Meltdown bs-4 Page 10

  'He wasn't like he is now when we started. He was a thug, yes, but we needed a few thugs. And he was clean; he said he hated drugs. Albie's like a lot of his' – he almost spat out his next word – 'type: they sneer at their betters for spending their disposable income on recreational drugs, while they go out and waste their money on cigarettes, beer and football.'

  Fergus almost laughed. He couldn't decide who were worse, the Albies or the Teddys of this world, both riddled with stereotypical attitudes. It didn't matter; Fergus was focused on the mission. 'So what changed Albie?'

  'We found out he'd been stealing tablets for some time. First to sell, but then he started taking them. He got hooked.'

  'So back to my first question: why didn't you get rid of him?'

  Will provided the answer. 'What could we do? He knows too much. We gave him time off, on full pay, to clean up, and we thought he had. From what we were told last night and the fact that he hasn't shown this morning, we have to assume that we were wrong.'

  Teddy sneered. 'No, you were wrong!'

  The twins glared at each other while Fergus waited.

  Will looked at his watch. 'We're meant to be leaving in a couple of hours. Where's Storm with those coffees?'

  As if on cue, they heard footsteps on the metal staircase outside the office. There was a sharp knock on the door and then Storm came in without waiting for an answer, carrying a cardboard container with four takeaway coffees of different varieties. She looked a little pale and her eyes were tired and drawn. But she was smartly dressed for the trip to Barcelona in a black designer trouser suit over a white blouse. Fergus knew from Danny's account of the fight outside the club that Storm must be badly bruised from the kicking Albie had given her, but outwardly, at least, she was giving nothing away.

  Storm went over to the twins first. 'Your usual,' she said, taking two large cardboard beakers of cappuccino from the container and placing them on the desk. She turned to Fergus. 'And an Americano for you, wasn't it?'

  Fergus nodded and took his coffee. Storm smiled at him slightly nervously before turning away with the last of the coffees and heading towards the smaller desk in one corner of the room.

  'We're still in conference, Storm,' said Teddy. 'Would you mind taking your coffee outside? Check the coaches are OK, will you?'

  If Storm was thrown by the dismissal, she didn't let it show. She kept up her smile as she spoke. 'Isn't that Albie's job?'

  'Albie isn't here. Yet.'

  Storm took her coffee from the container and headed for the door, but Will gestured for her to wait. 'Just a minute, Storm. There's something I wanted to ask you.'

  She stopped, her face showing not the slightest concern. 'Mmm?'

  'The fact is, Albie's gone missing. We've got no idea where he is.'

  'Really?' said Storm, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows. 'Well, that is a worry. He's meant to be coming with us to Barcelona.'

  'Yes, it's a worry. When did you see him last?'

  Storm thought for a moment, looking as though she was trying to be as helpful as she could. 'It was yesterday. Mmm, yesterday afternoon, here at the yard. He seemed fine then.'

  Will nodded. 'Thanks. I just thought it was worth asking.'

  'Sorry I can't be more help.'

  She glanced at Fergus as she left the room; he gave her the slightest of nods, reassuring her that he was keeping her secret. He took a long gulp of his coffee and listened to her footsteps on the staircase, wrapped in thought, wondering…

  Then he put the beaker down on the desk and stood up. 'I've got an hour to find Albie and sort things out.'

  'Sort things out?' said Will. 'What exactly does that mean?'

  'It means I'll do what's necessary,' said Fergus, moving towards the door. 'He's a liability – he threatens the whole of your operation. We can't afford that, can we?'

  22

  He sat in the car, taking in his surroundings. It was almost like Coronation Street – identical rows of redbrick Victorian terraced houses on either side, with the railway line behind the right-hand row.

  But none of these houses had brightly painted front doors, shiny doorsteps or new double-glazing. Around half of them were boarded up, covered in graffiti and ready for demolition. A stone panel set high up in one wall dated the terrace precisely to 1897. It looked as though that was the last time the decorators had been round.

