‘It’s all right, I’m familiar with the drill.’
14
* * *
IT WAS agreed that Tallis should conduct his own surveillance. It wasn’t ideal. Teams were far better suited to the job. One bloke assigned as the trigger man—who reported when the subject was on the move—another to follow, the third to oversee the stopping place. By the simple law of averages, a single tail could easily have his cover blown, or lose sight of the target, especially one who was, to use the jargon, target-aware, and had a personal entourage to protect his back care of the cops. Yup, single-handed surveillance was utterly foolhardy and Tallis knew it, which was why he felt guilty for blowing out Charlie Lavender, especially for confusing reasons he hadn’t begun to process. He was also forced to bear in mind that Kennedy was under extreme pressure and could, at any time, behave unpredictably. Solid back-up would have been preferable for such an eventuality. Against this, Tallis relished the freedom and solitude of working alone. Always had.
Before he got started, he shopped for basic equipment. This included a camera, binoculars, a Dictaphone, penlight torch, notebook and pen, maps, two large sheets of green netting and a waterproof rucksack. For his own personal comfort, he invested in a flask, the type of high-energy foods that wouldn’t leave a trail of wrappers and debris and a quantity of Ziploc-type polythene bags in case he needed to relieve himself in an inconvenient place. He also bought two jackets, one reversible, a brilliant aid to disguise, and the other fluorescent, the type worn by building-site managers and highways personnel.
Next came the planning stage. He already knew Kennedy’s main address. A drive-by established that his house was well hidden from trees and at the end of a drive with CCTV cameras sitting astride the electronic gates. Checking with an ordinance survey map, Tallis discovered that Shakenbrook House could be accessed via swimming across a deep pool situated outside the property’s extensive grounds. As yet, he didn’t know whether that boundary had any form of protection, either by an alarmed fence or guard dogs. He was banking that the pool alone was deep and deadly enough to deter intruders. A rummage through some boxes he’d never unpacked since he’d moved to the bungalow yielded a snorkel and a diver’s dry suit. Several years old, the suit still fitted, if tight across his more muscular shoulders.
A quick shoot through the Internet turned up the whereabouts of Kennedy’s online business, which was based in Lye, deep in the manufacturing heartland of the West Midlands. Relieved to discover that it wasn’t on an industrial estate equipped with nosy parkers and CCTV, or in some office block with numerous exits, Tallis planned to carry out his surveillance from the belfry of a derelict church. He had basic knowledge of Kennedy at his fingertips, yet he badly needed to study him in his own habitat, his comings and goings, habits and routines, his known associates, before he made an attempt at blustering in.
First things first. He might be a one-man operator, Tallis thought, but mode of transport could be variable and indeed desirable. With this in mind, and as it was Saturday and brilliantly fine weather, Tallis headed out of town in his old Rover and, skirting Kidderminster, drove towards the leafier environs of Bridgnorth, a small market town that had recently undergone serious redevelopment. His destination was a bikers’ café.
The place, up an incline and having a commanding view of the main road, was unmissable. Tallis scanned at least a hundred bikes, of all descriptions, as he pulled into the car park. Riders, some of them Hell’s Angels dressed in full regalia, gathered inside and outside the café, strutting their stuff like peacocks trying to attract a mate. Tallis found it deeply heart-warming even though he got as pissed off as the next man when buzzed by a biker. This lot were probably heading down to Wales, a popular weekend destination.
As predicted, Oz, a guy who way back when Tallis had once had the honour of arresting for stealing motorbikes to order, was deep within the crowd, swigging coffee from a glass beaker that looked as though it had been designed in the 1950s. He was an extraordinary-looking man. Big with a shock of white-blond hair and blue eyes, he had the sallow kind of skin that tanned easily. Tallis often pulled his leg about it, putting his looks down to his convict roots. Weirdly, in spite of their history, they’d become friends, mainly because Oz regarded Tallis as his personal saviour. After a short time in prison, Oz had gone straight, met the right girl and set up his own business. This, apparently, was all down to Tallis. On seeing him, Oz’s eyes lit up and he strode towards him.
