Текст книги "Just Another Day"

Автор книги: Steven Clark

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 14

‘Take the next left,’ growled the voice from behind.

‘What, back on the Motorway?’

‘Just do it. That’ll do for the time being. I need time to think.’

Johnson, pretty confident that his driver didn’t have any bugs or listening devices on his body; the overalls and trainers saw to that, was also absolutely sure that there would be plenty of them in the car. He didn’t have much choice when getting away from the industrial park. He had to take whatever car they gave him. They were bound to have fitted them somewhere. He had to get shut of this motor as soon as possible. He needed to give himself time to think. He had no problem with killing both his captives; in fact, he was rather looking forward to it. He’d had the shit kicked out of him plenty of times over the years by the screws and coppers and, even though it hadn’t been in his mind earlier that morning to take any body hostage, other than the lorry driver, this was now quite a bonus.

There was no way he was going back to the nick. He was already out on licence and with his form and today’s episode going tits up, he knew that the next sentence would be his last. ‘Hanging’ Judge Wilson had as much told him so when he gave him fifteen years. If he was caught this time, he would die in prison, plain and simple.

Well, he pondered, if I’m going to die in prison anyway, might as well make it worthwhile and see these two fuckers off. Besides, he thought, if this bastard hadn’t been so nosey this morning and just taken the pass from the fucking driver, I would’ve been sunning meself  in Spain in a few weeks time. Sunbeds and beer for the rest of me fuckin natural. He looked at the figure alongside him; and as he realised his plans would never become reality, he banged his fist hard on Dave’s thigh at the point where he had knifed him earlier causing him to cry out with pain.

John instinctively hit the brake pedal with his right foot when he heard the shout from his injured colleague.

‘Just keep fucking moving,’ came the voice from behind; ‘He’s not dying, not yet anyway.’

Johnson’s thoughts drifted back over the last few hours.

If they didn’t know before, and chances are that they would have no idea, the cops would know by now as they’d have been all over the wagon in the last half hour or so. As soon as they’d driven away from the industrial estate, the back of the container would’ve been opened. The precious cargo in the container he had left behind consisted of 24 million pounds in Bank of England notes that were on their way for incineration as they had been taken out of circulation. Even though they were destined to burn, they were still legal tender. The Bank of England sometimes transported huge amounts of cash by ordinary carriers, partly as a means of moving the money quietly, without drawing attention to the cash being taken out of the system, and partly to save money on the transportation costs.

When large amounts of notes were carried by a recognised carrier, there was a massive operation involved as the goods were easily recognised because of the Bank of England logos and the distinctive livery of the wagons. The Bank would never be able to maintain credibility if one of its vehicles was attacked by armed robbers and the load stolen. It was always necessary to have armed escorts accompanying the transfer from start to finish. It cost a small fortune in itself to keep it safe and even the Bank of England were constantly looking for ways to save money.

Johnson and his brother had no idea, not many people did; they couldn’t believe that huge amounts of untraceable cash could be moved in such an insecure way. They had happened upon the information by chance during a drunken conversation with a lorry driver on the Dock Road several months earlier.

Tony Johnson was stood at the bar of the Bramley Lighthouse Pub. A well known alehouse on the edge of the Docks that played host to many of the ladies of the night. It was well frequented by local thugs and villains. Some were just small time thieves who bought and sold knock off gear, others like the Johnsons, were particularly nasty. They were well known by many regulars to be ‘players’ and, unless you were part of their inner circle, people to keep well clear of.

A few years earlier, a new licensee at the pub who was trying his best to keep order had made the mistake of barring the brothers from the pub as a result of a drunken argument. Tony, the younger of the two brothers, had smashed a glass over the head of a punter because he hadn’t asked him if he could look at his paper. The crewman of a nearby ship had not known the reputation of the thugs and had done no more than pick up the newspaper from the table that the Johnsons were sat at. Tony took umbrage at this lack of respect and, typical of their violent lifestyle, showed him the error of his ways. The police were called and attended mob handed but nobody saw anything, such was the reputation of the brothers. The senior police officer had spoken to the new landlord and advised him that he might want to think seriously about certain members of his clientele, bearing in mind that the liquor Licence would be up for renewal at the next session of the Licensing Magistrates. The officer,

‘Would hate to have to oppose the continuation of your licence Mr Evans because you can’t keep order at your pub’.

