by Mark Timlin
‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘Stick around. I’ll show you later.’
And I did.
As it goes I’m not very good at hoisting motors. Hopeless as a matter of fact. But I’d borrowed a key off Charlie. It’s guaranteed to open any car without a dead lock. The key’s of dubious legality, but can be obtained through the motor trade. So round about one we loaded the Chevy up with weapons and ammunition and went looking for a fast car, full of petrol to take us up to Harwich.
I left Dawn in our motor parked up in a side street in Clapham. There’s still a bit of money round that way and I figured I could find the kind of car I wanted without much trouble. How long it would be before it was reported stolen was another matter. I saw the transport I wanted almost immediately. It was an Audi Quattro automatic on a J-plate. Young enough still to be poky, but old enough to let me and my magic key in. I checked for an alarm but couldn’t spot one, so with a quick glance up and down I worked the key into the lock with my gloved fingers and popped it sharpish. I was in and away within ten seconds, the Audi starting on the button, sounding sweet as a nut. It had a three-quarter-full tank. Someone had looked after their jam jar. It almost seemed like a shame to nick it.
I drove the Audi back round to where the Chevy was parked and flashed the lights as I went by, leaving Dawn to retrieve the ordnance and meet me on the next corner away from our motor. She threw the bags into the back and sat next to me.
‘Jesus, Nick,’ she said, ‘but we’re asking for trouble driving around in a stolen car with enough guns to keep Rambo happy.’
‘But having fun,’ I said, and aimed the Audi in the direction of Essex.
I nicked a set of number plates in the car park of a shopping centre near Romford from a J-registered Nissan Micra without too much pissing about. I hid the Audi’s plates under the front carpet beneath Dawn’s feet and we hit Harwich in the late afternoon. Plenty of time for a fish supper, a few drinks in a charming pub down by the sea front and a scout round to find out exactly where the ferry would discharge its cargo.
After all that we drove to a petrol station on the outskirts where I gassed up the Audi and bought a metal petrol can which I filled with two gallons of premium four star and stashed behind the front seats of our car.
At eleven-fifty-five precisely, with a few mournful hoots from its whistle, the ferry from the Hook arrived, and shortly afterwards a long blue and white trailer with ‘BARNHOFF’ printed in capital letters along both sides in red, hauled by a six-wheeled Volvo caterpillar tractor, pulled out from one of the customs sheds and took the slip to the main road where Dawn and I were waiting. She drove and I checked the weapons.
We followed at a polite distance. There seemed to be only the driver in the cab which was good news.
I imagined he would take the A120, bypassing Colchester, then pick up the A12 to the M25 junction just past Brentwood, then anti-clockwise round to Wembley. It’s a bastard journey with no motorway, but that suited me fine. There were a lot of quiet turnoffs on the way, and I didn’t intend he’d make it as far as Chelmsford. The only problem being how to get him to turn off the main drag so’s we could get acquainted.
But then fate stepped in at an all-night services near a place called Horsley Cross just a few miles down the highway. The artic indicated and pulled into the parking lot, and we drifted after him and Dawn stopped the car half a dozen spaces down from the Volvo, and we watched as the driver shut down the truck and went into the restaurant. We followed and were one place behind him in the queue at the counter as he purchased a full English breakfast.
‘Hungry?’ I asked Dawn.
‘Not very.’
‘Have some coffee.’
‘OK.’
I bought two pots of coffee, and a Danish for myself which seemed fitting under the circumstances, and we moved over to a table behind the driver and I nibbled at my pastry as Dawn lit a cigarette.
‘Everything looks all right,’ I said. ‘We’ll have him over soon.’
‘I love your optimism. He might just drive through us.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ I said.
I’d finished my pastry and then lit a cigarette of my own whilst the driver was wrestling with the last of his pork sausage and fried slice, when Dawn decided she needed to visit the ladies. She was back quickly and said, ‘There’s a copper looking at our car.’
