‘Shut the boot.’
‘What is this?’
‘I said shut the fucking boot, man.’
Cleggie holds his gaze, then shrugs. He turns back to the car and rummages deep in the boot before stepping back and slamming the lid.
‘Listen …’ he says. ‘We can talk about this.’
This guy is a Somali. I’m sure about it. He has the height, the build, that intense depth of blackness you could almost polish. His eyes are wide. He’s chewing what must be khat. He looks slightly mad.
Another figure, smaller, thinner, no more than a ghost, appears from nowhere. He, too, is holding a gun. He extends an open hand towards Cleggie.
‘The key. Give me the key.’ His English is good. Much better than the Somali.
Cleggie doesn’t move. For longer than I like to remember, nothing happens. This is a stand-off, the four of us locked in a wordless conversation. Then Cleggie says again that we can talk about this, work something out. Money? Credit cards? His watch? A little jewellery, maybe? No problem.
‘The key, man. Otherwise the lady gets cut.’
I’m staring at the machete. The Somali holds it low, dangling on the end of his skinny arm, but I don’t have a moment’s doubt that he could bury it in my face in less time than it would take me to scream. Maybe a bullet would be better, I think. Maybe we should negotiate.
Cleggie has decided that this maniac means it. He hands over the key. I watch the skinny guy dance round the car, open the driver’s door and climb in. The lights come on, go off again. Then the wipers. The left indicator starts to flicker. Then comes a low purr and the faintest scent of diesel as he starts the engine.
The three of us are still at the rear of the Mercedes. I take a covert look round, hoping against hope that someone appears, someone fearless, someone armed to the teeth, someone who can bring this nightmare episode to a sane conclusion.
‘In, man.’
The driver has got out again. He holds one of the rear doors open. The curt nod has the force of an order. This man, I decide, is the more senior of the two.
Cleggie throws him a look, then shrugs again and folds his long body into the back of the Mercedes.
It’s my turn next. As the driver watches, the Somali pulls me towards the open rear door and then pushes my head low as I stoop to get in. He’s looking at Cleggie.
‘Move over, man.’ There’s a cackle of laughter from the Somali. ‘You got no manners?’
I get in beside Cleggie. This thing – two black faces, two guns – is fast becoming surreal. Is it really happening? Or am I back in Pavel’s world, starring in a movie that can only end badly? That last carafe, I’ve decided, was a big mistake.
The driver slams the door on Cleggie and me. The other Somali is already making himself comfortable in the front. Half-turned in the passenger seat, he has the gun levelled at my face. They’ve practised this routine before, I think. It’s slick, seamless. In barely seconds we’re on the way to disappearing off the face of the earth.
We drive out of the car park. The man behind the wheel is in no hurry to attract anyone’s attention and we cruise slowly through the city centre. When Cleggie enquires where we might be going, there’s no answer, only the barrel of the Somali’s gun inches from my mouth, rock-steady. I can see the long, well-shaped finger curled around the trigger, the huge eyes in the blackness of his face, the jaws slowly working the khat. His eyes are slightly yellowed around the iris and I’m beginning to think he might be older than he looks. Not that it’s ever going to matter.
The traffic is thinning now as we leave the city centre. From time to time the two men have a muttered conversation in a language I don’t understand and as the car begins to pick up speed I realize that this might have been the way that Clem was abducted. A neatly planned ambush. A waiting car. And the absolute guarantee of serious violence if you didn’t do these crazy people’s bidding. How on earth did they know where to find us? What brought them to Glasgow?
They must have known about Pavel, I conclude. The Somalis must have been waiting at the hospital. They must have followed us to the Premier Inn, found a parking spot, and settled down to wait. They’d have known we didn’t have luggage when we checked in and so they knew we’d be back. Simple. So simple.
