Highbridge (35 page)

‘So his manager said.'

‘Believe it when I see it.'

‘Don't think he has a choice. His mum is a big mate of the local paper's editor's mum, apparently. Make a great front page, apparently. So Glynnis tells me.'

‘Ah, now I'm beginning to believe,' Sandra commented. It's a powerful thing this mums' mafia,' Sean added, with a smile.

‘We do have our uses.'

‘So I just witnessed.' Sean laughed, until he saw a maternal flash of admonishment. ‘Or was that me being useful for you?'

‘Good recovery,' Sandra grinned.

‘And Craig on the front page will be better than “local businessman says legalise drugs”.'

‘Indeed.'

Sean kissed the top of her head and wondered how long he could lie there before she would let him go.

‘You can go if you like. Now you've had your wicked way with me.'

‘Er … who was being wicked with who?'

‘I know you want to go and do something else. I can hear your breathing.'

‘What's my breathing got to do with anything?'

‘You're not relaxed.'

‘That was very relaxing, actually.'

‘But you want to go and phone Harold Peagram.'

‘Who said anything—'

‘Sean. How long have we been together?' She pushed herself up and kissed him. ‘And why did I say I loved you before?' She then rolled over on her back. ‘You can either take me as I am, or make me a cup of tea.'

‘Cup of tea?' He'd been with her the same length of time.

‘Good choice. As I know you're incapable of anything else.'

He thought of trying to respond but knew he'd lose. So he leaned over, kissed each breast, then her lips, and got up and started to dress.

‘I might just see if Harold is in. As you mentioned it. You coming down?'

‘Think I'll stay here. Catch up on my Sky box.'

He nodded and headed for the door. ‘I'll bring it up in a minute but er … what about that snow machine? I think it should be in Santa's Garden.'

‘Anywhere you want it, babe.' She was now flicking through her planner. ‘And I wouldn't mind a bit of toast.'

‘Now that you've burnt off a few calories?'

She hit play and the voice of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes filled the room. Time to go.

‘Are you sure?' Luke asked. One final time. ‘Point of no return?'

Matt just nodded. ‘I knew where this was likely to end up when I signed on. And if I'm going down, this time I don't want to be caught with nothing more than an expensive club in my hand while some clown is pointing a loaded shotgun at me.'

They were in the back of the Transit, assembling the MP5s. This time with live magazines. There was now no point of separation or ambiguity. No legal eagle on the planet would talk them out of this. Especially with six body bags in the back. They were definitely going out equipped to do serious harm. It was win or lose all round. But they had no intention of losing. Anywhere.

Although they had prepped and were ready to come back night after night, they had read Leather as a man of action. It was shortly after ten, when Gazza had predicted they'd have a fifty-fifty chance of no one complaining about the bridge, when a text alert told Matt there was movement outside Leather's house. Sure enough, on the 3G live feed they saw the gates open and a figure come out, just as the BMW X5 they had followed came into frame. It stopped momentarily to pick him up, then sped off. Several minutes later they saw it come up on camera 2, and a short while later on camera 3. They were on their way. Time to call Gazza.

By the time the X5 passed the Welcome to Highbridge sign, Gazza was in place, Matt was standing at the field entrance, his hi-viz jacket slung over his shoulders to mask both his body armour and the hanging MP5. His task was to walk out into the road in front of the X5, so Gazza could see him and start opening the bridge. At the same time Luke backed out the Transit. At speed. Causing the X5 to slide abruptly to a stop. The internal hand gestures at odds with the politely waved apology from Matt as he guided the van back into the field, then followed with another apologetic arm raise.

Leather and his crew were still gesticulating as they attempted to carry on, only to find the red traffic lights flashing, the barrier dropping and the bridge slowly opening and in doing so masking them from anyone stopping on the other side. There was, as yet, no traffic coming up behind, not that they noticed, as they were too busy trying to top each other's cracks about country yokels. Nor did they notice Matt fling the hi-viz jacket into the field, pull down his balaclava and follow Luke out of the field.

