Chill Factor (22 page)

Barry Moynihan was in charge, wearing a shell suit that somebody two sizes smaller had loaned him, with a decent growth of stubble on his face. Three others, from number three district, were also there; two of them permanently watching the farm. I had a look through their binoculars, but the place was as still and silent as a fog-bound airport.

Two more arrived, bringing flasks of soup, blankets and waterproofs. As they lifted them from their boot I glimpsed the dull metal of a Heckler and Koch rifle barrel. I had no doubt they had a whole armoury of weapons in their cars: H & K A2s for general purpose killing; Glock PT17s for close range killing; and perhaps a Heckler 93 sniper rifle, for
long-range
killing. I had an uneasy feeling that Kevin Chilcott would not be walking away from this one.

They were reluctant to discuss tactics in front of me and I began to feel like a rogue sausage roll at a bar mitzvah, so I glanced at my watch and said I’d better be off. It was just after half-past four when I left, and ten to five when I walked into the office, quietly whistling to myself:
The hills are alive, with the sound of gunfire
. At twenty-six minutes past five the phone rang. It was Superintendent Cox, the RCS super that I’d just taken up on to the moors.

“Did a motorcycle pass you, Charlie, on the way back to Heckley?” he asked.

“A motorbike? Not that I remember,” I replied.

“Shit! A bike left the house, about one minute after you. We clocked him heading that way, but lost him soon
afterwards
. He was probably in front of you.”

“You think it was Chilcott?”

“Yeah, didn’t you know? A bike’s his chosen mode of transport when he’s on a job. He can handle one. Used to race at Brands Hatch in his younger days.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Christ, Charlie, I hope this is a dummy run and not the real thing. If it is the shit’ll hit the fan.”

And I bet I knew who’d catch it all. “Do you have a
number
for the bike?” I asked.

“No. Just those of ones stolen locally in the last couple of weeks.”

“You have done your homework. What make did he race?”

“What did he race? No idea, why?”

“Because bikers are often loyal to one make, that’s why.”

“Christ, that’s a thought, Charlie. That’d narrow it down. Well done.”

He was telling me that they’d asked traffic to look out for him when someone at that end attracted his attention. “Wait a minute, Charlie,” he said. “Wait a minute…he’s back. Thank fuck for that. We can see him, riding towards the house.”

I hung about for another hour, but no reports of
gunshots
or dead bodies came in, so it must have been a training spin. Cox didn’t bother to ring me back so I went home via Sainsbury’s and did a major shop. My favourite check-out girl wasn’t on duty, which meant that the ciabatta bread and feta cheese were pointless purchases.

I had them for supper, toasted under the grill with lots of Branston pickle until they were bubbling. Welsh rarebit, Italian style, but it wasn’t a good idea. I lay awake for most of the night, thinking about a man who was loose in society with the intention of killing someone. Thinking about Annette. Thinking about her friend.

What if…what if…what if Chilcott shot his target, who, by the type of coincidence that you only find in cheap
fiction
, just happened to be Annette’s friend? Would I be
pleased? Would she turn to me for consolation? Yeah,
probably
, I thought, to both of them. That’s when I dropped off, just before the cold breath of a new day stirred the curtains and the bloke in the next street who owns half of the
market
and drives a diesel Transit set off for work.

Saturday is his busiest day, and I had a feeling that this one might be mine too. I had a shower and dressed in old Wranglers, cord shirt and leather jacket. I put my Blacks trainers on my feet, designed for glissading down scree slopes. You never know when you might need to.

According to the electoral role, the tenants of Ne’er Do Well Farm were Carl and Deborah Faulkner. According to the DVLA, the series seven BMW that picked Chilcott up at the station belonged to Carl Faulkner. According to our CRO, Carl Faulkner had a string of convictions long enough to knit a mailbag and Deborah had a few of her own. His were for stealing cars, bikes, household items and bundles of bank notes, plus GBH and extortion. Hers were for
receiving
, causing an affray, and a very early one for soliciting. The one thing that they certainly weren’t was farmers.

