Naah. . especially as he had seen a police Range Rover tearing up from the motorway, blue lights flashing, tyres squealing. He held himself back from leaping up and down and waving like a windmill. Instead he tried to attract the attention of the cops with urgent, but more restrained, hand signals.
The Range Rover raced towards him, full blast, no subtlety whatsoever, which in the circumstances was probably OK.
Donaldson pointed in the direction it should go.
They went that way, screeched round the side of the HGV and skidded to a dramatic halt. The whole car rocked dangerously on its soft suspension and the two uniformed officers leapt out at a run. Donaldson twisted around the back corner of the lorry and wished immediately that things had not happened so fast.
Four men in clown masks surrounded the lorry driver, who stood on the tarmac, his hands held high, terror stuck on his face. In the hands of one of the masked men were three heavy, well-packed holdalls. The three others brandished guns of different varieties. One sawn-off shotgun, one pistol, and one H amp;K MP5 machine pistol. They were seriously well armed.
All five men in this tableau turned in the direction of the police car and its occupants.
‘Get down on the fucking ground, you black twats!’ screamed the robber holding the shotgun. He waved it at them, his stance dangerous, menacing, the gun ready to be discharged. From that distance it would not take any aiming.
‘Now come on,’ one of the officers started reasonably.
‘I am not fucking about here. . you get down on the ground or I’ll blow your cuntin’ head off. .’ As he shouted this, his eyes — visible through slits in his black mask — caught the figure of Donaldson, who had seen what was going on but had been unable to melt himself away quickly enough. ‘Shit!’ the felon groaned. ‘Get that fucker, too!’ he bawled at one of his mates.
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 Citroen 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 Citroen 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 cafe 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?’