by R. J. Dillon
Throwing back its handles, Nick swung one door open and waiting for him inside, one white van complete with mud flares from its excursion to Highgate Wood. Streaming through the door a low watery sun, and through its dim light Nick could just make out the feint name of ‘Borrowdale & Son, Electrical Contractors’. All the van’s doors were locked and Nick peered into its cab. There was nothing left out in view, a van too clean and neat for any decent tradesman to drive, except for those involved in murder. Stepping out of the container a flash of movement came from Nick’s left as a baseball bat smacked into his shoulder, doubling him completely over. A scalding pain filled his left arm, its pumping boiling core on his collarbone. As he rolled to his left, a length of pipe swung hard, and aimed to inflict maximum damage tore into the clinker by his head. Up on his feet Nick had nowhere to go, his back pressed into the container.
Facing him two scrap yard labourers blocked his exit; one with sandy hair, his blue overalls tatty and holed at the knees, a baseball bat gripped in his hands. The other swinging a length of pipe, his wavy hair pulled off his forehead, his jeans nipped into the tops of brown steel-toed site boots.
‘You in trouble,’ the sandy-haired labourer spat, his accent Nick placed as East European. ‘What business you have?’
Unzipping his jacket Nick drew the Mossberg, blasting the windscreen out of a truck behind them.
‘That answer your question,’ Nick shouted, aiming the shotgun at the first labourer who threw down his baseball bat, hands flung up in surrender. ‘You not hear me?’ demanded Nick of his friend, firing again, the side window of a van exploding. Flinging his pipe, the second labourer raised his hands.
‘Phones, I want your phones. Now,’ Nick demanded, taking aim once again, and slowly each of them pitched their mobile phones at Nick’s feet. ‘Where do I find the boss?’ Nick asked.
‘He office over there,’ the sandy-haired labourer said, pointing across the yard.
‘Inside,’ said Nick, herding them into the container, slamming the locking bar closed, pulping both phones with two more shots.
Reloading, Nick threaded his way out through the commercial wrecks in the direction he’d been pointed. Up ahead a Portakabin on its own, on one corner a small mast used to carry phone lines where a blown out umbrella, its spokes bent, was wrapped in the lines and buffeted by a hard breeze running into the yard from the river. A light shone in the office, which Nick thought would be rude to ignore and kicked the oil smeared cabin door open.
In a corner his back to the door the boss was hunched over, feeding documents into a shredder.
Looking up startled, the boss cursed Nick in Russian then made a fast lunge for a desk drawer. Nick aimed, fired, destroying a water cooler alongside the desk stopping the boss in his tracks.
‘The white van in the Hapag Lloyd container, I’m interested in it,’ said Nick in Russian, ‘and not to buy. I want the details of the last person who used it, and any other vehicles you’ve supplied them. I also want the keys to the van. Now.’
The boss had a face you’d see from miles away, a loner’s with a truculent hardness set fast. A face made of bare essentials; sharp bones, no wasted skin and thick hair sown with grey tough strands, malicious pleasure locked deep in his dark eyes.
‘Hear that,’ smiled the boss as he waved his arm around his office, ‘that is me not giving a shit about what you want.’ He had a Moscow accent Nick decided, an arrogant slur to everything he said.
Nick didn’t even smile, simply pulled the trigger ripping away a corner of the desk. ‘See that,’ Nick replied, ‘that’s me not giving a toss whether you live or die.’ Pumping the Mossberg again, Nick aimed and waited.
‘I don’t know no goddamn names,’ the boss admitted. ‘It was all arranged, I met with a representative,’ he added.
‘Where?’ Nick demanded.
‘Here, he came here and made terms.’
‘The keys for the van.’
‘Second drawer,’ the boss said, nodding to a filing cabinet.
‘So what are they driving now?’ Nick wanted to know after retrieving the keys.
‘A BMW.’
‘You got the registration, description?’
Yes, the boss had them he confessed after Nick prodded him into a corner with the Mossberg, forced him onto his knees, and told Nick where he could find them without any further resistance. Ordering the boss to put his hands behind his back, Nick fastened his wrists with double cuff disposable restraints. Searching him, Nick removed his wallet and phone, backing slowly out of the office. In the yard Nick called Rossan requesting a search team for the van.
