The solicitor raised his glasses and started to read. He flicked the pages over several times, backwards and forwards, seemingly to check and recheck the document.
Having finished he looked up at Justin Greening. ‘This is a valid High Court Search Order, Justin,’ he said gently, ‘I can’t advise you to do anything but comply with it.’
Justin Greening looked fit to burst. Grabbing Cushing by the arm, he wheeled him away from the visitors into a corner of the reception area. Strong words were clearly exchanged. After nearly five minutes, Justin Greening stormed off, barging back through the inner doors of the office, and disappeared.
Walking slowly over to the reception counter, the recent arrival said: ‘I am Rafe Cushing, Trifecta’s solicitor. I will accompany you to the documents identified in the Search Order. They are not in an accessible state at the moment. Please wait here until they are, and then I will personally escort you through the building to get them.’
It was over an hour and half before Cushing accompanied them into the Trifecta office building to access the files and email traffic identified in Ptarmigan’s High Court Order.
Straker shared his concerns with Krall. With such a long delay, Justin Greening had had plenty of time for all kinds of deleting and shredding.
FIFTY-FIVE
The Ptarmigan raiding party returned to the Supervising Solicitor’s offices in Leamington Spa where Stacey Krall and Straker set themselves up in Grumman & Phipps’s conference room. There, the two of them with some Grade C help from the local practice started going through the documents they had seized — arranging and indexing every item methodically into different piles, right across the expanse of the large table.
They ordered takeaway food and set about working into the night. Come two o’clock in the morning, Straker and Krall were the only people still there. Both were beginning to feel the effects of sustained concentration, and decided to call it a day.
Only on exiting the conference room, did they become aware of how late it was. The building was empty. Darkened meeting rooms haunted them from either side of the corridor on their way back to reception. It was also quiet. Nothing more than a background hum from the sleeping building. Krall turned off the remaining lights on the meeting rooms floor, before they walked down the stairs to the main entrance. A night watchman sat behind the reception counter, reading a copy of the Racing Post. Handing over their day passes, Straker and Krall walked towards the main doors. The guard pressed a button to let them out.
The night air was surprisingly warm — even balmy. There didn’t seem to be a breath of wind. It was particularly dark — a star- and moonless sky, encased by a high blanket of cloud. At street level, lamps bathed isolated patches of the road in pools of orange light.
It was deathly quiet. Two o’clock in the morning — and a school night — Leamington Spa was quite deserted. There was no sound, only an occasional bark from a lone dog somewhere off in the distance.
Straker and Krall emerged from the Regency stucco-fronted office in Newbold Terrace, and walked across the narrow strip of private parking — separated from the road by an elegant low balustraded wall — and out on to the street. On the far side was a long row of public pay-and-display parking bays, at right angles to the road facing onto the far pavement, a set of iron railings, and then a high wall-like overhang of dense foliage.
It was dark under the trees.
Only a handful of cars were still parked in the street, with dozens of empty spaces strung out in between, their white lines showing in the dim and patchy orange street light.
Turning half-left, Straker and Krall walked out into the middle of the road, towards their own cars — past a parked saloon.
Straker’s pulse started to quicken.
What was it? What was wrong?
Something wasn’t quite right.
He immediately put a hand on Krall’s arm, instructing her — silently — to halt and be alert at the same time. Straker scanned further down the street. It was not easy to see. There were plenty of shadows.
Straker sensed it again.
Wasn’t it a shape? The wrong shape? In the wrong place?
Krall’s Audi R8 was parked a short distance ahead. But the line of the car seemed wrong. Was one of its doors open?
That wasn’t all.
Straker was immediately on guard.
He became aware of movement. Fleeting movement. In any kind of breeze, he’d probably have missed it — easily confusable and lost against the background movement of leaves and branches. But in this stillness, he was absolutely sure.
Turning to Krall, he breathed: ‘Go back to Grumman & Phipps office,’ and hissed: ‘RIGHT NOW!’
Krall looked even affronted at the tone, not used to following such direct instructions — and certainly not blind. She hissed back: ‘Why?’
‘Someone’s breaking into your car,’ he said. ‘Now GO!’
Krall’s face registered instant alarm. Her attention was held. ‘Breaking?’ she repeated emphatically.
‘Sitting inside it.’
Krall cringed. Stepping back, she made to turn away. But doing so, she let out a squawk.
Out of the shadows from the other side of the road between two of the Regency office buildings, three dark figures came running at them — fast and purposefully.
Running straight at them.
Unexpected dark figures at night would alarm most people. Sinister thoughts of muggers immediately crossed their minds. Adrenalin surged. Whoever these people were, Straker’s hope of Krall getting back to the Grumman & Phipps building had gone.
Instinctively, Straker put himself between her and the rapidly approaching figures. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the rear end of the largish saloon, and tried to manoeuvre her in behind it — as some kind of cover or protection. Straker noticed the flashing red light on the dashboard of the car.
His attention was soon back on the group of approaching figures. There was nothing ambiguous about their intent; they were still closing in, striding menacingly — across the road — still coming straight towards them.
Krall squawked again.
Straker broke his gaze to look round to see what had alarmed her this time. Another figure had emerged, standing up from inside Krall’s Audi, a little further up the street.
That figure was now closing in on them too.
Then there was something else.
They heard an engine start — down to their left — back towards the Grumman & Phipps office building. A large black car pulled out. Even in the gloom it was very obviously a Range Rover. Ominously, it had no lights on — and was moving at little more than a walking pace. It, too, was closing in on them.
The dog, barking in the distance, seemed to up its frequency — perhaps even sensing the higher level of tension in the air.
Straker tried to do an immediate assessment — anxious to rationalize this scene. Whichever way he saw it, it wasn’t good.
What the hell did these people want?
It was all too clear that his tactical position was poor. Straker had three men in front of him, and both his flanks were covered — by a man on one side, and a car on the other.
This was nothing less than an ambush.
Straker cursed his vulnerability.
He had to go on the offensive — at least cause a distraction. Throw them off their stride.
But how?
Straker edged into the street, passing the end of the largish saloon. Raising his knee, he horse-kicked backwards, square onto the saloon’s boot, just above the bumper. The impact did exactly what he wanted. Against the silence of the night, the car alarm started screaming — blaring out its earpiercing screech along the street, reverberating off the white Regency buildings.