Angel City (25 page)

The large brick shed was still padlocked, and on its corners the two fake video cameras – at least according to Tigger – flashed their little red lights to the night sky just to show their batteries were working. I knew enough to keep near the line of wrecked cars to avoid the movement-sensitive lights, and anyway, that was where I was hoping to find whatever it was I was looking for.

The last time Tigger and I had been here he had dumped six bags of something from the van. But unlike the first trip, he had not gone as far as the canal and I had distinctly heard him crashing around among the wrecked cars. He had not had a torch, so whatever he had stashed would be in one of the first rank of wrecks, which in some cases were stacked five high and seven or eight deep.

I lowered myself over the side of the pick-up and dropped gingerly to the ground. Taking Doogie's torch from inside my jacket, I tried the beam on an experimental basis. It was like a searchlight and a dead giveaway to any curious passers-by.

I congratulated myself on thinking ahead and took a roll of black insulating tape from my pocket, ripping off four pieces to reduce the face area of the torch to a one-inch square. That gave me a powerful pencil beam that was far more controllable and less noticeable from outside the yard.

From where I guessed I had parked the van that time with Tigger, I walked about 30 yards until I was opposite the far end of the brick building. That, I estimated, was the earliest point Tigger would have dumped anything.

The nearest pile of wrecks contained a Ford Thames van, a Triumph Toledo squashed to a thickness of no more than a foot, the rear end of a Vauxhall of some sort and a chassis and frame of what might once have been a Fiat. I flicked the torch beam up and down the pile and decided there was no way anything other than a single cigarette paper could be inserted into such a twisted mass of metal.

The second row looked more promising, with a pair of Renault saloons sandwiched between an old London Electricity Board van and a crushed Skoda. The Renaults both pointed the same way and their bodies seemed more or less intact, although all the wheels were missing, as probably the engines were too.

I stood on the remains of the Skoda and shone the torch in the back window of the lower Renault. There was nothing in there, not even seats, and neither of the doors on my side would open.

I reached up to the Renault above and tried the back door handle more in hope than expectation. I was surprised when it opened and horrified when something black and bulky fell towards me at head height.

It was one of Tigger's black plastic sacks. I knew it had to be, but it still scared the hell out of me. I suppose it was because I was powerless to stop it falling on me, with one hand on the car door handle and the other holding the torch.

I tried to ward it off and discovered it was not as heavy as it looked. But by that time I had missed my footing on the Skoda and was falling backwards, conscious only of a frantic need to protect the right side of my face from further damage. I didn't have far to fall, but I managed to do it as awkwardly as possible, the back of my head taking the brunt of the impact as I bounced off one of the neighbouring wrecks. My foot caught on a jagged spear of metal and I felt my sock rip and a searing pain, and after that it just seemed easier to flop down on my backside.

The black plastic dustbin bag was at my feet and I stared at it as I shook my head gently and rubbed my bleeding right ankle.

I shone Doogie's torch at it but it didn't move. I shone the torch up towards the Renault where the back door was still open. Through it I could see several other black sacks.

The one at my feet had a heavy-duty wire twist clip around its neck. I wondered if the others did. I wondered how much longer I could put off opening one of the damn things.

I got to my knees and, holding the torch in my left hand, I began to untwist the wire clip around the sack that had fallen on me. Half a dozen turns and it fell away and the sack opened to reveal another black sack with a wire clip inside.

I tore into that one and pulled it off, ripping the bag in the process. There was enough light without the torch to see that the sack contained hundreds of used hypodermic syringes.

I never knew before then just how fast I could travel backwards whilst still on my knees.

 

There were hundreds of them; thousands altogether. And – oh, God – there were used swabs and bits of cotton wool with blood spots ... Just some harmless, non-toxic industrial waste, eh? Next time, let's be really socially responsible and dump the stuff on a playground or maybe in a school yard.

And Tigger, of all people, must have known. And not only known, but was prepared to make capital out of it by blackmailing either Bassotti or Hubbard or, knowing Tigger, probably both. Bassotti had cracked when it got nasty. Hubbard just got nasty.

Hence the HAZCHEM adhesive signs in Tigger's dead letter box. Bassotti and Hubbard – or why not Hubbard/Bassotti as in H B Builders? – must have got themselves some sort of licensed franchise to collect the bio-waste from various hospitals on a promise to incinerate it. But incinerators cost money; fly-tipping is cheaper.

The vans would have done the hospital runs, and then they were parked up and the official signs peeled off – they were easy enough to get printed up on crack-back plastic – awaiting some likely mug like me to come and do the driving. Goodness knows how many trips they'd done before I joined the outfit, or how long Tigger had been screwing them for extra cash. I could only hazard a guess that the racket was sufficiently large scale to warrant killing Tigger. Or maybe it was small scale and they were just bastards.

I still didn't want to touch the open sack and I had no ideas what to do next, when my mind was made up for me.

I heard the engine but didn't really register it until it stopped and idled and I realised it was outside the yard gate. I poked my head around one of the wrecks and could see fingers of light from its headlights stabbing through the holes and cracks and around the hinges in the gates.

Shit!

I grabbed the sack by the neck and dragged it around the back of the first row of wrecks. The gates were opening now, I could hear them creaking, and headlight beams were illuminating the yard.

As the lights got nearer, I remembered to go back and close the door of the Renault, forcing the bags in there back inside. And it was then I realised what Tigger had been up to on that last run. He had planted these six bags in Hubbard's own yard, and as they were still there, he hadn't told anyone about them. So he was planning to blow the whistle on the racket, though not before he had increased the size of his nest egg.

I risked another look. It was a white Transit van and it had parked outside the padlocked brick building. A dark-coloured Jaguar had followed it.

