The Stealers Page 17

  One of the officers approached Crane and Penny, ‘We have come to investigate. Someone reported hearing gunfire.’

  Between them, Crane and Penny explained what had happened. ‘We will take care of everything now, Mr Crane, please hand me your weapon.’

  Crane gave him the Glock and within minutes, they were herded, together with the four children, into the back of the van. Penny looked at the children and smiled at Crane, ‘I’m beginning to feel like Mary Poppins.’

  Crane smiled back, looking at the children, who seemed none the worse for their ordeal, ‘Hopefully they’ll soon be back where they belong.’

  *

  From the cover of a thicket, Girard pulled a pair of binoculars from his haversack and watched the proceedings. When the van disappeared from sight, the remaining two policemen helped Mullah to his feet and they all headed towards the house. There was laughter in the air. This was not police procedure. Girard stared after them, frustration running through his veins. The police, or whoever they were, were obviously in league with Mullah. He was now certain that Crane and the people they had rescued were in extreme danger.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ryan was happy to be back in England. He could now eat the food that he liked regularly and relax; things were more ordered and predictable. He was staying at a boarding house in Southend and was enjoying bracing walks along the promenade each day. He was anxious to get his hands on the money which Bradley had said was due to him. There was one difficulty for him, in that he could not put aside the nagging feeling about trusting Bradley. He had been told that, when all the money was collected, he would get his share. He knew Bradley well enough to know it was always cash only that changed hands when the vehicles were passed on. He kept running all these things over and over in his mind. He wondered if the story, that Crane had told him, about Davy Porter being impaled with a knife to the seat of his transporter, was true. He hoped it wasn’t, but then why would Crane lie about it? He did not dare broach the subject with Bradley; if it were true it may rile him and in a fit of temper he could get the same. However, to reassure himself, he decided that it would be an easy task to check up on Crane’s story. He phoned the hospitals in the area where the incident had happened. Within the hour Ryan had got his answer: Davy Porter was dead.

  *

  The bench seats either side of the police van were spartan. Lap belts provided little stability as the vehicle bumped and swayed along the uneven track, leading to the main road. The driver and front seat passenger were cut off from the occupants seated in the rear, by a metal divider, so Crane shouted out as loudly as he could, ‘Take it easy!’ It made no difference. He looked out of the tiny rear windows for signs of the other police vehicle; there were none.

  *

  From his hiding place in the thicket, Girard checked the Mossberg pump-action shotgun that he had taken from Mullah; there were four cartridges in the magazine. With his eyes fixed on Mullah and company, who were entering the house, he ran keeping low, commando style, past the stationary helicopter, up to the police car and looked inside; no keys. Without a moment’s hesitation he ran towards the front door of the house and, just as it was being closed, kicked it back forcefully with his foot. ‘Everybody on the floor now!’ He shouted, and, to reinforce his command, pointed the shotgun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger, sending a shower of plaster falling like snow everywhere.

  ‘Keys to the car and guns, slide them over to me,’ he commanded, ‘and be quick, or some of you are going to feel the weight of some buckshot.’

  The pseudo police did as they were told and, as Girard scooped up the guns, Mullah said, ‘You don’t know what you are getting into.’

  As he exited through the front door, Girard twirled the shotgun, John Wayne style, and in a relaxed, slow tone replied, ‘Neither do you!’

  *

  Without a care for the potholes and ridges, Girard pushed his foot hard down on the accelerator pedal and aimed the Peugeot 508, bucking and jumping, in a straight line along the worn dirt track. The suspension clonked and groaned its way towards a narrow road that led to a village some five kilometres away. The road was straight and Girard spotted the van in the distance. Within a few minutes he was up behind it, flashing his lights. Suddenly he overtook the van, slewed to a halt in front of it and leapt out. The van driver and his accomplice were taken by surprise, when confronted by the maniacal appearance of Girard swinging the shotgun. ‘Get out’, he screeched.

  They clambered out throwing their hands in the air. ‘Weapons on the ground, carefully,’ Girard ordered.

