Chapter 3.14 #2
‘OK . . .’ Harmsworth frowned at Roberta from his supine position. ‘You going to tell me what we’re doing?’
‘Gathering evidence. Like a sodding pro.’ Her finger reached for the red button to stop recording, but the zoomed-in picture framed a perfect view of the Fourtrak’s driver’s door popping open. And out climbed Jeremy Yarrow.
He hunched against the wind – one hand up to shield his eyes from the clamouring rain as he looked up and down the Esplanade.
But she and Harmsworth were reclined out of view, so, from his perspective, the place must’ve looked deserted.
Clearly satisfied that no one was watching, Jeremy hurried around to the Fourtrak’s boot and hauled the door open, struggling to hold on as the wind yanked at it like a rusty sail.
He pulled out a large cardboard box. And forced the rear door shut again, before ducking his head to one side and hurrying over to the Transit’s serving hatch.
Out of the rain. Giving himself a shake, like a soggy whippet.
Roberta followed him with her phone.
He didn’t order anything – didn’t even speak – just hefted his box onto the counter. Waited for it to be pulled inside. Then accepted a wad of notes, counting them before stuffing the whole lot in his pocket. Gave his benefactor a nod. Then scurried back to his truck.
The Fourtrak’s headlights snapped on, then flickered for a bit. A bang of blue-grey smoke erupted from the exhaust and was shredded by the squall. Then the manky wee truck juddered its way through a U-turn, heading back the way it came, straight past Roberta and Harmsworth.
Yarrow didn’t even glance at their ‘empty’ Volvo.
She waited for him to take the turning down the embankment before she stopped recording. A long, disappointed sigh seeped out. ‘Bastard . . .’
Even lying down, Harmsworth managed to spork-in the vindaloo. ‘I still don’t know what we’re—’
‘Never do anyone a favour, Owen.’ Scrolling through her contacts to Lund’s number. ‘It’ll only come back and sink its teeth in your arse.’
When Lund answered, it was hushed and whispery. ‘I already gave you the DNA results! Go away; leave me alone. I’m in enough trouble as it is.’
‘Get your backside down the Beach Esplanade, near the Accommodation Road junction: pronto. You’ve got a drug bust to take credit for.’
Harmsworth folded his arms, yet again, and huffed out another sulky harrumph.
The storm shoved and jostled his poop-brown Volvo, rain pinging like ball bearings against the bodywork. Only ten past three, and it was already dark enough to make streetlights bloom across the city, glittering bravely in defiance of the North Sea’s churning, dark, ominous mass.
Since Yarrow sodded off, Raj Against The Machine hadn’t had a single customer for its curried delights.
Roberta shook her head. ‘Suppose it was obvious, really. No bugger’s setting up shop out here, in the middle of a sodding gale. How much passing trade are you going to get?’
Speak of the wingwang – a pair of headlights appeared in the rear-view mirror, then a manky Vauxhall drove past. Pulling in, between Harmsworth’s Volvo and the tiger-striped Transit.
A bundled-up figure emerged from the driver’s seat, bending into the wind, one hand holding the hood down on their waterproof as they lurched towards the serving hatch. Leaving their passenger behind in the warm and dry.
Harmsworth unfolded his arms, but only so he could fold them again with another petulant grunt. Just in case she’d missed it the first two dozen times.
A second manky Vauxhall appeared from the other direction, parking on the far side. This time the driver and the passenger made for the hatch. Queueing up for tasty treats.
While the Currymeister was busy taking orders, the passenger from the first car slipped out into the storm – crouch-running along the promenade to the Transit’s driver’s door. Hunkering down to fiddle with it.
Captain Grouchy gave a big, martyred sigh.
Roberta rolled her eyes. ‘Do you have to?’
‘I just don’t see why you’re handing the credit to Lund. I was right here! I could take the credit if you don’t want it. As recompense for all the petrol money I’m not getting!’
Children.
‘Owen, you’re not thinking this through. Say I give you the glory—’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘Then you’ve got to explain to the Boss and all her little minions why you were conducting an unauthorised covert surveillance operation, on a food truck, without any official sanction or oversight.’
Another set of headlights appeared in the rear-view as a third Vauxhall pulled out of the junction and came their way.
‘Well, clearly I had—’
‘What: a tip off? You’ve got an unapproved Chis feeding you info? And instead of passing it on to a superior officer, you decided to play Sam Spade?’
His cheeks darkened in the gloom. ‘Well . . . maybe—’
‘All Covert Human Intelligence Sources must be authorised and managed by the Intel team. Any idea how much trouble you’d be in?’
‘It . . . I could . . . have had a hunch?’
‘Aye, like bloody Igor.’
The third Vauxhall didn’t pull in to the kerb, instead it made to drive past, then slammed on its brakes as it drew level with the food van.
The driver and passenger jumped out, wearing thick gloves, shin-knee-and-elbow pads over their fighting suits. Hauling on MOE crash helmets and flicking out extendable batons as they charged.
The passenger from Vauxhall Number One wrenched open the Transit’s door and yanked the keys from the ignition.
Two of the queueing customers produced their warrant cards:
‘YOU: DROP THE KNIFE!’
‘ON THE DECK, NOW! NOW!’
While the remaining customer headed for the back door.
All nice and orderly and—
Crap.
The Transit’s rear door burst open, catching Customer Number Three full in the face.
He hit the ground as a young-ish woman leapt out into the storm. Late twenties, wearing a white chef’s jacket and red joggy-bottoms. Black trainers. Blue nitrile gloves. Blue hairnet on over curly brown hair. Big glasses, long nose, black eye.
She might’ve been a size eighteen, but she couldn’t half run. Sprinting along the pavement. Right towards Harmsworth’s Volvo.
‘Time to show these amateurs how it’s done.’ He opened the door and struggled out, nipping around the bonnet to block her way – knees bent, arms out. Goalkeeper style.
Her eyes widened behind the glasses. ‘Shite!’ And she clattered straight into him.
They crumpled to the ground, tumbling over one another, off the tarmac promenade and onto the grass. Over the edge . . . and down the steep slope towards the beach. Plummeting in a jumbled octopus of flailing limbs and swearing.
Then disappeared from view.
Roberta slapped a hand over her face. ‘In the name of Stalin’s hairy bumhole . . .’ And climbed out into the storm.