Sleaford Noir 1 by Morris Kenyon
CHAPTER 12.
Today was the morning of Monday, the twenty-third.
I was parked further down East Road from Wheelan's industrial unit. I wasn't in my Audi A5 as that was too well known round here by now. Instead I was in a DAF tractor cab-over, the obligatory hi-viz coat covering my suit, pulled up by the side of the road as if waiting for my tachograph to give me permission to start driving again.
Where's the best place to hide? In plain sight. Although my cab-over was huge; on an industrial estate it was totally inconspicuous. The cab's heater was on and a paper beaker of Starbuck's skinny latte steamed in the cup holder next to a half eaten low-cal muffin.
A red truck drove down the road leading to the complex of industrial units. I stirred in my seat. The truck was marked up with the logo of a furniture hire company. Must be a regular as the driver bantered with the security guard leaning out of his hut before the guard raised the barrier. It was a different guard than the man I'd tied up months before. I guess that first guard had got the sack.
Eventually the truck swung into the forecourt shared by the units. I watched as the truck turned into the sixth unit. This truck wasn't for Wheelan.
I settled back in my seat and carried on waiting. Another truck turned into the complex but this time I didn't even bother stirring in my seat. It was just a flat-bed come to collect for recycling a load of blue plastic drums filled with dirty kitchen oils.
There was a long gap before the next lorry arrived during which I listened to John Humphrys on Radio 4's Today show tell me all about failed breast implants. As if he knew anything about them. My eyelids drooped so I wound the cab's window down a few inches allowing fingers of cold air to keep me awake.
Another goods vehicle turned in, also pausing at the barrier. This seemed more likely. It was a battered white Luton box truck with no markings on the side. The old van looked like it had been round the world and back. The security guard raised the barrier and I watched the Luton turn left and pull up in front of Wheelan's depot. The driver beeped his horn once, twice before the pedestrian door inset in the main gate opened.
Two men stepped out. I recognised Riordan and his friend. The man I'd once slammed into a brick wall. The second man's face looked like he had recently lost a bout in a bare knuckle prize-fight so he wasn't having much luck recently.
The two men asked the driver to step down from his cab. The driver did so, walked to the back of the truck and then unlocked the doors. Riordan climbed up into the back and disappeared from my sight. Battered-Face kept his eye on the driver. Eventually Riordan re-emerged from the back. He nodded to the driver and they shook hands.
Up in my cab-over, I felt a little like the guy the Greeks left behind with their Trojan Horse. But that guy had much the harder job as he'd had to persuade the suspicious Trojans to unlock the gates and let the hollow wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers into their city. Me, all I'd had to do was watch and wait. Which was just as well as my presence would've made Riordan and his mate more suspicious rather than less.
I smiled to myself. McTeague's plan had worked perfectly. Finally, the large vehicular gate slid up. Even from my high up position in the road outside, I couldn't see the inside of the unit. I wondered how Wheelan's men had got on with the clear-up after my fire-bombing.
After all, although the industrial unit would have had a modern sprinkler system I must have done a lot of damage to the distillery equipment. In spite of the breeze blowing in, I thought I could smell the black stench of old smoke but really I knew it was only my imagination running away with me. All the same, my nostrils twitched at the well remembered smell of burning.
As soon as the Luton was inside the metal unit, the vehicular gate rattled down. The industrial estate once again became a haven of peace, broken only by a group of smokers so desperate to satisfy their needs that they were prepared to stand outside in the wind tunnel between two of the metal units. Their laughter floated over to me as they looked at something in the fluttering pages of the Daily Star. A brown UPS courier van made a delivery but other than that, the place was as quiet as it had been at three in the morning.
I watched and waited. Maybe twenty, certainly no more than twenty five minutes later, the Luton box truck emerged from the unit and the gate slid down in its tracks immediately after. The Luton drove out past my parked cab-over and the driver gave me a little nod but without slowing down. Excellent. I took Mulhearn's mobile phone from my pocket.
How come I had Mulhearn's new phone? Too easy. For relaxation, the ex-squaddie liked to visit that massage parlour above the scruffy salon with the tacky poster of a bikini-babe and Polish signs in the window. Regular as clockwork, he was. Did he take advantage of the 'extras' on offer? What do you think? So, the other day I slipped back into Sleazeford and had a word with the Ukrainian masseuse who provided much of these services.
Even I could see what Mulhearn and her other clients saw in her. She had long blonde hair and legs up to her chin, her ass barely covered by the shortest tunic I'd ever seen. I handed her a foil wrapped pack of strong sleeping tablets and told her to spike Mulhearn's drink on Sunday night and to let me know when the man was asleep. I had to explain it a few times as her English wasn't that good but she soon grasped what I wanted. The small wedge of twenties I also gave her helped her English improve.
"Call me," I said miming a phone call. Then all I had to do was wait for Mulhearn to visit.
