Dead Heat (6 page)

The man in the driving seat said nothing, concentrated on driving and checking his mirrors.

‘I like that,' Turner said.

‘Don't get to like anything about me,' the man warned.

The cars moved so slowly that by the time they reached the traffic lights, they were turning back to red, Turner's vehicle having gone through towards the city. Jo looked aghast as the amber light appeared. O'Brien swore, then took a chance.

He pulled out and accelerated past the car in front and shot the red light. He made it over the junction before the cross-traffic began to move.

‘Well done,' Jo breathed.

O'Brien held on tight to the wheel, but made no reply.

‘I just hope he hasn't seen us carrying out death manoeuvres and basically doing everything we can to draw attention to ourselves, y'know? Us being undercover, highly trained surveillance operatives and all? So far we've done everything we shouldn't have.'

‘What's new? It's usually a wing and a prayer at the best of times. At least we're still in touch with him.'

‘But not with the rest of the team,' Jo said miserably. She tried to call Ken on O'Brien's mobile, but could not make a connection despite there being a charge in his battery and a strong signal. ‘Somebody up there doesn't like us tonight,' she said. She tried another team member and this time got through.

The 4x4 weaved through the centre of Manchester, emerging on the other side of the city on the A56, which led out past Manchester Prison, towards Prestwich and Bury.

O'Brien hung in behind him, keeping as far back as he dared without actually losing sight. It was not ideal. A one-car follow was always tough, but it was all he had. There was no doubt that, just at that moment, the team was in disarray and there seemed little hope of pulling it back together. Jo had contacted some of the others and they were doing their best to play catch-up, but she was beginning to despair a little because the battery on O'Brien's mobile was losing strength and the radios still did not work, even with a change of channel. She used the phone sparingly, but knew it would not last for long and she also knew that the further Turner travelled, the more stretched and ineffective the team would be.

Not a comforting scenario.

The only good side of it was that the 4x4 was such a big vehicle it was fairly easy to keep tabs on, particularly with its cluster of high-level brakes across the rear window, which shone like Blackpool illuminations every time the brake pedal got pressed.

Turner and his driver took them past the entrance to Sedgley Park, Greater Manchester Police's training school, then into Prestwich, staying on the main road all the way.

Jo speculated where they could be headed.

‘Motorway junction's up ahead,' she mumbled. ‘Straight across to Bury, or left on to the M60 ring road towards south Manchester, or east out towards Rochdale, or beyond to Leeds. If he goes on to the motorway either direction and puts his foot down, I think we're snookered.'

‘Let's not give up yet,' said O'Brien grimly.

They followed through Prestwich and approached the motorway junction. On the left, just before the roundabout was a petrol station which the 4x4 drew into. O'Brien sailed past on to the roundabout. This gave Jo the opportunity to scribble down the registered number of the car and to have a glimpse of the driver again as he climbed out and went to a pump. She saw he was looking around warily and that he actually watched her drive past.

O'Brien went on to the roundabout, circled it twice, covered by fairly heavy traffic. Turner's vehicle rolled off the forecourt and accelerated straight down on to the M60 southbound as O'Brien was three-quarters of the way through his third circle.

‘Motorway,' Jo said unnecessarily. She quickly relayed the message to another team member who was still trying to get through heavy theatre traffic on Deansgate in Manchester City centre, which was a long way away now. They might as well be on the moon. She and O'Brien were effectively on their own.

O'Brien tore down the motorway slip road and hit the main carriageway at 70mph, cutting ruthlessly into the first lane, out into the middle, then into the fast. He was expecting not to come into close contact with the 4x4, but suddenly there it was ahead of them in the middle lane, travelling sedately. Another tactic for the surveillance-conscious criminal – and O'Brien almost fell for it. Instinctively he took his foot off the gas and drifted into the centre lane, dropping about half a dozen cars behind the target.

‘That was a bit close for comfort. I hope he hasn't made us,' said Jo. If they had passed the 4x4 she knew they would definitely have been blown out of the water and that would have been the end of the night's operation. As it was, they were clinging to the remnants.

