The Stealers Page 10

  *

  Crane fuelled up his car and headed for home. He knew he had dented Bradley’s nefarious operation, but he had not done enough to get his Mustang back. So he decided that it was time to go to France. He would have a look around the Cap Nez area that Davy had mentioned, but thought it pertinent to change his car. After the incident with the truck he was beginning to think the white Merc was becoming too well known.

  When Crane drove into Palmers Rise, he noticed that the heavy rain had washed away his cement dust warning indicator from the surface of the lane, so he approached the cottage with caution. Once inside he checked the telephone answering machine; there were three calls, two of them had left no message, but the third was from Penny asking for an update. Crane grabbed a bite to eat and called her when he had finished. He decided against telling her that he was travelling to France in case things turned out to be a disappointment. Crane checked his watch; it was not too late to call on Eddie Edwards, a local motor dealer he knew well.

  With a hand stretched across his brow, Crane scanned the neat rows of cars for sale. Edwards spotted Crane from his office and hurried over to greet him.

  ‘What are you looking for Jack?’

  ‘Something not too ostentatious – you know – a bit run-of-the-mill, but with some poke in it, and not too expensive.’

  Eddie stood for a moment as though deep in thought. He had put a bit more weight on since Crane saw him last, but this did not affect his genial manner, in fact it seemed to add to it. Suddenly he enthused, ‘You know, I might just have what you’re looking for; a real wolf in sheep’s clothing. In fact I don’t really know if it’s legal.’

  He led the way across a large sales forecourt to a remote corner at the rear of the yard, and like a showman, swept both hands towards a saloon car. Crane glanced at the dull grey body of a Rover 620, grinned hugely and said, ‘You’ve gotta be joking!’

  Not put off by Crane’s remark, the dealer defended the few small scratches and shallow dents as a trivial matter. ‘It’s a few years old. Trust me, Jack, you can see it’s had a few arguments, but only little ones – minor cuts and abrasions like, and, erm, it’s reflected in the price. It’s only just come in. The engines been changed for something a bit livelier. It’s got a big lump under the bonnet; three litre with high lifts and, wait for it… twin-turbos. Goes like a bastard.’ Then, looking over to a man hard at work leathering off a row of used cars, he called out, ‘Herbert, tell Jack how it drives.’

  Herbert grinned and replied with enthusiasm, ‘Like shit off a shiny shovel mate.’

  Crane grinned at the colourful description Herbert had given the car and Eddie continued, ‘Take it out and let Jack drive it.’

  Herbert grunted a reply and went off to get the keys. Eddie turned his attention back to Crane and knowing that his Mustang had been stolen said, ‘No luck in finding the ‘Stang’ then?’

  Crane pursed his lips and replied, ‘I’m working on it.’ They both watched as Herbert returned with the keys and began to manoeuvre the car out of the yard.

  Crane got behind the wheel and Eddie said, ‘Tell you what, if it don’t drive like I said it does, I’ll give it to you for nothing – how’s that!’

  Crane smiled and eased the car down the London Road. He could feel the engine’s responsive growl as he gained speed. Herbert said nothing throughout the test drive, but after he had left the vehicle, if anyone had cared to look, they would have seen deep impressions in the thick pile carpet, that were made by a pair of nervous feet, as well as finger pressure marks on the sides of the front passenger seat.

  A deal was struck and Eddie and Crane shook hands. They had known each other for twenty years or more and Eddie finished with, ‘I’ll give it a full service and new MOT test for good measure – be ready tomorrow.’

  Crane could only foresee trouble ahead and needed all the help he could get, including the old ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ car.

  Part Two

  Chapter Twelve

  Despite the long queue of traffic, Crane did not have to wait long at the Folkestone terminal before being directed, by efficient marshals, towards the waiting Channel Tunnel train. Within minutes he was driving aboard and being herded into a carriage full of vehicles, where he was tucked neatly behind a dirty white Transit van. His sharp eyes instinctively scanned the registration number but, as expected, it turned out to be different number plate from the one belonging to the vehicle he had previously followed.

