Brigands M.C. by Robert Muchamore
‘There’s some miniature tracking devices in the BMW,’ McEwen explained. ‘We can use them to follow individual boxes when the weapons are moved. Unfortunately the mini trackers are a lot less reliable than the big suckers we stick on the cars.’
‘And then we watch and wait,’ Neil said. ‘The question is how long? Hours, days, weeks?’
‘I expect that the Brigands will want their money ASAP,’ McEwen said, as he looked at his watch and yawned. ‘All I know for sure is that I’ve been on duty since I got out of bed this morning, so I hope your boss Chief Inspector Johnson is sending someone down here to relieve us before too much longer.’
‘Someone’s coming down from our London HQ,’ Neil said, shaking his head ruefully. ‘But we’re gonna have to keep our eyes propped open for a few more hours yet.’
37. HOME
James spent the night on a huge feather mattress and managed breakfast in bed before 8 a.m., when a driver from campus arrived to take him and the bike back to Salcombe. The roads were Sunday-morning quiet and driving a van registered to an organisation that doesn’t exist means you can’t pick up speeding fines, so they made three hundred and twenty miles in less than five hours.
According to Radio Cambridge the trouble at the Tea Party had resulted in several stabbings, four people with serious burns and one fatality. The story had also made it on to the tail end of national radio news.
James couldn’t be seen arriving home in a van, so they pulled over fifteen miles from Salcombe. It was a glorious morning as James rolled his bike down a ramp and he powered off with only a slight headache and his busted helmet visor to remind him of the day before. The clear roads and lush countryside made him feel like he was riding through a TV commercial.
The long journey the day before had boosted James’ confidence in the saddle. He rode fast and when he pulled on to the brick driveway he’d have been happy to turn back and do it again. He rummaged in his backpack, but couldn’t find his door key and rang the bell.
Lauren came to the door in pool shoes and James’ Green Day T-shirt. ‘Where’s your key, div?’ she said dourly.
‘I wondered where that shirt disappeared to,’ James said. ‘You look seriously rough.’
‘Joe’s party,’ Lauren explained in a flat voice, before raising her arm to show off a plaster cast.
‘Who’d you punch?’ James grinned.
‘You’re so funny,’ Lauren said, and wandered into the kitchen with James behind her. She reached up into a cupboard and grabbed two fizzy paracetamol tablets from a medicine box. As she dropped the pills into a glass of water, Dante came in from the garden smelling of grass. His bare chest glistened with sweat.
‘How convenient,’ Dante complained. ‘Lauren can’t push the mower with her broken wrist and you turn up just as I roll it back into the garage.’
Hot from his ride, James filled a mug with tap water and gulped it down. ‘You still haven’t told me how you did your wrist in.’
‘Let Dante explain,’ Lauren said, waving her hand in front of her face. ‘I’m going back to bed for a bit. Tell Chloe that if she makes lunch I don’t want anything.’
‘Not even a nice pickled beetroot and raw liver sandwich?’ James teased.
Lauren glowered at her brother. ‘James, if I spew up I’m gonna aim at you.’
‘You should have seen her,’ Dante said quietly, as Lauren padded upstairs to her bed. ‘She drank about a dozen wine spritzers. She was completely smashed. She tried squatting in the hedge at the bottom of the road to take a piss and she fell into the drainage channel.’
James burst out laughing. ‘You’re shitting me! She doesn’t usually get drunk. She always says she doesn’t like the taste of alcohol.’
‘I thought she was gonna get in trouble with Chloe,’ Dante explained. ‘Fortunately the pain from her wrist had sobered her up by the time Chloe got to the hospital.’
James found all this highly amusing. ‘Well, that’s something else I can wind her up about. Is Chloe in?’
‘Sitting on the patio reading the Sunday Times while I slaved my guts out in the sun,’ Dante explained bitterly. ‘I’m gonna dive in the shower.’
James wandered out into the back garden where Chloe lay on a sun lounger wearing big sunglasses. She had the Style magazine from the newspaper and James thought she looked sexy in shorts and a lime green bikini top. He’d already called her the night before and explained everything that happened at the Tea Party, minus his two hours bonking in the back of a caravan.
