by R J Holligan
“And what’s the situation in Scotland?” asked Quayle taking a sip of coffee.
“Ah that went quite well. We have publicised that the SNP had attempted to build an armed wing. So we unveiled the toys we brought over from Northern Ireland and put them on the streets. The Holyrood mob have been arrested and Direct Rule from London has been reimposed. We’ll leave them to fester in solitary in Belmarsh till they’ve finished their Braveheart posturing. Then we’ll bring back devolved rule. Apart from this time the Scottish Parliament will just be a shadow of its former self, merely a talking shop for hot air like the Welsh one,” said Martin.
“And Harrison?” asked Quayle.
“He’ll retire quietly, and it will be made clear he’s under close observation,” said Hartman.
“What a bloody joke,” scoffed Quayle. “Yours is not to reason, chappie,” said Martin patting Quayle on the shoulder.
“What happened to your bomb making friend?” asked Hartman.
“No idea, it all kicked off and when I got back after jumping down the ridge, there were just the three dead bodies and the truck had gone,” said Quayle as convincingly as he could. “Hmm, well we found the truck, but no sign of him,” said Hartman. “And now you need to make some decisions,” said Martin. “There are some of the Chessmen still out there. They might want to tie you up as a loose end, they may have even linked up with your local mob, the Crab guys or whatever,” said Hartman.
“The Crayfish Gang,” said Quayle.
“That’s the one,” said Hartman with a wry smile.
“Well I take some chance, every time I go out and I’ve got a mortgage to pay,” said Quayle. “You might want to check your bank account. We’ve put you on full overtime since you’ve been on this operation. It’s not a king’s ransom but will buy you some thinking time. And we can give you two weeks off - we’ve cleared it with your Boss,” said Hartman.
Draining his coffee, Quayle wiped his mouth. “Well that seems set then. I’ll take a couple of weeks off.”.
Martin set a folder down in front of him. “Here’s a train ticket back home and a bit of folding holding, a bonus from her Maj,” he said.
Quayle picked it up. “Thanks,” he said heading for the door.
“An unmarked car will drop you in Edinburgh, you’ll have some time to get some new clothes and stuff. I recommend,” said Hartman. Getting up Quayle picked up the folder and nodded to the two men and left the room. Martin followed him out and walked down the corridor with him.
“Quayle, when you see your pal, give him this,” said Martin flourishing a small folder. “Err yes, will do,” said Quayle taking it. “Good lad,” said Martin winking and disappearing down the corridor. In the back of the car on the way to Edinburgh, Quayle opened the folder. It had two double rows of 1oz Gold Sovereigns and a sealed letter. It was probably to some offshore bank account.
Quayle spent a couple of pleasant hours browsing around Princes Street and bought some smart casual clothes and shoes. He also bought some more rugged stuff more suited to life aboard a canal boat. Drinking a coffee in Jenner’s Café he realised he hadn’t yet opened the plastic evidence bag with his possessions in it. Opening it, he tipped it onto the table. There were his burner phones and his work one. He turned them on, they had been charged. While they were updating and pinging away, he stuck the remains of his bonus in his wallet. Then he a saw an A4 jiffy nag bulky and taped up. Opening his Leatherman he cut it open. Out spilled a magazine, a special edition of ‘On Point’ and on the front cover a black and white picture of men in combat gear holding guns. Their faces had the classic black stripe over them to protect their identities. The bold headline read “We reveal. THE CHESSMEN: The British State’s 40-year campaign against its own people.”
Quayle flicked through the pages. “Fuck me,” he said, not quite the genteel language heard in Jenner’s Café. “That’s exactly what I said laddie,” said a man in his sixties. “I tell people I got fitted up by agent provocateurs and did three years in Barlinnie,” he spat. “Crikey,” said Quayle.
“Ach well, at least it’s come out now, that’s the main thing,” he said wandering off.