‘Shit,’ I said, got up and followed her out to the front of the place where a brand new Ford Mondeo decked out in full Essex County Constabulary livery was standing right outside, about fifty yards from the shop where you paid for the fuel, where one uniformed officer was drinking a cup of tea and nattering with the geezer behind the counter. A second uniform was walking slowly up the line of cars, vans and trucks that were parked up outside the restaurant giving them a good screw.
He vanished behind the Barnhoff truck then reappeared clocking a Suzuki jeep, an old Vauxhall Cavalier and our Audi.
I pulled Dawn back through the door as the truck driver walked past us and off to his lorry. If the sight of the Old Bill interested him, he didn’t show it, as he unlocked the door of the Volvo, opened it, climbed in, started his engine and switched on his lights. And if the sight of the truck interested the coppers they didn’t show it either.
The truck and trailer reversed out of the parking space, swung round, then straightened out and headed across the tarmac away from us, disappearing behind the bulk of a shut down garage workshop before joining the main road again.
‘We’ll lose him,’ moaned Dawn.
‘We know where he’s going,’ I said. ‘There’s no rush. We can catch him easy. It’s that copper and his radio I’m worried about. If he calls in for a PNC on the Audi we’re fucked. The registration doesn’t match the car and all our guns are inside. If he gets smart we’ll be hitchhiking home empty handed with a full terrorist hue and cry after us.’
‘We probably will anyway,’ said Dawn drily, but I ignored her.
Luck was with us. The copper was just being curious and after a few minutes he wandered off to join his mate at the petrol station and cadge a cuppa off the geezer behind the cash desk for himself.
‘Come on, let’s split,’ I said and we walked arm in arm across the blacktop towards our car. On the way I glanced inside the police car and saw the keys gleaming in the ignition and the lock button on the driver’s side in the unlocked position. ‘Shit,’ I whispered. ‘That cop car’s up for grabs.’
‘No, Nick,’ said Dawn, grabbing my arm and hurrying me along.
‘Yes, Nick,’ I said. ‘That’s how we’ll stop that fucker in the truck.’
‘No,’ said Dawn again.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘We won’t need it for long. We can dump it straight after and hoist another motor. Get the Audi round by the slip road back to the main drag and dump it. Get the guns and the petrol out and I’ll meet you in a minute.’
‘Nick . . .’ she wailed.
‘Quick or they’ll be out,’ I urged her. ‘Come on, hurry.’
Dawn shook her head but got behind the wheel of the Audi, started the motor, reversed out herself and went in the same direction as the Volvo whilst I ducked down behind the parked cars and headed back towards the restaurant.
I passed round the front of the Mondeo, clocked that the two Old Bill were still deep in conversation with the proprietor of the garage, opened the door of the police motor and slid into the driver’s seat.
The still warm engine started with a whisper and I was off with just a slight squeal from the back tyres, and I was almost out of sight behind the garage building before the cops tumbled out on to the petrol station forecourt almost tripping over each other in their haste. The police radio was buzzing away and I turned down the volume.
I flipped on the headlights as I turned the corner and spotted Dawn standing beside the Audi, the bags of guns in her arms and the petrol can between her feet. I skidded into a broadside beside her, knocked up t
he button on the rear door and she hoisted the can on to the back seat and threw herself and the weapons in after it, and I banged in the clutch and screeched away before she’d even had time to shut the door behind her. I hit the main road doing fifty and accelerating in third gear, and the Mondeo fishtailed wildly as I crossed both lanes heading west towards London, and set off after the truck and trailer.
‘You’re fucking mad, Nick,’ gasped Dawn as she clambered into the front passenger seat beside me.
‘But such charming company,’ I replied as I pushed the Mondeo down the deserted A120. ‘Let’s just hope there’s no other squad cars close. Now get those guns out, we’ll catch the truck up in a minute.’
Dawn did as she was told, tossed me the Browning, tucked the Colt into the belt of her jeans and was screwing the silencer on to the Uzi when the Christmas tree lights that went right round the back of the Volvo’s trailer came into sight, as we pulled up behind the rig which was doing a steady fifty-five in the left-hand lane in front of us.
‘Done,’ she shouted.
‘Great,’ I said as I spotted an exit sign that told me we were a mile and a half from the turnoff to the B1029 and Ardleigh and Thorrington beyond.
