Payback

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if he had the mixer round the back, where he’s working?’ asked Danny after at least a dozen trips.

  ‘Course it would,’ said Fergus. ‘But this is Big Kev we’re talking about.’

  Sharon returned at lunch time with a carload of packed Tesco bags. She stood with one arm around the big man’s waist and they chatted as they watched the mixer turn.

  ‘They were always like that,’ said Fergus. ‘The original happy couple.’

  When the mix was ready, Kev went back to his barrow and Sharon disappeared into the house with her bags of shopping. Half an hour later she reappeared to call Kev in for his lunch. He’d stayed inside the house since then, although Sharon had gone off in the Mini again.

  Danny had been on stag since two p.m. He had another thirty minutes to go before his two hours were up when, across the street, the front door opened and Big Kev emerged. He was dressed differently: his working jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with smart chinos and a short-sleeved polo shirt, and he was carrying a golf bag stuffed with woods and irons.

  As Kev walked towards his car, Danny nudged Fergus, who was snoozing next to him on the sofa. ‘Heads up, Watty. He’s on the move.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Fergus as he spotted the battered golf bag. ‘He’s still trying. I thought he’d have given that up by now.’

  ‘Is he no good at it, then?’

  ‘He’s worse than that, he’s total crap. He always loved golf – must be something to do with his Scottish ancestry. He even used to take a couple of clubs and a bag of balls on ops, just in case he got the chance to practise. But he can’t hit a ball straight. Never could.’

  Fergus smiled as he recalled golf balls being whacked in the desert, on ice-covered lakes in Norway and even inside an aircraft hangar the squadron had occupied for a couple of weeks in Cyprus.

  ‘He spent a fortune on lessons, read all the books, watched the professionals, but he reckoned he never got his swing quite right. He could hit a ball for miles, but never straight. The lads used to say it was easier to dodge a bullet than one of Kev’s golf balls.’

  Kev opened the tailgate of his Land-Rover Discovery, put the golf bag inside and began rummaging around in one of the pockets.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Probably checking to see if he’s got enough ammo for a whole round.’

  When Kev slammed the door shut, the whole vehicle shuddered. He got into the Discovery, smiling, and then drove away.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ said Danny. ‘Run after him?’

  ‘No need. I know exactly where he’s going.’

  A few minutes later, as Fergus and Danny gathered together their kit and dismantled the OP so that there were no signs of them having been there, a blue Vauxhall Vectra cruised past Kev Newman’s house.

  The driver pressed in his gearstick pressel.

  ‘That’s Mick on Brecon Road. Heading into town. Do we have any possible yet?’

  Fran was crossing the river Wye, which runs through Hereford.

  ‘That’s Fran on the bridge towards the town centre. There’s nothing yet. All callsigns, get into town and start looking for Watts until we get some Int.’

  20

  The Thames Embankment was far quieter than usual. The fear of further suicide bombings was keeping visitors away. It was a good spot for George Fincham to talk in confidence to his trusted second-in-command.

  Deveraux would have preferred to meet her boss in his office, where every word and look would have been recorded, but when Fincham called her and suggested they walk and talk, she could hardly refuse.

  She knew all about the possible sighting of Fergus and Danny on the train to Hereford, after receiving a call from Curly at Pimlico. But as Fincham explained what had happened, she listened attentively, taking in every word as if it were all hot news to her, while making certain she gave no indication of how pissed off she was that Fergus had allowed himself to be pinged.

  If Watts could be saved, he could still be useful to her to flush Fincham out and force his hand. If not, she needed to cover her own back. And there was still the fifteen million to be found.

  ‘We haven’t always seen eye to eye on this matter, Marcie,’ said Fincham, after telling her he had already sent the team to seek out and eliminate Fergus and Danny. ‘Consequently I have, at times, not kept you fully informed of my planned course of action. I regret that now – you know how highly I regard you as my second-in-command.’

