Meltdown (9 page)

Albie was forcing himself to concentrate as he
prowled around the hangar. It wasn't easy: his brain
wasn't functioning properly; he couldn't stop the
rage building every time his thoughts turned to
Storm walking out of the yard with that cocky little
wanker, Danny.

It didn't worry him at all when he saw Storm with
Teddy or Will. They were poofs anyway, even if
they didn't know it.

Albie knew it. Everyone knew it. They just didn't
mention it.

But now Albie had to concentrate. Hard. His job
was to oversee the final phase of the Meltdown
operation. He never saw the first part. All he knew
was that a truck would arrive with the first stage
completed. The second stage took place in the other
truck and then the pills were ready for transfer into
the coaches. He had to make sure that it all went
smoothly and that the drugs were stowed properly
in the ingenious hiding places on the coaches.

A three-inch-deep cavern extending across the
entire floor area of each coach was removed
in sections. More tablets would be stashed in
hollowed-out blocks of the overhead storage
lockers, in the steel legs of tables, in wall panels –
anywhere there was a space that could be filled,
even in the plush seating. The customers had no
idea that they rode to Europe on Meltdown.

If anyone local asked what they were doing, the
cover story was that the coaches were being prepared
for a round-trip to a top European football
match – checked for any minor faults, cleaned,
loaded with fresh supplies of excellent food and
drink, and generally made ready for the guests paying
megabucks for their expensive excursion. All of
which was true. The cleaners and local delivery vans
arrived during the day to do the legit work and the
drugs were stowed when they were long gone.

The twins were proud of the beautifully simple
operation they had devised and developed.

And they relied on Albie to see that it all ran
smoothly. He'd got the first-stage truck away OK –
that driver never caused any bother. But now Albie
was struggling.

The trouble was, Freddie Lucas was winding him
up something rotten. Freddie was the second-stage
chemist, and as far as Albie was concerned, he
should have been minding his own business. But
he wasn't.

The tablets had emerged from Freddie's truck,
each stamped on both sides with its distinctive 'M'
– only visible under black light – before being
sealed in protective silver foil and then bagged in
polythene in batches of fifty.

Now Freddie was watching the lads loading the
pills, constantly telling them to be careful, getting in
everyone's face, especially Albie's.

The lads had nicknamed Freddie 'Fiery Fred', and
it wasn't only because of his mop of flaming red
hair. He watched over his Meltdown like a mother
hen protecting her chicks, guarding each tablet as if
it were a newly hatched egg. And if a bag of pills
was dropped or split or even dirtied, he would fly
into a rage.

It was obvious that Freddie didn't like Albie.
Albie didn't give a toss about that – no one liked
him, but if they were wise, they kept out of his way.
Freddie wasn't and he didn't.

Albie reckoned that Freddie was just another
public school prat; the type that thought that they
were better than everyone else, that they knew best
all the time, that people like Albie were beneath
them.

Albie didn't care about that either, but he was just
longing to put his fist into Freddie's smug face. He
knew he couldn't – he was already in enough
trouble with the twins for previous violent outbursts
and his dependence on M. He'd managed to
convince them he was over that now, but if Freddie
got on his case much more, Albie feared he
wouldn't be able to stop himself from laying him
out.

There was a nagging ache in Albie's back – maybe
it was his kidneys – and a stabbing pain in his chest.
Neither would go away, and on top of that it felt as
though his head was going to explode.

He was sweating under the arc lights; he needed
some more Ms. They always made him feel better.
For a while. If only Freddie would piss off, he'd be
able to do what he always did and slip a pack into
his pocket. That way, he'd have enough for himself
and plenty to sell on in one of the clubs. But Freddie
wouldn't piss off. And Albie had to be so careful. If
he got caught stealing the stuff, he'd be in the shit
big time. But he didn't have a choice. He needed it.

