My blood dropped forty degrees. ‘I’ve got to get some fun out of my dull life.’
Jericho hee-hawed. We were having a wonderful time. We laughed all over the road, a birthday of back-slapping. Kenny was pissing himself with the giggles, his matted head, old razor scars, missing teeth and octopus arms showing plainly in the headlights of the pick-up. Toffeebottle jumped into the cab and sounded the horn. I got into the Roller and sounded mine, two lighthouses talking through fog. Dismal lifted his head, and I pushed him down. He howled, and they fell about with more laughter, thinking I was imitating a dog. Probably the whole village was listening, and wondering if they would be on telly next day.
I shot off, with no preliminary revving-up. I poked Dismal again. ‘Don’t show your napper, or you might get a bullet through it.’
I was on my way, no pursuit cars behind, not even an escort vehicle to bid me farewell. They didn’t give a fuck now that things were more or less all right. After a mile I took the first turning left and set a compass course west-north-west towards Peppercorn Cottage, about a hundred miles away. I felt so relieved I almost hit a hedge, but the left front wheel bumped the verge — and shot me into the clear. It woke Dismal. ‘Nothing wrong,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep.’
On my own I might get careless and let my eyes close, hit a wall, shoot a cliff, scrape a tanker and burst into flames, but I couldn’t let anything happen to Dismal, an animal who hadn’t done anyone a ha’porth of harm — well, not knowingly. He licked my hand and lay down again.
The Green Toe Gang would break free from their boxroom. One of them must have run to the nearest phone booth to report. But who to? What tight-lipped, blue-eyed, fair haired eminence with dark glasses would lift the phone and hear those urgent pips before whoever called got the ten-pence in? I’d have given a lot to know who he was, then I could have formulated his response to the raid, and done something to avoid whatever might be put in my way. We had come out of the raid well, and me best of all, with little worry and not even a scratch, and here I was in my motorised palace, central heating on and a cigar in my mouth, and a dog curled up on the mat, trying to read The Times, driving into the peace of a dark pink sunset with goods to the value of millions in the boot.
Things had gone too well. It was time to think, and take evasive action. If the head of the Green Toe Gang had a halfway decent intelligence section he would know about Moggerhanger’s various hideouts. His know-how hadn’t been good enough to warn him of the raid, but that was another matter. Defeat sharpened the faculties. Whoever he was he would be stung into a bout of clear thinking. He would know about Back Enderby, Spleen Manor and Peppercorn Cottage. He would look at his RAC motoring map and make a big black mark at each location. Then he would put his finger on Buckshot Farm, and he would see that Peppercorn Cottage was farthest away, and he might be inspired into believing that the loot-laden car was heading there. He would alert any motorised henchmen who happened to be in the Midlands and tell them to block my progress along the A5.
Our tactics had been sound enough to have the yellow Roller parked well away from the scene of operations, so they wouldn’t know what make of car to look for. In any case it was dark. My respect for Moggerhanger increased by the minute. Even so, I was taking no chances. What if one of our own lads knew who to phone so as to get the Green Toe Gang on my trail? The outlook was unlikely but, being totally untrustworthy myself, I knew that in this kind of racket you couldn’t trust anyone.
Then again, even though there was little chance of intercepting me en route, whoever was head of the Green Toe Gang had only to send a car to wait at Peppercorn Cottage. The fact that you had to think of everything didn’t faze me. I would deal with such a calamity when I came to it. At the moment I was only interested in convincing George’s car, or Parkhurst’s car — either of which might be following (and the occasional vehicle did come up and overtake) — that I was a good lad who was doing what he was told by taking, as anyone could see, the road to Peppercorn Cottage.
Half an hour later, I swung off the main road and made my way into Nuneaton. I played around the place for ten minutes to make sure nobody was on my trail, then went south along a straight bit of dual carriageway at seventy miles an hour, crossed the M6, and got into Coventry. Easy as pie, as Bill might say. I wasn’t followed, nor would I be ambushed. I was off everybody’s radar screen except my own, and that was how I liked it, for as long as I could believe it was true.
My plan was to trundle via Warwick, Bromsgrove, Kidderminster, Ludlow and Knighton, passing the Black Country to the south instead of the north. Then I would strike northerly to reach the vicinity of Peppercorn Cottage, a tricky route to follow at night, but they didn’t call me Tactical Jack for nothing. The hands of the clock glowed half past ten.
‘Dismal,’ I said, ‘you’re a clever dog, but why can’t you read a map? One bark for left, two for right, and a howl for stop? With me driving, we’d get on like a car on fire.’
He staggered up, and snuffled around. Before leaving Upper Mayhem I’d thrown in six tins of Bogie left over from a pup that got run down by a van five years ago. Dismal couldn’t talk, but I could sense he wanted food, even if only because he was bored, so I would have to stop and victual him soon. I wasn’t hurrying, but my progress was good. At the rate I was going I would hit Peppercorn Cottage at two in the morning. My orders were to wait there, but like hell I would. The fact that I didn’t like the place had nothing to do with the rats.
I didn’t intend to let Moggerhanger get his maulers on those bags and boxes jammed in the boot, yet what use was such a load of hot goods to me? There was no doubt enough hash speed dope or maryjane to keep me and half the country stunned till the twenty-first century and beyond. The counterfeit or stolen money would set me up in Papeete forever likewise, in which place I could light my cigars with the reams of national insurance stamps and think of all those working in Blighty (when they could) who had to shell out for them towards the pittance of an old age pension.
Maybe I would find a dumping ground and set fire to the car with the loot still in the boot. Or I could leave it outside some rural cop shop with a note pinned under the wipers and the boot key in a little plastic bag of the sort they fix parking fines in.
Perhaps I should, after all, leave it at Peppercorn Cottage, without waiting for further instructions, and walk off never to contact Moggerhanger again. Whatever I did beyond the call of duty I was a dead man. I wasn’t in Canada now, where I had a whole continent to get lost in. I was in Albion fair and square, and never you forget it, I said to myself, ceasing to think of the problem for the time being.
Beyond Warwick, and heading for Henley, the road was narrower. A souped-up Mini was honking to overtake. They must be local lads who knew the route. Their horn played a truncated version of ‘Colonel Bogey’ so loudly that my backbone shook. On a straight bit I slowed down and they shot by. It was pub closing time, so I would have to be careful. I’d never had a serious accident, but didn’t want my turn to come now.
I waited for the next stretch of dual carriageway so that I could slow down and look for a layby. On England’s arterial lanes you often see a sign for one just ahead, but when it comes it’s two hundred yards long. Twenty cars try to overtake a hundred-ton lorry, and the scene develops into a madder version of the whacky races.
The stiff breeze had a bit of rain in it, showers approaching from the west, as it said on the news. The layby just before Bromsgrove was slippery with spilt diesel oil and plastic bags, and after doing his stuff Dismal wanted to get straight back in the car. I told him it was the best I could do and opened a tin of Bogie. He sniffed it, took a lick, then began to gobble as if a TV camera had started whirring away. I sat on the step with a packet of cheese sandwiches and the giant flask of coffee, coming back to life after not realising I had been so hungry, and blessing Bill and Maria who had stocked me up so well. Bill’s old-sweat touch had also thrown in a small gas stove, and everything necessary to make me self-contained for a fortnight.