For the Sake of the Children: The first Chloe Webster thriller (Chloe Webster Thrillers Book 1) (10 page)

‘Hi T, it’s Jez.’ The Timer didn’t like unannounced calls, especially when he was at home. He glanced across at his wife, who smiled back from the other side of the spacious lounge, mouthed an apology and left the room. He checked his watch. 19:20. This was family time.

‘I’ve told you before not to call me out of the blue. What do you want?’ His voice was hushed but angry. He had no qualms about letting these guys know when he was unhappy.

‘Yeah, sorry mate, you know I wouldn’t call unless it was urgent. There’s a package coming from Hull as we speak and I need you to collect it. It was all done on a need to know basis to be honest so I couldn’t let you in on it any sooner.’

‘Hull?’ The Timer was immediately on edge. It had always been Liverpool. ‘Why Hull?’

‘Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, it’s the same operation. Just find the truck and get the goods out the back. I’ll text you the plate.’ Silence. The Timer waited. ‘There is one small complication. The package is a little, shall we say,
bigger
than normal, so make sure you’ve got a decent set of wheels. You’ll probably want a boot, you know, a saloon. Something you can hide the goods in. At least it’ll be nice and dark out there so you’ll have plenty of cover.’

This was doing nothing to quell the uneasiness that the Timer was feeling. He appreciated the regularity of the work he received from Drabble, and he was well paid for it, but he didn’t like risk or uncertainty.

‘Is there something you’re not telling me Jez?’ he said at last.

‘Don’t be daft, T, you’ll be fine. Same old routine.’

‘How about a little extra to compensate for my nerves?’

Jez laughed. ‘I’ve never seen you nervous about anything. Go on then, how about an extra ten per cent to calm you down.’

‘Thirty, or you find someone else.’ He didn’t like this one bit, and Jez was being overly friendly and confident about the whole thing, which just added to his doubts.

‘Christ T, Drabble will have my balls off. Twenty per cent is the most I can do.’

‘Done. Text me the plate. M62, I assume?’

‘Yeah. Nice one.’

The Timer hung up.
Six grand for a night’s work, not too shabby at all
.

‘Everything all right dear?’ asked his wife as he poked his head round the door of the lounge.

‘Yeah, it’s all good. I need to go out for a while, but I should be back by midnight. Don’t worry about me, just get yourself off to bed. I’ll see you later. Say goodnight to the girls for me.’

He collected his usual equipment and made his way up to the main road to catch a bus towards town. He needed a car but he would never consider taking one from near where he lived.

Don’t shit where you eat,
his father had always told him.

Chloe stood looking out over the garden as she tidied the kitchen after their evening meal. The dark night and the bright kitchen light meant that she could only see vague outlines of the small, neat garden beyond her own reflection. She was finding it difficult to clear her mind of all the things that had happened at work, something she never used to have a problem with. She knew that her chosen career would always include a substantial amount of stress, and the best coping mechanism was to try to forget about it all when she wasn’t there, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to do that. It was probably the fact that she was in a new job, coupled with the rather testing matters she had been dealing with. But she knew one thing – she didn’t like it at all. The pressure and the strain nagged at her consistently, undermining her self-confidence and making her doubt her next move.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ enquired her father, who was still sitting at the kitchen table.

‘Oh, I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. Work stuff, you know? I just can’t shift it. Underlying stress I guess they’d call it.
I’d
call it bloody annoying.’

‘Why don’t you have a glass of wine? That’ll help you to relax I’m sure.’ Her father smiled at her. ‘Works for me every time.’

‘That’s not a bad idea, dad.’ She pulled a bottle of white from the fridge and poured them both a large glass. ‘I’m dealing with this case involving a boy who’s been separated from his mother and it’s really not her fault. I’m sure she’ll get him back soon, but it’s making me think about mum. Sometimes I really miss her you know dad? I mean, I miss her all the time of course, but sometimes I
really
miss her. I think I’ll go up to the grave at the weekend and tidy it up; it’s bound to be a bit messy after the winter we’ve had. I’ll get some fresh flowers and tell her about my new job.’