‘Get back OK?’ Chloe asked.
‘Pretty painless,’ James nodded. ‘And the hotel was nice so I got some kip.’
‘You had a call about an hour ago. Dirty Dave.’
James smiled casually. ‘He’s got a kind of hero-worship thing going with me since I saved his butt at the service station yesterday. I tell you, if I play him right I could get right in close with the Brigands.’
‘That’s why you’re here,’ Chloe smiled. She reached towards a bottle of suntan lotion that was just beyond her fingertips. ‘Pass that up, would you?’
‘Don’t strain yourself, girl,’ James said, as he kicked the bottle towards her. ‘Did you get a number?’
‘Written on a Post-it by the phone,’ Chloe nodded.
The lotion bottle made a farting noise as Chloe squeezed it. James grabbed the phone in the living-room and dialled Dirty Dave’s mobile.
‘Are you home OK?’ Dave asked.
‘Just arrived,’ James said. ‘I’m sorry I bailed, but it was getting messed up in there. My mum’s gonna kick my arse: my helmet’s busted, my Kawasaki needs a new indicator lamp and my tent, sleeping bag and everything got cremated.’
‘No one’s holding it against you,’ Dave said. ‘The Führer’s wife Marlene was on that coach. She says you’re a sodding hero the way you chain-whipped that Bitch Slapper.’
‘So where are you now?’
‘Hotel near Cambridge,’ Dave explained. ‘There’s about fifty refugees here. We pulled out not long after you and the coach. The Führer’s livid at Sealclubber. The Brigands’ reputation is in tatters.’
‘Never should have poured out of camp like that,’ James agreed. ‘Made us look proper muppets. How’s about your bike?’
‘I’m one of the lucky ones,’ Dave said. ‘The Führer lost his bike. Teeth’s had his new Speedster less than a month and it’s nothing but a charred frame. There’s gonna be a war over this. Inside the Brigands and out.’
James knew this was bad. When studying the background for the mission he’d read about wars between outlaw biker gangs in Canada, the USA, Holland, Australia and Scandinavia. They’d resulted in shoot-outs, bombings and dozens of dead bodies. Out of all the countries with large biker communities Britain was the only one that had never seen a major turf war, but the Tea Party incident looked set to change that.
‘You know I’m loyal,’ James said. ‘So did you call to check on me, or was there something else?’
‘I did have a proposition,’ Dave nodded. ‘It’s something that could earn you a good deal more than your crêpe flipping job, but it’s a matter for face to face conversation. I should be back in Salcombe by this evening. Could you meet me at Marina Heights sometime tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got school,’ James said. ‘But I can be there by about four.’
*
McEwen and Neil had spent the night in the BMW, taking turns to watch the shed, making sure that the weapons weren’t moved. When it got to one in the afternoon and they still hadn’t been relieved, Neil called his boss, Ross Johnson.
‘I do understand your position, sir,’ Neil said into his handset. ‘But we’ve been on duty twenty-seven hours straight. We need to be relieved. If someone comes in and grabs those weapons now, McEwen and I are in no proper state to follow them. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I’ve barely put a crumb past my lips since yesterday afternoon.’
Neil relayed his boss’ explanation to McEwen. ‘Ross says he??
McEwen’s eyes shot open. To Neil’s alarm McEwen snatched the mobile from his hand. ‘McEwen here,’ he shouted. ‘Now listen here, you candy-arsed penguin-poking bottom-bandit. I haven’t eaten, slept or shat. I’m sitting here in a car that’s as hot as hell, and you’re telling me that my relief has gone to check into a bastard hotel! What the hell else are they gonna do before they make it up here? Sit down for a cheese ploughman’s? Play nine holes at the seafront pitch-and-putt?’
As a Chief Inspector, Ross Johnson wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, especially by a twenty-two-year old like McEwen.
‘Now you listen here, young man,’ Johnson roared.
‘Don’t you young man me, you goat’s dangler,’ McEwen bellowed, as Neil shrivelled into his seat with embarrassment. ‘When you work with CHERUB you do what we say. And I’m saying get your people to stop whatever they’re doing and drive here and relieve my arse now … Who goes and checks into their hotel when the surveillance team hasn’t eaten for eighteen hours?’
