Sleaford Noir 1 Page 4

CHAPTER 4.

   

  Driving slowly past Wheelan's betting shop, rather imaginatively called 'Wheel an' Deal', I saw that particular target was out of my reach. An armoured metal shutter closed off its front and although I knew I could have picked the lock, it would have taken too long and I didn't fancy crouching on the pavement fiddling about with the lock with several Molotovs in the car behind me. It wouldn't take even the dimmest cop to work out what was going on – or to connect me to the recent fire-bombing on the industrial estate.

  So, I carried on through the town centre and past some large buildings that belonged to some private schools and then followed a Polish registered articulated lorry as it thundered down Southgate before I made a left along Eastgate. In front of me was the Beauticians I'd snatched Claire McTeague from earlier. Maybe Wheelan thought that as this place was on a main road, it would be safe. It wasn't. A large plate glass window took up most of the front. Peering inside the Beauticians I saw a stack of towels piled up on the receptionist's desk and all the magazines neatly stacked up on a side table all ready for tomorrow. Except there wouldn't be a tomorrow. Not for this one of McTeague's businesses.

  I fetched the tyre iron from out of the Audi's trunk, took a swing and smashed the iron into the plate glass. The window exploded inwards, shards of crystal shattering and scattering into the shop and onto the pavement around my feet. Immediately, the alarm added its whooping, rising and falling high pitched din drowning out the late night / early morning street sounds. A moment later, I'd lit the next fire-bomb and threw it through the jagged hole in the window.

  Now the flames scattered over the tiled floor and licked up the receptionist's desk. I chucked another gasoline bomb over the seating area just for fun. Now the fire splashed up the walls, raced along the ceiling and took hold on the settees. I wondered if McTeague was insured against this carnage. I could have stood hypnotised and watched the fire do its work of destruction but already there were lights coming on in the flats above the shops. So I sprinted back to my Audi and drove away.

  Only one more job to do before I'd finished tonight. This was the job I didn't want to do. I'd argued against it but McTeague himself insisted so I had no choice. At first I was surprised that McTeague wanted it doing. He was one of the last of the so-called 'old-style' villains and like me he'd always left people's houses and families alone. Sure, he'd wreck businesses, break every bone in your body if needed and I knew for a fact there was more than one body feeding the fishes under the North Sea waves that was down to him.

  But until now, families had been off-limits, even sacrosanct with McTeague. But I suppose that in taking McTeague's second wife – even if McTeague was in the process of getting a divorce – the boss thought that Wheelan had crossed the line.

  As I drove, I thought about McTeague's first wife, Melissa. She knew the score all right and since her divorce, she knew men were strictly off limits for the rest of her life. Or McTeague's – whichever came sooner. Although McTeague had finished with Melissa, he didn't want any other man enjoying what he'd had.

  Has to be said, McTeague had been very generous with the divorce and bought Melissa a nice house up in the Dukeries area of north Nottinghamshire. Like a Roman emperor of old, McTeague had banished Melissa to the far-flung edge of his empire. Somewhere he could control her but far enough away that he would never have to see her. When he last asked me to check up on his ex, she was keeping herself to herself.

  She'd found a part time job in a gift shop and kept herself busy with charity work. But I bet she still missed having a man in her life. Melissa hadn't let herself go and she kept herself trim, working out several times a week at a gym in the nearby larger town of Worksop.

  But Claire was of a younger generation, more free-spirited, and had broken McTeague's rules. She'd left the older man and taken up with Wheelan. There was no way McTeague could tolerate that show of disrespect. McTeague had visions of everyone laughing behind his back even while they did business together.

  I tried to tell McTeague that it didn't matter so much these days – although their divorce hadn't come through, as long as Claire was discreet she should be allowed to do what she liked. But McTeague said from men laughing it was only a short slide before they thought he was weak and decided to help themselves to his empire. Perhaps he had a point.

  So McTeague felt he had no choice except to take her back and slap down Wheelan. Show him who was top dog in the East Midlands. But it was me carrying out the old gangster's instructions and so it was up to me as to how they were executed. The plans – not the family, I sincerely hoped.

  I drove along Boston Road before turning off into an upmarket cul-de-sac called Old Place. Maybe this was part of an older Sleaford but I wouldn't know. The large houses were all in darkness although some had carriage lamps mounted onto their gate posts or porches. I wondered if Wheelan would have one of his men on guard but fifteen minutes of quietly watching convinced me there was no-one about. Sure, the alarm box was flashing its blue light at regular intervals and I saw CCTV cameras mounted over the porch and gates. But apart from having locked the electronic gates there seemed to be no extra security precautions. Wheelan's confidence was about to be shaken.

  Except I wasn't going to do exactly what McTeague wanted. Leaving the engine on, I stepped out of the Audi's warm interior and crossed over. As well as an eight foot high metal fence topped with spear points, McTeague had also taken a leaf out of the police's crime prevention booklets which sometimes come through the door and planted a barrier of prickly shrubs behind the fence. I don't know what they were as I don't watch Gardener's World but even in the dark I could see their sharp, vicious thorns.

  Peering through the railings, the house looked asleep. Wakey-wakey, I thought as I returned to my Audi and fetched the next two of my Molotovs. I lit the tampon wicks and lobbed them high over the fence towards the front door. The bottles shattered on impact, the noise surprisingly loud in the quiet suburban night. The fire spread out over the brick paviours, the orange flames reaching out towards the garage doors.

