Dick Francis's Damage

by Dick Francis

  I glanced down at the speedometer. The little Fiesta was doing well over ninety, so I eased up a little and allowed the needle to slide back to eighty-five. Even that should be fifteen miles per hour faster than the black BMW and we should be catching him hand over fist.

  I left the freeway at the next exit, but there was still no sign of the target either visually or on the receiver.

  Damn it, I said to myself again.

  He must have gone the other way.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Quarter to seven,” Lydia said.

  “He’ll surely need to stop to compose the text,” said Crispin.

  “Not if he’s previously typed it into the phone,” I said. “All he’d have to do then is push the send button.”

  I turned south and went as fast as I could on the winding road, heading for the town of Hungerford. Lydia went on holding the receiver up towards the windshield.

  “I can hear something,” she said as I drove into the outskirts of the town. “It’s faint, but there’s a definite beep.”

  She rotated the receiver.

  “Getting stronger,” she said, moving the loop from side to side.

  We were the second car in the line at the junction with the A4 when we saw the black BMW pass by from left to right in front of us.

  There was a collective sigh of relief from the three of us inside the Fiesta.

  The target had indeed gone the other way, but we were now back with him. I pulled out behind and followed as the BMW turned left at the Bear Hotel into Hungerford High Street.

  He pulled over halfway up the hill and I went past, stopping a little farther up, from where I could keep watch on him via the rearview mirror. However, as before, he was concentrating not on his surroundings but on something in his lap.

  The Nokia phone in Crispin’s hand went beep-beep as another text arrived.

  “Catch the seven-oh-three to Plymouth,” Crispin read, but he was on his regular phone to Nigel Green at Paddington Station. “Nigel, get on the seven-oh-three to Plymouth.” There was a lengthy pause. “Good. Well done. Speak to you soon.” He hung up. “Nigel’s safely on the train.”

  The drop was definitely on and my adrenaline level had started to rise.

  —

  THE TARGET remained exactly where he’d stopped in Hungerford for a good ten minutes, seemingly doing nothing but waiting.

  “Stay down,” I said to Crispin. “We don’t want him seeing you.”

  “What are we going to do when we get to the drop?” Lydia asked. “He’ll surely see you then.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “What I plan to do is to photograph him collecting the loot. That alone will be sufficient to nail him. We don’t need a physical confrontation.”

  “But will it still be light enough to get a picture?” Lydia asked.

  “It should be,” I said. “Sunset tonight is at eight-oh-seven. That’s just a minute before the train is due at the drop.”

  “If we could see the sun,” Lydia said, staring out into the gloom that had seemingly settled in for the night.

  “There should still be enough light,” I said.

  Crispin’s phone rang and he answered.

  “It’s Nigel,” he said. “The train’s delayed leaving London. Some problem with the signaling.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  Crispin spoke to Nigel.

  “They say about five minutes.”

  I thought that probably meant ten at best.

  I checked the Train Times app on my iPhone. Delayed seven minutes, it said. I was concerned that the light might have faded too much at the drop point.

  It was not that I wouldn’t be able to see him in the dark that worried me, I had the image-intensifying night vision monocular, but photographs might be a problem. And would the target chance not being able to find the bag of cash if it became too dark? Maybe he had night vision goggles as well, but it would still be a risk.

  What would he do? Did he have a backup plan? Would he choose to carry on or abort for today and have another go at it tomorrow?

  Did he even know that the train would be late? He must surely have the same information on a smartphone as I did.

  Bloody trains, I thought. Never on time when you really needed them.

  “So what do we do?” Crispin said.

  “Wait for the target to move. He’s running this show. Either he goes on to the drop or else he goes back to London. It’s his choice.”

  The black BMW pulled out and came up the hill towards us.

  “Keep down,” I said. “He’s going on.”

  The target swept past and I waited until he was out of sight around the bend before I followed.

  “Don’t lose him,” Crispin said, concerned that he was getting away.

  “I’d rather let him go a bit than allow him to spot us. The roads are too empty now to follow closely. And we do know where he’s going.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said with confidence. “The grassy embankment at New Mill is the perfect spot. Everything he’s done has indicated that he’s using the same drop point.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Crispin said.

  So did I.

  We took Salisbury Road out of Hungerford, through the village of East Grafton and on towards Pewsey.

  “He’s still there in front,” Lydia said, holding up the tracker receiver with the loop pointing forward through the Fiesta’s windshield. “I can hear the beeping in my ear, but it’s very faint.”

  “OK,” I said and speeded up, chancing us getting a little closer.

  Crispin’s phone went again.

  “The train is on the move,” he said. “Nine minutes late leaving Paddington.”

  It was going to be a toss-up, I thought.

  Even if the train lost no more time, it would be pretty dark by the time it arrived at New Mill. It was currently nearly an hour before the expected drop time and, thanks to the low cloud, it was already beginning to get quite murky.

