Taylor formed his right hand into a fist and punched the air. ‘Yes,’ he hissed.
Connolly grinned. ‘Woof!’ he said. ‘Woof, woof, woof!’
Taylor frowned. ‘Woof? What do you mean?’
‘Woof!’ repeated Connolly. ‘It’s the sound that petrol makes when you set fire to it.’ He held up his hands and splayed his fingers as he said ‘woof!’ again. ‘Get it?’
Taylor sneered in contempt. ‘Yeah, I get it.’ He looked at Weaver. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘First, I need you all to hand over your phones,’ said Weaver.
‘Why?’ said Connolly.
‘Because they track phones these days,’ said Weaver. ‘If we go there with our phones the cops will know.’ He grinned. ‘But if we leave them here, it’ll look like we never left the pub.’
‘What, we’re just going to leave them on the table?’ asked Harris. ‘They’ll be gone in a minute.’
‘Give me some credit, mate,’ said Weaver. He reached under the table and pulled out a black Adidas kitbag. ‘We’ll put them in here. The landlord’s a pal, he’ll keep them behind the bar. And there’s half a dozen guys here who’ll swear we never left the place.’ He unzipped the bag and held it open. One by one the men put their mobiles inside. Connolly switched his off and Weaver glared at him in disgust. ‘Didn’t you get what I just said? What’s the point of switching it off? It has to be on so that it shows up.’
Connolly grimaced, switched the phone back on and dropped it into the bag. Taylor tossed in an iPhone and reached for his pint. ‘Don’t forget the other one, Andy,’ said Weaver.
Taylor frowned as if he didn’t understand.
‘You’ve got a Nokia as well.’
‘That’s a throwaway,’ said Taylor. ‘I use it for stuff I don’t want traced. It’s not in my name and I change the SIM card every couple of weeks.’
‘Didn’t realise that selling used cars meant you had to behave like James bloody Bond,’ said Harris. His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you need a throwaway phone for?’
Taylor took out a battered Nokia and dropped it into Weaver’s bag. ‘Let’s just say that sometimes I might sell a motor that’s less than kosher and I wouldn’t want an angry buyer turning up on my doorstep,’ he said.
Weaver zipped up the bag and looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. ‘Right, the pub’s closing at one this morning and it’ll take half an hour to get to the raghead’s house. Let’s move.’ Weaver drained his glass and the rest of his men did the same. He stood up and took the kitbag over to the bar.
The landlord, a balding man in his fifties, nodded and took it from him without a word and put it down behind the bar. He winked at Weaver. ‘Be lucky,’ he said.
Weaver caught up with the men at the door, buttoning their coats and pulling on leather gloves. ‘We need to pick up Colin,’ he said.
‘Colin’s got the flu,’ said Connolly.
‘Man flu,’ said Weaver. ‘I spoke to him on the phone this afternoon, he’s sniffing a bit but nothing major. We’re the five musketeers, all for one and one for all and he’s coming along.’
They walked out of the pub and over to Weaver’s car, a ten-year-old Jaguar. They climbed in, Taylor sitting in the front passenger seat next to Weaver, with Connolly and Harris in the back.
Weaver drove the short distance to where Colin McDermid lived in a small flat in a terraced street. Both sides of the road were lined with cars so Weaver had to double park while Taylor ran over to the house. He rang the middle of three bells and shortly afterwards disappeared inside. Weaver drummed his gloved hands on the steering wheel as the seconds ticked by. He looked at his watch and then at the clock set into the dashboard and swore under his breath.
‘Do you want me to go and get them?’ asked Harris.
‘Give them a minute,’ said Weaver. ‘McDermid’s probably getting his trousers on.’
‘You sure you want him along?’ said Harris. ‘We hardly know the guy.’
‘Colin’s sound,’ said Weaver. ‘And he needs to get bloodied.’ He looked at his watch again. He was about to open his mouth to speak when the door opened and Taylor emerged, followed by a gangly man with a greasy comb-over wearing a blue anorak and black tracksuit bottoms. McDermid pulled the door closed and he and Taylor jogged over to the car.