  Deveraux had decided it was time for a change of tactics with her boss. From now on she needed to know everything she could about his plans. That meant restoring his confidence in her total loyalty. ‘Thank you, sir, I appreciate that. But I’ve realized, sir, that you were right all along. We should have killed Watts when we first had him, and then taken out the boy as well.’

  Fincham stopped walking and stared hard at her. ‘But you’ve always been in favour of keeping them alive.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I was wrong. I think it’s time to cut our losses. Catch them again, kill them and dispose of the bodies before there’s any further embarrassment.’

  Fincham raised his eyebrows as he considered Deveraux’s words. He walked over to the Embankment railings, rested both hands on the top and gazed across the river. Deveraux joined him and they watched an almost empty pleasure cruiser cut its way through the murky brown water.

  ‘You’ve taken me somewhat by surprise, Marcie,’ said Fincham, still staring out over the water. ‘I anticipated having to convince you on this one. I thought you would want to bring in Watts to question him further.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Deveraux. ‘We tried that and it failed. And quite frankly I don’t think he knows anything at all. If he did, why hide in Spain? Why not be proactive? You were right all along, sir, so let’s finish it this time.’

  Fincham turned from the railings and smiled broadly at Deveraux. ‘You have no idea how delighted I am to hear you say this, Marcie. It means a great deal to me to know that I have your complete backing and can trust you absolutely.’

  ‘You can, sir,’ said Deveraux, returning the smile. ‘Absolutely.’

  21

  Big Kev was in a bunker. He knew it well. He’d been there before, many times. It wasn’t a big bunker or even a particularly deep one, but not for the first time Big Kev was thinking that he really did not like this small area of soft sand.

  He’d already had two attempts at getting his ball out and onto the green. Both times he had shifted quite a bit of sand, much of it onto himself, but he hadn’t troubled the ball much. It was nestling comfortably less than half a metre from where it had been when Kev first trudged into the bunker to join it.

  Kev was playing alone. It wasn’t that no one else would play with him; most of the club members enjoyed playing a round with Kev Newman – it was good for a laugh and it made them feel a lot better about their own game. But sometimes Kev preferred to play on his own. It gave him time to think about his game, and plenty of opportunities to search for that elusive, perfect swing. He dreamed of striking the ball like his golfing hero, Tiger Woods. Kev knew he would never be even a good golfer, but once, just once, he wanted to swing the club like the Tiger.

  He took a deep breath and prepared for his third attack on the ball. Both feet were planted deep in the sand and the head of his sand wedge hovered a few centimetres behind the ball. Kev focused both eyes on the little white sphere as he spoke to it. ‘This time you’re out. On the green. Next to the flag.’ He reminded himself of the golden rule: ‘Head down, eyes on the ball, eyes on the ball.’

  He pulled back the club, swung down with his mighty strength and heard the sand wedge make contact with the ball. It went high into the air and Kev watched it descend onto the green and begin to roll. Quickly. It went past the flag and rolled on. And on. Without losing speed it crossed the wide green and then disappeared off the edge as it dropped into another bunker on the far side.

  ‘Bollocks.’
>
  Danny and Fergus were close to the golf club car park. The walk had taken over an hour. They could see Kev’s Discovery but did not approach it. Fergus wanted to avoid attracting the attention of any of the staff.

  There had been a lot of activity around the entrance to the golf club. Half an hour earlier a bride and groom had arrived in a vintage Rolls-Royce, followed by carloads of wedding guests. The reception was already underway.

  Danny checked his watch. ‘How long does it take to play a round of golf?’

  ‘We never quite knew with Kev. He should be in just before last light, though, which is good for us.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’

  ‘We’ll wait until he gets to the last hole. We can see it from the other side of the clubhouse. I’ll go and meet him and you stand off here, on stag. If there’s a drama of any sort, shout me a warning and then run. The ERV is still the swimming pool. You know the drill.’

