The Chop Shop

by Heffernan, Christopher

  Three bodyguards preceded the group, and Michael felt his throat tighten at the sight of company executives, marching past with briefcases and laptop bags in hand. The oldest of them, a man with white hair, cast a dismissive glance at him. Then they were gone, and security filed outside after them and left the reception area empty.

  He heard vehicle doors slamming shut and caught a glimpse of the convoy driving off. Michael headed for the lifts, nodding a greeting to the policeman behind the armoured glass. A female voice spoke on the intercom, as he passed by another fire team on their way down to the armoury.

  Michael stopped just outside the detectives' offices and thought of his old station and colleagues. Their faces were always blurred in his memory, never seeming quite right to him. He reached for the door handle, only for somebody to open it from the other side.

  “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me. Corporal Hill has been cruising the area in a four-by-four looking for you; we thought you were dead,” Richard said.

  He pushed his way inside the office and sat down at his desk. “I got lucky. What were Assurer personnel doing here?”

  “Oh, them. Yeah, you missed all the fireworks. What happened to your face?” David said.

  “Fireworks?”

  “They took over one of the briefing rooms. Just them, Harris and the senior officers. The major came out of there looking like they'd just boiled him alive,” Helen said.

  Archibald nodded. “They're getting jumpy. Apparently, there were visits paid to all the other stations as well. I don't know about the rest of you, but the way things are going lately leaves me with a very bad feeling.”

  Michael leaned back in his chair. “I thought you four were supposed to be on top of things. What happened to your little task force?”

  The others exchanged looks with each other.

  “That?” Maria said. “It's still going, but things aren't exactly healthy. The good news that attacks on police units have dropped back down to normal levels, but the bad news is that some of these attacks are now being levelled at other targets linked to Assurer.”

  “At least it's not a problem for us anymore,” Richard said. He stuck his head out into the corridor for a moment, and then shut the door.

  The room darkened, its walls turning green from the glow of computer monitors. A blue light flashed on Michael's computer as the drive spun up.

  “The targets they're hitting belong to Assurer subsidiaries. It's a corporate war, Richard,” Maria said.

  Michael sighed. “Eratech, or Eratech's European branch, anyway. It has to be obvious to everyone by now.”

  “Maybe, but we need something to pin on them. Without solid evidence, it's just going to be considered conjecture, and nobody will have to believe a word of it. You know what the government and MPs are like; they're all in the pockets of somebody or another, and I'd bet more than a few of them have been sewn up by Eratech and friends,” Maria said.

  “Isn't that your job? Harris is screwing me around. A few people mess up some paperwork and book-keeping, the government gets pissy about our performance targets, and suddenly everybody loses their heads. It's fucking Eratech. It's so obvious. Nobody in the government gave a rat’s arse until all this started going down,” Michael said.

  Maria shrugged. “No proof, no case. We're fumbling about in the dark here. As long as nobody puts a bullet in my head, and I keep getting my monthly pay cheque, I can let it slide. You should do the same. Gotta run; we're all due back at company headquarters. They should give me a pay rise for all these meetings.”

  Richard slumped in his chair when the others had gone.

  “There was a journalist waiting for me when I got to the station,” Michael said.

  “There wasn't anybody there when I headed through the checkpoint. A car?”

  “Yeah, blue, post-war. Chinese made. He was a smug as hell.”

  “Aren't they all?”

  “He said he and his colleague had been trying to get in contact with me. I believe they would be the ones responsible for your picture in the newspaper.”

  Richard grimaced. “Bellend. I hope you told him to shove his head up his fat, hairy arse.”

  “No, sorry to disappoint you. He gave me his card, said he could help us out with our investigation into Jim Belton and the shootings. The fucker was already trying to use it as leverage for access to police databases and information.”

  “Sounds dodgy as hell. Don't give him the time of day. We're not even working the case anymore. There's more important things to be done, like busting white trash in the slums because it looks good in the papers, and the government can claim they're getting things done. Which, I might add, is okay with me, as long things stop going pear-shaped.”

  “Don't get your hopes up. Harris isn't done with this. He's got too much riding on it. Think of how much it must have cost to get me to America to meet those guys. It's probably not even his money he spent on it. He needs results.”

  Richard gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Are you going to risk your job by raiding police files for this dick? Come on, think about it. These are the people who come into work in the morning and ask themselves which cop they want to fuck over today. They're all the same. They use you, and then they discard you when they get the story they want. Maybe they're even trying to set you up for a nice big fat story on corruption.”

  “There are plenty of better stories they could run if they cared about corruption. Tell you what; since you offered, you can write up the reports for our excursion into that dump, while I go and talk to Harris.”

  “I don't think he'll appreciate that right now.”

  Lunch leftovers rested on Harris's desk. He scribbled on a report with a deft hand and black pen, never looking up. “Glad to hear they didn't eat you alive out there.”

  “Me too,” Michael said. “Looks like a lot has been going on while I've been away. Assurer company managers? Never seen them come down to the stations before. They always shuttle people to the offices in Basingstoke.”