Then, just to make matters worse, the big car lurched out into the fast lane and surged forwards.

‘Bugger!' O'Brien cursed.

They were lucky to see the back end of the 4x4 leaving the motorway on the exit which looped round on to the M61. They were only just able to cut sharply across the traffic themselves and throw up road dust as their car angled across the chevron markings on the exit. By the time they reached the point where the M60 joined the M61, and there was also the choice of going onto the A666 towards Bolton, the 4x4 had beaten them. It was nowhere to be seen.

Al Major was not amused.

‘You incompetent idiot,' he sneered down the phone. At her end, Jo Coniston could see his face in her mind's eye. She bit her tongue and thought better than to point out what an ill-judged and purely hopeful operation it had been from the word go . . . and that she had done well to even come across Turner in the first place . . . and, and, and . . . but she didn't. She kept her mouth firmly closed.

‘What do you want us to do?' She was standing at a pay phone at Bolton West Motorway Services on the M61, formerly known as Anderton Services. Dale O'Brien was standing behind her, hopping from foot to foot as she got their bollocking.

There was silence at the other end of the phone whilst Major thought about his response. Jo handed O'Brien a slip of paper on which she had written the result of the PNC check on the 4x4 registered number – it had come back with no current keeper.

‘Call it a day,' Major decided. ‘I'll debrief when you get back.'

Jo knew what that meant – a real roasting, probably with his anger directed mostly at her for no other reason than she had dumped him.

‘OK.' She hung up, turned to her hyperactive partner. ‘Back to base for a court martial . . . except I don't feel like rushing back – let's have a coffee here first.'

Andy Turner shifted uncomfortably. He felt like he was being interviewed for a job – although he had to use his imagination somewhat because he had never actually worked in his life other than in a criminal capacity and interviews for such positions were fairly unstructured at best. He looked across the table at the Spaniard, feeling himself bubbling with frustration.

The Spaniard was a very important man. He was a scout on the lookout for business opportunities for his boss, a very big underworld figure based in Barcelona. Turner knew he was lucky to get to talk to him, to pitch his business. If he could get this guy's nod, he would be going sky high.

It was not easy. The guy was cagey and inquisitive. Questions, questions, questions – and he had done his homework on Turner, something which Turner found disquieting.

Turner realized he had to keep his cool. Don't get riled. Go with the flow. Answer the questions. Tell the truth where necessary, otherwise bullshit . . . but above all, do not lose it.

‘Tell me about your organization,' the Spaniard said. He was sitting with his back to the wall, sipping from a glass of chilled mineral water with lemon. He was casually dressed and came across as confident and knowledgeable, but Turner did not like the man's mouth at all. It reminded him of something . . . then he remembered and became fascinated by the lips because he knew exactly what they looked like. Turner had once visited the Sea-Life Centre at Blackpool, just to see the sharks, but the stingrays had also caught his attention. The way they moved, the way they could actually rise out of the water and stay upright, showing their mouths and the white undersides of their bodies. They had pink, anaemic-looking lips, just like this Spaniard. Obscene, somehow.

‘What do you want to know?' Turner asked, masking the revulsion of the thought: this man had lips like a stingray.

The pink lips turned down. He shrugged his shoulders a little. He was becoming irritated by Turner, who he thought was merely a small-fry time-waster on the make. He wondered how he had been duped into this meeting. He knew his boss would not be overly impressed with this one.

‘Your structure. How does it work? Do you have firewalls in place?'

‘What the fuck's a firewall?'

‘A firewall is a layer, or layers, of protection. It prevents leakage. It's a safety mechanism ensuring that the people who need to be shielded are shielded, so that mistakes at a low level do not have repercussions further up.'

‘Uh, right,' said Turner numbly, failing to inspire confidence.

‘So . . . your organization?' the Spaniard prompted.

Turner blew out his cheeks, stumped a little. ‘Fluid,' he said. ‘Nothing formal . . . very loose, yet safe.'

‘OK,' said the Spaniard, ‘describe how you would get a consignment on to the streets. How would the consumer be dealt with? What's your process from receipt to consumption?'

