Читать книгу For Evil to Flourish - Dubya Ph.D Lorimer - Страница 16

Stevie Henderson was mentally calculating how long it would take him to reach home. As a long haul truck driver on trans European routes, he was used to being away for weeks at a time, but still found himself counting down the minutes as he neared the end of a trip, especially when, like this one, he had been all the way to Turkey.

Half an hour and he would be in the ferry terminal at Calais, with plenty of time to catch the seven a.m. ferry to Dover, a bit of a snooze during the crossing, and assuming an easy passage through customs, he would be looking for a break somewhere off the M25. Frustratingly, he should already have been home by now, as he had been on schedule to catch a ferry the previous evening. Instead he had been directed to Audruicq, a little market town whose name he couldn't even pronounce. He had been given instructions on where to leave his trailer, and then he had to make himself scarce for the rest of the night. Have a meal, a drink or two, chase some french women, even go for a stroll along the canal, do what he pleased, just as long as he didn't return to pick up the trailer before five a.m. He tried not to think about what might have been added to his load.

His planning was interrupted by an unexpected call to his mobile, with new instructions he could scarcely comprehend. This, he thought, was really going to screw up his day, his plans for a nice easy jaunt home now completely out of the window. Instead there would be French police to deal with, customs and insurance people probably sniffing around and a very good chance of landing in deep shit. Every fibre of his being was telling him to refuse, but he daren't argue with these people, instead he had meekly submitted. Yes, he knew the lay-by they were talking about, he would be there in twenty minutes. Yes he would wait to be contacted. And no he wouldn't mention this to anybody. He barely waited for the connection to be cut before he started cursing to himself, a string of profanity that continued unabated as he searched for a spot to swing the big Scania around and head for his new rendezvous.

Ann Morrison didn't even make it to her office before Ian Hopkins stopped her to pass on the news.

'There's been another one!'

'Another......?'

'Another vigilante attack. On Darren Hill, no less.'

'You're kidding! Is it on video, same as the last one?'

'It sure is, it was originally posted on Darren's MyPals page, but although it has been removed from there, you can see it all over the net. I don't think the Hills will be very pleased about this one!'

'When did it appear?'

'Must have been the early hours of this morning, Brian was monitoring these social networking sites over the weekend and didn't spot anything.'

'All right, lets have a look at the Darren Hill show.

The video opened with a shot of Hill in what appeared to be a garage or workshop. His hands were tied behind his back, and a rope attached to his ankles had been passed over a metal roof beam, and used to pull him up until he was left suspended upside down about two metres off the ground, the end of the rope then being secured to a workbench. Unlike Patterson, who after an initial struggle had been relatively frightened and subdued, Hill was kicking and writhing, screaming abuse and defiance at his captors.

'My god, he's practically feral!' thought Ann to herself, while noting that his captors seemed content to wait for him to tire himself out or run out of breath.

'They obviously don't care about the noise he's making,' she said to Ian, 'Must be a location they don't have to worry about people hearing them.'

Eventually Hill calmed down a little and his captors started to ask him questions. Again it was the members of the gang dressed as The Queen and Margaret Thatcher who spoke, still talking in character. Every question, however, was answered with a torrent of abuse. They were asking him about drugs mostly, who he supplied, who supplied him and his family, when was the next shipment due. They also asked who the Hills had working for them on the police force, and on the council, and he was asked about what help and information they received from politicians, especially James Wellington, a personal friend of Darren's father, Sammy Hill. Invariably the questions would spark a fresh stream of obscenities concerning what he thought of his captors, and what he would do to them when he got free.

'Bit of a toilet mouth, young Darren.' commented Ann.

'That's putting it mildly, laughed Ian, I think I've learned a few new words myself this morning!'

'He doesn't look as if he's going to talk,' said Ann. 'He must think they're going to wimp out, just frighten him the way they did with Patterson.'

'Keep watching,' advised Ian.