Rossan’s team had been exceptionally thorough in their examination of the van, ordered not to overlook a thing. They’d unbolted the van’s front seats removing them to reveal a void where an estate agent’s card had slipped, an appointment for a viewing scrawled on its reverse. In Russian it listed an address for a maisonette in Stratford which quite naturally Rossan failed to report, passing on the location to Nick instead. Dried blood spots painstakingly discovered in the rear were also on Rossan’s instructions, dispatched for immediate and priority analysis. So too was the Suzuki off-road bike found in the back of the van, its wheels still caked in what Rossan correctly predicted would be Devon mud.
Now at a quarter to ten on a bitter night, Danny was in Rossan’s words, giving the dog a sight of the rabbit as he drove Nick across London. There was a high moon brilliant and full, running down damp buildings their windows dappled by sleet. From the west drifts of dark angry cloud sped along as if they had somewhere better to go, the traffic sparse and Danny took a couple of junctions in Holborn and the City at red. In Bethnal Green a team of emergency glaziers hammered up sheets of plywood at a grocers, while the lights from other shops squinted through screens as the alarms peeled on like church bells.
On Eastway they passed sodden football pitches on Hackney Marsh glistening as if quicksilver. Nick saw floodlights on tapering stems sprouting from Temple Mills rail depot, and with his window down for the air could hear the grumbling of trains as they were shunted into formation.
As Nick selected another channel on the airband scanner, Danny took a bridge far too fast and the exhaust ripped into the road. A sticky icy breeze filled the air coating everything it brushed against with a cold film. The area had no heart and its soul was resting for the night, girding strength for another daytime attack of inner-city blight. An estate office was meshed-up and boarded for a siege, its chipboard sheets fly-posted with offers of self-help, pub gigs, the latest albums; everything but the promise of work. Marshtide Road ran straight and long a black scar barely lit, its high blocks and maisonettes butted together in architectural whimsy. The concrete towers were stacked like rotting hulks at anchor. Maybe Lubov’s treasure is cursed forever, Nick thought as they drove on, trying to find somewhere to park, cursed like pirate gold. Danny pulled in at the mouth of a cul-de-sac and suitably equipped they strode off.
The maisonette in Washford Place was in darkness. Across the courtyard they picked their base, an empty garage minus its door, the floor stained by urine. Perseverance on a cold London night, the waiting kept at bay by the alchemy of the night; a clear icy sky crowned by a vivid healthy moon and shimmering stars. Nick’s dogged determination rewarded after midnight when a set of headlights came their way. Moving back into the depths of the garage they waited for the car to pass.
‘Four up,’ Nick whispered, ‘two front, two rear.’
The BMW made a cautious tour, slowing, moving off fast before returning to make a stop outside the maisonette. From the shadows Nick watched as a woman wearing a ski hat and padded coat left the car, her attention on both ends of the road as she hurried on into the temporary let. When the living room light came on, three men in hooded jackets climbed from the BMW and started heading over. As they neared their door one of the men stopped to take a call on his phone, snapped it closed and suddenly alarmed glanced quickly around. Dashing into the maisonette h
e slammed the door.
‘We’ve been made,’ said Nick, sprinting off, Danny on his heels.
Running in a weaving line Nick and Danny’s backs thumped into the brickwork either side of the door. Nick with his Mossberg, Danny gripping his 9mm SIG, started to give a five-fingered count when the maisonette’s windows and door blew out. A small tongue of orange flame shot into the night air after the explosion and retreated, as though it had seen enough of the outside world. The partial deafness in Nick’s right ear irritated him as much as the sound wave of screams and car alarms reaching him, distorted and tinny. Picking himself up as black smoke billowed out, Nick stumbled over glass, wood and chunks of debris spat out by the power of the blast.
‘You okay?’ he yelled, hauling Danny roughly to his feet.
‘Fine…’ shouted Danny, his face cut and bleeding as he brushed himself down.
