Highbridge (20 page)

‘Boldly going where no one else in their right mind would go?'

‘Probably. But then Joe and I did a lot of things out of sheer boredom.'

‘Which explains a lot. And why Fatty and his gang have them queuing down that alley. We going to hit him again tomorrow?'

‘See how bright he is. Whether he figures it out and calls in the troops.'

‘Let's hope he's brighter than he looks, then. How'd you want your eggs?'

‘Just as they come?'

‘Good answer.'

Which was something Fatchops hadn't found. He was still searching for an answer while throwing his clothes into a washing machine: it was part of his POLO as he was actually more concerned about his own forensic residue than that of Luke and the others, as it was more durable than that left by firing a weapon. For this reason he always appeared to wear the same clothes, having a cupboard capable of providing three changes a day. For the lunch, dinner and chucking-out time waves. He walked back into the now spotlessly clean shop and stood looking at the damaged drinks cabinet once more, not quite convinced that a bottle of fake cola could do so much damage. His head was still pounding from the fall. He'd take an over-the-counter drug, not one of his own, and figure it out in the morning.

BY THE TIME
Fatchops began his search for the real answer to what had happened the previous night, Joey had visited Luton, Birmingham, Stoke-on-Trent and Crewe, reinforcing his twin beliefs that modern transport enabled people to make journeys undreamt of in his grandparents' age and that they were designed to make Londoners feel safe in their beds, certain that no provincial hordes could descend on them overnight in an orderly manner. Similarly, it was virtually impossible for anyone to escape the outer reaches of the capital beyond 23.30, when all long-distance trains were suspended, unless they already had an escape plan in place. Joey had three. He always had. Ever since starting the weekly commute he had wanted to know how fast he could get back to Natasha and the kids if wanted to. Like now.

The full-on emergency option was taking Benno's ambulance, but that would mean returning it. And right now Joey didn't think he would be coming back. By the time he left Benno going after a new world record for snoring, his options had been reduced to one of the other two. The 23.30 overnight bus to Liverpool had gone. That left the half-past midnight service to Manchester, but looking at his phone he knew it would be touch and go whether he could get to Victoria Coach Station in time. Its second stop at Golders Green was also on the edge. He could, however, get to its third stop at Luton Airport by 01.40 by taking a direct train from Blackfriars. After that he'd have to change buses at Birmingham, then drop off at Stoke and catch a train to Crewe, then home. It was part of his weekly routine to check the timetables in the hope of finding a more direct route, but there never was. At least this one allowed plenty of time at each changing point for delays. And pondering. On what he would be walking into when he got home.

Once at Stoke he knew Natasha could collect him within forty minutes, but that would mean her getting up early, not being able to do the school run, and that would escalate her anxiety. Better, he thought, to jump on another local train to Crewe and be home before she got back from the school run. Then he would be able to calm her down face-to-face. So at 07.00, just after purchasing his ticket to Crewe, he sent a holding text.
HOPE THINGS BETTER THIS MORNING. TRAVELLING. TALK LATER. LXXJ.
He then tapped his favourites and found Benno's number. Time to tell him what he was up to.

Neither Mercedes nor Fatchops were in the best of moods as they came through from the back of the chippy. Fatchops was fiddling with a large crêpe bandage that was now wrapped round his head. Mercedes was fiddling with the drawstring on a pair of definitely non-designer baggy, and chequered, catering trousers. Their depression was deepened by the knowledge that no matter what had happened last night, they had lost most of their product to the deep-fat fryer and while that had had to be cleaned out, the money for the product would still have to be accounted for.

Waste was a term with only one meaning in their business and if they didn't pay up it would be applied to them. While a grumpy Fatchops moved to start getting things ready for the day, a sullen Mercedes unlocked the external door then threw both the keys and a killer look back at the counter. Giving a last irritated look at the baggy trousers, he opened the door and stepped out, pulling his coat around him against the wind as he hurried to his car, grateful for the keyless entry that would allow a quick exit before anyone with any fashion sense could see him.

