Sixty-Two
‘I thought there were three of you,’ Battersby said. ‘What happened to the Scotsman?’
‘McDougall lost his bottle,’ Miller said. ‘So we let him out.’
Battersby laughed. ‘Yeah, I got the impression he was playing the hard man. All mouth and no tartan trousers, that one.’ He stared at Miller. ‘I didn’t get your name.’
‘Oh, it’s … Rocky.’ Miller still hadn’t decided on an alias he liked. ‘Rocky Racoon.’ It was the best he could come up with on the spot, and he could only hope that Battersby wasn’t a Beatles fan.
‘Like in the Beatles song?’
‘Yeah … exactly. Rocky’s just a daft nickname. My real name’s actually Dave. Dave … Racoon.’
Battersby considered this for a few moments, then shrugged and stood up, his gun still pointed at Justin Cutler’s head.
‘Right, let’s get this done—’ He stopped suddenly and stared skywards, cocking his ears to the faint hum of what Miller and Cheshire knew to be the drone overhead.
‘Hang on a sec.’ Battersby reached down for the machine gun leaning against the tree stump, aimed it towards the dark sky visible through the canopy, and let loose a burst of rapid gunfire.
‘Visual contact lost.’ Miller and Cheshire could both hear Chopra, who sounded more than a little panicky. ‘Repeat, lost …’
‘That’s sorted that.’ Battersby shook his head sadly. ‘Yeah, I know it was only remotely, but all the same I’m a bit disappointed that you chose to ignore my instructions and brought the authorities with you. Not surprised, but still disappointed.’
Having taken their hands from over their ears, Miller and Cheshire stood staring as leaves tumbled down around them.
Miller could only assume that fragments of what was obviously a hugely expensive bit of kit would now be scattered all over the woods.
He suppressed a smirk, guessing that, following their next budgetary review, Chopra’s unit might struggle to afford a new kettle for their incident room.
‘Right, we’re all going to walk back to the van,’ Battersby said, ‘so I can check it contains what it’s supposed to. Make sure you’re not playing me for a mug.’
He hauled Justin Cutler to his feet and lugged him towards Miller and Cheshire, but Miller raised a hand to stop him. ‘Take the bag off the lad’s head first.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because it’s horrible. You don’t need it.’
‘But there’s always a bag. In all the films, the kidnapper puts a bag over the hostage’s head.’
‘This isn’t a sodding film, Neil,’ Cheshire said. ‘Take it off.’
‘Listen, you haven’t had to put up with this cheeky little git as long as I have. Always thinks he knows best, telling me I’m using the wrong words or that my grammar’s not right.’ He kicked at the dirt, angrily. ‘I told him I was dyslexic.’
‘I’m sure he’ll behave himself,’ Miller said. ‘Come on.’
Battersby sighed and said, ‘Fine, whatever.’ He yanked the bag from Justin Cutler’s head, but kept the gun trained on him. ‘But I swear, if he starts mouthing off again …’
‘What, you’d kill him for correcting your English?’
‘It’s as good a reason as any,’ Battersby said.
Cheshire waved. ‘You OK, Justin?’
Cutler managed a tentative nod, dried blood caked beneath his nose and the bruising around his eyes still visible in the light from the fire.
He looked over at Miller, who immediately realised that he hadn’t quite thought things through properly and gave a small shake of his head to let Cutler know that he should not show any sign of recognition.
Battersby picked up a rucksack, threw the machine gun across his shoulder, then pressed the pistol into Justin Cutler’s back and urged him forward. ‘You two.’ He waved the gun at Miller and Cheshire. ‘Walk ahead of us.’
The strange procession trudged back to the narrow path and onwards until they reached the van. Battersby waited behind them, still clutching Justin Cutler’s collar and with the gun trained on him the whole time.
He nodded at Miller, said, ‘Open the doors.’
Miller did what he’d been told, then stood back. ‘Voilà! Un … shitload of drugs.’
‘Nice,’ Battersby said. ‘How much would you say that lot’s worth, then?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Miller said. ‘But you could definitely afford to treat yourself.’
Justin shook his head. ‘That’s not the plan.’
‘See what I mean?’ Battersby dragged Justin Cutler across and slammed the van doors. ‘See how annoying the little bugger is? I’ll be glad to get shot of him, tell you the truth. Just … not yet.’ He shoved Cutler past Miller towards the passenger door. ‘Get in the van.’
Miller and Cheshire could only watch as the young man they had come to collect climbed reluctantly into the van and closed the door.
‘What are you doing?’ Cheshire shouted.
Miller joined in. ‘It’s a fair question, Neil, because I’m damn sure that’s not the plan.’
Battersby opened the driver’s door. ‘You pair stay put, yeah? If you don’t, then whatever happens after that is your fault.’
He kept the gun trained on Miller and Cheshire until the very last minute, then climbed up into the driver’s seat, started the van and accelerated away as fast as the narrow track would allow.
Miller and Cheshire watched, helpless, until, right before the van disappeared from view, it slowed just a little and the passenger door was flung open. Justin Cutler fell heavily on to the ground, as though Battersby had just swung his legs around and booted him out.
For a few desperate seconds, Miller and Cheshire could only stare at the body, which lay unmoving and seemingly lifeless.
Then, finally, they heard a groan, and when Miller saw a leg move the immense relief allowed him to give voice to what had been his immediate thought when the boy had been so forcibly ejected from the van.
‘I’m guessing he just couldn’t help himself and made some comment when Battersby said Antartic instead of Antarctic … you know, missed out the C. Or expresso, with an X instead of an S.’ He saw Cheshire staring. ‘OK, so maybe it wasn’t those exact words, but—’
‘Justin …’ Cheshire was the first to move.
The two of them ran through the dark towards the boy, but had not yet reached him by the time Battersby put his foot down again and the van screeched away.