Dust in his throat, a pain traversing his skull, Nick forced his way inside as a clamour of sirens drew nearer. Pitch darkness and the acrid smell of an explosion as Nick and Danny picked their way across a destroyed living room. Leaning out of a blown out rear window, its net curtain wildly flapping, Nick caught sight of a figure in the distance being hauled up a wall into a rail freight depot. Smashing out the remnants of glass Nick climbed out, picking up the pace as he ran.
With his Mossberg holstered it took Nick three attempts to get a foothold before he could scale the wall. Dropping down, drawing his shotgun Nick picked his way over a rusted siding between old carriages their windows caved in. Under the floodlights the yard worked into the night, a maintenance depot sat alongside a section of track where trains slowly moved through nozzle sprays and rotating brushes. Tube trains sat waiting for the morning rush on a wide section of sidings next to cross-country and inter-city units and carriages. To Nick, the busiest section seemed to be right under the spider legged lighting pylons, where freight wagons were being shunted ready for collection.
Walking slowly Nick scanned above and below the freight wagons, the Mossberg sweeping along his line of sight. From up ahead a shout echoed back and Nick sprinted, going in the direction of a depot worker pointing towards a siding. Cutting through wagons loaded with ballast Nick ducked as a shot zipped into the gravel. Throwing himself down Nick rolled under the wagon, crabbing along with his elbows and knees. To his right a figure jumped down from between two containers, moving slowly along the trackbed. Nick waited until the feet were level and fired. Rolling out Nick saw the figure dragging himself away, one leg mangled and bloody. Nick pumped the Mossberg, firing a warning shot. Looking over his shoulder the figure didn’t stop, dragging himself over a set of points straight into the path of a freight train gathering speed.
Sitting by the side of the track as depot workers crowded around, Nick called in the contact on his phone. Returned to the maisonette in the back of a British Transport Police van, Nick found Danny receiving attention from a paramedic.
‘Caught her trying to call for a cab,’ Danny said, pushing the paramedic’s hand away, gesturing with his thumb to the back of an unmarked police car.
As though waiting for the start of a parade Anastasiya sat regally back, staring at Nick. Apart from not having her glasses on, which she’d lost in the struggle, or the black eye she’d received from Danny, she didn’t seem overly concerned.
• • •
Half a dozen radios echoed into the night. For Rossan there seemed an inordinately long pause before members of the Met’s tactical firearms unit burst out of their positions and ran towards a neat semi-detached on Brunner Road, Ealing. The house door had already been battered open, and the noise of more vans and cars screeching up had woken the whole street. As more officers piled up through the small ornate garden Rossan stood back, waiting for his invitation to join the party, making a series of calls just as Nick had requested.
When Nick arrived, a police cordon extended to three streets around the semi and a news blackout was in operation. Driven through the cordon in a Range Rover with tinted windows, Nick reported to a firearms sergeant on the front step. After an exchange of radio traffic Roly Blackmore appeared.
‘The man himself, Nicholas, the all action hero. Better come in, we can’t have a flaming scene on the step can we?’
‘No,’ agreed Nick reasonably.
There were traces of blood behind the door and a pile of broken glass. In amongst it all, a child’s pushchair with a crushed rattle that Blackmore shunted aside with his foot as he gave the sergeant fresh instructions before turning his attention to Nick.
‘I’ve been placed in operational control, got it. Paul’s been sent off to think about his actions. You’ve caused a proper stir. The Chief is not best pleased.’
‘Casualties?’ Nick wondered stepping over the blood.
‘One of the entry team got a nasty cut,’ he explained, drawing Nick after him down the hall. ‘He’s had a plaster on it, he’ll live.’
Hammering and shouts came from every part of the house. Carpet lay in heaps, and in the front room Nick saw the same destruction; at its centre a woman crying silently as she rocked her baby.
‘I’m starting to think you’re not in Moscow’s pay,’ Blackmore said, gripping Nick’s arm ready to steer him along, but Nick could only stare at a girl about four as she stroked her mother’s hair, guarded by a police officer. Around their feet a pile of birthday presents prematurely ripped from their paper.