Whether Matt had any real views on the subject was open to question and if he did they were probably directed more towards Joey's sartorial companion Benno, but the sight of Mercedes scurrying up the road made him laugh.

‘He doesn't look like a happy bunny this morning,' Matt's voice announced in Luke's ear. They were now using Motorola MT352 walkie-talkies with voice-activated headsets held securely in place with surgical tape as they were wary of using the pay-and-throws for extended periods, or of relying on the vagaries of the mobile networks for instant communication. The Motorolas had an advertised potential range of 35 miles across 22 channels, each with 121 privacy codes. The 35 miles claim was always followed by an asterix, of course, meaning don't rely on it, but they would cope with a few miles round Highbridge. And they might not survive being dropped out of a helo or Warrior, like their usual comms kits, but they came with a few other advantages. They were really cheap, licence free and could be bought for cash. And while their expensive encrypted kit was designed so no one could eavesdrop, that always assumed someone was trying to listen. The other great advantage of the MT352s was that their frequencies were illegal in the UK, so the chances of someone else having one and stumbling across which of the 2,662 potential channels they chose to use was remote.

While Matt was back on the hill, Luke was sitting in an old Transit van just down the street from the chippy. It was parked so he would have a clear line of sight from its side door, although at the moment it was closed and he was sitting watching the Mercedes start to move away on a small colour monitor he had taped to his thigh. It may not have been as sophisticated as the chippy's CCTV, but the small inspection camera at the end of the flexible optic tube they had wedged into the door seal gave a clear view of the whole street.

‘It's not bad, this. How much was it?'

‘Seventy quid in a sale from Maplin. Got it for sixty-five for cash,' Matt replied. ‘Says it'll do night vision too. But only at 1.5 metres.'

‘Useful to see who you've tripped over, then?' Luke asked as he slid back behind the Barrett.

‘Think they had inspecting your drains or hidden wiring, rather than target spotting, actually, Carlton. And something you might find in a crappy builder's van.'

Luke had the Barrett on a tripod so he could shoot from a sitting position. He was wedged between side racks of chaotically stacked trays filled with electrical fittings and plumbing pipework, along with all the screws, nails and general bits and bobs that make up the organised chaos of any typical builder's van. To the casual eye. To the more experienced viewer it would look exactly what it was. A collection of junk and scrap. For two weeks, alongside scoping the chippy, they had been scavenging skips, taking full advantage of the throwaway society.

After running a vehicle check paid for with a prepaid credit card, they had bought the van on eBay for £300, complete with eight months' MOT and one month's tax by phoning the buyer direct. They had turned up, paid cash and given the address of a Domino's pizza outlet in Birmingham. Neither should have done that under eBay's terms, but then again, neither should people be selling illegal drugs. Nor other people planning to shoot them. By the time the DVLA V5C form had worked its way through the system, Fatchops and the Transit would be history, someone at Domino's would probably return the V5C to the DVLA and the seller would be an innocent victim of who knew what. All in all, eBay would probably never find out. Especially that its one-time listing was now parked up in a northern town as a sniper hide posing as just another builder's white van. To the casual eye.

And it was casual eyes they were depending on, as they had agreed that, although it was a long time to sit and wait for the spudman to make his delivery, parking up early was the best option. Most people are half asleep on their way to work or school, so they wouldn't notice Matt park up and leave a white van with a tool bag. Just another builder doing a job somewhere. But a guy sitting in a van for three or more hours would attract attention. Even to a casual eye.

As a result, Matt was now halfway up the hill watching through a pair of birdwatching binoculars. Just another middle-aged bloke filling his unemployed time, but he could be back at the van within minutes. As soon as he saw the spudman approaching.

‘They do make me laugh, these characters,' Matt continued. ‘They live among the world's filth but are always so flash – no, fastidious, about their appearance.'

‘Playing the part,' Luke responded. It's like the footballer's manual. Tattoos. 4×4. Big headphones. These guys think it's designer clothes and cars.'

