by Tom Graham
Gene brooded for a moment, chewing hard on his panatella, then suddenly ducked inside the Cortina and emerged again clutching his police radio.
‘Ray — you still awake over there?’
‘One of us is, Guv,’ answered Ray over the radio. The sound of Chris’s voice blearily asking, ‘What, who?’ was heard. ‘We’re still outside the Deerys’ place keeping them under obs. The downstairs lights are on.’
‘Any sign of movement?’
‘Not yet, Guv.’
‘Let me know the moment you see anything, Ray. And I mean anything.’ Gene turned to Sam and said, ‘I’ve got Ray and Chris staking out that Paddy couple, the Deerys. I’m not letting them out of my sight from now on. With Cowper out of the picture, they’ll have to make their drops to some other member of the RHF. And when they do we’re going be right there.’
‘But this time we won’t let them know we’re following them,’ said Sam pointedly. ‘Will we, Guv? We’ll be more careful, won’t we, Guv? We won’t give ourselves away like we did last time, Guv?’
‘There’s a bonfire right over there needs a Guy on the top of it — want to be volunteered for the part, Samuel?’
Sam raised his hands and backed off. Gene spat out the smouldering remains of his cigar, pushed back his shoulders and flexed his black-gloved fingers. He was focusing himself, drawing upon whatever restless force it was that burned deep within him and channelling it throughout his body. His manor had been invaded, his castle had been breached. It made no difference to him what motivated the men he was up against, what creeds and manifestos inspired them to plant bombs and pull triggers. He was an agent of the law in a lawless land, a dirty cop in an even dirtier town — and he would see his duty done before the end.
Sam looked at him, saw Gene’s immobile face as it stared at the flames, saw the orange light of the burning wreckage playing across him, the dancing, shifting blackness of his long shadow flung out behind him. For a moment, it seemed that they stood together on the very brink of the world, surrounded by void and calamitous destruction, engulfed by an infinite night where all the stars had collapsed, all the planets evaporated. And, at the same moment, Gene’s shadow shimmering across the tarmac seemed, just for a heartbeat, to become the silhouette of the Test Card Girl, cradling her dolly and trailing her jet-black balloon.
Don’t lose it, Sam, he told himself, shaking his head to clear it. When he looked again, Gene’s shadow was just Gene’s shadow, and what had seemed to be the dead infinity of a collapsed universe all about them was once again just Manchester — a battered, bomb-blasted Manchester, but nothing more alien than that.
The police radio crackled. Ray’s voice came through: ‘Guv! Guv!’
‘I’m right here, Ray.’
‘We’ve got movement, Guv. The Deerys have just come out and got in their motor. They’ve put something in the boot — a box or a package.’
‘That’s it — it’s another drop-off,’ said Sam.
‘They’re driving off now, Guv,’ said Ray. ‘You want us to follow them?’
‘Like flies after a cow’s turdy arse!’ Gene bellowed. ‘And don’t you bloody let them see you’re following.’
He glanced at Sam, daring him to comment, but Sam was already climbing into the Cortina.
‘They’re heading north, along Tennyson Road,’ Ray said.
‘Keep me posted, Ray,’ demanded Gene, leaping behind the wheel and firing the engine. ‘We’ll intercept them as soon as we can and take over the pursuit.’
Gene tossed the radio to Sam, gunned the engine, and roared off, executing the fiercest and most terrifying three-point turn Sam could imagine. In moments, the blazing building and burning car were vanishing specks of orange light in the rear-view mirror, then they were gone.
No — not gone, thought Sam, looking sideways at Gene as he floored the gas and flew them recklessly through the Mancunian night. The fire’s still very much burning, right there, in Gene’s blood. Night and day. Twenty-four/seven.
CHAPTER NINE
INTO THE LION’S DEN
They passed through silent streets, the orange glow in the sky behind them fading as it receded. Ray’s voice sporadically came through over the radio, keeping them informed as to the Deerys’ progress.
‘Parker Street … Freyermont Way, heading north, joining the new flyover …’
Gene powered the Cortina through the night at a fierce lick, hurtling down side streets and streaking along dual carriageways until he had overtaken the Deerys’ position and could sit in wait for them to arrive.
