Honour Bound (11 page)

-18-

Norton
had been sitting in the Alfa for two hours when Joey Williams finally
reappeared by the side of the
Marmaduke
at the wheel
of a new Rover estate.

"About
bloody time," he said, readjusting his seat to the driving position.

The
one part of any operation he really disliked was the waiting. He was used to it
of
course,
the army were specialists in the art of
hurry up and wait. The months he had spent behind enemy lines, moving from one
position to another to wait for hours, sometimes days, for targets of opportunity
to appear, had taught him the virtue of patience. Everything shall come to him
that waits, was the misquote that ran through his mind. He knew in certain
circumstances that was true, especially so in an ambush, but while you were
waiting, you were not in full control of the situation, you had to rely on the
actions of other people, and that is what he disliked.

Today
he had had to wait for the opposition to make a move. It would have been
dangerous, exceptionally so, to confront Williams at the garage. Had he been
there earlier Norton would have purchased a starter motor and then gone back to
the car to wait. Norton believed in numerical superiority or failing that,
excessive firepower. Of the two, he had on many occasions, happily settled for
the latter. It would not have been tactically advantageous to take on two
people in broad daylight in such close proximity, who may, or may not, have
been armed. The mechanic was an unknown quantity, though from his build, he was
obviously capable of looking after himself, and though Williams' record had not
shown prior use of firearms, that was not to say he hadn’t altered his ways
since changing leagues. Apart from the obvious dangers, he couldn’t afford a
gun battle at this stage and risk any harm befalling friend Williams, because
Williams was the only lead he had, the only chink in a well designed suit of
armour.

Norton
started the engine, watching as Williams took advantage of a gap in the
westbound traffic to cross the lane to the central filter. He paused briefly
for a similar gap to appear in the eastbound lane before joining in the flow.

Norton
eased the Alfa into the traffic, keeping a number of cars between himself and
the Rover as they drove along the busy road at a sedate pace. The road itself
seemed to be a concrete barrier between new and old, between wages and
handouts. The south side contained many new housing developments, a sizeable
shopping centre surrounded by expensive apartments in converted warehouses. The
modernity lay in total contrast to the north side, which was cluttered with run
down blocks of flats, punctuated by the odd litter strewn open space, that
seemed to have been abandoned by all but the very needy.

After
travelling about a mile and a half, Williams indicated, and with a flash of
brake lights turned into a quiet side street. Seconds later Norton made the
same turn, and as the line of cars he had been using as a buffer carried
straight on along the Highway, he closed to within a cars length as the Rover
paused at a small roundabout.

It
was not an ideal situation, Norton would have preferred a couple of cars
between him and Williams, but there was no point in hanging back and arousing
his suspicions. Most drivers would be this close, it was the normal place to
be, and as anyone trained in surveillance knew, normal was the place to be.

The
two cars passed beneath a railway bridge and turned left onto a road that could
well have been the recipient of a recent mortar barrage, such were the depth
and frequency of the potholes puncturing its surface. Bordering the road on the
nearside was a lengthy row of railway arches topped by tall metal stanchions
supporting the overhead power supply for the east coast line. The remnants of
small businesses that had once flourished in the arches were still recognisable
in the shape of faded signs that hung despondently above many of the doors.
Other signs screwed to walls and shabby, paint
flaked
doors, were nothing more than wispy half memories on rotting wooden hoardings
savaged continually by time and the elements.

Some
businesses were still trading, whether old and thriving or new and struggling,
it was impossible to tell. In the recent past, some of the doors had received a
fresh coat of paint, and had goods displayed on a small paved area between the
wall and the road. A handful of people, mostly of Asian origin, moved about the
displays picking items up and examining them like robed carrion feeders
searching for the tastiest morsels.

On
the opposite side of the road, in the estate that ran parallel to the railway
line, were a number of three storey blocks of flats. The buildings had all seen
better days, which seemed to be the hallmark of the general area. The roof
tiles of a block next to the road had gone completely, just rotting, fire blackened
roof beams pointing accusingly at the sky. Most of the windows he could see
were boarded up, a long time ago if the amount of graffiti could be used as a
yardstick. The car parks, which he imagined as once being white lined and
numbered and filled with religiously polished cars, were now buried under a sea
of rubbish. Hundreds of local authority waste bags lay piled and torn, their
rotting, festering contents strewn over a wide area by rats and urban foxes as
they scavenged for food during the hours of darkness.

This
whole area, Norton recalled had been the stamping ground for the many Asian
gangs that had grown into sizeable factions throughout the 1990's. 'Posses'
they had called themselves, living well on the illicit but lucrative proceeds
of drugs, prostitution and robbery. Gunfights, in the early days between
different gangs, and later with the police, had driven the decent people out,
draining the lifeblood of the community to leave a decaying wasteland, a cancer
in the heart of the city. People still worked in the area as the activity
around the arches proved, but their hours of business coincided to the hours of
daylight, rather than the generation of sales. Everyone would be gone before
nightfall, leaving their premises bolted and shuttered like small fortresses.
Few would wish to remain in the area after dark, fearful of the dangers the
night all too often held.

As
Williams turned the corner, he indicated and drew to a halt outside a lock-up
garage built into one of the arches. Norton drove on, travelling a further two
hundred yards before parking in a space next to a pile of plastic garden ponds
and a platoon of concrete gnomes. He adjusted the rear-view mirror paying
attention to the garage door that at this distance was no more than an open black
hole in the grimy brickwork. Thirty seconds later Williams emerged and closed
the door, before securing the padlock and tugging on it a couple of times for
good measure.

