Meltdown Page 5

  Danny reached a junction, saw the Land Rover pass by and then eased the Mazda into the traffic flow. He squeezed the pressel on the gear stick.

  'Danny has Bravo One.'

  7

  Fergus and Danny were sitting opposite Dudley at a table in a motorway services fast food outlet off the M60. It was late, after eleven p.m. At other tables, a few truck drivers sat hunched over newspapers as they stabbed at plates of chips.

  Two teenage girls in jeans and padded jackets, both with heavy rucksacks on their backs, wrapped their hands round steaming brews of hot chocolate as they passed their table. One of them glanced at Danny and whispered something to her mate and they both began to giggle.

  Dudley, buttoned up in his overcoat as always, heard the laughter and glanced at the girls. He shook his head at the unwanted interruption and then grimaced at the plastic beaker in front of him. It was brimming with thin, brown, lukewarm liquid. He had asked for tea; it didn't even look close, and it certainly wasn't the sort of brew he was accustomed to drinking.

  'They twins are clean,' said Fergus. 'Completely. Their flat, their cars, their computers, everything. And it's not down to luck or any normal antisurveillance procedures. They're taking instructions from someone very experienced. Someone in the know.'

  Dudley received the news philosophically, his face giving away nothing as he took in the information. But they all knew that Fergus's words confirmed what Dudley had suspected from the beginning, and that an already tough and dangerous job was likely to get even tougher and more dangerous.

  In the short time that Fergus had been 'working' for the Headingham twins, the most advanced and sophisticated technology had been used to try to track down the location of their DMP – without a sniff of success. With access to their home, their business premises and even their computers, Fergus had been in the perfect position to place tracking and surveillance devices.

  But nothing had been found, which could only mean that everything was being expertly hidden. It was all too clean; the twins even paid their tax bills on time.

  Dudley looked at Fergus. 'Are you telling me that someone on our side, someone on the inside, is advising the Headingham twins?'

  Fergus shrugged. 'Not necessarily one of ours, but certainly someone trained to the same level as' – he hesitated for a moment and then shrugged again – 'as someone like me. We've done the hightech stuff and the regulation checks – pre-opened their mail before it gets to the sorting office, searched through their rubbish – but there's just nothing at all. They even use pay-as-you-go phones and change the SIM cards every day so their calls can't be traced. And whatever calls they make, they don't make them from home, or from the office. It's just too good. Too professional.'

  On the plastic tabletop was a copy of that morning's Daily Mail, open at an inside page. The headline made grim reading:

  CLUBLAND RIOT

  ENDS IN MURDER

  Dudley nodded towards the newspaper. 'That's only on an inside page because it was late news and it happened in France. But it's going to get worse. Here and everywhere else.'

  The story had made the late editions of most of the daily newspapers and was being heavily featured in the daytime news bulletins. Police in riot gear, some on horseback, had been called in as rioters poured out of a club, smashing shop windows and overturning cars before setting them alight. The newspaper report described the French city centre as becoming Tike a war zone' for more than two hours as police fought to regain control.

  For once Dudley's usually placid face showed a flash of anger. 'We know that the man responsible for the killing was on Meltdown. He went completely berserk, and he wasn't the only one. Fortunately the French authorities have managed to keep the Meltdown connection from the press, but it can't continue for much longer. The irresponsible bastards who created this monster of a drug have to be stopped quickly – I've got the Europeans breathing down my neck: they want us to stop Meltdown being manufactured, and immediately.'

  He stared down at the newspaper, reading the story again, and Danny took a sip of the Diet Coke he'd been nursing while they waited for Dudley's next words of wisdom.

  Danny was getting used to waiting, having discovered for himself that the job wasn't always as exciting as people imagined. He'd spent long days watching and waiting outside the twins' impressive glass-and-steel, canal-view penthouse apartment in Castlefield.

  Whenever the twins left the apartment, Danny and the rest of the team had followed in their vehicles. But so far the twins had done nothing more than make occasional trips to the coach yard or late-night visits to Manchester's fashionable restaurants and clubs. It was boring, regulation surveillance work – which Fergus called a 'hurry up and wait' operation, meaning they had to hurry into action and then spend endless hours waiting for something to happen.

  But Danny, being Danny, had soon become pissed off with the waiting bit. He complained to his grandfather, desperate to get in on the action and, much to his surprise, had been given the go-ahead. Fergus had moved from the safe house into an expensive hotel once he had started working for the twins, and he was charging them the full whack for his luxury accommodation.

  Teddy and Will knew about Danny from the press stories, so when Fergus told them that he needed extra help and was bringing his grandson in, there was no argument.