The small girl tried to reach a doll in a box but the police offer held her back. Breaking from Blackmore, Nick went over took the doll and pressed it into the child’s hands.
‘Let her keep it,’ he said, knowing he had broken a dozen different rules.
‘How touching,’ said Blackmore, only to be silenced by Nick’s glare.
‘Where is he?’
‘Our Georgs Lauvas has flown the nest, in the wind, on a ferry, half way back to Moscow, who knows?’
‘Someone does, someone tipped him off, he’s the registered keeper of the BMW.’
‘Let’s not start with the speculation again, remember you carry no authority here,’ said Blackmore, continuing the tour ushering Nick into a back sitting room.
In here they’d been at work too, clear evidence sacks lay tagged waiting for removal, even the bookcases had been cannibalised noted Nick. And now they were moving onto the walls, tapping them, crashing into the plaster if they scored a hollow note. Give them until morning he thought, pushing by two of them and the house will be uninhabitable. Out in the hall, Nick heard Sir Martin Bailrigg’s languorous voice rise and fall as he issued instruction on his way into the kitchen with a number of others trailing in his footsteps. Putting Blackmore behind him, Nick walked straight in without bothering to knock.
Gathered loyally around Bailrigg were his two acolytes, Jane Stratton and Hawick.
‘Bit late to take an interest,’ Nick said loudly to the back of Bailrigg’s head. Three faces turned to him. ‘Well, isn’t it?’ he added, knocking Blackmore’s hand from his shoulder. Unable to keep his passion and indignation down, Nick slammed his fist against the door. ‘Well?’
‘Haven’t you caused enough problems?’ Hawick snapped. ‘May I remind you that you are wanted by the police for murder and assaulting a senior officer, namely myself,’ he said, turning on Nick releasing his rage.
Again Hawick’s unremitting hate gathered in his eyes, and it brought a fresh rush of colour to his cheeks.
Whipping forward, Nick had Hawick by his jacket collar ramming him backwards into a freezer, spilling fridge magnets across the linoleum floor. Pinning him there Nick pressed forward. ‘You upset me one more time and you will certainly regret it,’ Nick spat.
‘Nick…Nick….’ Blackmore prised Nick’s hands loose, walking him away as Hawick worked his head one way then another as he adjusted his collar.
A long silence drew round the kitchen pressing and sharp, with no one inclined to step into its space. Everyone had turned to Bailrigg, expectantly waiting his answer. Outside
the hammering too had ceased, and the only sound came from a kitchen clock beating steadily on, one thunderous tick after another.
‘If you’ll excuse me gentlemen… and Jane,’ Bailrigg said graciously, and gripping Nick’s arm walked him briskly out of the kitchen. ‘Upstairs,’ he insisted. Hawick on their heels came to an abrupt halt as Bailrigg swung round on him. ‘You remain down here and keep out of the damn way,’ he snapped, closing the door softly.
There were three bedrooms and the first they came to belonged to the children; cold with the smell of baby powder and stale nappies in the air. The cot lay dismantled in a corner its mattress separated from the vinyl cover. Over the floor the contents of cupboards were jumbled in unequal piles of toys and clothes and Bailrigg assigned himself the base of a child’s divan, under his feet the torn sections of an animal freeze and a clown night light pulled apart.
‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ he said with conviction. ‘Hear me Torr? I don’t give a damn if you deserve a thousand and one explanations. You do not attack a senior officer.’
Nick heard him out, sliding back a thumb catch he put all his effort into forcing up a sash window, the night air hitting him in a freezing rush, bringing with it the sounds of traffic far away.
‘Do I get to finish this now?’
Picking up a glass bubble, Bailrigg shook it hard bringing a flurry of artificial snow to the tiny figures outside a plastic stable.
‘I’m not offering any apologies, Torr, because I have nothing to apologise for. I was reacting to the facts you understand, and they were not in your favour. Now is a different matter, you have proved Moscow’s presence,’ he said, shaking the snow scene once more, this time quite viciously. ‘And the blood spots found in the rear of the van have been identified as belonging to Juris Valgos. Rossan who has a lot to answer for, asked me to pass that on.’