Nowhere to Hide
Nowhere To Hide
As always, to James, Adam and Jonny for their
support. And, of course, to Christine who made it all possible.
Table of Contents
Read on for case files for our undercover agents
They were some miles from the port terminal, out on the open road, before Hanlon felt able to relax slightly. âShit,' he said. âI really thought they were on to us back there.' He was a short wiry man, muscular, with the air of having drunk one too many strong coffees during the journey over.
At first he thought that Mo was asleep. But the older man opened one eye, peering at him from under his trademark trilby hat. âYou worry too much, man.'
âJesus, Mo. We've got plenty to worry about.'
Mo opened both eyes and shrugged. âI'd say not, wouldn't you? All gone smooth as clockwork.' He eased himself back in the passenger seat and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. âNot even any noise from back there.'
Hanlon glanced back over his shoulder. The two women were asleep. Partly exhaustion. Mainly the sedatives Mo had fed them as they were leaving the port. Christ, how had he allowed himself to get mixed up in this? Apart from anything else, it seemed so half-fucking-baked. âThis worth the hassle, then, you reckon?'
Mo's eyes were half-closed again, the hat slid low across his forehead. âWhat's that, man?'
âYou think it's worth it? All this?'
âNot ours to judge, man. Being paid for it, aren't you?'
âNot enough,' Hanlon said. âLike I say, I thought they were on to us back there.'
âThat was nothing. I been through far worse with those bastards. They didn't suspect a fucking thing. Even with you shaking like a bare-assed Eskimo.' Mo tried to sound like he was on the sidewalks of Harlem, but his North Wales intonation kept breaking through.
He was right, though, Hanlon thought. The passports had been convincing enough. The Immigration Officers had waved them through with no more than a couple of questions and a glance into the back of the car. He'd been worried that the two women might make a fuss, either on the ferry or when they reached the border. After all, it was their one chance to get free. But they'd played the game, just as Mo had said they would. Maybe because they were scared of Mo. They had plenty of reason to be scared. But Hanlon thought they'd just lost the will to resist. They'd been through too much. There was no future for them other than this.
âFeels like there should be a better way of doing it,' Hanlon went on. He just wanted to keep the conversation going to calm his nerve, keep focused for the long drive. Mo looked like he wanted to sleep. âSomething less risky.'
âWhat you suggest, man? Parcel post? Rolling 'em up in a fucking carpet?' Mo slid the hat fully across his face, a gesture indicating that the conversation was at an end.
He was right about that as well. As long as the women played ball, this was low risk and cheap. Two couples returning from a long weekend in Dublin. Apparently legitimate British passports. Even the ferry tickets had been bought at a discount.
Hanlon was new to this. He didn't even know how often they carried out these kinds of transactions. Not very, he guessed. They'd have other means of getting the women into the country in the first place. Most probably they arrived legitimately, lured by the prospect of jobs and money. Then, before they knew it, they'd vanished off the grid, exploited by thugs like Mo and the people he worked for.
Christ, he thought again, how the
hell
had he allowed himself to get mixed up in this?
Money. That was the short answer. A way to make the quick buck he needed. Low risk, they'd said, though he hadn't really believed that. Just help them move the merchandise about. That had been the word. Merchandise. One of the less unpleasant words.
Hanlon didn't know the background and he didn't want to. Some deal had been done across the Irish Sea, and now they were bringing these two women â hardly more than girls â to work in some brass-house in Manchester. For them, probably no different from doing the same thing in Dublin. Crap either way.
They'd had cheap tickets on the last ferry of the day, so it would be into the small hours before they reached Manchester. God, he felt tired. Mo was snoring gently now, hat flat across his face. The privilege of being the senior partner, Hanlon assumed. You got to snooze your way across North Wales, while the junior oppo kept his eyes on the road. As far as he knew, the car belonged to Mo, though Hanlon assumed the car was stolen or the plates pirated in some way. Presumably, like the faked passports, nothing would be traceable. He didn't even know for certain who Mo worked for. He had his ideas, but better not to ask too many questions, as long as they paid what was owed.
It was the first and last time, though. They'd suckered him just like they'd suckered those poor cows in the back seat. The difference was that he had an exit route. If they paid him what they'd promised, he'd have enough to settle his debts and get things back on track. Maybe even make an attempt to patch things up with Cath, if it wasn't too late for that. At least stop her playing silly buggers about giving access to Josh. Not that he had any rights in that department, after everything he'd done.
âShit.' He'd been driving on autopilot, his mind full of his unmissed past and half-imagined future. For a minute or two, he hadn't registered the flashing blue light in the rear view mirror. He glanced down at the speedometer. It would be fucking typical to be pulled over for speeding. But, no, that was okay.
