by Rob Aspinall
"Here pal," I say. "That air freshener in your windscreen. Where'd you get it?"
"Huh?" he says, glancing into the cab. "Oh, that? You can't buy one. They're company issue."
"They're in every wagon?"
"Yeah, well, unless the driver prefers the smell of his own farts."
"What company do you work for?" I ask.
He taps his fingers against the door. A logo in orange print: Matheson Haulage. There's a phone number in small lettering underneath. As the driver walks off towards the back of the trailer, I dial the number of the company on my phone.
A woman answers. I ask her for the address.
31
The tube and train take me an hour combined. It's a further twenty minutes on foot before I see the sign for East Thistle Industrial Estate.
The sky is fresh and clear, but the scenery grim. A sprawling old complex of concrete and steel. Trucks, vans and beaten-up cars parked outside faceless warehouses and yards.
The place is a maze. Long roads and avenues that all look the same. Articulated wagons rumbling past me every other minute. I should have stolen a set of wheels, but I'm trying to break the habit. People depend on their cars, after all. You know, to go to work. Pick up the kids. Do their shopping. Probably not fair, swiping their pride and joy from under their noses.
After a while, I find the place. It's fronted by bushes and trees. A wide two-way entrance with a fancy black sign: the same orange logo.
A large security lodge stands to the right with yellow barriers across the entrance.
I approach the security lodge. It's a grey box with a flat roof and large glass windows. There's only one guard on duty—a stocky black guy with speckled grey stubble.
I linger out of sight behind the sign. Before long, an articulated truck rumbles towards the exit. It stops outside the lodge. I seize the moment and come out of hiding.
I slip into the yard unseen by the guard, the truck between me and the security lodge.
As the truck pulls out of the depot, I slow to a walk, already well past the lodge.
I wear the high vis vest I took from the construction site. And carry a black rucksack, the hard hat tied to one of the straps.
The truck yard is almost empty, but there's a couple of big trailers parked up side by side.
Across the yard is a large orange warehouse next to a three-storey office building. I enter through the warehouse. In fact, it's more than a warehouse. There's a pallet factory deeper into the building. Looks like they make and store 'em. Giant stacks of the things run along the walls to my left and right. And beyond that, a production line manned by guys in ear defenders and safety glasses. They also wear white hard hats and yellow vests like mine.
I walk across the warehouse floor.
I'm approached by a short, pudgy pit bull with a clipboard in hand.
"Oi you," he says.
Shit, busted already.
The guy points to a nearby wall, stickers with safety reminders.
There are two yellow bins beneath the signs. Both full of safety glasses and ear defenders. I slap my forehead as if I forgot. I head straight for the bins. I slip on all the gear, including my hat. I rap my knuckles on the hat and give the guy the thumbs up. Satisfied, he stomps off.
I wander through the warehouse. Not even sure what I'm looking for. But the name of the company is all I've got.
So I pick my way through criss-crossing fork lifts. There's a steel staircase to my left that leads to a mezzanine level. A long line of windows at the top of the stairs.
I walk past the stairs, through the warehouse. I stop to pick up a bag of cement off an open pallet. Heave it over one shoulder.
Gotta look busy. Hides my bruised and battered face, too.
I pass through the pallet factory floor. It's too noisy to strike up a conversation with a worker, so I continue on until I come to a doorway. It's covered by black rubber flaps. It leads into a corridor. The corridor leads to a large garage with truck cabs tilted forward to expose their engines. I ditch the bag of cement and weave through the garage floor. It's noisy and busy. The shrill cry of power drills. The blare of a radio. The smell of oil and grease. Mechanics stand on cabs with their heads buried in engines. I ghost through unseen. Past the entrance where they drive the trucks in, and through another door on the opposite end. It's another corridor, with a series of those rubber flaps at regular intervals. Extractor fans whir overhead. The last rubber divider leads me to a fire exit at the end of the corridor. The door is open. There's a yard outside with a white van with its rear doors wide open. Two guys in check shirts load it up with twenty kilo bags of soil and fertiliser.