We’re out in the country. The lanes are unlit, the country flat, the occasional glimpse of cows in a darkened field. The driver is evidently delighted with the Mercedes. He’s driving fast, flooring the accelerator through the shallower bends, scarcely bothering to brake for a blur of oncoming pot holes. There’s a rumble from the suspension as we bounce along towards the next corner, and as we lurch to the left I feel a tiny movement beside my thigh. It’s Cleggie. Thrown around in the back, his body is pressed against mine and I suspect he’s trying to ease something out of his pocket. I daren’t look at him, daren’t risk giving anything away.
The Somali doesn’t like what the driver is doing with this new toy of his, the risks he’s taking, and it shows in his face. He’s muttering under his breath, too wary, or perhaps too junior, to risk a conversation. When I risk a sympathetic smile, trying to break the ice, it seems to make him even crazier.
‘No tricks,’ he yells.
Minutes later, we’re on the edge of what seems to be a small town. The sight of a thirty mph sign comes as a godsend but the driver takes no notice. There’s no traffic. The town looks dead. Why slow down?
I’m thinking of Clem again. By now, we’ve been at the mercy of these men for more than half an hour. That’s long enough for that first hot rush of adrenalin to drain away, leaving nothing but the icy recognition that your life is no longer your own. That you’ve surrendered all control. That absolutely nothing from now on can be taken for granted. Where you’re going and what might happen next is a total mystery. Pavel, I think. Shit.
The driver doesn’t see the van and neither do I. It appears from nowhere, emerging from a side street. The windscreen is suddenly full of white. The Somali at the wheel hits the brakes and tries to haul the big car to the left but it’s far, far too late.
We hit the van at an angle. There’s a huge bang and the sheer force of the impact seems to squeeze the breath out of me. Dimly I hear a scream and realize it’s me. Then I become aware of something else. The car is filling with red smoke. At first I think it’s on fire and I scream even louder but then the smoke is filling my mouth, my throat, and reaching deep into my lungs. It has an oiliness that is beyond horrible. I start to cough. Then I start to choke.
Beside me, I can feel Cleggie moving. Somehow he’s got the door open. His big hands slip beneath my armpits. He’s out of the car now, hauling and hauling. The taste of the night air has a sweetness I can’t describe. I’m lying on my back in the middle of the road and I think it’s raining. I move my head in a bid to see the car. All the doors seem to be open and red smoke is pumping out, great clouds of the stuff.
Cleggie is kneeling over me. His big face is only inches away. He’s asking me if I’m OK. He’s telling me everything’s going to be fine.
‘But where are they?’ I manage a nod towards the car.
‘Gone,’ he says.
Local residents, alerted by the bang, emerge from their houses. A burly pensioner helps the van driver out of his cab. He’s bleeding from facial injuries and two women fetch water and towels to attend to him. The pensioner arrives and tells us he’s in touch with the emergency services. The police and ambulance should be here shortly. I nod. I’m grateful. I’m on my feet now, hanging on to Cleggie’s arm. Mercifully, everything seems to be in working order. I must phone H, I tell myself. I must tell him what’s happened.
He’s asleep when I ring. I end the call, then ring a second time. This time he picks up. He can tell at once that something bad has happened. I explain as best I can. Neither of us are badly hurt, just a bit shaken up. The men who took us have disappeared.
‘And the police?’
‘On their way.’
‘Tell them
nothing. OK? Cleggie was driving. It was just the pair of you in the car. Pretend the black guys don’t exist. Mateo thinks he’s on the edge of a deal. We can’t fuck this thing up.’
Pretend the black guys don’t exist? I’m staring at Cleggie. He has to know. He has to be part of this plan. I pass on H’s orders. Just you and me in the car. You at the wheel. The van driver’s fault.
Cleggie gazes at me for a moment, and then asks for the phone and gestures me closer so I can be part of this conversation.
‘I’ve sunk at least a bottle of Chablis,’ he tells H. ‘The first thing they’ll do is breathalyse me. Pretend none of this stuff happened? You have to be joking.’