With the police in attendance and, feeling somewhat bolstered by their presence, bearing in mind the police ‘advice’, the licensee had made a grand gesture of barring the brothers from the pub and they left quietly.

There was never any evidence, well, none that people were prepared to swear before a court, but it was common knowledge among the regular customers as to what had happened when Evans was found in the cellar of the pub a few weeks later with both his arms and legs broken in several places as the result of a fall down the cellar steps when he had gone to change a barrel. The injuries were not consistent with being caused by a fall and even though the police wanted to investigate, as far as the licensee was concerned, there was nothing to look at.

‘It was just a simple slip off the top step of the cellar officer, must have spilt some beer there before I went down.’

He never recovered fully from his injuries and never managed a pub again.

The brothers stayed away for the next few months and then began to drink there once more. There were quite a few incidents over time, but they were never asked to leave again.

Tony sat down at the table and whispered in the ear of his elder brother,

‘Eh Luke, you won’t believe what Terry Penrose has just told me. It can’t be right. No fuckin way.’ He took a large swig of his pint of lager and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘He’s got a grand in his back pocket. Say’s he gets paid extra because of some special containers that he sometimes takes out of the yard. Tapped his nose a bit when he said ‘special’.

Luke never looked up from the racing pages of the Echo.

‘Now then little brother, what’s got you wetting your pants then?’

‘He reckons it’s absolutely kosher, I know he’s arseholed after about ten pints but just look at the bulge in his arse pocket.’ Tony continued to keep his voice low and recounted the story told to him by Penrose a short time earlier.

A few months earlier, he had been due to deliver a container of used engine parts to a scrap metal dealers in Bristol. He was late getting to the depot because of a massive smash on the Motorway. When he finally got there, the gates were closed and, as his driver’s hours were up for the day, he parked up outside the yard and slept in the cab overnight. In order to do a quick delivery and get away handy, he decided early next morning to remove the seal from the container, and as the container doors were often damaged and difficult to open, he opened the doors to make sure that there wouldn’t be any hold ups once he got into the breakers yard. He knew instantly, even before the doors were open properly, that there was something wrong with the load.

Usually, there was a distinct smell of grease and old engine oil as soon as the doors were opened, but this time, the smell was very different. He couldn’t identify the strange odour; it certainly wasn’t grease or oil.

He pulled one of the two doors open fully and in the half light, he could see that there were pallets of shrink wrapped goods where there should have been open pallets of engines, gearboxes and axles. He climbed up into the container and viewed the pallets, 24 in total. They were all quite nondescript and bland looking and he looked across the top of them for a name or a company logo but couldn’t see much under the gloomy conditions.

With his torch, he could just make out a name on the side of the pallet nearest the door, ‘property of The Bank of England’.

‘Must be old documents or something,’ he said out loud, although there was no one around at that time of the morning as the delivery premises was not yet open for receiving goods. He turned intending to get down out of the container and knocked the torch on the edge of the pallet. It slipped from his fingers and wedged halfway down between two of the pallets out of his grasp.

‘Bollocks,’ he said. Ordinarily, he would have been able to get the torch after the first pallet had been taken out of the container but now, he would not be removing any pallets at all, ‘Some knobhead back at the yard has given me the wrong bloody container,’ and he would now have to drive all the way back to Liverpool and sort the mess out.

‘I can’t leave the torch on for the next four hours, the batteries will be dead,’ he said to no one in particular and began to untie the small fork lift bogey in an effort to move the offending pallet. He slid the forks under the pallet and moved it back about two feet as he heard the metallic clang of the torch falling to the deck of the container and he squeezed in alongside to retrieve it. As he picked up the torch, the beam of light picked out something unusual. He saw the outline of a £20 note that was visible in between the clear plastic shrink wrapping and the cardboard boxes that the wrapping was covering.

