Run for Home (3 page)

In Musselburgh he changed cars. He swapped the big Skoda that he was used to for an 8-year-old Land Rover Discovery, plus two thousand pounds that he paid in cash. Where he was headed next, he thought the 4-wheel drive would prove useful. He would have preferred a newer vehicle, but that would have required a bigger cash contribution, and he didn’t want to flash too much of that about. As it was, the small-time dealer was happy to get his hands on a cash deal. He even knocked a bit off the price of the Land Rover in gratitude.

When he drove out of the yard he felt a bit better. If ever they caught onto the car he had been driving – perhaps through the ferry company – it wouldn’t do them much good. He had broken the link.

He headed north, glad to put the city and its congestion behind him. The A9 took him up to Inverness that afternoon. Still he kept going, on into the darkness of early evening, on up the east coast until he could go no further. He had reached Thurso, and the adjacent harbour at Scrabster. It was too late to cross to Orkney, but he was well satisfied with his progress and content to settle down to spend a chilly night in the Land Rover.

The next morning, he was first in line to buy a ticket for the early ferry to Stromness. It was just as well because it took a little time, and the experience was worrying.

‘I need to see your passport,’ the woman in the ticket office said.

He was taken aback and stared at her for a moment. ‘My passport?’

She nodded. ‘Please.’

‘For a journey inside the UK?’

‘It’s security regulations.’

It was hard to believe.

‘I haven’t got my passport with me,’ he said desperately.

‘Something official with your photo on it, then.’

He shook his head. The woman shrugged, and said she was sorry but there was nothing more she could do. They were required to be very security conscious these days.

He walked away. Outside, he stood grim-faced at a railing overlooking the harbour. Shit! Of all things. If he used his passport, it could give his whereabouts away to anyone looking for him. His trail would no longer be cold.

On the other hand, he decided eventually, this could also be a handy way of assessing the threat level.

Back in the office he handed over his passport.

‘You found it?’ the woman said.

He nodded. ‘It was in the car, after all.’

Three hours later, he was on deck as the ship entered the harbour at Stromness. He felt good again, better anyway. Almost as far away from London as he could possibly get in the UK, he hoped to find sanctuary here, at least for a while.

But no sooner was he ashore than the doubts set in. His intention had been to head out to a small village, where once he had spent a little time on holiday. But now he felt he
daren’t leave Stromness. He had to stay, to see who came off the next couple of ferries.

There was all day to wait before the next ferry came in and by the time it did, the light wasn’t very good. He stationed himself on a seat not far from the ramp that the vehicles used to leave the ship. They crawled past, giving him ample opportunity to see who was inside. There was no one who looked the part. None of the foot passengers or cyclists did either. You could never be sure, but he was pretty confident that nobody on this ferry had come after him.

He stayed where he was for another hour, in case of stragglers, but none came. That should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. Not really. This was only one ferry. There would be plenty more.

He roused himself, got up, and found a B&B establishment not far away. For three nights, he said. Maybe more. He wasn’t sure. The woman smiled and said they all said that, but they changed their minds when the magic of the islands got to work on them. Well, perhaps it would on him, too, he said.

The next morning, he was back at the quayside long before the ferry arrived. He stationed himself on the same seat, now wearing a fisherman’s hat to shield his face from the bright sunlight, and identification.

He watched visitors inspecting the harbour, and the gulls inspecting them. Small boats left, some for a day’s fishing, others for sightseeing or purposes unknown. Surprisingly, there were plenty of visitors, even at this time of year. Lots of English voices on all sides, too.

Orkney was like that, he knew, and very different from the Western Isles. No Gaelic spoken here, and altogether
busier and more populated. Something to do with the modern oil industry, and a lot more to do with a different history featuring better farmland, Norse settlements and a railway all the way up the east coast of Scotland.

The hours passed. Eventually, he saw the ferry appear in the distance across Scapa Flow, and watched it steadily draw near and begin the big curving turn that would bring it safely into harbour. He adjusted his hat, straightening the peak to shadow his face, and sat still, waiting and watching.

