Hard Landing (48 page)

‘We can’t trust him,’ said Mitchell. ‘After what he just did, we can’t believe a thing he says.’

‘You’ve no choice,’ said Carpenter. ‘There’s nothing you can do to me to make me tell you where his boy is, because I don’t know. And if you kill me . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘It’s your call, Spider,’ said O’Brien, scratching at his ski mask.

Shepherd picked up the gun. He stared at Carpenter as he tapped the gun against his leg. If he let Carpenter go, there was no guarantee he’d release Liam, Moira and Tom. Mitchell was right, there was no way they could trust him.

‘Yeah, Spider,’ said Carpenter. ‘It’s your call.’

‘Your guys have mobiles, yeah?’ said Shepherd. ‘Throwaways?’

‘Sure.’

‘Okay, here’s what you do. You call your guys and tell them to release Moira and the boy. They’re to give them a mobile and let them go. As soon as they’re safe, they can call me. We release you, and then you call your men to let Tom go.’

‘Nice,’ said Carpenter. ‘That way the most you’ll lose is your father-in-law.’

‘He’s my boy’s grandfather,’ said Shepherd. ‘His life means more to me than a thousand of you. You hurt him– you hurt any of them – and you’re dead.’

‘Sticks and stones,’ said Carpenter.

Shepherd raised his gun to smash it across Carpenter’s face, but held himself in check. There was nothing to be gained from hitting Carpenter. All he wanted was to get Liam back safely. He lowered the weapon. Carpenter grinned. ‘Give him a phone,’ said Shepherd, pushing Carpenter into the van. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

Fletcher was picking his teeth with a playing card when the mobile rang. He answered it immediately. Carpenter was the only person who had the number. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘I’m out, Kim. Free and clear.’

‘Great news, boss.’

‘How are they?’

‘They’re behaving. I had to give the old man a slap but they’re as right as rain now.’

Neary looked over from the sofa where he was stretched out reading the latest Harry Potter. Fletcher flashed him a thumbs-up.

‘Right, here’s what we do. Let the grandmother and the boy go. Give them a mobile and get them to call this number as soon as they’re away from the house. Keep the old man with you until I call you again. Then, assuming everything’s still okay, leave him and come and get me.’

‘No sweat,’ said Fletcher. The phone went dead. Fletcher smiled at Neary and shrugged. ‘We let them go,’ he said.

Neary sighed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I never like hurting women and kids. Doesn’t seem right, you know?’

Fletcher nodded.

Carpenter handed the mobile back to Shortt. ‘Next time that rings, it’ll be to say that the boy and his grandmother are free,’ he said.

Shortt took the phone. ‘Why don’t we just slot him?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Because if I don’t call back in ten minutes to say I’m okay, the old man gets shot,’ said Carpenter.

O’Brien shrugged. ‘We slot you then we hit the redial button and tell your guys you’re dead so they might as well knock it on the head.’

‘They’ll still take care of him, whatever you say.’

‘Leave him alone, Martin,’ said Shortt.

‘Who are you guys, anyway?’ asked Carpenter.

‘They’re friends of mine, that’s all you need to know,’ said Shepherd.

Carpenter ignored him and continued talking to Shortt. ‘I could use a crew like you.’ He gestured at Shepherd. ‘I don’t know what he’s paying you, but I can give you ten times as much.’

‘He’s not paying us a penny,’ said O’Brien.

‘Skills you’ve got, you could be rich men,’ said Carpenter.

‘This isn’t about money,’ said Shortt. ‘Now, shut the fuck up.’

Carpenter settled back in the van. They waited in silence until the mobile rang. Shortt gave it to Shepherd. It was Moira, sobbing.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Through her tears she told him that she and Liam were safe but that she didn’t know where her husband was. Shepherd told her that Tom would soon be with her. ‘What’s happening, Daniel?’ she asked.

‘I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘First thing is to get you all home. Where are you?’

Moira sniffed. ‘There’s a road ahead of us. I saw a bus go by.’

‘Go to the road and find out its name. Call me back and we’ll come and get you.’

‘I’ll call the police,’ said Moira.

‘No,’ said Shepherd quickly. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘We’ve been kidnapped, Daniel. They had guns. They said they’d kill us.’

‘Moira, please, listen to me. Whatever you do, don’t call the police. I’ll explain everything, I promise, but there’s nothing the police can do right now. Trust me.’