I duck out of the way while their backs are turned. Take a sharp left. Yet another face full of doorway flaps and—Holy shit. I just hit pay dirt.
32
A dingy industrial room sits bare, apart from a pallet of cash and another with kilo packages in a silver foil wrap. A money counter sits on top of a desk against a wall with a chair pushed underneath. I pick up a foil package and dig into it with the key to my flat.
The end of the key comes out dusted in a fine white powder. If it was any good, the stuff would be rockier and yellow in colour.
Yeah, this stuff is cut to high heaven. Looks as if they're packing up and shipping out, too. I wander over to a battered steel door at the back of the room.
As I slide it open, I’m greeted by a dark room with a low ceiling and a herbal whiff strong enough to knock out an elephant.
There's a mini laboratory on the far side and rows of plant life between. The cannabis farm looks as if it's being shut down too, with a pair of guys in lab coats and masks boxing up the plants.
I pull back and shut the door before they notice. I return to the pallets and unzip my rucksack. I throw in a few bags of powder and move onto the cash. The money is shrink-wrapped in clear plastic stacks of hundred-pound notes. There must be five grand in each. And hundreds of stacks on the pallet. I work fast, I chuck a few in the rucksack. I load in another. And pick up one more for the road.
"Who the fuck are you?"
One of the guys from the van stands behind me in the doorway to the room. He's young, Hispanic. A sharp haircut. The shape of a pistol butt beneath the tail of his untucked shirt.
I freeze, cash in hand. "Well this is awkward."
"I said, who are you?" the guy says, removing a pair of mustard work gloves. "What are you doing back here?"
"What does it look like?" I say, dropping the final stack of money inside the rucksack. I leave a hand inside the bag, on the Beretta I stole from the goateed intruder. I take a not-so-wild punt. "I'm one of Randall's guys.”
The lad chews on a piece of gum. Scowls at me. "It's not Randall's to take."
And we have a bite.
I take my hand off the gun. I zip up the rucksack and strap it over both shoulders, walking towards the lad. He tenses up. His hand close to his hip.
"Look pal," I say. "I'm just following orders like you.”
The guy's eyes narrow. "You don't know Randall."
"What, sandy hair? Cocky bastard? Drives a Land Rover? Nah, I don't know him, mate . . . Listen call him if you like."
"Maybe I will," the guy says, hitting a number on his phone.
I hear it ring, the sound echoing off the walls.
As I hear Chris pick up on the other end, I drive a fist into the young guy's face. I catch the phone as he drops it. I cut off the call. The lad rests against the wall on the seat of his pants, sparked out. I copy Chris' number onto my own phone. I drop the young guy's mobile and stomp it to bits.
The fastest way out of this dump is the yard. But the lad's mate is coming the other way, returning to the main building. He catches sight of me. I turn and retrace my steps up the corridor, acting casual.
I glance over a shoulder.
The guy spots his partner unconscious in the room. "Hey, you!" he shouts.
I shrug and carry on walking.
The guy's
on a walkie talkie, saying there's been a breach. His weapon off his hip and in his hand. I break into a run, wishing I hadn't loaded the bag up with so much weight. The guy gets a round off as I push through the first rubber divider, wondering why I didn't take his mate's gun.
You sloppy bastard, Charlie.
As I push through the next set of flaps, I hit the brakes, throw myself against the wall to my left. A bullet cuts through the rubber. I hear the kid come running. As he bursts through the divider, I lunge forward and slam him into the wall opposite. I rip the gun from his hand and swipe it across the bridge of his nose.
He’s not getting up any time soon, so I move on, through the garage. The mechanics stand gawping. None of ‘em say a word. I cut through the cabs, stuffing the gun in the back of my jeans. I pick up the bag of cement and play it cool, strolling away and onto the factory floor.
