Sleaford Noir 1, Morris Kenyon [children's ebooks online .txt] 📗

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.

 

CHAPTER 5.

 

Yet another Luton truck approached and I scanned its licence plate. Yes! Yes! Yes! The plate started with LRA 7. All my fatigue, all my exhaustion washed away and I sat up straighter. By now the truck had passed by and I saw its red tail lights receding in my mirror. A lay-by came up ahead. So I swung in, avoiding a length of black shredded tyre, and turned around, following the Luton box truck.

Accelerating, I was soon up behind it. I flashed my lights but the driver took no notice. If anything, he sped up and the lumbering van slowly gained speed. My foot pressed the accelerator down. Sixty, sixty-five. I flashed my lights again and again. No response. The van was now up to seventy. I thought these things were all fitted with speed governors nowadays but this van didn't seem to be.

There was nothing coming so I pulled out and sped up alongside the van. I pointed at the driver, making gestures for him to pull over. I saw the man had a huge handlebar moustache like it was 1974 all over again. He ignored me. So I made more gestures but then had to drop back behind the Luton as a Ford Mondeo was bombing down the road towards us. As soon as the Mondeo passed I pulled out and resumed position alongside the Luton.

One last chance. More gestures; frantically, urgently waving to the driver. The man glanced my way but then turned his head and looked away, his eyes staring steadily at the road ahead. Well, if that's the way he wanted it. I looked both ahead and behind. There was no-one near us, only a few headlights far off around the slight curve in the road. Almost perfect.

I leaned to one side and pulled out my Beretta 92 semi-automatic. I then wound down the passenger window to its fullest extent before taking aim. Fortunately the A17 was smooth and wide at this point. I matched speeds with the Luton box truck and fired. Two things happened. The bang in the enclosed space deafened me, the after effects ringing in my ears, and I smelled cordite smoke before the wind rushing in blew it away.

The other thing was that the Luton's front driver's tyre shredded as the nine millimetre Parabellum hit, shedding its rubber along the highway. That grabbed the driver's attention like nothing else could. The man gripped his wheel wrestling with it to keep control. By now, my Audi coupé had shot ahead. I decelerated, dropping back but keeping my distance as the van's driver controlled his swerves. Let's make things more difficult.

I took aim a second time and shot out one of the rear tyres. No way could the driver control his vehicle now. Giving in to the inevitable, the driver steered over to the hard shoulder by the side of the highway. He switched off the engine but didn't get out.

Pulling up in front of the Luton, it was me who got out. I walked over to the Luton in what I hoped was a slow and menacing way and the driver watched me approach. He clicked down the door lock and sat there, slab-like. I saw him pick up his cell phone so I shook my head at him. I jerked up my Beretta's barrel in an unmistakable sign for him to unlock. He mistook my signal and looked at me wide eyed with fear. So I aimed the pistol at him through the glass and tightened my finger on the trigger still shaking my head. No mistaking my intentions.

The driver dropped his cell and lifted the lock. I opened the van's door. "Out," I snapped. The driver gabbled something in Polish or Lithuanian. However, I was too tired to care. I knew the man must speak some, even if only a little, English and I didn't have the time to mess about. I stretched up, took a fistful of his jacket and hauled him out of his cab. He stumbled and almost fell at my feet. I showed him the Beretta 92 again, making sure he got a really good look at its deadly shape.

Pushing the driver away from the Luton, I leaned in and took the keys out the ignition. Then I tossed the keys to the driver and pointed with my semi-automatic to the cargo area of the van. He got the idea and walked back with me. A car sped past, its headlights washing us in colour before vanishing. If the car driver saw the Luton's shredded tyres, he must have thought I'd stopped to help.

In the darkness at the back of the van, the driver fumbled with the keys. "Hurry up," I said. The back had been padlocked and the driver snapped open the lock and lifted it from the hasp. He then slid up the back. Even in the near dark, I saw the back was quarter filled with plain cardboard boxes.

Several people sat amongst the boxes. They looked at me as the Luton's tailgate rolled up. Some stood and picked up rucksacks, suitcases and several plastic carrier bags.

"Out. Now," I told the people.

The driver opened his mouth to speak. Until I planted my Beretta 92 in his ribs. Then he got the message loud and clear and closed his mouth again. We stepped to one side to let the people get off. They were a mixed bag – a petite Chinese woman, a very tall African youth, three young men from the middle east, maybe Iraqis or Syrians or Kurds or something and lastly an older Indian or Pakistani gent.

