Big City Jacks (14 page)

The one with the MP5 ran to Donaldson and snarled, ‘Get over there, shit face.'

Only in his mind did Donaldson hesitate. He did as requested, allowing himself to be manhandled. He could feel the tension in these guys. They were on the edge. The adrenaline rush, probably enhanced by speed, meant they were dangerous and unpredictable, very likely to shoot.

He was pushed next to the driver, the two cops roughly ushered likewise, so now four men faced four.

‘Now – all down! Face down on the floor! Do it! Do it!' screamed the first robber.

Donaldson and the three others sank to their knees.

‘All the fucking way!'

Donaldson eased himself on to the cold hard ground, his cheek against the tarmac. Suddenly the shotgun was rammed hard into the side of his face, jarring his jaw. ‘Get yer fuckin' face down.'

The inside of his cheek split on his teeth. He tasted blood immediately on his tongue. He complied, resting his forehead on the ground.

‘None of you fucking move,' they were ordered.

Donaldson stared at the black ground at the end of his nose, angry with himself that things had turned out this way. It had been a rushed, thoughtless approach and now he was paying the price for such hastiness. He gritted his teeth, tried to imagine what was going on around him.

Two shotgun blasts sounded. Donaldson jumped and his heart sank as he wondered what had happened, who had been shot . . . Christ! A door slammed, an engine revved, tyres squealed and skidded . . . Donaldson knew they were gone. He raised his head, exhaled, unaware that he had even been holding his breath.

He saw the back of the Citroën van speeding across the garage forecourt of the service area, towards the motorway. The policemen rose to their feet, brushing themselves down. The driver who had been ambushed lay unmoving. Fleetingly Donaldson assumed he had been murdered, but then he moved and the American understood why the shotgun had been discharged: two tyres on the Range Rover had been blasted out and the vehicle stood there as if with a limp, unable to be used for any immediate pursuit.

The lorry driver remained face down. Donaldson got to his feet, gave the two cops a withering look, and stood over him. ‘It's safe to get up now,' he drawled.

‘I think I'd rather stay here,' he whimpered pathetically.

‘Shit – that should never have happened,' the Citroën driver screamed as he pulled off his mask and powered the van on to the motorway.

‘Such is life,' one of the others in the back said philosophically. This was the man leading the gang. The driver was right, of course, cock-ups should not happen, but if they do they have to be dealt with appropriately. ‘It's not rocket science, this. There's always imponderables. Sometimes do-gooders get in the way, but at least no one died,' the leader went on to say as he too tugged off his mask and shook his head. He tossed the mask into the black bin liner that was being passed around. ‘We'll be OK. We've done good. No worries at all.'

He leaned back against the inner wall of the van, the strength draining out of him. He needed to rest, to sleep, to recuperate. The last forty-eight hours had been a real tester, but he had shown he was up to it. A grim smile of satisfaction creased his mouth. He was now very definitely a player, which is what he wanted to achieve. He looked at the big holdalls in the back of the van. He was getting good at taking holdalls from people. But these holdalls were not full of cash.

He reached across for one, eased back the zipper and peeked inside. It was tightly packed with hundreds of vacuum-sealed plastic bags, stuffed with cocaine, packaged in a Spanish factory. He did a few calculations, his eyes jumping between each holdall. Street value, maybe four or five million – a guesstimate on the low side.

Lynch closed his eyes and his smile widened.

A good day's work, to say the least. Five million pounds worth of drugs seized and twenty-five grand's worth of bank notes recovered, one man wasted.

Very definitely he was now a player.

Whitlock, the poor victim, was assisted into the rear seat of the Range Rover by one of the uniformed motorway cops. The manager of the café on the service area had been tasked with getting some brews and Whitlock was sipping one of them, his hands hardly able to hold the cup. Other police patrols, including the CID, were expected on the scene imminently.

Karl Donaldson established his credentials with the motorway officers. They were suitably impressed by the mention of the FBI and the sight of his badge, but they clearly did not see the American as adding any value to the investigation of the robbery, other than as a normal witness. He was immune to this reaction by British cops. As a whole, their mindset was that they knew best and no one, not even the world's most effective law-enforcement agency, could tell them anything.

