Rant (10 page)

I muttered something about accidents and not my fault and how unfair the world was, but neither of us was listening and I lapsed into silence.

He thought for a moment longer, and then something seemed to occur to him.

‘Tell me,' he said. ‘Would you have left the address for this place anywhere at home? Anything that might give the police some clue as to where we are?'

‘Er – in my address book. And on the letters he sent me. And I think it was written on the calendar as I had some scripts to send back to him.'

He sighed, long and loud.

‘Well, I am sorry – as I keep telling you, I haven't had much experience at this game. What does that mean, by the way? As if I couldn't guess.'

‘Just that we have to get out of here tonight. After making a few…arrangements.'

I wanted to cry. If ever I really needed to just lie down and drum my heels on the floor before going to sleep, it was then.

‘What arrangements?' I asked, though I really didn't want to know.

‘I think we have to make you disappear. In a way which will stop them looking for you for a little while.'

‘How do you mean?' I asked nervously.

Again he sat and thought.

‘Well,' he said, ‘you're an actor, aren't you?'

‘Duh!' I said. He looked up angrily. ‘Sorry. Just a bit tired. Yes, I'm an actor. What of it?'

‘Well the whole point of theatre is to make people believe what you want them to believe, isn't it?'

‘Yes, I suppose.' I couldn't be bothered to figure out where this was going.

‘Well, the first rule is to dress the scene, isn't it? Make it look believable. Then the audience will follow their logic, or rather your logic, and go in the direction you want them to. We have to manipulate them.'

‘Go on,' I said, though I knew from his tone that I wasn't going to like this.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Now, before you start ranting again, I want you to just hear me out…'

Inspector Mallefant is in a good mood.

After the results had come back from the pathology lab (not a place Inspector Mallefant ever visited if he could help it) he had become even more determined to bring Rant to justice and find out what kind of perverted racket he was running. He was also being put under a lot of pressure to stop “this bloody maniac” (as his chief had called him), “find the bloody woman alive or dead, and wrap this thing up before the bloody press get a hold of it.”

Now it looks as though things might be coming together. He sits in the clean, air-conditioned monitoring station of the Motorway Patrol Unit and gazes at the bright and shiny consoles whilst fresh footage is recorded and rewound, zoomed in on and cleaned up to enhance the image. (“Fresh”, “cleaned up” – the very words are sweet music to Inspector Mallefant's ears.)

The remains of the car used to flee from Rant's or Grant's residence in Newcastle had been attended by the fire brigade on the outskirts of Newcastle. The van stolen from outside of a nearby florist's shop in Newcastle had been found outside of the burned-out flat of Mr Simon Willoughby-Chase, whose car was, in turn, missing. They had traced the car of this Simon Willoughby-Chase and found it abandoned in Bristol. Another car, some kind of off-road vehicle – “Good for getting through mud and shit,” a young constable had explained to a shuddering Mallefant – had been stolen a few streets away. This car in turn has now been picked up by the closed circuit cameras over the M4, M5 and M6 motorways, and is being tracked as it approaches a service station a little way to the south of Manchester.

Here there are cameras galore. Another car has pulled in behind the one driven by Rant and four more people have got out and walked over to it. A very large, muscular man; a blonde, attractive (if you liked that kind of thing) woman; a tiny man in a wheelchair with a very large holdall; and a bent little man with a walking stick and some kind of backpack.

Rant and a fat man (presumably the missing American neighbour whose car Rant had taken), can be seen getting out of the off-road vehicle and someone else, not clearly visible, stays inside.

A call comes through asking what Mallefant wants the four patrol cars to do. They have been following the vehicle driven by Rant since Birmingham.

‘Just hang back,' says Inspector Mallefant. ‘Keep oot of sight, as close tae the target as possible. Ah want tae see whit it is they're up tae. There's something fishy going on here.' Inspector Mallefant, needless to say, does not like fish. Dirty smelly creatures that pick up the shit dropped to the bottom of the sea. He shudders again.

‘Keep in close radio contact,' he continues, ‘and get ready tae move in the second Ah give the order.'

Then there is more waiting. There are the quietly given commands to remotely move around the cameras, in order to follow every step of the unfolding action. There are the titbits of information supplied by the twelve officers shadowing the movement of the suspects.

Then their main suspect approaches the roadside hotel, or motel, or whatever it is they call these things nowadays, and goes into one of the rooms.

Inspector Mallefant asks one of the teams to get closer, to see if they can hear anything. He knows that they will only get one chance at this, and then the anti-terrorist shower will step in and take over, what with explosions on the streets and foreign involvement. For the moment, however, he is not too worried, certain as he is that everything is under control, all avenues covered.