  Gingerly they put their hands in their jacket pockets and laid the guns down on the road. Girard scooped them up and stuffed them in an already overloaded and heavy rucksack and said, ‘You are working for Mullah, eh?’

  The pair looked at each other to see who was going to admit it first.

  Girard wanted an answer and said impatiently, ‘Look, I want an answer now or perhaps you would prefer me to shoot the pair of you here and now.’

  ‘Alright, we work for Mullah, but not all the time,’ one of them volunteered hurriedly.

  ‘Where were you going to take these people?’

  ‘Nowhere, we were told to keep them locked up in the van and wait for further instructions.’

  ‘Where did you get the vehicles and uniforms?’

  ‘We borrowed them.’

  Girard eyed them suspiciously and pointed to the grass verge, ‘Get down there and don’t move.’

  The pair sat down on the edge of the road.

  Girard unlocked the rear doors of the van. To everyone’s relief, he announced with a flourish, ‘They are not police,’ then added, ‘if they are, they’re bent.’

  ‘I was beginning to have my suspicions,’ Crane replied, trying to repress the smile that was forming on his lips in response to Girard’s savoir faire.

  Girard looked skywards, ‘It’ll be dark soon. We are about three kilometres from that maison.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Crane offered. ‘We have unfinished business with Mullah. I think we should return to the house and give them all a surprise.’

  Girard nodded in agreement, ‘But I think, maybe it would be better if we went on our own.’

  Penny overheard this and pleaded, ‘Don’t leave us on our own – please!’

  Girard regarded Penny momentarily and smiled. It was the first time he had seen her and she returned the smile as their eyes locked together briefly. As if to offer some reassurance Girard said, ‘Don’t worry, mademoiselle, you’ll be safe, stay in the van until we return.’

  Penny seemed comforted by Girard and said, ‘What are you going to do with those two men sitting on the verge?’

  ‘No problem,’ Girard said, ‘I’ll secure them with the handcuffs hanging on their belts.’

  Mullah’s two henchmen were made secure; handcuffed uncomfortably together, straddling a telegraph pole, still wearing their stolen police uniforms. Crane and Girard drove their two vehicles away and parked them in a secluded spot, behind some bushes, about one kilometre from the house. When they had got out of the vehicles, Girard sat on the moist grass, opened his haversack and gently tipped the contents onto the ground. ‘You’re a walking arsenal,’ Crane remarked as Girard offered him a choice of handgun but, as he picked up the Glock and Colt magnum, he noticed a medal; a cross on a long ribbon lying amongst other odds and ends. Picking it up and regarding it for a moment, Crane blew through his teeth, ‘Croix De La Valeur; yours?’

  Girard shrugged and remarked, ‘That’s what the inscription says.’

  Crane regarded the cross for a moment, ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘I was saving my commanding officer’s life and took a bullet in my shoulder when I pushed him aside – one of those reflex actions I guess.’

  Crane handed it back without comment as Girard nonchantly set about repacking his haversack.

  Girard kept the shotgun and chose a semi-automatic Walther handgu
n for himself and left the remainder in his haversack, which he stowed in the boot of the hidden car. Wasting no time, they stealthily made their way back towards the house.

  *

  Ryan was caught in a stream of traffic as he drove through Rochford so he decided to turn towards Canford, although it was the longer route to Hullbridge. He was surprised to see the car in front, with a woman at the wheel, turn into Palmers Rise. Curiosity got the better of him and compelled him to turn his car around and enter the lane. He knew Crane would not be there so he drove boldly up to ‘Bramble View’, Crane’s home. He stopped his car and looked out of the window. The car that he had seen was now parked in Crane’s drive; a Peugeot 207 and the rear window’s sticker showed it was a hire car from Southend Airport.

  Within a minute, a hurried patter of feet caused him to shift in his seat and turn his head; an attractive woman was approaching. She picked her way daintily through a bevy of rose bushes in full blossom, which filled the air with their sweet fragrance. Her corn-coloured hair was tied at the back into a short pony tail. He guessed her age to be somewhere in the late thirties, early forties. Misty blue eyes looked at him inquisitively before an eager smile spread across her face and she enquired, ‘Is Jack around?’

