Lynda La Plante - Civvies

They drove round the badly-lit, deserted streets, Wally and Taylor in the back, looking for signs of life. Trouble was, there wasn't a soul to ask – high gaunt buildings, not a chink of light to be seen, some of them derelict, boarded-up, everything sealed up tight. Not even a stray cat on the prowl. At last Harry spotted a phone booth and told Cliff to pull over. He was glad to get out of the car for five minutes, a brief respite from Cliff's latest wedding bleeding saga.

'Poor cow's clutchin' her throat, swallowed two pins, she was doin' the hem, so we had to get her rushed to the infirmary… can be dangerous, you knows, pins!'

Wally got out to stretch his legs. 'We all invited to this do, then?' he asked Cliff through the window. 'Who's your best man – Frank? Is he the best man?'

Taylor laid spindly arms along the back of the passenger seat. He was a thin, wiry bloke with close-set eyes and a pock-marked face, a compulsive nail-biter. Not a ladies' man. 'I wouldn't get married mate,' he said gloomily. 'Two mates just lost their houses, these mortgage rates.' He sniffed up a dewdrop. 'We gettin' cash tonight, Cliff? These acid house parties can get heavy, y'know…'

Harry came out of the phone booth and walked back to the car, his broad frame silhouetted in the lights of a vehicle coming down the road towards them. He leaned in. 'We're close, said it's a warehouse over by the docks, they're expectin' about two hundred kids. It's off an alley – give us the A to Z, Cliff.'

Wally strolled round the car and started a quiet natter with Harry, who banged on the roof of the Granada. 'Cliff, you deaf? Look up Gables Yard.'

Cliff pinched his nose between finger and thumb, goggling as the vehicle rumbled past. It was a large removals van. The radiator grille was damaged, as if it had been bashed in. Or had maybe done the bashing. And the geezer he thought he'd recognised was behind the wheel. Cliff shot out of the driving seat for another butchers.

'Harry!… Hey, Harry! Get in! Get in the car!'

'WHAT?' Harry turned back to Wally, finger on his chest. He had wanted a private confab since they'd arrived at the office, but there had been no opportunity. He knew he had to warn Wally, just in case anyone should get wind that they had been given a tip-off about the safe house.

Wally looked Harry directly in the face. 'I dunno what you're talkin' about sunshine, I've not been up the base for months.'

Harry winked. 'Good, just remember that, you never told me nothin'.'

Cliff was hysterical as he yelled, 'Harry get in the friggin' car.'

Harry still took his time, easing his bulk into the passenger seat. 'What you gettin' your knickers in a twist about, we'll be on time.'

'Behind you, didn't you fuckin' see it?' Cliff jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'It's that van from this morning… let's move.'

'What the bloody hell you doin'!' Halfway in the rear door, Wally hopped on one foot as Cliff did a tight U-turn, and scrambled in as the Granada screeched off down the road.

'It's Cliff! Yeah! Is Frank there?'

One ear covered by his hand, the other ear glued to the portable phone, Cliff did his best to make himself heard above The Happy Mondays. He was a big Diana Ross fan, and this lot sounded to him to be in the throes of terminal agony. Cliff shut his eyes to cut out the flashing strobe lights, face screwed up in a painful grimace. The narrow passage was only feet away from a vast, heaving, sweating mob of youth, the noise and heat wafting over him in waves.

'No, no, he's not with me, you know where he is? I've tried him on the portable an' I'm gettin' no answer. Listen, if he comes in, love, will you tell him it's urgent, I'll wait for him at the office… yeah! Yeah, I know what time it is. Okay, tell him it's urgent, an' I'm with Harry…'

'Come on, come on,' the young guy who was promoting the gig bellowed, beckoning to him. 'There's kids trying to get in by the back door.'

Cliff finished the call and scurried off.

'Oi! Me phone.'

Cliff handed it back. 'Thanks, mate.'

Dillon was doing his flunkey act, holding open the rear door of the Merc. He'd already taken the entire staff of the Chinese restaurant home, nine waiters and waitresses, dropping them off at their respective addresses, and now it was the turn of the manager and his wife. They settled themselves inside, and Dillon opened the front passenger door to get at the bleeping portable on the dashboard.

'Dillon… eh, can't hear, just take your time.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll be back at base in about an hour… Okay, hang on.'

He leaned in and spoke to the Chinese man and his wife, reclining in luxury. 'You'll have to call another cab.' They both blinked up at him, totally bewildered. 'Out. Go on – out!'

Dillon slammed the door after them and said into the phone, 'Gimme ten minutes.' He climbed in and zoomed off, leaving the manager and his wife on the pavement staring at him, not quite inscrutably.

This had better be worth it. Three-thirty in the morning and they want a pow-wow. Plus losing the chink custom. And he needed his sleep, badly. If this was all over nothing…

Cliff opened the basement door and launched right in, gabbling ten to the dozen and waving his arms around. He followed Dillon into the office, where Harry was sitting with his feet on the desk, a mug of coffee in his fist.

'… so we're lost, right, Harry's tryin' to find the address, he's in a call box, over by Tower Bridge, the wharf, when I see the truck -'

'What truck?'

'The one from this morning' – the bleedin' furniture van, went straight past me.'

'What you do? Call the cops?'

'I called you! Where the hell you been?'

'With the bloody Chinese…'

'We tried to follow but we lost it, then we had to get to this gig!'

'Probably be stripped an' dumped by now,' Harry reckoned. 'There's a couple of crusher yards around that area, an' it -'

'Well, let the cops sort that out – it's nothin' to do with us.' Dillon rubbed his eyes. 'I better get home.'

Harry banged his mug down on the desk, slopping coffee.

'Tell him!'

Cliff jerked his head rapidly. 'Frank – the driver. I knew I'd seen him before. It was that Barry Newman's heavy…'

'Colin,' Harry said. 'One that picked your kids up,' he added softly, looking straight at Dillon with his shrewd baby-blues.

Cliff was nodding, more arm-waving. 'An' if you put two an' two together, I mean, he knows what business we're in – he even owns this place, right, he could have… he could…' He puffed out his cheeks. A thousand possibilities. Take your pick.

Dillon's head was down, staring at the floor. 'Here we go again.' He swiped the air viciously. 'Why is it, every time I get a goddamned leg-up, something – somebody drags me down?' He stared at the desk for a second, nostrils flaring, breathing audible. He stared for a second more, then jerked his thumb at Cliff. 'Go out back, get some ropes an' that gear Jimmy left.' Dillon's eyes were suddenly hard, like shiny black pebbles. 'I'm gonna sort this bastard out once and for all.'

It was well after four, and Newman's warehouse was in darkness. Dillon and Harry got out of the Granada, looking up and down the dark empty street. Harry collected the gear from the boot and carefully pressed it shut. Dillon leaned down to Cliff in the driver's seat. 'We'll have a shufty around. Park it a good distance.'

The whites of Cliff's eyes gleamed. 'You mean walk back here?'

'Anythin' happens, our logo's on the side of the car, you pillock!'

Harry tapped on the roof, advising Cliff he'd got the rope and other stuff, and Cliff drove off. They approached the high gates, chain-link reinforced with iron bars, fringed along the top with razor wire. There was a snarling alsatian in a triangular metal sign with GUARD above and DOG beneath.