  As if to emphasize the fact, I was flashed by an oncoming car for not having my headlights on.

  I could see the brake lights of the car in front as he slowed to take the numerous bends. Close enough, I thought.

  “Still there?” I asked Lydia.

  She nodded. “Slightly stronger.”

  We continued on towards the drop point, taking a right turn down the country road to the hamlet of New Mill. Here I slowed right down. I wanted to make absolutely sure that the target couldn’t think he had been followed, so I was giving him plenty of time to park his car before we drove past.

  “We’ll go right through,” I said. “Crispin, you stay down. Lydia and I will try and see where the target has stopped his car.”

  The road curved to the left through the hamlet, passing under the railway twice, once at either end, with the drop point next to the second bridge.

  Now I switched the headlights on full. It would be more difficult for someone to look through the windshield into the car against the bright light.

  I almost missed the black BMW, hidden as it was in a field just beyond the second bridge. I caught a fleeting glance of it at the last moment through an open gateway as I drove past and, only then, because the loud beeping of the tracker receiver told us that we were right next to it.

  “Good,” I said. “He’s on the south side of the railway as expected. I’ll go round to the north and stop there.”

  Rather than turning the Fiesta around and having to pass him again, I drove the three sides of a sizable triangle to return to the hamlet of New Mill from the far end, pulling into another farm gateway about a hundred and fifty yards north of the bridge.

  “Time?” I asked.

  “Seven-fifty,” Crispin said. “The train should be at Newbur
y.”

  I again checked the Train Times app on my phone.

  “According to this, it’s still nine minutes late. We will wait here until after the next text.”

  “Then what?” Lydia asked.

  “I’ll creep forward to get some photos. You and Crispin remain here in the car.”

  “You must be joking, dear boy,” Crispin said from behind me. “I haven’t come all the way from London just to sit in the car and miss all the action.”

  “Nor have I,” said Lydia. “We’re coming with you.”

  I didn’t like it. One person, especially one trained in surveillance techniques, could move so much more stealthily than three.

  Crispin was an intelligence analyst more used to sitting at a desk than operating in the field as a covert agent. And Lydia was hardly turned out for scrabbling around in the dark, dressed as she was in a skirt and heels.

  “You may blow the whole thing,” I said, but I could tell I was fighting a losing battle. They desperately wanted to see the bag of cash thrown off the train.

  “OK,” I said eventually. “But you’ll both have to stay well back near the bridge. I will go on ahead alone.”

  They reluctantly agreed.

  The Nokia phone went beep-beep.

  “‘Go to the rearmost door lobby and throw the bag out the window on the left-hand side of the train as soon as you get the next text,’” Crispin read off the screen, and he was calling Nigel using the other phone. “You throw the bag out the window on the left-hand side from the rearmost door. Do it immediately when I text you. Got that? Good.”

  He hung up.

  “Exactly the same pattern as last time,” I said.

  “It worked before,” said Crispin, “and our friend clearly expects that it will do so again. But if he thinks he’s going to get away with it a second time, he’s in for quite a shock.”

  “But I do intend to let him get away with it,” I said. “At least for now. We just watch from afar, take photographs and stay well hidden. We will have all we need to confront him later with the police.”

  Departed Newbury seven minutes late.

  “The train has caught up a couple of minutes,” I said. I removed my brown leather bomber jacket and replaced the wig and brown beanie with a black balaclava that showed my eyes peeping through two small holes, with another small hole for my mouth.

  “That’s really scary,” Lydia said as she watched me put it on. “It makes you look like a rapist.”

  “Maybe,” I said, smiling at her in reassurance. “But a white face in the dark can so easily give you away. Come on, it’s time to go.”

  37

  The three of us climbed out of the Fiesta without slamming any of the doors.

  “Stay under the bridge until the very last moment and then just go far enough forward to see the train as it passes along the embankment,” I said. “The target should be well down the track from the bridge, but don’t take any chances. When you’ve seen the drop, go straight back to the car and wait for me there.”

  They both nodded.

  I still didn’t like it. I would have much preferred them to stay in the vehicle the whole time.

  “And, Crispin, don’t forget, in all the excitement, to send the text to Nigel.”

  “Already set, dear boy,” he said. “All I have to do is push the button.”

  It was another risk. The text from the target to the Nokia phone would take three to four seconds. That from Crispin to Nigel would take the same. Adding the response times could result in a full ten-second delay between the first text being sent and the bag being thrown out the window. The train would move some fifteen hundred feet in ten seconds. Twice as far as the target was expecting. That would probably put the drop point close to the far end of the grassy embankment.

  “You will almost have to anticipate the text arriving,” I whispered to Crispin. “As soon as you hear the train be ready, and keep the Nokia close to your ear. The trains are loud.”