  “Some of them are about ready to soil themselves; they're middle-managers, high enough on the ladder to order people about and shout at them, low enough that they're still easy pickings for the corporate vultures above. They know some of them will lose their jobs sooner or later, with the way things are going.”

  Michael checked his watch and frowned. “I think it's pretty obvious Eratech is behind most of the trouble. It's obvious, and it gets even more obvious every time something else happens.”

  Major Harris signed the document and slid it into a card folder. He took out another letter, looked it over and then signed it. Still he didn't look up. “Assurer are aware of the link. You need to stay focused here. The killer of Jim Belton's family is your priority. Is there crossover between events? Probably, but let Assurer sweat the strategic picture.”

  “So what do you want to do about it? The fire teams have a better grip on low level crime than we'll ever have, and we've been busting a nut on this Belton case so much that we haven't even had time to put anything else on the table for the units on the street.”

  Harris finally looked up. He put the documents in a tray. “The trouble with our targets is serious, and there's no getting away from it. We need the government to get off our back so we can have some breathing room.”

  He pushed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a gold-plated lighter, blowing smoke through his nostrils. Michael coughed, but the major didn't even blink. “We need to talk about America. What did you find out?”

  Michael spent thirty minutes telling him and handed over the memory stick, but the major said nothing, expression cold and neutral, as though none of it troubled him as he listened.

  “Something like this was always going to happen sooner or later. We've been heading towards it since the turn of the century,” Harris finally said. “Don't tell anybody else about this.”

  The major took a puff of his third cigarette.

  “There's something else
. I got accosted by a journalist coming in here. He claims to have information on the Belton case and access to people that I don't.”

  “What's your feelings on him?”

  “Shark. He wants access to police files and information. I don't know why.”

  Harris gave him a grim smile. He tapped his cigarette on the side of a glass ashtray until the end fell away. “He knows enough about you to find where you work. Could be dangerous. Do you know his name?”

  Michael shook his head and stifled a cough. “No. I know, maybe it's Eratech trying to screw us again, but he seemed honest. Well, as honest as his sort get. I've got nothing else to go on, and unless you want to do me the favour of junking this case for good, so we can move onto something else, it's our only option.”

  “Do it, but you run everything, and I mean everything, by me first. Don't get played. Understood?”

  “Understood. One more thing. I need a new car; gang bangers torched my ride with a petrol bomb.”

  Harris's expression hardened. He leaned forward and blew smoke in his face. “I'm not giving you a company car because you were fucking incompetent. Get out.”

  Michael stepped into the corridor.

  “Fill out a requisition form, and I'll see what I can do,” Harris said, before he could shut the door.

  Chapter 13.

  Michael walked into administration. He stopped by the doorway, listening to the tapping of fingers on keyboards, as he looked around at the rows of desks and workers. Some of the lights at the back were off, and the room receded into shadow. A woman to his right spoke softly into her phone, pausing for a moment to glance up at him before she resumed her duties.

  He moved towards Samantha's desk. She had her head buried in one hand, as he dropped the card folder in the wire tray.

  “Oh, hi. People were saying you had probably been killed,” she said, sitting up straight.

  “News gets around that quickly?”

  “Yeah, but people usually forget about it after fifteen minutes or so. I wish they'd get the network fixed; we're going to have paperwork piling up to the ceiling soon. What? What is it?”

  “Can I get a lift tonight?”

  She folded her arms. “Something happen to your car?”

  “It got incinerated, courtesy of the local populace.”

  “Yeah, I'll give you a lift. I suppose you'll be wanting a lift in the morning as well?”

  “If you're offering.”

  She smiled. “Maybe. You okay with owing me a favour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me in the car park later, okay?”

  “Thanks, Sam,” he said, and wandered back out into the corridor. Corporal Hill leaned against the wall.

  “You pissed a lot of people off today. They torched my car, Corporal.”

  “Yeah, I saw the wreck. I don't like apologising, but you gave me a long leash to run on, and I made a bad call. Things normally go better when we roll in like that, but at least you're still alive.”

  “Right, at least I'm still alive. Too bad I don't have a car to get around in and do my job.”

  Corporal Hill flipped open one of the pouches on his body armour and removed a wad of money. “Listen, we collect some cash each week from this bakery. Take it. I'll cut you in until you can get a new vehicle.”

  Michael hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “You're the ones who've been turning that place over? The older guy and his two daughters?”

  “Don't let appearances fool you, that guy was involved in some bad stuff. We could either drag him in and leave his daughters to fend for themselves in that dump, or we could cut a deal with him. Information and protection money in return for turning a blind eye to his crimes. What's the lesser evil? Now take the fucking money before I change my mind.”

  Michael pocketed the notes. “Fine.”

  “One more thing; you should try and keep your voice down a bit. I could hear what you were saying all the way out here.”

