by Mark Eklid
‘Look, lad.’ Bentley sat forward. ‘I’ve been in this business a long time. People try to steal your customers all the time. I’ve done it myself. You lose some and you win some, that’s the way it goes. It’s different if you sub-contract work to somebody and they go back to the customer trying to undercut you – you shouldn’t do that – but us and Johnsons don’t sub-contract to each other and so it’s fair game. It’s certainly not cause to start throwing petrol bombs at each other.’
Graham felt no reason to doubt his word. Bentley was not the man behind the attacks, he was sure of that now. He expected when they met that Bentley would be eliminated from suspicion and the picture was now apparently clearer.
Except that they still had no clue who was behind the fires and what they wanted Andreas to stop doing. That made it very difficult to bring the issue to a close.
‘I believe you, Doug, and I’m sure Andreas will too. What I’d like to suggest is that the two of you also go for a pint sometime soon and put this thing to bed for good. How does that sound?’
Bentley took another mouthful of beer and nodded.
‘Aye, I’ll have a drink with him. I don’t hold grudges. You tell him that.’
‘I will.’ Graham raised his glass. ‘Cheers, Doug.’
Bentley looked at his watch and drained the rest of his drink.
‘I’d best be off. Tell Andreas to get in touch. It’s been good to meet you Graham.’
They shook hands again before Bentley picked up and folded his newspaper and took the path from the beer garden by the side of the pub.
Graham sat back. That went well.
He turned his face to the sun, which was getting lower in the blue sky, and felt pleased with himself. If he left now he could still be back home in time for the estimated 7.30 meal-time but he felt in no mood to rush. He still had more than half a pint left and was going to relish it.
If only they could work out who was behind the arson attacks. Why didn’t they just show themselves? Make it clear what they wanted. The thought coincided with a small blob of cloud floating maliciously in front of the sun.
He nevertheless finished his drink in four more leisurely measures and rose to his feet. He checked the time. 7.12. Even if the meal was ready bang on time it would still be fine without reheating by the time he arrived back.
Graham crossed the narrow road from the pub to the car park and fished the keys from his jacket pocket. He could not see the car at first because a large black BMW had parked by the side of where he knew he had left it but, as he drew closer, he could see the back of the red hatchback and his fleeting concern dissipated.
18
He stood and he waited, sucking on a cigarette to pass the time. There were no nerves to settle. He knew what they had to do.
He was leaning against the rear of the car, the height of it shielding his compact, muscular frame from the small amount of activity there was on the road. He took another glance from around the car towards the road. Still no sign.
That’s fine. They could wait all night if they needed to. The longer they waited, the more chance that they would have the cover of darkness for when they needed to make their move and that would be better. There were still probably a couple of hours of daylight yet.
Doing it in the daylight was riskier. More chance of being spotted by someone passing by or even by someone at the window of one of the houses on the opposite end from the road. The houses bothered him. From there, someone might see him leaning against the car and judge that he was acting suspiciously. Their attention would be caught. That would not be good. There should be no witnesses.
And so he was trying to look as casual as possible. Just an ordinary bloke leaning against his car, having a fag, waiting to meet someone. Nothing suspicious about that.
In a short while, if the man still hadn’t shown, he would go to sit in the driver’s seat instead, just so nobody might see him still out there, still waiting, and start thinking he was up to no good. Some people don’t know when to keep their noses out. He would still be able to keep watch from inside the car, but not as easily.
The other two were inside, both in the back, hidden from view by the concealing darkness of the tinted glass, waiting for his signal. Waiting to pounce.
This was not where they originally intended to do it. The plan was to take him outside the house, which meant they were going to have to take the woman as well. That would have been an added complication, but it would have been fine. Might even have given them extra leverage.
They didn’t expect him to let her out and then drive off but you have to think on your feet sometimes. Things don’t always go to plan. You have to be able to adapt. So they followed him, hanging back just far enough that he didn’t think he might be being followed, until they saw him pull in again. When they were satisfied they hadn’t been compromised and that he wasn’t going to set straight off again, they also pulled in.
They watched him cross the road and go into the pub. Then they had a look around to check if this was a suitable place. No cameras, not a lot of activity in and out, not much traffic on the road. The houses at the opposite end from the road were a concern but, on the whole, they were OK with it. He made the final decision.
We’ll do it here. We’ll move the car across there to give us cover. If something crops up at the moment we need to move, we’ll abort for now and follow him again to wherever he goes next. That will probably be the house. We’ll follow him back there, if we need to, and do it then.
But it had to be done and it had to be done tonight.
He glanced around the car again, making the action appear as casual as he could. Still no sign. He took a last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his brown leather coat and took out the packet to smoke another.
Perhaps he was more nervous about this than he wanted to admit to himself. There was a lot riding on this. It had to go smoothly.
He lit the next cigarette and took another look.
From the path on the outside of the pub he could see the man. He must have come from around the back. It was definitely him.