‘Well, I’ll have that’ thought Terry and as the wrapping was quite thick, he thought it better to slice it with the ‘Stanley’ knife that was in his drivers cab and he jumped down from the back of the container to fetch it. As he climbed into the cab he saw his mobile phone on the dash board flashing and remembered that he had switched it to silent in order to have an undisturbed nights sleep. He checked the time and saw that he had 10 missed messages and calls.

‘Fuckin hell’ he said to himself, ‘I’ve never been so popular,’ as he turned the audio back on just as the phone rang again.

‘Is that you Terry?’ as he recognised the dulcet tones of his transport manager back at the yard.

Terry heard the strain in his voice instantly. He had known Frank West for fifteen years and he knew right away that his transport manager was in a bit of a flap. Not like him, not like him at all.

‘Hello Boss, how are you on this bright and cheery morn?’

‘Where the fuck have you been I’ve been trying to contact you since midnight.’

‘Steady on Guv, no need for that at this hour of the morning. I put my phone on silent last night so I could have a decent kip.’

‘Is everything OK down there?’ said Frank, rather nervously.

‘No problem, I’ve just taken the seal off the back so I can get a quick start when the breakers yard opens in about 15 minutes.’

‘Have you er, have you opened up the box yet?’ said Frank, trying to sound very matter of fact.

Terry instantly knew that there was more to this container than he first thought and he decided not to mention anything to Frank about the £20 note stuck in the shrink wrapping. His instincts told him to play along with his boss until he had a better idea of what the call was about.

‘Not yet boss, is there a problem?’

Terry could almost feel his boss’s sigh of relief.

‘No, no problem, well, just a small one. It’s my fault Terry; I made a cock up with the paperwork back here at the office. The last three numbers on the container should have been five five three, but I didn’t have my specs on when I sorted out the paperwork and I wrote five three three instead so when you went looking for the container in the yard, you hooked up to the wrong box. Not your fault mate, entirely mine.’

Terry was now definitely suspicious of something. Frank West never apologised for anything. On many occasions in the past there had been errors in paperwork, wrong dates on the gate passes, wrong registration numbers etc. Even though Frank had made some of those errors, he never accepted it was his fault. He was the Transport Manager and he never took responsibility for errors.

‘You should all know by now gentlemen, as the transport manager, and the person responsible for hiring and firing, I do not make mistakes with the paperwork do I?’

Terry had heard that little speech for many years, in fact he wished he’d had a pound for every time he’d heard that little retort. He would be a rich man by now. There was a silence in which Terry was certain he could hear Frank snuffling at the other end of the line.

‘You okay boss?’

‘Yeah, no problem Terry. Do me a favour, stick another seal on the back and get your arse back here ASAP. Don’t stop off anywhere, and park your wagon right outside the office and come and see me. Okay mate?’

It was definitely not okay. Terry knew he would be able to exert a little pressure now as his boss was asking him to drive without any stops or breaks for five or six hours and they both knew that this was a serious motoring offence when it came to drivers hours and tachographs. There had been a number of serious and fatal traffic accidents concerning Lorries. The most serious about six months ago involved the death of a family of four. A mother and father and their two little children had been returning from holiday when their car was completely destroyed in a horrific crash on the M1 in Leicestershire caused by a lorry driver who fell asleep at the wheel of his forty ton bomb on wheels.

Anything involving young kids always tugs at the heartstrings and there had been a flurry of altered regulations in the aftermath of the crash. It resulted in the Directive that every driver of a Large Goods Vehicle was required to stop after driving for no more than 3 hours and was to have a rest break for at least 30 minutes before continuing on the journey. No ifs, no buts. 3 hours driving and then a rest break. There had been a lot of enforcement of the new legislation by the Traffic Commissioners and they had made an example of two drivers who flouted the rules. Each was given a six month ban and had their licence revoked. No licence obviously meant no job and even though this was a first offence, they were dealt with very severely as a message to other drivers who might consider ignoring the rules.

