by Mark Dawson
Hicks thought back to the drive to Hatton Garden yesterday, the general disappearing into the anonymous building with the imposing security doors.
He nodded toward the taillights of the black cab. “And this guy? Fabian? He was involved?”
“You tell me,” Shepherd said. “You went to see Isaacs. What did he say?”
“Just that Fabian accosted him. Said that he remembered him. Said he remembered being taken to his apartment and abused. Isaacs said that he threatened to go to the papers.”
“Whatever he said, it wasn’t smart. The old man says he’s involved, he’s involved. The old man says he has to go, he has to go. You don’t ask questions; you just do it.”
Hicks clenched his jaw.
“What’s wrong with you now?” Shepherd asked.
“Nothing.”
“You know we’re not following him so we can have a little chat, right?”
Hicks clasped the wheel a little tighter. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“That he’s got to go?” Shepherd leaned all the way back in his seat and stared out the windscreen. “No, Hicks, it doesn’t bother me. Life can be a real bitch. It’s just tough luck.”
Their radios crackled into life again. “Woodward to Shepherd.”
“Shepherd here. Go ahead.”
“We’re at Hanger Lane underground. We’ll pick him up here. You can drop back.”
“Affirmative.”
Hicks saw the circular station building, the illuminated London Underground roundel glowing red and blue. He saw the Maserati pull out of the parking lot of the Crowne Plaza. It accelerated, pulling into the outside lane, and quickly overtook them.
“Drop back,” Shepherd said.
“Jesus, Shep, I know.”
He touched the brakes and reduced his speed to fifty, allowing the black cab to increase the distance between them until they lost sight of it as the road wound its way through Perivale.
Hicks maintained a steady sixty, his eyes losing their focus as he stared ahead at the red lights of the cars ahead and the glare of the headlamps from those approaching on the other side of the road. He found his thoughts returning to the purpose of the night’s operation. The realisation that he knew John Milton had distracted him from it, but not any longer.
He didn’t know where Eddie Fabian was going at so late an hour, but he knew that he wouldn’t be returning this way again.
Chapter Sixteen
THEY FOLLOWED the cab west until they were on the outskirts of London. Woodward dropped back and handed Fabian off to Hicks and Shepherd again, and they passed through Uxbridge and Beaconsfield and High Wycombe. The M40 was quiet at this late hour. There were trucks rumbling along in the slow lane; Fabian had moved over into the middle lane and was maintaining a comfortable seventy miles an hour. The rain had started to fall as they passed out of London. It had been apologetic at first, just a few spots, but it was coming down heavily now, and the wipers were working hard to keep the windscreen clear.
“Where’s he going?” Shepherd said, as much to himself as to Hicks.
They had just passed signs for Junction 8 when the left-hand indicator of the taxi started to blink.
“Here we go,” Shepherd said, reaching for the radio on his belt. “Shepherd to Woodward. Come in.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re coming up to Junction 8. He’s turning off.”
“Stay with him.”
“Where are you?”
“A mile behind. We’ll catch up and you can hand off to us.”
“Affirmative.”
There were fields on either side of the motorway. Hicks could see for twenty or thirty yards before the darkness absorbed the glow from the lights of the passing cars. Junction 8 was for Oxford and Cheltenham. He took the slip road off the motorway and joined the A40, continued past the turning for Wheatley services, and then indicated again as they passed a sign advertising a turning for Wheatley and Tiddington.
Hicks slowed down to forty, allowing the cab to pull farther away from them. There was no other traffic now, and if Fabian was being vigilant, they would have to be careful for fear of spooking him.
“We need to hand off,” Shepherd said. “He’s going to make us if we follow much longer.”
Fabian turned onto a smaller road that was marked on their satnav as London Road. They followed the cab through Littleworth, and then, as they exited the village, they continued onto Old Road. It was a narrow lane, only just wide enough for two vehicles, and, as they continued to the west, it narrowed even more. The vegetation grew taller and thicker on either side of them, reaching up and touching above them in a dark green roof.
