Reflux

by Paul Watson

  The TV on the wall turned on, and Mike Baker’s face illuminated the screen on the wall.

  ‘Morning,’ Baker said. ‘Wasn’t expecting an update from you so fast.’

  ‘Me neither, you didn’t call us?’

  ‘No, my phone just showed me I had video call coming in.’

  ‘Mike, I’m not sure what is going on, but your suspect is in Sligo, Ireland, he tried to kill me about an hour ago. Alert the airports; the suspect sat next to me this morning in seat 32B on the first flight to Dublin out of Stansted.’

  ‘I’ll check with the airports and alert the Garda.’

  Mike Baker’s face disappeared from the screen replaced by an overhead shot of a red SUV, leaving the car park of an industrial building.

  ‘That’s the Tichi factory,’ said Higgins. ‘What is that? Satellite tracking?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a satellite; it looks more like drone footage.’

  Andy and Higgins watched the SUV’s journey and drank coffee. The vehicle stopped at a terrace house in town, and the passenger got out. The owner of the house, a woman, came out and kissed the passenger for over a minute, before they entered the house together.

  ‘Any idea where he’s going?’ Andy said

  ‘The suspect is on the N4, won’t know if he’s heading South or East until he gets to Collooney, it should take him about 10 minutes.’

  Andy took out his phone and called Baker.

  ‘Mike, I’m sat in a castle watching drone footage of an SUV on a motorway; our suspect could be driving. Get your friends in the Garda to stop him. He’ll be passing Collooney in about ten minutes.’

  ‘Did you see the registration?’ The footage zoomed to the car’s license plate as if following Mike’s instruction. Andy read the plate number to Mike.

  ‘Ok I wasn’t expecting that much from you; the man is Justin Roberts, I’ve sent his details to Special Branch, we’ll see what we get back, stay on this line.’

  The lady came back. ‘Would you like more coffee?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Andy. ‘Who booked this room for us today?’

  ‘Not sure, but your company paid more than we take in a whole summer. Thank you. We’re just finishing this room for corporate bookings and put the adverts out last week. We must have picked a good marketing agency.’

  The SUV passed over a bridge.

  ‘We should see here whether he goes straight on or turns South on the N17,’ Higgins said.

  Roberts didn’t do either though. An unmarked Garda car overtook him at around a hundred miles an hour; two more high powered vehicles, came up behind him, and one pulled to the side.

  Andy predicted what was coming next; the T-Pac, he’d watched it with Max on TV reality cop shows. The lead unmarked car slammed on the brakes and Roberts had nowhere to go but the shoulder.

  Roberts exited the vehicle, through the passenger door, behind the engine block, before the officers could make it to the driver’s door. Andy and Higgins watched the scene with no audio. The first cop gripped his rifle and walked around the front of the SUV. Roberts sprang, grabbed the weapon from him and rolled backwards, throwing the man over his head, but holding on to the gun.

  Roberts shot the officer with the rifle. The other cops crouched behind the engine blocks of the unmarked lead vehicle, armed only with handguns. Roberts crept around the back of the rear Garda vehicle, sprayed them with gunfire, got into the vehicle and drove away. The remaining cops were moving but injured.

  Roberts arrived at a roundabout and turned right.

  ‘The suspect is heading South on the N17 towards Knock airport,’ Higgins said.

  Roberts appeared to dislike his new ride; a few miles down the N17 he lit his blue lights and pulled a Ford Mondeo into the shoulder. Roberts climbed into the passenger seat of the Mondeo, and a minute later a man in a red baseball cap climbed out the driver’s seat. Two kids got out the rear door and stood on the shoulder with the man in the baseball cap.

  Andy called Baker.

  ‘Mike, he’s switched to a grey Mondeo, the Garda will need ambulances close to the junction N4/N17.’

  ‘Where are you getting this from Andy?’

  ‘I don’t know Mike, but you need to get a helicopter over that Mondeo.’

  ‘Ok, let’s keep this on speaker now Andy.’

  Mike, I’ll share our screen over Skype.

  Andy, Higgins and Mike Baker watched the Mondeo cruise along in the mid-morning traffic, at sixty miles an hour; inconspicuous.

