Facing Justice (5 page)

‘I'm too old, and so is Kate,' Henry said. ‘We've only just got rid of the two daughters as it is – and they keep bouncing back like they're on elastic bands. It's chill time, pal.'

‘Karen's no spring chicken,' Donaldson pointed out.

‘How gentlemanly,' Henry remarked. ‘Is everything going OK?'

‘Aw, hell yeah. Child-bearing hips, y'know. She's blooming – and the pregnant sex is awesome.'

‘Whoa.' Henry made the number one stop sign. ‘Too much. Anyway, glad to hear things are fine, but it'll put the brakes on everything else,' he warned his companion.

Donaldson sipped his third lager ruminatively. ‘Guess so.' His voice was wistful. Then, ‘Hey! I have an idea.'

‘Go on.'

‘Before she gives birth, how about you and me sneaking away for a night or two of debauchery? Wet the baby's head before it arrives.'

‘If I recall, the last time you were off the leash, you debauched a little too much.'

Donaldson looked sheepishly at Henry, his mind full of the one and only time he had been unfaithful to Karen. In a hotel room in Malta with a Scandinavian lady who had subsequently bombarded and terrified him with obscene e-mails with photographic attachments. ‘I was thinkin' more of a guy thing. Not sure what, though.'

‘Whatever, it would have to be short and sweet, I guess. How about a walk and an overnighter?'

‘A walk? Do you walk?'

‘I've been known to put one foot in front of the other occasionally. We could set off over the hills one day, overnight in a village pub somewhere, then walk on. Park a car at either end, something like that.'

Donaldson thought about it. ‘Lake District, you mean?'

‘Possibly,' Henry shrugged.

‘And now for round two of our Krazee Kwiz Nite.' Their conversation was interrupted as the voice of Ken, the landlord, boomed out over the PA system. ‘Pens and answer sheets at the ready. Next ten questions are on the hits of the sixties.'

‘Ahh,' Donaldson said, ‘your era.'

‘You ain't far behind, pal.'

There was no more talk that night of a boys' break, but it was a thought that remained with them, nagging away at the back of their minds.

Jack Vincent sat in the battered chair at the battered desk inside the stolen mobile cabin that doubled as his office and a refreshment area for the workers in the quarry that deeply scarred the hillside a quarter of a mile away. Vincent's cruel face set hard as he shivered and hunched himself deeper into his thick donkey jacket. The gas heater was on, but fighting a losing battle against the harsh north-easterly wind that swooped down from the moors above the village of Kendleton in north Lancashire. Keeping any warmth in the cabin was a constant battle as the outside temperatures continued to tumble with the approach of evening.

From Vincent's position, looking out from the cabin, he could monitor any traffic approaching the quarry up the steep winding lane from the main road. He could watch his heavy lorries as they reached another cabin where they booked in and then were sent on the right-hand fork through the gates into a steel-walled compound. Here any ‘necessary changes' were attended to by Vincent's fitter, before they were sent on towards the loading area, where the crushing and filtering machines smashed the rock that had been blown out of the quarry face, then graded it to customer requirements. The lorries were then refilled and sent back out on the road.

At the moment, Vincent's main customer was a huge multinational road-building company subcontracted by the Department of Transport to widen a stretch of the M6 near Stafford. It was a government contract worth several million pounds and Vincent had manoeuvred brutally to get his piece of it. There had been the necessary payoffs, a bit of very heavy intimidation against his rivals – because a well-paid contract like this was always hard fought for by the minnows – and one particularly nasty incident where Vincent and his silent partner had been forced to resort to whacking the edge of a shovel into a man's head. There was now nothing left of that man. He had been fed limb by limb into a crusher, mixed in with a few tons of hardcore, and was buried underneath a bridge pillar on the stretch of motorway he had, ironically, been so keen to build.

Vincent checked his watch, a Rolex, incongruous against the sleeve of his grubby donkey jacket, then peered down the twisting track.

Two empty lorries were expected. Their fourth run of the day. And, like clockwork, they appeared. They were huge monsters, but even they were overshadowed by the giant machines that worked the quarry itself.

Vincent smiled and his face softened with triumph. There would be something extra for each of these vehicles when they left the quarry with the many tons of ground rock in them. He stood up.