  Danny moved into the hotel too, and for the past two days he'd been checking out the office on the pretext that someone inside the business might be involved in the acts of sabotage and vandalism.

  'And you, Danny?' said Dudley, turning to him. 'What about the office?'

  Danny shrugged. 'Not a thing. I've been through the phone records, letters, the lot – every piece of paper I could get my hands on. The twins haven't been around but there's always someone keeping an eye on me.'

  Dudley frowned at his beaker of tea, considered risking a sip of the tepid liquid, which looked pathetically weak even though the tea bag was still floating on top, but then decided against it. He looked at Fergus again. 'So what do you propose to do next? You didn't bring me to this haven of culinary delight just to buy me a cup of tea.'

  Fergus almost smiled. 'I want your go-ahead to take a more proactive line.'

  Dudley raised his eyebrows slightly. 'Meaning?'

  'The twins suspect that one of the Manchester gangs might be trying to muscle in on their legitimate business.'

  'I've read that in your sit reps.'

  'Well, I want to bring in one of the gang bosses for real. I'll tell him where the Meltdown is coming from. He's a nasty bastard and if I set him up right, he'll want the business for himself.'

  'And what exactly is the point of that?'

  'He'll scare the boys shitless. They're all mouth and no trousers. Once they believe that it's their precious Meltdown everyone's after and not their little travel firm, they'll realize they need me even more. I'll get them out of the shit when the gang boss comes looking for the Meltdown and then they'll take me into their confidence.' Fergus sat back in his chair and sighed. 'That's the theory anyway.'

  Dudley didn't look completely convinced. 'And is that all?'

  'No, not quite,' said Fergus. 'There's a girlfriend; her name's Storm.'

  'Storm? 7s that a name?'

  Fergus shrugged.

  'And whose girlfriend is she?'

  'One of the twins', I'm not sure which one.' Fergus turned and looked at Danny. 'He's gonna get to know her.'

  'What d'you mean, get to know her?' said Danny. 'I already do. I was talking to her in the office today.'

  'And?'

  'Well . . . she's . . . she's all right. Seems quite nice.'

  Fergus shook his head and sighed. 'I'm not interested in knowing if she's nice. I want to find out what she knows. Chat her up a bit; use your charm.'

  'Charm? What charm?'

  'Get some!' said Fergus firmly. 'Just chat her up.'

  Dudley looked over at the two teenage girls, who were still casting the occasional flirtati
ous glance in Danny's direction. He nodded towards them, causing Danny to look round. One of the girls smiled and beckoned, and Danny quickly turned back, his face aflame with embarrassment.

  'I don't think it's me or your grandfather they're smiling at,' said Dudley to Danny. 'They seem to find you . . . interesting and attractive. Perhaps you are – I have no idea about these things – but you'd better make yourself interesting and attractive to this Storm.'

  Fergus saw Danny suddenly look anxious. He laughed. 'Don't worry Danny, you've got the better half of the job. While you're chatting up Storm, I'll be making the acquaintance of Mr Siddie Richards.'

  8

  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, good about Siddie Richards. He was evil. And proud of it.

  Siddie had spent much of the first twenty years of his adult life behind bars, mainly for crimes of extreme violence. But he'd never served time for the most serious crimes he'd committed, because Siddie had literally 'got away with murder'. More than once.

  When Siddie reached the age of forty, he finally got wise and decided, reluctantly, to let others carry out the acts of violence for which he was famed and feared. Five years on and Siddie ran one of Manchester's biggest criminal gangs. There was very little that was illegal and lucrative that Siddie wasn't involved in. Gambling, extortion, prostitution, drugs – they were all separate arms of the Siddie Richards business empire.

  Siddie was vain and arrogant. He never tired of watching the Godfather movies over and over again. He knew every character, every scene and virtually every line, and would quote them endlessly to his minions and to his long-suffering wife, Dawn.

  And like his screen hero, Don Corleone, he believed in the old maxim of 'honour among thieves'. It meant that he operated by a simple rule: when he went into business with another criminal, he would never do the dirty on his new partner; not unless they did the dirty on him. If they did, his vengeance was swift, merciless and final. So it didn't happen. Ever.

  Fergus had made the appointment to meet the gang boss after a couple of drinking sessions with one of Siddie's henchmen in a pub in the Moss Side area of Manchester. It had been relatively easy. All Fergus had needed to do was make the gangster believe it was possible that he knew the way into the Meltdown drug set-up.

  Going by his old alias of 'Frank Wilson', Fergus told his gangland contact that he knew the makers of the drug, who were ripe for a takeover. All it would need was muscle and organization.

  The response came back quickly: Siddie was prepared to meet and talk with 'Frank Wilson'.

