Honour Bound (12 page)

-20-

As
soon as the businesses occupying the arches had closed for the day, Norton
moved the Alfa to a safer area on the other side of the Highway, parking it in
a well-lit and well-populated street. As he made his way back through the dimly
lit estate, he walked quickly along the alleyways to check which had dead ends,
and which had access to the main road on the opposite side to the railway
bridge. He followed the paths trodden into the grass by a succession of feet to
see where they went, and like thick dusty arteries, they proved to be the
quickest route between any two points. He noted the position of broken down
doors, and flats with
unboarded
windows, the ones
most likely to have inhabitants. All the time he was mentally mapping the
information and fixing the general layout of the area in his mind. Should
things turn unfortunate, it was always better to have an escape route planned,
rather than leave it to chance at the very last minute. When you are trying to
make off at speed on unfamiliar ground, it is all too easy to round a corner
and come face to face with a rather large obstacle. Buildings and high fences
tend to slow you down somewhat.

During
his reconnaissance, and while keeping to the shadows which were thick and
plentiful, he circled Aspen Mansions to satisfy himself the only way in or out
was the route Williams had used earlier. After completing the check, he moved
away through the estate, a measure taken in case Williams was more aware than
he appeared. He then doubled back to find a good position on the top floor of
the block opposite Aspen Mansions to mount his observation.

Norton
looked at his watch, the digital face lighting up at the press of a button,
3.30am. He had been watching Williams’ flat and the surrounding area for a
little over four hours. The only movement he had seen, apart from the
extinguishing of a single light in the flat at 2.30, was a group of oddly
silent youths who appeared like spectral images from the shadows cast by an
unlit building across to the left. They passed between the two blocks and
disappeared from view into the cavernous black mouth of the railway bridge.

The
estate slumbered on. The occasional vehicles passing along the main road on the
other side of the railway line were the only sounds to disturb the silence. A
row of hooded bulbs high up on the gantries supporting the power supply for the
trains, cast a thin grey light that washed the buildings and open spaces around
him, giving the area a desolate gothic appearance. Open-mouthed gargoyles
sitting hunched and malevolent on the high corners of the buildings would not
have looked out of place, certainly complimenting the eerie silence.

Things
had been quiet for long enough. He descended the dank and slippery staircase
drifting like a ghost through the smell of urine and decay that permeated the
air in an almost visible cloud. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he checked
the immediate vicinity for signs of life. Although the area had been deserted
for some time, he took time to satisfy himself that the route he intended to
take was still clear. He left the black cloak and relative safety of the
stairwell and walked briskly to the lock-up, skirting piles of rubbish and
making a detour around a cone of weak, flickering light from the street's only
working lamp. He quickly scanned the door. It was large and newly painted with
three sections that folded flat against the wall. A Judas gate had been cut
into the right hand section, it was to this he turned his attention.

He
took a key ring containing several skeleton keys and a small torch from his
pocket, handy extras he normally kept in the Alfa, and set to work on the lock.
The first and second keys were defeated by intricate tumbler patterns, at the
third attempt, the well oiled lock slid open and he pulled gently on the gate.
The hinges, like the lock, were well maintained and it swung silently open, he
stepped inside.

The
wall of blackness he walked into was so utterly total he felt slightly
disoriented. He kept still for a few moments before putting his hand on the
gate to give his mind a sense of stability. He rolled the torch round in his
hand until his thumb found the switch and turned it on. The Rover immediately
came into view, the slim beam reflecting weakly from the shiny coachwork. He
walked over to the car and shone the torch inside, careful not to touch it, he
didn’t need a multi-decibel siren ripping through the silence.

There
was nothing of interest inside the car so he swung the torch in a careful arc.
The only other items in the garage were a rusting engine block with the
cylinder head bent out of shape, a pair of new looking stepladders leaning
against a damp streaked wall and a pile of old newspapers. Not a great help, he
thought, and turned back to the gate. He switched the torch off, listened for a
few seconds and began to push the gate open.

Instinct.
He stopped. He had a feeling he had
missed something, something obvious. He pulled the gate closed and stood in the
blackness sifting the contents through his mind. There was hardly anything to
miss. What was it? Certainly not the papers or the ladder, and the car
was
empty.
The engine then, something
about the engine?
He switched the torch on, went over to it and knelt down
to examine the rotting lump. The cylinder head was not bent one end was
slightly higher than the other, the shadows cast by the torch just made it look
bent. He put the torch between his teeth, lifted the head from the cylinder
block, and placed it quietly on the floor. The beam illuminated the top of the
engine where the five pistons, pitted and rusting, were seized at varying
levels in their cylinders. Resting in number three, the one at the nadir of its
induction stroke when the engine had finally died, was a tightly rolled
polythene bag.