‘Back off, Ray,’ he ordered over the radio. ‘They’ll be driving by us any minute now. We’ll take it from there.’
‘Understood.’
The radio went dead. Sam and Gene sat silently, the Cortina tucked away in an unlit lay-by, waiting. A set of headlights approached. Gene’s hands tightened on the wheel. He let the Deerys’ Cresta go past, counted slowly to ten, then unobtrusively fell into pursuit.
The Deerys pressed on, heading north, always north. At times they slowed to a crawl to read road signs, and at least twice they stopped entirely to peruse a map by the overhead light in the car.
‘They’re not familiar with the route,’ said Sam. ‘You think they’ve been given directions by the RHF for a new rendezvous point?’
‘I was off sick when we did mind reading at school, Sam, so I can’t answer that,’ answered Gene. ‘But I know this: whatever it is, it’s not a picnic hamper they’ve got in the back of that motor.’
Gene drove cautiously, allowing plenty of space between them and the Deerys’ car up ahead. From time to time he even let them move out of sight for a few moments, then stamped on the gas and caught up again. He was determined not to be spotted this time.
‘How you doing, Guv?’
It was Ray coming over the radio again.
‘No probs, Raymondo,’ Gene replied. ‘But I’m killing the radio now, for safety’s sake. I don’t want to be spotted talking into it and I don’t want you piping up noisily at an inopportune moment. You and Chris, keep on standby in case we need you.’
‘We’ll be waiting for your call, Guv. Good luck.’
Gene clicked off the radio, then felt inside his coat for the reassuring bulk and weight of the Magnum. Sam found himself checking that his own pistol was safely in place.
They had followed the Deerys through what had started to feel like an endless suburb of drab houses and tower blocks, but now they were entering a bleak landscape of looming warehouses and industrial storage depots. The Deerys drove uncertainly, stopping from time to time, trying to get their bearings. Gene killed the Cortina’s headlights and crept ahead in almost total darkness, sticking as close as he dared to the Deerys’ rear lights.
‘The sort of place you could stash arms and explosives,’ said Sam, looking about at the anonymous sheds and storage yards.
‘And the sort of place you could stash a hostage, too,’ put in Gene.
‘You think that’s what we’ll find here?’
‘You tell me. Whatever the Deerys have come here for, it’s not drinks and nibbles. Keep your eyes peeled, Sam. Much as you grate on my nerves, I’d hate to lose you just yet to a bullet in the back.’
The Deerys’ brake lights flared. They had pulled up outside a tall set of wooden gates that were firmly secured with chains and padlocks.
Twenty yards behind them, Gene silenced the Cortina.
There was a pause. Nothing happened. Gene’s finger began to tap nervously on the wheel.
‘Come on,’ he murmured under his breath. ‘Come on …’
Moments later, the Deerys emerged from their car. Michael strode up to the wooden gates, rattled the heavy chain, and then shouted, ‘Open up, you stinking bastards! We’ve got your lousy package. Get your filthy English arses down here and collect it!’
‘I think he’s the same bloke who delivers my post every morning,’ murmured Gene.
Cait opened the boot of the car, and
together she and Michael hauled out a large box, secured all over with heavy tape.
There was movement and the sound of chains rattling, and then the wooden doors slowly swung open. A man appeared, kitted out in black overalls, an assault rifle raised combat-fashion and trained on Michael Deery. Moments later, a second figure appeared, dressed in camouflage trousers and khaki shirt, brandishing a semi-automatic pistol. He waved it in a get-your-hands-up gesture, and the Deerys reluctantly complied. While the man with the rifle kept them covered, the man in fatigues frisked Michael, then Cait, found them clean of weapons, and indicated curtly towards the package. The Deerys said something, but the man with the pistol shook his head. When Cait moved towards him, imploring him with her hands, the man thrust the barrel of the gun in her face. The man with the rifle tensed, as if preparing to open fire.
‘Do we intervene?’ Sam breathed, already reaching for his firearm.
‘We sit tight,’ muttered Gene. ‘Don’t take it seriously. It’s all show. You’ll see.’