‘There should be a switch here,’ I said, fumbling on the dash, until I found it and with a screech the siren erupted. Next to the screamer switch was another that put on the flashers mounted on the top of the motor, which illuminated the road around us with their eerie blue light.
I accelerated again, pulled alongside the length of the artic, then in front of it, and slowed down so that it was forced to stop behind us.
‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing the Uzi and stuffing the Browning into the pocket of my jacket. ‘Let’s introduce ourselves.’
I turned off the tones but left the flashers and the engine on, and we both got out of the police car and jogged back towards the cab of the lorry.
As we arrived on the driver’s side, the window rolled down and his head appeared. ‘Officers,’ he said in English with just a trace of an accent. ‘What is the matter?’ He didn’t seem very perturbed and for a moment I was afraid it was all a wind-up, and all that he had on board was a load of build-it-yourself furniture.
‘Put your hands where I can see them,’ I ordered. ‘Flat on the windscreen in front of you.’
‘There is no need, everything has been organised. Officers, please.’
Then I knew it wasn’t a wind-up at all.
‘We’re not fucking officers,’ I snarled, and fired the Uzi at the trailer where the bullets stitched a neat line across the paintwork. ‘Now put your fucking hands where I can see them or you’ll get the next lot.’
He did as he was told then, and I opened the cab door as Dawn trained her gun on the driver.
Then I went round to the passenger side and got in beside him whilst Dawn kept him covered. Once inside I told her to lead the way off the main road and find somewhere quiet where we could both park up, and turn off the flashers.
She slammed the driver’s door shut, ran to the Mondeo, got in, killed the lights on the roof, pulled away and on to the turnoff.
‘Follow her,’ I said to the driver.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he asked.
‘Who we are doesn’t matter, and we want the drugs in the back.’
‘What drugs?’
I dug the Uzi into his side. ‘Don’t fuck about,’ I said, ‘you know as well as I do. Now get going.’ He looked at me in the light from the dashboard of the truck, worked the clutch, put the stick into low gear and we lurched away after Dawn, off the main highway and into the darkness of the B-road, until we came to a lay-by which took both the Ford and the artic comfortably.
‘Turn the engine off, but leave your lights on and get out,’ I told the driver, who hadn’t said a word in the short drive, when Dawn was back in front of the cab, gun in gloved hand. ‘And don’t get any bright ideas. We’re both prepared to kill you.’
He did as he was told, and within a few seconds all three of us were standing on the road in front of the Volvo in the harsh glare of its main beams. The driver was wearing a set of dark overalls, and I shouldered the Uzi and, keeping well out of Dawn’s line of fire, patted him down. He was unarmed.
‘Watch him,’ I said to Dawn and took a look around. There was no sign of life in the pitch black that surrounded us. If there were any houses they were dark and it seemed like the perfect place for what I had planned.
‘Turn your motor round,’ I said to Dawn, ‘while I watch him. I want to look in the back, so get the lights on the doors.’
She did as she was told again, ran back to the Mondeo, screeched it in a tight U-turn, back past us, then into another tight turn so that the police car’s headlights were trained on the back doors of the trailer.
I shoved the driver along the length of the articulated truck until we got to the back doors which were secured by a padlock the size of my hand, where Dawn was waiting for us. ‘Right, you,’ I said to him, ‘open it up.’
‘I don’t have the keys.’
I hit him round the head with the silencer on the Uzi then, and he went down on one knee in the mud at the side of the road. ‘Don’t fuck me about again,’ I said. ‘I’m serious, son. I’ll kill you stone dead in a second. Bet on it. Then I’ll find the fucking keys wherever they are and open it up myself.’
‘OK, OK,’ he said, and pulled himself to his feet using the handle on the trailer doors, wiping blood from his cheek. ‘Just don’t hit me again.’
‘Not unless you ask for it.’
Slowly and carefully he put his left hand into one of the pockets of his overalls, brought out two keys on a ring and handed them to me.
‘That’s better,’ I said, then to Dawn, ‘take him out of my way and keep him quiet. If he tries any shit, shoot him in the belly.’