The image of the Government ‘Minister for Transport’ flashed into his mind when he recalled watching the high profile television campaign and the arrogant posturing from the Minister and usual condescending platitudes of,

‘The safety of the public on our roads is of paramount importance to our Government and we will take whatever measures we deem necessary to ensure that the drivers of these very large vehicles comply fully with their responsibilities. I must state the satisfaction of the Prime Minister and I in the manner in which the Courts have responded to our legislative changes and the recent driving licence suspensions of the drivers involved sends out a clear message to others who may be tempted to flout the regulations.’

What a load of bollocks, thought Terry. The two drivers had been made scapegoats for the killer driver in that he’d been driving continuously for 12 hours and was trying to keep himself awake by popping pills. It was bound to catch up with him eventually. Unfortunately when it did, the circumstances were absolutely tragic. If the driver had just run off the road and killed himself and no one else had been involved, there wouldn’t have been all the changes to the drivers’ hours. Those two poor sods had only gone over the 3 hour limit by 20 minutes, mused Terry, and had only done that because they were sat in another bleedin traffic jam for an hour before. They were just trying to get to the next decent truck stop for a bite to eat when they got pulled over by the traffic cops.

‘Come on boss, you know the score, I can’t drive without a break for five or more hours. If I get tagged by the Ministry lads or the police, that’s my licence and my job out of the window. Who’s gonna pay the bleedin mortgage then eh boss?’ Terry could hear the strain in Frank’s voice.

‘Please Terry; I need you to do this for me. I can’t tell you why, but I need that box back in the yard as soon as possible.’

‘Look boss, just give the customer a ring and tell him that his box has been delayed. Tell him the wagons broke down or something. These things happen. I’m not going to put my licence on the line for one poxey box. You shouldn’t be asking me to do this boss.’

There was silence on the line for what seemed like several minutes and Terry thought that he might get a decent little bonus if he held out a bit longer. He’d taken a chance before now and like many of his mates who earned their livelihoods in the same way, if the price was right, he’d have no problem driving straight back to the depot.

‘Terry, are you still there?’ came the voice cracking with emotion from the other end of the phone.

‘Of course I’m still fuckin here, where’d you think I’ve gone, fuckin Blackpool?’ Terry was enjoying having the upper hand and making his boss squirm a bit. Makes up for all the shit you’ve dished out over the years mate, thought Terry.

‘Listen, I’m going to tell you why it’s so important for you to get that box back here, quick as possible, okay?’

‘Go on then, I’m listening’ said Terry, hoping that he sounded completely pissed off, but by now very interested indeed as to what had got his boss so worried.

‘Inside that box, are 24 pallets that are heavily shrink wrapped.’

Come on sunshine said Terry to himself, that much I do know but I’m not telling you.

‘Why would anyone want to shrink wrap a load of old engine parts, he said, keeping up the pretence that he hadn’t opened the container. ‘What’s the point of that? Only makes it more difficult for the lads in the yard here having to rip off a load of plastic before they can crush the stuff. Seems a bit bleedin stupid if you ask me boss.’

Frank paused, ‘yes, but inside of that shrink wrapping isn’t old engines and gearboxes, its money.’

‘What do you mean money, what kind of money, whose is it? Am I in the shit here boss, is this a bent fucking job that you’ve got me mixed up in?’ Again there was a pause at the other end. ‘Come on boss, for fucks sake; tell me what’s going on. Tell me now or the wagon gets left here and I’m on the fuckin train home.’

‘Okay, okay’ came the exasperated tone from the other end of the office phone.

‘Terry, you must promise to keep what I’m going to tell you absolutely secret. You can’t tell a living soul anything of what I’m about to tell you, do you understand?’

‘Oh fuck off Frank, why all the drama?’

Franks tone changed instantly, it flashed back to the anger and aggression that Terry was all too familiar with as he shouted down the phone.