‘Well, I’ll be fucked.’ Oz’s accent was a curious mix of Midlands and Melbourne. ‘Bit far out of your comfort zone, in’t you?’
Could say that again. Tallis didn’t mess about by enquiring how Oz’s toolmaking business was going. Instead, he ran his request straight past him. That’s the sort of bloke he was dealing with. Oz didn’t appreciate pleasantries.
‘Got a Triumph Daytona in my garage,’ Oz told him.
‘Bloody hell. How did you manage to snaffle one of those?’
‘Rare as hen’s teeth,’ Oz agreed with a cheeky grin. Contacts again, Tallis thought, not money, not what you knew, not violence. ‘Goes like a dingo with its arse on fire,’ Oz enthused. ‘I managed to clock 140 up the Bewdley bypass last week, and it’s forgiving, much more robust than a Ducati.’
‘Road legal?’ Tallis grinned.
‘Cheeky fucker.’
‘How much to have a lend of it?’
‘Nah, mate. You’re all right.’
‘Come on, I might dent it, or something.’ He’d done a lot worse. On his last job, he’d borrowed Max’s Z8. Before handing it back, he’d paid to have a crater panel-beaten out of it and a full re-spray after a contretemps with a Rottweiller. Curiously, the dog had been unscathed by the experience.
‘You’d best be sure to bring it back in mint condition, then.’ Oz laughed. ‘How long do you want it for?’
‘A week, maybe less.’
‘How soon?’
‘Soon as.’
‘I’ll give my old lady a ring,’ Oz said, pulling out his mobile. Four minutes later, he’d got it sorted. ‘Cheryl’s in all afternoon. She’s got the keys. Might have to put some petrol in the tank.’
‘All right if I leave my motor at your place?’
Oz looked out and surveyed the car park. ‘You still driving that shit Rover?’
‘I’m sentimental.’ Tallis grinned.
‘Mental, for sure.’
Yeah, Tallis thought, hit the nail on the head.
Christ, Tallis thought, standing in Oz’s garage. Daytona. He should have known. Bright yellow. Even a bloody pensioner walking his dog would sit up and take notice. He was tempted to hand the keys back to Cheryl and start all over again but he had another idea. Maybe the fact the bike was so noticeable would work in his favour. It was so blatantly obvious, he couldn’t possibly be suspected of doing anything underhand. And he was only going to use the machine for a short spell. After that, he could revert back to his battered old motor. Which brought him back to habitats again. In a classy area the bike would fit in beautifully, the Rover better suited to a rougher environment. Decision made, he allowed himself a full minute lost in love and praise, marvelling at the hawk-like lights, the sassy instrument panel, then wheeled the mean machine out onto the drive, put the keys in the ignition, turned and gunned the engine. Amazing.
The next morning was muggy and pouring with rain. By the look of the depth of the front, it was set in for the day. Great weather for rural surveillance, Tallis thought. No shadows to give his position away, fewer people out and about, noises muffled. He’d already packed up his gear the night before. He wore his dry suit underneath his jeans, sweatshirt and leather jacket.
South-west of Birmingham, it took him twelve and a half minutes to drive the eight kilometres at warp speed to Solihull. Oz was right. The Daytona shot down the road like the gas was mixed with rocket fuel.
Following the route he’d plotted from the OS map, he found himself in a semi-rural location with a s
cattering of old and newly refurbished houses on both sides, fields leading off. Still early, a Sunday, curtains were closed; most people either in bed, in church or, more likely, heading for the nearest retail park. From somewhere off, he heard a dog bark. Kids, if there were any, were probably shackled to computers.
After a casual glance around, he wheeled the bike down a track off to his left, past a field on his right, lots of trees giving him cover. At the end of the track, there was a five-bar gate, no padlock. A battered-looking sign announced that there was a bridle path, which looked overgrown to Tallis’s eyes. Walkers were exhorted to close the gate after them, keep to the path and away from the lake. Another sign, more recent by the look of it, warned that trespassers would be prosecuted. A life-belt attached to a metal pole sticking out of the ground signalled a warning. Not exactly what you’d call inviting, Tallis thought.
