Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (16 page)

‘Ah, here we are.’ Sandra exhibited the set of keys she had taken from Trevor the day before. ‘Good thing he gave me the spare set.’

‘Or one of those pervies even? I mean, I’ve got kids here and—’

Before the woman with the washing-up bowl had finished her sentence, Sandra had opened the sliding door and jumped inside. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said and slammed the door behind her.

She went straight to the locker above the sink and was relieved to see that the green, padded envelope was still there. She was about to stuff it into her bag when she noticed that the seal seemed to have been tampered with. Her instructions had been very precise. On no account was she to look inside the package. Her job was simply to collect it and then deliver it. The contents were none of her business.

Sandra hesitated. Well maybe not, but it had already been opened so… She took hold of the envelope and peeled back the flap.

‘Eh?’

She pulled out a packet of cigarettes and stared at it before upending the Jiffy bag onto the sink drainer. Five more packs fell out, and all were identical by the look of them. She’d suspected the envelope probably contained a substantial amount of cash, but whatever she’d expected, it certainly wasn’t cigarettes.

No, this can’t be right. Why pay her two grand to collect something you could get for a hell of a lot less at your local tobacconist, and why were people apparently prepared to kill for them? Maybe Trevor had pocketed the cash, or whatever else was in the Jiffy bag, and substituted the fag packets. But why bother? He couldn’t have known she was about to catch up with him. – Damn and bollocks. Her original plan had been to grab the package and leave, but now she’d have to hang around till Trevor got back so she could ask him a few questions.

She sat down on the end of the bed, almost dizzy from the rapidness of her breathing. Her eyes darted around the interior of the van as if it were a cage and she was desperate to find some means of escape. She told herself she needed to keep calm and concentrated on controlling her breathing. Coffee might help. Most people would have considered this counter-intuitive, but Sandra often found a burst of caffeine strangely calming in situations like this.

She picked up the kettle from the hob and half filled it with water, but when she tried to light the gas, nothing happened.

‘Sod it.’

There was a small fridge, which was partly obscured by the bed, but she managed to open it just enough to see that its only contents were a couple of boil-in-the-bag cod steaks and three cans of beer. A little early, she thought, and then remembered she’d grabbed a can of Coke when she’d stopped for petrol. She searched in her bag. The Coke was a bit on the warm side, but at least it had some caffeine in it, and she was desperate for a fix.

Sandra had just taken her third mouthful when the shrill ringtone of her mobile phone startled her into inhaling rather than swallowing. Most of the Coke shot out of her mouth in a fine spray, and she spluttered as she fought to control the coughing spasms. She fished around in her bag with one hand while she held the palm of the other tight against her heaving chest. Despite being half blinded by tears, she could focus sufficiently on the phone display to recognise the number. She had ignored it before, but now she was in possession of the Jiffy bag again she had something positive to report even though she was doubtful that its contents were quite what her client was expecting. She let the phone ring a few more times to allow her lungs to recover as much as possible before answering.

‘Hello?’ Her voice was husky, and uttering even this single word almost provoked another coughing fit.

‘Sandra Gray?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Where the hell have you been? Mr Vin— er, my boss is not at all happy about what he’s been hearing.’

‘Sorry. My mobile must have been out of range.’

‘Do you have the package?’

‘Of course. It’s right here in front of me.’

Sandra had always known her innate ability to lie convincingly would be of great benefit to her as a private investigator, and she answered the ensuing barrage of questions with confidence.

– Had she looked inside it?

– Certainly not.

– Why hadn’t she picked it up from the locker herself?

– She’d been running late and sent one of her employees.

– Why hadn’t he left the card with the address details in the locker?

– He’d forgotten, he’s an idiot, and she’d already sacked him.

– Why had she attacked one of “our people”?

– She hadn’t known he was one of “their people”, and she’d thought he was trying to steal the package. (At least that part was true.)

– Was she being followed?

– No.

– Was she sure about that?

– Positive.

– Was she now in a position to be able to deliver the package?

– She said she was and did her best to disguise the hesitation in her voice.

‘How long will it take you to get to Sheffield from where you are now?’

‘Sheffield?’ said Sandra, roughly calculating the distance in her head. ‘Dunno. Couple of hours maybe?’

‘Just get there as quick as you can, okay? Arundel Gate Hotel. Room two-seventeen.’

‘Any name I should—?’ Sandra began, but the phone had gone dead.

* * *

She had almost finished her can of Coke when she heard a key being inserted into the lock of the sliding door. She sat upright on the end of the bed and pulled her bag closer to her, feeling inside for the gun she’d taken from the Scottish guy at the festival. The door slid open a couple of feet and then stopped.

There was a moment’s pause before Trevor’s head appeared in the opening.

‘Welcome home,’ said Sandra and tightened her grip on the butt of the pistol but without removing it from the bag.

Trevor opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Milly, who had apparently recognised Sandra’s voice and was inside the van and up on the bed next to her before he could utter so much as a syllable.

‘Well the dog seems pleased to see me even if you don’t,’ said Sandra, using her free hand to ward off Milly’s frenzied attempts to lick any undefended part of her face. ‘Why don’t you join us? After all,
mi
camper van
es su
camper van.’

He hesitated, so she ostentatiously moved the gun inside her bag, and he seemed to get the message.

‘Sit yourself down,’ she said and nodded towards a space on the floor that was furthest from her.

Trevor climbed into the van but instead of doing what he was told, went to the back of the passenger seat and bent forward from the waist.