They were in the third car to leave the ship: Jackson and Murphy. He winced, and ducked his head to study his newspaper as they passed without seeing him.

So they were here, he thought almost with satisfaction. His instincts had not let him down. The worst had come true. They were after him.

He left Mainland, the largest Orkney island, via the road across the Churchill Barriers, and took the Seacat from South Ronaldsway to Scotland. He landed near John o’Groats in the late afternoon and then headed south, leaving the Northern Isles to Jackson and Murphy. No way could he stay there now. They would find him if he did. Eventually they would. They were good at finding people who didn’t want to be found.

The Land Rover was slow, too slow. Soon he regretted having it. Fine over rough country and local roads, but no good for getting anywhere fast. So back in Musselburgh that evening he changed vehicles again, trading in the Land Rover and another chunk of cash for a 3-year-old VW Passat.

‘I’m not going to read in tomorrow’s papers about a Land Rover having been used as a getaway vehicle in a bank
robbery, am I?’ the dealer asked with a chuckle.

‘That was what I wanted it for,’ he replied, ‘but it didn’t work out. That old tin can wouldn’t do much more than 35.’

The dealer smiled. ‘If you don’t like this vehicle either,’ he said, ‘come back and see me again. Anytime. I’m always home to a good customer.’

He drove south, and then west, for a long time. In the small hours, he reached a place where he had kept a caravan for many years; more a retreat than a hideout, it was where he kept some personal stuff. Not valuable or confidential things, but clothes and equipment he needed when he headed into the mountains. Things he might need in an emergency, as well.

The caravan was on a long-stay site on a farm at the foot of Blencathra, midway between Penrith and Keswick, in the English Lake District. It wasn’t an idyllic rose-covered cottage, this rural retreat, but he was attached to it. Lisa had liked it, too, which was another good reason to keep it.

He paid ground rent in advance, a year at a time, and rarely visited more than once a year. Sometimes not even that. But even in the years when he didn’t come at all, he always knew it was there if he needed it. Given the way he lived, he needed somewhere like that. He felt he did, at least. And he needed it more than ever now, after the Prague disaster, and after Orkney hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped.

He switched off the engine and lights when he was a couple of hundred yards away from the site and let the car roll slowly downhill on the track to the farm. He had no wish to wake anyone up in the middle of the night or to advertise his arrival. Someone would notice in the morning that he was here, but hopefully without much interest. Comings
and goings were an everyday event, though more so in the summer months than this time of year. It was what helped to make it a good place for him to lay his head.

The gate leading on to the site was closed, as was usual at night; a security precaution. He gently slowed to a halt beside the farmhouse and got out to see if he could open the gate. A big padlock said no. That was a pity. But he wasn’t seriously put out. The car could stop here for what remained of the night. That didn’t mean he was denied the comfort of a bed. He could reach the caravan on foot, and get in using the key he kept taped to the underside.

He climbed over the gate and walked the twenty yards to the gap in the hawthorn hedge that sheltered the site from the worst of the winds. No tourers on site at this time of year but there were perhaps thirty static caravans, none with lights on just now. It wasn’t a problem; starlight and a wispy moon let him see well enough. And what he saw brought him to a sudden halt.

He tensed and stood still. His eyes, and then his nose, confirmed it. Where his van should have been, there was an empty space. The acrid, smoky smell still hanging in the air told him what had happened to it. He stared with disbelief for a moment. Then he turned and started back to the car quickly, his heart pounding and his head swimming. They had beaten him to it. Somebody had.

Back on the road, he drove fast for a half hour. He headed south on the M6, instinct telling him he needed to put some miles on the clock. At the Tebay service area, he pulled off the motorway, stopped, and sat back to think. The caravan was gone. No use speculating about what had happened. His safe place couldn’t have been safe after all, and now it
no longer existed. They were closing him down. He swore bitterly.