H gives the proposition a moment’s thought. Then he’s back on the phone. ‘These guys have legged it, yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then tell the Filth it was just a mugging, a hijack. They were going to dump you somewhere. You got that?’
Cleggie nods, says nothing. In the distance I can hear the approaching police car, blues and twos. I get the drift. I can handle this.
The police arrive and park up. One of them starts putting out warning signs further down the road while the other checks that we and the van driver are OK. Talking to us, I know he can smell the alcohol on our breath.
‘Driving, sir, were you?’ he asks Cleggie.
‘No.’
‘Madam?’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘Driving itself, then, the car?’ A brief frown.
I explain as best I can. When I finish describing what happened back in the car park at the hotel, Cleggie interrupts.
‘Check it out on their CCTV,’ he says. ‘They’ve got cameras. Three of them. I counted.’
The police officer looks briefly confused. By now, an ambulance has appeared and I’m watching the van driver clambering into the back. The paramedic approaches and asks whether we need medical attention. Both of us say no. The police officer returns from an inspection of the impact damage at the front of the car.
‘I’d say a prayer for German engineering, if I were you.’ He’s not smiling. ‘Let’s get this mess cleaned up.’
Nice idea. One of the police officers confers with someone on the radio. He then takes our full details and suggests we phone for a taxi to take us back to Glasgow. A detective from CID will be down to the Premier Inn by noon to check the CCTV footage and take a proper statement. It will be in our best interests, he suggests, that we’re still around. In the meantime, in case the CCTV doesn’t provide the evidence we’re after, he needs to breathalyse Cleggie.
Cleggie breathes into the proffered tube. The permitted limit for a lungful of breath is 50 micrograms per 100 millilitres. Cleggie, according to the digital read-out, clocks in at 69. The officer scribbles himself a note and then looks Cleggie in the eye.
‘You’re way over, sir. We’ll need a blood sample, too, but that means taking you back to Glasgow. That’s the nearest police station that can handle it.’
‘Fine by me.’ Cleggie tells me to put my mobile away. ‘No need for a taxi.’
We linger at the scene of the accident for ten minutes or so while the police make arrangements for both vehicles to be towed away. Cleggie has the presence of mind to retrieve our bags from the boot. Within the hour, we’re at Glasgow’s central police station, where Cleggie submits to a blood test. The police surgeon grumbles that enough time has passed to bring him under the limit but there appears to be a complicated calculation they can do with both readings that will be admissible in court if the CCTV lets us down.
The officer who has brought us in from the accident scene has disappeared. As soon as we’ve left the police station to wait for the summoned cab, I phone H again. By now it’s nearly two in the morning.
‘It’s me,’ I say when H picks up. ‘It’s all fine.’
‘A mugging? A hijack?’
‘That’s the story. We get interviewed again tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed for the CCTV.’
‘What?’ H sounds alarmed.
I tell him not to worry. ‘Say night-night to Cleggie. You owe him, believe me.’
‘How come?’
‘He lifted a red emergency flare from the boot when the Somalis jumped us. After he let it off you couldn’t see for all the smoke. I’m betting they’d have shot us otherwise.’
I pass the phone to Cleggie. He’s rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Touch of whiplash, boss,’ he says. ‘Where do I send the bill?’
FORTY-ONE
I start to physically shake less than an hour later. We’ve made it back to the hotel and I’m lying in bed. I’ve made the mistake of rustling up a cup of coffee in my room, a poor substitute for the three miniatures of spirits a mini bar might have given me, but a modest gesture of celebration none the less. It doesn’t work. Worse still, it keeps me awake. The time, according to my bedside clock, is 03.37. Every time I close my eyes and try and kid myself into sleep, the same images swim out of the darkness. The machete hanging from that skinny arm. The gun, another shade of black, in my face. And above all, the yellowing eyes of a madman whose real pleasures were doubtless yet to come.