Mrs Thatcher casually stepped across to where the end of the rope was tied to the workbench, pulled out a knife, and started to gently saw at the rope. Hill was watching, realising that if the rope was cut through he would plummet head first onto the concrete floor.

'You wouldn't dare, you bunch of pricks, you wouldn't bloody dare,' he roared.'

The Queen spoke, sounding quite cheerful,

'Aren’t you worried, young man, that a drop from that height might break your neck,not to mention ruin your looks, such as they are?'

'I'm telling you fuck all, I know you're too chicken shit to do it, You know you're all fucking dead men!'

Mrs Thatcher had stopped slicing at the rope, and looked at The Queen who shrugged and said,

'Doesn't look like it's going to work, Margaret, we seem to be wasting our time.'

'Should we go for plan 'B' your majesty?'

'I think we must Margaret.'

The man in the Margaret Thatcher mask picked up an oil can, and trickled some oil onto the rope, before speaking,

'Do check we haven't left anything before we go.' she said to the others, who duly looked around before preparing to leave.

'Wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Hill, but frankly you were a bit of a disappointment, however, if you do think of anything to say, it had better be quick.' And with that she set light to the oil on the rope. The Queen, Mrs Thatcher and Prince Charles started to walk away, leaving Tony Blair to continue filming.

Ann found herself holding her breath as the flames spread, eating into the rope. Darren Hill was screaming at them to stop, but the only response was for The Queen to call back,

'Not hearing anything new, young man!'

'There's heroin coming in from Dover tomorrow,' he suddenly screamed, 'I swear to God, it's on a Parker & Baldwin truck, put that bloody fire out!'

'You still haven't told us if your family has anyone on the take in the police or the council?'

'I don't know, nobody tells me, put the fire out.......'

It was too late, the rope suddenly burned through and Hill started dropping head first towards the concrete floor, a high pitched scream came from him that chilled Ann's blood, she shut her eyes, unable to look. Only when she realised that Ian was laughing did she look again.

'How did that happen?' she said, staring at the screen. Hill was still suspended upside down, but now his head was only half a metre from the floor.

'They had a second rope tied to his ankles, anchored it to the roof beam without Hill knowing. That made sure he wouldn't actually hit the ground. Bet he got a hell of a fright, though!'

'He's not the only one, I thought for a second I was going to chuck up my breakfast!' said Ann, still looking a bit queasy. 'Our vigilante friends seemed to get a bit of amusement out of it though.'

'They certainly appear to have a sick sense of humour, that's for sure.' agreed Ian.

'Do you think there's any truth in that story about the heroin on a truck from Dover?'

'Soon as I heard it, I got onto the Borders agency, turns out they had an anonymous tip-off at around midnight last night, and they have people looking for it, both on the ferries, and the main routes from the port. Obviously, the Hills will know we're looking, but they might not have had a chance to get rid of it yet.'

'Problem is, unless the Borders Agency find something, we can't touch Hill. He'll claim it was a story to stop them from torturing him.'

'On the other hand,' said Ian, 'If they do find something it will be a win for the vigilantes.'

Ann eyed him suspiciously.

'I hope you're not coming out in support of these people, Ian, you know we're going to have to try all the harder to track them down after this little caper!'

'Don't worry boss, I know my job, but be honest, you must get a tiny bit fed up sometimes with the way we sometimes seem to be fighting the bad guys with one hand tied behind our backs.'

Ann was still eyeing him up,

'I'm just wondering if I should put Brian in charge of tracking down these clowns and find something else for you. Sitting at a desk analysing overtime expenditure for the last eighteen months perhaps?' He held up his hands in mock surrender,

'Aw, come on boss, you know me better than that, You don't seriously believe I would give this case any less than one hundred per cent?' He was wearing his most endearing smile, a slightly soppy puppy dog look that Ann always found hard to resist.

'Just remember, I'll have my beady eye on you, don't you dare let me down.' She wagged a finger, and teased him, 'Just ask yourself, What Would Jesus Do?'

