Vanishing Point (37 page)

‘Yeah, I know,’ muttered Brady.

He knew all too well.

‘The driver?’ Brady began. ‘Did you get a good enough look to be able to do a photofit?’ He was hoping the answer would be a simple no.

‘Not sure … maybe,’ answered Harvey.

Brady winced. Harvey’s words feeling like a punch to his gut.

‘What about the other two Eastern European men?’

‘Yeah, got a good look at them. I’d say they’re the same men caught in footage at Newcastle Airport with Melissa Ryecroft.’

‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady, wondering why Harvey hadn’t stated that crucial piece of information first. ‘Did you get their licence plates?’ he asked, trying to control the frustration in his voice.

‘Kodovesky did,’ answered Harvey. ‘We’ve already radioed them in to see what comes up.’

‘That’s something.’

He looked over at the Grand Hotel. It was aglow with soft lighting.

He couldn’t see the eight security guards anywhere. They were obviously doing their job, which was to disappear into the background and watch and wait.

Exactly the same game Brady was playing.

‘Are you following them?’ questioned Brady, frowning.

‘What do you think?’ answered Harvey flatly.

‘Where are you now?’ fired Brady.

‘Joining the coast road.’

‘Heading in which direction?’

‘Let’s see … yeah, not Newcastle. We’ve just joined the slip road towards the coast.’

‘Don’t lose them! Understand?’

‘Yes, boss,’ answered Harvey.

‘Keep me updated. And call Daniels and Kenny. I want them on standby in case you need their backup.’ Brady thought for a second. ‘And notify Conrad,’ he added.

He knew out of the lot of them, Conrad was the one he could trust.

Brady disconnected the call.

He looked over at the Grand Hotel. Suddenly there was activity.

Out of nowhere the eight ex-militia men reappeared.

Brady watched as Mayor Macmillan walked down the wide sandstone steps of the hotel with the Ambassador. Behind, the Ambassador’s driver followed. The eight ex-militia flanked the two men on both sides, scanning in all directions.

Brady wasn’t sure what was being discussed between the two men, but the Ambassador looked distracted. In a hurry to get away. As did his men.

Brady watched as the Ambassador shot a look at his driver who stood directly behind discreetly talking into a hidden microphone.

The driver paused talking and waited for what seemed to be instruction.

Brady noted that whatever was unfolding in front of him hadn’t gone unnoticed by Macmillan.

Brady was intrigued. Mayor Macmillan was calm, collected. Too collected, he thought.

The Ambassador distractedly shook Mayor Macmillan’s hand.

On a nod from the driver, Brady watched as the team of eight men walked down the steps of the Grand to flank the Ambassador’s car. The driver walked alongside the Ambassador as he headed towards the limo. He opened the rear door and waited for the Ambassador to climb in.

Brady was certain that the driver looked tense. On edge. Even though he looked as if he was patiently holding the door open, Brady could see that he was alert. Discreetly scanning the unfolding scene for signs of trouble.

Brady started the Granada into action. Ready to follow.

Before the Ambassador climbed into the limousine he did something that struck Brady as odd. He firmly placed his hand on the driver’s shoulder and spoke quietly.

Brady watched, as Macmillan watched.

The driver nodded, his face terse. His jaw locked, his eyes burning with a murderous coldness.

He respectfully, albeit with some restraint, closed the door. He then walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, looked briefly at his men. He barely moved his head but it was enough for them to return to their cars.

Brady watched as the limousine pulled out in the direction of Whitley Bay, leaving the two Mercedes behind.

He waited a couple of seconds for the two black Mercedes to follow. They didn’t. He had no choice but to kick the Granada into action, otherwise he would lose the Ambassador. He swerved out, performing a 180-degree turn and headed in the same direction as the limousine.

Suddenly one of the Mercedes swung out, blocking his path.

‘Fucking bastard!’ shouted Brady as he braked hard.

He looked in the rear mirror to see what the other Mercedes was up to. As expected, it had strategically positioned himself behind Brady.

‘Fuck you!’ muttered Brady as he ground the gears furiously, throwing the car into reverse.

Foot to the floor he sped backwards, steering the car around the Mercedes.

