Ron got a pal in the police force to check out Louis Thurley, aged twenty-two, unemployed, of Barracks Road, Harringey. The Criminal Records Office had turned up two convictions: one for possession of cannabis resin at the Reading pop festival, and one for stealing food from Tesco's in Muswell Hill. That information should have finished it. It did convince Ron's wife, but Judy just said that she knew all about both incidents. Pot shouldn't be an offense, she declared, and as far as the theft was concerned, Ron and his friends had simply sat on the supermarket floor eating pork pies off the shelf until they got arrested. They had done it because they believed food should be free, and because they were hungry and broke. She seemed to think their attitude was totally reasonable.
Unable to make her see sense, Ron had finally forbidden her to go out in the evening. She had taken it calmly. She would do as he said, and in four months' time, when she was eighteen, she would move into Lou's studio apartment with his three mates and the girl they all shared.
Ron was defeated. He had been obsessed by the problem for eight days, and still he could see no way to rescue his daughter from a life of misery-for that was what it meant, without a shadow of doubt. Ron had seen it happen. A young girl marries a wrong 'un. She goes out to work while he sits at home watching the racing on television. He does a bit of villainy from time to time to keep himself in beer and smokes. She has a few babies, he gets nicked and goes inside for a stretch, and suddenly the poor girl is trying to bring up a family on the Assistance with no husband.
He would give his life for Judy-he had given her eighteen years of it-and all she wanted to do was throw away everything Ron stood for and spit in his eye. He would have wept, if he could remember how.
He could not get it out of his mind, so he was still thinking about it at 10:16 A.M. this day. That was why he did not notice the ambush sooner. But his lack of concentration made little difference to what happened in the next few seconds.
He turned under a railway arch into a long, curving road which had the river on its left-hand side and a scrap yard on the right. It was a mild, clear day, and so, as he followed the gentle bend, he had no difficulty in seeing the large car transporter, piled high with battered and crushed vehicles, reversing with difficulty into the scrap yard gate.
At first it looked as though the truck would be out of the way by the time the convoy reached it. But the driver obviously did not have the angle of approach quite right, for he pulled forward again, completely blocking the road.
The two motorcycles in front braked to a halt, and Ron drew the van up behind them. One cyclist heaved his machine onto its stand and jumped up on the footplate of the cab to shout at the driver. The truck's engine was revving noisily, and black smoke poured from its exhaust in clouds.
"Report an unscheduled stop," Ron said. "Let's work the routine like the book says."
Max picked up the radio microphone. "Mobile to Obadiah Control."
Ron was looking at the truck. It carried an odd assortment of vehicles. There was an elderly green van with COOPERS FAMILY BUTCHER painted on the side; a crumpled Ford Anglia with no wheels; two Volks-wagen Beetles piled one on top of the other; and, on the upper rack, a large white Australian Ford with a coachline and a new-looking Triumph. The whole thing looked a bit unsteady, especially the two Beetles in a rusty embrace, like a pair of copulating insects. Ron looked back at the cab: the motorcyclist was making signs at the driver to get out of the convoy's way.
Max repeated: "Mobile to Obadiah Control. Come in, please."
We must be quite low, Ron thought, this close to the river. Maybe reception is bad. He looked again at the cars on the transporter, and realized that they were not roped down. That really was dangerous. How far had the transporter traveled with its load of unsecured scrap?
Suddenly he understood. "Give the Mayday!" he yelled.
Max stared at him. "What?"
Something hit the roof of the van with a clang. The truck driver jumped out of his cab onto the motorcyclist. Several men in stocking masks swarmed over the scrap yard wall. Ron glanced in his wing mirror and saw the two motorcyclists behind the van being knocked from their machines.
The van lurched and then, incomprehensibly, seemed to rise in the air. Ron looked to his right and saw the arm of a crane reaching over the wall to his roof. He snatched the microphone from a bemused Max as one of the masked men ran toward the van. The man lobbed something small and black, like a cricket ball, at the windshield.
The next second passed slowly, in a series of pictures, like a film seen frame by frozen frame: a crash helmet flying through the air; a wooden club landing on someone's head; Max grabbing the gear stick as the van tilted; Ron's own thumb pressing the talk button on the microphone as he said "Obadiah Mayd-"; the small bomb that looked like a cricket ball hitting the windshield and exploding, sending toughened glass fragments into the air in a shower; and then the physical blow as the shock wave hit and the quiet darkness of unconsciousness.
Sergeant Wilkinson heard the call sign "Obadiah" from the currency shipment, but he ignored it. It had been a busy morning, with three major traffic hold-ups, a cross-London chase after a hit-and-run driver, two serious accidents, a warehouse fire, and an impromptu demonstration in Downing Street by a group of anarchists. When the call came in he was taking a cup of instant coffee and a ham roll from a young West Indian girl and saying: "What does your husband think about you coming to work with no bra?"
The girl, who had a large bust, said: "He doesn't notice," and giggled.
Constable Jones, on the other side of the console, said: "There you are, Dave, take the hint."
Wilkinson said: "What are you doing tonight?"
She laughed, knowing he was not serious. "Working," she said.
The radio said: "Mobile to Obadiah Control. Come in, please."
Wilkinson said: "Another job? What?"
"I'm a go-go dancer in a pub."
"Topless?"
"You'll have to come along and see, won't you?" the girl said, and she pushed her trolley on.
The radio said: "Mayd-" then there was a muffled bang, like a burst of static, or an explosion.
The grin faded rapidly from Wilkinson's young face. He flicked a switch and spoke into the microphone. "Obadiah Control, come in, Mobile."
There was no reply. Wilkinson called to his supervisor, putting a note of urgency into his voice. "Guvnor!"
Inspector "Harry" Harrison came across to Wilkinson's position. A tall man, he had been running his hands through his thinning hair, and now he looked more distraught than he was. He said: "Everything under control, Sergeant?"
"I think I caught a Mayday from Obadiah, guv."
Harrison snapped: "What do you mean, think?"
Wilkinson had not made sergeant by admitting his mistakes. He said: "Distorted message, sir."
Harrison picked up the mike. "Obadiah Control to Mobile, do you read? Over." He waited, then repeated the message. There was no reply. He said to Wilkinson: "A distorted message, then they go off the air. We've got to treat it as a hijack. That's all I need." He had the air of a man to whom Fate has been not merely unjust but positively vindictive.