‘Okay love. I’ll try to get up there myself soon but it’s not easy with this useless leg of mine.’

‘I know dad. I don’t suppose you need to be there to think about her, but it makes me feel close to her.’ She took a large mouthful of wine and the instant hit certainly seemed to do the trick. She immediately took another.

‘Whatever makes you feel better, love. So when will this boy get back to his mum then?’

‘Well hopefully very soon. I have a meeting with the local authority in a few days and I’m going to try to persuade them to let him come home. He’s at his grandma’s house, so it’s not the end of the world, but I bet he misses his mum. Or he will do if he doesn’t get back to her soon. Her ex-boyfriend will hopefully be behind bars shortly, so that should help. It’s a mess to be honest.’

‘Well there’s nothing you can do from here, so why don’t you try to relax and forget about it for a while. It’ll do you good in the long run.’

‘Thanks dad. This is why I don’t want to move out you see? I need our little chats to keep me sane. And a drinking buddy of course.’

‘You know this will always be your home. Now then, pour me another glass of that wine, it’s going down really well. Probably
too
well - I might need another bottle at this rate.’

They both laughed.

And as the two of them enjoyed each other’s company and their relationship continued to grow, many miles away a desperate father sat with his head in his hands. Nathan prayed for the safe return of his own child. His wife was beyond emotion, physically incapable of shedding any more tears, and was now a shell, unable to live the life of a high-powered marketing executive that she had been living so successfully only days before. His own life had fallen apart too, blown to pieces by the events in Amsterdam the week before. There had been no news about Francesca from the police since the sighting in Hull. Thoughts drifted into his head of what they would do if Francesca was never found. What would it do to them? How would they cope?
Would
they cope? He shut them out as best he could.

She will be found. She
has
to be found.

It was still well before eight, but the dark evening ensured that very few people were out and about. Of course, it wasn’t people he wanted, it was cars, and cars lined every road, covered every driveway, and were hiding in every garage. The Timer felt like a child in a sweetshop, and he took his time, savouring the moment as he browsed the selection. This was an affluent neighbourhood and a wide variety of top of the range models littered the tree-lined streets. He needed to be careful, though, and couldn’t risk an alarm going off at this time; people would appear very quickly if that happened. He needed keys, and over the years he’d developed many ways of getting hold of them.

He sauntered along the edge of the road beneath the streetlights, looking for an opportunity, passing huge houses which loomed up over gates and hedges as he passed. He could probably have chosen a more accessible area but he did like a nice car. The properties here were large with tight security. Gates were high, hedges were thick and most cars were tucked away safely in garages or protected by lights and on-board security systems. He kept moving in the February night air, not least to fend off the encroaching cold. Passing the odd car parked out on the road he tried their doors to see if anything had been left open for him. The occasional house was obviously empty and he made his way up the driveways, turning back the moment a security light blazed down from above.

As he continued his search, the houses became noticeably smaller and less grand, and therefore generally less secure. He started to think he might have some success in this area. Still he tried car doors but nothing was giving tonight, despite his perseverance.

Come on someone, I only want to borrow it.

A car drifted past and pulled into the side of the road some way in front of him, at the end of a row of parked cars. A woman climbed out gingerly and headed back towards him on the pavement. As she approached he could see that she was limping quite heavily, and it was seemingly a real effort for her to move. She wasn’t a young woman, and was well wrapped in a thick winter coat, her hat pulled down against the hard cold of the night. The Timer moved his hand across his forehead as they passed so as to obscure his face, not that there was much chance of her recognising him later; it was dark, and he was passed her in a flash. But he noticed
her
, and in particular he noticed the letter she was carrying. She’d left her car engine running and he knew this was his opportunity.

It wouldn’t have been his first choice, an ageing Volkswagen Golf, in a nondescript dark colour with noticeable dents in the rear panel. Nothing glamorous about that, but it would be reliable, and fairly comfortable no doubt. Something Jez had said to him came back into his head –
you’ll probably want a boot, you know a saloon.
Well he’d found a hatchback, and that would have to do. Why would he need a boot? If it was about the size of the shipment, then surely a hatchback would be more suitable. Besides, he’d spent enough time out here in the cold and with the car’s engine running it would at least be warm. He certainly wasn’t going to come across an easier opportunity. In fact, he couldn’t really think of a more inviting scenario than this one.