He swung the car into the back lane further down from the Grand Hotel and reversed hard, avoiding the parked cars dotted on either side. He gunned the engine on the last stretch, hoping that there was no oncoming traffic on the quiet suburban road that the back lane fed onto. There wasn’t. He turned hard right and slammed into first, and headed back down towards the coast, leaving behind the Grand to his right at some speed.

He looked to the right and saw one of the Mercedes lurch forward as the driver spotted him. In his rear view mirror he clocked the second Mercedes reversing out of the back lane behind him.

Turning left he put his foot down.

‘
Bastards!
’ cursed Brady as he threw the car across the roundabout the wrong way. Again, trusting to luck that there was no oncoming traffic.

Tyres screeching, he accelerated in an attempt to keep the limousine in sight.

Chapter Forty-Three

Brady sped over the zebra crossing and past Tynemouth boating lake, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He could see the limousine passing St George’s church as it snaked its way along the coast.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up, one hand on the wheel.

It was Conrad.

‘Conrad?’ distractedly answered Brady as he kept his eyes on the road.

He briefly looked down at his speed.

Sixty mph.

The limousine was disappearing from view.

‘Fuck!’ he muttered in frustration.

‘Sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘I’ve got some news.’

‘Go on,’ ordered Brady.

‘Simone Henderson … she’s regained consciousness.’

Brady put his foot to the floor. His speed climbed dangerously as he tried to catch sight of the limousine.

In his rear view mirror he could see he was being tailed. Both Mercedes were driving hard to catch him.

‘She managed to give us something … wrote it down.’

‘Just fucking tell me!’ shouted Brady as he swung the car round the bend in the road.

‘Her handwriting’s shaky but there’s no mistaking who she’s saying did this to her.’

Brady felt his stomach knot. He clenched the wheel. He couldn’t get rid of the image of Nick carrying Simone Henderson’s brutally mutilated, unconscious body, wrapped in a black bin liner into the toilets.

‘Macmillan. Ronnie Macmillan.’

Brady aggressively pushed his foot to the floor, ignoring the speedometer.

‘Fucking bastard!’ hissed Brady.

‘Adamson knows, sir. He’s on this now,’ informed Conrad. ‘He’s put out an all-unit alert on Macmillan.’

‘Fuck him. Does he know that Harvey and Kodovesky are tailing Ronnie Macmillan?’ demanded Brady.

‘No … not yet. That’s why I’m ringing you, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘I do know they’ve got a warrant out for his arrest and that Adamson’s on his way to Macmillan’s club to get him. But obviously, he’s not there.’

‘Get in your car and help me before that snivelling bastard takes over. I need you to intercept those bloody bastards who are trying to stop me following their boss.’

‘What’s going on, sir?’

‘I’ve got two fucking black Mercedes filled with eight ex-militia types determined to stop me following a Russian limousine that I reckon is going to take me somewhere interesting.’

‘Where are you heading?’

‘Along the coast, past Cullercoats heading towards Whitley Bay. After that, who knows!’

‘Right, sir. On my way now,’ quickly answered Conrad.

‘And not a word to Adamson or Gates. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad said. He was already running for his car.

‘Fuck!’ cursed Brady as he swung the Granada around another bend, wheels screeching.

He looked in his rear mirror and breathed out. He had momentarily lost sight of the two Mercs.

He disconnected the call.

He then put his foot down, forcing the speedometer up to 80mph.

He flicked a glance at his rear view mirror again and cursed. The first Mercedes was speeding round the bend in pursuit of him.

‘Fuck!’ muttered Brady again as he stepped on the accelerator.

He sped down the road. Up ahead a group of drunken men staggered across the tarmac, oblivious to the oncoming car.

‘Get out the way!’ shouted Brady as he slammed on his brakes.

The Granada skidded erratically before coming to a halt.

Brady thumped his horn in frustration.

‘Get out the bloody way!’ he screamed.

One of the men gave Brady the finger while others jeered obscenities.

Brady could see the Mercedes coming up from behind.

He had no choice. He was going to lose the limousine if he didn’t do something.