‘Daniel . . .’

‘I mean it, Moira. Wait until Tom’s back with you and I can talk it through with you. Just get to the road and call me.’

‘All right . . .’

‘Can I talk to Liam?’ He heard the phone change hands.

‘Dad?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘They hit Granddad. With a gun.’

‘It’s over now, Liam. You’re safe.’

‘Who are they, Dad?’

‘Just bad guys. Don’t worry, it’s all over now. I’m coming to get you.’

‘Are you out of prison?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’re coming home?’

‘Definitely,’ said Shepherd.

He cut the connection and held out the phone to Carpenter. ‘Okay, now let my father-in-law go.’

Carpenter grinned. ‘That’s not how it works, Shepherd.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ll need some money for the call-box.’

O’Brien tossed him a handful of change.

‘You screw me over and I’ll hunt you down and kill you,’ said Shepherd.

‘Of course you will,’ said Carpenter.

Armstrong and Mitchell opened the rear door of the van. They’d parked in a side-street a short walk from Brent Cross tube station. Carpenter climbed out. He turned to Shepherd. ‘Be lucky,’ he said, then jogged down the road towards the station.

Armstrong scratched his ski mask. ‘Didn’t even thank us,’ he said.

‘He’s probably going to write,’ said Mitchell.

‘A card would be nice.’ Armstrong pulled the door shut. ‘Or flowers.’

Even though the road was clear behind the Rover, Stan Yates still switched on his indicator before pulling over to the side. Force of habit. Twenty-seven years as a professional driver and never an accident – not even a speeding fine – but what did he have to show for it? A clean driving licence and a one-bedroomed basement flat in east London, and somewhere up north an ex-wife and two kids who didn’t know him. Didn’t need to know him, either, not now his ex-wife had her fancy-man solicitor with his detached house and his yacht moored in Portsmouth.

Yates wanted a cigarette but the Rover was a smoke-free zone. His boss was a stickler for it and no amount of air-freshener would get rid of the smell. He made do with a stick of foul-tasting nicotine gum.

He ran his hands round the steering-wheel, enjoying the feel of the leather. As soft as a young woman’s skin, he thought. Not that he’d touched many young women over the past few years, but all that would change soon. He’d quit his job, sell the flat, and move to the Philippines. He’d heard great things about the Philippines. How a man could live like a king, even on a government pension. How the women were soft, pretty, accommodating . . . and available. Yates’s smile widened: he’d be arriving in the Philippines with more than his pension.

He stretched out his arms and arched his back. The Rover still smelt new. It was less than six months old and had done only three thousand miles. Ray Mackie didn’t travel much – the car was more of a status symbol than anything else. A badge of office to show that he’d climbed the slippery pole and was now master of all he surveyed. Head of Drugs Operations. Mackie would be retiring with a real pension, thought Yates bitterly, and he earned real money. Not the pittance that HM Customs paid him.

Yates reached out and touched the gleaming wooden veneer around the car’s instruments. Real craftsmanship, he thought.

A car pulled up behind the Rover. It was a BMW, a nice motor, the five series, thought Yates, but it didn’t have the quality of the Rover. The BMW was a car to drive but the Rover was a car to be driven in. It was a crucial difference. Long before he’d become a professional driver, Yates had been a car salesman and had spent a year selling Rolls-Royces in a Mayfair showroom. He’d always been able to spot a serious buyer because they’d get into the back of the car, not the front.

Yates watched the BMW in his rear-view mirror. The headlights flashed. Yates frowned. Normally they came to him. He twisted in his seat. The men stayed in the BMW. He frowned. What the hell were they playing at? He switched off the engine and climbed out. The BMW’s headlights flashed again.

Yates walked to the driver’s side. The window wound down and Pat Neary grinned up at him. ‘Stan the man,’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Yates. ‘I’m not supposed to see you until next week.’

‘Change of plan,’ said Neary.

‘There’s no plan to change,’ said Yates. ‘I give you information on HODO’s movements, you give me a brown envelope.’

‘Our boss wants a word,’ said Neary.

Kim Fletcher was in the passenger seat. He grinned. ‘He’ll make it worth your while, Stan.’

Yates looked up and down the road. There were headlights about a mile away but the car turned off to the left. ‘What does he want to talk about?’

‘He wants to pick your brains.’

‘About what?’

‘That’s why he wants to see you, Stan. Says he doesn’t want to work through me on this.’