Softly, softly catchee monkey,
he thinks. No unnecessary macho posturing, all sweaty glands and testosterone. He shivers involuntarily, and forces his attention back to the screens in front of him.

Then there is more waiting, and some useful information is inadvertently supplied: the suspects are armed, it would seem. As are the people they are meeting.

Then, suddenly, it is decision time. Do they move now or wait and see what develops? It is a tough call, but Inspector Mallefant sees himself as a man who can take the burden of responsibility.

They wait. In the meantime members of the public are discreetly moved to a safe distance. There are a few arguments from people who value their motorcars more than their health, but on the whole people come away in a quiet and orderly manner.

And then they wait a little longer.

Inspector Mallefant wonders if he dares pop out to the toilet, as he is getting a little on the desperate side.

Just then there comes a ‘What the bloody hell…?' from the men on the ground, and things begin to speed up.

There is the ‘What in the name of God was that, then? Did you see what they…?' from the men controlling the cameras.

The ‘Jesus H. Christ on a bike,' from Inspector Mallefant's second-in-command.

There is the falling silence in the room as everyone stares at the cameras in dumbstruck horror until the images disappear one by one, and the radios of the units on the ground are overcome by static and then fail, one by one by one.

And, as he watches the carnage unfold, as events head towards their devastating, unbelievable and now-invisible finale, Inspector Mallefant has the terrible, overwhelming feeling that he has just blown his biggest case, that there will be questions to be answered, that he has no answers for them that will make any sense. That he is in deep doo-doo. And that he has wee'd himself, just a little.

Inspector Mallefant is no longer in such a good mood, and he vows that someone will pay. More than that, he vows that he will skelp someone's arse before this is over – and that someone, he sincerely hopes, will be a malicious little piece of vermin called Michael Grant.

Wednesday May 5
th
. Afternoon. This day may never end.

‘You know,' says Sam, philosophically, ‘I never did know what that song ‘Burning Ring of Fire' was about until I got my first bout of piles.'

‘Thanks for sharing,' I say.

We drive quietly, enjoying the aesthetic delights of the M2, and it suddenly occurs to me how little I know about Sam. I look across at him and realize he must have been quite a good-looking guy in his time. He looks sort of like a bastard offspring of Robert Redford and Walter Matthau, if you can imagine such a thing.

‘So how did you end up in this line of work, then,' I ask.

‘What, you're going to go all Californian on me and suddenly act like you give a shit? Vot voss eet een your chiyuldhoood zat mayde yoo intoo thees goverrnment keeelingk macheeeen?'

‘Oh c'mon. I'm just making conversation. I don't know anything about you. Your likes, your dislikes, how you got to be where you are today. And what it was in your childhood that made you into this government killing machine.'

‘I got to be where I am right now because you stuck a gun in my face, buddy, and I didn't see you worrying as to whether I'd like or dislike that.'

I let it go. After a few minutes he relents. ‘I got into it same way as most people, I guess,' he begins. ‘Joined the army, did my basic training, scored reasonable on the tests, sat a whole bunch more tests and before I knew it I was signing the Secrecy Bill and then it was off to keep an eye on things in Korea.'

‘Wow, you really have been around a while.'

He eyes me sourly. ‘One of the prerequisites for joining the Geriatric Intelligence Agency, I guess you'd say.' Then he smiles and continues. ‘Yeah, I've seen some things. Korea, Central America, 'Nam. That's Vietnam, in case you don't know.'

‘I know, I know. I've seen the movies.'

‘I spent about three years in a Cuban prison in the late sixties – undercover, not officially arrested – which was pretty tough, and then I did a lot of to-ing and fro-ing to Khazginjystania.'

‘Did you just say the name of a country, or was that a sneeze?'

‘Khazginjystania?'

‘Bless you.'

‘It's an old Russian domain near the border with Mongolia, first kicked back against the USSR in '29 and it's had a history of rebellion ever since. Still going, but they're not so keen on Uncle Sam any more, since we got into bed with the Russkies. And they're much more dangerous than they ever were when I was there, what with the advent of nuclear devices you can hide up your ass, and chemical weapons you can secrete in your nasal passages and infect whole cities just by blowing your nose and leaving it in a trash can.'

‘Er – those last two are jokes, right…?'

‘Who knows, these days?'

I think about that for a while.

‘So how come you're here?' I ask.