‘Pretty simple, really. I've got several little labs dotted around the city. The goods would go into them for processing and packaging. They then get sold on to the dealers for street distribution. I got about twenty people doing the dirty for me around the north of the city. Some areas are well sewn up and I'm moving into others, expanding bit by bit.'

‘A small operation then,' the Spaniard observed. ‘Not as large as we were led to believe.'

Turner felt his feathers ruffle. ‘I've been in this business over ten years. I've worked across Europe and the north of England. I'm a hands-on guy. I like to keep control, keep my finger on the pulse. I need to expand now . . . yeah, it's a small operation, but it's fucking profitable and I do very well, thank you.'

‘Do you have any respect for the law?'

The question threw Turner. ‘Eh? Do I fuck! Cops and courts mean nothing to me. I ran a cop down once. I shit on cops.'

‘Interesting,' the ray-lipped man remarked.

‘Cops are frightened of me. People are frightened of me. I scare the shite out of people. No one gives evidence against me. I see to that personally.'

‘How?'

‘Midnight visits. Phone calls. Beatings . . . I don't mess around and I don't get anyone else to do my dirty work for me. No one frightens me.'

‘Hm,' murmured the Spaniard, unimpressed. Turner did not pick up on the less than wonderful reception to the news of the ways in which he dealt with people. ‘I believe you were responsible for the death of Wolfgang Meyer in Germany, about a year ago.'

‘If you think I'm going to say I did that, then you're wrong, pal. How do I know you're not wired up?'

‘You don't . . . but I'm not, and you did, didn't you?'

A dangerous smile fractured on Turner's face. He nodded and pointed to the Spaniard with his forefinger. He clicked his thumb, as though cocking a revolver. ‘Bang, bang,' he whispered.

‘So you deal harshly and effectively with wrongdoers?'

‘He was causing problems . . . in fact,' Turner began boastfully, ‘I've sorted a problem just today.' His hands slid under his jacket and emerged with a set of photographs which he passed across. ‘This man was operating on my area without permission. Now he ain't,' he said proudly.

The Spaniard fanned out the photographs on the table. He winced at the blood-soaked tableaux depicted in the digital images.

‘Personal service,' Turner gloated.

The Spaniard stacked the photographs as though they were a pack of playing cards. He handed them back. ‘We cannot do business, Mr Turner.'

‘I beg your fuckin' pardon, spik?'

The Spaniard looked impassively at Turner and licked his pale pink lips. ‘Your organization is not sophisticated enough. There are too many holes and you are far too unbalanced. You do not have respect for law enforcement . . . No, let me finish,' he indicated to an agitated Turner. ‘Whilst our business is illegal, we treat day-to-day law enforcement with dignity, because we do not wish to fall foul of it through stupidity.'

‘Stupidity, you stupid bastard! Are you calling me stupid?'

‘Hot-headed, reckless.'

‘You are just another shitless wonder,' Turner blasted and shot angrily to his feet, towering over the Spaniard, who did not flinch. ‘I've shat people like you.'

Suddenly, standing behind him, was the man who had driven him to this meeting. Turner saw him and snarled. He spun to the Spaniard. ‘You do business with me, or I'll waste you, you cunt.' He held his fist underneath his nose, so close that the hairs on the back of his hand were clearly individually visible. Again, the Spaniard did not move. His eyes rose slowly and met Turner's.

‘You are a loose cannon. You are unstable and unpredictable. My boss is not interested in you. Just be pleased I met and listened to you today. Not many people have that privilege. This meeting is now over.'

‘Privilege, you twat!' Turner's fist shook angrily. Other people in the establishment were beginning to take an interest in proceedings. ‘Privilege? I'm gonna fuck you and your boss up good and proper, mate, you shitless wonders.'

The driver stepped up close behind Turner. ‘That's enough. Behave yourself.'

There was a doom-laden pause during which Turner could have gone either way. Eventually he stood upright again, still glaring with ferocity. ‘You've made a mistake here, mister big-shot. I will screw your operation up, big style. You will regret this.'