“Nice couple, aren’t they?” Dave said as I returned the printout to him. He sat in the spare chair and placed his
coffee
on my desk.

“He saved her from a life on the streets,” I commented, sliding a beer mat towards him.

“Blimey, you’re in a good mood,” he said.

“And why not? It’s a new day, the weekend.”

“Chilcott might be the Met’s,” he responded, “but these two are ours.”

“They haven’t done anything.”

“Well that’ll make it harder, won’t it,” he declared. He had a sip of coffee and continued: “There’s harbouring a fugitive, for a start. And conspiracy. And probably stealing a bike. And I bet they don’t have a TV licence.”

“First time they poke their heads above a windowsill they’ll probably have them blown off,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s a strong possibility,” he agreed.

Word came through that strange policemen were
congregating
in our canteen and eating all the bacon sandwiches. They were the Met’s Regional Crime Squad. At nine o’clock Mr Cox came in to my office on a courtesy call, to tell me that they were having a meeting in the conference room and they’d be very grateful if I could make myself available to answer any questions that might arise about local
conditions
, whatever they were. He looked as if he’d spent the night on a bare mountain, which he had. I said: “No
problem
,” and followed him downstairs.

They were an ugly-looking bunch, chosen for their
belligerence
in a tight situation and not their party manners. Any of them could have moonlighted as a night-club
bouncer
or a cruiserweight. A couple wore suits and ties, some wore anoraks and jeans, others were in part police uniform, bulging with body armour. I gave them a
good morning
when I was introduced and settled down to listen.

It was the usual stuff: isolate; control; maximum show of power, minimum violence. There was only one road going past the farm, with junctions about half a mile away to one side and two miles away at the other. A bridlepath crossed one of the roads. I told them that it was not negotiable by a car but a Land Rover or a trail bike might do it.

They would set up roadblocks on the lane, either side of the farm, and the local force would create an outer ring of roadblocks, just in case. This last comment raised a few
sniggers
, because they all knew it to be superfluous. Nobody would get past them. Mr Cox asked the various teams to acknowledge that they were clear about their duties and said: “OK, gentlemen, let’s bring him in.”

I was guest of honour, invited to ride with him. Our
carpark
was filled with their vehicles, haphazardly blocking the regulars in or out, and others were parked outside,
straddling
the yellow lines and pavement. We slowly disentangled ourselves and moved in a convoy out of town, towards the
moors. I suspected that some of them had never seen a
landscape
devoid of houses, billboards and takeaways.

A steady drizzle was percolating through the atmosphere as we crossed the five hundred foot contour, blurring the colours slipping by our windows to a dirty khaki. Just how I like it. Superintendent Cox turned his collar up in an
involuntary
action and switched the windscreen wipers on.

“That’s the lane to the other side of the farm,” I told him. He slowed and jabbed his arm several times through his open window. I swivelled round in my seat and counted five vehicles turn in that direction. Two miles further I said: “And this is our lane to the farm.” He turned off the main road and set his trip odometer to zero.

“I reckon we make the block in about one point three miles,” he stated, slowing to a crawl. Three minutes later, with the farm still not in sight, he stopped and switched the engine off. “This’ll do,” he said.

Three vehicles from our side and two from the other were going to approach the farm and make the arrests. The others would act as roadblocks in case someone made a run for it. Our three moved ahead and parked in single file. Doors swung open and black looks were cast at the sky. Stooped figures opened boots, lifting out pieces of equipment:
waterproofs
; body armour; weapons. They donned hats and
baseball
caps, or pulled hoods over their heads. I stepped out and felt the cool rain on my face. Beautiful.

Cox was on the radio, calling up the observation post. I heard them report that the farm was as quiet as a grave. About half an hour earlier the curtains in an upstairs room had opened, and that was the only activity they’d seen. He made contact with the other section of our small army, code name T2, but they hadn’t turned into the lane yet. The
chopper
was standing by, he informed us.

T1 was us, or more precisely the three cars that would do the job. When the snatch teams were kitted up they squashed themselves into the cars and waited, steam and
smoke rising from the open windows as they waited for the call. Every couple of minutes a cigarette end would come curling from one of the windows to
sizz
out in the wet grass. Our remaining three cars arranged themselves at angles across the narrow lane, completely blocking it.