McEwen threw the phone at Neil so hard that it bounced off his lap and hit the door, making the battery compartment fly off.
‘Glad to get that off your chest?’ Neil inquired.
‘No offence,’ McEwen said. ‘But I spend a lot of my time working with the police and the great majority of them are dipshits.’
Neil sighed. ‘Ross isn’t a bad guy. We just don’t have the budget or manpower that we really need.’
McEwen got out to stretch his legs as Neil reassembled his mobile. Standing up gave McEwen a better view and he couldn’t believe what he saw.
‘Binoculars,’ McEwen yelled, as he leaned into the car.
The magnified view confirmed that there was a police van parked by the trees on the far side of the shed, plus two armed officers taking up positions behind a hedge.
‘What are they doing here?’ McEwen shouted into the car desperately. ‘They’ll blow our whole operation.’
McEwen grabbed his security services ID from a jacket thrown over the back seat and started running flat out across the field. By the time he’d reached the front of the shed there were six uniformed officers coming towards him and a megaphone blaring out.
‘This is the police, stand still and raise your hands.’
‘Go swivel,’ McEwen shouted as he carried on steaming towards a sergeant.
A warning shot fired out of the bushes, hitting the grass about five metres behind McEwen. They were in the middle of nowhere and even if the locals hadn’t seen the police driving up to the fields, half the neighbourhood would have heard the gunshot.
‘Do not move,’ the megaphone blared. ‘Drop to your knees and place your hands on your head.’
McEwen swore as he dropped to his knees and the cops surrounded him. The senior officer was a burly sergeant all done up in riot gear. He directed four men towards the shed before pulling his baton and glowering at McEwen.
‘Think you need all that gear to storm a wooden barn?’ McEwen asked sarcastically, as he waved his ID. ‘I’m intelligence service. That barn is under surveillance and you just blew a major operation.’
The sergeant snatched McEwen’s ID and stared at it sceptically. He wasn’t the first policeman who didn’t recognise a security service identity card when he saw one.
‘Where’d you get this, sonny? Did you buy it in the pub, or laminate it yourself?’
The sergeant laughed as his colleagues used a battering ram to smash the door off the barn.
‘You’re gonna be in the shit when my people hear about this,’ McEwen shouted.
‘Cuff that, and stick him in a van,’ the sergeant told a female colleague as he swaggered uphill towards the barn. But by this time Neil Gauche had arrived, waving a more recognisable metal police badge.
‘He’s with me. Sergeant Neil Gauche, National Police Biker Task Force. What’s happening here?’
A cop shouted out from the barn. ‘We’ve got the guns, sarge. Whole van is packed with ’em.’
The sergeant looked at Neil and shook his head. ‘I don’t know who you are or what’s going on here. All I know is that this got called in by the Chief Constable for Devon. So if you want to know why we’re here, you’d better ask him.’
Neil pointed at McEwen. ‘He’s with me, can you let him up?’
‘I suppose,’ the sergeant said, and gave McEwen back his card. ‘Intelligence service, eh? You don’t exactly look like James Bond, do you? Or even very intelligent for that matter.’
The sergeant laughed at his own joke, but stopped abruptly as McEwen grabbed his riot clothing and nutted him.
38. FISHES
Chairwoman Zara Asker had cooked her Sunday roast, but instead of eating it with her family she’d had to drive to the RAF airfield near CHERUB campus and take a small jet down to Exeter.
Chloe met her in the terminal and they drove to a conference room she’d booked at short notice in a nearby hotel. As one of CHERUB’s most junior mission controllers Chloe was nervous around her boss.
‘Ross Johnson can’t make it,’ Chloe explained as they walked across a sunny car park and into the hotel’s bland lobby.
Zara wasn’t in a good mood. ‘If I can make it all the way from campus when I’m seven months pregnant, why the hell can’t he get from London?’
‘He’s in Cambridge,’ Chloe said. ‘He’s got the press on his back after the Tea Party riot.’