Ian Hopkins was a regular churchgoer, a rarity in these secular times when it seemed that anyone believing in something greater than the 'gods' of lucre, or television, or football was perceived as being some kind of weirdo, and it wasn't unusual for his fellow officers to jokingly refer to the WWJD question.

Ann considered Ian to be the most un-weird police officer she knew, and didn't doubt for a moment that he would be totally committed to the case. Ian and Ann had worked together for a few years now, and she considered him a friend as much as a colleague. One of the most dedicated officers she knew, he was also undoubtedly the best detective she had ever encountered. She was aware that some people in the station felt that he deserved to be in her job, but she knew he hadn't even bothered to apply for it, having little time for the paper-pushing, infighting and office politics associated with stepping up the managerial ladder. He was much happier with the practical aspect of detective work, which better suited his patient, methodical, and generally laid-back attitude to life.

Recently she had called at his home, and had been spotted by his wife, April, as she walked up the path. Opening the door before Ann could ring the bell, April beckoned her inside while holding a finger to her lips. Leading her through to the rear, she carefully opened the kitchen door for Ann to have a look inside. Ian was sitting back in a chair smiling to himself while his young daughters practised their make-up skills on him. The giggling threesome had adorned daddy's hair with a huge set of pink rollers, given him bright red clown lips, Aunt Sally cheeks, and a wild excess of purple eye make-up, rounded off with a very fetching yellow bed-coat to protect his clean white shirt.

As Ann prepared to take a photo on her mobile phone, the girls excited squeals of 'Hi aunty Ann!' alerted him to her presence, causing him to sit bolt-upright. The resulting picture of a goggle-eyed, slack-jawed apparition wearing garish make-up had made it's way onto a number of spoof wanted posters distributed around the station. It was testament to his easy-going nature that he (eventually) forgave Ann, and started talking to her again when he encountered her at work, as opposed to flicking her the finger in a most unchristian way, and pretending to waft farts in her general direction.

'Okay, let's have a word with Darren Hill, see if he is willing to give us any information about this little incident, although I doubt he'll be willing to talk. I'll take Kit with me, and you take Brian. Start by looking into where this might have been filmed, presumably these clowns aren't driving around wearing masks and overalls, so someone might have witnessed them changing, maybe saw a vehicle, you never know. The last location had a connection with the Hills, perhaps this place does too, they have various workshops for their car sales and taxi and haulage businesses so I think we should start from that angle.'

Julie joined her family at the table where the others were already starting on the simple but extremely tasty lasagne and garlic bread she had prepared. Cooking was something that gave her both pride and pleasure, a skill she had learned from her late mother. Some of her happiest memories were of the kitchen at home when she was a small girl, her mother, and sometimes her gran too, the room full of laughter, the sounds and smells of eggs being whisked, flour mixed, and pans bubbling on the stove. Her heart ached at the memory. Cancer had taken both women before their time, a loss she still struggled to come to terms with. Perhaps that was why she felt the need to grasp the opportunity for fun and excitement that David had offered, why she wanted him so badly right now. Sometimes life was just too short to let a chance of happiness get away.

'This is terrific love,' said Allan, 'Really nice,' and even John, her youngest was nodding his agreement. Mandy, as usual was more interested in her mobile than anything to do with the family. Julie didn't even bother trying to make her leave it upstairs at mealtimes now, it simply wasn't worth the huffs and tantrums, another small defeat in the war between generations. She did enjoy the praise for her cooking, though it made her feel a little guilty, Allan having been particularly nice to her lately.

Mandy suddenly spoke,

'Dad, you used to live in Craigends, did you know someone called Darren Hill?'

'Not really,' he was shaking his head, 'I vaguely knew his uncle, George Hill, he was a year or so younger than me, and his aunt, Vicky, was a bit younger again. I used to see them sometimes at parties and suchlike, or swanning around in fancy cars. We were always warned not to have anything to do with them because their dad, Gerry Hill was supposed to be a gangster. Why do you ask?'

'There's a video of him on the net. Some guys in weird masks have him tied upside down, and they're trying to make him confess to dealing drugs and stuff.'