Today was the morning of Monday, the twenty-third.
I was parked further down East Road from Wheelan's industrial unit. I wasn't in my Audi A5 as that was too well known round here by now. Instead I was in a DAF tractor cab-over, the obligatory hi-viz coat covering my suit, pulled up by the side of the road as if waiting for my tachograph to give me permission to start driving again.
Where's the best place to hide? In plain sight. Although my cab-over was huge; on an industrial estate it was totally inconspicuous. The cab's heater was on and a paper beaker of Starbuck's skinny latte steamed in the cup holder next to a half eaten low-cal muffin.
A red truck drove down the road leading to the complex of industrial units. I stirred in my seat. The truck was marked up with the logo of a furniture hire company. Must be a regular as the driver bantered with the security guard leaning out of his hut before the guard raised the barrier. It was a different guard than the man I'd tied up months before. I guess that first guard had got the sack.
Eventually the truck swung into the forecourt shared by the units. I watched as the truck turned into the sixth unit. This truck wasn't for Wheelan.
I settled back in my seat and carried on waiting. Another truck turned into the complex but this time I didn't even bother stirring in my seat. It was just a flat-bed come to collect for recycling a load of blue plastic drums filled with dirty kitchen oils.
There was a long gap before the next lorry arrived during which I listened to John Humphrys on Radio 4's Today show tell me all about failed breast implants. As if he knew anything about them. My eyelids drooped so I wound the cab's window down a few inches allowing fingers of cold air to keep me awake.
Another goods vehicle turned in, also pausing at the barrier. This seemed more likely. It was a battered white Luton box truck with no markings on the side. The old van looked like it had been round the world and back. The security guard raised the barrier and I watched the Luton turn left and pull up in front of Wheelan's depot. The driver beeped his horn once, twice before the pedestrian door inset in the main gate opened.
Two men stepped out. I recognised Riordan and his friend. The man I'd once slammed into a brick wall. The second man's face looked like he had recently lost a bout in a bare knuckle prize-fight so he wasn't having much luck recently.
The two men asked the driver to step down from his cab. The driver did so, walked to the back of the truck and then unlocked the doors. Riordan climbed up into the back and disappeared from my sight. Battered-Face kept his eye on the driver. Eventually Riordan re-emerged from the back. He nodded to the driver and they shook hands.
Up in my cab-over, I felt a little like the guy the Greeks left behind with their Trojan Horse. But that guy had much the harder job as he'd had to persuade the suspicious Trojans to unlock the gates and let the hollow wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers into their city. Me, all I'd had to do was watch and wait. Which was just as well as my presence would've made Riordan and his mate more suspicious rather than less.
I smiled to myself. McTeague's plan had worked perfectly. Finally, the large vehicular gate slid up. Even from my high up position in the road outside, I couldn't see the inside of the unit. I wondered how Wheelan's men had got on with the clear-up after my fire-bombing.
After all, although the industrial unit would have had a modern sprinkler system I must have done a lot of damage to the distillery equipment. In spite of the breeze blowing in, I thought I could smell the black stench of old smoke but really I knew it was only my imagination running away with me. All the same, my nostrils twitched at the well remembered smell of burning.
As soon as the Luton was inside the metal unit, the vehicular gate rattled down. The industrial estate once again became a haven of peace, broken only by a group of smokers so desperate to satisfy their needs that they were prepared to stand outside in the wind tunnel between two of the metal units. Their laughter floated over to me as they looked at something in the fluttering pages of the Daily Star. A brown UPS courier van made a delivery but other than that, the place was as quiet as it had been at three in the morning.
I watched and waited. Maybe twenty, certainly no more than twenty five minutes later, the Luton box truck emerged from the unit and the gate slid down in its tracks immediately after. The Luton drove out past my parked cab-over and the driver gave me a little nod but without slowing down. Excellent. I took Mulhearn's mobile phone from my pocket.
How come I had Mulhearn's new phone? Too easy. For relaxation, the ex-squaddie liked to visit that massage parlour above the scruffy salon with the tacky poster of a bikini-babe and Polish signs in the window. Regular as clockwork, he was. Did he take advantage of the 'extras' on offer? What do you think? So, the other day I slipped back into Sleazeford and had a word with the Ukrainian masseuse who provided much of these services.
Even I could see what Mulhearn and her other clients saw in her. She had long blonde hair and legs up to her chin, her ass barely covered by the shortest tunic I'd ever seen. I handed her a foil wrapped pack of strong sleeping tablets and told her to spike Mulhearn's drink on Sunday night and to let me know when the man was asleep. I had to explain it a few times as her English wasn't that good but she soon grasped what I wanted. The small wedge of twenties I also gave her helped her English improve.
"Call me," I said miming a phone call. Then all I had to do was wait for Mulhearn to visit.