  With the handbrake on and the engine switched off, he sat back and relaxed for a short while until the train moved imperceptibly smoothly out of the station and into the tunnel. It was a signal for his hand to dive into a holdall on the front passenger seat and come out clutching a thermos flask and a pack of sandwiches.

  The hot black coffee and food had a refreshing effect as he leant back with his seat in the recline position and scanned the daily newspaper. The news, as usual, was all doom and gloom so he put the paper to one side and tuned in to the Channel Tunnel radio station.

  *

  The train was near the end of its short journey when he stepped outside of the car, into the carriage, to stretch his legs and make use of the toilet facilities which were in the next compartment. He strode past the dirty white van and two cars on the way there. On his return something scratched at his brain – swirling and nagging – but he could not really pin it down then and there. He checked his watch as he slumped back into the driver’s seat of the car, just a few minutes before the train was due to arrive at Calais.

  A pair of anxious blue eyes below a thatch of flaxen hair suddenly caught Crane’s attention as they peered through the grimy rear window of the white van in front. He surmised they belonged to a child, probably a girl, and he gave a friendly wave of the hand. At that point, he half expected her to rise and show her face, but kids are sometimes shy and unpredictable. Her eyes seemed transfixed on Crane and her eyelids fluttered lazily, as if she were half asleep.

  The van suddenly lurched forward; it was time to leave the train. The movement caused the girl’s nose to flatten against the glass and she disappeared from view. The vehicles were herded off the train and Crane trailed behind the van, together with a daisy chain of vehicles that were also being directed towards the passport control area where on production of their passports, an officer nonchalantly waved them through the checkpoint.

  Crane was still quite close up behind the white van as they cleared the port area. The eyes appeared again at the back of the van and Crane thought they still seemed worried. Then suddenly he was certain. Just before the van sped off ahead, the rest of the young girl’s face appeared together with her hands propped against the rear window for support; they were bound at the wrists with black adhesive tape and a wide strip was spread across her mouth.

  Crane was concerned by this turn of events and decided to lag behind the white van as it sped along the 940 coast road towards the direction of Boulogne; he had intended to head in that direction anyway. It was then, that his brain entered the recall zone; the dirty finger-marked swirls on the side of the van. This was too much of a coincidence. There was now no doubt in Crane’s mind, that this was the van that Bradley had been driving, albeit with different number plates, but whoever was behind the wheel, was obviously up to no good.

  *

  Penny was in the local supermarket when her phone shrilled loud and tuneful in her jacket pocket. She let go of Andrew’s hand, snatched at the mobile and without looking at the tiny screen to see who was calling, pressed the answer button, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Penny, my dear,’ the voice began. It was Bradley.

  ‘What do you want and where’s my sister?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m calling about. She would like to see you and the boy.’

  ‘Why don’t you bring her back here then?’

  Bradley cleared his throat and said, ‘It’s kind of awkward you see. I’m finishing my erm… operation here and I erm… believe the police are tak
ing an interest in things. Well to cut a long story short – she’s in France.’

  ‘France?’ Penny echoed.

  ‘Yes, and she told me that she would like you to fetch her, to take her home.’

  Penny was lost for words momentarily and Bradley continued, ‘Take your own car and fetch her. Follow me up, so to speak, across the channel, and I’ll take you straight to her. It’s not far from Calais.’

  Penny was speechless for a moment and Bradley prompted her with, ‘Well?’

  ‘When?

  ‘Oh, let’s say we leave tomorrow around noon. We’ll do the Channel Tunnel crossing and you’ll be with her around early evening.’

  ‘Alright, where do we meet?’ ‘I’ll be waiting in the parking area of Rochford Station. Oh and by the way, don’t forget to bring the boy will you? And most important of all, don’t even think about telling that interfering busybody, Crane, or the whole thing is off – is that clear?’

  ‘Alright, as you wish. See you tomorrow morning then.’

  Feeling somewhat elated, by the possibility of being reunited with her sister, Penny abandoned the idea of shopping and took Andrew out of the supermarket. Once outside she sighed and took in a lungful of fresh air, walked straight to her Mini, strapped Andrew inside and dialled Crane’s mobile number.

