The Increment (28 page)

He's not fighting back yet, but he was a Provo back across the water in the old days.
He'll know how to take a beating.

'Here,' said Matram.

The van drew up to a halt. From the window, Matram could see they were at the end of a country lane. About two hundred yards away there was a farmhouse, but a row of trees blocked this spot from its view. Only a few sheep grazing in the next field could see him from here.

'Put him on the ground,' said Matram.

Godsall opened the back of the van, pushing Ivan roughly on to the muddy surface of the lane. The mud was caked harder than concrete, and Ivan landed roughly on the side of his shoulder. He rolled over, deflecting the force of the impact, then lay still, his hands tucked in neatly to the side of his chest.

Smart, thought Matram, hopping out of the van and standing next to Ivan. He knows he's going to get a beating, and there's nothing he can do about it.
He's just preparing himself to survive it the best he can.

'You know what, Irishman, I think you and I could get along just fine if we wanted to,' said Matram slowly.

Ivan remained completely still, his cheek lying flat against the mud.

'A bomb-maker, that's what I heard,' continued Matram, kneeling down next to Ivan. 'Always liked the fireworks boys, myself. Nice big bangs, some pretty lights and not many survivors. That's just the kind of expertise a soldier needs.' He paused. 'So if you and I wanted to be friends, I think we could work something out. Save a lot of unpleasantness.'

'You want a bomb made?' said Ivan. 'I can probably help you.'

Matram shook his head slowly from side to side. 'No, that's not it. I want to know where your friend Matt is.'

'Matt Browning? You've met him?'

'Our paths have crossed.'

'Then you'll know he's a mean fucker,' snapped Ivan, his tone hardening. 'Unless you've got some very fancy medical insurance, you should stay out of his way.'

A boot slammed into Ivan's chest, hitting him just above the heart. His body shuddered under the force of the blow, the pain rippling out from his chest into the centre of his body. He rolled backwards, coughing, as he struggled to refill his lungs with air.

'No jokes, bogtrotter,' snapped Matram. 'Like I said, if you tell me where he is, I can save you a lot of pain.'

'I don't know where he is,' said Ivan, struggling to pronounce the words.

Matram leant closer to his ear. 'We're the Increment,' he said softly. 'I'm sure you know us from the old days across the water. Best bloody fun of our lives, popping across on the BA shuttle and using some bogtrotters as target practice. It was even better when we got to rough them up a bit before we put them underground.' He paused, savouring the words, letting them roll around his tongue. 'Your lot weren't afraid of very much, but they were afraid of us. And so should you be.'

Ivan rolled his eyes upwards. He looked hard at Matram, scrutinising his clean, neatly shaven face, the squashed, flat nose and the narrow, pebble-like eyes that stared intently down. 'I'll take you to him,' he said, stretching out a hand. 'Just help me back up.'

To anyone who just wandered in for a drink, the Two Foxes off Camberwell Church Street looked just like one of a thousand south-London pubs. Faded Victorian coach lamps on the walls, thick stained wood around the bar, beer mats on every table, and the same old pair of geezers sitting in the corner every afternoon nursing their pints and rolling their own smokes. But to anyone in the know, it was an office – a place where the Walters family came to do business.

If we're safe anywhere, we're safe here, reflected Matt. The police won't come in here.
They haven't got the guts.

Eleanor was staying back at the hotel for the rest of the day: Damien didn't think the people he was about to introduce Matt to would like the idea of bringing a woman on a job. They were old school: in their world, robbing was men's work.

Jack Pointer looked straight across at Matt. A hand-rolled cigarette was dangling from his lower lip. 'Regiment?' he said, pronouncing the word with disgust.

He looked familiar. His head was round and bald, and his skin had the deathly purplish complexion of men who'd spent most of their life in jail. 'Ex,' said Matt. 'Been out for a couple of years.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Pointer. 'You are a ponce in my book.'

'Steady, Jack,' interrupted Damien. 'We're working together on this one.'

Pointer took another sip on his pint of black stout. 'We'll see about that.'

Suddenly Matt realised who he looked like: Harry Pointer, a vicious debt collector who worked for some of the Russian mobsters in Malaga, and dropped into the Last Trumpet occasionally. Matt had owed his people some money once, and had regretted it.

'I think I might know your son Harry,' said Matt. 'Nasty tub of lard, with a vicious criminal mind.'

Pointer smiled. 'That's my boy,' he said. 'Beautiful lad.' He looked up at Matt, his mood softening. 'Damien says you need help?'

'I need a train stopped.'

Pointer grinned. 'Then I'm your man.'

'Ever heard of the Balham job?' said Damien.

Matt shook his head. The gangs were just like the army, he reflected: every regiment had its own history of glorious victories and so did every gang. 'Can't say I have.'

'Seventy-two. Train carrying freshly minted banknotes up to London. Two million of them. Jack and his boys hit it. Got away with the money, as well, back when two million still meant something.'

'So what went wrong?' said Matt, looking across at Pointer. The man was at least sixty, and looked in rough shape.

'Seventy-seven, got shopped,' said Pointer. I got thirty years. Out last year.' He grinned. 'Still got my electronic tag, but I decided to leave it at home today.'

'And you can still stop a train, you reckon?'

Pointer took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and started rolling the soft leaves between his grubby fingers. 'Connex South Eastern, British Rail, it makes no difference to me,' he said. 'The one thing you can rely on with a railway in this country is that they won't have bought any new technology. We can stop it the same way we did back in the seventies. By fiddling with the signals.'

He licked the Rizla paper. 'The question is, why do we want to?'