  A blue Transit van with LAND OF A THOUSAND DANCES MOBILE DISCO printed on the side drew into the car park and pulled up outside the golf club. The long-haired driver got out, went to the back of the van and hauled out a couple of heavy-duty speakers.

  Fergus took Danny’s arm and edged him slowly back towards the cover of some trees. He wanted to be absolutely certain that the new arrival was as genuine as he looked.

  The passenger door swung open on rusted hinges and a mini-skirted teenage girl slid out and stomped on high-heeled boots round to the back of the van. Her voice carried all the way across the car park. ‘And you start flirting with the bridesmaids like last time and you’re dumped. You just stick to playing your music!’

  Fergus smiled and nodded. ‘Looks like it’ll be a noisy night.’

  22

  Deveraux’s conversation with Dudley was not proving an easy one, but she hadn’t expected it to be. She was talking to him on her Xda as she walked along the northern bank of the Thames, opposite Vauxhall Cross.

  ‘I have had to tell Fincham that I fully back his decision to kill Watts and the boy on sight, sir.’ Deveraux couldn’t hide the displeasure she felt as she spoke.

  She was fairly certain that Watts, no stranger to strong-arm interrogation tactics, would keep his mouth shut if he were to be captured and interrogated – just as he had when Fincham had held him before. But Danny? He was a kid. He was bound to blurt out all he knew to save his skin, or his grandfather’s. And that would eventually include all he knew about her, their mysterious helper. Three select words would be more than sufficient to give Fincham all he needed to know: young; black; woman – there were not so many of those working in the Firm.

  And once the interrogation team began to get nasty, Danny would undoubtedly reveal that not only had this ‘young black woman’ arranged their return from Spain; she had also killed one of her own team in assisting their escape from the safe house in Thetford six months earlier.

  Deveraux’s name would instantly go to the very top of Fincham’s hit list. And once he had figured out why she was working against him – and it wouldn’t take him long – he was more than likely to do a runner – with the money. There were still places in the world where a man with fifteen million pounds in his pocket could arrange to disappear to.

  Deveraux couldn’t risk that happening, but she was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. And so did Dudley. ‘This is becoming extremely messy, Marcie.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Deveraux into her mobile. ‘It would be inconvenient to lose Watts and the boy after expending so much energy in getting them back to the UK.’

  ‘And Fincham’s team is already on the way to Hereford?’

  ‘Probably already there by now, sir.’

  ‘But if Watts suspects he’s been pinged, he may have decided not to go to Hereford at all.’

  ‘It’s possible, sir, but I doubt it. He’s gone there for a reason; he’ll want to see it through.’

  As Deveraux waited for Dudley’s response, she looked over the Thames to Vauxhall Cross and gazed up at the higher floors, where the heads of the Firm had their offices. She planned to move into the top floor herself one day. If this mission was a success, that move might come a lot sooner than she had expected.

  ‘But you remain confident of recovering the money?’ said Dudley at last. ‘Whatever happens to Watts and the boy?’

  The money, thought Deveraux. Always the money. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I will do what I can to keep them alive, but the safety and security of the mission must come first, sir.’

  She could hear the slight sarcasm in Dudley’s voice as he spoke again. ‘Not to mention your own safety and security, Marcie.’

  ‘Quite so, sir, yes.’

  23

  Fran made sure she wore a broad smile as she walked into the Queen’s Arms in Hereford town centre. It was definitely more of a pint of bitter than a Bacardi Breezer pub.

  ‘Anyone here called Kev Newman?’

  Four grizzly-looking guys sitting nursing their pints looked up as Fran held up a leather wallet. ‘I found this outside. It’s got a credit card inside and I thought he might be in here.’

  The four men shared a laugh. ‘No, love,’ said one of them. ‘He’ll be at the house that Jack built, or down the golf club, trying to play golf.’

  They went back to their beer, still laughing, as Fran listened patiently to the barman explaining in great detail where Big Kev lived.