The pair of them moved to the side of the Mondeo and I found the key for the door locks, then the padlock, wrestled it off, dropped it at my feet, worked the door handle, stepped back and pulled open the massive doors. Inside, packed front to back, were large, flat cardboard boxes bearing the brand name of a Scandinavian furniture manufacturer. I pulled down the first box and tore it open. Inside were the makings of a small dining-room table neatly wrapped in bubble sheeting. I tore that apart too and found two pairs of U-shaped chromepipe legs. At the bottoms of each leg were black rubber grommets, one of which I wrestled out of the tube it sealed, put my fingers inside and pulled out a plum. A neatly packed, long clear plastic sausage crimped at both ends with metal clamps, and containing what looked like ten thousand or so red and black capsules.
‘Bingo,’ I said. ‘We have contact.’
‘Is it what you thought?’ asked Dawn.
‘Oh yeah. No problem.’
I stood up and went over to the driver and hung the packet of drugs in front of him. ‘So what’s this, pal? Scotch mist?’
‘I know nothing about this stuff. I am just paid to drive.’
‘Just obeying orders, huh?’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’
‘So what do you do now?’ he asked.
‘Now we blow this stuff to shit.’
‘That is not a good idea.’
‘As good as I’ve come up with lately.’ Which wasn’t saying much.
‘And what about me?’ he said.
‘You? You fuck off. Get lost. Vanish. Disappear.’
‘Where?’
I pointed the Uzi at the dark field beyond the fence on the edge of the road. ‘Thataway will do.’
‘There’s nothing there.’
‘Just keep going. Eventually you’ll get somewhere.’
‘No.’
‘Sweetheart,’ I said to Dawn. ‘If he doesn’t move, shoot the fucker.’
I saw Dawn pale, but the driver didn’t notice, or if he did he took it as a sign of her eagerness to blow lumps out of him.
‘All right, I go,’ he said. ‘But you’ll be sorry.’
‘Don’t be petulant,’ I s
aid. ‘And don’t threaten me. You’re in no position. Just shut up and go, and don’t come back.’
He walked away from us, towards the fence, looked into the darkness beyond and hesitated.
‘Give him some encouragement,’ I said to Dawn.
‘How?’
‘Shoot at the cunt.’
She raised her Colt revolver and fired twice over the driver’s head. He ducked and ran towards the fence, vaulted it in one movement and crashed through the undergrowth away from us.
‘Very ladylike,’ I said. ‘Right, let’s get busy.’
I hung the Uzi by its strap over Dawn’s shoulder and told her to keep an eye out in case the driver came back to try and do something smart. Then I took the petrol can out of the back of the Mondeo and ran to the front of the truck, undid the top of the can, made a trail of petrol about ten yards long on the road and up to the front of the Volvo, got into the cab where I splashed petrol over the seats and dashboard, out again, more petrol on to the front tyre, the running board, the twin back tyres of the tractor, the hydraulics, along the side of the trailer, the wheels and up into the back and over the contents. Finally I picked up the carton I’d ripped open and threw that into the back, complete with all its contents, put the top back on the can and threw it up into the trailer too, and pushed the doors shut.
‘Come on, darlin’,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
We both piled into the Mondeo, and Dawn drove it up to where I’d started the petrol trail. I bailed out and lit the fuel with my Zippo. The petrol caught and the flames shimmied along the blacktop until they ran up the front of the tractor, jumped to the tyre, then suddenly engulfed the interior of the cab in flames. At that I hopped back into the Mondeo and Dawn drove it to a safe distance where we could watch the progress of the fire without being in any danger. We both got out of the motor to watch. By that time the cab was burning merrily and the flames had danced along the side of the trailer and into the cargo compartment. I turned and grinned at Dawn in the light from the fire and made an O with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, just as the windscreen of the Volvo blew out. The pyrotechnics continued as the diesel tanks blew and the tractor and trailer parted company. Then the petrol can in the back exploded and tore a hole in the side of the trailer which allowed fresh air inside, and within a few minutes the complete length of it was blazing.