McDermid climbed into the back, forcing Connolly to move closer to Harris. ‘What’s going on?’ asked McDermid, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Taylor got into the front seat and Weaver drove off.
‘Yasir Chaudhry, that raghead who keeps giving speeches about our dead soldiers burning in hell, we’re going to give him a taste of his own medicine,’ said Weaver.
McDermid sniffed noisily. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Serious as a can of petrol and a lighter,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down.’
‘About bloody time,’ said McDermid. He banged the roof of the Jag with the flat of his hand. ‘He’s been due for a while, that one.’
‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Harris.
‘Why do I always have to sit in the bitch seat?’ whined Connolly.
‘Because you’ve got the smallest arse,’ said Weaver. ‘And because you’re so short I can still see out of the mirror with you sat there.’
Connolly folded his arms and scowled. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not fair,’ said Harris. ‘Get over it. And if you don’t stop bitching we’ll send you back to live with Snow White.’
Taylor laughed out loud and Connolly folded his arms and cursed under his breath.
Weaver twisted around in his seat and looked at McDermid. ‘You left your phone in your flat, yeah?’ he asked.
McDermid jerked a thumb at Taylor. ‘Andy took it off me,’ he said. ‘Said I had to leave it in the flat and switched on.’
‘He’s right,’ said Weaver. ‘If the cops check on you they’ll find your phone was in your flat and you can say you were in all night watching TV or internet porn or whatever you do when you’re in there on your own.’
‘We’re sitting in the Bleeding Heart right now,’ laughed Harris.
Weaver drove at just below the speed limit and all the men in the car kept a look out for police vehicles. They all tensed when they saw a car with fluorescent stripes turn into the road ahead of them but they quickly realised it was a paramedic and relaxed.
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked McDermid. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his lips.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Weaver. ‘And don’t even think of lighting that, not with the amount of petrol I’ve got in the boot.’
McDermid put the cigarette back in the packet and the packet back in his jacket pocket and stared sullenly out of the window.
Taylor looked at his watch, a cheap Casio. ‘You sure he’s home?’ he asked.
‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Weaver. ‘Had a guy around there this evening. He sent me a text while I was in the pub.’
‘Texts can be traced,’ said Taylor.
‘I’m not stupid,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s the same as your Nokia, a pay-as-you-go, untraceable.’ He reached into his pocket and held it up. ‘It’s switched off now and I’ll dump it later tonight.’
‘Looks like you’ve thought of everything,’ said Taylor.
‘Andy, when you’ve known me a bit longer you’ll know that planning is what I do best. Planning and burning out ragheads and Pakis.’
‘You’ve done this before?’
Connolly laughed and jiggled up and down. ‘This is my third,’ he said.
‘Sit the fuck down, Barry,’ said Weaver, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
‘Seriously? This is your third?’ Taylor asked Weaver.
Weaver grinned. ‘Barry’s third. I’ve done half a dozen.’
‘Good for you, mate,’ said Taylor. He beat a quick tattoo on the dashboard with his gloved hands. ‘They need showing who’s boss.’
‘Damn
right,’ said Weaver.
Taylor sat back, nodding. ‘That Paki family in Southall, was that you?’
‘Bloody right it was,’ said Harris, punching the back of Taylor’s seat. We showed them what for, didn’t we, Dennis?’
‘That we did,’ said Weaver. ‘The trick is waiting until they’re asleep and then doing the front and back door. That way there’s no way out.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Taylor, looking at his watch again.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Weaver. ‘We’ve plenty of time, and Chaudhry and his bastard brood are already tucked up in bed.’
Fifteen minutes later, Weaver pulled up in front of a patch of waste ground. Half the street lamps were off but there was enough light to illuminate a burnt-out car and an old boiler and what looked like the insides of a washing machine next to it. The ground was littered with beer cans, discarded needles and fast food wrappers.
Weaver switched off the engine. ‘Right, lads, let’s get this done,’ he said. He popped the boot, climbed out and walked around to the back of the car. The four men joined him. Connolly was bobbing from side to side as if bursting to go to the toilet. There were four red plastic fuel cans with black spouts lined up in the boot. ‘Take one each,’ said Weaver, standing aside so that the men could get to them.
