Motive Page 12

  Kelly stood on tip-toes and gave him a peck on the cheek, then threw her handbag over her shoulder and walked into the building. Through the glass façade, Scott watched her head straight towards the elevators, then he picked up the two bags and walked towards the Radisson.

  Chapter 12

  Life for Ryan Anderson had improved greatly since being added to Franklin Marsh’s payroll. For one, he could now afford to eat more than just instant noodles. His new flat, too, was a vast improvement. Compared to the bedsit, it was a palace. It boasted one large bedroom, a shower room, and a large kitchen/diner, fitted with top-of-the-range appliances. It belonged to Marsh, one of dozens of properties in his portfolio, and because Ryan was only declaring a salary of around eight grand a year, the government was covering a large part of the rent. The rest of his pay was cash-in-hand.

  Ryan was in the middle of washing the dishes when the doorbell rang.

  He knew it would be Paul.

  Ryan dried his hands and opened it, and Marsh’s right-hand man walked in.

  “Settled in?”

  “Just about,” Ryan said. He had only been in the place for three days, but already it felt like home. “Fancy a beer?”

  “Nah, I’m not staying. Just wanted to give you a heads-up on your next job.”

  “Okay. When are we going?”

  “An hour.”

  “Short notice,” Ryan pointed out.

  Paul merely shrugged. “You remember Terry?”

  “Dover, the guy with the buzz cut.”

  Paul nodded. “He’ll pick you up at six and give you the details.”

  “Still not gonna tell me where I’m going?”

  “What’s the point?” Paul said. “You’ll find out when you get there, anyway.”

  Ryan sighed. “I was hoping you’d be done with the mushroom treatment by now.”

  “I said the other day that I was wrong about you being a tosser. I didn’t say I completely trust you. That’s gonna take time, and I’ve only known you a couple of weeks. You passed the tests, but it’ll be months, even years, before you’re one of us. Until then, you do as I say and stop with all the fucking questions. Got it?”

  “Crystal,” Ryan said, gesturing around the room. “No way I wanna give this up.”

  He was hoping to have won Paul round by now, but clearly he had work to do. He didn’t know for sure what Paul’s problem was, but Ryan guessed it had something to do with the story he’d told on the way back from Dover. Paul had been the one to do the background check on the guy who’d turned out to be a cop, and he blamed himself for not being thorough enough. It wasn’t a mistake he was likely to make twice, which meant Ryan could expect severe scrutiny for some time to come.

  With everything in his past laid bare, it shouldn’t be a problem.

  “Play your cards right and do as you’re told, you’ll look back on this and think it’s a dump. You’re on a good earner, now. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Ryan had no intention of messing it up. “I’d better get packed, then. Seven days, you said?”

  “Six, maybe seven. Best to take extra. And take a shower. It’ll be your last one for a few days.”

  Ryan showered, then went to the bedroom and threw a weeks’ worth of clothes into a holdall, adding his wash kit and a couple of paperbacks.

  Paul had made coffee by the time Ryan reappeared. They made small talk for fifteen minutes until Paul received a text message.

  “They’re here.”

  Ryan pocketed his phone, but Paul told him to leave it. Ryan was about to argue a case for taking it, but thought better of it. To stay on Paul’s good side, he would have to toe the line.

  Ryan locked up and carried his bag outside. The transport wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

  “We’re going to be in that for a week?”

  “Pretty much,” Paul said, smiling at Ryan’s discomfort.

  The Transit van looked to be quite new, but that was no guarantee of comfort.

  Paul handed over a bundle of euros. “That’ll cover your expenses. Terry’s in charge, so do as he says.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “Nah. This trip’s a pain in the arse.” Paul opened the rear door with a grin. “Have fun.”

  Ryan climbed in and immediately knew he was going to hate every second of the journey. The van stank of farts and sweat, and he guessed they’d come from the big guy in the passenger seat.

  The cargo area contained a large inflatable mattress and two sleeping bags. There was also a wooden crate that had been turned upside down behind the driver’s seat, and a petrol can. Ryan sat on the crate and Terry turned to face him.