Donaldson sauntered across to Whitlock, who looked fearful and very apprehensive. Maybe his experience justified some of this, but not all. Donaldson opened the door on the lopsided Range Rover.

‘How're you feelin', buddy?'

‘Oh – OK,' he squeaked.

‘I'm Karl Donaldson.' He reached in and offered a hand, which the driver shook hesitantly. ‘FBI, London.'

‘Phil Whitlock – driver, Accrington.'

‘Nasty business.'

‘Uh-uh.' He sipped his tea, now lukewarm. ‘Thanks for trying to help out. I appreciate it.'

One of the constables walked across to them, speaking into his shoulder-mounted personal radio.

‘We've circulated details and descriptions of the bastards,' he said to Whitlock as Donaldson stepped aside. ‘Just need to know what they stole from you, mate.' He paused, waiting expectantly for the answer to be filled in.

Whitlock licked his lips and swallowed. After a few moments' thought he shrugged and said, ‘Dunno,' weakly.

Initially the cop did not register what he had said. Then his brow furrowed deeply. ‘Come again?'

Blinking rapidly, the driver said, ‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know. What do you mean, you don't know?'

‘What I say. I don't know.'

‘You've been robbed by four armed men, but you don't know what was taken from you?'

Whitlock nodded. Donaldson was riveted.

‘Why don't you know?' the officer asked, his cop hackles rising as he sensed there was more to this than met the eye.

‘They weren't my bags.'

‘Whose bags were they?'

Whitlock shrugged again – pathetically – and Donaldson thought he was going to cry. ‘Dunno,' he said once more. Then, more forcefully, Whitlock said, ‘Excuse me.' He placed his cup down on the floor of the Range Rover, pushed the cop out of the way and staggered round the back of it, where, leaning with both hands against the vehicle, his head between his arms, he was violently sick. Donaldson heard the splatter of vomit as it cascaded on to the ground.

Donaldson said to the officer, ‘Can I give you a clue?'

‘Surprise me.'

‘This vehicle has just come into the country from Holland.'

‘Ahh.' The officer grasped the scenario instantly.

‘And I think it'll be worth having a look in the back.' He pointed to the container. He stepped to one side and gobbed out some blood from the cut inside his mouth.

Rufus Sweetman and Ginny, his girlfriend, lounged in the plush back seat of the stretch limo as it sped south down the M6, the driver occasionally touching eighty, but never more. Next to the driver sat Grant, Sweetman's solicitor and, less well known, the number two man in Sweetman's whole organization. Both men were trying to ignore what was happening behind the partition.

Almost as soon as they had pulled away from Lancaster Crown Court, Sweetman and his girl fell into each other's arms, drooling, devouring each other with wet, passionate kisses, trying to make up as quickly as possible for nine months of separation.

After this necessary release, Sweetman opened the well-stocked in-car bar and helped himself to a Glenfiddich on ice.

‘God, it's good to be out,' he sighed. He opened the partition and said to Grant, ‘We need to sort the cops now, though, get 'em off my back for good.'

‘I agree.'

‘Legally and illegally.'

‘Sure, Rufus.'

‘I want them to think they're gonna get stuffed through the courts . . . I want them to know that, actually . . . and I want them worrying about me all the time, I want them looking over their shoulders, wonderin' when they're gonna get it next. I want 'em shittin' 'emselves in all directions, the bastards. I want every innocent cop on the beat to think he might be the next target. I want them all to be afraid, Bradley.'

‘Sure, Rufus.'

‘And I want my business back.'

‘It's happening, even as we speak.'

‘Good . . . and another thing . . .'

Grant looked over his shoulder. ‘You don't want much, do you?'

‘I haven't even started,' Sweetman snarled. ‘I want to find out who actually killed Jacko Hazell.'