  The helicopter arrived after ten minutes. A small window opened in the right hand of Andy’s screen, duplicating the drone footage but with better resolution.

  ‘We seem to have helicopter coverage too now?’ Higgins said.

  ‘They’ve blocked the airport Andy,’ Baker said. ‘Let’s hope he goes that way.’

  The Mondeo went towards the airport, and the Garda set the roadblock a few hundred metres from the turnoff from N17. The Mondeo hit the stinger at around fifty miles an hour, all four tyres blew, and it came to rest just before a van selling burgers in a siding.

  Two Garda vans with mesh on the screen and windows hit the Mondeo front and rear. A third hit the Mondeo on the side. Officers, wearing body armour and helmets, jumped from the vans.

  The woman driving the Mondeo had her hands up as the rifle butt smashed the driver’s window.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Roberts left the children in the Garda car and kept the vehicle’s rear red lights flashing; he jumped down the bank into the field. When he’d taken the kids from the Mondeo, the mum had complied with Roberts’s instruction to drive the car to the airport. The children would be fine, if no sleepy truck drivers, with poor lane discipline, approached.

  Sleepy truck drivers were just what Roberts needed. A business park was visible amongst the hedges about a mile in the distance; the grey and blue cladding blended into the sky.

  Roberts trekked across the field; a helicopter whizzed overhead and paused above the cop car for a minute; Roberts lay in the long grass. The chopper then headed over the N17 towards the airport because the Garda had figured wrong on the switch to the Mondeo.

  The helicopter buzzed from sight, and Roberts continued to the boundary fence of the business park which he climbed like a chimpanzee. A few vehicles hummed in the yard of the biggest unit: forklifts, vans and a few lorries. Roberts walked over to the cab of one lorry and jumped up on the step.

  The driver wound down the window. ‘Yes mate?’

  ‘Anywhere to get food around here?’

  ‘There’s Annie’s. Walk around the end of the building, turn right and its hidden behind the bins.’

  ‘Thanks, sounds inviting.’

  ‘The bacon’s good.’

  Annie weighed a hundred and fifty kilos, wore a thick black beard and a topknot; Annie scowled at a dog behind him and paid no attention to Roberts, who stood in front of him.

  ‘Coffee and a Bacon sandwich please,’ Roberts rubbed his nose, a touch of hay fever.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  Annie’s clientele disappointed Roberts; the customers looked too law-abiding; they were honest men earning a crust. Roberts stood opposite a tough looking man with iron-grey hair, broad shoulders and heavy muscular build. ‘Mind if I sit here?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘I’m Roberts.’

  ‘Kimnel.’ The man extended his hand, and they shook.

  Roberts sat. Service was fast and the coffee and bacon good; a better draw than Annie’s looks or manner.

  ‘Are you looking for a ride?’ Kimnel smiled at Roberts.

  ‘Do I stand out?’

  ‘You’re fine. I’m not leaving until tonight. I’ll catch the 9.30 p.m. ferry from Dublin to Liverpool.’

  Roberts remained silent for a time; the overnight ferry might work for him, it would give the cops time to tire themselves all-day.

  ‘I’d appreciate a ride.’

  ‘It’s against company policy, but I own the co
mpany so that’s not a problem. I need an extra pair of hands today, so I’ll take you, but you must work for it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You’ll wish you’d booked a flight, get another bacon sandwich; you’ll need it.’

  Kimnel took Roberts to a truck, parked outside in the yard. Sunlight reflected from the polish on the six-axle artic. Roberts clambered up into the passenger side of the cab, and Kimnel took his place at the helm. They trundled out of the yard and made their way back to the N4, towards Dublin. After ten minutes, Kimnel hauled the beast onto the slip road. Roberts saw signs for Drumfin.

  ‘Almost there,’ Kimnel said, and took another left, up a lane that appeared too narrow. The truck made it through and came to rest before a gate. The field beyond rose half a mile to a house and barn on the horizon.

  ‘That’s my place on the hill.’ Kimnel pointed. ‘Can’t get the truck up here in winter, but the track’s hard enough this time of year.’

