Meltdown (11 page)

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.

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.'

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.

Fergus was at the back of the lead coach in one of
the seats reserved for staff. Sitting across the aisle
at the far window from Fergus was Albie's replacement
on the trip, George, a lank-haired, paunchy
twenty-something.

Like most of the twins' hired muscle, he was a
man of few words. In fact, he'd said nothing at all
since boarding the coach but had spent most of the
time with his head buried in the
Sun.
When that
became a little too taxing, he just stared out of the
window.

That suited Fergus; he was taking the opportunity
to make a study of Storm in action, trying to
figure out whether she knew what the twins were
really up to.

There was no doubt about it – she was good: she
moved around elegantly and charmingly, never in
anyone's face but instantly ready with a word here
or a brief chat there. Nothing serious – she didn't
come over as too intellectually challenging. She
refilled cups or glasses without spilling a drop –
nothing was too much trouble, and it was always
service with a smile.

Teddy was not in the same sparkling form. He
was still coming to terms with the news of Albie's
demise. Fergus had told the twins as soon as he got
back to the yard. The twins reacted with a mixture
of relief and horror as he described how Albie had
met his death.

The traffic was flowing smoothly and the first
part of the journey was going without a hitch. When
everyone was settled, Teddy came back and sat
down next to Fergus.

He saw Fergus watching Storm. 'She's an
absolute treasure,' he told him. 'I don't know what
we'd do without her.'

Fergus nodded. 'The people on the other coach
are missing out.'

Teddy's face still bore signs of the bruises he had
received during his unscheduled encounter with
the late Siddie Richards and his associates, but he
managed a smile from behind his sunglasses. 'Not
for long. We always operate this way. Storm
switches from one coach to the other each time we
make a stop. It gives the customers something to
look forward to and stops them from getting bored.'

'So right now Will's handing out the drinks on the
other coach?'

'It's not exactly difficult. We're hardly noticed;
Storm's the one they're interested in – the guys at
least.'

Fergus glanced over at George, who was having
another go at the
Sun.
His index finger travelled
slowly along underneath the words as he read,
stopping occasionally as he struggled over one with
three syllables.

'What about Mastermind in the corner there?
What's his role?'

Teddy spoke quietly. 'We always bring three like
him. They have nothing to do with the clients,
although officially they're here as security. Their
real job is to transfer the Meltdown from the
coaches to the vehicles of our European contact.
That's the only bit of the operation they're party to.'

'And when do you get to find out where the
delivery is to be made?'

'Through a phone call after we arrive,' Teddy
told him.

Fergus nodded again. It was all extremely slick
and efficient, right down to the last detail – including
the performance of the lovely Storm, who
flashed him one of her sensational smiles as she
noticed him looking in her direction. Fergus had a
gut feeling that there was more to Storm than met
the eye, but he hadn't worked out what just yet.

He looked across at George as he heard the newspaper
slip from his lap onto the floor. George had
been defeated by the intellectual challenge of the
Sun.
His head rested against the tinted window and
his mouth gaped open. He was snoring softly.

Fergus thought about the operation again. He
now knew how the drugs were distributed, but
he still had no clue to where or how they were
made. Nor did he know who the twins' contact was.

He turned back to stare at Teddy. He looked
terrible.

'You're still worried, Teddy. That's why you've
got me here. It's not just the Manchester gangs
frightening you and Will, is it?'

Teddy hesitated for a moment. 'Everything grew
so quickly, perhaps too quickly. And recently . . . the
attacks on the yard . . . Siddie Richards . . . Albie. It
feels as though it's all slipping out of control.' He
sighed. 'I'm just glad you're here with us.'