Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

CHAPTER FIVE

Gene killed the engine and let the Cortina idle silently to a stop.

‘So what’s the plan now?’ whispered Sam.

‘We sit here and do the crossword,’ Gene whispered back. ‘What do you think, Tyler you dope? We get over there and cop a gander. Don’t make a sound. Don’t even fart.’

Gene slipped silently out of the Cortina, and Sam followed him, crouching low as they made their way to the knot of trees up ahead. Through the branches they could make out the side of the white van, parked just off the road; closer still, they began to make out voices.

‘We want proof you haven’t done anything.’ It was a male voice, the accent richly Northern Irish. Surely it was Michael Deery.

‘Because if you have done something, you’ll regret it, you bastard — I swear to God, you’ll regret it.’ Female. Irish. That was Cait.

A very different voice replied, ‘The trouble with you types is that you’re too used to getting your own way. You think you can intimidate everyone. Well — not me. Not us.’

This third voice was English — very English. It had the tones of a middle-class Southerner, not the usual voice of an IRA hitman. Sam and Gene, crouching unseen amid the trees, exchanged a glance, then crept closer.

‘I’m not making threats, Cowper,’ Michael said. His voice was tight and constrained, as if he were speaking through gritted teeth. Barely suppressed violence crackled from him. ‘I’m not threatening ya, I’m tellin’ ya. If you bastards do anything — anything at all — we’ll be after you, you hear? And not just you. We’ll be after your kids. We’ll be after your families. We’ll dig up your parents’ bloody graves and desecrate them an’ all. We’ll rip your stinkin’, filthy houses down with all you bastards inside ’em, and burn ’em to ashes, and bury ’em under lime. Everything you are, everything you hold dear, will be blown to pieces — by us — by me.’

‘I find all that most fanciful,’ laughed Cowper. ‘But, really, you can keep your hair on, both of you. We haven’t done anything untoward. Not a thing. Not yet, we haven’t.’

‘Prove it,’ Cait suddenly cried out.

‘You’ll just have to take my word for it, I’m afraid.’

‘We’ve kept our side of the bargain. We want proof you ain’t done nothing.’

‘I don’t have any proof,’ said Cowper.

‘Then get proof!’ spat Cait.

Cowper sighed, theatrically, and said in a weary voice, ‘We appear to be going round in tedious circles. I can’t offer you any proof of anything. I can only offer you my word. And that, I know, means nothing to you. But really — why would we damage our prize asset when it’s paying such dividends for us? We are very happy with the situation at present and see no reason to change it. So, if you’ll be so kind, shall we get on to the business at hand? I’d like to see the goods. I take it they’re in the boot of your car?’

‘You get nothing from us until we get proof you ain’t done nothing.’

Hiding behind a tree, Sam peered out. He could see the Deerys standing by the open boot of their car, Cowper positioned across from them, his shoulder resting against the side of his van, round glasses glinting. Even from a distance, Sam could feel the air between Cowper and the Deerys fizzing with animosity. Hatred seemed to spark like electricity from Cait Deery’s icy, glaring eyes; Michael Deery’s jaw muscles were tensing convulsively, his hands balling into tight fists, as if he were about to spring forward and beat the living crap out of the Englishman at any moment. But Cowper was relaxed, half-smiling, a man very much in control, showing not the least sign of being alarmed or threatened. Sam examined him closely. He was young, with fair hair that reached the collar of his denim jacket; his face was lean, intelligent, made more studious by the round-lensed glasses that perched high on his narrow nose.

Cowper … Cowper …

Sam was turning the name over and over in his mind, seeing if he could place it. But it meant nothing to him.

‘My patience is wearing perilously thin,’ Cowper said, and a hard edge had crept into his tone. He glared at Cait and Michael in turn. ‘In fact, I’m starting to suspect some sort of subterfuge.’

‘We just want to know the-’

‘I know full well what you want. And you know full well my answer. Why can’t you understand the situation? You have no bargaining power over us. None whatsoever. You will comply with the terms of our arrangement, and you will do so without argument or complaint. Now, if you don’t hand over what’s ours, I’ll report back that you’re failing to cooperate. You know what’ll happen. And you don’t want that to happen, do you? Of course not. So let’s get on with the business of the day, shall we? I trust you’ve brought the merchandise with you. Would you be so kind as to let me take a peek, please?’

After a tense pause, the Deerys leant into the boot of their car and together hauled out the package.

‘I want to see inside,’ said Cowper mildly.

‘It’s what you asked for,’ said Michael.

‘I’m sure it is. But no harm to make sure.’

‘You think we’d risk anything?’ snapped Cait. ‘You’d think we’d be so stupid?’

‘If it’s what we asked for, then you’ll have no objection to my taking a look,’ smiled Cowper. ‘So open it.’

What we asked for, Sam noted. Unless Cowper was using the royal ‘we’, this suggested that he was part of a bigger organization. And it certainly wasn’t the IRA.

He’s with the RHF, surely, Sam thought — whatever the RHF actually is.

