Brute Force

40

We reached Holt and parked up outside Lloyds on the main street.

'Wait here, engine on.'

It was a nice, well-to-do town: lots of candle shops, cafés and estate agencies. That meant people around here probably liked to be nice too.

I got £400 out on both my cards and was back in the car asap, now in the front passenger seat. I snapped my cards in half.

'Where's the charity shops?'

We went down the High Street and into a small square. Lynn drove slowly while I ran backwards and forwards between the car and the shop doorways and threw the nice people's bags of cast-offs into the back of the car like it was a rubbish cart. I didn't care if any CCTV saw us. We'd be shedding another layer of skin soon.

'OK, out of town now, towards Norwich – and slowly. How far is that?'

'About twenty miles.'

As we headed back into the darkness I hit the interior lights and ripped open the bin-liners.

'What about your family? You'd better phone them and get them out of the way.'

He shook his head and a muscle twitched briefly in his jaw. 'No need.'

'OK. So now we get dressed and cleaned up. Then we dump the car and train it to London.'

'I don't know what we can—'

'Need to know, Colonel, remember?' I grinned. 'And you don't need to know anything until you need to know it. Don't want you giving away the game plan.'

I gave him the once-over. The blood on his head had dried a little and the swelling had begun. It wouldn't have been that noticeable if he'd had any hair to cover it. 'Right now we need a nice quiet stretch of river so we can clean ourselves up, then we're going to need to find you a hat.'

He seemed to relax again and pointed at the rear-view. 'You're no oil painting yourself, Stone. If I need a hat, you need the full shemagh . . .'

His foot went back on the pedal.

'And slow down,' I yelled. 'We don't want to get stopped.'

We had to dump the car once we got into the city – somewhere it wouldn't stick out and get pinged too quickly. Main streets and multi-storey car parks were out, because of the CCTV, but we couldn't leave it anywhere too isolated either – it would stick out like a sore thumb.

'When's the first train?'

Lynn finally lifted his foot off the gas.

'Not sure; it used to be some time before six – to get into London for the start of the working day.'

The clock on the dash read 02.38.

41

Norwich

0334 hrs

I kept about two hundred behind Lynn as we walked into the city centre. It was bitterly cold. His breath hung in clouds behind him. The streets were well lit, so it was head down all the way, hands in pockets. My ears and nose were numb, and my hair was still wet from the river. It would have nudged me into hypothermia if I hadn't kept moving.

I must have looked pissed. The shoes the Red Cross shop had provided were plastic, and skidded on the icy pavement. Their jeans were two sizes too small; the zip only did up halfway. At least the jumpers fitted. I had two of them on over a T-shirt, and a shabby black raincoat.

There'd only been one hat, a fake-leather Russian thing with ear muffs which I'd given to Lynn.

Now that we'd shed another skin – the car – we needed to get out of here asap. We'd parked it near some council houses, opposite the entrance to the city airport. I'd left the keys in the ignition. With luck, it would be nicked. It was only about a mile to the station, but each step felt like Scott pushing for the Pole.

The roads narrowed as we got closer to the city centre. Lynn had suggested we RV by the skips behind the Big W, the warehouse to a general store a couple of hundred from the station. He said I wouldn't be able to miss it.

He wasn't wrong. The massive metal and concrete block had the world's biggest yellow W shining out over a stadium-sized car park it shared with Morrisons.

The recycling area was piled high with folded cardboard boxes and overflowing skips. Lynn wasn't the only one to suggest it as an RV. Crushed beer cans and empty vodka bottles were strewn across the greasy concrete. The smell of vomit and cigarettes probably meant it was a hang-out for kids rather than dossers.

We each stood on a folded box to insulate ourselves from the ground. If anything, my plastic shoes were conducting the cold. I swayed from foot to foot for a moment, then grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. He didn't see it coming.

'What the fuck's happening?'

He looked genuinely shocked.

I realized I liked shoving him about. 'It's the Firm, isn't it? Who else has the resources to track me over the water, plant a device, and follow me all the way to your stately fucking home when it doesn't detonate?'

My breath billowed across the narrow gap between us.

'Then I get a message that Leptis has the answers.'

He was getting really scared. I didn't blame him. He'd seen my handiwork with the box-cutter.

'Now, only you, me and your old mate Mansour know about Leptis – and a bloody great filing cabinet in Vauxhall Cross.'

'Maybe they want both of us . . .'

'There are fucking easier ways, don't you think?'

'Maybe they wanted you to find the device . . .' He started to calm down again. He'd sensed he wasn't in danger; that I was just pissed off.

'It was a pretty serious chunk of Semtex.'

'But the battery was flat.'

'What about Liam Duff?'

I released my grip a little and he shrugged. 'You said you were in Ireland. I was wondering if that was down to you.'

'You're a fucking nightmare.'

'You made pretty short work of those men at the farm.'

He needed another shove. 'I don't fucking believe it! You were quite happy to order shit like that from the comfort of your air-conditioned office, but seeing it up close is a whole different ball game, isn't it? Get real, Lynn. What the fuck do you think I did to Ben Lesser on the Bahiti – cuddle him to death?'

'I just think that you could have shown some restraint, reasonable force . . .'

'The only way to stop being on the receiving end of that shit is by being on top; being as violent and quick as you can. Get them before they get you. What do you call that trick with the fork? A spot of gardening?'

It was falling on deaf ears. There was the same look of disdain on his face as he had always given me.

'Fuck it. Just listen. Get a ticket to Liverpool Street.'

Lynn was busy tying the flaps under his chin.

'Use a machine. Here.' I gave him £100.

'I'll be on the train, but we split up. Don't speak to anybody. Get yourself a paper, something to do. When we get there, go left out of the main entrance, then right onto Bishopsgate. Right again takes you onto Wormwood Street. There's a Caffè Nero. Go in, buy a cup of coffee, sit down and wait.'