Hicks had allowed the cab to draw perhaps half a mile ahead of them and, as the road turned to the left, they lost sight of it.
“We should turn back,” Hicks said. “There’s no reason why we’d be out here, too. He’ll make us.”
He glanced over at Shepherd and saw he was chewing the inside of his lip, working out what they should do. The satnav showed that the road continued for another mile before it fed into the Eastern Bypass that led north to south along Oxford’s eastern boundary.
“Stay on him,” Shepherd said.
They turned the corner and came upon a house. It was bounded by a stone wall, with a pair of cast-iron gates that had opened to admit Eddie Fabian’s cab. There was another car inside the gates. Both it and the cab had their lights on.
Hicks dabbed the brakes. “What the fuck?”
“Keep driving,” Shepherd said.
He was right. They couldn’t stop.
Hicks maintained a careful pace and glanced out of the blackened window as they passed the two cars. The door to the taxi was open and Fabian was standing behind it. The other car was a Jeep, its registration plate lit up in the glow of the taxi’s lights. Hicks memorised it. He looked in the mirror and saw the house’s front door open and three figures step out. They were all male, but that was all that he could tell before the Range Rover turned the corner and the house was out of sight.
Shepherd spoke into the radio. “Abort,” he said.
“What’s happening?” Woodward said.
“Target is meeting someone. There’s a house here, another car waiting for him. Three males. Some kind of rendezvous. The road is too minor. If you come down it too, they’ll know he’s been followed. Suggest you stop in Littleworth.”
“Copy that.”
Hicks drove to the end of Old Road.
“Pull over,” Shepherd said.
Hicks did as he was told.
Woodward radioed again. “Do we know who he’s meeting?”
“Didn’t get a good look,” Shepherd said. “We couldn’t stop.”
“Three males, like I said. That’s all I saw.”
Woodward cursed. “Higgins is going to hate this. What about the road ahead of the house? Is there any other way on or off?”
“No,” Shepherd said. “Fields on either side. No other roads.”
There was a pause as Woodward considered their options. Hicks found his stomach was turning over. Nerves.
“Shepherd,” Woodward said at last, “is there anywhere you can park up out of sight?”
“We’re at Eastern Bypass. There’s a lay-by.”
“Park there. How far back to the meet?”
“A mile.”
“Go back and check it out. Find out what he’s doing, who he’s meeting. We’ll stay at this end. When Fabian drives out, whether he goes east or west, we tail him again.”
“Copy that.”
“And get whatever you can about the other car.”
The radio went dead.
“Go on, then,” Shepherd said.
“What?”
“You heard what he said. Go back and check it out.”
“Why me?”
“Look at the weather,” he said, flicking a finger toward the window. “I’m not going out in that.”
There didn’t seem any point in arguing wit
h him. Shepherd was a loudmouth, and Hicks had no interest in getting into a dispute with him. Hicks had only been a member of the Feather Men for a short time, just long enough for the one operation, and that meant that he was more junior than all of the others. He shared the same rank as Shepherd, but there was another layer of authority within the unit and he knew that he was lacking. And he was already fearing for his position after the situation that had developed with Fabian. He had no choice.
Hicks unclipped his belt, opened the door and stepped out into the rain. It was sheeting down now, a steady deluge that had created broad puddles across the pitted surface of the lay-by. The road ahead was empty, the only noise the steady hiss of the water as it sluiced onto the tarmac. Hicks reached a hand into his jacket, touched his fingers against the butt of his Hi-Power, and zipped it up again. He cast a quick look back at the car—he saw Shepherd’s shadow as he moved across to take his place in the driver’s seat—and went back in the direction from which they’d come.
Chapter Seventeen
HICKS JOGGED back to the junction with Old Road and, once he was satisfied that the way ahead was empty, turned down it and set off. The lane was particularly narrow here, and Hicks was painfully aware that he would have very little time to hide should either the taxi or the Jeep come in this direction. He hurried on, passing the driveway to a large house and then the house itself as he worked back to the east. There were trees on either side and thick hawthorn hedges that offered little in the way of cover.