"Son
of a bitch," he muttered, smiling.

He
took it out and emptied the contents on the floor. A remote activator for a
garage door, and a folded sheet of paper followed a single car key attached to
a key ring, the fob proudly bearing the name ‘ROVER’. Unfolding the sheet, he
read its brief contents, TO CREASY BY 7AM.

Creasy,
Norton thought as he refolded the paper, another player joins the game.

He
returned everything to the bag, folded it up and put it back in the cylinder.
After replacing the cylinder head, he left the garage, relocked the door and
took a circuitous back to the Alfa.

-21-

Lying
almost flat on the reclined driver’s seat, Norton had the rear view mirror
angled to give him the best view of the garage door, the wing mirror adjusted
for the best angle on Williams' flat. He had no idea who or what Creasy was, or
how long a drive it would be, so he had decided to watch the garage to see who
would turn up.

After
leaving the lock-up, he had returned to the Alfa and taken the time, and the
risk of missing the Rover's collection, to drive into Whitechapel to fill up
with petrol. To lose the car was one thing, but to have it drive out of sight
with the fuel gauge resting mockingly on
zero,
was an
option he was not prepared to consider. He had returned to the estate and
parked outside one of the empty lock-ups a distance away from both the garage
and the flat.

The
green digital figures on the dashboard clock had just changed to 6.40 when a
Transit van turned into the road and executed a three-point turn outside the
garage. The passenger door swung open, and a woman with long dark hair got out
and began running her hands down the front of her skirt, smoothing out the
creases. She adjusted her blouse, its whiteness standing out against the
backdrop of dark metal, before leaning back into the van as if talking to the
driver. Seconds later she stepped back, a jacket clutched in her hand, and shut
the door. She waited for the van to pull away before crossing the road to the
garage and unlocking the door.

In
the three minutes that it took for the Rover to reverse onto the road, Norton
had readjusted his seat and the mirrors and was waiting to see which way she
would go. The woman left the car in the middle of the road while she relocked
the garage door, pulling on it as Williams had done to check it was secure. She
got back into the car and drove toward Commercial Road, a main route into and
out of the city.

Norton
started the engine, executed a U-turn and drove like a drunk as he negotiated
the potholes peppering the worn surface. He turned onto the road the Rover had
taken and kept a safe distance behind, only closing the gap and increasing
speed as both cars turned onto the main road where the traffic was building up
for the rush hour. He followed the car into Burdett Road, across the junction
with Mile End Road and on into Grove Road.

A
car, two ahead of the Alfa and three behind the Rover slowed to allow a bus out
of its stop and into the flow of traffic. He cursed as the double-decker
blocked his view, and moved to the centre of the road trying to see around it.
He cursed again as the traffic lights at a junction two hundred yards ahead
changed through their sequence to red. The Rover was nowhere in sight.

“By
my watch lady,” Norton said to himself, “you've got three minutes to get to
Creasy. Assuming you don't want to be late, you've got to be around here
somewhere.”

She
could have gone three ways. He took a chance and carried straight on through
the junction towards Victoria Park. He came to a roundabout, giving another
three choices, and turned left, stopping outside a brightly lit row of shops.

"Think,"
he said to himself, "every junction you come to lengthens the odds of finding
her."

His
mind punched up a mental image of Joey Williams driving the car out of
Artichoke Hill, and he smiled. He looked along the row of shops and saw what he
was looking for.

The
Asian newsagent stopped stacking the morning editions when Norton ducked under
the low door and entered the shop. Williams was a car thief, and according to
his card, he had been for a long time. Norton hoped the Rover was part of his
trade and not legitimate. If it was stolen, the chances of the woman delivering
it to a private address were slim. The alternative was a business address. Who
better to ask than someone with local
knowledge.

"Good
morning." The old man said, smiling affably.

"Morning,"
Norton returned. "I'm new to this area and a bit lost. Do you know
anywhere around here called
Creasy's
?"

"
Creasy's
, but of
course."
His voice intimated that everyone knew where it was, apart from Norton.

"Do
you know how to get to Roman Road?"

Norton
nodded, yes. 

"Turn
into Roman Road, go over the canal bridge and take the turning first left.
Creasy's
is in that road." He smiled as if pleased
with his knowledge.

"Thanks,
I was going in the wrong direction."

"Anything
at all to help," the old man said, his smile creasing his weathered face.

"Thanks
again," Norton said.

He
went through the door, quickly spun the Alfa around and drove to Roman Road.
The turning first left, as the newsagent had put it, was a cul-de-sac
industrial area at the end of a housing estate. He saw the sign for Creasy Car
Valeting
Service, (Collection and delivery or while you
wait), hanging from a red brick building half way down on the right. The
buildings on both sides of the road were almost identical, the main difference
being the assortment of signs, identifying the name and intentions of the
company inside.