  “Maybe I wouldn't have to, if you hadn't deafened me with that grenade. I've still got the ringing in my ears. It's like having somebody stick a needle through my eardrums.”

  Hill's radio gave a burst of static, fading out as somebody's voice cut in.

  “Time to go. We're going to gas some smugglers out of the tube tunnels. It needs a platoon to get it done properly, total manpower sink. Watch your back,” Hill said. He jogged down the corridor and turned the corner.

  Michael ran a hand through his hair. He sighed and felt the fatigue worm its way through his flesh and muscle, right down to the bone. It was starting to get late in the day now. Tonight, he'd go home and sleep so he could wake up in the morning feeling just as tired, like it was hard wired into his brain.

  He stood in the car park, watching the next shift come in through the main checkpoint. Water leaked from the plate above, and it seemed like it was raining naturally for a while. The fire team on guard duty huddled about their four-by-four, listening to the radio.

  A few others joined them as a news bulletin cut off the song.

  “I'd love to see the flames. Must be a pretty spectacular view,” Richard said

  “It's a chemical plant. If you're close enough to see it burning, then you're close enough to breathe the fumes in,” Michael said.

  “Correction, it's a chemical plant owned by ABR and ABR partly owned by Eratech. I'd say that warrants watching it burn. I wonder who blew it up?”

  “Do you need to ask?”

  “I don't know, but let's not jump to conclusions, right? See you tomorrow. You got a ride home?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Hopefully things will start going better for us. See you tomorrow.”

  He watched Richard drive out of the compound and looked at his watch. One of the admin workers stepped out into the rain.

  “Have you seen Samantha?” Michael said.

  The woman shrugged. “She's been on the phone for the past ten minutes, looked kind of upset.”

  The car park emptied of traffic, and new vehicles occupied each space, driven by people he didn't recognise. It was only him and the fire team left standing in the rain.

  Samantha buttoned up her coat as she hurried outside. “I'm really sorry, but I can't give you a lift. My sister is in trouble.”

  “What's wrong?”

  “There's something going on at my parents’ home where she lives. They're down in Cornwall on business. It's in Basingstoke, but the police company there are useless. I'm sorry, I know it's sudden, but I have to go and make sure everything is okay.”

  “You're thinking about the Basingstoke Butcher.”

  “Yes, maybe. They still haven't caught him. I tried to get the police to go down there, but they're even more bent than Assurer. Look, I've got to go; it's a long drive and I'm wasting time that I don't have.” She ran to her car.

  Michael followed. “I'll come with you. Consider it a favour repaid, and then you can give me a lift home”

  “It's quicker if you just get the bus.”

  “I've got a gun. Might be useful.”

  “Fine.”

  They drove out of the compound, and then topped forty on the speedometer. Samantha's lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes flicking back and forth between road markings and traffic. Neither of them spoke.

  London faded into the distance, replaced by small urban establishments and muddy fields beneath dark grey skies. She followed the motorway, weaving between traffic as sweat glistened on the surface of the steering wheel.

  Another car cut them off, and Samantha muttered something insulting under her breath. Michael eyed the tremble in her hands.

  “What's the area like?”

  “It's generally safe in the town centre, but my parents live on the outskirts, and there aren't too many people around there now. I don't know what's happening. My sister was scared crazy, and I couldn't get anything out of her.”

  Samantha slammed her hand on the horn, and then weaved p
ast two more cars in front.

  “Do your parents know?”

  She shook her head.

  Michael checked his watch. The hands hadn't moved since the last time he looked at it. They passed a string of signs, and burnt out cars littered the ground either side of the motorway. The speedometer inched past eighty miles per hour.

  Emergency lights flashed in the rear view mirror, siren beginning to wail, and Samantha banged the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, clenching her teeth together. “They can pull over speeding traffic but they won't even send a patrol to check on somebody in danger.”

  She drove faster. Rear lights of the vehicle in front blurred, gone in the blink of an eye. Michael glanced at the wing mirror, and the police four-by-four accelerated after them. A Basingstoke sign appeared briefly on their left. Samantha slowed and took the route off the motorway.

  The police vehicle closed in on them. Samantha weaved her car between rubble and the remains of destroyed building. She clipped a ruined vehicle, broke one of the headlights and then turned a hard right. They turned two more corners, passing another building.

  The flashing lights faded into the darkness, followed by the wailing siren.

  There were still street lights in the town centre, and the world existed as a shade of dim orange. Handfuls of people walked the streets, some waiting for the single bus that rattled and rumbled as it drove down the road. It all disappeared into the night. The left headlight cut a narrow cone of vision through the dark, never seeming to give much warning of debris littering the streets.

  Michael saw the silhouettes of wilted trees to his right, and the ruins of Basingstoke grew smaller in the wing mirror. Houses emerged ahead. A handful of lights here and there lit the area, casting harsh shadows that grew up the sides of buildings like ivy.

  “Is this the place?” Michael said.

  Samantha nodded.

  “Okay, pull over and kill the engine; it's quieter to go the rest of the way on foot.”