The first of the lorries drew up at the reception cabin. The driver dropped out of the cab. He went in and did some paperwork with the woman who dealt with admin, the dispatch and return of orders. Then he clambered back and drove through to the compound, pulling up with a hiss of airbrakes under a drive-through awning constructed of corrugated metal. He got out of the cab again and turned to Vincent, who had walked in behind.

‘The Department of Transport and the cops have set up a couple of stop-checks on north and southbound at Charnock services on the M6,' he told Vincent.

‘Make sure you don't stop there for a brew, then,' Vincent replied to the driver, who was called Larry Callard.

‘Just saying – they're out and about and me and Bert have already exceeded our hours today. If we get pulled, we're screwed.'

As they were talking, a man clad in overalls, rubbing his hands with an oily cloth, strolled across to them. He was big and broad, early forties, with deep-set eyes and a ruddy complexion. This was ‘Ox' Henderson, Jack Vincent's vehicle fitter.

‘What's up, boss?'

‘Department's out and about.'

‘And my hours are way over,' Callard whined.

‘Can you fix it?' Vincent asked Henderson.

‘Fix anything.' He heaved himself into the cab of Callard's lorry, lay across the seat and reached down to the tachograph, the device fitted underneath the dashboard that recorded drivers' hours on a plastic-coated disc. It was supposed to be tamper-proof. Many people, however, had found ways and Henderson was a bit of an expert with them. He had once been the transport manager of a small, criminally run haulage business, but when the company had been investigated by the ministry and the police, Henderson's way with a tachograph had been uncovered. He had been hung out to dry by the company owners, found himself behind bars for fraud for three months and then completely unemployable. Until Jack Vincent took him on.

‘Go grab a brew,' Henderson shouted from the cab. ‘Be about ten minutes here, then no one'll even know you've ever been out on the road today.' He laughed.

Callard turned to leave. Jack Vincent's spidery hand grasped his arm. ‘You having problems, Larry? I'm picking up a vibe, mate.'

‘What do you mean?' He looked nervously at Vincent.

‘I mean you do what I say and you get paid well for it – yeah? I don't want no moaning, otherwise . . .'

‘I wasn't moaning.'

Vincent held Callard's eyes meaningfully for a long second. Then he nodded as an understanding passed between them.

‘There'll be something extra in the next run. I'll give you details on the way out, OK? Usual bonus.'

‘Yuh, whatever, boss.'

Vincent's fingers uncurled from Callard's forearm and he nodded curtly. The second of the returning, empty lorries pulled into the awning. As the driver climbed out, Vincent said to him, ‘See Ox.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the first lorry, and Henderson's booted feet sticking out of the cab as he worked on the tachograph. ‘Then grab yourself a brew – but I want you back on the road in half an hour.'

‘No probs, boss,' the second driver said. His name was Bert Pinner.

Yeah, Vincent thought as he walked back towards the cabin, his head tilted against the biting wind, never is a problem with you, Bert. But I'm starting to get mighty concerned about Callard.

Whatever, this would be the last run of the day for the two lorries. By the time they'd had their tachographs fixed, then reloaded with hardcore and been sent on their way, done the delivery down the M6 – plus the extra side-bits – it would be almost ten at night.

No other traffic was due to be coming up to the quarry, so Vincent jarred to a halt when he saw a pair of headlights bouncing up the track. He stood by the door of the cabin, collar pulled up, and waited for the vehicle to arrive, which it did a few moments later, skidding to a grit-crunching stop on the stony ground.

It was a big four-wheel drive Land Cruiser, with greyed-out windows, similar to the kind of thing Vincent drove whilst on quarry business. Difference was this one was newer, cleaner and a better model. The doors opened and two men got out.

And Jack Vincent cursed himself. He wondered how quickly he could get into the cabin and reach the sawn-off shotgun he kept Velcroed under the desk, always fully loaded, usually within hand's reach.

Instead, he affixed a tight smile and approached the men, hand outstretched, the very model of welcome.

Henry and Donaldson decided to try the new menu at the Tram & Tower, which was mostly based around chicken: roast chicken, fried chicken, piri-piri chicken – and chips with either peas, carrots or salad. It was not terribly inspired and when this was delicately pointed out to the proud landlord, Ken, he looked crestfallen and pouted from underneath his beard.