Norton
followed Williams in the mirror as he strolled unconcernedly across the potholed
road to an inaptly named Aspen Mansions, one of the least dilapidated
buildings. He disappeared into the gloom at the bottom of the stairwell in the
centre of the block, and reappeared moments later on the first floor landing.
He lit a cigarette while sauntering along the balcony, pausing only to let
himself into the flat at the end of the block nearest to the lock-up. A light
came on as the door closed behind him.

-19-

Vance
Talbot laid the computer printout on the blotter and pinched the top of his
nose with thumb and forefinger. His eyes felt gritty and sore and he was
finding it difficult to focus on the small, tightly packed print. On its own,
the printout was an innocent piece of paper filled with routine data to be
digested, filed, and then in all probability, forgotten. But when it was laid
side by side with the contents of a file Mary had been working on, it suddenly
lost its innocence and became threatening, like a low growl from a dark shadow.

Up
until now, things had been running smoothly within the Unit, as smoothly as
things could run when the main concerns were trying to out guess and out
manoeuvre the merchants of death and destruction. The printout had planted the
seeds of doubt in his mind, giving him the feeling that not all was as smooth
as it seemed. He likened it to the uncertainty a motorist would feel who
notices a warning light on the dashboard staying on longer than usual before
going out. The car, like the Unit, may still be running, but if the warning
signs are ignored, then how long
for.              

Unable
to stifle a yawn any longer, he put a hand across his mouth as his lungs sucked
in and pushed out a yard of air. He blinked away the tears that flooded across
his eyes, blurring his vision.

"You
should go home," Mary said, looking across the cluttered desk at her boss,
concern showing on her face. "I've told you before, its not healthy
working the amount of hours that you do."

Talbot
forced a smile while stretching in the chair, legs and arms forming a suited
star. He had worked long hours in the past but he had to admit he had not felt
this fatigued for a long time. He relaxed back in his chair, crossing his
ankles on the corner of the desk.

"The
job has to be done Mary. I don't expect my field operators to work a straight
nine to five, or you for that matter, so why should I take it easy."

Mary,
who worked her after
hours
time in Talbot's office,
clucked and fussed on her side of the desk, shuffling a pile of papers she had
been working on, paying more attention to the alignment of their edges than
perhaps was necessary. During the day, she worked in her own office, between
this one and the corridor, fending off callers and arranging appointments for
when Talbot was least busy. It had been mentioned, that it was easier to get to
see the Prime Minister than Vance Talbot when Mary was in one of her protective
moods. When she worked late, like tonight, she would pick up the folders that
needed information adding to them, and commandeer a space on Talbot's desk.
That way she could keep him company and not have to keep getting up and down or
use that infernal intercom when she wanted to speak to him.

She
looked across the desk, a wad of papers in one hand. "It's a bit different
for them," she said, sliding the papers into a buff folder, a red secret
stripe running diagonally across it, "they have to work silly hours out on
the job. But mark my
words,
you'll be no good to them
if you let yourself get so tired that you start making mistakes."

She
saw the look that passed briefly across his eyes and realised she had opened
her mouth and put her foot in it, again. She knew, as did most of the other
people in the unit that he would rather be out in the field than in an office
shining a seat behind a desk. She wondered if she should try to soften the blow
but decided against it, he needed telling, and if she couldn’t do it, then who
could.

He
dropped his feet from the corner of the desk and sat up in his chair. He held
the position for only a moment before leaning forward, crossing his arms on the
blotter.

"Mary,"
he said, "you are a very dear person, and I really have no idea how I'd
even begin to go grey without you."

He
sat back in his chair and ran a hand across his face and through his hair, his
fringe dropping back like a thick black curtain across his forehead. He picked
up the printout. "I'm really concerned about this," he said, flicking
it with his finger. "I'm just not happy with it."

"It
could be a genuine mistake," Mary said, sounding unconvinced,
"someone may have filled in the form and just forgot to put it in the
tray."

Talbot
looked at the sheet. It contained a list of file requests printed from the
Unit's personnel computer, the entries were dated and timed, six in all.
Laying
on the desk top, swimming gently in the draught from
the air conditioning, stood a small pile of hand written file requests, the
entries were dated and timed, five in all. He had checked and double-checked
the file name missing from the handwritten pile. It had only taken seconds to
cross check the requests, but in that short space of time the growl from the
shadows, the warning light, had lodged firmly in his mind. Somebody had wanted
the personal information contained in the file belonging to Sam Norton. Somebody
had gone to the lengths of bypassing Mary to gain access to the computer. Vance
Talbot wanted to know why.

He
folded the printout neatly in half, flattening the crease with his thumbnail.
"Let's call it a day," he said. "There's nothing I can do until
tomorrow in any case. I've tried to contact Sam but his phone is turned off,
I’m sure there’ll be a good reason.
Someone else who’s not
working a straight nine to five."

He
stood up, and as Mary gathered up the request slips and put them into a folder,
he dropped the computer printout into the shredder, watching as the twin
revolving drums turned it into confetti sizes pieces.

"You
never know," Mary said, standing at the door, her arms encircling a pile
of folders as though protecting them, "things might look different in the
cold light of day."

Talbot
turned away from the shredder, face blank, not betraying the gut feeling that
told him things would not look much better under a searchlight. "Come
on," he said, "get your clobber together and I'll escort the second
lady in my life to the car park.”