  Roberts saw stacks of something up on the hill. Five or six pieces were resting against each other. Were they wood stacks? Roberts couldn’t be sure.

  ‘So, have you cut turf?’ Kimnel shuffled in to a shed near the gate.

  Roberts shouted through the shed wall, ‘No, but I’ve bought rolls of turf for my place back home, which beats sowing grass seed.’

  ‘Not grass. Turf.’ Kimnel emerged from the shed with a tool and handed it to Roberts. ‘This is a sleán. Double-sided spade. My boys will be over to help you soon, the eldest is away to university, but he’s back for the summer; the boy’s an animal with the turf. We’ll go into the lower field.’ Roberts and Kimnel walked down stone steps. ‘Watch this.’

  Kimnel used the sleán to dig into the earth; he cut a slot into the ground around three feet long, another parallel to it, and then at the ends. He cut underneath, bent his knees and then heaved the sod from the ground and flipped it.

  ‘If you cut five, then the boy’s will be here soon to show you how to foot them. We’ll get lunch at one. Right, I’d better see the missus, think I’ll be getting a lukewarm reception today.’ Kimnel ascended the steps and then scaled the hill, towards the house.

  Roberts thought about taking the truck, but that would bring trouble fast. Best to play the long game and take the nighttime freight ferry with Kimnel; Roberts had to earn his ticket first though.

  The earth softened at the bottom of the hill which was closer to the groundwater table than the crusty surface up at the top. Roberts dug and turned the red baseball cap backwards, with the flap over his neck for sun protection; it was a shame for the boy in the Mondeo to lose his cap. The kid’s mum or dad would buy him another one though.

  Roberts continued digging, and as the ground yielded, turned each piece upside down to dry in the sun. Roberts remembered digging shell scrapes during basic army training.

  To get a comfortable ride from the corporals, he and his buddy had dug like moles and finished their scrape before the other recruits had scratched the surface.

  ‘They’re digging swimming pools Baz,’ One corporal had said.

  ‘Must want to be commandos,’ said the other corporal.

  Roberts’s reward had been to help the other recruits with more digging. It paid to be a winner though; the physical punishments and mental torture were less severe for the winners.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. Have you got a turf cutting machine here?’ said a man in his early twenties who had arrived in the lower field. Roberts leant on his spade and smiled at him. The man stood six-foot five inches tall and was as wide as the river Liffe. ‘I’m Eamon, Dad sent me to help, my brothers will be here soon.’

  ‘Roberts.’ The men shook hands.

  ‘Doesn’t look like you need any help to cut, you might have beaten my record here.’ Eamon stared at the six pieces of turf that Roberts had laid out on the grass. ‘Did Dad show you how to foot it?’

  ‘No.’

  Eamon shoved his boot to the base of one clod and hauled it upright. ‘Grab that one will you.’

  Roberts replicated the manoeuvre and brought the top of his slab of earth up to meet the one that Eamon was holding.

  ‘Keep going.’ Eamon smiled at the visitor and held the two pieces upright.

  Roberts had learned a few things over the years: one of the most useful was to bend your knees. It helped with just about every task, gave extra power and protected against injury, by bringing the powerful thigh muscles into action.

  The awkward shape of the turf made it impossible for Roberts to keep his back straight and made him bend forward at the waist to grab the top. Roberts felt the strain as he brought the earth upright and leant it into the stack held up by Eamon.

  Roberts and Eamon had built a somewhat distorted tetrahedron. The sods were self-supporting so that all sides could dry in the sun. Roberts remembered the stacks from the upper field; the Kimnels must have done those before the recent heatwave had baked the ground up there.

  Roberts heaved the three remaining pieces into place, breathing hard as he pushed in the final part. He laughed, which was rare. Perhaps it was sunlight, air and exercise; Roberts knew though that it was the teamwork. The Kimnels were a tough breed, the father and the son; Roberts liked them, and after working alone for years, had enjoyed the teamwork.

  ‘Good man,’ Eamon said. ‘We’ll push on till one, Ma’s getting lunch ready then. My slack arse brothers should be here soon too.’

  Roberts and Eamon worked for the next few hours, joined by the other Kimnel brothers. The other brothers talked more than Eamon; they were younger and less stern.