Yates licked his lips. ‘How much?’

‘Didn’t want to tell me, Stan, but he said he’d make it worth your while.’ Fletcher sighed. ‘Look, if you’re not interested just tell me and I’ll pass the message on.’

‘I’m not saying I’m not interested,’ said Yates hastily. ‘It’s just I’ve always worked with you.’

‘And I work for him,’ said Fletcher. ‘It’s his money you’re salting away.’

Yates thought about it. ‘Where?’

‘He’s waiting for you, not far away. Follow us in your motor, okay?’

Yates went back to his car, spat out his chewing gum, climbed in and started the engine.

The BMW flashed its headlights, then pulled out and drove on. Yates followed at a safe distance. His mouth was dry and he wanted a drink. Yates never drank while driving. In his twenty-seven years at the wheel he’d never so much as touched a glass of shandy while he was working. But as he followed the BMW through the darkness, he wanted a whiskey, badly. And he wanted a cigarette.

The promise of extra money was tempting, but Yates wasn’t sure if he really wanted to meet Fletcher’s boss. Fletcher had approached him two years earlier as Yates was sitting in a bar round the corner from his bedsit. Yates didn’t like being at home: it felt too much like a prison cell. Six paces long, three paces wide, a single bed, a cheap chest of drawers and a wardrobe with a loose door, a microwave oven on a rickety table and a cramped shower room with a leaking toilet. Looking back, it had been a slow courtship. The occasional drink. A late-night curry. Fletcher listened to his complaints about his ex-wife, his job, his boss. Fletcher had always seemed interested in Mackie, who he was and whom he met. Then one night Fletcher slipped him an envelope containing five hundred pounds. It was a gift, Fletcher had said, just to help him out. Yates had taken it. That night Fletcher had asked some specific questions about Mackie. Where he lived. What car his wife drove. Yates had answered without hesitation. He’d had a few drinks, but it wasn’t the alcohol that had loosened his tongue. It was the resentment. At the way his life had gone down the toilet. At his wife for stealing his children. At Mackie for lording it over him, treating him like shit.

The meetings with Fletcher had become less social: weekly debriefings, then a brown envelope full of cash. After six months Yates had asked for a rise and Fletcher gave him a thousand pounds a week. Pat Neary had started to attend the debriefing sessions. But Fletcher made demands, too. Specific questions about Mackie. Who he met. Where he went. Then, after another year, Fletcher had asked him to take the Rover to a garage in Shepherd’s Bush in west London. It was a tiny place under a railway arch. A mechanic had fitted tiny microphones into the rear of the car and a micro tape deck in the glove compartment. The money went up to two thousand pounds a week and Yates had to hand over a bag of tapes at his weekly debriefings. There were no more late-night curries, no chatty drinking sessions, just a straightforward trade. Information on HODO for money. Lots of money. Yates felt no guilt, no shame. The way he looked at it, if his wife hadn’t dumped him and run off with her fancy-man solicitor, if Mackie had treated him better, maybe he wouldn’t have had to do what he’d done. But he’d made his bed and was quite happy to lie in it. Especially if that bed was a king-size in the Philippines with two beautiful young girls. Maybe three.

The BMW indicated a right turn. Yates indicated, too, even though there was nothing behind him. Yates had never asked what Fletcher and Neary were doing with the tapes and the information he gave them. He hadn’t cared. Fletcher and Neary hadn’t seemed over-bright and Yates had always assumed they were working for someone else. He popped a fresh piece of nicotine gum into his mouth and grimaced at the taste. He’d been meaning to switch to patches but kept forgetting to visit the chemist.

The BMW turned down a rutted track. Yates cursed as the Rover hit a pothole and mud splashed over the door. Mackie insisted that the car was always in pristine condition so he’d have to be up early in the morning, washing and polishing. The Rover’s headlights picked out a wooden sign with faded paintwork. It was a limestone quarry. Yates was annoyed at the cloak-and-dagger. The meeting could just as easily have taken place in a pub.

The track curved to the right and Yates lost sight of the BMW. He flicked his headlights to main beam and huge tunnels of light carved through the night sky. Ahead he saw huge metal sheds with corrugated-iron roofs and two silos with conveyor belts running up to the top. The road curved back to the left and Yates saw the BMW. It was parked in front of a metal-mesh fence. Yates frowned. The gate into the quarry was padlocked and there was no other vehicle to be seen.