He also needed some air. He opened the metal
door at the rear of the hangar. The arc lights speared
through the doorway and out into the darkness,
sparking up what sounded like a pack of wolves.

It was the police dogs; some of them must have
been on a sleepover instead of spending a quiet
night in front of the fire with their handlers.

A voice shouted, 'Quiet, Bruno! And you, Sasha!'

'Shit,' breathed Albie, pulling the door shut. The
last thing they needed was Plod calling round for a
late-night chat.

He turned back and looked at the coaches. One
of them was already loaded with its cargo of
Meltdown; the other was well on the way, and Albie
had not had one opportunity to grab a bag.

He went across to the coach that was ready to go.
After all, it was his job to check that everything was
in order.

Inside, it looked immaculate, more like the
interior of a presidential jet than a coach. There
were just twenty plush, airline-style seats; the
remainder of the interior was filled with stylish
high-tech business and relaxation areas – an
Internet hot zone, plasma TV screens, DVD players
– everything the guests needed to relax or keep tabs
on important business was no more than an arm's
length away.

Albie shrugged. It looked fine, as always. He
went to check the other coach. The false floors had
been replaced, as had the overhead locker panels;
there was little more to be done – just the bags that
would be crammed into the seats. They were
always done last. The two loaders were taking a fag
break. Albie walked up the gangway, briefly alone
on the coach. Now was his chance.

Then he heard someone coming up the steps at
the front of the coach, followed by Freddie's grating
voice. 'What are you doing, Albie?'

Albie turned round, his eyes boring into the
chemist. 'What the fuck has it got to do with you?'

Freddie stood his ground. If he was intimidated,
it didn't show. 'I'm responsible for the consignment.
I have to know it's been loaded correctly'

'You! Your job is to make the stuff. It's down to me
to check it and load it. Now get out of my face
before I stick one of your test tubes up your ginger
arse!'

Freddie hesitated. His own temper was of the
specifically verbal variety; he didn't go in for
violence and he didn't have a death wish. And he
knew that Albie was more than capable of carrying
out his threat. He backed away. 'I shall speak to the
twins about this,' he told Albie.

'Talk to who you like!' Albie grinned as he
watched Fiery Fred hurrying away, his flames well
and truly extinguished.

'Wanker,' he breathed as he grabbed a bag of
Meltdown and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

Thnx 4 coffee.
Want 2 do a
club bit Itr?
xx

Danny was with Lee when the text from Storm
arrived. They were grabbing a meal in a pizza
restaurant just round the corner from Fergus and
Danny's hotel.

Phil had the trigger on the twins, who had moved
into the Malmaison Hotel in the city centre while
their apartment was being sorted.

Danny handed his mobile to Lee, who read the
text and then checked his watch. It was 9.45. He
handed the mobile back to Danny.

'You going?'

'Dunno. What d'you reckon?'

'I'm not your dad, Danny. You don't need to ask
my permission. But if you
are
thinking of going, you
should talk to Fergus – and not because he's your
granddad, but because he's your boss. The blonde
bombshell's not just some good-looking bird, she's
a target.'

Danny nodded. Sometimes the fact that Fergus
was his grandfather as well as his boss made him
uncomfortable when he was with Lee and Phil. It
was a bit like a football manager playing his own
son in a team; other people might not be convinced
he was really there on merit.

But Fergus made a point of never showing Danny
any special favours; if anything, he was even
tougher on him, but Danny had never been certain
how Lee and Phil felt about it.

'Are you OK with the granddad thing? Him and
me working together on this, I mean?' he asked Lee.

Lee smiled. 'Listen, Danny. Dudley wouldn't
have wanted you if he didn't think you had a part
to play. And from what I've seen of Fergus, he
wouldn't have agreed to you being in unless you
could do a job. That's good enough for me.'

'What about Phil – what does he think?'

'Phil keeps himself to himself, like Fergus, but if
he wasn't happy about it all, he'd let Fergus know
soon enough. Some day his life could depend on
you.' He looked at Danny closely. 'And so could
mine.'