  He got out of the car, ready to do the walk pass. The target house was number 13. With any luck, the problem that needed sorting was lying inside in a drug-induced stupor.

  Odd numbers were on his right, so he walked on the left side of the street to get a longer and earlier view of the house. He needed extra 'eyes on' time, which also allowed him a fuller perspective on the target.

  The walk pass was about a lot more than just locating the front door. He had to take in as much information as possible because he wouldn't be doing it again. He wouldn't even look back once he had passed the house; third party awareness dictated that it wasn't an option.

  A group of kids walked towards him; shaved heads and holes in their jeans. They flicked their cigarettes and spat on the pavement, trying to look hard as they kicked out at two abandoned Tesco trolleys.

  He kept his eyes down as they passed, shouting at one another and mock fighting. He looked up again, taking in everything. Even if it wasn't registering right now, he knew his brain was logging it all and would help him later.

  A car pulled out up ahead as he checked a number on the far side of the road: 27 – not long now. He began to count down the houses: 25, 23… it had to be done in case there were no more numbers to ID the target.

  Inside those houses, behind dirty net curtains, was the third party, curtain twitchers who might very well be looking at him right now, wondering who was the stranger walking down their street.

  21… 19… He counted down three more houses and got his first look at the target house. He kept moving at the same pace, his head facing forward but his eyes half right and on the target.

  There were no signs of life. The curtains at all four windows were drawn back behind net curtains. There was no smoke coming from the chimney and no milk on the doorstep. Not that that meant anything; Albie wasn't exactly the hot-milk-infront- of-the-fire sort of guy. There was no newspaper sticking out of the letter box and all the windows were closed.

  He didn't know if Albie lived alone or with family or mates, but he needed any information that would help him discover whether Albie – or anyone else – was inside the house.

  The top left upstairs window had condensation on the pane. It might mean that Albie was asleep in there. The window on the right was clear. That was probably another bedroom. And empty.

  Crossing the road between two parked cars opposite number 15, he turned to his left to pass the target door. The windows were covered in grime and the net curtains were much the same. The ones in the upstairs windows sagged.

  The paint was peeling from the door, but the good news was that it was secured by a simple Yale pin tumbler lock. Of course, that didn't mean that Albie, or someone else, hadn't thrown a couple of bolts on the other side.

  He would discover the answer to that soon enough because he knew now that the front door would be his only possible entry point during daylight hours. There was no way he could check out the back because he would easily be seen if he started jumping about on the railway track.

  He continued to the end of the street, then went into a rundown corner shop and bought a two-litre bottle of Coke and a pair of washing-up gloves.

  Just across the street was a small park he'd clocked on the way in. It was a good place to do what he needed to do. Sitting on a bench, well away from a couple of homeless guys and some more kids who were smoking either cigarettes or dope, he pulled on the rubber gloves and then poured out the Coke onto the ground.

  The blade on his Leatherman was as sharp as a razor. Quickly he cut off the top and bottom of the plastic bottle and then tore off the label so that
he was left with a large, clear plastic cylinder. Then he sliced down the cylinder so that the plastic could be flattened into a rectangular shape. Next he put the piece of plastic down on the grass at his feet and cut out the largest circle the rectangle would allow.

  The circle automatically wanted to curl in on itself. That was fine – it was easier to put in his pocket rolled up, and besides, if the plastic didn't curl up, it wouldn't open the door for him.

  With his hands shoved in his pockets to hide the rubber gloves, he headed back to the target house. And for the benefit of the third party, he didn't dawdle; he made sure he looked purposeful.

  Walking straight up to number 13, he pulled the plastic circle from his pocket, opened it up and shoved it into the small gap between the door and the frame. As he pushed the plastic in, he also pushed downwards towards the lock, turning the circle at the same time.

  Credit cards might well be flexible friends, but they're not flexible enough to open a door. The plastic needs to negotiate two ninety-degree turns round the door frame before it can push back the bolt.