‘Where did you get the petrol from?’ asked Taylor.
‘Why?’ said Weaver.
‘CCTV,’ said Taylor. ‘The cops will ask around to see if anyone bought petrol local. They always do.’
‘They can ask all they want,’ said Weaver. ‘I got this a month ago, took a drive up the M1 and bought it at a couple of service stations. The CCTV will be long gone.’
‘Smart,’ said Taylor.
Weaver grinned. ‘Like I said, this isn’t my first time.’ He slammed the boot shut. ‘Right, here’s the SP. It used to be that they were two semi-detached houses but the council has made it into one house. They knocked down a few walls inside but they left in the front and back doors. Get that? The house has two front doors and two back doors. So to make sure, we need to do all four doors. Right, Colin, you and Barry head around the back of the house. Pour it all around the doors and get as much inside as you can. Do the windows as well. If there’s an open window, use that.’
Connolly nodded eagerly. He was still switching his weight from leg to leg like an overexcited toddler. ‘Can I light it?’
Weaver ignored the Irishman. ‘Once you’re set, listen for me,’ he said to McDermid. ‘As soon as you hear mine go up, drop a couple of matches and leg it back to the car.’ He patted McDermid on the shoulder and he and Connolly hurried towards the house. It was in the middle of a row of semi-detached houses that had been built of brick but over the years all had been either painted or clad in stone. A few of the houses had been well maintained and had new roofs and wood and glass porches built around the front doors, but most had fallen into disrepair and had gardens full of children’s toys and household rubbish.
‘Right, lads,’ said Weaver. ‘Let’s get this done and then we can get back to the pub.’ He headed down the street with Taylor and Harris close behind him. Connolly and McDermid had already opened the wrought-iron gate that led to the garden and were walking around the side of the house. A dog barked down the road but then went quiet.
Weaver held the gate open and Taylor and Harris walked by him, the only sound the sloshing of the petrol in the cans. A siren burst into life somewhere in the distance and the men tensed, but within seconds it was clear that whatever it was it was moving away from them.
The two gardens had been merged into one and then paved over. There were spindly conifers in earthenware tubs either side of the front doors. Weaver gestured at the letterbox. ‘You can be mother,’ he said to Harris. ‘I’ll get the other one.’
All the lights were off in the house and the downstairs curtains were open. As Weaver tiptoed across to the second front door, Taylor looked through the window. There was a large dining table with eight chairs around it and the remains of a meal. There was another table piled high with schoolbooks next to half a dozen backpacks.
Harris grinned and crouched down. He put the can on the ground and unscrewed the cap. The smell of petrol immediately assailed their nostrils.
‘Smells like victory,’ said Taylor.
Harris frowned and looked up. ‘What?’
‘That movie. Apocalypse Now. But he was talking about napalm.’
‘What is napalm exactly?’ asked Harris, screwing the black spout into place. ‘I’ve never understood that.’
‘It’s petrol mixed with a gel,’ said Taylor. ‘It makes it sticky so that it burns longer.’
‘We should try that one time,’ said Harris.
‘Nah, it’s a bugger to pour and there’s less vapour so you don’t get that “whoof” that gets Connolly so excited,’ said Taylor.
Harris straightened up. ‘You know a lot about it,’ he said.
‘I had an interesting childhood,’ said Taylor. ‘Had a mate who got a kick out of blowing things up.’ He gestured at the house. ‘For something like this, petrol is best.’
‘Get yours ready, Andy,’ said Harris, looking around. ‘We need to get it poured quickly, we don’t want anyone waking up and smelling the fumes.’
Weaver was already at the second front door, unscrewing the cap of his petrol can. He looked over at Harris and gave him a thumbs-up.
‘Right,’ said Harris. ‘Here we go. Open yours and pour it over the window.’
Taylor nodded, bent down and began unscrewing the cap.
Harris shivered in the cold night air and then froze as he saw Connolly appear at the side of the house. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Harris hissed.