Quayle’s G-shock beeped and told him he had half an hour to catch his train from Waverly. Gathering up his stuff he made for the station. On the way he would catch up with his emails and make some calls. And see what shape his life was in. He suddenly realised he hadn’t thought of her in all the time he’d been away. Time didn’t heal like they said - the pain and the trauma just reduced as new memories like soil and debris coalesced over ancient ruins. They might be obscured but they could be excavated at any point.
Chapter 29
Quayle had caught up with some sleep, made some calls to Colleen and Eaves. His outline plan was to take a couple of weeks off and get his head together or whatever the parlance was. What he wanted was to get away from guns, danger and subterfuge. Eaves had not answered the calls or emails Quayle had sent. Jammy sod would be loving the limelight now his career had been revived, thought Quayle, as he to a taxi back to his home. He hoped Eaves hadn’t made his house too messy.
“I’ll have to drop you off here the pigs have cordoned off the street,” said the taxi driver. “Okay drop me off here,” said Quayle, slipping the guy a tenner. His eyes became wide as he saw the police tape and the two uniforms. They looked like they were from E shift. “Sorry Sir, the street’s closed to the public,” said one.
“I’m a police officer, that’s my house,” said Quayle pointing to where a forensic tent had been erected over his drive. A glazier was busy boarding up the blown-out windows. “Where’s your ID?” asked the second.
I’ve been away. I left it in the house,” replied Quayle.
“Wait here a minute. I’ll talk to the SIO and get back to you,” he said trotting off.
“So what happened here?” asked Quayle.
“You been living in a cave chum?” he scoffed.
“No Scotland,” replied Quayle.
“Same difference really, well it was what looks like a car bomb. The guy ended up like crispy critter, they’ve taken what’s left of the poor bastard. The car’s still there but there’s a crater three feet deep. I hope you’re insured chum,” he said, going back to working on the gum in the corner of his mouth.
“Detective Chief Inspector, George Carding came out of the house followed by the uniform. “Let him through meathead and get that chewing gun out of your mouth, and if it ends up on the bottom of my shoe, I’ll be inserting it up your arse,” he bellowed.
“Yes, sir,” he said, trying to salute and stop chewing at the same time.
Quayle ducked under the tape and followed Carding through the front door. SOCOS were busy rooting around in Quayle’s kitchen.
“Sorry about all this but we thought you might have been abducted or worse…” said Carding.
“Sounds fair enough, ” said Quayle.
We need to talk, my car…” said Carding gesturing him outside. Carding’s car was a well -travelled VW Passat. Getting in Quayle shut the door. “Project Fan Shit Prevention is in full swing. I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. But the high heyadins have given you a clean bill of health. Harrison is a dead man walking. Professional Standards have cut him off from all the systems and his email is being monitored. He’s spending all day playing Solitaire on his computer. After next month he’s off, full pension. But as you know his name is mud, no cosy directorships waiting for him. And Intel suggests there’s a hundred grand price on his head. If some Albanian doesn’t plug him for the money, there’s a whole bunch of pissed off army veterans who want to take him out. Either way I wouldn’t want to be in his handmade shoes.” said Carding.
“Amen to that,” said Quayle waiting for the hammer to fall.
“In my car boot, if you want to know,” said Carding fixing his gaze on Quayle. “Your box of tricks, you’ve been an awfully bad boy, but hats off to your hacker pal, he did a job on us. It would be g
ood to have him inside the tent pissing in, rather than him outside pissing in,” said Carding.
“Here you go,” said Quayle handing him a burner phone. “He’s under J for Jay,” he added.
Carding took the phone and pocketed it. “Right here’s how it plays. Your box of tricks goes in the incinerator. Tomorrow you deliver all the gizmos your pals got and leave them in your locker. No more said about it and maybe I’ll see you as a DC in the not too distant future,” said Carding.
“Understood sir, I’m off though. Give him a call and he’ll have it couriered to the station. trust my house will get secured?” Carding snorted.