“The trap is set,” Cox told me with a satisfied grin. He produced a half-empty hip flask of Famous Grouse from the depths of a pocket and took a long swig. I shook my head when he offered it to me, so he had mine, too.

He was on the radio again, chasing up T2 when there was a crackle of interference and a voice shouted: “They’re
moving
, they’re moving!”

“Quiet please! Come in OP,” Cox said.

“Activity at the farm, Skipper,” came the reply. “Three figures have dashed out of the house. In a hurry. I reckon they’ve rumbled us.”

“T2, acknowledge.”

“T2 receiving.”

“Are you at the lane end yet?”

“We’re at a lane end, Skip, but it’s only a dirt road.” “That’s the bridle path. The lane you want is about half a mile further on. For fuck’s sake get there, now! OP, come in.”

“OP receiving.”

“What’s happening?”

“They’re in the garage, I think. Yes, the big door’s
opening
and a motorbike’s coming out.”

“My team, T1, did you hear that?”

“Yes, Skip.”

“He’s making a run for it. Stand by.” Car doors opened and they tumbled out, brandishing their Heckler and Kochs.

“OP, OP, which way’d he go?”

“He’s not reappeared yet from behind the house. A Land Rover and the BMW have also just come out of the garage and gone round the house. I can see the bike now. He’s turned left, heading east.”

“That’s towards us. Good.”

“And the other two are heading west.”

“Right. Did you clock that, T2?”

“Yes, Skip.”

“Are you at the lane end yet?”

“Not sure, Skip. There’s a dam and a reservoir with a lane…”

“That’s the wrong way!” I yelled at Cox. “They’ve turned the wrong friggin’ way!”

“You’ve turned the wrong way,” Cox told them, trying to read the map that was draped over his steering wheel. “You need to be about three miles the other way, and get a move on.” He turned to me, saying: “Fortunately Chilcott’s
coming
towards us.” I rang Heckley control and told them to let our boys know that he’d made a run for it. It looked as if we might have to do the job for them after all.

The road ahead undulated like the spine of the Loch Ness monster and bent to the left. I climbed out of the car and peered at the furthest crest in the road. After a few seconds the bike appeared, rising into view then falling out of sight as it sank into a hollow. Then it appeared again, nearer and bigger, travelling quite cautiously, and dropped out of sight. In front of me the RCS crew spread out across the road and adopted kneeling positions, firearms at the ready. The bike rose into view again and fell away. One more brow left. We could hear it now. They pressed rifle butts against shoulders and peered down sights.

The rider’s head appeared, then shoulders, windscreen, wheels: a splash of colour – red, white and fluorescent green – in the murky landscape.

“Here he comes,” a voice said at my elbow. It was Cox, his eyes bright with excitement. In the next few minutes he’d be reciting the caution to the most wanted man in Britain or zipping him into a body bag. Either would do. The bike stopped, a hundred and fifty yards down the road. I could sense the fingers tightening on triggers, and I
desperately
needed a pee.

“Easy boys, he’s not going anywhere,” Cox shouted.

The biker tried to do a U-turn, but the road was too
narrow
. He paddled the bike backwards a few feet and
completed
the manoeuvre, driving off back towards the farm with a new urgency. The engine note rose and fell as he went up through the gears, the bike and rider bright as a tropical fish as it crested the brows.

“T1 to T2,” Cox yelled into the radio. “He’s coming back your way. Where are you?”

“T2 receiving, at the lane end,” I heard them confirm. “Forming roadblock now.”

“Have you seen the other two vehicles?”

“Negative, Skip.”

“He’ll be with you in about two minutes.”

The same thing happened at their end. The biker stopped, turned round, and headed back this way.

“OK, let’s tighten the net,” Cox ordered. We climbed back into our seats and moved half a mile down the road, until the farm was clearly in view. We’d just reassembled into a roadblock when the biker came burbling round the corner, the rider sitting up, only one hand on the handlebars.