‘Terry, Terry, this is no fucking game. If the wrong people got to know about that lorry, we could both get seriously hurt. We could both get more than fucking hurt. Are you listening to what I’m saying? Is this sinking in to your fucking brain?’

Terry sat up sharply from his semi lying position in the cab.

‘Okay Boss, no need to go off on one, it just sounded like you were going over the top a bit. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I’m just confused, and you’ve got me more than just a bit worried now.’

‘I’m sorry’ said Frank sounding tired and weary. ‘I haven’t slept all night. When I realised my mistake with the paperwork, it was quite late and when I couldn’t get hold of you I thought the worst.’

‘Fuckin’ hell Frank, now I am worried. I haven’t heard you sound like this before.’

‘Listen Terry, each of those shrink wrapped pallets contains a million quid in untraceable ten and twenty pound notes.’ There was silence from Terry and Frank continued. ‘Every so often, as the notes get dirty and worn, the banks take them out of the system and they get replaced with new ones. The old notes, which are still legal tender, were on their way for incineration. The Bank of England sometimes transports them this way to save on the massive costs involved when they do it normally. Usually, they would have four vehicles escorting their normal wagons with two armed officers in each of the vehicles. Not so much an armed escort as a small fucking army. Anyway, twelve months ago, a decision was made to try a couple of runs, quietly and without fuss. That worked out well and the Bank saved thousands and thousands of pounds by not having to pay for the armed escorts. There was no problem until today.’

Terry sat in stunned silence as the gravity of the situation he was in began to dawn on him.

‘Terry, can you hear me, are you still listening?’ The words drifted into his ear again, ‘Terry, Terry.’

‘It’s okay boss. I’m still here. Fuckin’ hell Frank, how could you do this to me? 24 million quid in my wagon. I don’t think I’ll be able to drive this thing without crashing into something. How the fuck am I supposed to concentrate on driving knowing that I’ve got that lot in the back? Who else knows boss, could I have been followed? What if someone’s watching me now knowing what’s in the container, what if?’

Now it was Terry who was panicking and it was time for his boss to offer some words of comfort by trotting out that well known Liverpool expression, “calm down, calm down,” and trying to bring a little humour back and lighten the mood and circumstances for both of them.

“It’s ok Terry, no one knows what’s in the box. When the company took on the contract, it was agreed with the Bank of England management and our MD, Bob Stock that for security reasons, only me and their Head of Security would know which containers would be used. That’s why we have never had a problem until I made that fuck up last night.’

They were both quiet for a few more minutes. Neither said a word allowing them to mull over the thoughts going through their heads. Terry had a load of questions, but now wasn’t the time to ask them; plenty of time for the inquisition later. What should he do now?

Terry spoke first.

‘Ok boss, you’ve convinced me that you’re right. The safest thing for both of us is to get this wagon back to the yard pronto. You know I will be taking a chance on getting caught so I hope you bear that in mind when I get back.’ Terry could both feel and hear the relief when Frank spoke.

‘Terry, you’re an absolute bloody star mate. Fifty quid and a bottle of scotch if you get back here before 12.’ Terry looked at his watch and thought he could make it okay providing he didn’t get snarled up in any traffic jams.

‘Okay Frank, lunch is on you, bacon butties in your office.’

‘Nice one Terry. One more thing bollocks, less of the Frank; its boss or Mr West ok?’

They both laughed and Terry said,

‘I think we’ve got past the boss bit now eh. Frank sounds about right after today don’t you think?’ Frank laughed again down the phone and said,

‘I reckon you’re right Terry, but not in front of the other lads okay. When they’re around, its boss or Mr West, agreed?’

‘Sorted boss, now piss off and let’s hope I don’t prang this on the way back. See you soon.’

Without further ado, Terry jumped down from the cab and went to the back of the container. He opened the doors and got back inside and using the fork lift truck, made sure the pallet he’d moved to collect his torch was put back in exactly the same position as he had first found it. The last thing he wanted was for someone at the receiving depot to know that a pallet had been moved. Twenty quid would certainly come in handy for a few pints but even so, he resisted the urge to slice open the shrink wrapping and retrieve the single twenty pound note.