Michael and Cait backed away from the armed guards, exchanged a look, then together lifted the taped-up package and carried it through the open gates and out of sight.
‘Told you,’ said Gene. ‘The Deerys are worth far more to them alive than dead.’
The two guards followed the Deerys inside, and the gates swung shut behind them. With much clanking and clanging, the padlocks were secured once again.
At once, Gene slipped the Magnum from its chest holster and released the safety.
‘Let’s go, Sammy-boy.’
‘Where? You want to check out the Deerys’ car?’
‘Check out their car? We’re CID, Tyler, not Currie bloody Motors. I want to get past them gates and have a right ol’ snoop about inside. That’s where the action is. There’s chuff all going on out here.’
Sam thought hard for a moment. Gene was right, of course: it was pointless to come all this way to reach what seemed to be the very threshold of the RHF, and then do nothing. But, then again, there were armed men on the far side of those gates. Heavily armed men. And, if Brett Cowper was anything to go by, they were fanatics.
‘We’re taking a big risk going in there, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘Do you think it’s wise?’
‘Unless you’d rather sit here playing “I Spy” till they come out again,’ said Gene. ‘Come on. It’s like when you’re a kid on the high diving board: if you think about too much, you never jump. So let’s jump.’
They got out of the Cortina, Sam slipping the pistol from under his jacket. If Gene was going to jump, Sam would jump with him. He wouldn’t sit in the car while the guv went it alone.
‘Feeling like a good Boy Scout?’ Gene asked.
‘Ready for anything, Guv.’
‘You’d better be.’
‘Gene, keep it low-key,’ Sam urged him. ‘We mustn’t get into a shooting match. We’ll just observe, see what’s what, and call for backup.’
‘Well obviously, you pillock. I haven’t come here for target practice. Now, zip your cakehole and follow the master.’
Keeping low, making barely a sound, they crept through the shadows towards the Deerys’ parked car. Around them were the menacing shapes of storage buildings, deserted car parks, empty truck yards. Above them, a black and starless sky seemed to press down on them, reminding Sam momentarily of his dream. He pushed images of the Test Card Girl and her insinuations of hopelessness out of his head, and focused instead on getting himself and Gene in and out of this place alive and unharmed.
They reached the wooden gates and found them firmly chained.
‘We need to get in there,’ Gene hissed in Sam’s ear.
‘No,’ Sam whispered back. ‘It’s too dangerous. I’ll call for backup.’
‘No backup, Sam. Not yet.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because, Samuel old chum, the Deerys are leading us to all the right people,’ Gene growled back, spelling it out for Sam as though he were simple. ‘They’ve led us to the Red Hand Wotsits, they can lead us to their IRA contacts too. They’re a bloody goldmine.’
‘But Guv-’
‘If we swoop now, that’s it — they’re kaput. The Deerys are worth too much to us to piss ’em away by nicking ’em. You understand? No backup, no raid — just you and me, keeping it quiet, observing from the shadows. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Crystal, Guv.’
‘Primo. Right, Sam, follow me.’
Gene ducked away, moving from shadow to shadow until he had disappeared from view. Sam steadied his breathing, calmed his heart, unwound his tightening nerve endings, and then dashed into the shadows after Gene.
Keeping well under cover, Sam and Gene moved about the high perimeter fence that enclosed the compound. They could see the roofs of various buildings rising above the level of the fence — warehouses, storage sheds, workshops — and the bright glare of security lights. At one point they stopped and listened, alerted by the sound of raised voices.
‘We’ve brought you what you wanted,’ Cait Deery was shouting. ‘Now we want to see her. You promised. You promised we could see her, you lying English scum!’
A man’s voice responded to her. Like Cowper’s, it was English, well-modulated, very middle-class. ‘Tonight’s not a good night for social visits.’
‘But you promised.’
‘I have a war to pursue,’ said the Englishman coolly. ‘I have to prioritise.’
Instantly, there were the sounds of a scuffle, and Michael Deery could be heard hurling threats and abuse.
‘That’, said the Englishman, ‘is not the way to earn privileges.’
‘She’s our daughter, you stinking English bastard!’ Michael spat back. ‘We don’t need to earn no privileges to see her.’