  “You drew the short straw, huh?”

  “Looks like,” Ryan said. “So where are we going?”

  “Abroad,” the big man replied. “Paul says that’s all you get to know.”

  “This is Phil,” Terry said. “He can’t spell tractor but he can lift one.”

  “Fuck off, Tel” the heavily-tattooed Phil growled. He threw a meaty paw over the back of the seat, and Ryan shook it. The grip was powerful, just what Ryan had expected from a man with no neck and a body that appeared to be solid muscle under all the ink. He looked like he lived in a gym, and Ryan guessed his diet consisted solely of protein and steroids.

  “I’m Ryan.”

  “I know,” Phil said, and faced the front. Terry started the engine and Ryan grabbed on to the back of his seat as the van lurched forward.

  “It’s not going to be that bad,” Terry said as he headed towards the motorway. “We’ll be stopping at the services for petrol and something to eat, then taking a ferry. Until then, you might as well get your head down.”

  “I’m not tired,” Ryan assured him. “Want me to share the driving?”

  “You can take over once we get to Europe. Have you driven abroad before?”

  “A couple of times, in the army.”

  “Oh yeah, you was a soldier,” Phil said. Whenever he spoke, it sounded like he was seconds away from committing a violent act. Ryan thought it best not to antagonise him.

  “Yeah, I did a few years.”

  “You ever kill anyone?”

  “Never saw combat,” Ryan said truthfully. “I joined too late for Afghanistan. Mostly it was training for a war that didn’t come.”

  Phil seemed disappointed that Ryan had no stories to share. He grunted, then took out his phone and started playing Candy Crush.

  “How long have you been working for Mr Marsh?” Ryan asked Terry.

  “’Bout ten years. He’s a good boss.”

  “A diamond,” Phil agreed.

  “What is it you do for him?”

  Terry laughed. “Whatever he fucking wants!”

  That elicited a chuckle from Phil, but his face soon straightened as he concentrated on mastering his game.

  Like Paul, they were keeping things close to their chests. There was little point in pressing for further details, so he simply stared out of the window. Within twenty minutes they were on the motorway, following the signs pointing east. Ryan wasn’t sure whether they were going to maintain that heading and take a ferry from Hull to the Netherlands, or switch south for Dover. There was little use asking, though.

  When they joined the M1 at Leeds, Ryan knew it wouldn’t be Hull. Terry was wearing headphones connected to an iPhone, and Phil had barely spoken two words in the last hour. Ryan had tried to engage him in conversation, but Phil simply held up his phone and said nothing. Ryan soon got the picture. With nothing else to do, he tried to get his head down.

  He was shaken awake by banging on the side of the van, then the rear doors opened.

  “Rise and shine. Time for a burger and a shit.”

  Ryan shook off the fog of sleep and sat up. “Where are we?”

  “Thurrock services,” Phil told him.

  That put them on the M25. They’d bypassed Harwich, which meant Dover was their destination.

  Ryan followed them inside. The food court
s were quiet, and it didn’t take long to order their food. Ryan had a chicken sandwich while the others stuck to beef burgers, and they all had coffee.

  “Did you sleep much?” Terry asked Ryan.

  “A couple of hours, I think.”

  “Try and get some more on the ferry. Once we cross the channel, you’ll be driving for at least twelve hours. After that, Phil will take over.”

  “Hmm. Twelve hours, in a foreign country, in the dark. Sounds fun.”

  “But you’re getting paid for it,” Phil pointed out.

  “I guess.”

  “Then shut the fuck up. Once you’ve done the run a few times, you get to choose the schedule. Until then, you get the shitty jobs while me and Terry get pissed on the ferry.”

  Terry saluted them with his coffee cup, then drained it and put it on the table. “I’m off for a splash. See you back at the van.”

