on to the expressway, got the response he was hoping for.

‘Alpha Oscar One to Delta Victor Two-Four, we have a red, inflatable dinghy heading north along the Birmingham-Fazeley Canal, just coming round the back of the UCE, two occupants.’ They were neck and neck.

‘Received,’ and relieved, thought Mariner. ‘Do a sweep to see if there’s any sign of a pick-up vehicle at on or around Spaghetti Junction,’ he instructed. ‘Suspects are thought to be heading north up the M6. Don’t stick too closely to the dinghy. I don’t want them to know they’re getting any special attention.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Moments later the helicopter was back in contact: ‘We have a possible, sir. A blue transit parked on Argyll Street, adjacent to Cuckoo Road Bridge, and about fifty yards down from the motorway junction.’

Mariner consulted his map. Cuckoo Road was a side street off the main Lichfield Road and joined the northbound M6 within a quarter of a mile. The canal passed right underneath. It was the ideal spot. ‘And the status of the van?’ he asked.

‘Just parked up, sir, facing out, looks as if the driver’s sitting tight.’

Weaving through the heavy traffic, progress was still painfully slow, so Mariner mustered two unmarked units from the nearest OCU to keep a closer watch over the van.

Meanwhile, he had time to check in with WPC McLaughlin.

‘Anna Barham’s still in her flat, sir, she hasn’t moved.’

‘No sign of Jamie Barham?’

‘No sir.’

‘Because he’s in the back of that van,’ muttered Mariner to himself, and then, to Karen, ‘Give Anna a call, as an old friend, ringing to see how she is. Don’t identify yourself or give any clue that we’re abreast of the situation. Nothing clever, just a fishing call.’ And as an afterthought, ‘Give your name as “Karen Brocken”.’

McLaughlin called back as the jumbled carriageways of Spaghetti Junction loomed, HGVs trundling high along the M6 like a procession of lethargic snails. ‘Contact made, sir. She caught on straight away, too. Jamie has “gone out” with friends. She doesn’t know where they’ve taken him, but she’s waiting for a call to say when and where she can collect him.’

‘He is in the back of that van.’

Knox killed the lights and siren. ‘You think they’re planning to keep him?’ he said.

‘Or dump him off at a motorway services somewhere.

What could be more natural. They can make it look as if they’re dropping off a hitchhiker, then blend straight back into the traffic’ Leaving Jamie Barham to fend for himself.

The radio crackled again, ‘Two-man dinghy passing through Salford Trading estate, approaching Cuckoo Bridge, at about two hundred yards, all units standing by, sir.’ Just as the blue transit came into view. Knox drove straight past it, round the corner and out of sight, made a three-point turn, doubled back and pulled into a gap between kerb-side vehicles thirty yards away. The driver of the transit may have seen them, but Mariner doubted it. He was too busy watching for someone else.

‘All units from DI Mariner. Wait for my signal. When all suspects are in the van, we move in.’

Knox glanced across at him. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to follow them, wait until they make contact with the recipient, sir? If we take them now, all we get are the errand boys.’

Mariner had considered that option, but he could only think of Anna Barham, sick with anxiety for her brother.

He was unequivocal. ‘They’ve got Jamie Barham. I want him safely recovered, now.’

But in the end the task proved impossible. With surprise on their side, the operation was over in minutes. On Mariner’s instructions the teams at the scene watched as the dinghy approached Cuckoo Bridge. Right on cue the two men abandoned their getaway craft and, scrambling up the steps from the bridge, made a run for the van. As the rear door opened and it began to pull away, Mariner gave the order, ‘Go!’ and the officers moved in, blocking the van and giving chase to the men. Two were caught immediately, but the driver of the transit escaped back down the steps and on to the canal, running off along the towpath beneath the soaring concrete pillars that shored up thousands of tons of continuously-flowing motorway vehicles.

Mariner gave chase into a dark and dank no-man’s-land of harsh concrete and scrubby wasteland that echoed to the constant and deafening thunder of overhead traffic. The man dodged behind a concrete pillar and into a tunnel, Mariner trailed him, his lungs burning, splatting through oily puddles that soaked his socks, pursuing his quarry out and on to one of the walkways that crossed and re-crossed the canal. Cat and mouse in the centre of a vast and deadly theme park ride.