'Told you his family were gangsters.' Allan said.

John piped up,

'Is that the one where they tie a brick to his you-know-what, and then throw the brick out a window, that was a good one.'

Mandy was giggling,

'No, but I saw that one as well, he screamed like a girl!'

'I think I would have been screaming like a girl as well if I had been in his position,' laughed Allan.

'You wouldn't just be screaming like a girl, you would practically be a girl!' squealed Mandy.

'Would you mind not having this conversation at the table, young lady,' Julie spoke angrily, then to Allan,

'And you should be setting a better example!' the words coming out much sharper than she had intended, everyone looking at her in surprise.

'Sorry love,' Allan mumbled, and the meal carried on in subdued silence for a time. She knew what they would be thinking, mum's in one of her moods, Allan probably assuming it must be that time of the month again, although he wouldn't dare actually say so.

Perhaps it was her hormones? So what, she was entitled to be in a bad mood now and again, she had never claimed to be the perfect wife and mother. But deep down she knew what was wrong with her, and desperately wished that David would call.

Ann was almost home, but her mind was still at work, fretting over a pointless day spent trying to track down Darren Hill, and then when they did find him, learning nothing of any value. As expected, he had no interest in helping the police track down those responsible for his humiliation the previous night, (Ann suspected he was planning on meting out his own brand of justice to those responsible). He also claimed not to know where he had been held, something Ann absolutely refused to believe, and the claim that he couldn't remember how he got home was beyond laughable.

As expected, he maintained that the mention of a drugs shipment was a lie intended to save his neck, literally, and that neither he nor his family were involved with drugs in any way, the police could check any trucks returning to the country and they would find nothing. Something about the last comment had struck Ann as being just a bit too cocky, he seemed too confident for her liking, and the feeling had stayed with her all day. Just then her mobile rang. It was Ian Hopkins. She pressed the button on the hands-free,

'Yes Ian.'

'Hi, boss, thought you should know as soon as possible, my contact with the Borders Agency finally got back to me, they were told this morning by the French police that a Parker & Baldwin truck had been found burnt out in a lay-by on a main route towards Calais. Initial reports suggest there's little left of the cargo, and if there were drugs on board, they're either gone or burned to ash.'

'Oh bugger!' Ann couldn't help herself, she'd had the feeling the Hills were one step in front of them.

'Surely if there was a significant amount of heroin, forensics would find a trace of it?' she asked?'

'Apparently the fire brigade arrived while it was still smouldering and blasted it with water, so I would imagine it would be quite a job analysing what is left. Especially bearing in mind it was on French soil, and the truck was apparently en route from Turkey to the UK, so it's highly unlikely that the French are going to commit resources to something they won't regard as their problem. And of course, there is the possibility that the drugs were recovered from that truck and stashed somewhere, or perhaps hidden on another truck. It could even work in their favour. While everybody is looking for Parker & Baldwin trucks, they bring it in using another carrier.'

'You are a regular little bundle of joy, aren't you, surely there must be something we can get out of this?' She drummed her fingers on the wheel as she thought for a moment, then,

'I think you should get back in touch with your contact with the Borders Agency, make sure they are still looking for the drugs coming in, the Hills may try to turn this to their advantage, as you just suggested. Also, we should find out who, on the French side, we can sweet talk into checking for traces of drugs on the burnt out truck. In the meantime, we carry on as we were doing today, try and find where the video was filmed, and attempt to track down these vigilantes.'

'This guy, Jones his name is, was a bit vague, but implied they were on top of it, he mentioned there had been a customs seal on the truck and the driver admitted breaking it, supposedly to rescue some of the cargo from the fire, but Jones sounded suspicious.'

'Okay, if they are showing a serious interest, that lets us concentrate on our end.'

'All right boss, I'll get on it. See you tomorrow, have a nice night.'

'Thanks Ian, you too.'

Somehow Ann suspected it would be a far from good night,now that she had this new setback to worry about. Damn, but she would love to wipe that cocky smirk off Darren Hill's face.