Michael Deery reached into his pocket and produced a flick knife. The blade shot out menacingly. Sam could see Michael fighting the urge to thrust it into Cowper’s heart — and so could Cowper, who smiled, daring Michael to strike. Michael’s hand shook. Cait whispered something to him that Sam couldn’t hear.

‘Your wife’s right,’ said Cowper, insufferably smug. ‘Now, get on with it.’

Michael stuck the blade into the side of the cardboard box and cut a rectangular flap. Not even bothering to take his hands out of his pockets, Cowper sauntered over and put his eye to the hole. If Michael’s rage had got the better of him and he decided to strike with the knife, Cowper was wide open, completely unprotected. But from his attitude it was clear that he knew Michael would not strike — that he would never strike — because Cowper had an aura about him, an air of being untouchable. Whatever hold he had over the Deerys, it was unbreakable.

This isn’t an IRA handover, Sam thought. This is something else entirely. Surely even Gene can see that for himself now.

Cowper smiled at what he saw in the box, then straightened slowly. ‘Well, everything looks very much in order. Excellent. Tiptop. Now be so kind as to stash it carefully in the back of the van.’

‘You’re not the boss of us, you stinking English bastard,’ Cait hissed.

‘Au contraire,’ Cowper replied. ‘As long as we’re babysitting for you, we most definitely are “de boss o’ yous”.’ He spoke these last four words in a mocking Irish accent.

Babysitting? thought Sam. He shot a glance across at Gene, but his guv’nor was intently focused on the scene in front of him.

For a few moments, Michael Deery didn’t move, just stood glaring at the Englishman, and Sam could see that his self-restraint was at breaking point. At any moment, he’d attack. But, suddenly, tears of rage and frustration welled up in Michael’s eyes, and in the next moment all the fight had gone out of him. He hung his head and painfully swallowed down his tears.

‘If the histrionics are now all over and done with, perhaps we might get on with the job at hand,’ said Cowper. ‘Get that box into the van, and let’s have no more shilly-shallying.’

Obediently, but burning with resentment, the Deerys carried the box across to the van and stowed it.

‘Nice job, very well done,’ grinned Cowper. ‘I think that just about concludes matters for the time being, yes?’

Cait Deery paused to fix the Englishman with a look of pure hatred, standing almost nose to nose with him. Michael gently tugged her arm, but for some seconds she wouldn’t budge.

The Englishman smiled a slow, cold smile, then said, ‘Can you even imagine what they’ll do if you lay so much as a finger on me?’

Cait’s face flushed scarlet with rage. Moments later, the colour drained from it entirely, leaving her cheeks and even her lips ashen and bloodless. Cowper patted Cait’s shoulder in a mocking pretence of friendship, then turned away, his John Lennon spectacles sparkling insolently, and climbed back into the cab of his van as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Top o’ the mahnin’ to de pair o’ ya,’ Cowper called out to them mockingly, and started the engine.

Suddenly Gene tapped Sam’s shoulder, and indicated with a jabbed thumb that they were to get back to the Cortina double pronto.

‘That’s it,’ said Gene as he settled himself behind the wheel. ‘We’re following that long-haired southern poofter. We’re sticking to him like glue.’

‘The Deerys might be IRA, but there’s no way Cowper is,’ said Sam, watching the white van trundle backwards onto the road, turn, and start heading back the way it had come. ‘What was all that about babysitting?’

‘Worry about it later,’ growled Gene. ‘Right now, we’re playing “Follow the Bastard”. Get ready to call for backup — it’s likely he’s going to lead us right to his IRA playmates.’

‘Guv, he’s not IRA. How many more times? He’s part of the RHF.’

‘Oh, yes, those made-up baddies you keep banging on about.’

‘Come on, Gene, open your eyes. Whoever Cowper is, he’s certainly no friend of the Deerys. He’s coercing them to hand over guns or explosives that are meant for the IRA. He’s blackmailing them so he can supply the RHF with them instead. You can see that, Guv. Surely you can see that.’

‘If I was to go along with you, Sam, I would first have to admit that I was wrong, and then — even worse — that you were right, and I’m not prepared to do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re an irritating smart-aleck tit and I’m not in the mood to be gracious. Now, get ready to call for backup in case things start getting frilly.’

Gene let the van get a good couple of hundred feet headway on them, then hit the gas and followed. Sam glanced back and caught a glimpse of the Deerys. They appeared briefly by the side of the road, comforting each other, hugging, sobbing, until he lost sight of them entirely.

The van made its way back into town and began a long, meandering crawl through the grim suburbs and rundown industrial outskirts. Gene held back, keeping his distance, but, as time dragged on, he grew impatient and tetchy. He started nosing the Cortina up close to the van as if he were about to ram it in frustration.

‘Chuffin’ Nora! Is this twat taking the scenic route or what?’

‘Don’t get too close, guv. Play it cool.’

‘Play it cool? You’re not about to break into West Side bloody Story, are you, Sam?’