  Ten minutes later they were back on the road, and with the midnight traffic light, it wasn’t long before they reached Dover. Terry had explained that the two a.m. crossing was one of the quietest and easiest to get on, which was one of the reasons he’d chosen it. On the way back, they would be arriving at the maritime equivalent of rush hour, which meant they were less likely to be stopped by customs.

  Once on board, the three men went up to the bar. Terry and Phil ordered pints of lager with brandy chasers, but Ryan had to settle for an orange juice.

  “Before you get too pissed,” Ryan said as they found an empty table, “wanna give me directions for when we get off?”

  “The van’s got satnav. Follow the directions and you can’t go wrong. I’ve done it loads of times.”

  Twelve hours could take them anywhere. They could be heading to Germany, Poland, Spain, Czech Republic, Austria or a host of other countries. And that wasn’t even their final destination, just Ryan’s stint at the wheel. He hated not knowing, but had to go with the flow.

  His companions polished off five pints apiece by the time they’d reached Calais. Terry was boisterous, but Phil looked like he needed medical attention.

  “Is he okay?” Ryan asked.

  “Phil’s fine. He’s a sleepy drunk. Once he gets in the van he’ll be out like a light for ten hours at least.” Terry gave Ryan a knowing wink. “Word of warning, though. Drive with the windows open.”

  Half an hour later, as Ryan joined the A26, he realised what Terry meant. Both of them were fast asleep, alternating their snores so that it seemed like one continuous sound, and the first breath of foul wind escaped from Phil’s ample body. It smelled like something had crawled up inside him and died. Ryan wound down both windows, but had to see the funny side. He’d encountered something similar while on exercise in Germany a few years earlier. His unit had been posted to Bielefeld, and after five days on manoeuvres eating army-issue rations known as MREs—Meal, Ready-to-Eat—they’d gone out to unwind with a few beers and a curry. For the next two nights, the barracks had smelled much like the van.

  Ryan missed the army. There had been a camaraderie that you couldn’t find on civvy street. The more time he spent working for Marsh, the closer he would get to the likes of Paul, Terry and Phil, but they would never be like a family to him. He doubted any of them would risk a bullet for him, or sling him over their shoulder and carry him out of a battle zone.

  If he hadn’t beaten the crap out of that corporal, he would still be in the army. In fact, he’d probably have been in the SAS by now. He’d told Marsh at the interview that he didn’t know whether he could have passed the selection process, but that had been a lie. Ryan knew he would have aced it.

  He still vividly remembered the first time he’d attempted the fan dance, one of the disciplines on the endurance, fitness and navigation, (or “the hills”) phase of the selection process. He carried a fifty-pound pack up and down Pen y Fan in the Brecon Beacons twice, starting at the Storey Arms outdoor education centre, over the summit and down to Torpantau railway station, then back along the same route. The muscles in his legs cried out for mercy at the halfway point, but Ryan knew that to give up was to abandon his dream. His breath coming in gulps, he fought through the pain, telling himself that each step was one closer to victory.

  The target time to cover the fifteen miles was four hours, and Ryan had done it with over half an hour to spare.

  He soon discovered that if the fan dance was hard, the worst was yet to come: the long drag. Forty miles in twenty hours, navigating from one checkpoint to the next with a map and compass. Ryan did it as part of a paid excursion run by an ex-SAS trooper. He shouldered a forty-pound pack, plus water, food and a steel pipe to mimic the rifle he would have to carry on the real thing. Selection was carried out twice a year, once in the summer and again in winter. Having done the fan dance in July, he opted for the December course to make sure he was familiar with both climates.

  It almost killed him. The rain was constant, his soaked clothing and pack adding at least fifteen pounds to his burden. It had hurt, too. Blisters developed within a few miles, but he kept it to himself, knowing the tour operator would bin him for health and safety reasons. For fifteen more hours he sucked it up, telling himself over and over that pain was temporary, fleeting, and wasn’t worth throwing away his career for. Mental toughness was what got the few successful people through, not merely physical strength, and Ryan managed to get in within the time limit by simply refusing to be beaten

  Since then, he’d done the SFBC, the special forces briefing course, a week-long ordeal that gave candidates an insight into what selection entailed. It included tests like map reading, swimming and running in the hills. At the end of it, each candidate was told their likelihood of making it past selection. Ryan had been a solid pass.

