Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (13 page)

Patterson was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat of a green Skoda Octavia, rigid with fury.

‘How the hell did you manage to lose a beat-up old camper van?’ he yelled into the onboard radio.

‘Ran out of petrol, guv,’ came the crackled reply.

‘Oh terrific.’

‘Yeah, they must have seen the film about that Irish bloke – IRA I think he was. Anyway, he knew he was going to be followed by the police so he’d got a spare can of petrol in the boot of his car, and when they—’

‘For Christ’s sake, just shut up and tell us where you are.’

Radio static was the only response.

‘You still there?’ Patterson said after a few moments.

More static.

‘Sleepy? Bashful?’

This time, he heard what sounded very much like stifled laughter amongst the static, and Statham coughed and spluttered in the seat beside him.

Patterson shot him a withering look and then spoke into the radio again. ‘Right. That’s it. I’ve had enough of all this Snow White nonsense. You’re back to Jarvis and Coleman from now on. Understood?’

‘Okay, Grump— um, guv.’

‘We’ll get your location from the GPS, so just stay where you are and we’ll come and pick you up.’

The radio interference intensified, but Patterson thought he heard the words “going anywhere”, “petrol” and “duh”. He replaced the microphone in its holder on the dashboard and sat back with a sigh, rubbing the palms of his hands down his face.

‘Then what?’ said Statham, dropping down a gear and accelerating hard out of a bend.

‘Put out a trace on the camper van first, I suppose, and then report in to see what the brass has to say.’

‘Rather you than me.’

Patterson slammed his hand down onto the dashboard. ‘What a God almighty balls-up.’

‘Watch it, guv. I nearly did an emergency stop then.’

He looked across at Statham and saw that he was smiling. He was about to let fly with a stream of abuse but checked himself. What was the point? It wasn’t his fault that the operation was on the brink of disaster. Mind you, if he ever laid eyes on those bloody Cupids again…

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Trevor turned into the car park of the roadside diner and found a space at the rear of the building where the van wouldn’t be spotted from the road. He switched off the engine, and Milly stood up on the back seat and stretched herself, seemingly refreshed from her long sleep.

He waited for Sandra to finish her phone call. She’d rung someone about a lunch date the next day and told them she might not be able to make it. – A friend or maybe a relative, but not a boyfriend or husband by the sound of it. She’d started off with ‘Hi, it’s Sandra’, so at least he knew her name now even if pretty much everything else about her was a complete mystery.

She ended the call and put the mobile back in her bag. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything silly while we’re here,’ she said, picking up the gun from the dashboard and depositing it in the bag with her phone.

‘Like what exactly?’ Trevor was tired and aching from the long drive, and he made no attempt to conceal his irritability.

‘I think I’d better have those.’ She held out her hand as he took the keys from the ignition.

He dropped them into her outstretched palm and then made his way through the gap between the driver and passenger seats into the back of the van. He opened one of the small fitted cupboards above the sink and took out a box of dog biscuits. Milly leapt on the half dozen that he threw on the floor and devoured them as if she hadn’t had a scrap to eat in days.

‘Here,’ said Sandra. ‘You may as well stick this in there for now.’

She tossed the padded, green Jiffy bag at him, and he caught it one-handed. He placed it in the cupboard along with the box of dog biscuits and closed the door.

Five minutes later, Sandra and Trevor sat opposite each other at a red Formica-topped table, each of them studying a garishly designed, laminated menu, which gleamed under the brightness of the fluorescent lights. The restaurant was almost full, and the general hubbub of chatter mingled with the jangle and clatter of cutlery and crockery. Above all this, a baby was screaming as if determined not to be consoled.

‘I’ll have a cheeseburger and chips and a large coffee,’ said Sandra, scraping back her chair and getting to her feet. ‘I’m desperate for a pee.’

She picked up the van keys from the table and dangled them in front of Trevor’s face. ‘No tricks, eh?’

‘And what d’you reckon I’m going to do without those?’ he said, looking up from his menu.

‘Let’s just say I don’t entirely trust you,’ she said with a faint smile before turning and heading towards the toilets with apparent urgency.

Trevor watched her go, and as he did so, a girl of about sixteen in a red and black uniform arrived at his table, notepad and pen at the ready. Despite her rake-like physique, she was partially obscuring his view, and he had to lean to one side so he could continue to observe Sandra’s progress.

‘You ready to order?’ said the girl and flicked her head backwards to dislodge a lock of dyed black hair from in front of her eyes.

‘Er… yes,’ said Trevor without diverting his gaze to either her or the menu. ‘Cheeseburger and chips and a large coffee please.’

The waitress started scribbling on her notepad and then paused. ‘Chips?’ she said as if the word was completely foreign to her.

‘Oh, er, fries I mean.’

‘Regular, large, or super?’

‘Small,’ said Trevor and stood up when he saw the heavily sprung door to the ladies’ toilet swing shut behind Sandra.

‘We don’t do small. We only do regular, large, or—’

‘Super. Yes. – Make it super then,’ Trevor called out over his shoulder as he strode towards the exit.

Outside in the car park, he broke into a run and pulled the spare set of van keys from his pocket.

* * *

Sandra got to the exit, via the empty table, just in time to see the van turn left onto the main road.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said and stared at the keys in her hand for a few moments until the penny dropped. She chided herself for her stupidity – and her bladder for its limited capacity – until her eyes focused on the yellow cardboard tag that was attached to the keyring. It was printed with the name and logo of a car dealer, but what particularly caught her attention were the letters and numbers written on the back of the card in red ink – the vehicle’s registration number.