‘Like I said, things have gotten hairier than old Van G out there these days and spying's a young man's game. I did some undercover work here in the UK and then over in Eastern Europe during the Cold War and just when it was looking like I'd sit out the rest of my days behind a desk in Langley, the chance came to come live over here permanently and keep an eye on things.'

‘So why Newcastle?'

‘One of my first drops.'

‘What do you mean?

‘I visited when I was training, I was dropped in the middle of the local derby between Sunderland and Newcastle. Sort of a covert operation to see how I'd cope in a war zone. I only just got out of that one alive. I liked the city though, so I came back when I went undercover.'

‘You ever, er…have to…kill anyone?'

He just gives me one of those looks. ‘You ever work on a crappy piece of theatre?' he asks.

‘I see what you mean,' I say. ‘Sometimes you just have to do the work and swallow your morality, and you really don't want to talk about it afterwards.'

‘Exactly. I'm not real proud of a lot of the things I've done, but I did what I felt was necessary, or rather what I was told was necessary at the time to maintain the land of the free and the home of the brave and support democracy and the balance of power in the new world order. And saw myself a few flying hogs while I was about it. But you know how it is yourself – doing the necessary thing isn't always the same as doing the right thing.'

‘See, that's the problem,' I say, ‘most Americans seem to think it's necessary for them to police the world and that we'd all fall apart if it wasn't for you. Don't you think we'd survive if you weren't over here sticking your noses in?'

‘You really have no idea, boy. This island would be long gone if it wasn't for the US of A.'

‘We'd have managed,' I say, and notice he's grinning again. ‘What?'

‘Well, it's just I couldn't help but notice how good you were at “managing” yourself over the last couple of days. I didn't come running to
you
for help.'

‘And I wouldn't have needed help if it wasn't for you stirring up the Eastern European Mafia and bringing them knocking down my door.'

‘Touché.'

‘So what is your job right now?'

‘Like I said, sitting and watching, intelligence-gathering, occasionally sticking out a wet finger to see where the wind is blowing from. And hopefully, most of the time, it isn't blowing out of some crazy Limey's butt.'

With that image to ponder upon, we lapse into a companionable silence.

‘This is a new one, though,' he says after a while. ‘This whole connection is new to me. There have to be some bigger players involved somewhere down the line, but I'll be damned if I can see who they are.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘The money, is one. And two is the fact that these guys don't seem to have any criminal connections other than small potatoes. That means someone is covering for them, keeping them under the radar, and they must have a good reason for doing it.'

‘Good ol' American conspiracy theories at work.'

He smiles. ‘We'll see,' he says, in a not-very-reassuring way. I wonder what else he's keeping from me. Then he says, ‘Keep an eye out, we're almost there.'

The service station is less than a mile ahead on the M2. I pull off on the exit ramp immediately before it and into a layby, as we'd arranged. I called our contacts earlier this morning, had a protracted and confusing conversation with the main man (hereafter known as Principal Goon, or PG for short), and finally made arrangements to meet them as soon as we could drive up here.

We left Bristol less than three hours after we'd arrived. I was tired. Really tired. As if the last forty-eight hours hadn't been stressful enough, a night without sleep hadn't helped to put things into a better perspective.

The others are following in Joshua's specially adapted car, which looks kind of like a black Popemobile, and we are going to meet with them, briefly, to discuss our plan of action, as the drive up will have
given everyone a chance to find a little inspiration,
as Sam put it.

Luckily there is a roadside snack-van-cum-salmonella-incubator parked up and I get bacon butties and coffee for everyone. Our miserable passenger says he is a vegetarian, so he only takes the coffee and the bun, though I notice he licks the greaseproof paper it came wrapped in quite happily. (Later, when he thinks we are otherwise engaged, I reckon he'll filch the bacon out of the ashtray and eat it. Can't say why – it's just that some vegetarians do give off that sort of sneaky air underneath their superior front, like they'd have your shoes off you and boil them up to make stock if you turned your back.)

A few minutes pass and then Joshua's car joins us. Nobody bothers to get out; we just wind our windows down and chat happily, passing a tartan flask of tea around like a group of old fogies on the Saga trip to hell.

‘We'll drive around the car park a few times,' Sam says, ‘just to get the lay of the land. When we find out where they are, Mr Rant and I will meet with them and find out what it is exactly that they want us to do and when. Agents Smith and Smith will scout the area and verify whether Mrs Rant is being held anywhere in the hotel or at the services.'

‘Yes, sir, Mr Smith, sir!' barks Nazi Agent Smith. American.

‘Okey-dokey,' says Bond-Lady Agent Smith. Posh English.

‘Joshua,' Sam continues, ‘you will give us twenty minutes and then will provide a distraction so that we can vacate the area safely.'