He kicked the car into first and swung it to the left. Mounting the pavement, he drove past the group of men refusing to move.

He quickly looked in his rear mirror. The Mercedes that had caught up followed Brady’s move, swinging off the road onto the pavement.

‘Come on, Conrad! Where the fuck are you?’ panicked Brady as he threw the car back onto the road.

Ahead of him, he could barely make out the tail lights of the limousine as it continued along the coast.

Suddenly he heard cars slamming their brakes and then furious beeping and shouting.

Conrad, thought Brady. It had to be. The station was less than a minute away by car. All he had to do was drive down one of the roads leading off the Promenade to block them.

He looked in his rear view mirror and right enough, there was Conrad’s silver Saab obstructing the Promenade road. Relief flooded through him, relief that Conrad had stopped the two cars. But it was quickly replaced by cold dread as Brady saw six of the eight men get out the two cars and make a move towards Conrad.

Brady had no choice but to leave Conrad to deal with the situation alone. He put his foot to the floor, pushing up to 70mph, hoping to God that the roads were clear. He focused on his target: the limousine which was now within sight.

Brady already knew where the Ambassador was heading. The lighthouse.

His phone buzzed again.

Brady answered it, easing off the gas.

‘Yeah?’ agitatedly answered Brady.

‘We lost Ronnie Macmillan, Jack,’ came the answer.

‘Fuck it, Tom!’ shouted Brady. ‘What did I tell you?
Don’t fucking lose them!
’

‘They got away from us at the traffic lights in Whitley Bay. We’re blocked in!’

‘Save it for someone who gives a damn! Right now I’ve got bigger problems thanks to you.’

‘Come on, Jack! You can’t blame us.’

‘Get yourselves over to the lighthouse asap.’

‘Yeah, will do as soon as these bastard lights change.’

‘I don’t care how you do it, just get there. Alright? Same applies to Kenny and Daniels,’ ordered Brady.

‘Sure,’ answered Harvey.

‘And whatever you do, do not let Adamson or Gates know where you’re going. Understand?’

Before Harvey had a chance to say anything, Brady had already cut the line.

He watched as the limousine passed Whitley Bay cemetery on the left and the crazy golf course on the right. It suddenly indicated and then turned right, straight onto the road leading to St Mary’s Lighthouse.

Chapter Forty-Four

Brady waited until the limousine disappeared from view, following the road round to the second car park that directly faced St Mary’s lighthouse. He cut his lights as he pulled in and let the Granada idle slowly into the first car park. The area was deserted. But he knew something was about to happen in the further car park hidden from public view. He tried to get the Granada as close as he could to the bend ahead so that he could make a quick getaway if necessary.

He cut the engine as adrenalin coursed through him. He had no choice but to leave the Granada and follow on foot.

Sticking to the grass verge he stealthily made his way towards the bend in the road. As he turned he saw three vehicles parked up about forty feet away from him: a black Mercedes van, Ronnie Macmillan’s Jag and the Ambassador’s limousine. Crouching down from view, he made his way to the public toilets for cover, ignoring the painful spasms in his thigh.

His breathing was shallow and fast. He tried to steady his nerves for fear they would hear him. There was only one thing going through his head: his brother.

What would he do if Nick was there? And crucially, how long did he have before backup arrived? Would there be time for Nick to disappear?

Steeling himself, he looked out from behind the brick wall of the toilet block.

He watched as the Ambassador got out of his car and walked over to the Jag accompanied by his driver. Brady watched as the rear door opened and the Ambassador climbed in and joined Ronnie Macmillan in the back. The Ambassador’s driver stood on watch beside the rear of the Jag, constantly surveying the area for any unexpected trouble.

Brady deeply breathed in as he realised Rubenfeld had been right all along.

He quickly looked around for Visa and Delta. They were talking with someone.

His heart was pounding. He felt physically sick when he realised who it had to be. The darkness made it difficult for see, but he was certain it was him. There was no mistaking it: it was his brother, Nick, who was talking to them.

Trying to control the terror that consumed him, Brady dragged his eyes away and looked over at the Mercedes van. Two men were sitting in the front watching. But it was too dark and too far away for him to be sure that they were the Dabkunas brothers.