‘We supply you with everything,’ Cait shouted. ‘Without us, you’d have no war. You owe us.’
‘I owe you nothing at all,’ the man replied. ‘We’re in the middle of operations. We made a strike tonight. My duties lie with my soldiers, not with you. Surely you of all people can understand that.’
‘We’re not leaving here until we’ve seen her,’ Cait said flatly.
The Englishman, without any emotion in his voice at all, said, ‘Would you like us to start sending your daughter back to you one little piece at a time?’
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ Cait said.
‘I’ll do whatever I have to in the name of the revolution,’ said the Englishman. ‘Nothing is more important than the cause. You understand that. Now, go home, and await further instructions.’
Somebody spat, but, whether it was Michael or Cait, Sam couldn’t tell.
‘Be very careful,’ the Englishman said in a low, threatening voice. ‘Your daughter is at present all in one piece. That can change.’
There was movement, and scuffling feet, and the people on the far side of the fence moved away. Moments later, Sam and Gene heard the Deerys’ car doors slamming, the engine rev up and the vehicle move away back into the night.
‘Annie was right,’ whispered Sam. ‘It’s a hostage situation. The RHF’s coercing the Deerys by holding their daughter.’
‘Time for a good ol’ nose-about, Sammy-boy,’ said Gene, eyeing the height of the fence and calculating whether he could make it over.
‘It’s too high,’ said Sam. ‘And they’d see us the moment we reached the top.’
‘Us? Who said anything about you, pale face?’
Gene hurried over to the stretch of fence he intended to scale and beckoned Sam over with the barrel of the Magnum.
‘See?’ he said, pointing at a roof just visible above the fence. ‘There’s a building up close. I can monkey up the fence and get on the roof.’
‘I can’t imagine you monkeying anywhere, Guv.’
‘When the mood takes me I can monkey like a good ’un, you saucy tit, now listen up. No one will see me on the roof if I keep me head down. I’ll have a good ol’ shufty, see what’s occurring in there, then hop back down
and we can leg it.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Guv.’
‘The beauty of being your boss, Tyler, is that I don’t have to give a tinker’s what you think. Now, give me a bunk-up.’
Unsure quite what he was doing, Sam moved vaguely to put his hands under Gene’s armpits and push him skywards, but Gene irritably indicated that Sam was to make a stirrup by linking his fingers. Once Sam had complied, Gene planted his patent-leather loafer onto Sam’s locked hands, and braced for the jump.
‘You won’t let me down, Sam.’
‘I won’t let you down, Guv.’
‘Right then. One — two — three!’
Sam heaved. Gene’s weight bore down on his hands like an elephant, breaking his grip. Gene crashed onto him, and together they sprawled on the ground like a couple of half-arsed circus acrobats. But the sound of their bodies tumbling was masked by the bellow and cough of a large diesel engine firing up in the compound courtyard.
‘You could’ve broken my neck,’ hissed Gene.
‘You could’ve broken my hands,’ Sam hissed back.
‘My neck’s worth more than your flippers, Sam.’
The wooden gates of the compound were opened, and a truck moved out, trundling away into the darkness.
‘They’re on the move,’ said Sam. ‘More bombs and booby traps, you think?’
‘We won’t know if we don’t get in there and have a look,’ Gene growled back. ‘Right, Sam, seeing as you’re a prick-fingered pansy what can’t be trusted, looks like you’re the one gonna have to shinny up that wall.’
The clanging of the wooden gates as they were shut and relocked covered the sound of Gene jockey-lifting Sam up the fence. He practically threw Sam into the air, so powerfully did he lift him. Sam reached out and grasped the top of the fence, hauling himself up while trying to remain hidden from view behind the tall building next to him. He could see down into the courtyard — it was a wide space, with several vehicles parked in it, bathed in the bright glare of the security lights. A man with an assault rifle was locking the gates from the inside; two other men were carrying the package the Deerys had brought, heading for one of the various low-roofed buildings bounded by the perimeter fence. The security lights clicked off, the armed men disappeared; all that remained were a few windows dotted around with lights burning inside them.