He
left the Alfa in a disused petrol station at the top of the road and walked
along the pavement feigning an interest and looking in some of the windows. The
unit next to
Creasy's
was unoccupied, a large 'TO
LET' sign adorning one window. He busied himself by taking down the name of the
estate agent while looking through the window at the layout, hoping it would be
a mirror image of the one he was interested in. The only difference, at least
from the outside, was the large roller door to allow the vehicles in for
cleaning.

He
walked to
Creasy's
customer entrance and tried the
door, locked. It opened easily at the first attempt with the skeleton keys and
Norton pushed it wide and stepped into the carpeted foyer. To his left, a large
counter with 'Reception' embossed on the wooden front filled most of the wall.
On the opposite side, several modern plastic and metal seats lined the wall as
if awaiting execution. The 'While You Wait' option looked decidedly
uncomfortable. A door straight ahead marked 'Workshops - Staff Only' opened
silently to a slight push. As he walked through, he heard an engine ticking
over and the low murmur of voices.

The
workshops were 'L' shaped. Norton was in the short base of the ‘L’, which
appeared to be a storage area. He tried to lift the corner of a wooden packing
crate, one of many that lined the walls, but it was firmly sealed. He moved to
the corner and stopped, pressed firmly against one of the crates. The voices
were clearer now.

"...it
has to be done by then, otherwise it puts all the timing out," a male
voice said, "
if
it goes up and it's still
working, then we could be in the shit."

A
woman's voice responded, "It's already in place, a bit early for my liking
but I can't see any problems."

Norton
felt the cold steel of a gun barrel touch the skin behind his left ear. A calm
and deliberate voice said, "Don't even think about it, or I'll blow your
fucking head off."

He
kept still, body tensed. The pressure from the barrel against his skin eased
slightly as footsteps, no doubt from the other two coming to investigate, got
closer. He hoped the man was about to step back, professional enough to create
a safe distance before giving further instructions, a move that would leave him
slightly off balance.

The
pressure eased a little more. That was enough. Norton spun into action. He
threw his left arm up and grabbed the gun hand, slamming it hard against the
corner of a crate, pleased to hear a scream of pain as a bone snapped. At the
same time, he pushed his body away from the crate and put all the force he
could muster into the swing of his right arm. He slammed the heel of his hand
on to the point of the man's nose, wincing at the shock that jarred his wrist
and elbow at the moment of impact. The man died instantly, a jagged bone from
his shattered nose forced into his brain by the power of the strike.

Not
stopping to survey the damage, Norton let his momentum carry him towards the
door, the Sig drawn before he reached it. He yanked the door open, glancing back
the way he had come. He had run out of time. The woman driver appeared her
pretty face grim and determined, the lethal eye of an MP5 sub machine gun
pointing directly at him.

"Don't
shoot,
don't shoot," a male voice yelled
hysterically, "the detonators."

She
hesitated.
Fatal.

Norton
fired twice. Two bullets hammered into her chest slamming her hard against the
wall, a look of blank incomprehension frozen on her face as she dropped heavily
to the floor. The MP5 spat into life as her death grip squeezed the trigger,
three seconds and thirty rounds later, it lay still and smoking in her dead
hand.

Norton
moved silently towards the dead woman, the Sig leading the way. Before he
reached the corner formed by the packing crates, he saw the body of the second
man. He was not going to be a threat. He was lying spread-eagled on the floor
in front of the bullet riddled Rover his right leg almost amputated at the
groin, stomach and chest torn open by the uncontrolled burst from the sub
machine gun. Blood poured from his wounds, forming a thick red river that
flowed steadily into one of four drains sunk into the floor.

The
thermostat activated the fan on the Rover as Norton approached, the noise all
but drowning the sound of the engine. His feet crunched on a carpet of broken
glass from the shattered side windows as he went to the rear of the car. The
rear seats were folded down, and lying on top of them was a crate identical to
the sealed one he had tried to open. This one was open, and he estimated it contained
at least twenty kilos of
Semtex
explosive. Lying next
to the crate was a clockwork timer, a battery and a detonator. He picked up the
timer and operated its mechanism before dropping it on top of the plastic
wrapped explosive.

"Spot
on Willie," he said, "spot on."

He
went through to the reception area and used the telephone to dial an unlisted
and untraceable number.

"Norton
here," he said and gave the address from a sheet of headed notepaper lying
on the desk. "Send a clean up team I've got three down in a bomb
factory."

He
wrote on the notepaper and
sellotaped
it to the
outside of the door.
'CLOSED FOR A CHANGE OF MANAGEMENT'.
Finding a comfortable chair, he settled down to wait.