These people stepped into our evening from nowhere. They knew everything about everything. Their mission last night was to turn my safe little life on its head and make me question everything I’ve ever taken for granted, and in that single ambition they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Thanks to the driver of a white van, I’m still alive, and I seem to have retrieved some pale version of freedom, but deep down – where it truly matters – I’m terrified. Infant junkies shooting up I can cope with. Police interviews I can cope with. Even the threat of a prison sentence seems bearable. But this is different. Like the moment I saw what had happened to Brett Dooley, I seem to have stepped into a parallel universe. All bets are off. Literally anything can happen. Extreme violence the default setting? Get used to it.
Impossible. I get up and prowl around the room, stopping beside the window on lap after lap to inch back the curtain and gaze down into that horrible car park. I linger beside the door, half-naked, listening intently at the crack for any sign of movement outside. Somewhere I read that wedging an object under the door handle might keep the demons at bay but when I test the single chair it seems a flimsy proposition. They’ll be back, I know they will, and even if they never make it to the hotel they’ll ambush us somewhere else. A machete is for ever, I think, and these people know no fear.
At 03.59, unforgivably, I give Cleggie a ring. His room is next door. I mutter my apologies but it turns out that he, too, is still awake. His neck, he says, is bloody painful. The rest of it – nearly dying – doesn’t seem to trouble him. He’ll put the kettle on. I’m welcome to pop by.
I tell him not to bother making a drink on my account and then I get dressed. Both our rooms have twin beds. Cleggie is sitting up in his, his head at an odd angle. I lie on the other, staring up at the ceiling.
‘So what’s this about?’ he says after a while. ‘Am I allowed to ask?’
The question is as crazy as the situation. Of course he’s allowed to ask. We nearly died, for God’s sake, and the very fact that we’ve been spared, that we’ve somehow come through, makes us comrades in arms.
I tell him everything. I don’t care about H any more, about his stern instructions not to breathe a word about anything to anyone. Cleggie probably saved my life. Without the choking smoke in that car, the Somali might well have killed us both. Merci beaucoup, I murmur. With bells on.
At the end of the story I’m trying to describe the exotic Baptiste who I seem to have traced to a lordly pile in East Devon. Cleggie knows the area well. More to the point, he also knows the guy who owns it.
‘Dominic Franklin,’ he says. ‘Grade-one arsehole. Runs a Spitfire.’
The Spitfire, it turns out, is the reason this man appeared on Cleggie’s radar in the first place. It’s a two-seat version with room for a passenger in the back and he keeps it in a
compound at Exeter Airport. He once asked Cleggie whether he fancied flying punters around Torbay at £4000 a pop. Cleggie says he wasn’t taken by the offer but was only too pleased to give the Spit a go in the back seat. Memories of that single flight appear to work miracles on his sore neck. The perfect lady, he murmurs. An aircraft you couldn’t fail to fall in love with.
I want to know more about Dominic Franklin. Keeping a Spitfire, like keeping any kind of thoroughbred, can’t be cheap. Does this man work? Does he have private means? Has he cashed in several fortunes and retired? Cleggie says he’s never asked. All he knows is the man’s age – late forties – and the fact that he has no manners. This is beginning to sound a little like Hayden Prentice but when I offer the thought, Cleggie shakes his head.
‘I don’t know Prentice from Adam,’ he says, ‘but I’m really good at first impressions. I’ve had the pleasure of talking to him on the phone and now I’ve met him in the flesh. Rough diamond, definitely. But not in Franklin’s league when it comes to arseholes.’
He rolls on to his side and props a pillow under his head. He wants to know about me and Prentice.
‘H?’ I say lightly. ‘We share a son, like I just told you.’
‘And anything else?’
‘Not really. H has a habit of getting me into all kinds of trouble. Nothing like this but he’s got lots of energy and zero patience, and he doesn’t understand the word no. In a funny way I admire him. This country was built on people like him.’
‘You’re serious?’
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