For a while it looked as if Mariner would lose the man in the complex mass of tunnels and bridges, but following under a low, dark flyover he emerged to be confronted by a sheer forty-foot wall, the only way out via crudely hewn steps leading up to a slip road high above. Undeterred by the dead end, the driver was heaving himself upward, already twenty feet from the ground. But this was Mariner’s territory and launching himself at the wall, he ascended quickly and began to gain ground. Almost within grasp, he made a lunge for the man’s ankle, but simultaneously the driver kicked out viciously, causing Mariner to momentarily lose his footing. For several seconds he flailed in mid-air while he struggled to regain a hold, before slithering down again over the jagged concrete, landing hard in the dirt at the bottom.

The driver gave a triumphant leer back over his shoulder, before vaulting over the crash barrier to freedom.

Almost instantaneously, there came a prolonged, blood chilling screech followed by the smallest muffled thud. A cloud of bluish smoke billowed into the air. It was a freedom short-lived. Mariner knelt over in the dirt and vomited.

When the retching diminished, Mariner brushed himself down, buttoning his jacket over the spots of blood that were already seeping through his shirt, before calling for an ambulance and staggering back to Cuckoo Bridge. His priority now was to make sure that Jamie Barham was well looked after. But he was in for another disappointment. All that had been found in the back of the van were sleeping bags, clothing and empty fast-food cartons. Jamie Barham wasn’t there. We just lost the moon.

‘What happened to the package?’ Mariner asked the nearest uniform, hoping to at least salvage something from the fiasco.

The uniform looked sheepish. ‘It’s down there, sir.’ He pointed to the grille of a drain in the gutter. ‘He did it before we could stop him.’

Mariner walked over to the drain and peered down into the foul black abyss.

‘Well get someone down here to get it out,’ said Mariner calmly.

‘Yes sir.’

The transit driver was declared dead at the scene and Mariner was present when the other two men were booked in at the station. Initially they could be detained for resisting arrest, and possession of stolen goods, though Mariner was confident that those charges would be just the hook.

‘Don’t look much like hitmen, do they?’ was Knox’s observation, seeing the way that Snatcher’s conference suit unhappily accommodated his bulky frame. ‘I bet the only time he’s ever put on a suit before is for court appearances.’

Mariner hoped that it would be to their advantage. That discomfort might just give them the edge.

The smaller man was dark with rodent-like features and a moustache to match his lank, oily hair. Black mouth. He had an injury identical to Mariner’s, the bruising around his beak-like nose faded to greyish yellow blotches.

‘I see you’re acquainted with Jamie Barham too,’ Mariner said, but all he got in return was a blankly defiant look.

‘Take a blood sample,’ Mariner ordered. ‘It will match with the one that was on Jamie Barham’s shirt.’ But it wasn’t going to help them find the boy.

The interviews didn’t get off to a very promising start.

Bobby Weller and John ‘Snatcher’ Holmes were both, as Mariner had guessed, residents of Tyneside. The NCS database produced surprisingly light rap sheets, mainly detailing drugs-related offences. It meant that they were either new to this or smart enough not to get caught. It soon became clear that the second of these was true. Although Weller from the outset appeared to be the brighter of the two, it seemed that they were both experienced at this game. Their first move was a blatant stalling tactic.

‘I want to wait for my brief to get here,’ Weller said, with some satisfaction.

Fortunately, Mariner had already discussed the issue with Jack Coleman, who was inclined to agree with his view. ‘Sorry, no can do,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We believe you know of the whereabouts of Jamie Barham, who may well be in danger, so if you’re going to be that choosy you’ll have to start without legal representation.’

Weller’s other option in the circumstances could have been to exercise his right to silence, but perversely he chose not to take it. Unlike his partner, he seemed happy to talk.

It smacked of an agreement between the two that Weller would act as spokesman. So, from necessity, Mariner concentrated his efforts on him. Weller chain smoked his way through the interview, allowing him convenient opportunities to pause and keep his story on track, and after only a matter of minutes they were conversing through a choking blue fog.

‘What were you doing in Birmingham today?’ Mariner began, when the preliminaries had been gone through.

Weller drew on his cigarette. ‘We came to collect a parcel.’

‘What was in this parcel?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So why did you want it?’

‘We were collecting it for a friend.’

‘Without knowing what was inside? That’s very trusting of you.’ Mariner observed.