  ‘The number you are calling is unavailable.’

  *

  Crane eased his foot off the accelerator when he saw the white van turn off of the main highway. He quickly pulled into a convenient lay-by and watched from a distance. All he could see was the white roof of the van as it bounced along the narrow farm track set between huge fields of ripe corn, until eventually it disappeared over the brow of a hill. He was tempted to follow, but caution held him back and he decided to find another parking place which would be less conspicuous. One kilometre further down the road, beyond the farm track, seemed the ideal place. He groped around the glove-box and produced a small pair of binoculars. Bringing them up into focus, he was just in time to see Ryan, behind the wheel of a motorhome, as it swung off the main road and into a dusty farm track. Satisfaction welled up inside Crane. If he was a wolf, he would have salivated; knowing that there was absolutely no doubt whatsoever that he had found Bradley’s lair, his French hiding place, and hopefully, the Mustang. Without taking his eyes off the farm track, he sat back and drained the last of the coffee from the flask and ate the last sandwich and thought about his next move.

  Apart from a farm tractor, there was no further vehicular activity, either entering or leaving the area and it was dusk before Crane decided that the time was right to make his move. He chose a moment when the main road was quiet and turning the ignition key, raced the car up to the opening and slowly turned his car into the farm track.

  With the Rover’s headlamps switched off, he drove at a snail’s pace along the dusty trail. It was like driving through a darkened tunnel, towering shafts of corn maize shivering and rattling in a light breeze, hemming him in on both sides. He brought the car to a standstill just short of the brow of the hill and leapt out, as he decided to walk the last few metres to see what lay ahead on the other side. A crimson horizon outlined dark shapes. Using his night glasses he peered into the distance. About a kilometre away, he could see the outline of a house, its diffused lights surrounding the immediate area. Nearby several barns lay in complete blackness, silhouetted against a darkening sky.

  Crane got back into the car and powered it to the top of hill, where he switched the engine off. He threw the gearbox into neutral and coasted the Rover silently down the hill. He came to a halt, neatly alongside a sleek Audi Coupe and well out of range of the lights coming from the house. He got out and stood by the car for a moment, listening intently, scanning the open spaces around the house with the night glasses. When he was satisfied that all was quiet, he took a few steps towards the house but halted when a mangy dog made an appearance. Without stopping, the animal glanced disinterestedly in Crane’s direction and then it ambled past the house towards a small shed. The dog’s presence assured Crane that there were no bright security floodlights and his sure-footed steps scarcely made a sound as he edged his way towards the side of the house.

  Shafts of light that faded and melted into the dark, filtered through one or two of the knot holes on the old worn shuttered windows and Crane boldly stepped forward to look inside. The child, that he had seen in the van, sat at a table. In front of her lay an untouched meal; she was quietly sobbing. She looked up red-eyed when a door suddenly opened and a man entered the room and said in a kindly tone, ‘Haven’t you eaten your supper yet dear?’ All the child could say – in between sobs – was, ‘I want to go home.’

  The man, forced himself to be patient and sound friendly, ‘We’ll see about that later, now eat up there’s a good girl.’

  The child was old enough not to buy that one and said, ‘I want to go home to my mummy, now!’

  The man’s patience was short-lived, ‘If you don’t do as you’re told I’ll tape your mouth up again. Now shut up!’

  Crane circled the house. Peering through the kitchen shutter, he counted four men; three of whom he did not recognise. Ryan was unmistakeable as he sat at a table gorging a mound of food off a huge plate and swigging red wine from a large goblet.

  Shrinking back in the shadows, Crane reached for his mobile phone and switched it on. His command of the French language was not good enough to hold a conversation with the local gendarme, so he would contact his old office at Whitehall in London and hopefully get their assistance. As he tapped in the UK number, the phone bleeped once and the tiny screen went blank: the battery was flat. It was at that point that he realised he had left the in-car charger in the glove box of the Merc which he had part exchanged for the Rover. It was obvious that he would be unable to inform the authorities. He reckoned he would continue looking around alone.