Grant was still looking back over his shoulder, trying to avert his eyes from the half-dressed Ginny. He killed the image and raised his eyes to Sweetman's smirking face, avoiding the look of dare which he knew was on Ginny's face. ‘The business is due some good news today, boss.'

Sweetman brightened up. ‘Today, is it?'

‘Yeah . . . thought I'd keep it until the moment was right. Yeah, it's due in today . . . five mill worth of product . . . the foundations to take the business forwards.' His eyes looked beyond Sweetman and for a moment the expression on Grant's face changed, darkened. He was watching something through the back window. A car was moving out for an overtake. The look made Sweetman turn and follow the line of sight. The car drew level and held that position.

Sweetman opened his smoked-glass window.

His eyes locked with the front-seat passenger in the car.

‘Ignore,' Grant instructed.

But Sweetman could not stop looking across the gap from car to car, looking into the eyes of Detective Superintendent Carl Easton. The man who had gone to the extreme and set him up for a murder both knew he had not committed. Easton had been like a zealot in his pursuit and Sweetman did not fully understand why the cop had gone to such lengths. Sure, Sweetman was a big operator, probably the biggest and most organized in Manchester at the moment, and had been a thorn in the side of Greater Manchester Police for years. He had managed to evade justice time and again . . . but yet Easton had been obsessive and gone on to try and prove something with which Sweetman had no involvement. Why? Sweetman needed that answer, maybe would get it in the near future. He knew he was fair game for the cops, it was the nature of the way he lived; but the ruthless way in which Easton had pursued him actually frightened him a little . . . which is why those phone calls had been made, firmly putting suspicion on other people. Sweetman had been so worried that he might get convicted that it had been necessary to do that, but yet Easton had obviously tried to bury the information.

Easton brought a mobile phone up to his ear. Grant's phone rang out.

The cars stayed parallel with each other, eighty mph.

‘It's for you.' Grant handed the phone to Sweetman.

Both men were still eye to eye, maybe six feet apart, eighty mph.

‘Don't think this is over,' Easton said. His mouth moved soundlessly, but Sweetman heard the words.

‘Nor you,' Sweetman said.

‘I'll always be after you.'

‘Go and fuck yourself.'

‘Real clever words, them.'

The line went dead. Easton broke the locked gaze and sat forwards in his seat. His car surged ahead of the limo.

Sweetman tossed the mobile back to Grant and sat back. Anticipation coursed through his veins at the prospect of what lay ahead.

‘Before we open up, is there anything there that should not be in there?' Karl Donaldson asked Whitlock as they stood next to the container. The driver looked more than ill now. He looked as though he should be on his death bed, or maybe being transferred into a coffin. He made no reply. ‘Better open it then,' Donaldson said to one of the traffic cops.

The latches were pulled down, forced sideways on their heavy springs, the door heaved open.

Several seconds passed before everyone registered what exactly they were seeing.

‘That was what was wrong,' Whitlock said to himself, agonized as he recalled his feeling that something was amiss with the lorry. Now he knew. The noise made by the air-circulation unit had stopped.

Donaldson's stomach churned emptily. The breath in his lungs hissed out and his lips popped open.

H
enry Christie rubbed his tired eyes and focused them on his friend. The two men were sitting in a public house within walking distance of Henry's home, a hostelry called The Tram and Tower in deference to a couple of the main attractions of the resort of Blackpool. Of course, Henry was not drinking alcohol. He was still on-call and was sipping a pint of lemon and lime, with ice. His friend was on something stronger, having just downed his second Jack Daniel's double, a third sitting conveniently in front of him, ready for consumption.

Henry's friend was Karl Donaldson. They had met several years earlier – their paths had crossed when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating American mob activity in the north of England. Since then their paths had continued to intercut and at the same time their friendship had grown, even though Henry hated Donaldson's guts for being such a good-looking bastard. Donaldson had been posted to the US embassy in London for a number of years and had married a high-ranking British policewoman he'd met on that first investigation.

Donaldson looked more drawn out than Henry, and definitely more emotional. It was usually the other way round. In fact Henry had never seen the normally cool, laid-back Yank so stressed and uptight.