Danny finished his pizza, thinking about what
Lee had said. He pushed away his plate. He wanted
to see Storm away from the office again. He'd enjoyed
being with her in the coffee shop; for a short while
he'd let himself relax and be normal for once. They
got on well and Danny liked the way Storm seemed
to be so impressed by the action-packed life she
assumed he lived.

He brought himself back to the present. 'Well, I
suppose I'll have to go clubbing then. All in the line
of duty, of course.'

'Just make sure it is.' Lee laughed through a
mouthful of pizza. 'And call your—'

But Danny was already punching in the number
on his mobile. He told his grandfather about
Storm's text.

'I didn't learn much this morning. She may not
know a lot but I reckon it would be a good idea if I
met her, don't you?' he asked him.

Fergus couldn't hold back his laugh. 'I'm sure it
would. Seems you do have some charm after all.
But you're working, Danny, remember that. We
need to find that DMP. Keep focused. Tell Lee I
want him to back you – you might well meet people
who are worth following. We've got to make the
most of these opportunities when they come up.'

'Right.'

'And before you meet Storm, give Phil a call. Make
sure he knows what's going on. And be careful.'

'Right,' said Danny again. He hung up, thinking
that his date with Storm had already turned into
much more than a date. Quickly he passed on his
grandfather's orders.

'Yeah, thought as much,' said Lee, wiping pizza
crumbs from his mouth. 'Why is it that you always
get the girl and I get the surveillance?'

Danny grinned. 'Must be my good looks.'

'Something like that.' Lee smiled, then took out
some cash and beckoned to a waiter. 'Call Storm,
tell her you're up for it. And then you'd better
smarten yourself up. Don't want to disappoint the
lady, do you?'

Phil was sitting at a small table in the bar of the
Malmaison Hotel, holding his mobile to his ear. He
couldn't help smiling to himself as he listened to
Danny telling him the score.

'So you did make sure you flossed, eh?'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah.'

Danny closed down and Phil put his mobile away.
At the tables all around him, people were chatting
and laughing as wall speakers pushed out soft
lounge-lizard music. Phil thought back to the bars
in what was left of the best hotels in Baghdad,
where the background music had been a cacophony
of helicopters whirring overhead, machine-gun fire
and exploding shells, some of them close enough to
make the building shudder.

Phil checked his watch: it was nearly 11.20. He
glanced up and saw Teddy coming down the
carpeted, sloping entrance to the bar, closely
followed by his younger brother. Teddy was
moving slowly and awkwardly – he was obviously
still in a lot of discomfort and wore sunglasses to
hide the embarrassment of his black eyes.

Phil sat back in his chair and watched him find a
space at a padded, high-backed banquette on the far
side of the room while Will went to the bar and
ordered drinks. He returned to his brother with
what Phil reckoned were two glasses of Coke, but
before either of them could take a drink, another
young guy with a shock of flaming red hair came
hurrying into the bar. He didn't look happy.

He spotted the twins, went straight over to their
table and sat down. He was too far away for Phil to
hear exactly what was being said, but it was quite
clear that something was wrong. The twins listened
as the guy talked animatedly, occasionally glancing
at each other and frowning.

Phil pulled his mobile from the inside pocket
of his jacket and pressed the speed dial: the angry
red-haired guy was a total newcomer on the scene;
this could be an interesting development.

Fergus answered the call immediately. 'What
you got?'

Storm and Danny were laughing as they hurried
towards the club, avoiding the puddles and
pretending to dodge the raindrops like a couple
of kids.

As they neared the long queue, Danny realized
that he hadn't really laughed for months. He
thought of Elena, and for a moment he felt guilty, as
if he shouldn't be here enjoying himself. But he
shook the thought away. He was on a job; it was
OK. Elena would have told him that.