  Uncharacteristically, Ryan stumbled with his words as he took in the trouser-suited woman standing on the path. He was momentarily taken aback by her charm and good looks, ‘That’s… erm, what I was wondering. Perhaps he is still away on business,’ he mumbled.

  The smile was replaced briefly by a small pout as she replied, ‘Oh, I should really have let him know I was coming. Oh, well, I do have a key, I’ll wait until he returns. I don’t suppose you know how long he will be?’

  Ryan noticed her accent was not English, but he couldn’t place it, however he was feeling more confident as he replied, ‘Not really, you know what Jack is like; he’s sometimes difficult to get in touch with, but I know someone who may know his whereabouts. If you give me your mobile number, I’ll get him to call you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she produced a business card and handed it to Ryan. He stared briefly at the card, noting that it was foreign, before he drove off, feeling somewhat elated. He now had an excuse to contact Bradley and maybe get paid what he was owed.

  *

  Crane and Girard could have been taken for elusive shadows as they approached the tall narrow French house, which was now ablaze with lights. They approached from the rear and gradually circumnavigated the property. In the main downstairs room, the curtains were not drawn tight and they could clearly see Mullah between the gaps, resting his wounded leg on a footstool. One of the other occupants seemed to be having trouble using a mobile phone, pacing up and down the room with the instrument clamped to his ear. He twisted and turned, held it at arm’s length, when suddenly he gave up the idea of trying to use it and threw it down on a couch.

  ‘Bad reception here,’ Girard whispered quietly, more to himself than to Crane. They remained crouched surreptitiously peering in through the curtains now and again.

  Pierre Durand, the helicopter pilot, was seated next to Mullah. He had a bandage neatly wound around his arm and could be heard to say, ‘I can probably start the engine without a key, but to do that, I need to hot wire it properly in the daylight tomorrow.’

  There was no sign of the two men, Emile and the wounded Jacques who had driven the motor launch. Giselle tripped into the room carrying a tray piled with bread and wedges of cheese. She wore an elastic support around her wrist. ‘She looked so innocent when she approached me,’ Girard whispered to Crane, ‘the bitch. If I hadn’t moved so quick she would have killed me for sure.’

  As they stood unobserved near the window, the sound of footsteps made them slink deeper into the shadows. It was Emile approaching the front door. Oblivious to their presence, he rapped it loudly several times. It was opened by Simon, the pilot’s companion. At that moment, Girard with outstretched arms, rushed at Emile, propelling him forward, sending him crashing into Simon. The pair of them ended up sprawled in a heap on the floor of the hall.

  Crane stepped in behind Girard, and announced, ‘We’re back. Now all of you group together.’

  The ceaseless chatter was abruptly followed by a hushed silence as all eyes focused on Crane and Girard. The two phoney policemen bunched up with the others as Jacques, the wounded boatman came down the stairs.

  ‘Who do you think you’re dealing with?’ Crane said menacingly as he held a gun in each hand. ‘Unless you tell me what I want to know, none of you will leave here alive.’

  Mullah’s face was ashen, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Where is Jean, Penny’s sister? And don’t tell me you don’t know.’

  Mullah looked uncomfortable and shifted uneasily in his chair, which prompted Crane to bellow angrily, ‘Well?’

  Mullah looked down and clearing his throat said awkwardly, ‘At my home in Boulogne.’

  Crane stared hard at Mullah, who ran a tongue around dry lips, before continuing, ‘She’s buried somewhere in the grounds of my chateau,’

  ‘You killed her?’ Crane snarled.

  Mullah shook his head nervously, ‘No… no, it was Bradley, he killed her.’

  ‘When? How?’

  Mullah’s voice was hoarse as he spoke, ‘About three months ago; Bradley wrote a letter addressed to Jean’s sister in England – the one you call Penny. The letter purported to be written by Jean. Bradley asked her to sign it; she refused.’

  Mullah paused and Crane said, ‘What was in the letter?’