‘So who is here?’
‘Ross’ deputy, an Inspector named Tracy Jollie.’
‘And she’s cleared to know about the CHERUB operation?’ Zara asked.
‘We cleared the three,’ Chloe said. ‘Ross Johnson, who knew about CHERUB already, Neil Gauche and Tracy Jollie. The rest of Ross’ team know about the fake weapons buy, but not about the CHERUB operation.’
Zara nodded as they turned out of the lobby and began walking down a long corridor lined with the closed doors of banqueting suites.
‘This was the only place I could find near to the airport at short notice,’ Chloe explained.
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ Zara said, sensing Chloe’s nerves. ‘What about the three kids? How are they taking the news of the police raid?’
‘Lauren and James have been on enough missions to expect things to go wrong, Dante’s more of a worry. He has such a big personal investment in this mission. He really wants to see the Führer go to prison.’
The conference room had windows overlooking the runway of Exeter’s small airport and all the standard features: long table, overhead projector and flip chart, plus a plate of biscuits and a Thermos of hot water for making drinks.
Everyone had waited more than forty minutes for Zara. Neil and McEwen still hadn’t slept and stayed alert by pouring sachets of Nescafe coffee granules on to their tongues. Lauren sat with her head slumped on the desk, while James and Dante had built a tower out of miniature UHT milk cartons.
Zara came in and quickly shook hands with Tracy, then sat at the head of the table.
‘OK,’ Zara said, as she pulled in her chair. ‘What do we know about these police raids? How and why did they happen?’
Police inspector Tracy Jollie began to answer. ‘I’ve been on the phone with the Chief Constable for Devon and I’ve met with the inspector who ordered this morning’s raid. Last night Neil and McEwen watched four men unloading weapons from the trawler Brixton Riots. One of the crew was a young lad named Julian Hargreaves. Our teams dropped surveillance on him after he left the scene.’
‘Why?’ Zara interrupted.
‘Manpower,’ McEwen said. ‘It was me, Neil and Chloe. We chose to follow the weapons.’
Tracy continued. ‘It’s my understanding that Julian left his friend Nigel and then went to his home in the Marina View apartments. When Julian
James had heard the story already and snorted dismissively. ‘Julian isn’t the kind of guy who lets his conscience keep him awake. It’s more likely that he smoked enough dope to scramble his brain, then got paranoid about getting nicked.’
‘Maybe,’ Tracy nodded. ‘It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Julian decided to approach his father and confess to what he’d done. Jonty Hargreaves is a crown court judge with a background in criminal law. He set about doing what any father with a legal background would do, which was to find the best possible outcome for his son.
‘So the Honourable Jonty Hargreaves got Julian to write and sign a statement, explaining how he’d been dragged into the smuggling operation by Paul Woodhead in order to save his friend Nigel from a beating. Jonty then called his old friend the Chief Constable for Devon, and they carved up a deal.’
‘How did Julian know where the weapons were stored?’ Lauren asked.
‘Woodhead must have mentioned something when he was on the boat,’ McEwen suggested, before Tracy continued her story.
‘First thing this morning, Jonty and Julian presented themselves at the police station. Julian handed his written confession to an inspector hand-picked by the Chief Constable. Julian had admitted to a serious crime, but his father knows that his son is seventeen years old, Julian has no previous criminal convictions and he’s making a confession that will lead to the seizure of a large shipment of illegal weapons and the arrest of Riggs and Woodhead.’
Zara nodded. She understood how the law worked with juveniles better than most lawyers and finished the story herself. ‘So Julian will have to go to court and plead guilty to a couple of minor charges, but the judge will give him credit for confessing. And, as Julian’s still seventeen, he’s a juvenile so he won’t even have a criminal record beyond his eighteenth birthday.’
‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ Neil sighed. ‘But Judge Hargreaves’ get out of jail free scheme for Julian has wrecked any chance we had of following the weapons to their destination and getting evidence that links the Führer and other senior Brigands to the smuggling racket. The icing on the cake for us is that we’ve paid a three-hundred-grand deposit which we’ll probably never see again. It’s a massive embarrassment.’