  Now, the only challenge he faced was getting through the next twelve hours without suffocating on the smell of rotten eggs.

  His stint at the wheel was uneventful. He stopped once to fill the tank and take a leak, and Phil woke up, pissed in the petrol can, then went back to sleep without a word.

  At four in the afternoon, Ryan woke them.

  “There’s a services up ahead. Fancy some breakfast?”

  Phil simply groaned, and Terry asked where they were.

  “We just passed Dijon.”

  Terry stared at his watch, probably trying to get his eyes to focus. “Looks like we’re on schedule. Good work. Now find a place that does a full English.”

  “In France? Are you kidding?”

  “Of course I am. Just stop at the next place.”

  Ryan pulled into the services and parked up. He got out and opened the rear doors for his companions. Terry bounced out, as if the drinking session on the ferry had never happened. Phil looked like he was close to death.

  “You gonna be all right to drive?” Ryan asked him.

  Phil groaned and forced himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his head, then inched his way towards the door.

  “He just needs coffee and food,” Terry said. “He does this every time, and hardly ever crashes.”

  “What d’ya mean, hardly ever??”

  Ryan saw the smirk on Terry’s face and knew that he was just winding him up.

  “Git.”

  They walked into the building and found a McDonald’s restaurant, where they loaded up on burgers and caffeine. Ryan skipped the coffee, planning to get his head down for a few hours while Phil took the wheel. Better to die in his sleep than see it coming, he decided.

  They were back on the road forty minutes later. Terry decided that Phil hadn’t recovered enough and opted to drive for the first couple of hours, which helped Ryan relax enough to sleep. The humming of the van’s tyres aided him, and within minutes of re-joining the motorway, he was out cold.

  * * *

  Ryan jerked awake to the sound of doors squeaking open, and for a second he struggled to work out where he was. Then the smell of rotten…something invaded his nose, and he remembered he was in the back of the van.

  He stood up and stretch
ed, then climbed out.

  “Ciao!” Terry grinned. “Welcome to Italy!”

  Ryan saw Phil in the distance, running awkwardly towards a building that had various brands emblazoned on the wall. “What’s his problem?”

  “Needs a shit,” Terry said.

  “No, I mean why doesn’t he talk? I can barely get him to grunt in my direction.”

  “He does. We had a great conversation about football while you were asleep. Don’t take it personally, but Phil doesn’t like new guys.”

  “How come?” Ryan asked.

  “It goes back a couple of years. This guy Kenny joined the team and he and Phil became good friends. They were inseparable, did everything together. Went to the Etihad to watch City play, best drinking buddies, you name it. They were only a shag away from being lovers. Then one day we discover that Kenny was an undercover cop. It broke Phil’s heart. He has a lot of trust issues now, and won’t open up to anyone unless he’s known them for years.”

  “That’s understandable,” Ryan said. “I just don’t see why he has to be a dick all the time.”

  “If you’re still around in five years, he might buy you a pint. Until then, just do a good job and earn our trust.”

  “You, too?”

  “Hey, Kenny was a mate of mine, too. It’s nothing personal.”

  It was a fair reaction. Ryan would probably have done the same in Terry’s shoes.

  Terry locked the van and started walking towards the services. Ryan kept pace with him.

  “What happened to Kenny?”

  “Dunno,” Terry said. “One minute he was with us, the next he was gone. Marsh told us he was a copper and that we should never let our guard down.”

  Ryan didn’t believe for one minute that Terry hadn’t been told of the cop’s fate. Marsh would certainly have used Kenny as an example to others, and among such a tight-knit group, word must have spread. Another sign of their caution around the new guy.

  Ryan was prepared to wait as long as it took.

  After a brief pit stop, they were back on the road. They by-passed Milan and continued south with Terry at the wheel.