  A light came on in the neighbouring house so I ran back to my Audi and was half way down the road before the nosy parker had time to draw the curtains. Turning the corner back onto Boston Road, I pulled up at the kerb and then slowly walked back in time to watch the fun. By this time, some of the closer neighbours were stepping out of their driveways and onto the pavement.

  They all wore nightwear, the women had mussed up hair, and one or two were still pulling on dressing gowns. Others, more prepared, were already recording the scene on their smart phones. I figured footage of the blaze would all be uploaded onto Youtube within the next half hour. Check it out if you want. As they filmed, I slunk back into the deepest shadows out of sight of any viewfinders.

  The flames soared higher into the night sky. One elderly man said to his wife that they should have brought out a Thermos of tea. Coming round the side of the house, I spotted Wheelan clutching a fire extinguisher closely followed by his moody fourteen year old daughter, Alexa, with another girl I didn't know – presumably a friend on a sleepover – and Claire herself. By the light of the fire and Wheelan's security halogen lamps I saw the girls looked scared.

  By now, as they had no extra fuel, the flames were starting to die down. All the same, Wheelan aimed the extinguisher's nozzle at the base of the blaze and smothered it with foam. Some of his neighbours cheered and one man asked if everything was all right. Wheelan gave the man a thumbs up sign but didn't say anything. Wheelan and Claire inspected the damage – which was confined to a charred garage door, burned bricks and shrubs – whilst the two girls stood together.

  Alexa's friend was crying. She probably never expected to be fire-bombed during a sleepover. I guessed it would come as a shock. Next time, she might choose her friends more carefully. Eventually, Wheelan said something to Claire and she led the two girls back down the side passage. In the distance, I heard sirens. Time to go.

  One or tw
o of the neighbours looked at me as I walked back down the road to my Audi. Nobody knew me and I was the only one fully dressed. Both things made me an object of suspicion. Back in the car, I yawned widely. I could have done with a slug of caffeine or one of those high energy drinks but I'd forgotten to buy one. I shook my head, pressed the button to lower my window and drove away.

  In my rear view mirror I saw blue flashes from an emergency services vehicle. However, I still had a lot to do tonight. Glancing at the dashboard clock, I saw I was cutting it fine if I was to complete tonight's last job.

  Driving along Boston Road, now the B1517, heading out of Sleaford I was soon out in open countryside. I continued east until the B1517 joined the main A17 highway towards Boston and the coast. I had no time now to deal with my next job in Boston itself but could only hope to intercept them somewhere along the A17. That would have to do.

  As the lights of Sleaford dwindled away in my rear mirrors I just hoped I'd recognise the truck when I saw it. Even at this time of night, or very early morning if you prefer, there was traffic in both directions along the A17. Like me, some heading towards Boston or Spalding others back to Sleaford and then onto Newark-on-Trent.

  Keeping my window down, the cold slipstream freshening me up I drove into the dawn. Except it still wouldn't be dawn for another couple of hours or more. By now Alex Lester had finished his show so I tuned into Lincs 96.7 FM for something a bit livelier. Something that would help keep me awake. I turned up the volume.

  The A17 is a road with few curves or bends as it stretches across the flat Lincolnshire countryside. No wonder they call this area Holland Fen. It really is as flat and featureless as the Low Countries. In the distance on either side of the road, I saw a few lights coming from early rising farmhouses but not much else. I gained on the next set of tail lights and followed a Volvo estate as we carried on.

  Oncoming headlights filled my windscreen. I looked to my left; no only a car. Not what I was looking for. As I drove I wondered about the person in the car ahead. A sales rep most likely, I thought, hurrying to a power-breakfast with his client. No, her client as my headlights showed the driver had long hair and a slim build. Also she drove carefully. To keep my mind occupied, I wondered what she was selling – maybe pharmaceuticals, maybe greeting cards, maybe a new type of software program? Or maybe she was the area manager for a chain of gastropubs?

  A blare of an air horn, a glare of hi-beam headlights. My Audi filled with white light from an oncoming heavy goods vehicle. I'd crossed the centre line and had strayed into the path of oncoming traffic. Desperately, I hauled on the wheel and dragged my coupé hard over back to the left. The H.G.V. blasted past, its wheels huge in my sight. The driver leaned on his horn, the sound also filling my car.

  I wiped perspiration from my forehead. That was close – far too close. I must have dozed off behind the wheel – one of those micro sleeps lasting only a few seconds but that's the sort of inattention that can get you killed. I wound the window down some more, sucking cold air deep into my lungs and turned up the radio's volume.

  Taking a renewed grip on the wheel I stared ahead through the windscreen concentrating on the road ahead. Within a minute I was back behind the Volvo. As I drove I also kept an eye on the oncoming traffic – the vehicles driving in the direction of Sleaford. All the cars I could ignore but I had to check out the licence plates of every truck. Fortunately, there weren't too many. The first few were all British, then a Dutch one. No interest to me. Then a.. a... yes a Polish H.G.V.

  My interest picked up as I scoped its plate. No, no good. I drove on into the night. I yawned again and shifted in my seat. This wouldn't do. We came to a fork in the road. The Volvo carried on along the A17 towards King's Lynn and Norfolk but I turned off along the slightly narrower A1121 to Boston.

  I thought I'd have seen the Polish truck I was looking for by now. Maybe the driver had been delayed at customs. Maybe he'd had a breakdown. My mind was filled with all sorts of possibilities. Then I thought I saw it coming. A smile came to my lips. Only to vanish again. Right model – a Ford Luton box truck – right colour, but wrong nationality. Another few miles clicked up on my odometer. I was past the village of Hubbert's Bridge.

  Much further and I'd be in Boston itself and then the North Sea.