‘If you tailgate him like this he’ll clock us clear as daylight.’

‘I know what I am doing,’ declared Gene. ‘Now give your chops and my ear’oles a rest, Samuel. This is worse than having a bird in the car.’

Sam threw his hands up in frustration and fell silent. But then he looked out of the window.

‘Guv!’

‘I told you to pipe down and let me drive.’

‘But, Guv-’

‘I am this close to hitting the ejector seat.’

‘Guv, we passed that factory ten minutes ago.’

‘What factory?’

‘The one we’re passing again right now. I remember that corrugated roof and the two chimneys.’

‘Is this some pathetic attempt to impress me with your powers of observation? Because if it is, Tyler, I can assure you that-’

‘Guv, Cowper’s driving in circles. You know what that means.’

Gene fell silent. He knew very well what that meant. Driving in circles — it was a standard means of checking to see whether the car that was always in your rear-view mirror really was following you.

‘He’s clocked us,’ said Sam.

‘Then let’s stop fannying about and nick him,’ barked Gene, and without warning he floored the gas. The Cortina lurched forward and plunged into the oncoming lane. Horns blared and cars ducked out of the way. Sam found himself grabbing frantically at the wheel.

‘You’re going to kill us.’

‘Get your flippers off my ruddy motor!’ Gene bellowed. He shoved Sam back and pulled the Cortina alongside the white van at high speed. ‘Nick him, Tyler! Bloody nick him!’

Sam wound down his window and waved his police ID about.

‘Police!’ he yelled. ‘Pull over!’

Cowper was visible in the cab of the van. He glanced across at them, that same infuriating smile still on his lips.

‘Pull over! Police! I won’t tell you ag-’

Cowper jerked the wheel to the right. The van veered into them, crashing against the passenger side and bouncing the Cortina hard on its suspension.

‘Cheeky little sod,’ Gene growled, hitting the brakes and tucking the Cortina back in behind the van again. ‘Right, he’s done his bit — now it’s my go.’

He pulled the Magnum from beneath his coat, leant out of the window, and squeezed off a shot. Fire spat from the muzzle of the gun. The van’s rear tyre exploded. Strips of rubber flew across the road as the shredded remains wrapped themselves crazily around the spinning axle. The van veered, crossed into the oncoming lane, struggled drunkenly back.

‘For God’s sake, Gene, you’re going to cause a pile-up.’

But Gene couldn’t give less of a toss what Sam thought he was going to cause. He stamped on the gas. The Cortina roared forward, tearing up recklessly on the inside of the van. Steering with one hand, Gene got himself positioned alongside the cab and took careful aim. Cowper had time to look round, saw the light glinting along the barrel of the Magnum, and at last the smug bloody smile vanished from his face.

The guv’nor squeezed the trigger. ‘Say cheese.’

Gene bullseyed the front tyre, shredding it. The van lurched madly and swung violently in front of them. Gene slammed on the brakes; the van missed the Cortina’s bonnet with an inch to spare, and slammed into the hard shoulder. Crashing through a barrier, it went cascading down an embankment towards a dry gravel pit.

With a piercing screech of rubber on tarmac, the Cortina slewed to a wild stop, and in a heartbeat Gene was out and running, the smoking Mangum in his hand. Sam flung open his door and belted after him. They threw themselves down the steep embankment, fetching up by the van that lay overturned in the gravel, fountaining steam from its shattered engine block. Gene leapt onto the cab and stood astride the upturned window, aiming the barrel of the Magnum directly down at the man in the cab.

‘Well?’ he intoned. ‘Do ya? Punk?’

There was a flash of light and the sharp crack of a bullet, and for a split second Sam thought Gene had actually blown Cowper away, executing him in cold blood. But in the next moment he realized the shot had come from inside the cab. Gene threw himself backwards, landing heavily in the gravel.

Sam drew his own gun and raced to cover Gene, who was already scrambling furiously to his feet. Cowper appeared, popping up from the open window of the overturned cab, blood smeared over his face, his long hair in wild disarray, a pistol in his hand.

‘Stop! Police!’ Sam screamed, levelling his firearm straight at Cowper.

Cowper fired without hesitating, his shot going wide and kicking up a sharp shower of gravel just past Sam’s feet. Sam replied with a shot of his own; it clipped Cowper hard in the shoulder, flinging him backwards and sending the pistol spinning from his hand. Cowper cried out, furiously clutching his upper arm as it spurted with blood, then slid back down into the cab, groaning.

‘The suspect’s disarmed,’ Sam yelled. Then, ‘You okay, Guv?’

‘Happy as a sandboy,’ Gene said. But then he took in the state of his camelhair coat, encrusted with a layer of filthy gravel. ‘Correction: make that “mortally offended”.’

He strode across to the van, clambered onto its upturned side, flung open the door and jumped inside. From within the cab came a series of desperate screams — Aaargh! Aaiiee! No! No! Nooooaaaaghh! — as Gene Hunt explained to Cowper the importance of treating camelhair with the proper respect.