The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (27 page)

“Best take a look around, now we’re out,” suggested Gorby dutifully, “no harm in a stroll down the lane, here.” Wheeler nodded nervously and trailed his companion through the gates and along the lane.

“What was
that
?” asked Wheeler after a few minutes “sounded like a car starting to me.”

“Definitely a car!” agreed Gorby sarcastically. "Definitely being started."

Gorby’s companion stared down the lane towards the illuminated gateway. A cloud of exhaust fumes lingered temporarily outside the entrance before being whipped away by the resurging wind.

“Your car, Cyril!” he whimpered.

Cyril gasped in amazement and waddled awkwardly back to the gates, Wheeler as ever in his slip-stream.

“Bastards!” yelled Gorby, “come on - let’s get after 'em.”

The pair scurried as quickly as their capabilities allowed along an unmade track, and through a thickly wooded area leading to the sea, emerging eventually to see the car parked only feet from a shallow cliff at the edge of the bay.

“Some bloody joy-rider’s idea of a trick,” groaned Gorby, relieved to see his beloved car in one piece, “likely to give someone a heart attack playing tricks like that!” Still breathless, they shuffled towards the vehicle.

“You’ll need to be careful,” advised Wheeler on noting the spongy turf underfoot, “or the car'll end up in the bay.”

The pair were about thirty feet away when a huge, shadowy figure emerged from behind bushes and plodded slowly towards them. Despite attempts to keep him in ignorance, and unbeknown to anyone, Fergal
Haye had made it his business to be there.

“What the bloody hell’s that?” whined Wheeler, “seven foot if it's an inch!” Both men shone their torches on the spectacle lumbering towards them.

“It’s that bastard Fergal!” wailed Gorby, “pissed as a rat as usual!” He immediately panicked and made a desperate effort to reach his car. As he slithered about his companion, floundering also, clung to his jacket. Gorby, by now thrashing his way frantically towards the car, turned briefly to Wheeler.

“Let go of me, you lizard-faced little bastard!” he screamed. Miraculously both made it to the car, and Cyril started the engine. “Thank God the keys are still in!”

Fergal’s menacing outline was only yards away as Cyril rammed the car into gear and let the clutch out. The engine screamed at full throttle. But nothing happened.

“It’s skidding in the sludge,” bleated Wheeler, “let the revs die down.”

"I'll let
you
die down in a fucking minute!" Gorby was in no mood for reasoning as he jerked the car into one gear after another in a vain effort to make it move. Too terrified to look behind, neither saw two willowy figures - clad in wet suits - emerge from the shadows and run to the car. Both put all their weight behind the vehicle and gave it an immense heave forwards. Two wedge-like divots shot from beneath as the wheels bit and the vehicle shot forward over the low cliff and into the bay.

Cyril's Lada sprawled like a cartoon cat, its wheels splayed paw-like beneath the icy waves. The men stared at each other as they sat - up to their behinds in icy sea water - though shock gave way to fear as two black faces, one either side, grinned in at them like Cheshire cats.

Duane and Nathaniel helped the hapless duo from the wreckage and sat them on the nearby bank. “Get your clothes off,” insisted Nathaniel, “and we’ll get you dry.” Gorby and his partner put on a feeble show of modesty as the twins stripped them off - both too numb with fear, shock and cold to argue. Nathaniel swiftly took two coarse blankets from a polythene wrapper and covered their dithering bodies.

Neither of the wretches noticed a third figure emerge from cover. Dogs could suddenly be heard barking distantly as the newcomer waved fresh ox liver in the air and gave a long, low whistle. Almost half a mile away, round in the next cove, two rotties suddenly cocked their ears before snatching themselves free from a thickset man patrolling the beach.

 “I should get home quick, you two, I can hear the dogs already,” said Duane - both he and his companion suddenly eager to leave. “Must get going,” they chorused, white palms fluttering as two of dazzling sets teeth vanished into the darkness.

The duo felt they were in the throes of a nightmare as they squelched with mud-laden feet towards the village. “Never again!” whimpered Gorby, shattered by the humiliation of it all. "Fuck Vance –
an'
his kids!"