  The following day Fergus took a taxi out to Cheadle; like the twins, Siddie preferred to conduct his business meetings in the comfort of his home.

  The house was worth well over a million; it was located in an area favoured by top footballers and celebrities based in the north-west. Fergus got his taxi driver to drop him off close to the house and then walked the last few hundred metres.

  A high wall and an elaborately decorated pair of tall wrought-iron gates protected the property. Fergus pressed the button beneath the voice intercom connected to the house.

  The voice that answered through the tinny speaker was surprisingly high-pitched and thin. 'Yes?'

  'It's Frank Wilson.'

  There was a low clunk as the mechanism was set in motion, then the two heavy gates began to glide open noiselessly.

  Fergus walked through and up the drive, past well-kept lawns with large statues of Greek gods and goddesses. The house was mostly mock-Tudor, with thick black beams and heavily leaded windows, but a few other styles appeared to have been thrown in for good measure.

  The wide front door of heavy oak stood under a canopy supported by marble columns. As Fergus reached for the large black knocker, the door swung open on huge hinges and he got his first close-up view of Siddie Richards.

  He wasn't a pretty sight; he reminded Fergus of a pit-bull, but he was considerably less attractive. Not particularly tall – five nine or ten – broad and barrel-chested, with hardly any neck and a square shaved head. A puckered scar from an old battle ran from just above his right eyebrow down to the bottom of his right ear.

  Siddie wasn't going to win any beauty contests, and when he spoke, the high-pitched voice didn't fit the look.

  'Mr Wilson,' he said, extending his right hand.

  'Frank, please,' answered Fergus as the thick, podgy fingers clasped his own, firmly.

  'Call me Siddie. We'll go into my study.'

  Fergus followed Siddie along a highly polished parquet floor, past garish reproduction furniture that Siddie usually described as 'Louis the something'.

  Standing to one side of the open doorway to the kitchen was a huge guy who looked as though he weighed in at about eighteen stone, most of it muscle. Then, behind him, an even bigger guy appeared: by contrast, this one was pure blubber and he filled the whole doorway. Neither gave any sign that they had noticed Fergus as he sized them up.

  'All right, boss?' said Mr Muscles as Siddie passed them.

  'Yeah, I'm in a meeting. No interruptions.'

  The gang boss led Fergus into a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two of the walls. They were crammed with neatly arranged red leatherbound books.

  Siddie lowered himself into a leather chair behind a large oak desk and gestured for Fergus to sit on the smaller chair in front of him.

  'You must be quite a reader,' said Fergus as he settled into the chair.

  'Never opened one of 'em,' said Siddie, his small eyes weighing up his visitor. 'My Dawn bought 'em from some place where they fit books to the colour scheme. She reckons it gives the place a bit of class, but she don't read either.' He glanced over at a small round table where bottles and full crystal decanters huddled together. 'Drink?'

  Fergus shook his head.

  'Good,' said Siddie. 'So let's get down to business.'

  What Siddie Richards lacked in good looks, Storm Karlsson possessed in bucketloads. She was beautiful. Five feet six, lithe, ash-blonde, shoulder-length hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones.

  Storm was a nineteen-year-old stunner, and she knew it. And like Danny said, she was 'nice'. Pleasant. Sunny. The twins had brought her into the travel business because she was good to have around: she could make even middle-aged, paunchy businessmen believe that they were the answer to every beautiful girl's dream.

  When Storm wasn't meeting and greeting for the twins, she spent her working time flitting between their apartment and the office at the coach yard, occasionally answering the phone but mainly, as far as Danny could see, moving sheets of paper from one filing cabinet to another.

  Danny was sitting at the office desk, supposedly checking through phone records. He watched Storm slide another sheet of paper into a filing cabinet, looking extremely pleased with herself for successfully completing the operation.

  She was wearing a black jacket and skirt, which ended just above the knees. She looked great – maybe a little too smart for the scruffy, untidy office, but Storm was in her PA role so she'd gone for the PA look.

  Danny took a deep breath, thinking again about his grandfather's order to 'chat her up a bit'.

  He hadn't realized that this was going to be part of the job. Acting. Playing a part. Fergus was doing it with Siddie Richards; now it was up to him to be equally convincing. But then Siddie Richards was an ugly great thug and Storm was a beautiful young woman. Danny took another deep breath and told himself that this was work and to just get on with it.

  'You worked here long?'

  It wasn't the most original or convincing of chat-up lines but Storm turned from the filing cabinet and flashed him a dazzling smile. She seemed to need to consider the question for a moment before answering. 'About eight months. I think. Time goes so quickly, doesn't it?'