He leaned over and nudged Mo. âFucking pigs,' he hissed. âBehind us.'
Mo sat up with an alacrity that suggested he perhaps hadn't been sleeping after all. He looked over his shoulder and peered through the rear window. âChrist's sake, man. Relax. They're not after us. Probably just the end of their fucking shift. Keen to get back to their loved ones. Or even their wives.' He snorted at his own wit and prepared to stretch himself back across the seat.
But the police car was already overtaking and slowing in front of them, in an unmistakable signal for them to pull over.
âJesus, Mo,' Hanlon said. âWhat the fuck do we do now?'
Mo was sitting bolt upright, looking less relaxed. âLet me do the talking. Keep calm and keep it zipped.' He looked across at Hanlon, his gaze unwavering. âNothing to worry about, man. Long as you leave it to me.'
âBut the carâ'
Mo shook his head. âWe're not fucking amateurs, man. Vehicle's stolen, but it's a ringer. Licence plates match the type and colour. Name of registered owner's the same as the passport. It's all sorted. There's nothing to worry about.'
âSo why the fuck are they stopping us?' Hanlon was already pulling into the hard shoulder, carefully following the police vehicle.
âProbably just routine. Not much opportunity to hassle a black guy out here in the sticks.' He frowned suddenly, leaning forward in his seat. âThat not right, man. Who is that guy?' He watched for a moment as a figure climbed slowly out of the car in front, then turned to Hanlon. âShit, man. Get started. Just fucking drive!'
Hanlon stared back at him, bewildered. He'd already cut the engine. Now, in the face of Mo's unexpected panic, he frantically twisted the ignition. He slammed his foot on to the accelerator, misjudging the movement, and the engine stalled.
âFuck, man. Just get it started.'
Hanlon turned the ignition again, but he'd flooded the engine and the starter turned ineffectually. In the dark outside, the figure had reached the car. Hanlon made another attempt to start the car, trying to remember what to do about a flooded ignition. Then, suddenly, the engine burst into life. As he struggled to put the car into first gear, his mind and actions refusing to coordinate, the car door beside him was pulled open. He jammed the gear stick into what he thought was first, banged his foot hard down on the accelerator and let out the clutch.
The engine coughed and died.
The figure outside said: âNeed a few more lessons, mate. Don't take off in third.'
Hanlon looked across at Mo, baffled now. Mo had his head in his hands, his body hunched as if anticipating a blow.
âFucking cowboys,' the figure said. âShouldn't be let out on your own. Give us all a bad name.'
Hanlon raised his head and stared through the windscreen at the car parked ahead of their own. Not a police car. Not a police car after all. Just a plain dark saloon with one of those magnetic blue beacons that doctors and plainclothes cops use to get through the traffic.
He looked up at the figure standing next to him. Black suit. A baseball cap. Dark glasses. No one he'd be able to recognise in daylight. Beside him, Hanlon could hear Mo breathing rapidly, murmuring something, a voice on the edge of losing it.
âNice of you two to do the heavy lifting, though,' the figure said. He leaned forward and peered into the back seat. There was a gun in his hand, Hanlon noticed, feeling oddly calm now. âBringing these two charming ladies over. I'm sure we'll use them wisely.'
He straightened up, juggling the gun gently in his hand. Then he looked back down at Hanlon. âSorry about this, son,' he said, gently. âNothing personal.'
Hanlon stared back, surprised by the softness of the man's tone. He suddenly had the sense that it was all going to be all right. The man would simply take the women and leave. Okay, he and Mo would lose the payment because they'd fucked up. But he could live with that. He could fucking live.
But the man had already taken a step back and Hanlon knew that, really, nothing would be all right again. He watched as the man crouched slightly, then raised the gun and pointed it past Hanlon into the car.
Hanlon was screaming before the gun was fired. Before he felt the rush of air and heard the explosion. Before he sensed the impact and the sudden jerk from Mo's body beside him. Before the windows and seats and his own face were showered in Mo's blood and bone and grey matter.
He was still screaming as he tried ineffectually to free himself from his seat belt, throwing himself sideways in a vain attempt to drag himself from the nightmarish, blood-drenched interior of the car.
And he stopped screaming only when the man outside raised the gun and fired for a second time.
Ken had left his car in one of these back streets, but for the moment he couldn't quite remember where. Earlier, it had seemed the obvious place, just around the corner from the club, handy for when he came out. But now he'd walked round the block twice and he still couldn't work it out.
Maybe someone had stolen it. Always possible in an area like this. Not likely, though. Not the kind of car to attract thieves. Too new to be easy pickings, but not so modern or sexy that anyone would be particularly drawn to it. Not one for the boy-racers, or for the professionals who blagged prestige cars to order. A nondescript runabout for the middle-aged. Just the way Kev liked it.