  This method worked because the circle of plastic was pliable enough to negotiate the angles yet strong enough to push against the lock and force it back.

  He pushed and turned as the circle bent its way round the door frame and down onto the Yale bolt. Two more pushes and turns and the door sprang open.

  Piece of piss. But that was the easy bit.

  Wasting no time, he stepped inside and gently closed the door, slowly turning the knob of the Yale lock until it slipped back into place, then stuffed the plastic circle into his pocket. He stood still, just looking and listening, tuning in to his surroundings.

  The place was a dump. Dozens of letters, leaflets and flyers lay scattered about the hallway, most of them covered with damp, muddy footprints. Cigarette butts and empty foil takeaway cartons lay where they had been dropped on the threadbare carpet.

  His eyes, ears and nose were working overtime. He kept his mouth open to limit the noise of his own swallowing so that he could hear as much as possible inside the house. Downstairs there was nothing but silence. The only sound he could hear was coming from upstairs. A TV was on: the muffled sounds of music and applause and then a woman's voice.

  All he could smell was the dampness of the building; there were no giveaway aromas of toast or frying or coffee. He turned back to the door and pushed home the bolt at the top. No one else was coming in while he was there, and if Albie was upstairs and tried to make a run for it, he would be delayed as he panicked and wrestled with the bolt.

  Walking down the short stretch of hallway to the stairs, he stayed close to the wall to avoid making the floorboards creak. He took the stairs two at a time, slowly and deliberately, still keeping close to the wall.

  The woman's voice was getting louder. It was coming from the room on the right-hand side, the one with the condensation on the windowpane.

  He reached the door, gripped the Leatherman tightly in his right hand and grabbed the door handle with his left. He pushed the door open and burst into the room. He had the element of surprise and he was going to use it.

  Then he stopped. He saw a body on the bed. It was Albie all right, but he was already dead. He was flat on his back in a pool of blood that had burst from his mouth, his eyes and his ears.

  At the end of the bed some smiling TV presenter was presiding over the bloody scene; she was recommending diets for keeping the heart healthy.

  He couldn't look at the body any more; he had to lean back against the wall and put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from vomiting. But he was glad Albie was dead; even though his own bid for revenge for what Albie had done to Lee had been snatched away. He shoved the Leatherman back in his pocket and then glanced through the net curtains as something on the far side of the street caught his eye.

  Shit!

  It was Fergus. He was crossing the road, heading towards the house. He was doing a walk pass. Danny had disobeyed his grandfather's orders – his desire for revenge had been overwhelming; he couldn't let Fergus find him here now.

  He didn't wait to say a last goodbye to Albie. He jumped down the stairs three at a time and almost missed the last few steps. He grabbed the banisters and steadied himself. As he reached the front door, he heard his grandfather's footsteps passing just a couple of metres away.

  Danny counted to thirty, took a deep breath, then pushed back the bolt and opened the Yale. He stepped out onto the street, pulling the door to, not even stopping to see if it was properly shut. Nor did he check to see if his grandfather was looking back; he knew he wouldn't be. SOPs.

  He walked quickly away in the opposite direction, wanting to run but knowing he mustn't. A train rumbled along the track behind the houses.

  23

  The coaches were ready to go. The passengers were comfortably seated, their luggage stowed, and Teddy and Will were talking to Storm, making last-minute checks.

  As soon as Fergus saw Danny pull into the yard, he strode over. Before Danny could open his car door, Fergus had got into the passenger seat.

  He didn't say anything; simply reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a rolled-up circle of plastic. Slowly he unravelled it, making sure that Danny knew exactly what it was.

  Danny watched as Fergus put it down on the dashboard. He cursed silently – it must have fallen out of his pocket when he'd tripped on the stairs. That was stupid, a basic error.

  He was expecting a furious outburst from his grandfather. It didn't come.