‘All the products are sourced locally,' he defended his menu at the newly created ‘Food Ordering Point' at one end of the shiny new bar. He glared at Henry and Donaldson, daring them to challenge his statement. They hid their eyes behind the huge laminated menus and exchanged a look of fear. They did not want to upset a tame landlord. ‘And,' Ken declared, ‘I've got new chef. He's brill.'

‘OK, OK,' Henry said to pacify him. ‘I'm sure it'll be great. I'll have the piri-piri and Karl will have the roast breast wrapped in bacon . . . both with chips, obviously.'

Clayson entered the order into the new till with a flourish, then extended his hand for payment. ‘Twenty-seven pounds and fifty pence.'

‘Sheesh,' Henry muttered. ‘It's not cut price then?'

‘You can't cut corners with quality. And that does include your drinks and a free trip – once only, mind – to the salad bar.'

Henry inserted his debit card into the machine and tapped in his PIN. Clayson tore off the receipt and handed it over, together with a wooden spoon with a number painted on it.

‘What's this for?' Henry asked. ‘Don't we get cutlery any more?'

Clayson gave him an expressionless stare. ‘Stick it in the empty wine bottle on your table and the waitress will find you. Enjoy your meals,' he added smarmily.

The two men turned away from the bar with their drinks and found a table in an alcove. After clearing a space amongst the salt, pepper and cutlery containers that seemed to take up most of the table, Henry laid out an Ordnance Survey map, easing out the folds. Then he raised his pint of Stella Artois and clinked glasses with Donaldson, who was drinking the same.

‘To a bit of a lads' adventure, eh?'

Vincent knew one of the men, but not the other. The Land Cruiser's driver was the one he hadn't come across before and he could tell, pretty much, that he'd simply come along to help provide some intimidatory support for the passenger.

Not that he needed any help. Because the rangy black guy, who was called H. Diller, had a fearsome reputation as a torturer, enforcer and killer, and he rarely needed any help from anyone. Which meant that the message was loud and clear to Vincent. He would have been wary enough if H. Diller had turned up alone; to be accompanied by someone who looked just as hard meant that feathers had been ruffled and this was real business. Patience had worn out.

‘H. Diller,' Vincent said, offering his hand to the black man and addressing him in the way Diller demanded. Everyone was obliged to call him H. Diller – with the exception of one man. Few people knew what the H stood for, and his insistence on it being used was nothing more than an affectation, but it was one everybody respected.

Diller smiled warmly, a smile that often lured in unsuspecting mortals. He took Vincent's hand and they shook simply, no fancy fist-banging, finger-wrapping, high-fiving, just a simple manly handshake. ‘Jack, my son.'

There was an uncertain hesitation before Vincent spoke. ‘So what brings you to these parts – these cold parts?'

‘Hey, really is cold up here. Any chance of a warm?' Diller gestured to the cabin. ‘We can talk in there.'

‘You've come to talk?'

‘You bet your soul,' Diller winked.

‘Not much warmer inside.'

‘Yeah, but more convivial.'

‘Who's the running partner?' Vincent asked, nodding at the unsmiling man lounging by the four-wheel drive.

‘That's Haltenorth. He's new, but useful.' Diller clicked his tongue.

Vincent shrugged. ‘OK. There's a kettle inside we can fire up. But only got tea. That OK?'

‘Magic.'

Vincent turned and led the way. His forced smile disintegrated, knowing this was no social call. This, he knew, was purely business. Dirty business. In fact he had been expecting it, nay had engineered it, but he hadn't foreseen Diller would be the lead soldier. But then again, maybe he should have. The time for games had long since gone. Problem was, he was just slightly off balance and would have felt better if his partner had been with him. It would have made the equation much more even-handed.

‘Fuck,' Vincent uttered under his breath, half expecting Diller to step up behind him and stick the barrel of a pistol against his hindbrain and blow his head off. Things really had got that far, but the fact that Diller didn't kill him was the first of his mistakes. Vincent's smile returned as he opened the cabin door and allowed Diller and Haltenorth to enter ahead of him.