Sure enough, the van had a sign on its side: HAZCHEM – BIOLOGICAL WASTE – AUTHORISED DISPOSAL ONLY.

The driver let his engine idle again and opened his door. I saw his shadow in the headlights as he walked across the beams, and as he approached the brick building, the sensor lights on the walls came on.

I could see him from behind, a short guy, walking into the light as if from a scene in a ‘70s sci-fi movie.

From behind him I heard an electric car window go down and then a voice: ‘Have you got the keys, Sammy?'

The short guy raised an arm and yelled, without looking round: ‘Sure thing, Mister Aitch.'

Sammy opened the doors of the brick building, returned to the van and drove it inside. He didn't bother turning on any lights inside, he just switched off the engine, locked up and came out and began closing the doors.

The driver of the Jag, Mr H., had switched off too and I could hear Sammy grunt pushing the doors. Sammy would lock them, get in the Jag and drive away. That's what I reckoned would happen. Why else would anyone want to spend good drinking time or quality TV time hanging around a scrap yard in east London?

‘Don't rush, Sammy,' came the voice from the Jaguar. ‘I'll give the dogs a bit of a run.'

Oh fuck.

 

I moved as quickly as I could into the maze of wrecks, conscious of the need to be quiet now there were no engines running and not even a passing train to mask the noise of my stumblings.

I used the torch, because I was frightened of impaling myself on a sharpened Lada axle or similar, the car's last act of revenge for being crushed or scrapped. So I kept the beam pointed down and close to my body, allowing only a small pool of light for my feet to follow.

When I was three rows of wrecks into the forest of metal I tried to pick a route left. It was easy enough to keep my bearings: just head away from the light. Eventually I must come to either the scrubland and the canal or the railway line. The trouble was that even at this depth in – only three car lengths – the wrecks had tipped and tilted or been shoved closer together so that in some cases it was impossible to squeeze between the piles.

I heard a deep bark, and it seemed far too close for comfort. Then the voice from the Jaguar saying: ‘What's up, Simba? Spotted a rat have we?'

Why did he have to give the stupid animal ideas?

There was only one thing for it, I had to go up and over and just hope that I had enough wrecks between me and Sammy and co to keep me hidden.

Thankful for the gloves, I pulled myself up on to the roof of a Volvo that had seen happier days. From there I jumped on to the bonnet of half an Alpha Romeo and from there, up slightly on to the roof of what appeared to have been an ice-cream van at some time.

From behind, and lower, came another bark, then a second, from over to my left. Of course, the sod had said dogs – plural.

‘What is it, Simba? Go on, boy, seek!' came the voice. I was beginning to take against him.

But the sound that frightened me most was the scrabble of doggy claws on metal. One of the beasts had worked out that the quickest way through a junkyard was up and was trying to get purchase.

I risked the torch out in front of me. Three more rows of cars and then darkness. A Ford, something so beaten I couldn't recognise it and then a Fiat. A mere hop, skip and a jump.

From close, too close, behind me came a deep ‘Woof!' but I didn't look back. I jumped and jumped again, knowing that if I slipped, Simba's sister or brother or live-in doggy lover would be waiting to pick up the pieces.

There wasn't time to use the torch when I hit the roof of the Fiat; I just leapt on into space, landing hard but not falling, still moving. I hadn't time to worry about being out of breath or unfit. No time to regret that last cigarette. I had twin Dobermans on my tail, or maybe pit bulls or Irish wolfhounds. And I was running out of space.

I saw light reflecting on the water of the canal, but whether it was moonlight or reflections from the nearby block of flats, I didn't know and couldn't care.

At the edge, I turned around for the first time. Simba, if that was he, was on top of one of the wreck piles, silhouetted like he was auditioning for the
Hound of the Baskervilles
.
He wasn't a Doberman, so that was okay. He was a German Shepherd, and his sister, or whoever, had come around the piles of scrap and was heading for me like a bullet. Clever doggy.

I didn't think about it, I just lowered myself over the bank and dropped down into the dank waters. I was scared, but not stupid enough to jump into water you can't see through. (Rule of Life No. 124, and that includes jacuzzis.)

Doogie's torch went to the bottom straightaway, but I had other things to worry about. Such as keeping my head out of the water, which was not only cold but almost certainly riddled with typhus. Such as laying odds on whether the dogs fancied a moonlight swim. Such as wondering where the hell the Grand Union Canal came out anyway. In a sewage works or off the coast of France?

I sculled backwards, keeping to the scrap-yard side, and I had made about ten feet before the first dog appeared, leaning over but not wanting to come in and contenting itself with a volley of barking.

From beyond I could hear: ‘Simba, come here you thick bugger! It's only a rat. Leave it now. Heel!'

Go on, Simba, I willed, looking him in his gleaming dead eyes. You heard your master. Piss off and leave us rats in peace.

Then dog number two appeared as well and the volume of barking went up by 60 watts per channel.

I sculled some more, trying to raise as little wake in the water as possible. The dogs didn't seem to want to follow me along the bank. They stayed at the spot where I had slid in. Maybe they just didn't want to get wet. Maybe they were amateurs at this game and really just chasing me for a bit of exercise. They had barked, of course, and no decent attack dog ever lets you know it's coming. They were just puppies. The hell with that. They were the ones with full sets of teeth.

‘Simba, Darlene, will you get the fuck back here?'

Yeah, go on, do it, you animals. Darlene? Christ, no wonder the bitch had an attitude.

‘Start the car, Sammy, that usually brings them.'

Do it, Sammy, don't dawdle. Turn the key and fire up the Jag, I'm getting cramp here.