He settled into the driver’s seat and looked in the mirror, closing the door gently next to him.

Poor old dear, she’s not even reached the post box yet.

A slight pang of guilt nagged at him as the woman staggered up to the bright red structure and leaned on it while she caught her breath. She slid the letter inside and waited there, no doubt preparing herself for the walk back to the car. The Timer decided not to wait around to see her take in the realisation of what was happening, and he pushed the accelerator hard against the floor. A few wheel spins later he was on his way.

He’d been lucky there, but his timing, as ever, was immaculate. 20:05. He had plenty of time to get to the M62 motorway and find that truck.

The drive out of Sheffield was relaxing, helped by the calm classical music which gently filled the car, and drowned out the monotonous sound of the engine. The roads were clear now, the great rush home from work having finished a couple of hours ago for most people. He thought about the job in hand. It would certainly not be easy to pick a truck’s number plate out of the darkness on the other side of a motorway, especially when moving at speed in the opposite direction. There must be a more effective way of doing it.

He let the music fill his mind as he planned his approach. This part of the motorway network was familiar to him and he knew there must be a better way. He considered the police car speed checkpoints along the edge of the motorway. He could park up on one of the ramps and wait for the truck to come past. But he discounted that idea quickly; he’d have some explaining to do if the police caught him on one of those checkpoints. They may even be covered by cameras.

Then it came to him. He would find a junction with a roundabout above the motorway and park up there. That would give him a clear view down onto the road and he would be able to check the lorries as they went by. There shouldn’t be too many at this time of night in any case.

He soon came to the end of the M18 and pulled onto the M62 towards Hull. The traffic was even lighter now, and a few junctions later he found what he was looking for. Pulling the car up the slip road and onto the roundabout he stopped over the motorway, facing the traffic coming from Hull and turned off the engine. Having reminded himself of the number plate he was looking for, he sat back and looked down at the road below. A car sped by and he could just make out the plate. Not clearly, but it was certainly visible and he hoped that the plates on the slower moving trucks would be more obvious.

A pair of headlights approached in the distance as his mobile rang. He checked the screen; it was unusual for him to get calls from home when he was working.

‘Hello darling. Everything okay?’

‘Hello daddy. Get off, Molly,
I’m
talking to daddy… hello daddy, where are you?
Molly,
get
off
…’

The distant lights continued their approach and as they came closer he could see it was a large truck.

‘Oh hello Daisy, I thought it was mummy. Have you borrowed mummy’s phone again? Is she there?’

‘Daddy, daddy, daddy.’

The truck thundered under the bridge but not before he’d managed to confirm that it wasn’t the truck he was after.

‘Hello little Molly. Are you being a good girl?’

‘Yes daddy. Bye bye daddy…’ A thud down the line followed by a brief silence told him she had dropped the phone.

More headlights appeared over the horizon.

‘…the phone to
me
, Molly. Thank you. Now let me talk to daddy. Are you coming home soon daddy? We’re going to bed now.’

‘Yes Daisy, I won’t be long I promise, but you’ll be asleep by the time I get home. I’ll come and give you a kiss when I get there. Night night.’

This time it was a line of three vehicles at least.

‘Night night daddy.’

‘Sorry about that love. They’re missing you and I knew you wouldn’t answer if it was a problem.’ His wife’s voice relaxed him further.

‘That’s okay. Give them both a cuddle for me. I’ll be home by twelve.’

He hung up and breathed deeply. He loved to be there at bedtime and they loved their stories from daddy. It was precious time, time spent in a very different world to the one he worked in on jobs like this.

It’s all a means to an end
, he told himself.
Just keep the money coming in for a while longer and then leave it all behind you.

The line of vehicles approached the bridge which held the roundabout he was parked on. The first was a large box-van but not the vehicle he was looking for. It was followed by a car which seemed happy to trundle along between the bigger vehicles, and then came a truck. Bingo. The plate matched, time to get to work.