  ‘Dad’s had us doing this every summer since we were ten years old. I tell him it’s the most hated week of the year. Dad will arrive and help an hour before we’ve finished, even though he’s missing vertebrae.’

  ‘What are you doing at University?’ Roberts heaved his hundredth piece of turf into the stack.

  ‘Engineering,’ said Eamon.

  ‘Are you playing sport there?’

  ‘I do rugby through the winter, but football in the summer is my sport.’

  ‘I thought football took a break in the summer, apart from the World Cup.’

  ‘Not soccer, Gaelic football.’

  ‘Never heard of that.’ Roberts was ready for a break.

  ‘It’s the number one sport over here; I’ll still be watching the football World Cup final tonight though.’

  ‘Would anyone like lunch?’ Mrs Kimnel’s voice drifted from the upper field and was as sweet as the final whistle after the most tortuous game. The group wandered up the hill sucking on water bottles they’d refilled from a Jerry can near the shed. Lunch was soup followed by ham and potatoes and beans with big slabs of apple pie and cream for dessert.

  An army marches on its stomach.

  ‘So, Mr Roberts, do you have a lady back in England.’ Mrs Kimnel filled his mug with tea from a pot.

  The question switched his focus back to the real task; Roberts found the switch unwelcome. Although exhausted, Roberts felt content; it was because of the hard labour with Eamon. His imminent payday seemed insignificant; Roberts would never have what the Kimnels had built for themselves.

  ‘I have a boss back in England. You’ve just reminded me, I need to call her. Thanks for lunch it was delicious.’

  Roberts headed out to the porch and messaged Julia: ‘I’ll travel back by freight ferry and arrive at Liverpool docks at 0500 a.m.’

  One minute later a reply arrived: ‘OK, think you’re slowing a little Mr Roberts.’

  Maybe. Roberts tried to think of a suitable reply with light innuendo but failed. The turf had worn him out. Eamon slapped him on the back and grinned. ‘Let’s go buddy, Afternoon shift.’

  THIRTY

  Mike Baker spoke over the video link, ‘We checked with Stansted Airport. A vehicle, matching the partial registration taken by the injured officer, parked in the long stay this morning before your flight. We’re sending officers to check it out.’

  ‘Who’s the
registered keeper of the car?’ Andy said.

  ‘Registered to a firm called PKL.’

  ‘OK Mike, I’ll check out that pharmaceutical plant, looks like he’s long gone, but he may have left clues.’

  The screen cut out. ‘Higgins, Do you think you can take me over to the Tichi factory?’

  ‘I’ll do that for you; we’ll go in the van; it’s parked by the boathouse.’

  Andy and Higgins returned to the castle courtyard and met the lady in beige. ‘You’re quicker going this way if you’re on the way to that speedboat out there. Follow me,’ she said. They stepped under a low arch and arrived at a door in the wall. ‘The sally port; it’s always good to have a back door to a castle.’

  ‘Doesn’t look well defended,’ Higgins said.

  ‘When the masons built the castle, the water was much higher, and the entrance was only accessible by boat. Thanks for booking; you’re always welcome back.’

  Andy and Higgins scrambled down the rocks and back to the rib. The three props revved, and they were at forty knots in a few seconds. Higgins pushed the throttle, and they surged to sixty knots and crashed over the bow wave of another pleasure craft. The water seemed like concrete as the rib landed. Higgins cut the power, and they coasted into a pier at the other side of the lake.

  After a short walk up the jetty, Higgins and Andy arrived at the boathouse. Parked outside was a caddy van, painted gold with rib ride advertising on the sides. Andy pointed at it, ‘How about I rent the van from you, no point you getting any more messed up in this?’

  ‘Looking at what happened to the Mondeo, I’d preferred it if you’d buy it. Your people seem to have the budget?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘20 000 euro.’

  A message flicked up on Andy’s phone: ‘Done.’

  The system bar on Andy’s phone showed that new Apps had downloaded, and the phone microphone was listening.

  ‘If you check your bank account, there might be a new deposit.’

  Andy drove to the Tichi factory; Higgins had thrown in the sat nav for free. The Garda had cordoned off the car park..