“I can hear the dogs,” panted Wheeler as he pulled the bristly blanket closer. “Getting nearer by the sounds - hope Skuce 'as got 'old of 'em.”

The twins, observing from the cover of shadows, were joined by their companion, and two unbelievably affable rottweilers.

"Cheers, Win," said Nat. "Pair of softies aren’t they?"

"They are when you know 'em as well as I do: I'll get 'em back to the kennels before the Neanderthals get here. When I see him tomorrow, I'll tell the gaffer they got free and must have returned of their own accord."

"Pity they can't spend more time with Cyril and Ivor," said Nat
.
"They seemed to take to 'em."

"We-ell," the kennel-assistant beamed, "the blankets I gave you had been in the pen with a bitch we've isolated." He whistled the dogs back before making for the coastal path above. "Bitch on heat that is. See you now."  

Duane and Nathaniel watched as the dogs followed Win, just as Skuce and two other shaven-headed men came into view from the opposite direction. On spotting them the brothers made quickly for cover.

About half a mile away, alerted by the same text that had signaled the go-ahead for the Mendez twins, Bart and Simon were down at the local lock-up, reporting a break in. The spirited pair were knocking rapidly at the door as Stubbs raced to get his built-up shoes on.

Bart and Simon feigned breathlessness as they stood in the porch, secretly wondering if that part of the plan was altogether necessary - particularly in light of Stubbs reluctance to become involved in anything which might disturb his own peace.

“What the bloody 'ell?” yelled Stubbs as he flung open the door, “sounds like some bastard nailin' a coffin up!”

“You got ‘orse-shit in your shoes?” asked Bart calmly. “Your look taller every time I see you,”

“Bollocks!” screeched the PC, “What’s the game?”

“Sorry to bother you, Stubbs,” said Simon, “we've just seen someone trying to break in through the window round the back here.” Stubbs just stared at them: Greg's incarceration aside, the cell had never housed anything other than brooms and buckets.

“Breaking
in?"
Stubbs glared in disbelief. “How much beer you 'ad?”

“It’s true!” swore Bart, “big bloke in a funny hat.”

“Oh Jesus Christ!” groaned Stubbs as he recalled stories he’d heard in the village that day. “Some coppers spend their careers scourin' the world for train robbers and the like - and I get a seven foot dick breaking
in
to my place. Pissed as a rat into the bargain I bet." Stubbs paused and considered the ramifications. "You two had better come with me - bloody handful when he’s had a few.”

They followed Stubbs through to the back of the station, Simon noting that the officer had left his keys and radio on the desk.

“There he is!” yelled Bart, stifling laughter at the absurdity of the situation. How, he asked himself, could a man of Fergal’s size need pointing out? Only Stubbs could have fallen for it as he stalked warily into the seven by four cell looking for a giant who would, had he been there, filled the room.

“Where?” he shouted - just as the lights went out.

“There!” yelled Bart as he brought the base of his ham-like fist down on the PC’s head. Although they'd achieved their goal, Bart and Simon were peeved they hadn’t avenged Greg more satisfactorily. The severity of the blow ensured that, until he came round much later, Stubbs thought he was still drinking tea with Dawn.

Vance had posted a handful of lookouts at strategic points within the estate – particularly along the shoreline. Although of less significance than Skuce and Co, each man was discreetly eliminated by members of Eddy’s band.

For his part, Eddy had been staring for hours through night-glasses towards what looked like an island. In actual fact it was part of the mainland, the curve of which wrapped around the bay to a point where it emerged from the horizon like a headland. He'd watched the area since afternoon - for so long that the vessel he'd observed dissolved intermittently into a blurred spot before his eyes. He was, nevertheless, certain the boat was the one anticipated.

"That's how they deliver the goods at a critical time," he muttered to Bart and Simon as they joined him. "If they have to cross Biscay they can do it in their own time, then moor in the shelter of Frome Point over there." He passed the powerful infrared binoculars to Bart. "What do you think?"

"Yes, it's moving off all right." Bart felt the tingle of anticipation. "Twenty minutes at the outside, I'd say."