Instead of joining the back of the queue, Storm
made her way up towards the door, grabbing
Danny's hand and dragging him with her.

'But don't we have to—?'

'No, Danny, we don't.'

Two black-suited, burly bouncers stood in the
doorway. They smiled at Storm, gave Danny a
quick, appraising once-over and moved aside so
that they could pass straight through. As they
headed into the club, Danny spotted Lee, just two
back in the queue. He didn't know if Lee had seen
him, but even if he had, there would have been no
eye-to-eye.

As soon as they stepped into the darkened
reception area, staff came hurrying up, as though
visiting royalty had arrived. Someone took Storm's
coat and the manager came out to welcome her
like a long-lost sister, kissing her on both cheeks
and telling her how wonderful it was to see her
again.

There was no question of them paying to get in.
They were led into the club itself and then told to
have a wonderful evening – there was plenty of
room in the VIP area.

The pounding, thudding music was so loud that
Danny had to shout to be heard. 'What was all that
about?'

'What?' shouted Storm.

Danny pointed back to the entrance. 'The special
treatment! We didn't even pay!'

Storm laughed. 'The twins use this club. They
never pay, and neither do their special friends.'

Danny shook his head and smiled as he looked
around the club. It was just before midnight and the
place seemed packed to capacity. It was a long time
since he'd ventured into a club of any description,
and on those very few occasions they'd been the
downmarket sort of place where no one questioned
your age.

This one was different; it was definitely the
cool place to be. The dance floor was a seething
mass of dazzling white teeth and white shirts, as
dancers gyrated, sometimes under multicoloured
lights, sometimes under black light – UV light
that couldn't be seen but turned anything white
brilliantly luminous.

Danny had made an effort to look the part after
Storm told him that the dress code at the club was
'smart casual', meaning no jeans. Danny was almost
always in jeans and T-shirt or sweatshirt and
trainers, and he didn't exactly have an extensive
wardrobe.

But during the build-up in Hereford he'd been
ordered to go and buy a few more items of clothing
– his instructors had told him that jeans and sweatshirt
wouldn't always be what was required. So
he'd gone to the Next store in Hereford and bought
a couple of pairs of trousers and some shirts, and
even a pair of regular shoes.

The shoes were pinching his feet and he was
hoping that Storm wouldn't ask him to dance. His
dancing was terrible at the best of times, but in these
shoes he'd look like a total idiot.

Fortunately Storm was avoiding the seething
mass of bodies on the dance floor and was heading
for the bar, where the music level was slightly less
eardrum-bursting.

A barman appeared the moment Storm flashed
her stunning smile. 'Large vodka tonic, please!' She
turned to Danny. 'What about you?'

It was another problem. Danny hadn't realized
that a simple evening out could be so complicated.
He didn't drink. Not because he had any objection
to it; he just didn't like the taste. He'd tried beer a
few times and thought it was revolting; he'd never
bothered with anything stronger. But he couldn't
tell Storm that – he'd feel a right dickhead.

'Come on, Danny,' said Storm. 'We're not the only
customers.'

'Er . . . er . . . I'll have a Beck's.'

Storm paid for the drinks, caught Danny's eye
and nodded towards the VIP section. It was less
crowded and they'd be able to sit down and talk –
which, Danny reminded himself, was what he was
there for.

He noticed the envious glances he received from
other guys as they squeezed through and headed
for the blue velvet rope which barred the way to
everyone but the so-called VIPs. Storm might not be
his girlfriend, but the guys watching them didn't
know that. It made him feel good and he smiled as
a big bouncer detached the rope and held it back so
that they could walk through.

But not all the looks cast in Danny's direction
were envious; one was filled with hatred, scorching
into him like a laser.

It was Albie. And Albie wasn't having a good
night. His Meltdown-addled mind was in turmoil
as his eyes flicked from Danny to Storm. The slag!
She wouldn't come to a club with him but now she
was here with that poncy wimp!