He tapped three times with the middle knuckle of his index finger on the rear side window of the car and discarded the cigarette.
The rear door opened and one of his colleagues climbed out, closing the door behind him and moving, hunched, towards the front of the car to get into position.
He checked for unwanted activity. Nobody else coming back towards their cars or pulling off the road to park. No pedestrians or dog walkers. Nobody snooping from the windows of the houses. Good. He gave the signal of a sharp single nod to his colleague as confirmation.
It’s on.
The man was getting his keys out of his pocket and craning to see where he had left his car, so he hid from view, satisfied the man was on his way. He would be here in no time.
He could hear the footsteps getting closer until they were almost level with him and then he stepped out from behind the car, trying to make it look as if he had just parked up.
The man paid him no attention as he walked past, ready to approach the driver’s side of the red hatchback.
‘Excuse me, buddy.’
The man stopped, no more than three steps away. Greying hair, glasses, doesn’t look like he works out at all. This shouldn’t be a problem, as long as they get it right.
He strolled the rest of the short distance towards the man as he spoke.
‘Do you know if you have to pay at this car park?’
The man glimpsed around.
‘I didn’t see ...’
He pounced. Hand clamped over the man’s mouth to stop him yelling out, other arm wrapped around his chest to drag him backwards behind the cover of the black car. As they got there, his colleague had opened the rear door and grabbed the man’s legs to lift him. They bundled him into the back of the car, where the third of them was ready to drag him onto the seat.
The one wh
o had grabbed the legs jumped in behind him and slapped his hand across the man’s mouth before he could recover his senses and shout for help.
‘Keep quiet and you won’t get hurt,’ he said, menacingly, jabbing a finger in the man’s face.
The third tore off a strip of thick black tape and, as the hand was removed, the tape was fixed to make sure no sound would be possible. He then took a black hood from beside him on the seat and whipped it over the man’s head.
The black car was already reversing out of the parking bay. It squealed to a stop and jolted quickly forward, pulling out from the car park and away.
19
At first, Graham was too shocked to resist or shout for help. It all happened so quickly. By the time his brain had absorbed the scale of the trouble he was in it was too late.
He was now in full-blown panic mode. He breathed shallow and fast. His mouth had gone as parched as if a hot jet had been blown into the back of his throat and the restrictive tape left him unable to pull his lips apart. His efforts to draw in the air he needed through his nose was limited by the dense black cloth over his head, which was sucked with every hysterical breath to his nostrils like a valve clamping them shut.
He wanted to grab at the black veil which was suffocating him and had robbed him of the assimilating comfort of vision as well but his hands were immovably gripped around the wrist by the men on either side. The men who had swept him away and bundled him into the black car. The men who were taking him away God knows where to do God knows what.
The man on his right used his spare hand to grasp Graham’s arm at the elbow and squeezed hard, administering a jarring jolt of pain.
‘Keep still!’ he commanded.
Graham wanted only to tell him that he could not breathe and that he felt as if he was having a heart attack but he could make no coherent sound. He was helpless, friendless, drowning in black cloth.
What is happening to me?
His distress was growing by the second. The beer he had savoured with such satisfaction such a short while ago churned in his stomach and made him feel as if he wanted to vomit but that really would drown him. There was no aid to be had from outside. He had to help himself.
Breathe more slowly. Breathe more slowly. Breathe more slowly.
Gradually, his agitation eased. The whirring light-headedness wound down. The air filled his lungs more generously. He stopped focusing on the black cloth and the tape over his mouth and the hands gripping his wrists and became more aware of the gentle up and down movement of the car and the way his body was made to sway to either side by curves in the road he could not see to anticipate.
The men said nothing, but his ears picked up the sound of the car’s acceleration, sustained and increased now as if they had come to a stretch of faster road. He guessed maybe they had joined the M1. He had no idea which direction they were heading in but told himself it might be a good idea to try to estimate how long the journey was taking, so that he could give the police a clue as to where he had been taken.
Assuming he was later released, that is.
Realisation of the danger he was in came over him like a wave again. Deepening that dread was his absolute inability to even partially rationalise his situation with a possible reason. He was in the hands of unknown assailants who had come for him with an unknown motive and were taking him he had no idea where.
The whole scenario was beyond comprehension and that was truly terrifying.
The low drone of the car engine was broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the occasional signal as they pulled out to overtake. It didn’t feel as if they were moving especially quickly. Apart from the small rhythmical bumps which marked their progress, it hardly felt as if they were moving at all. The driver must understand the wisdom of not attracting attention. The last thing they wanted was to be pulled over by the police for a traffic infringement. It was the thing Graham wanted most.
After around 10 minutes, the pitch of the engine changed. They were slowing down. The sound roared and died as they came down through the gears and then he lurched slightly forward as they came to a stop. He could hear traffic as it passed in front of them before their car moved away again, climbing the gears and slowing again into a turn, then accelerating again until they made another turn.