The gate swung open after a bit of pushing and shoving. Tallis wheeled the bike through into a field covered in cowpats, flanked by hedges on three sides. To his right, there was dense woodland and barbed wire. To his left more field and green. Ahead lay the pool and Shakenbrook, an elevation of the house clearly visible through the rain and trees.
Tallis leant the bike against the fence. First, he peeled off his outer clothes, including his boots, dropping them to the ground. Next, he opened the rucksack and took out one of the pieces of green netting. It measured six feet square. He moved quickly, partly because it was chucking it down, partly because he wanted less opportunity for someone to spot him, his greatest fear children or someone walking a dog.
Stuffing his clothes under the bike, he draped the netting over the lot to break up the shape and deflect the light from the bike’s reflective surfaces. A few bits of branch and twig completed the effect. Nobody, unless they were specifically looking, would notice the extra bit of bush and foliage ostensibly growing along the fence.
Winching the rucksack onto his back, he tied his boots together, draping them round his neck. They’d get wet but would give protection for his feet if he needed to cover open ground, something he wasn’t planning on doing.
He made his way down to the water’s edge quickly. Surrounded by grasses, the water pea green and lethal-looking, it wasn’t an attractive prospect. He slid in rather than making an entrance with a splash. The extreme cold penetrated his suit, taking him by surprise.
He kept to the side of the lake, a longer route round, but less dangerous. Tallis knew the centre could prove a death trap, the water suddenly dipping in depth and temperature. Hypothermia was his greatest enemy. Rain was coming down heavily now and bouncing off the lake’s surface, making it roil and bubble. It suited him, anything to break up his body shape. He swam slowly, deliberately, no sudden movements to attract the eye. Close-up the water was really black, thick and brackish-looking, its green appearance simply a reflection of the unbroken blanket of trees growing overhead. He felt as though he was swimming through swamp.
His next major obstacle would be getting out without being seen. With nothing to cling onto, he would have to try and float his way to cover and hope there was an overhanging branch or piece of hedgerow he could grab hold of to yank himself out. He glanced at his watch: 07.05 hours. The closer he swam the more the house came into view. And what a view! Georgian, with at least six bedrooms, pale green shutters at the windows, both upstairs and down, creamy-coloured rendering that would take an army to paint, ornate fanlight over the front door, Shakenbrook rose out of the landscaped gardens like an ocean liner in the middle of the Pacific. He hadn’t a clue whether the Kennedy family were early risers or not. He could only be guided by the position of the drapes. Downstairs’ were closed. Upstairs they were open. In fact, with his 20-20 vision, he could see movement in one of the bedrooms. Narrowing his eyes, he made out a male, short grey hair, tanned, white towel tied loosely round the waist, exposing a well-built and toned torso.
Shit, Tallis thought. From an elevated position like that, Kennedy had a much better chance of looking down and spotting him. To avoid detection, he was going to have to call on all his former military experience to avoid being shown out. The basics were second nature—patience, confidence, discipline. The only thing he could do was wait, tread water, try and keep out of Kennedy’s ten o’clock and two o’clock line of vision.
For almost an hour, Tallis kept his eyes levelled at the open bedroom window. Wasn’t just Kennedy now. A naked woman was walking back and forth, oblivious to the stranger watching below. A smile crept across Tallis’s face. If he had to be stuck in this God-awful bog, at least the view was outstanding. Slim-shouldered and with a nipped-in waist, legs long and lean, the blonde had the kind of breasts he’d only seen on page-three girls. Couldn’t be much more than middle thirties, he reckoned, judging by the muscle tone and tautness of her skin. Kennedy was a lucky man. It also said something about him. You had to be powerful and influential to pull a bird almost twenty years younger than yourself.
Another fifteen minutes and the shine started to wear off. Tallis was struggling hard not to shiver. Every time the blonde passed the window, she had another bunch of clothes in her hand. Wish to hell she’d get on with it, he thought. Having never lived with a woman properly, he’d no idea it took them that long to choose what to wear. He was almost crying out, pleading with her to stick on the nearest pair of trousers and shirt. Christ, she’d look terrific in a bin-liner, he thought, bleeding with frustration.