But it's clear I'm fooling no one. Three more guys stride my way, shoulder to broad shoulder. No safety gear on these blokes. Safety's the last thing on their mind as they block my path out of the factory. One has a hammer. Another a wrench. All three a similar size to me, with beards of different lengths and colours. I stop in my tracks and smile. I hurl the bag of cement at the one to my right. The dumb bastard drops the wrench to catch it. I whip my hat off and strike it across the temple of the middle guy.
I lean away from the swing of the hammer and seize a plank of wood heading for a circular saw on a conveyor belt behind me. I whack the third guy with it and I'm down to one man standing. I swing the plank at him as he charges me. The wood connects with his elbows and splinters in two. The guy barges me back onto the conveyor belt. The left side of my face a centimetre from the spinning saw.
The guy leans his weight on me, trying to push my head into the blade. I raise my knees and push him off with both feet. He runs again. I draw the stolen gun from behind my back and drop him with two fast bullets.
He writhes on the deck. One in the knee. Another in the shoulder.
I take off fast across the warehouse. As a forklift passes by, I hop on the side and put the gun to the driver's head. "Take me to the exit," I say.
He nods, terrified. Puts his foot down, beeping people and traffic out of the way. We break out into the daylight. I jump off and start running, looking around the truck yard for some faster wheels.
But I don't get far. A black Range Rover drives at speed towards the main building. It skids sideways to a stop. Two men in dark clothing leap out. Greying, ex-army haircuts and side arms at the ready. I'm already back-pedalling between those articulated trailers.
I duck low and see the feet of the men running left and right. They're splitting up, taking either end. Shit. They're pros. Private security. None of these factory cowboys.
I back up against the nearest trailer. Gotta think of something. And fast.
33
I wait for the two men to jump out on me, either side of the truck. They do. Weapons out. They lower them. I'm not there. Lying on the roof of the left hand trailer, I roll over and swing myself down. I hit the ground running, straight to the Range Rover. I climb inside, my rucksack already off and slung onto the passenger seat.
The engine's running. I shut the driver door and put it in reverse. The two men aren't fooled for long. They sprint into view, unloading rounds as I back up fast. I weave left to right, making myself a harder target. A bullet chips the right side of the bonnet. Another two puncture the windscreen, top and centre. But otherwise, we're golden. I spin the Range Rover and the passenger door swings itself shut.
I speed towards the security barrier. Slam on the brakes. Aim my gun at the guard inside the lodge. He pushes the button. The barrier lifts. I nod in thanks and step on the accelerator, tyres screaming as I belt out onto the road, cutting up a honking truck as I go. I floor the thing all the way out of the industrial estate. Now I've got three guns.
34
I drive straight to a used car dealer close to where I've been living. A small forecourt jammed nose to tail with cars of all makes. Some newer than others, but each one at least a few years old. I park the Range Rover down a side street and pick my way through the cars. The office is a white cabin with blue bunting strung across the front. Frank Samson Autos is painted in matching blue lettering on the side.
The door is open. The salesman’s out quick to meet me with a sweaty handshake and a smile slicker than his hair. He's young and whippet-thin inside a cheap black suit, white shirt and pink tie.
"Hi I'm Frank. See anything you like?" he says. "What kind of motor are you looking for?"
"Something cheap," I say, "but with a bit of speed."
I notice the lad's name tag says Frank Sampson Jr. He taps his bottom lip, his fingernails bitten down to stumps. "Let me see," he says, leading me around the forecourt. "There's a Ford Focus."
"Got anything faster?"
He points to a white Impreza with gold rims and a whopping great spoiler. "How about this bad boy?"
"No, I need something low profile."
Frank chews his lip and thinks a moment. He leads me to a pair of silver saloons around the side of the cabin.
“Fancy a Vectra or Mondeo?"
"Ex-fleet?"
"Yeah, but they've only done ninety-thousand."
I spot a maroon Volvo estate. I circle it. A V6 Turbo badge on the rear. I've driven one of these before.
Okay, I nicked one.
