“That’s exactly the point, nerk.”
Trevor looked at me disapprovingly. “As I was saying, Eddie Craig isn’t happy. In fact, he’s got his blokes running round like idiots. They’re liable to flatten anybody who gets in their way, and I don’t intend it to be me, Stones.”
“Why the hell should it be?”
“If you ask questions in the wrong place, it can have consequences. We might have to discuss risk payments.”
He squirmed in agitation, shifting his plant from one hand to the other.
“Trevor, keep that bloody thing out my face.”
We both struggled with the cactus pot for a minute until we got it firmly wedged through the steering wheel. I started trying to pick the spines out of my hand.
“So what’s up with Eddie Craig exactly?”
“Craig’s hopping mad since one of his clubs was turned over,” said Trevor. “They nicked the takings and trashed the place. Right mess, it was.”
“Shit. You mean the Blue Bird? That’s one of Craig’s places?”
“That’s it. Of course, he’s scared that word will get round he did nothing about it, and then his reputation as the top hard man would be completely shot. That would be the end for Craig — all sorts of people would start moving in on him, and his lads would go off to find better jobs with other firms. He has to come down heavy on somebody, but he doesn’t know who. Soon he’s just going to pick on someone and make a scapegoat of them, I reckon.”
“Right.”
“Might be you, Stones. So they say.”
“That’s why I have to prove to him it was someone else, Trevor.”
“I get you.”
“So you have to find more on this Perella for me, mate.”
“Well, I’ll do my best. But it gets costly in these circumstances.”
“Do you want to take your cactus and go home and write out your invoice, then?”
“I’ve got people to do that for me.”
Trevor tugged the plant free of the steering wheel, leaving a bit of it behind to catch me out later on when I wasn’t looking. He got out of the Subaru, carefully manoeuvring his cactus so that it didn’t catch on the door frame. The garden centre was closing for the evening, and he hated to look conspicuous.
“Is that it for now?” he said. “Have you done with me?”
I looked at him. Was he laughing? “Do you know something else, Trevor?”
“Well, I know about the job that Perella’s lot are planning for tomorrow night,” he said. “If you were interested, that is.”
16
The Jewellery Box had been ram raided before. Watches, rings and necklaces are valuable stuff, easily scooped up in armfuls through a smashed shop window. The council is thinking about extending the anti ram raid bollards down as far as the Jewellery Box, but it hasn’t got round to it yet. So it looked as though the shop’s insurance premiums were about to go up again.
The day had been spent making a few preparations, and now it was the early hours, still dark. Even the nightclubbers had long since gone home to their sweaty beds.
“Hey, they’ve nicked one of those Mitsubishi Shoguns,” said Slow Kid admiringly over the phone next morning. “Nice set of wheels. Brilliant for this job.”
“Yeah, Slow. But what’s the getaway car?”
“Looks like an old Sierra. White.” He gave me the registration number. “There’s two in the Jap wagon, one in the Sierra. They’re about to go for it any minute.”
“Are they pointed the right way?”
“Sure. Nose towards the roundabout. They won’t be wasting any time doing u-turns. This stuff is strictly wham-bam, thank you mam.”
There was no one about on the roads at all, except for those up to no good at all, like the police and milkmen. These lads in the Shogun were relying on having no witnesses when they hit the Jewellery Box, and no cops nearer than Ollerton. They would have been right too, if it hadn’t been for Slow Kid, who had an old Astra parked up by the wall of the Dog and Ferret across the road, making it look like the motor of some drunk who had the sense to leave it there and walk home.
“Wow! Hear that?”
Even on the mobile I could hear the bang and shattering of glass, followed a second later by the shriek of a burglar alarm. Watches and jewellery would be disappearing about now into a couple of sports bags as the lads grabbed the contents of the window display like supermarket dash contestants on a TV game show.
They wouldn’t be long about it. In a few seconds, they’d be back across the pavement to the Sierra and away, with no lights until they got round the corner and into the back streets. By the time the cops had woken up, had a scratch and cranked the handle on one of their clapped-out Rovers, these lads would be long gone. They hadn’t reckoned with me, though.
Then Slow Kid was back on. “Here they go, legging it for the Sierra. Third bloke’s revving the engine, he can’t wait. Yeah, in they go. And off.”
“Don’t let them see you. Let them think they’re clean away. Then make sure you disappear before the cops arrive.”
“No problem, Stones. The Sierra’s half way down the road. No lights. He’ll hit the roundabout in one minute. I’m off now.”
“Cheers, mate.”
I dialled a new number. I could hear the Sierra’s engine now, getting nearer, and very distantly the first wail of a police siren. The ram raiders would aim to clear the roundabout and be into the middle of the estate before the cops came over the hill and got a sight of them. They were going to make the roundabout, but I didn’t intend them to reach the estate.
Just in time, I heard the sound of another, larger engine. From my vantage point, I could see a pair of powerful headlights spring to life as a car transporter began to back out of the garage by the roundabout. It immediately blocked the near side of the road and rapidly narrowed the gap on the far side, where the wall of the chip shop stuck out towards the corner.
The brakes of the Sierra screamed as it came into the roundabout and found no way onto the estate. As the driver swung the wheel to the right he saw, dead ahead, the back gates of the old pit site. They stood invitingly open, some vandal having sheared off the lock earlier that night. Beyond the gates was a vast, dark expanse of steep slopes and dusty roadways where they could surely abandon the car and make a run for it. It was either that or go back round the roundabout and meet the cops coming the other way. No contest.
With only a second to make his decision, the driver went for it. The Sierra skidded through the gates and vanished into darkness. The driver of the transporter braked, revved his vehicle back up into the garage and thoughtfully locked the pit gates behind the Sierra. Then he, too, disappeared into the night.
I watched the car plough its way over the rise and down the other side, moving cautiously now as it lost the street lights and the driver had to search for a roadway. They got to a nice flat stretch where the road curved behind a heap of rubble. Down in the village, a police vehicle went by, lights blazing, and vanished into the estate. Its siren masked the funny popping noise made by the Sierra’s tyres as they burst on the sharpened nails buried in the roadway. Those vandals again.
The car bounced on for a few more yards before it stopped, with its wheel rims starting to dig into the dust. The driver got out, cursing like anything, and didn’t see me as I stepped out of the shadows. I grabbed him as he bent down to look at the tyres and flattened him across his own bonnet. A moment later, Doncaster Dave had hold of the other two blokes.
“Do you need some help, sir?” I said. “To our members, we’re the fourth emergency service. We’re the AA, you know. ’Ard Arseholes.”
The winding engine house is still standing there on the remains of Medensworth pit. Do I need to tell you that they plan to restore it one day? The money will come from the government, the European Union, or the National Lottery, or wherever. One day. But at the moment it’s occupied only be the pigeons that roost on the spattered window ledges.