Sandra thrust Milly away from her and whipped the gun from inside the bag, pointing it at the small of his back. ‘I said
sit
.’

Trevor may have been amused – and even impressed – if he had been able to see Milly instantly drop down on her rear end and gaze eagerly up at Sandra as if awaiting further instructions. If he had also known there was a gun pointing at him, he would no doubt have stopped what he was doing and straightened up with both hands in the air. Without the benefit of having eyes in the back of his head, however, he muttered something about sorting the chair out, pulled a small lever and swivelled the passenger seat through a hundred and eighty degrees so that it faced inwards towards Sandra. He sat down, and his hands reached upwards to shoulder level when he finally noticed the gun.

Sandra lowered it and smiled. ‘Wondered what you were up to for a moment there. Thought you might have some kind of hidden weapon.’ Then she laughed as another thought struck her. ‘Maybe even an ejector seat.’

Trevor grunted. ‘Yeah, that’s right. This van used to belong to James Bond, you know. Traded in his Aston Martin for it in fact. Oh the Aston had all the fancy gadgets like bulletproof shields and spikes coming out of the wheels and a thing for making smokescreens and spreading oil on the road, but there was nowhere to cook a decent meal or even do the washing up. As for somewhere to sleep, well…’ He spread his raised palms outwards.

‘You can put your hands down now if you want,’ said Sandra in a quiet, almost soothing tone. Flippancy wasn’t a reaction she would have anticipated from someone who had a gun pointing at them, and she interpreted it as a sign that Trevor had been pushed to the edge of rational thought. In that state, he was potentially dangerous and needed to be handled with care – for the time being at least.

She picked up one of the packets of cigarettes from the small pile on the sink drainer. ‘So then, Trevor,’ she said. ‘I think there are one or two things you and I need to talk about.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Logan was sitting with his face in his hands when DC Swann came back into the interview room.

‘So what was all that about?’ she said and flopped down onto the chair opposite him. Logan’s response was muffled, so she asked him to repeat what he’d said.

He placed his palms on the table and slowly raised his head as if the effort required all of the strength he had left. ‘Spooks.’

‘What?’ Swann’s expression would have been much the same if he’d punched her on the nose.

‘Yep, MI5,’ said Logan with a sour grin and performed a brief drum roll on the edge of the table with his fingertips. ‘The very same.’

‘But what’s it got to do with them?’

‘Oh yeah, and they’re going to tell
me
that, aren’t they? A detective bloody sergeant.’

‘Well what did they say exactly?’

‘I haven’t spoken to them. The message just now was to phone the guv’nor, so I did. He tells me that the spooks had got wind of our little investigation and were not at all happy about it. Apparently, they’re after our friend Trevor for something a whole lot bigger, and we were getting in their way.’

‘Oh right,’ said Swann with a scowl. ‘So now he’s some kind of international terrorist?’

‘No idea. All I know is we were to release him immediately and drop the whole thing altogether – or at least till MI5 have finished with him.’

‘What do you mean, “finished with him”?’

‘I think the precise words were “satisfactorily concluded their own enquiries”.’

Swann slumped back in her seat. ‘So that’s that then, is it?’

‘Hardly.’

‘But if the guv’nor says—’

‘Sod the guv’nor. I’ve got my own “enquiries to conclude”,’ said Logan, snatching up the buff coloured folder from the table and brandishing it at her. ‘I don’t care if this guy is Osama Bin Laden’s wicked bloody uncle. I just want to know if he murdered his wife or not.’

‘But if we get found out, we’ll be lucky if we end up on traffic duty.’

Logan tossed the folder back onto the table. ‘Well we’ll just have to be discreet then, won’t we? In fact, we won’t be able to do anything at all until we know where he ends up.’

‘So we still keep a tail on him?’

‘Certainly. And as long as the plods don’t mess up, nobody’ll be any the wiser.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, I make that about coffee time.’

‘And you’ll be wanting me to fetch it, I suppose.’

‘No, no, no. Not a bit of it,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s go and see what the canteen in this fine establishment has to offer.’

‘Blimey. You feeling flush or something?’

‘I don’t remember saying I was going to
pay
.’

Swann rolled her eyes as he opened the door and waited for her to join him. ‘Okay, I’ll do you a deal,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the coffees, and you can buy me lunch at some quaint little country pub.’

Logan nodded at the table behind her. ‘You forgot the file.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Patterson peeled back the top slice of white bread and peered at the three thin rashers of fatty bacon, poking at each one in turn with his knife.

‘And what’s this supposed to be?’

Statham had just taken a mouthful of scrambled egg, and he washed it down with a gulp of tea from a chipped white mug before answering. ‘I’m no expert of course, but I’d say it was a bacon sandwich.’

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

‘Forgot what?’

‘When you put in the order. You forgot to ask for crispy.’

‘No I didn’t.’

Patterson jabbed at one of the rashers. ‘So what do you call this then? It’s certainly not crispy by most commonly accepted definitions of the word.’

Statham put down his own knife and fork and leaned forward to examine the bacon more closely. ‘Oh yeah, I see what you mean. Not crispy at all. More like… fatty, I’d say.’

‘Exactly.’ Patterson slammed his knife down onto the once cream-coloured tabletop and sat back heavily in his chair. ‘I mean, I know this is hardly the Savoy Grill, but surely even a crappy little caff like this knows what crispy bloody bacon looks like.’

‘Probably more sho,’ said Statham through a piece of blackened sausage, which seemed to be burning his mouth. ‘Should almosht be a shpeshiality in a plaish like thish.’