Albie turned away from any watching eyes and
opened one clenched hand: two brilliant white Ms
glowed under the black light.

The red Mini Cooper was travelling at a steady pace
away from Manchester city centre.

Fergus had told Phil to follow the angry young
man with the flaming red hair when he left the
twins, and to get an IR marker on his vehicle – if he
had a vehicle.

Well, Carrot-top had a vehicle right enough; it
was a deeper shade of red than his hair.

The exchange between Carrot-top and the twins
had been pretty short and not too sweet. He'd said
what he had to say listened to what Phil guessed
were some reassuring words from the twins, and
then got up and left. Phil had followed, hoping that
he'd get lucky and his target had a vehicle parked
nearby. If he didn't, it might well be all over before
it began.

Phil's Vectra was parked close to the hotel. He
followed his target up into reception and through
the glass double doors at the front. Directly
across the street was a parking bay where three
taxis stood waiting for fares. If Carrot-top took the
first, Phil would have no option but to jump into
the one behind and do the old 'follow that car'
routine.

That wouldn't be good. The roads were relatively
quiet at this time of night, and even if Carrot-top
didn't clock that he was being followed, his cab
driver probably would. If he mentioned it to his
passenger, then Phil's game would almost certainly
be up.

But Carrot-top ignored the taxis and turned left,
pulling a key fob from his pocket as he strode away.
It was a good sign; his car was most likely very close
by, unless he just enjoyed walking around with a
bunch of keys in his hand.

He was obviously still too angry to even consider
the possibility that someone might be following
him. Phil smiled as his target took the first left, Gore
Street, which was where the nearest parking meters
were located. And exactly where Phil's Vectra was
parked.

As Phil made the turn, he saw the lights flash on
a red Mini as his target pointed the key fob at the
vehicle. It was a little further along the street, right
outside the pub on the corner. And, even better
news, it was facing the same way as Phil's Vectra.
That made life a lot easier.

Phil got into his vehicle, started the engine and
waited until the Mini pulled away. He made a note
of the number plate, which he would later check to
find a name and address. Not that the driver was
necessarily the owner, but it would be a start
towards finding who was behind the wheel. The
Mini turned right and Phil pulled out to follow.
Now it was down to two simple factors: Phil's considerable
driving skills coupled with an equally
considerable slice of good luck.

Phil's luck stayed good as the Mini took a right at
traffic lights and then continued across Piccadilly
and away from the city centre.

Fortunately Carrot-top was no boy racer. Phil
followed him easily, but at a greater distance than
usual, until he got held at traffic lights. He waited
calmly for the lights to change back in his favour –
there was no point in getting worked up about
it.

Edging the Vectra just over the speed limit, he
soon had the target in sight again. It was three
vehicles ahead of him and Phil saw that it was
indicating right.

He followed the Mini into a residential area;
maybe Carrot-top was almost home.

The Mini entered a quiet side street and turned
left past a small block of flats. Phil took a gamble
and pulled the Vectra to a standstill before the turn.
If his target was about to park up, he would automatically
notice any approaching vehicle as he got
out.

Phil switched off the engine and waited for five
minutes. If he'd cocked up, there was a potentially
long and fruitless search ahead of him. He started
the Vectra again and made the turn. His luck really
was in: the Mini was parked less than a hundred
metres down on the right and there was no sign of
its driver.

Phil parked a further fifty metres down the street
and then waited a few minutes before getting out
and taking an aerosol can from his ready bag.
Walking back to the Mini, he held the spray can in
his left hand, stretched out his arm and quickly
sprayed a line of invisible IR paint all the way from
the boot, over the roof and down the vehicle's
bonnet.

Phil kept walking, remaining third party aware.
He continued round the block before arriving back
at his car.

As he got in and started the engine, Phil thought
of Lee and Danny out clubbing. He smiled to himself.
'Part-timers,' he muttered.