The rain continued to slam down onto the surface of the road, rivulets running down toward him as he ascended a gentle incline. The water plastered his hair to his scalp and soaked through his dark denim jeans. He was wearing a jacket with a waterproof double membrane, the sort of garment he would have been equipped with in the Regiment, and that, at least, kept his upper body, his radio and his weapon dry.
He reached up with his hand and sluiced the rain from his eyes just as the glare of headlights approached from around a turning.
It was a hundred yards away. Hicks saw the glow of the high beams just before the car turned the corner, and used that tiny moment to his advantage. He flung himself onto the verge and rolled to the left. There was a narrow cleft, more of a trough than a ditch, and he wedged himself down into it, muddy water running around his body. He pressed down as hard as he could, hoping that the depression and the abundant vegetation around him would offer enough cover. He hoped, too, that he hadn’t been seen as the car turned the corner.
He squinted up into the glow of the lights. The car was silhouetted behind their powerful glare, but he could see from the shape that it was the Jeep and not the cab. The car was travelling quickly, and Hicks held himself still as it rushed by. The wheels threw up parabolas of spray from the standing water, but Hicks was already soaked through and ignored it. Instead, he turned his head and looked back at the car, now fast retreating toward the bypass and, beyond that, Oxford. The Jeep bumped and bounced down the road, the red of the brake lights flaring against the overhanging greenery as it slowed for the turn that preceded the main road.
He took the radio and toggled the pressel to open the channel. “This is Hicks. The rendezvous car just went past me, heading west.”
“I’ve got it,” Shepherd said.
“Hold position,” Woodward reported. “What about the target? Was he in it?”
“Couldn’t see,” Hicks said.
“His cab?”
“Not yet.”
“Proceed,” Woodward ordered. “Check it out.”
“Copy that.”
#
HICKS RAN ON. He was covered in thick mud and slime from the ditch, his hair was bedraggled, and even the waterproof jacket had failed him. He reached the corner from behind which the car had emerged. He recalled the geography, remembering that the house where the two cars had stopped was a quarter of a mile farther along the road. He turned the corner onto the straight beyond it and saw the gate and the glow of headlamps.
Hicks pulled his pistol and continued his approach, staying close to the edge of the road. He closed on the gate. It was open. He could hear, above the drumming of the rain, that a car engine was still turning over.
He was ten feet away now. He raised the Browning, clasping it in both hands. The rain lashed into his face. He ignored it. He stepped through the gate and onto the property beyond. It was a large, sprawling house. The lights were off, and there were no other signs that it was occupied.
The cab was in the same position as before. The headlamps were on, throwing pools of light against the wall of the house. Hicks moved closer. He could see the shape of a person in the driver’s seat. The person was unmoving, slumped forward. The engine was running, a low hum that he could hear through the rain.
Five feet.
He came around the back of the cab. There was a hose attached to the exhaust. As he drew closer, he saw that it led around to the side of the car. He followed it, his gun ready, and saw that it trailed up the side of the chassis and was wedged into the driver’s side window.
The body was propped against the wheel.
The window was fogged. He reached out a gloved hand and opened the door, careful not to dislodge the hose from the gap between the glass and the frame. The cabin was thick with acrid smoke, and it leaked out in lazy tendrils that were quickly smothered by the rain.
Edward Fabian was slumped forward, his sternum pressed against the wheel and his head lolling over the top of it. His face was angled to the door, and his eyes, open and unblinking, stared out at Hicks.
He depressed the pressel and spoke into the mic. “Hicks to Woodward.”
“Go ahead, Hicks.”
“He’s dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fabian’s in his car. The engine is on. There’s a hosepipe from the exhaust into the cabin. He’s dead.”
“Pull out, Hicks. Confirm.”
“Confirmed. Pulling out.”