There were four occupants, but none of them noticed Luke slide round the back of the X5, to come up on the rear passenger door. They didn't notice because at the same time Matt was tapping the X5's passenger window with the MP5's suppressor. They all turned to see the red dot dance around the car as the muzzle of the suppressor steadied then gestured for the passenger door window to slide down. All the city-slicker street bravado dissipated. There was the expected moment of hesitation as they tried to figure out what was going on. That was a serious piece of kit pointing at them. Leather said something over his shoulder to the back seat and made a play of putting up his hands as he got out.

As he did, the rear offside passenger door opened quietly, slowly, and a Skorpion machine pistol emerged slightly ahead of its handler, who yelped in pain as the stock of Luke's MP5 hit him hard on his wrist and his hoodie was yanked backwards, fast, down, to the tarmac. Hard. A kick to his side forced the remaining air out of his lungs.

Luke side-footed the Skorpion under the car and towards the kerb. He then stepped back, put his red dot on the driver's head and gestured for him to get out. It was one of the shaved heads that helped terrorise Fatchops in the park. But now the swagger was gone. Glancing nervously at the writhing figure still gasping desperately for breath, he meekly followed Luke's gesture to pick up the other guy and take him round the back of the car. Luke followed while doing a quick 360 check. Nothing else on the road. Yet.

On the passenger side, both Leather and the fourth occupant had taken in the full blacks, military stance, and the rapidness with which the others had been neutralised. Whatever, or whoever, these guys were, they were serious players. Leather's next assumption, on taking in the MP5s close up, was that it was some form of police SWAT team. An occupational hazard, but at least they would have to play by the rules.

‘What the …? We haven't done …' was about all he managed to say before Matt's left hand chopped his throat, causing him to gag, gasp and be unable to resist being propelled towards the back of the car where Luke had the other two at the end of his MP5, but with an angle ready to cover Matt. This didn't feel like part of the rules. The fourth occupant, the biggest of them all, obviously the muscle, remained defiant until Luke put his red dot on his chest, with a slight slant of his head. Do you really want this?

Normally, they would be barking commands, using the most disorientating weapon they carried: their voices. Like all animals, humans are programmed to fear loud noise. Loud voices startle. But not tonight. Tonight was do not attract attention night. Gestures were enough. The guy turned and followed the others towards the field. Once inside and out of sight of the road, Mr Muscle's legs buckled under the force of Luke's boot. As he went down, everything went black as a hood came over his head. He then felt the weight of Luke's knee in his back as his hands were pulled back harshly and zip-tied. The other three soon joined him in a line, on their knees facing the hedge. Tagged and bagged. Out of sight. All now starting to feel real fear. No, this was definitely not part of the rules.

Luke gestured for Matt to go along the line to make sure they were not carrying anything else. And collect their mobile phones. With a nod to Luke to say they were clear, he then went back to check the X5, scooping up the Skorpion as he did, wondering if that too came into the country as parts. Opening the tailgate he found a holdall. By the weight he suspected it was the weapons bag. He hoisted that on to his shoulder then headed back to the field, noticing that the swing bridge was already closing and a car was approaching. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes. Hopefully still on the good side of Gazza's fifty-fifty bet.

Luke had already bundled the driver and the now whimpering Skorpion handler round to the open back doors of the van. Matt put the holdall on the passenger seat and then grabbed Mr Muscle, immediately feeling resistance – he was primed, ready to fight. As was Matt. He spread his legs slightly, so if the guy lunged back he wouldn't be knocked off balance. He then leaned forward.

‘Do it,' he said. The challenge unambiguous. Goading.

Immediately Luke sensed the danger. From Matt. Win or lose.

‘Problem?' he asked.

Whether it was the proximity of Matt, with his hot, adrenalin-pumped breathing, or Luke's warning tone, the guy unwound and allowed himself to be dragged up and pushed to join the others by the van doors. Matt slowed his breathing and gave a nod to Luke. No problem. Luke returned the nod, but was not fully convinced, as he tugged at Leather's collar to get up.