  ‘I’m not sure, probably to help him steal cars.’

  ‘And people,’ Crane added.

  Mullah looked down and continued, ‘She refused to sign the letter he had typed. They began to argue, when suddenly, in a fit of rage, he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed the life out of her. I swear I had nothing to do with it. I was upstairs when it all happened. When I heard all the shouting I came down to see what it was about. She was lying on the floor, dead.’

  ‘How long have you been involved in kidnapping?’

  Mullah hesitated before replying, ‘Two, maybe three years.’

  ‘Where do you take them?’

  ‘Algiers,’ and he hastened to add without much conviction, ‘I am reassured that they are all well looked after.’

  ‘Who do you sell them to?’

  Mullah’s eyes flicked nervously, ‘I cannot tell you that.’

  Crane said calmly, ‘You know, my friend Girard put a bullet in the fleshy part of your leg… ’ and pulling back the slide of the Glock continued, ‘right now I’ll put a bullet in both of your knees if you say that again. Who do you sell them to; name, address and contact number!’

  ‘They will kill me if I tell you.’

  ‘I will kill you right now if you don’t!’

  Mullah was sweating profusely as he looked around the room; all eyes were focused on him.

  ‘Pen… paper,’ he said in a whisper.

  Girard looked around the room until his eyes fell on Giselle, the housekeeper, who sat on the edge of her seat and with a wave of the gun said, ‘Get something to write on, s’il vous plait.’

  Giselle scurried over to a large sideboard set against the wall, opened a drawer and returned with a notepad and pencil. Girard took it from her and handed it to Mullah.

  ‘You had better write all you know,’ Crane said, ‘and don’t make any mistakes, your life depends on it, because I’ll not let you go until it is checked out.’

  Mullah wrote with trembling hand. It seemed to take him some time and he paused briefly when his hands became clammy, running them down the sides of his trousers. When he had finished writing, he handed the pad to Crane and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘They’ll kill me for sure if they find out I’ve done this.’

  Crane gave him a disdainful look, as he took the notepad and, after a cursory glance, handed it to Girard with the remark, ‘It’s in your language.’

  Girard quickly translat
ed what Mullah had put down and said, ‘I know where this place is. There’s enough information here to hand over to the authorities but Jack, you’ll have to do the handing over. Let’s hope some of the poor souls can be found.’

  Crane checked his watch and said, ‘One of us should check up on Penny and the kids in the van. Bring them here first and then we’ll drive to the nearest city gendarme police station.’

  Girard was keen to see Penny again, ‘I’ll go,’ he offered enthusiastically.

  ‘Okay, meanwhile I’ll figure out what to do with this lot.’

  The evening light had vanished when Girard slipped through the front door. Once outside, he paused for a moment – allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark – before trundling off along the gravel driveway towards where they had left the van. The scrunching of loose stones beneath his feet bothered him. Each footfall kicked up gravel, making it sound as though there was somebody trailing along behind. He wanted to move quietly, without distraction, animal-like, and tune his ears into the night sounds, so he stepped deftly onto the moist soft grassy edge along the side. Before long, the dark outline of the two vehicles came into view and Girard began to feel less apprehensive as he approached the rear door of the van. All was quiet, except for the snap of a twig. Too late! As Girard spun round, a series of blows were hammering onto the side of his head causing him to slump heavily to the ground.

  *

  Crane decided that the best place to put his prisoners was back down in the cellar. Only this time he would make sure that nobody had a spare key. He ensured that they had all emptied their pockets onto a large table whilst paying special attention to the scowling housekeeper, Giselle. He checked his watch and realised that Girard had been gone for almost half an hour which was far too long for the task in hand. This sent his alarm bells ringing. He managed to find a small torch before stepping outside but as he passed the door, he stood for a moment and stared into the darkness. The moonless night was blanketed by clouds. He decided to take a roundabout route and arc round to where they had left the vehicles. Minimal use of the lamp meant his progress was slow going in the dark, but within fifteen minutes he was staring at the empty space where the vehicles had been parked.