‘Beedly-beedly,'
says Joshua.

‘And Van G, you take out any networks and provide cover for the rest of us. All clear? Any thoughts? Questions? Good, let's roll.'

‘What exactly does that mean,' I ask Sam, once we are back on the motorway. ‘That bit about taking out any networks.'

‘We have to assume they will have some sort of radio or telephone contact and backup of their own. Van Gogh will simply throw a bit of a spanner in the works and block or distort any radio, microwave or video links until we have control of the situation. Also, if any police or secret services are around, it'll stop them accidentally eavesdropping on our communications.'

‘He can do that?'

‘As easily as falling over. And you only have to look at him to realize how easily Mr Van Gogh can fall over.'

‘And what's with Agents Smith and Smith?' I ask. ‘They don't seem to quite fit into your little…unit.'

‘Well observed,' he says drily. ‘No – Sebastian, the big lumpy fellow, is Joshua's great-nephew. Joshua called him to get a little backup and he thought it would be kind of cool.'

‘Cool?'

‘Those boys don't get out much.'

‘What about the other one? The woman. And please don't tell me her name is Belle.'

‘What?'

‘Doesn't matter.'

‘Don't know much about her. Abigail, I think her name is. She and Sebastian are stationed at the US air force base near Bristol for “observational” purposes. He dragged her along for the party.'

I drive a little further.

‘We're going to have to be very careful here,' Sam says, craning his neck around to look out the back window.

‘Why do you say that?' I ask, as it seems such a ridiculously obvious thing to say.

‘Well,' he says, ‘it's those four police cars that pulled off the motorway behind us, overtook us and then waited until we passed before starting their engines again. I'd lay pretty good odds that they're following us.'

‘I did wonder about that,' I say.

‘Still,' he concludes, ‘too late to worry about it now. We're here.'

As directed we drive around the car park until the police cars get fed up and park, watching us circle like water going down a drain. We park up and wait until the others drive in and park behind us.

They get out and wander over to our car whilst Sebastian helps Joshua out and into his wheelchair. Van Gogh is sporting an enormous rucksack and looks like a hairy turtle. Joshua is carrying a holdall in his lap that hangs over the sides of his motorized wheelchair like a body bag. (I hope it isn't a body bag. And if it is a body bag, then who's it for?) He has also put on a balaclava and camouflage makeup that is beginning to run and smear on his sweating face. But it's nothing that will make him stand out too much from the hundreds of other aged commandos using the services, I'm sure.

‘Cops,' says Sam, as we all watch the patrol cars drive slowly past and head off for the petrol station.

‘we-saw-them,'
says Joshua.

‘Try to immobilize them if you can,' says Sam, ‘or at the very least keep them well away from us until we've finished with the contractors.'

‘Well, they certainly won't be speaking to anyone in a minute,' Van Gogh says to a pool of motor oil on the tarmac in front of him.

‘Everybody ready? Off we go. Take no prisoners and anybody left behind is to shoot themselves.' He looks at the expression on my face and adds, ‘Joke.'

There was lots of okay-ing and sir-ing as we got out of the car. Sebastian and Abigail disappeared among the cars whilst Joshua and Van G headed over towards the restaurant and petrol station.

‘I wonder where they're waiting,' I ask, looking over towards the restaurant area. (How these people have the nerve to call these glorified greasy spoons “restaurants” beats me. If that's a restaurant then I'm an international mediator. And the prices! I tell you, I once went into one of those places and picked up a bar of chocolate, a can of pop, and a banana and when I got to the till I said to the spotty highwayman working there, ‘I'm terribly sorry, I only have a twenty pound note.' He said to me, ‘That's okay, just put the banana back and you should have enough.')

‘I think that might be them,' says Sam.

I follow his gaze as he nods towards a group of three men in garish non-natural material suits and designer knock-off sunglasses standing at the doorway to a room in the Highway 2 Hotel. They are waving gaily.

‘Discrete, aren't they?' says Sam. ‘Like I said, we're obviously dealing with professionals here. Do you have the weapons I gave you?'

I nod uncertainly.

‘Just remember to hand over the ones I told you to,' he says quietly, ‘and keep the others hidden. A show of good faith at the outset and hopefully they won't search us too closely.'

‘Do you really think we'll have to use them?'

‘Probably not. Especially if Anna isn't here. We can't afford to do anything too rash until we know where they're holding her.'

That made me feel better.

‘Once we have that information though,' he continues, ‘then it's fire at will and the devil take the hindmost.'

I stop feeling better.