  “OK,” he whispered back. “Will do.”

  We moved forward along the road until we were under the brick arch of the bridge. I had the night vision monocular fixed over my right eye with the harness and I held my long-lens camera at the ready.

  A train suddenly rattled noisily over our heads and, for a moment, I panicked that we were not yet in position. It took me a few seconds to realize that the train was going the other way.

  I took some deep breaths and allowed my heart rate to return to normal.

  Stupid, I thought. Keep calm. It would be at least another ten minutes before the correct train arrived. But keeping calm was easier said than done. My blood adrenaline concentration was again up to stratospheric levels.

  “You two stay here,” I whispered to Crispin and Lydia. Even though it was still quite light in the open air, it was almost completely dark under the bridge. However, I could see their faces clearly using night vision. Lydia’s eyes were wide open in excitement.

  I left the two of them there and walked forward alone, silently, scanning the ground in front of me to ensure I didn’t inadvertently trip or snap a twig.

  I moved out from under the bridge and kept to the road for ten or fifteen yards before moving to my right. There were a few bushes in the field to the side of the grassy bank and I worked my way forward to them, crawling across the wet ground on my stomach at one point so as not to be seen.

  I took up position lying in a narrow gap between two of the bushes. From here I could observe the full length of the embankment but hoped that I was invisible to anyone looking the other way.

  I lay very still and searched with my eyes for any movement. Movement was always easy to spot and could be detected even by one’s peripheral vision. Movement was a dead giveaway.

  And there it was.

  My adrenaline level rose another notch.

  A shadowy figure was changing his position away to my left, close to the base of the embankment.

  I carefully lifted the camera. By now it was getting quite dark, but there was still plenty of light remaining for the camera’s sensitive digital-imaging system.

  I took a couple of shots, but even at maximum zoom there was nothing much to see. The figure appeared merely as a dark splodge against a slightly lighter ground.

  I could hear a train approaching in the distance. This must be it.

  I changed the camera to video mode, widened the view slightly and switched it on record.

  —

  THE ORANGE canvas bag of cash was clearly visible through the camera viewfinder as it was thrown out the train window, and I captured the whole thing as it arced forward and landed at a point about halfway up the grassy bank towards the far end.

  I continued to film and zoomed in as the shadowy figure climbed rapidly up to the spot to retrieve the bag.

  It was all over in less than a minute and seemed so quick and easy.

  I stayed exactly where I was between the bushes.

  The target would have to come back close to my hiding point in order to get back to his car. I was confident that he wouldn’t spot me in the shadows and I would use the chance to get some close-up shots as he passed by.

  I watched as he hurried along the base of the embankment back towards the bridge.

  He came within ten yards of where I lay in the field, almost running, but not moving so fast that I didn’t have plenty of time to take a couple of photos of him holding the distinctive orange bag in his gloved left hand.

  But I couldn’t see his face. It was covered.

  He too was wearing a balaclava, with just his two eyes and mouth visible.

  I recognized the eyes, but I had hoped to get some full-facial shots to provide positive, undeniable identification. I snapped a third picture as he hurried past.

  I smiled to myself.

  Gotcha!
/>   The photos may not be ideal, but they were enough. Especially if I could get a shot of him getting into his car with its distinctive personalized number plate.

  I waited a few moments and then stood up and started quickly back towards the road.

  —

  THE FIRST indication that things had not gone entirely to plan was a woman’s scream emanating from under the bridge. In fact, it was not so much a scream as a primeval screech of sheer terror.

  I felt a distinct chill run down my spine.

  I recognized that scream. It was Lydia.

  Oh my God!

  I sprinted back to the road and turned left towards the bridge, shouting out at the top of my voice. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”

  There was a body lying facedown in the road at the far end of the bridge, I could see clearly with night vision.

  Oh my God, no! Please, no!

  I rushed forward and bent down, my heart beating away at twenty to the dozen in my chest.

  But it wasn’t Lydia, it was Crispin and he was groaning slightly.

  “Jeff, is that you?” said a frightened voice away to my right.

  I turned my head and saw Lydia cowering near the wall at the side of the bridge.

  “Yes,” I said. “What happened?”

  “We thought it was you,” she said. “It looked like you.” She was crying.

  “What happened?” I asked again.

  “We saw someone in a balaclava and Crispin said it was you. We called out and came back.” She sobbed. “But it wasn’t you.”

  I turned Crispin over so he was lying on his back. He groaned again as I moved him. I looked at his face. His eyes were wide with fear and he was trying to speak, but no sound was coming out, just a trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth. I opened his coat. The whole of the front of his shirt was wet with blood.

  “Call the police,” I shouted at Lydia. “Quickly. And an ambulance. He’s been stabbed.”

  She was already dialing on her cell.

  What an absolute mess.

  Why hadn’t they gone back to the car and stayed there like I’d asked them to?