He closed the door again and watched for a handful of seconds as the interior became clouded with fumes once more. He checked the windows of the house and confirmed, again, that there were no signs of occupation. He went to the gate and looked left and right. The road outside was empty. All he could hear was the sound of the raindrops as they exploded onto the pitted and potholed tarmac.
He wiped the water from his face again and set off, jogging back to the spot where Shepherd was waiting for him.
Part Two: A Lonely Death
Chapter Eighteen
THE RAIN stopped at dawn. Milton watched through the open hatch as the sun broke through the clouds. Light arrowed down onto the small park in the middle of the Square, droplets falling from sodden leaves and branches and dropping through the golden shafts.
Milton finished the shift and handed over to Cathy’s son, a quiet and pleasant young man called Carl. It was a mile from Russell Square to Piccadilly Circus, and Milton was there at half past nine, thirty minutes early. The wide space around Eros was busy, even at this hour, with tourists sitting on the steps and others holding up their phones to take selfies with the statue and the kaleidoscopic billboards in the background. Milton walked on a little farther and found Savile Row. He ambled onwards until he reached the first of the suit-makers that had given the street its reputation. He looked in through the open doors to an oasis of beautifully minimal chic, expensive fabrics and a security guard with a Bluetooth headset nestled in his ear. Milton had worn suits like these, once, and had worn them in Monte Carlo and St Moritz and the Hamptons. It was a different world to the one he moved through now, and he found that he preferred his scuffed boots, dirty jeans and the white T-shirts he picked up in bundles of five for less than ten pounds in Primark.
He turned and returned to the Circus, where he scanned the crowd. Eddie wasn’t there. He checked his watch. It was a minute after ten. He walked to the Criterion Theatre, leaned against the wall and took out a cigarette. A line of buses rumbled out of Regent Street and proceeded al
ong Shaftesbury Avenue. Milton lit the cigarette and drew on it. A white flatbed truck pulled out into the steady flow of traffic. The tide of tourists thickened as more emerged from the underground, following a guide with a small Japanese flag hoisted atop a stick. Milton finished the cigarette, dropped it to the pavement and crushed it underfoot. He pushed himself away from the wall and looked left and right.
He checked his watch.
Twenty past.
Eddie was not here.
He looked for the journalist, searching for someone who might be waiting for a rendezvous. There were several candidates, but then this was a standard meeting place and Milton had nothing to go on save the reporter’s gender. There was an older woman looking at her phone. A younger woman, early twenties, with her phone pressed to her ear. Three other single women, one sitting on the steps and the other two standing near to the theatre. Milton had no way to guess who it was who wanted to speak to Eddie. He considered whether he might approach them and ask, decided that was unlikely to be productive, and went back to waiting.
He gave it another ten minutes, until half past the hour, and then gave up. Eddie wasn’t coming. He had lost his nerve. Milton had known that was a possibility. The man was frightened of the consequences of speaking out about what had happened to him, and it seemed that the thought of it had proven to be too much. That wasn’t unreasonable. He’d been given a terrific fright. It was understandable that he would want to stay with his sister, away from the city. Milton was not about to criticise him for that.
There was a meeting of the fellowship tonight that Milton usually attended. Eddie often went to it, too. He wondered whether he would see him there and, if he did, what he would say.
Milton walked toward Regent Street. He would get the tube at Oxford Circus and head east. It would take him half an hour to get back to Bethnal Green. He was tired and ready for bed.
Chapter Nineteen
HICKS ARRIVED at the Cock of Tupsley at six the following evening. The Regiment was based at Credenhill, just outside the town, and it was always a standing joke that the three hundred men who formed its complement could easily be identified when they left camp for a drink or a little bit of R & R. Hicks looked around now and saw a couple of men at the bar who matched the profile of the typical SAS man: athletic rather than large, hair kept neat and tidy, wearing boots beneath well-pressed pairs of jeans. The two kept themselves to themselves, talking quietly and enjoying a couple of pints. If someone had asked them what they did for a living, they would have said that they were in the army. They would be charming and discreet and would go no further, but it would still be obvious to anyone with any experience.