It was a good car. Fast. Solid. Reliable. And no one looks twice at a maroon Volvo. It's got a big boot, too.
"The Volvo for sale?" I ask.
"It's only just come in. The old man hasn't priced it up yet. You paying cash?"
"I was thinking more of a swap deal."
"Depends what you're trading in geez. Whether I can shift it. Is it equivalent value?"
“You can tell me,” I say, leading Frank off the forecourt and along the side street. We come to the Range Rover.
"You wanna trade this for the Volvo?"
"Yep."
"What's wrong with it?" Frank asks, strolling around the back to the driver's side.
"It hasn't got any documentation."
"You mean it's nicked."
"Would that be a problem?" I ask.
I take it by Frank's silence, it's not the first stolen car they've handled.
He rubs a finger on the bonnet. "What's this?"
I take a closer look. It's a large chip in the paintwork. A graze from a stray bullet.
"Big stone hit me on the motorway," I say, popping the locks.
"And these?” he says, pointing to the bullet holes in the windscreen. “More big stones?”
"A glazer'll fix that in five minutes," I say, opening the driver door so Frank can have a nosey inside. I talk to him like I'm the salesman. "Look mate, this is a seventy-grand car. Full leather. All the bells and whistles. Brand new too, take a sniff. You'll get at least sixty for it."
"Fifty, tops," Frank says.
"Either way, you're quids in."
Frank stands and stares at the Range Rover, chewing his lip. "I dunno."
"Do I need to speak to the man in charge?" I ask.
Frank straightens up. "My dad? No." He shakes my hand. "I'll take it."
Five minutes later, I'm driving off the forecourt in a maroon Volvo estate with all the beige trimmings. Zero paperwork. And no questions asked.
Frank waves me off, happy with the deal. Not as happy as me. That Range Rover is hotter than a microwaved spud. Probably fitted with a tracker too.
Best to get rid.
I pull into traffic, take out my wallet and slide out Detective Clarke's business card. I call up his number and talk as I drive. Much as it galls me, it's time to get the pigs involved.
Detective Clarke waits in a dark-blue Audi A4. He's parked up under a railway bridge on a gravel road. I stop with my driver’s door next to his.
We wind down our windows.
Clarke is halfway through a foot-long Subway. He dumps it on his lap and wipes a spot
of mayo off his mouth. “I hope this is gonna be worth it.”
I grab one of the bundles of stolen cash and hand it over. I don’t let him know I’ve got more.
Clarke takes it, suspicious.
"Courtesy of Matheson Haulage," I say.
"What do you mean?"
"They're part of it. A big part of it." I point at the cash. "There was a hell of a lot more than that. And merchandise, too."
"Got a sample?" Clarke asks.
"Afraid I’m gonna need it. But the money should get you started. Evidence, right?"
"Not exactly," Clarke says.
He stares at the money like Mandy used to look at presents I got her she didn't like.
The soup-maker.
The draught excluder.
The ring with the bloodstain on it.
But that's another story.
"Alright," I say. "It's a foot in the door, at least. They were clearing out when I got there, but there's gotta be a trail. Maybe you can bug their offices. All they know is I nicked it. They don't know I'm helping you out."
Clarke stashes the cash in his glovebox. "What are you gonna do next?"
I smile and step on the accelerator. I pull away, tyres skidding on the gravel. I find Randall's number on my phone and dial. The line rings for what seems like an age.
I'm about to hang up when he answers. “Uh, hello?"
"Chris," I say. "It's your old mate Charlie. How are you doing?"
"Charlie, um, what do you want?"
"I wanna meet. Me and you. No one else.”
"And why would I wanna do that?"
"Because I've got some of your drugs. And I doubt you want 'em falling into the wrong hands."
"Whose hands would those be?"
"I dunno, say, the porky pigs?"
"Ah, so that's what the raid was all about? You want a payday."
"You said it yourself. Better than waiting on tables."
"Haven't you stolen enough of our money already?"
"I prefer the word acquired."
"And this has got nothing to do with the building site?"