  She knew perfectly well how to get to Newman’s house. The Firm’s intelligence cell had finally provided the information on Watts’s known contacts in Hereford, including full details on his oldest mate, Kev Newman. But the information had taken a lot longer to arrive than Fran would have liked. The Security Services were at full stretch in the attempt to gather clues in the suicide bombings, and Fincham’s request for information was not a priority. His team had already spent three fruitless hours in Hereford, checking out faces in pubs and cafés used by men from the Regiment, hoping to stumble across Fergus or Danny.

  Now they had a lot more to go on. With a trigger on Newman’s house in case he arrived home, the rest of the team were now looking at all known and possible locations. And they had Newman’s driving licence photograph on their Xdas.

  Outside the pub she headed quickly towards her black Audi hatchback parked near the cathedral. She hit the radio pressel in the pocket of her jacket.

  ‘All callsigns. I have a possible location. I need the golf course checking. Who can?’

  Benny was also heading back to his vehicle, a red Nissan Almera, after checking out coffee shops and a few pubs at the other end of town. He hit the pressel in his leather bomber jacket pocket as he kept an eye on the traffic and parked vehicles, watching for blue Discoverys.

  ‘Benny can.’

  Fran was getting into her vehicle. As she pulled the door shut she hit the car pressel under the knob of the gearstick.

  ‘Roger that, Benny. Paul, where are you?’

  Paul squeezed the gearstick pressel in his silver VW Passat and the net was filled with the sounds of a truck’s air brakes and a frustrated driver’s car horn.

  ‘That’s Paul on the ring road and held in traffic. I got two more gyms to check out.’

  Fran looked at a map of Hereford as she started up the Audi. There were a couple more pubs on the edge of town that were well worth a look.

  ‘Roger that, Paul. Mick, any change at the house?’

  As soon as Mick had had been given Newman’s address he’d driven back to Brecon Road. He’d found the house and then immediately spotted the perfect location for a trigger on the place. He parked his vehicle in the Wyevale Garden Centre car park and then slipped into the back garden of the derelict Victorian house standing alongside. He climbed in through a smashed rear window and went up to the first floor.

  Using the net curtain he found lying on the floor, some heavy green curtains and an old wardrobe, he had built an urban OP. He pulled the sofa between the two sets of curtains and was now sitting in comfort, looking over at the
house that Jack built.

  ‘Mick still has the house, no change. No vehicles, lights or movement.’

  The big, lumbering figure of Kev Newman was just visible in the gathering gloom. Danny and Fergus could see him trudging towards them far off down the fairway. They watched as he stopped, took a golf club from his bag and then dropped the bag to the ground.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ said Fergus as they saw Kev prepare to make his long approach shot to the green. He stood still for a few moments and then swung back and through. Almost immediately he hurled the club to the ground. They didn’t see where the ball went, and they couldn’t hear what Big Kev shouted. But when he picked up the club and his bag and moved off, it wasn’t towards them, but away to the right.

  Fergus laughed. ‘Hasn’t improved much. I’ll go meet him, help find his ball.’

  He started walking but then turned back as a thought occurred to him. ‘Give me your phone.’

  Danny pulled the new mobile from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Why do you want it?’

  ‘I’d better keep this chat with Kev short, just in case. I’ll give him the mobile number so he can call us. I can’t remember it, and we don’t have a pen to write it down.’

  Fergus walked off towards the fairway and Danny moved back across the car park to wait – and watch. The steady thump of disco music echoed from the clubhouse and mingled with the sounds of laughter and raised voices; the wedding party was warming up.

  Kev Newman’s ball had hidden itself somewhere in the deep rough. The big man had been searching for a good five minutes. The darkening sky didn’t help, and he was almost ready to give up when he sensed rather than heard the approaching footsteps. He looked up, and for a moment had no idea of the identity of the man closing on him.

  Then he knew. ‘What the—?’

  ‘Hello, mate,’ said Fergus quietly. ‘I see you’re still no better at that stupid game of yours.’