Hodge honked his horn a couple of times. A massive sliding gate, twenty feet high, topped with razor wire, and fifteen feet across, grated slowly open. He drove in and pulled up with the radiator grille nose up to a second similar gate. The first gate closed behind them, sealing the van in a sterile, mesh-roofed compound.
It was very much like entering a prison.
Hodge’s two colleagues had to disembark here and go to wait in a secure office. Only the driver and the security guard inside the back of the van were allowed through to the next stage of the process.
Once the two were behind a locked door and the relevant paperwork had been duly signed, the inner gate opened. Hodge drove the van into the complex which basically consisted of a road which ringed a large, low, brick-built building; on its roof, in one corner, was a tall, wide chimney.
Hodge reversed the van up to a roller door which rattled open. Once it was open at its full height, he manoeuvred the van back into the bay beyond. The roller door closed. For the second time the vehicle was in a secure area. He switched off the engine.
This was the only time other people seemed to enter the equation.
Two men in overalls, wearing industrial face masks and driving a forklift truck each, came out from behind a steel door and approached the van. Hodge watched and noted their movements through his wing mirrors.
Hodge’s colleague in the rear exchanged passwords, then opened the rear door of the van from inside and began to pass out the metal boxes which contained the money collected that day. The men in overalls stacked them high on the forklifts until they were all piled up.
Hodge’s insides flipped at the thought of all that money burning.
The back door was closed and one of the men slapped the side of the van. Hodge fired up the engine. In his mirrors he watched the men drive their nippy vehicles through the steel door, out of reach.
The roller door opened.
Hodge collected all his mates from the entrance and began his journey back up North. He glanced across at Secure-a-Waste. Already black smoke was billowing out of the chimney. Hodge winced painfully.
Henry Christie, Terry Briggs and Jacky Lee sauntered across the lorry park towards the transport cafe. They had inspected the contents in the rear of Terry’s box van. Jacky was over the moon by what he had seen — lots and lots of stolen whisky. He and Frank Jagger were back in business — a carbon copy of their first-ever transaction. He believed the whisky was from a blagging at a cash-and-carry warehouse somewhere down South.
At?4.00 a bottle, Lee was not bothered where they came from, but for the purposes of Henry Christie’s scenario, Lee needed to think they were stolen.
‘ Forty grand… that’s a lot of money,’ Lee was moaning, even though he would make treble that amount within a couple of months as the whisky filtered through his pubs and clubs.
‘ No, it’s not,’ Henry argued. ‘It’s bloody cheap and you know it. I’m the one on tight margins,’ he bleated. ‘So many fucking people to pay down the line, I’ll be lucky to get fifty pence a bottle. Next time the price goes up, Jacky.’
‘ Yeah, yeah, yeah, my fucking heart bleeds, you whingeing twat.’ He slapped Henry on the back. ‘But business is business and it feels good to be doing it with you again.’
They filed into the transport cafe, past Gary Thompson, who squirmed out of the door, nodding at his boss. ‘Just had a piss, boss,’ he explained for no reason. He trotted back to the BMW which was parked at the front of the cafe with Gunk lounging by it. The cafe was less busy now, but still doing a good trade. Henry, Terry and Lee sat at an empty table in a booth, having ordered three teas.
‘ Now then, payment,’ Lee began. ‘Where and when?’
‘ As we agreed,’ Henry said firmly. ‘All on delivery, here and now, otherwise the lorry goes. I’ve got at least three others sniffing around, cash in hand.’
‘ OK, fair enough,’ Lee conceded, holding up his hands in surrender.
The tea arrived, steaming and brown.
Lee inspected his and said, ‘Think I need a piss, guys. Back in a minute.’ He headed for the gents, his back watched by the two detectives. Henry quickly ran his fingers on the underside of the table to check for any hidden mikes and broke their rule when he quickly whispered, ‘He’s got a gun.’ Terry merely nodded. They reverted to role and picked up their drinks.
‘ Shit, that’s hot!’ Henry spluttered as the tea burned the top of his mouth.
His eyes drifted to the window and out to Lee’s BMW The two minders leaned against it, smoking, Thompson talking on a mobile phone. The smaller, stockier one, Gunk, was fingering his plastered ear. He looked to be in pain. Both men looked spooked and nervous.
‘ Them too, I think,’ Henry said without moving his lips. Again Terry nodded.
The one on the phone finished his chat and said something quickly to the other, then thumbed an urgent gesture towards a car which had driven on to the lorry park and was heading for the rear of the cafe.
The two minders tensed up and exchanged a few words. Thompson threw down his cigarette and crushed it out, yanked open the driver’s door of the BMW and dropped into the seat. Gunk just threw his fag to one side and scurried around the car, skidding in the gravel, and dived into the front passenger seat.
‘ You see what I see?’ Terry said laconically. He had been observing the antics of the bodyguards too.
‘ I think we’re being set up here,’ Henry said, standing up quickly, knocking his boiling tea over.
‘ I want you to make this a very public execution,’ the Russian’s masters had told him. Being a former soldier and then a member of the world’s most ruthless intelligence agency, the KGB, he always carried out orders as instructed, even if he felt they were flawed. He would really have preferred to do something more subtle and classy — but if public was how they wanted it, public it would be.
Since the meeting in the hotel in Fleetwood, he had spent the next couple of nights in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Manchester, in the guise of a travelling salesmen. He was continually in touch, via the mobile, with Thompson, keeping abreast of the target’s present whereabouts and future plans. When he was told that the target had arranged business at a transport cafe, he was interested. Without having visited the place, it seemed a good location for a hit — next to a fast main road, close to a motorway junction, with a choice of direction depending on the circumstances prevailing at the time.
The Russian then reconnoitred the location, grabbing a cup of tea and using the toilets. Although he remained there a short time only, his experienced eyes — which had weighed up dozens of prospective assassination sites before — recorded everything and came to a conclusion: This would be the place where Jacky Lee would die.
At a second quick meeting with Thompson, who came alone this time, the Russian outlined his requirements and questioned Thompson deeply about the nature of the business Lee would be conducting at the cafe. Who was he meeting? Was he likely to be armed? Could he possibly constitute a threat?
When everything was answered to his satisfaction, he nodded.
It was a goer.
The Russian was assured that Johnny Snowden was the best getaway driver in the North-West, a big claim for a twenty-year-old. He had, he was told, six armed robberies to his credit and a multitude of other less serious crimes. He had outrun the cops on the four occasions he’d been pursued and was very much in demand for jobs. The Russian accepted the accolades, but Snowden’s past history did not interest him. Nor did any small talk, so when the youngster started chatting, he said, ‘Shut up. This is real business. Do your job, do it well and your reputation will be sealed for ever.’
Snowden closed his mouth.