More minutes passed. More discussion. By the time Kennedy and the woman Tallis took to be Samantha Sheldon exited, his feet and legs were almost numb. The thought of lying in a hollow for any length of time was not immediately appealing, but he knew he had to get up and out of the water fast before either of them could reach the downstairs area. Luck was on his side. Near to the edge of the lake was a handsome weeping willow tree. It had also stopped raining.
Tallis pushed his way slowly through a thick bed of reeds, finding purchase. Every single action, each breath, was carried out with a minimum of movement and maximum of control. Eventually, he found himself near enough to be able to clasp hold of a dangling branch and ease his frozen body onto solid ground. The tree would provide great cover for an observation post, he thought. About to crawl forward again, his luck ran out.
Tallis held his breath, lying silent, the distinctive smell of cigarette smoke alerting him to the simple fact he had company. Then he saw the man—wasn’t too tall, medium build, brown-haired, no outstanding features other than the fact he was dragging on a fag, crossing the lawn and heading in his direction. Tallis knew that if he stayed put, he’d be discovered. Any sudden movement would yield the same result. With a heart that was leaping against his ribcage, he did the only thing he could—slid back into the murk and prayed to God he wasn’t spotted.
Immobile, eyes wide open, focused on the man who, finger and thumb grasping the filter of his cigarette, continued to move slowly and deliberately towards his position. Gaze scanning, checking for intruders, everything about him shrieked enemy on the lookout. Then Tallis spotted the jacket he was wearing, open down the front. Double fuck, Tallis cursed. It revealed a holstered gun.
In spite of the cold, a sheen of sweat coated his brow.
The man came closer, moving cat-like, the smell of tobacco stronger. He was almost near the spot where Tallis had hauled himself out. Was the ground flattened? Tallis wondered. Had he left behind some remnant of his presence? He held his breath, wondered if a clever game was being played. He half expected the bloke to drop his cigarette, pull out his gun, fire and ask questions later. To his horror, Tallis watched as the fag end was tossed from the fingers, butt ground into the dirt with the heel of a boot, hand reaching…
Tallis lowered his chin further into the water, closed his eyes, felt intense heat on the top of his head. Dear God, he thought, I’ve been shot. His hair was suddenly warm and wet, blood running down his face, he imagined. No, wasn’t running, gushing. A memory of Garry Morello’s final moments flashed throug
h his mind. Except there was no pain and, apart from feeling frozen, Tallis felt very much alive. He prised open his eyes and let his gaze travel upwards. Fuck’s sake, he thought, seeing the bloke zipping his fly, I’ve just been pissed all over.
Thirty minutes later, Tallis had recovered his equilibrium. After watching the man’s retreating form, he’d pulled himself back out onto more solid ground and burrowed deep into the bowels of the willow tree, a fine specimen of ancient vintage if its foliage was anything to go by. Not that it helped with heat loss. Although it wasn’t cold for September, the length of time he’d already been in the water meant his body temperature had taken a tumble. He seriously risked losing control and precision in his movements, something that could get him blown out.
Dropping his rucksack onto the ground, he opened it, took out a pair of thick woollen socks and put them on his feet and, having decanted a couple of pints of lake from his boots, strapped them on. Next he fished out his Thermos flask, pouring the contents into a plastic beaker, the taste of hot sweetened coffee as it slipped down his throat joyous. After that, he unwrapped and took a bite from a chocolate bar, taking care to clear away the wrapper. Feeling a hundred times better, he took out binoculars and camera, notebook and pen, and the other sheet of netting, which he draped over himself to reduce the risk of compromise. From his concealed position, he had an excellent view of the front of the property and the approaches, including the carriage lamps studding the snake-shaped, block-paved drive. To watch the back of the house would mean crossing the grounds, something that could only be carried out effectively in darkness. Maybe tomorrow, he thought.
By using the zoom facility on his camera, he had a perfect view of the downstairs drawing room—iris-blue-coloured furnishings, baby grand piano in one corner, marble fireplace with bookshelves on either side. There he observed Kennedy freely moving around talking to his wife, who’d arranged herself on one of the two sofas. Nice outfit. Tallis smiled appreciatively. The wait had been worth it.
The Mephisto Threat Page 12