Matt started to speak, but Damien stopped him. 'Because it's regiment you'd be taking out,' he said. He looked back across to Matt. 'There was a bad riot at Brixton nick back in eighty-four. Jack and some of his mates took over a wing for a few days. Barricaded themselves in. The SAS were sent in and started beating the buggers one by one until they gave themselves up. One of his lads suffered brain damage. He's still on a drip.'

'Well, killing some regiment boys,' said Pointer, opening his mouth to reveal two missing front teeth, 'now that is worth getting out of bed for.'

The Volvo was sweating in traffic on the M25. This route had seemed like the quickest way from Camberwell up to Essex, but the motorway had been backed up all the way, and steam was starting to rise from many of the cars. If this ancient car had ever had air conditioning, it had long since broken. Sweat was trickling down Matt's back as he looked up at the angry mess of snarling, stationary traffic stretched out before him.

Christ, a breakdown. That's all I need, thought Matt, watching as the needle pointed towards red on the thermostat:
the police coming to help me with a full load of munitions stacked up in the back of the car.

He glanced at his watch. Ten past four already. Lacrierre's train for Paris left at eight-forty this evening, and would take an hour to make its way down to the Channel Tunnel. In this traffic, he didn't have time to get Eleanor, then get all the way back down to south London to hook up with the train line. There were only four hours left in which to organise the final assault.

Damn the British traffic. It was impossible to get anywhere these days.

He looked across at the mobile lying on the passenger seat. It was the latest model Ivan had supplied. It should be safe, he told himself.

He checked his watch again. Twenty past four. The traffic had inched forwards maybe sixty, seventy yards. At this rate he'd be lucky to get there by next Wednesday.

And the moment of retribution will have escaped me.

Matt wrenched the gear into first, moved forward another eight yards, than jammed his foot on the brake. The lorry in front of him was belching out heavy black fumes, and on the hard shoulder, a pair of cars had broken down, smoke rising from their engines. Caution be damned. The risks I'm running already are so terrifying one more doesn't make much difference.
Either the gods are smiling on me or they aren't.

He picked up the mobile and punched in the number of the hotel, asking for Room Twelve. Eleanor answered the phone on the second ring. 'You all right?' she asked anxiously.

'So far,' replied Matt tersely. 'You?'

'OK. Just waiting.'

'Listen, I'm not going to make it,' said Matt. 'Too much traffic. You come and meet me in Battersea. Five forty-five on the bridge at the top of Battersea Rise. If I'm not there by six, assume the worst.'

The van was heading up the M3, going past the signs off into Basingstoke and heading into London. Ivan was sitting in the front seat, with Matram at the wheel. Harton and Godsall were sitting in the back, both of them close enough to Ivan to prevent him attempting an escape.

'So give me the name of the hotel,' said Matram.

'The Holiday Inn Express,' said Ivan. 'In Buckhurst Hill, in Essex. Close to Stansted Airport.'

Matram turned to him and grinned. 'Just what I always thought,' he said. 'You PIRA boys were always just a bunch of gangsters. The first sight of blood, you betray your mates. It worked in the old country, and it works here as well.'

Ivan shrugged, remaining silent. He'd been preparing munitions to blow up the train. Fortunately they'd only searched him for guns and knives. He had a tiny sliver of explosive hidden in his trouser pocket wrapped in silver paper to look like a packet of Wrigley's chewing gum. All he had to do was find the right moment to wriggle it down to the floor and stamp on it to trigger the explosion.

'The names, bogtrotter,' snapped Matram. 'I want the names they are checked in under.'

Ivan looked back at him coldly. 'Keith Todd and Helen Nuggett.'

'How do I know you aren't lying?'

'Call them and see,' said Ivan. 'It's a hotel, they'll know who the guests are.'

Matram leant back in his seat, passing a mobile back towards Harton. 'Ring,' he snapped. 'Check they're there.'

Harton took the phone, punching in a number for directory enquiries, then asking to be put through to the Holiday Inn in Buckhurst Hill. He turned his back, holding the phone close to his ear, shielding the noise of the van as the call was put through.

For a brief second, his back was turned on Ivan, and he was blocking Godsall from moving forward.

Ivan paused. There was a risk he might blow his own leg off in the next few seconds, but that was a chance he'd have to take. The explosive slithered from his trousers, on to the floor in front of him. A mixture of potassium nitrate, available in any agricultural store, and sugar, and packed into an emptied-out Roman candle, it was simple but effective. As the cracker blew, it sent out a huge plume of thick, ugly smoke.

Ivan leant sharply across the seat, his right hand clamping down hard on the steering wheel, tugging it to the right. 'Let's see how you drive, fucker,' he spat up into Matram's face.

The van swerved violently to the right, zagging out into the fast lane of the motorway. All the men in the van were shouting at once. A collision could be heard at the back, as a car winged its left side, sending the van spinning back to the left. It was rocking violently as the huge plume of smoke obscured the view inside and out.

Ivan's hand was still locked to the wheel, yanking it in one direction, while Matram pulled in the other. With his left hand, Ivan reached down, feeling for the handbrake. He grabbed it in his fist, pulling upwards with a single hard movement of his shoulder muscles. The van stopped, the tyres burning against the tarmac, sending both Matram and Ivan hurtling towards the window. It came to a halt, then jolted forwards as something else collided with its back.

Flinging the door open, Ivan jumped down. He landed hard on the tarmac, ducking sideways to avoid an on-rushing car. It screeched to a stop, just six feet short of him, skidding sideways, its horn blaring. Another winged it, turning round, and wobbling on its wheels as it narrowly avoided tipping over. Further behind, a lorry was hammering its brake, a blast of noise rising from its wheels as it struggled to slow down. Amid the fury and the fumes Ivan ducked behind the van and started to run down the central reservation between the two sides of the M3.