He wondered whether or not it was a ploy by the Bank of England bosses to see if any one interfered with the packaging in a similar way to that which used to be used at post office sorting rooms from time to time to test the employees honesty. Sometimes a ten or twenty pound note would be mixed up with the mail and parcels being sorted by the workers. Everyone was well aware that it was a plant and it always amused them when it was the only thing left on the table after it had been cleared of envelopes and packages. A big empty table except for a shiny new note always brought a smile to the faces of the sorting staff.

He dismissed the idea almost as soon as he’d thought of it. That would defeat the whole object really. The point of this operation, the blandness of the ‘ordinary’ pallets; plain boxes and shrink wrapping, was to make it all seem normal. The last thing the Bank of England staff would want to do is draw attention to the contents of the packages. Far more likely was that a stray note had got caught between the outside of a cardboard box and the heavy duty plastic when being sealed and nobody had noticed it.

He took one last look at the twenty four pallets all neat in two lines of twelve. In a strange way, he savoured the moment as he thought to himself of the cars and people he would pass on the way back to the depot. Twenty four million quid and no ones got the foggiest idea.

He climbed down from the back, closed the doors and placed a new seal over the locking mechanism. He thought about putting one of the heavy duty; high security padlocks on that he carried in the cab but then thought better of it. If I turn up at the yard with a decent padlock on the back of a container that’s supposed to be carrying old engine parts, that might just tip the wink to one of the other drivers that there is more to this box than meets the eye, he mused to himself.

Terry, whilst not exactly a knight in shining armour, did not think of himself as particularly dishonest. He didn’t mind receiving the odd few things over the years that he knew had been nicked from the docks, but he was a long way removed from getting involved in any heavy stuff. He knew some of the other drivers who were into the thefts of lorry loads of gear and he knew also to steer clear of them. He didn’t want to become a target for any of the well known criminal element that frequented the Port. Once you got involved with any of that lot, there was no going back.

He’d heard the whispers over the years and the names of a few of those who were into it, but he always kept his distance and didn’t get involved. He’d been approached on a few occasions with suggestions of earning a few bob. All he’d have to do was just, ‘leave the keys in the ignition for a few minute’s Terry while you go for a piss.’ He always reacted the same way; ‘not interested mate,’ and after a few gentle suggestions had received the same answer over the years the ‘boys’ left him alone and moved onto someone else. There was always someone looking to earn a few bob. Usually someone who could be leaned on a bit. Someone who was desperate for a bit of extra cash. More often than not, that’s all he would get. A bit of extra cash. It was the driver who took all the risks, sometimes he was knocked about a bit or even given a good hiding by his ‘mates’, ‘just to give it a bit of realism eh Bill?’ It was always the heavies higher up the chain who got the rich pickings.

‘Right then me old mucker,’ said Terry out loud, ‘1st gear, nice and gentle, no drawing attention to yourself, no tickets, no speeding and next stop; the Docks.’

He pulled away from the gates of the breakers yard as they were being noisily opened by the morning workers and saw a quizzical look from the guy in his greasy overalls with the cigarette behind his ear. He gave him a thumbs up and cheery wave and gunned the big diesel engine towards the Motorway as he chuckled nervously to himself, You’ve got no idea mate, not a fucking clue.

‘You miserable bastard,’ said Terry out loud to himself as he drove up the slip road of the M5 Motorway heading North, ‘Fifty fucking quid and a lousy bottle of scotch when I’ll be saving your fucking arse. Fifty fucking quid out of 24 million you tight arsed git.’ He began to get more than a little irate at the thought that it was him taking all the risks of losing his licence while his new best friend; who would fuck him off as soon as look at him if it suited, was drinking tea in his nice warm office.

‘You’re just a twat Frank. A bullying fucking twat’, as the wagon joined the main carriageway. The beginnings of an idea began to form in Terry’s head as he drove towards Liverpool, maybe he wasn’t quite as honest as he thought he was.