‘You're dead,' Leather hissed at Luke as he begrudgingly allowed himself to be forced towards the van.

‘You got that one wrong. I died a long time ago,' Luke replied. Then added. ‘Peter.'

At the sound of his name Leather spun back. Now he knew what this was. The guys who had tried to warn him off. But he was roughly turned back to face the van. Then the hoods came off. Suddenly Leather felt weak. In front of him on the floor of the van were the body bags. He realised that was the point. They wanted them all to see the bags before the hoods went back on and they felt themselves being pushed into the van, the doors slammed and the engine started. Leather now felt more than weak. He felt vulnerable. As it sank in. He was inside a steel box. An execution chamber.

‘I understand all that, Harold. Yes … I do … But all I'm saying is that if we, the community, don't do anything then some hothead is going to take it into their own hands. And none of us want that, do we?'

Sean was sitting at the kitchen table, in the Paul Smith black dressing gown Sandra had bought him for his birthday, still talking to Harold Peagram, but was beginning to lose his thread. Sandra was taking advantage of the free house and, having paused Benedict Cumberbatch in mid-sentence, she came gliding in, wearing the Jane Woolrich negligee set he had bought for their last anniversary. She was also looking for the promised cup of tea. Sean mouthed sorry and pointed to the phone.

She pointed to the Jane Woolrich. Which is more important? He knew it was no contest, but had to finish listening to Harold repeating the proper procedures line as he watched Sandra seeming to float around the kitchen, the long silk train appearing to act like a hovercraft skirt. Or a Dalek, he thought. Good job she was anal about keeping the floor clean. But Harold broke through again.

‘Well, yes,' Sean switched his attention back to the phone. ‘I might. I might even consider running for election myself. I am that serious. Yes.'

He managed to carry on the conversation with Harold even when she came over and mischievously nuzzled his neck, but with tea made, she playfully scooped up the negligee and let it glide across his head as she left the kitchen. The sensuality of the silk combined with a waft of her perfume was too much.

‘Er, Harold, I'll have to call you back.' He was tempted to say that something had come up, but decided against it. ‘Yes, I'm free for lunch on Tuesday. Great.' He put the phone down and headed after Sandra. The Council could wait.

Whether it was the sight of the young girls being spit roasted, or the dog attacking the young boy, or the guy being dropped from the crane that sent Matt's pulse and anxiety level off the scale, Luke couldn't be sure. Matt would later say it was the sound. The cries of those being tortured against the sound of Leather laughing, that acted as the tripwire. Whatever it was, they were now looking down at Leather crumpled in a heap in front of them. Put there by several wild strikes of a baseball bat.

It had only taken a few minutes to reach the old chemical quarry. The name was a historical reference. It was in fact a toxic lake. The quarry had originally been used to extract stone but the chemical industry had appropriated it as a convenient and unregulated waste dump. The result was that after a century of dumping no one now knew exactly what was in there. And no one wanted to carry the cost of finding out. Building was prohibited anywhere near it and, although slowly rusting away, the signs on the fence made it clear that you were risking your life by venturing beyond the perimeter. It was a conveniently overlooked legacy of the industrial revolution and, as every local scally knew, the perfect place to get rid of evidence.

It was highly unlikely they would be disturbed while interrogating their guests. They had dragged them out one by one, into the old weighing-in station, to be stripped naked and forced to stand in the stress position. Legs back and spread to put all their weight on their fingertips. Luke and Matt stuck to the drill. Keeping their balaclavas on at all times.

By the time they had brought the last one in, the Skorpion handler, the other three were starting to shiver, while Skorpion was sobbing almost uncontrollably. Mainly through fear but also the stench of his own embarrassment. He had made such a mess of his jeans that Matt doubted any amount of washing would get them fit enough for a charity shop. When he was told to strip, Luke and Matt exchanged surprised looks. They could see this was a young body, still forming, but the back and sides were covered in slowly healing knife slashes. Despite the smell, Matt stepped closer, made him turn round to get a better look, then angled the guy towards Luke. Someone had carved ‘For Pete's Sake' on his back. That was the first trigger point.