  Fergus spoke softly. 'I gave you a specific order to go nowhere near Albie.'

  Danny nodded slowly. 'Why aren't you…?'

  'Angry? Pissed off? Giving you a bollocking for going off SOPs? Well, I've done all that, Danny, and it doesn't seem to work, does it?'

  Danny didn't know what to say. Part of him wished his grandfather would start shouting. He was used to that.

  But Fergus wasn't going to shout. He'd thought things through. And he knew it was crunch time.

  'I am angry, Danny. I thought you were ready for all this, but I was wrong. You're not, and maybe you never will be. You've got guts – you can do it all – but the first rule is, you obey orders, you do as you're told, you stick to… ' He shrugged; they both knew what he'd been going to say. 'And the second rule is, you don't let your emotions get the better of you. I told you that this morning, and you still went hunting for Albie. What exactly were you planning to do?'

  Danny turned away. 'Pay him back for Lee, I guess.'

  Fergus looked at Danny for a moment before he spoke. 'You're not coming to Barcelona.'

  'What?'

  'I can't rely on you to follow orders. This operation is too important.'

  The enormity of what Fergus was saying hit Danny like a hammer. He looked out of the window: the drivers were starting up the two coaches and the security guys were climbing aboard. He shook his head.

  'No, please. I've been working with the team – I've done everything you've asked of me. I just got it wrong this one time; I won't any more.' He looked at Fergus. What he saw in his grandfather's face was not encouraging.

  'Look, you need me. You know you do. We're already down one, without Lee. Phil's got to stay here and go after the DMP. And you haven't got anyone else.' Outside, the coach engines revved and one of the drivers gave the horn a short burst to hurry them up.

  'Give me one more chance and I promise you, I'll never let you down again. Never.'

  Fergus sighed, then looked into his grandson's eyes searchingly. At last he nodded. 'All right. But if you go off SOPs one more time, that's it. First plane out of there. Got it?'

  'Got it,' nodded Danny.

  Fergus paused for a moment. 'There's something I want you to take care of when we reach Barcelona – you're going to need this.'

  He reached into the holdall he was taking on the trip, got out a small black camera bag and handed it to Danny.

  'What is it?' asked Danny.

  '
A handy cam, and there's a miniature PC with a G3 mobile. I'll explain later. Just make sure that you know how the kit works and don't let anyone see you with it.'

  Danny stowed the camera bag in the rucksack he'd brought with him.

  There was another impatient burst on the horn from the lead coach driver.

  'Let's go. You're in the second coach with Will. Stick with him. Stay sharp and-'

  Danny interrupted: 'Keep to SOPs, I know!'

  His grandfather wasn't amused. Danny's grin vanished.

  'And Danny…?' Fergus continued.

  'Yeah?'

  Fergus looked down at the rolled-up circle of plastic on the dashboard. 'What about that? What have I told you?'

  Danny reached over and picked it up. He opened it out and smiled. 'Always take out everything you take in.'

  24

  The clients were settling in comfortably for the first short leg of the journey, across country from Manchester to the seaport of Hull.

  They were mainly late middle-aged or older men in groups of two or three. A few had brought their wives along; Barcelona is famed for its fabulous architecture, its museums, its sights and its shops as well as for its football.

  The trips were designed to be a mini-holiday, lasting up to five days, with the football match as the highlight. Before that there was a leisurely cruise across the North Sea, with a gourmet dinner and few hours in the casino, followed by a drive through the most picturesque countryside, another stopover, and then a luxury five-star hotel at their destination.

  There was no rush – at least on the way there. The return trip was usually quicker, with the clients given the option of returning by plane. Those who were in no hurry to get back, or who didn't like flying, stuck with the coach.

  A few passengers were still at work, checking e-mails or talking on BlackBerrys, but most were taking the opportunity to unwind and relax. Some drank coffee or Earl Grey tea; a few sat back and sipped Taittinger champagne. The whole package was designed to be as flexible and luxurious as possible.