“Yes, you cheeky bastard,” said Carding. There was a silence.
“You want to know about Eaves?” asked Carding. “Yes, Boss,” he said.
Carding flicked open a notebook “Preliminaries suggest a few sticks of dynamite with an alarm clock. Not too sophisticated. But the explosives mob say the blast was much more powerful than a couple of sticks of TNT. Maybe a couple of pounds of plastic explosives.”
“They were trying to make it lo simple?” asked Quayle.
“Seems that way,” said Carding.
“Suspects?” asked Quayle.
“Take your pick,” said Carding. Seeing the conversation was effectively over, Quayle moved to get out of the car. “Watch your back, Quayle,” said Carding with feeling.
“Always,” said Quayle. Picking up his bag he walked down the street and headed for the towpath. He had a rendezvous with Colleen at the Lock Keeper’s Arms. From the towpath he saw sme billowing from the Little Revenge moored further down. Pushing the door open he entered. Colleen was sitting a corner table facing the window. Quayle would normally have scanned the room before proceeding but emotion got the better of him. Hugging and kissing passionately gained them the attention of the landlord
“Hey you two get a room,” he said loudly.
“Just because the only thing you hug is a glass,” said Colleen.
“Get us two pints of Rugged Staff and two Ploughman’s please,” said Quayle leaving some money on the bar. “Coming up,” said the landlord.
They sat down but their hands were still intertwined. “Where’s Karlie?” asked Quayle. “Onboard, I got her to get the engine running and warmed up. We’re topped up with diesel, water and food,” said Colleen. “Great stuff, we’re all ready for the off then.”
The beers arrived. “Here’s to us,” said Quayle clinking glasses with Colleen. “So what’s next?” asked Colleen. “Well we’ve both got two weeks off, paid. I’m going to just moodle around and get as far away from anything to do with cops. Well as far as you can get away at two miles an hour,” he said.
“And after that?” asked Colleen
“That’s your call. As me for me I’m crazy in love with you,” he said.
“I think I feel the same. But maybe a bit of normality might be nice,” she replied.
“What? Washing the car and Homebase?” asked Quayle. “Spot on,” she replied. “You going back to Custody then?” asked Quayle taking a swig of his pint. “Probably for a bit, I’ve got plans,” she smiled.
“Oh really, do tell.” The food came, and both tucked in leaving a hiatus in the conversation.
“My great Auntie died and has left me a fair chunk of cash. I’m thinking of trying the Art thing for a year,” she said tearing off more bread.
“Oh wait a minute, those pictures on the wall at your place, were yours?” She clapped her hands in mock applause.
“Well done Mr Detective, she smiled.
“Okay you can have the backroom, it captures the light brilliantly,” said Quayle.
“What would she think?” asked Colleen.
“She would be glad that a muppet like me could find someone so amazing as you,” smiled Quayle.
“As long as you’re ready,” she asked.
“I can only give it a go,” he said.
“Right let’s go,” she said pulling him up by the hand.
Karlie was at the helm as they pulled out the mooring pins, folded the bow and stern ropes off and jumped aboard.
“Take her out Captain Karlie,” shouted Quayle over the thunk thunk of the diesel engine. She revved the engine and they were underway. In the front cabin their reunion was tender and not rushed. Afterwards both fell into an untroubled sleep that both had not had for several weeks. When Quayle we up, the boat had stopped, and darkness had fallen. Slipping into his clothes he walked through the boat. Karlie was fast asleep on the foldout bed. The rear door was locked. Unlocking it he stepped out on to the rear deck. Checking the ropes he saw Karlie had done a great job.