  Three barns were situated in the open space which stood about one hundred metres away from the house. They were in total darkness. Peering around, he walked cautiously to the nearest outbuilding. Finding it unlocked, he stood back and flashed his pencil-beam torch through the open space. Inside there were at least twenty vehicles, but his Mustang was not amongst them. He left the barn and proceeded with vigilance to the next one; it was full of cars, but again, not the one he was looking for.

  Success came with the third building. The Mustang was nestled amongst the first row of, mostly American, cars. It had been fitted with false number plates, no doubt together with all the cars that were being stored there. The ignition key was missing, but despite this, a feeling of elation swept through Crane – he had found his cherished car.

  A bright wide-angled flashlight illuminated the whole of the car and a voice from behind startled him. ‘Bon n’est pas?’

  Crane turned around and the man lowered his torch. Recovering quickly from his surprise Crane managed to respond with, ‘Oui magnifique. Parlez-vous Anglais?’

  ‘My English is pretty good,’ came the heavy-accented and confident response. ‘I am Henri Girard, ’ave you just arrived?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Crane replied, ‘I’m erm, just getting my bearings.’

  ‘Bearings?’

  Crane smiled. He guessed the well-built man to be in his late twenties. ‘The word ‘bearings’ means looking around. There are many cars here, are you one of the forty thieves?’

  Girard’s puzzled expression meant that Crane’s flippant remark was wasted and he followed it up with, ‘What do you do here?’

  ‘I walk around the whole area and try to make sure that nobody steals anything.’

  Crane stifled his inner thoughts and bit his tongue before replying, ‘That’s good isn’t it.’

  The Frenchman nodded in agreement and said, ‘I am very hungry and going for supper are you coming?’

  ‘Me? No I’ve already eaten; I’ll catch you up at the house.’

  Crane guessed he was now on borrowed time; the Frenchman was bound to mention their meeting – it
was time to leave. Keeping in the shadows he made his way back to where he had left the Rover. He sat for a while, deep in thought, keeping a watch on the front door, half expecting a flurry of men to burst out looking for the stranger in their midst. But it didn’t happen. Maybe the newly-arrived Frenchman with a full stomach and a bottle of wine simply forgot to mention it.

  Suddenly Crane’s attention was distracted in the opposite direction by headlamps flickering in the dark sky, like searchlights, as they danced above the brow of the hill signalling the approach of more than one car. Crane slid down low in the seat of his car as a Jaguar swept past followed by a Mini – Penny’s Mini – with Andrew asleep in the rear child’s seat. Crane was intrigued by this turn of events and he rightly surmised that she had somehow been lured away from home; perhaps on the pretext of seeing her sister. If that were so, Crane suspected there must be a more sinister reason behind it. From his experience so far, Bradley and the people around him were nothing short of plain evil.

  Thoughts of the Frenchman were cast aside as Crane watched the cars pull up directly outside the house. Like a sentinel, Crane kept his eyes on the front door and about half an hour passed by without any further movement, so Crane got out of the car and stealthily approached the house. As he neared, he thought he could hear the sound of raised voices, but they were indistinct and carried away by gusts of wind that seemed to have built up. He made straight for the side of the house, where the girl from the van was being held, and again made use of the holes in the window shutters by covertly peering through them.

  Crane was in time to see Bradley leave the room. Penny, looking distraught, immediately began to pace up and down. A sleepy-eyed Andrew sat motionless, yawning and clutching a soft toy. The young girl, who was in the white van, sat with her elbows propped on the table, her head cradled in her hands. An idea ran through Crane as he looked at the shutters; they were bolted top and bottom on the outside. Carefully he began to ease one of the bolts back. It offered no resistance; it was well oiled and slid back noiselessly. The lower bolt behaved in the same way. Inch by inch he eased one of the shutters open and, as he did so, he managed to catch Penny’s attention whilst pressing a finger against his lips. Her face lit up with surprise as she bounded towards the window and threw the locking lever across. Crane stepped to one side as the windows swung outwards. The children were tired and they took little notice of her movements. Crane and Penny spoke in low hushed voices and her whispers confirmed his suspicions.