The last vestige of doubt had been swept away. Orkney, and now this. They were after him, all right. God knew why.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and thought about what to do next. He needed information. Badly. At the moment, he was running blind, knowing nothing. He couldn’t go on like this.

There were people he could contact. One or two. Not officially, perhaps, but on a personal basis. Official channels would have to remain no-go areas for now.

First, though, there was something else he needed to check. He used the internet café in the service area to contact a storage depot in Slough. A 24/7 facility, it was where he kept another secret cache, this one of more personal stuff. Quickly, he gave the password and moved on through the pages to the one he wanted: the record of transactions.

He shook his head and stared at the screen with disbelief: empty. Gone. Every sodding thing taken out two days earlier – and not by him. Bastards! How had they known about this place?

He didn’t bother even looking at his bank accounts. If they had got to his Slough storage bunker, they would certainly have got to his bank accounts and either closed them down or emptied them.

So now he had nothing left.

Almost nothing, he corrected himself. Just a car, a bag of money and a gun. Looking on the bright side, he thought grimly, you could do a lot with that.

He also had Lisa, of course. So, really, he had a lot more than nothing. He had everything that mattered. It was just that Lisa couldn’t help. He had to keep her out of it.

Over an early breakfast, a thought came to him. Here he was on the edge of the Lake District, where Callerton – his old boss – lived somewhere in retirement. He even had a phone number for him on his mobile.

He switched on, which was a risk he had to take, and found the number. Then he switched back off and fed the number into one of the disposable phones he had picked up in Edinburgh. He glanced at his watch. Just after six. Too early? Fuck it! He’d wake the miserable old bastard up.

The next lot of rain came sweeping across the land like a moving curtain, hiding everything in its path.

‘Every fifteen fucking minutes,’ Murphy said with disgust. ‘It’s worse than Ireland.’

Jackson buzzed the window closed and watched as the moving wall of grey-white enveloped the nearby farmhouse, then the barn next to it, and kept on coming until it felt like they were sitting beneath Niagara Falls.

‘Ring him,’ Murphy said suddenly.

‘What? I can’t hear you.’

‘Ring him! Tell him.’

‘Tell him what?’ Jackson shrugged. There was no point trying to conduct a conversation until this lot moved on. No point phoning anybody either. He reached for a bottle of water.

Ten minutes later, things had calmed down. It was still raining heavily but the noisy downpour at the leading edge of this latest weather system had passed them by. He made the call.

‘He’s gone now,’ Jackson was told. ‘He left on the Seacat from South Ronaldsway.’

Jackson raised an eyebrow as he digested that bit of news. So they’d been wasting their time, sitting here like this?

‘Get back onto the mainland. I’ve got somebody else doing things, but he’s going to need help.’

‘Doing things? What things?’

‘We’ve been eliminating his bolt-holes and his bank accounts. He’s running out of places to go and the things he needs to keep ahead of us.’

Jackson sighed. ‘We’ll probably have to stay overnight, and come back tomorrow. The ferries….’

‘I realize that. I’ll let you know when we get another sighting report. And try to keep up next time!’

Jackson grimaced and switched off.

‘What did he say?’ Murphy asked.

Jackson told him. Murphy said, ‘So we’ve been wasting our time?’

‘We’ve made him move on. We must have been close. Anyway, he can’t stay ahead for ever.’

Murphy said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘You said that about the fucking rain. You said it couldn’t rain forever!’

Jackson grinned. ‘If only he’d been there in Prague, we wouldn’t have had all this chasing to do. It would have been over and done with.’

‘And we could have stayed there a bit longer. I liked Prague.’

‘A bit cold, though. Remember?’

‘Not all the time,’ Murphy said, chuckling as he remembered. ‘It got pretty warm in that flat when we turned up and they realized they’d come to the end of the road.’

‘Yes,’ Jackson agreed. ‘It got pretty warm then. We did a neat and tidy job.’

‘Apart from the one that got away.’

Jackson nodded and leaned forward to start the engine.