A few hours chugging had brought them out into open country. Quayle savoured the stillness and absence of noise. He stood stock still for a couple of minutes. Taking a deep breath he held it in for a minute and then let it out slowly. It felt cathartic like he’d let go of all the tensions, and the worries he’d had disappeared. A rustle in one of the trees snapped him out of his reflections. On the branch of the nearest tree on the towpath a barn owl had come to rest. Quayle wasn’t a spiritual type, but the bird’s presence sent a shiver down his spine. They stared at each other briefly and then almost silently the owl flew off again.
After an early start and breakfast, they got underway. Karlie to the helm again. They were tackling the Braithwaite Hill Flight, a chain of fifteen consecutive canal locks that to the canal down a large escarpment. Armed with a windlass each, Colleen and Quayle would go ahead and tackle the lock gates. This involved raising the paddles d and opening the lock gates, and then ensuring the paddles were down and the lock gates were closed once the boat was through. As there were two of them and if no boat were coming the other way, they could also have another lock ready while the water in the previous lock was refilling and raising the boat. After some to-ing and fro-ng they settled into a steady rhythm.
The weather was fairly clear, and most boaters are used to sharing the towpath with joggers, fishermen, dogwalkers and cyclists. So it was no surprise that as he created a bank to meet the next lock, a knot of people was standing at the lock. In canal parlance these people were like train spotters, but with a fixation on boats. They were called gongoozlers. In boating lore a crowd of them would always appear when you had run aground or were negotiating some tricky manoeuvre with your boat. The knot of people seemed to be a woman with a dog and two men. Quayle exchanged pleasantries with them all and then jogged onto the next lock, the previous one being nominated for Colleen.
Reaching the next lock, he slotted the windlass on the lock gate and was beginning to crank it when he had a shiver down his spine. Something was wrong. “Their shoes… their bloody shoes,” shouted Quayle grabbing the windlass and turning back down the towpath. A noise like the hiss of a deflating tyre hit his ears and chips of wood flew off the wooden beam of the lock gate. Then another. Finally his brain kicked in and he realised they were gun shots from a silenced weapon.
Falling to his knees and clutching the windlass to his chest, he rolled down the bank. The gunman was as the base of the incline standing in the classic pistol shooter poise, two hands on the weapon, legs apart. Fully immersed in shooting Quayle unaware, he hadn’t banked on his target bringing an attack to him. Up on the rise of the other lock the second gunman couldn’t draw a bead on his target as Quayle rolled towards the first gunman. Finding his sense the first gunman ran backwards a few steps and pointed his gun at his prone target. At the same instant Quayle lobbed the windlass. The kilo of hardened steel hit the gunman right in his face, shattering bones. Taking the gunman’s legs in a rugby tackle, Quayle pulled the man to the floor, getting his gun hand in a wristlock. Releasing the weapon, he yelped out in pain and the gun went flying into the cut. Up above them the second gunman’s decision cost him dear.
Embroiled in the action below, he had not heard Colleen jog up behind him. With no warning she smashed her windlass into the back of his skull. It was a death dealing blow and he fell to his knees like
a felled tree. Dropping the windlass she grabbed the gun from his hand and tossed into the cut. Quayle’s prey was now out of the fight. Out of breath and covered in the other man’s blood, Quayle decided: they were both unarmed miles from anywhere, out of phone range and with no idea who was coming after them, “Let’s chuck these fuckers in the bottom of the lock.,” he said.
The drained lock was over twenty feet deep and had just a foot or so of water in it. With a deal of huffing and puffing they pitched both men over the wall and into the void. Clutching a baton, Karlie came running up the towpath.
“We ran into a bit of trouble, but it’s taken care of, said Quayle wild-eyed.
“They’re dead?” asked Karlie,” glaring at Colleen. “Very,” said Colleen.
Chapter 30
“You got the last two of them. The Quartermaster and The Scribe,” said Carding. They were seated in his office at Headquarters. On the wall were blown-up pictures of ‘The Chessmen’. A minute earlier Carding had taken a red marker and put a red diagonal cross through the two gunmen from the towpath. They’re were thirty other pictures on the wall, also crossed out.