Graham tried to draw a map of their progress in his mind but it quickly became confused. Without the aid of vision, he could not keep pace with its changes. He abandoned the attempt. It was useless.
They wound through the streets for maybe 10 or 15 minutes more. He was past thinking about the journey and was full of what must soon lie at the end of it. He was really scared now. This nightmare might only be beginning.
The car made one final turn and the wheels scrunched to a halt over what sounded to be loose stone. The driver turned off the engine and Graham could hear the front door opening, then closing with a rush of warm air. The grip around his wrists was not yet released but then the rear door on his right creaked open and the man on that side let go to climb out.
He felt a grab and a pull on his upper arm, encouraging him to move, and heard a voice bark ‘come on’ as someone dragged him towards the open door. With his left arm also now free, he used it to help him shuffle across the seat, conscious that he needed to discourage any thought of violence in response to perceived resistance. He could hear the door to his left open and shut as the third of his assailants got out of the car.
Then he was on his feet and felt the sensation of rough loose stones under them as he was hurried, virtually carried, by two of the men holding him firmly on either side. He heard the click of a key turning in a lock and a door opening before he was bustled inside a building, feeling it suddenly cooler and quieter than it had been outside.
The three men’s heavy footsteps echoed down what he perceived to be a corridor and then they were in a more open space. They travelled only a few yards further and the two holding him stopped. One of them pulled Graham’s arm behind his back and then took hold of the other so his hands were together. He heard the tearing and snap of tape being pulled from a roll before it was wrapped around his wrists, securing them firmly.
His breathing was quickening again and his chest thumped with anxiety.
What are they going to do to me?
He was pulled backwards and felt the heel of his feet catch against something solid, then a hand pressed on his shoulder and a voice demanded ‘sit!’
He sat.
There was silence around him again as footsteps trailed towards the far end of the room away from him, but he knew he was not alone.
What are they waiting for? Why can’t they at least take off this hood so that I can see what’s in store for me? So that it will be easier to breathe.
In his anger and frustration he shook his head and tried to scream words of defiance but the restraint of the tape across his mouth limited his protests to an inarticulate blur of sound.
He sat, wanting to spit out opposition, wanting to challenge the complete vulnerability of his situation, wanting just to know where he was, why he was there and what they wanted from him.
Tell me! Whatever it is, tell me!
Then he heard a voice. A female voice. And it stopped his dissent.
‘Well, well, well. Graham Hasselhoff. Who would have thought it?’
As this new confusion scrambled his thoughts to even wider proportions, the hood was seized above his scalp by someone behind him and hauled off his head.
The light overwhelmed his pupils and made him squeeze his eyelids shut. He blinked and blinked again, encouraging his eyes to adjust and find their focus so he could take in his new surroundings. It felt good to be able to breathe without the stale filter of cloth, but he needed to see where he was.
Before he could become accustomed to the light, a hand reached down and tore the tape from his mouth. The relief of that release was tempered by a surge of pain which made him feel as if every nerve ending in his lips and around his mouth was throbbing and he
yelled, both to celebrate being free from the tether of the tape and to express his sudden hurt.
The room was beginning to come into focus now but pulling off the hood had displaced his glasses down his nose and was preventing him from seeing properly. With his hands taped behind his back, he could not push them into place.
The man in the brown leather coat, the one who had approached him in the car park, came from behind him and stood at his side, glaring.
‘Sorry, but I don’t suppose you could just put my glasses on properly for me, could you?’ Graham asked the man, aware that he had retained an astonishing level of politeness, in the circumstances.
‘Fuck off,’ replied the man, who was clearly less concerned with maintaining social graces.
‘Now, now, Jason.’ It was the woman again. She was leaning against a desk around five yards in front of him. He could not yet make her out properly but she appeared to be well dressed in a dark skirt and jacket.
‘Remember that Mr Hasselhoff is our guest.’
The man bent over and took the glasses by the hinges at either side and hooked them back over Graham’s ears, so that the frame rested back in the pressure grooves on the bridge of his nose.
The man leaned and sneered ‘Better?’
Graham nodded. ‘Thanks.’
The man had short-cropped hair which was beginning to recede at the temples and a curving scar, about three inches long, on his left cheekbone. He had a thick-set, powerful upper body, though he was not a young man – edging towards 40, maybe – and gave all the signs of having led a hard life. It had marked him with a disposition which was less than sunny.
Graham’s eyes darted around the room. He was in an office. Not a cluttered, functional and haphazard office like Andreas’s but a thoughtfully-conceived, out-to-make-a-favourable-first-impression office. It had healthy plants, a coffee machine and a carpet that hadn’t been ruined beyond salvation by decades of muddy boots and spilled drinks. The walls were a light grey, with a large black cabinet dominating the far wall. A framed print of a snowy mountainside was hung to its left and, to the right, was a two-seat crimson sofa.