Connolly said nothing. He wasn’t carrying his petrol can and his hands trembled at his sides.
‘What’s the problem?’ hissed Harris.
McDermid appeared behind Connolly, his face as pale as the moon overhead. Something prodded Weaver in the back and he lurched forward and stumbled into Connolly and then Harris saw the armed cop, dressed in black with a carbine up against his shoulder. ‘Cops!’ he shouted, and turned towards the gate.
Weaver had already begun pouring petrol through the letterbox but he stopped when he heard Harris shout. He pulled the can away from the door. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Cops!’ shouted Harris, sprinting for the garden gate, the petrol can in his hands.
Weaver swore, dropped his can and started running towards the wall. He stopped short when he saw the armed cop standing in the road. The cop was aiming his gun at Weaver’s chest, over the waist-high brick wall. Weaver slowly raised his hands.
Harris reached the gate but as he pulled it open he saw a third armed cop, with silver sergeant’s stripes on the shoulders of his black overalls. Taylor came up behind Harris. ‘Cops?’ he said. ‘Where the hell did the cops come from?’
‘Put down the can!’ shouted the sergeant.
Harris threw petrol at him and it splattered across the pavement and on to the policeman’s boots.
‘Put down the can!’ shouted the sergeant again. He was aiming his gun at Harris but he could see that he was unarmed.
Harris grinned and threw more petrol at the policeman. The sergeant took a step back. ‘This is your last warning, put down the can!’
‘You can’t shoot me, I’m not armed!’ shouted Harris.
‘Stuart, mate, he will shoot you,’ said Taylor, raising his hands.
Harris took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and held it up. ‘Come near me and this place goes up!’ he shouted. It was a stainless-steel Zippo and he flicked up the cap.
‘The house is empty,’ said the sergeant. ‘We got the family out before you got here.’
‘It’ll still burn!’ said Harris. ‘And you’ll go up with it.’
‘Don’t be a twat, Stuart,’ said Taylor. ‘Burning to death isn’t a pleasant way to go.’
Harris ignored him and brandished the lighter in t
he air. ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Get away from me or we’ll both go up in flames, the house too.’ He splashed more petrol across the pavement and it splattered over the sergeant’s boots again.
The sergeant looked over at his colleague. ‘Arm your taser, Den!’ he shouted.
The cop let his carbine hang on its sling as he pulled his yellow taser from its holster on his belt.
Taylor looked over his shoulder. The third cop had pushed Connolly and McDermid forward and they were now standing close to the front door. Connolly darted to the side and grabbed the can that Taylor had been carrying and with a loud whoop threw petrol over the cop next to McDermid. Petrol splashed over his bulletproof vest and overalls and the man staggered back, cursing.
‘Go on, Stuart, do it!’ shouted Connolly. ‘Woof, woof!’
‘Put the lighter down, Stuart,’ said Taylor. He still had his arms in the air.
The cop with the taser was moving closer to the sergeant.
‘I’m warning you. We’ll all go up together if you don’t put the guns down!’ shouted Harris.
Connolly turned around and threw petrol towards the two officers, but most of it splashed over Taylor, who jumped to the side, swearing. ‘Bloody hell, Barry, watch what you’re doing.’
There was a crazed look in Connolly’s eyes and he threw more petrol at the sergeant.
‘Put down the cans!’ shouted the cop with the taser, his finger tightening on the trigger.
‘What do you want me to do, Sarge?’ asked the cop closest to McDermid.
‘We want you to fuck off, that’s what we want!’ shouted Connolly, whirling around and throwing petrol at him.
‘This is your last warning!’ shouted the cop with the taser. ‘Put down the can and the lighter.’
‘I’d be very wary of firing a taser at a man soaked in petrol,’ said Taylor quietly. He lowered his hands.
‘Put down the cigarette lighter,’ said the sergeant, but his voice was shaking and lacked conviction. ‘No one needs to get hurt.’
‘You put the guns down,’ said Harris. ‘Put the guns down, and move back.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the sergeant.
Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours Page 2