So Wheelan was muscling in on the human trafficking front as well. McTeague wouldn't like that. The people shuffled out of the back of the Luton box truck. The Indian helped down the Chinese girl. The group stood looking about them, dazed, confused by the side of the road. This wasn't what they expected at all. They must have been told they would be dropped off in a city, not dumped in the middle of nowhere in the bleak, windswept Lincolnshire countryside.

Another few cars sped by. One of the drivers slowed down slightly to take in the little scene. The people, the immigrants started talking in their own languages. I didn't need to speak them to know that they were protesting that this wasn't what they had paid for.

One of them, the Indian gent, pushed his way to the front. "Excuse me. We were told we would be taken onto London," he said in perfect if heavily accented English. "And I cannot see Big Ben." I turned to the man. He stepped back, catching sight of my pistol, and a look of alarm crossed his face.

"Your bus has broken down. London's that way. If I were you, I'd start walking before the cops round you all up and deport you."

He turned to his comrades and tried to explain. With angry scowls from the middle easterners and tears on the face of the Chinese girl they shouldered their bags and started walking. Not a good deal but at least they'd arrived somewhere in the promised land so they couldn't complain too much.

I turned back to the Polish driver. He backed away. "Get your bag and passport and you can start walking as well." He nodded, returned to the cab and pulled out a blue holdall. Maybe thinking he'd be blamed by his immigrant passengers who were now walking along the highway towards Sleaford in a group, the driver turned the other way and started walking back to Boston. He cast a glance back at me.

I jogged to my Audi, took out my last Molotov, lit its tampon wick and tossed the bottle into the Luton's cab. Orange flames lit up the inside of the windscreen. I raced back to my car, engaged first gear and pulled away just before the van exploded.

Another yawn hit me and I felt my jaws crack. I wanted, no I needed sleep; but no chance of that tonight. Instead it was eastwards along the A1121 towards Boston for me. After a few hundred yards I passed the Polish van driver. He shook his fist as my Audi sped past but didn't break his stride.

I hit Boston just as the earliest risers were out on the streets. There were a few deliveries to newsagents and a group of men climbing into the back of a muddy Transit van, probably for a back breaking day labouring on one of the local farms. The men looked exhausted and that was even before they'd started work. I drove down to the harbour and walked out along the quayside.

For a port, Boston is a long way inland. Maybe the coast has shifted since it was founded? Don't ask me as I'm not from around here. Now the harbour is sited along the banks of the river Witham. The muddy river flows sluggishly between concrete quaysides and wharfs. A rusting crane stood nearby overlooking a number of barges and narrow-boats that were moored to the quayside. A couple of men wrapped in thick pea jackets leaned against the crane and muttered in Russian or something.

Heading away from Boston towards the open sea was a small trawler or fishing boat towing a dinghy, its sailing lights rocking slightly as its diesel engine moved it downstream. That must have been the boat that brought in the immigrants, I thought, as I made a note of the number painted on its side. Or should I say bulwark? Don't ask me. Opposite me, on the far bank, stood a group of grey warehouses, their outlines sharp under the glare of industrial lighting.

As the fishing boat moved further downstream along the river I saw the eastern horizon shade from black to dark grey and then a still lighter grey. The start of another day. No rest for me. I took in several deep breaths of the oil and fish smelling salty air before realising I was starving.

Hands in my pockets, I turned away from the river Witham and walked over to a dockside greasy spoon diner. Even at that time of the morning the café was packed with men – truck drivers, dockers, fishermen, cabbies as well as the usual handful of runaways, odd-bods, the down at heel all nursing a mug of tea for an hour's warmth and those for whom life dealt a bad hand. Donkey jackets, fluorescent hi-viz coats and cast off military gear seemed to be the dress code here.

The men looked at me as I opened the door and walked into the steamy heat inside. I heard voices talking in several different languages. No wonder the place is also known as 'Bostongrad'. There were one or two wolf whistles. I put it down to my suit as I don't suppose many people in suits ate here. I walked up to the counter.

"Full English – no black pudding – extra toast and tea," I ordered. The short-order cook stared at me. Maybe because I keep fit and work out and don't look the sort who would normally go for this sort of grub. However, you can get away with it now and again and I really needed the calorie infusion. I'd work it off later.

I picked up a copy of the Daily Star from the end of the