The last thing Eddy wanted was to raise a false alarm: moving too early would be as bad as too late - especially as they had to keep Stubbs interned for an indeterminate period. Only therefore when he was sure the boat
was
their target had he sent a blanket text to the restless vigils - all eager for action after what had seemed an eternity in the miserable conditions.

The storm itself had been Eddy’s biggest headache. Before he'd spotted the moored boat, he'd had visions of the landing being aborted – or, had the boat approached from the south, of it having to take shelter during its journey. And all hadn't gone just as planned in that he'd not allowed for Skuce and partners disappearing from the scene. It had necessitated dispatching Bart and Simon to search for them while he'd awaited the all important arrival of the boat. He'd hoped the main threat, Skuce and Co, would have been eliminated by that stage.

Eventually the boat drew alongside the buoy. Eddy, clad in a black wet-suit and concealed behind rocks, recognised it as one of several recreational trawlers used locally.

Much faster than a working trawler
, he observed as he prepared to move into action.

A dinghy was being lowered into the sea, rain lashing it as a figure let out the rope. Inside the cabin, two uneasy looking men drew hard on cigarettes.

“This is always the bastard,” said one of the seated men. He stubbed a cigarette, almost simultaneously opening a fresh pack in preparation for another. “If we’re ever going to get caught, British authorities are the ones likely to do the catching.”

“You’ve been listening to the bloke on the launch at Le Conquet,” said his companion. “Gave me the jitters - shit scared 'e was.”

“No smoke without fire; the last trip wasn't abandoned for nothing. Just be ready to move as soon as Markham’s hooked up the dinghy.”

Having awaited a brief lull, Markham climbed down a steel ladder and tied the dinghy to the buoy with the usual short length of low grade rope. Then, without knowing, he detached Eddy's substituted clip and attached it to a lug on the dinghy.

“Be a miracle if that skinny retainer line holds in this wind,” he muttered as he remounted the ladder. He paused for a moment on the deck. Attempted to light a cigarette. Gave up and returned to the cabin.

  "Flash the lights and get going," he barked as he battled for a moment to close the door against the wind. "Come on,
move
!" For a moment he thought he was dreaming: Two black youths sat on the bunk bench opposite. Both grinning. His partners lay in a semi-conscious heap on the floor. There was no escape, but Markham’s first instinct was still to try. The instant he made a move, two sinewy hands grasped him from behind. His arm was behind his back in a vice-like grip before he even considered struggling.

“Flash the lights again!” Eddy called to the twins. “Then give me a hand tying this bastard up!” Within seconds the crew were lashed together with ropes bound tightly enough to threaten circulation. The ex-marine then steered the boat to the shelter of the rocky outcrop and anchored it. From there he and the twins plunged back into the sea to make their way back to the winching point.

*

Vance paced feverishly up and down the edge of the bay looking for Skuce and Co, but they were nowhere to be seen. He was acutely aware that if the inflatable was thrown with any force by the swell, the retaining lug itself was likely to give, and the precious cargo would be lost. He'd waited in the comfort of his car until the boat lights had flashed, and observed the almost surreal outline of the vessel as it turned to leave the cove. It struck him as odd, though, that the trawler appeared to be heading
into
land rather than out to open sea. Vance pulled on oilskins and boots, and made his way to a sizeable cluster of rocks near the water’s edge. Tucked in its lee was a Land-Rover with a winch on its front, ready to wind in the cargo. The regularly used vehicle had been the source of the
petrol-smoke and chuggin' noises
Isaac had described.

“Stupid, ignorant bastard!” cursed Vance as he climbed in to the vehicle and set the winch in motion.  Given the conditions, he couldn't believe the group had been stupid enough to leave the spot unattended.
The idiots know that even in good weather the haul should be brought in immediately
. Vance noted that the cable was already taut and the engine labouring. He gave the accelerator a prolonged boost and was gratified when it appeared to solve the problem. Eddy’s grapple had initially dug into the seabed as planned, but the sudden snatch had freed it again, and slowly it gouged, jerked and jumped its way towards the shore. Vance was beginning to wonder why he couldn’t yet see the dinghy when he was dragged from inside the vehicle by a lean, muscular arm.