Matt chuckled again. ‘He's probably got a gold-plated phoney AK under his bed too.'

‘Is anybody likely to walk past and see you talking to yourself?' Luke replied.

‘That Lukey for shut up and wait?'

‘It is.'

‘OK.'

It was also Luke's way of keeping everything as normal as possible. Ordinary. It's often not what's in front of people that matters but what they pick up or sense. Even if a passer-by saw Matt chuntering away to himself they would probably just think he was talking on his handsfree. But perhaps not if he was animated while looking through his binoculars. Joining dots that are sometimes not obvious. Like peripheral vision and the reason they kept their eyes moving, from point to point, as it's the peripheral vision that picks up movement. Or like the lines they had sprayed on the road the week before. There for everyone to see. White, like the ones councils spray round holes instead of fixing them. One circle with an arrow pointing to the kerb. Another arrow on the kerb pointing into the road. Few would even notice, never mind wonder what they were, but when the Transit parked with the arrows lining up with the two mud splashes below each door window, Matt and Luke knew that when the side door cracked open a few inches it would present a perfect shot. Like the previous night. Straight through Fatchops's front door. It's all in the prep.

‘Tell me what really happened last night before the beasts come down,' Natasha asked, as she leaned across to examine Tanya's now badly bruised eye. ‘You'll need to cover that a bit more.'

‘Why?' Tanya asked, defiantly. ‘If anyone asks I'll tell them what happened.'

Natasha sighed. Knowing she had already lost the argument about not provoking more trouble. But she had a maternal duty to probe. ‘Well, you could start by telling me?' she asked. More in hope.

Now it was Tanya's turn to let out a long sigh. She had a teenager's duty to evade. ‘Just Becky still not getting it.'

‘What?' Natasha couldn't follow the logic jump. ‘Last night it was all about things exploding and guys pushing you about?'

‘We were only there because Becky can't get what that guy's after.'

‘Which is?'

Tanya just looked. ‘Er … Where've you been for the last few years? White girls are easy?' With the faintest shake of her head she took her tea and headed for the door.

‘Is that it?' Natasha called, but got no answer. Obviously it was no longer a trending tropic, but at least Tanya appeared to have her head screwed on about sexual predators. That just left Joey to update. She headed across to the patio doors to let Roscoe in after his morning patrol and pulled her phone from the pocket of the fleece Joey really hated. One of the advantages of him not being around in the week. She could grab whatever was still on the bedroom chair, like every other school run mum. She saw his holding text then replied.
WHAT TIME TALK
?
LX2T
The text went the three miles to the nearest phone mast, then the ten miles to the nearest exchange, 200 miles to the central server then back, to be delivered to Joey's phone half a mile away, as the cab that was ferrying him from the station turned off the High Street towards home. By the time he got there, there was only Roscoe waiting with a happy but confused look on his face. It couldn't be the weekend already!

‘Aye, lad,' Joey said as he grabbed Roscoe's nose and gave him a playful to-and-fro. ‘New routine.'

Roscoe just stood. Waiting. As a puppy he used to like this game that would end up in a fun fight round the kitchen, but as he got older he had adopted a resigned tolerance, knowing that it wouldn't last long. He was right. Joey gave him a head rub, then went to the coffee machine as he texted Natasha.
AFTER SCHOOL RUN
?
LMOREXXXJ
Natasha looked at the text from Joe, but was too preoccupied trying to keep up with her mother's spiralling conversation.

‘I'll follow you, then.'

‘Mum, you gave up driving five years ago.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes,' Natasha confirmed, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. It only made matters worse. ‘Remember, you had that funny turn when you ended up nearly driving into the canal?' How could anyone forget that, she thought, but the mind is a mysterious thing, especially when it starts to fail.

‘Not really. You sure that was me and not … er … not …?'

‘Who?' It was an automatic response, but Natasha was still coming to terms with her mother, Grace's, early signs of dementia. Or perhaps not coming to terms with it, as Joe was beginning to say.