She walked over to the table which Trevor had so recently vacated and sat down. She took out her mobile phone and was scrolling through her contacts list when a skinny waitress with dyed black hair came over and asked her if she was ready to order.

‘Cheeseburger, chips and a large coffee,’ said Sandra without taking her eyes from her phone.

The waitress tutted and started writing on her notepad. ‘Cheeseburger,
fries
and a large coffee,’ she said, but with heavy emphasis on “fries”. ‘So will that be regular, large or super
fries
?’

‘Regular,’ said Sandra but then suddenly looked up at her. ‘No, hang on. Make that super. I think I’m in need of a serious carbohydrate fix.’

‘Whatever,’ muttered the girl and wrote on her pad once more before slouching off towards the counter.

Sandra found the number she was searching for on her mobile and pressed the Call button. A familiar voice answered almost immediately.

‘Martin, it’s Sandra. I need a favour.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The glare from the early evening sun was starting to make him squint, so he reached up and pulled down the sun visor. He vaguely registered that he must therefore be heading west, but other than that, Trevor neither knew nor cared where he was making for. All he did know was that he wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Sandra and the various other people who seemed intent on either arresting him or doing him serious physical harm.

He’d estimated that an hour’s driving would put him beyond the reach of any pursuers for the time being at least, and the straightness and smooth surface of the road had encouraged him to push the van almost to its limits. He’d covered about fifty miles now, and the appalling smells that were emanating from the back seat reminded him that Milly must be getting desperate for a squat-break, so he began to look out for campsite signs.

Eventually, he spotted one which claimed that there was a site two miles from the main road. He took the turning and, about five miles later, drove in through the main gate of the Riverside Farm Campsite.

He checked in at the small wooden office inside the entrance and found a spot near to a slow flowing river, from which he assumed the campsite derived its name. He jerked on the handbrake, switched off the engine and sat back in his seat, surveying his surroundings. The campsite was large but sparsely populated, with gravel tracks criss-crossing the neatly trimmed grass, which sloped gently down to the river.

This will do nicely, he thought, as Milly leapt onto the passenger seat beside him and began to lick his face with eager enthusiasm.

‘Okay, girl,’ he said, patting her on the head. ‘I get the message.’

He opened the driver’s door, and Milly bounced off his lap and out onto the grass.

‘Don’t go far. And don’t go annoying anybody,’ Trevor shouted after her, increasing his volume so she could hear him as she sped away, zig-zagging this way and that with her nose to the ground like some manically out-of-control mine detector.

He went to the back of the camper and lifted the tailgate. He pulled out a small folding picnic table and chair and set them up next to the side door of the van. Sliding the door open, he climbed inside and randomly grabbed a packet of Simmer ‘n’ Serve from the cupboard behind the driver’s seat. There were half a dozen varieties of dried ready-meals to choose from, but he was in no mood to be picky. He’d already begun to feel light-headed with hunger, and his stomach was threatening to implode. He needed to get something solid inside him, and fast.

Half filling a saucepan with water, he placed it on the three-ring hob and turned on the gas, but when he clicked on the ignition button, the expected flame failed to materialise. Click-click-click-click-click. – Nothing.

‘Oh bloody hell. Don’t tell me…’

He jumped out of the van and hurried round to the far side. Wrenching open the other sliding door, he snatched up the small blue gas bottle and shook it. – It was empty.

He rammed it back into its compartment and slammed the door shut.

This was the first time he’d tried to use the cooker, and it had never occurred to him to check there was at least some gas on board when he’d bought the van. They probably sold refills in the campsite shop, but it was already closed. What an idiot.

Still, no need to panic. He could always make a sandwich and—

Then it struck him. He’d intended to pick up bread and milk and a few other bits and pieces once he’d left his mother’s place and was on the road, but what with the breakdown and all the other comings and goings, it had completely slipped his mind.

Back inside the van, he rummaged through the cupboards in search of anything edible that didn’t require some form of heating, but his quest was in vain. Not even a tin of baked beans, which he would have gladly eaten cold on this occasion. He dropped to his knees and examined the contents of the tiny fridge. A couple of boil-in-the-bag cod in parsley sauce and a six-pack of beer. Now there’s an idea. Quite a lot of protein in beer.

He peeled off a can and went to the locker above the sink to fetch a glass. When he opened it, the box of dog biscuits caught his eye. – Oh, come on. He was ravenous, yes, but not quite that desperate… yet. Reaching in for the glass, the back of his hand brushed against the Jiffy bag. He’d been trying to put it out of his mind, curious to know what it contained but afraid that opening it might land him in even more trouble than he was already. – But maybe… just maybe, and talking purely hypothetically of course… he could probably… if he really wanted to… and he wasn’t convinced he did… be really really careful unsealing it, have a quick peek inside and close it again so nobody’d be any the wiser.

Taking hold of a corner between forefinger and thumb, he eased it from the cupboard as if it were contaminated with some deadly virus.

He stepped out of the van and placed the can of beer, the glass and the Jiffy bag on the table and sat down. Fastidiously positioning the padded envelope so that one of its long sides was exactly parallel to the edge of the table, he poured the beer, never taking his eyes off the package for a moment. He took a long drink and continued to stare at it. What the hell was he doing with the bloody thing? More importantly, what the hell was inside it that had so suddenly turned his quiet and ordinary life into a nightmare of guns and mayhem?

For several more minutes, he looked and pondered, taking frequent sips from his beer until the temptation became far too strong. He put down his glass and slowly reached out both hands towards the Jiffy bag. Again, he used only his forefingers and thumbs to take a tentative hold of the two nearest corners.