Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Christ. What to do? Having herself ordered food, she had trapped herself. If she got up and left before it came, would it draw attention to her?

She turned to the window, pretending to look out. She pressed the flesh-coloured transmit button affixed to the palm of her hand, tilted her head slightly to move her mouth a little closer to the button-shaped mike on her collar. Trying desperately not to move her lips — why were there no miming sessions in the surveillance training programme? — she said, ‘Anyone hearing me? I have an eyeball. . repeat, I have an eyeball. . Star of India.’

Outside a big four-wheel-drive monstrosity pulled up and double parked. Jo noticed that the steering wheel was on the left-hand side and the man who was driving was able to get out straight on to the pavement.

No one replied to her transmission. She spoke again, urgently. ‘Dale? Ronnie? Ken? Anyone hearing me? I have an eyeball. . repeat, eyeball.’

The driver of the 4x4 entered the restaurant. He looked at her as he walked past. A very bad feeling, something akin to the pain she had endured when her appendix had to come out, creased the pit of her stomach. Somehow she knew this guy had come to meet Turner. And pick him up — otherwise why leave the car outside in such a ridiculous position? She fumbled in her pocket, pulled out her mobile phone and started to dial frantically.

‘Andrew Turner?’

Turner had watched him come into the restaurant. He did not recognize him, but knew he had come from the Spaniard. Turner nodded and appraised him. He looked hard and mean and ready to move. It did not faze Turner, who said, ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘My orders are to pick you up and convey you to Mr Lopez.’

Turner quaffed the last of his pint and wiped his lips. He stood up and was glad to see that he was bigger and wider than the man who had come for him. But yet the man’s eyes screamed danger and even Turner felt something almost tangible emanating from him.

‘You carrying?’

‘Nope.’

‘Let me check. Mr Lopez does not like to be surprised.’

‘I said I wasn’t.’

‘I don’t give a damn what you said. I got a job to do and if you do not comply, then I walk out of here. If you don’t let me check, you don’t have a meet.’

Turner rolled his jaw ruminatively, peering down his nose at a man who was, after all, only a driver, weighing up whether the issue was worth pushing. He decided to back down.

‘OK.’ For the sake of business he relented and lifted his arms.

The driver skimmed him quickly, lightly, effectively quartering his body within a few seconds. Turner knew he had been searched well. This guy knew his trade.

‘What about you?’ Turner sneered.

The man considered Turner and his face broke into a crooked grin. He spun on his heels and Turner followed him out to the car. As he passed the attractive woman seated alone at the table near the door, who was talking on her mobile, Turner blew her a kiss. He heard her say, ‘Hiya, sweetie.’

There was some kind of a meet on. That much was obvious from what Jo had seen happen, having watched the interaction between the two men by means of the reflection in the window. The quick chat. The search. The exit. Turner was on his way to see someone very important.

Her phone connected at the very moment Turner came alongside her at the table and blew her a kiss. As O’Brien answered, she found herself saying, ‘Hiya sweetie,’ and almost choking on her words.

‘Hello to you, too,’ O’Brien responded in a deep, suggestive voice. ‘I didn’t know we had something going.’

‘We don’t. My radio’s down,’ Jo babbled quickly. ‘I’ve eyeballed the target and he’s just getting into a big four-wheel-drive parked outside the Star of India.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m out of the car, about five minutes from it, down in the Frog.’ O’Brien was referring to a pub about a quarter of a mile away, on the way to the city centre. ‘I got bored too.’

‘Shit. . well. .’ Jo braved herself to openly watch the big vehicle muscle its way into the evening traffic towards the city, causing other traffic to brake hard with a cacophony of angry horns. The driver stuck up a middle finger and accelerated away. ‘He’s headed your way, Dale. . get out of the pub and watch out for a big Yank-style four-by-four. I’m gonna leg it to the car.’

Jo rose from the table, surprising the waiter who was on his way to her with the much anticipated mixed kebab. His Indian accent failed him as he immediately — and rightly — believed she was going to do a runner, although most people did that after they had eaten.

‘Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ he shouted at Jo’s retreating back.

‘Sorry pal, got to rush,’ she yelled as she exited, did a cartoon-like skid and hared towards the car. She dodged around numerous people now out for a night on the pavements of Rusholme, then veered into the street where the car was parked unattended — and locked. The realization that she could not drive the car away only hit her as she saw the vehicle. She slowed to a trot, then a walk, and when she got to the car, she kicked it in frustration. Dale had the keys.

Her mobile chirped: O’Brien.

‘Jo — the four-wheel-drive,’ he panted, ‘just gone past me then U-turned again, heading back to Rusholme. Obviously surveillance-conscious.’

‘Yeah, good — but I can’t get in the car. You’ve got the bloody keys.’

‘I’m running now,’ O’Brien said, his phone going dead.

Jo went back to the main road and stood on the corner of the street to watch, hopefully, for Turner’s reappearance. She decided to use the time constructively and keyed the number of one of her other team members into the phone. She was going to alert them one by one.

‘Hey — you!’

Jo twirled. It was the Indian waiter.

‘Hey, you — you order food, we cook it — you fuckin’ pay for it,’ he said.

‘Shit!’ Her eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Look — just fuck off, will you? I haven’t time to explain, okay?’

‘I’ll call the cops.’

The 4x4 containing Turner and his unknown chauffeur crawled past in the traffic, which was heavy now.

‘I am the cops,’ Jo blasted him, keeping one eye on the traffic and the other on the irate little waiter. She extracted her warrant card with a flourish and shoved it into his face. The 4x4 was disappearing in traffic now.

‘Don’t give you a right to do what you did,’ chuntered the waiter.

‘Look, just fuck off, will you? I’ll make it right, but just now I’m a bit busy.’

‘Jo!’ screamed Dale O’Brien, appearing on the scene at a run. He went straight for the car, clicking the remote as he got to it, diving into the driving seat.

‘We’ll settle up with you, honest,’ Jo assured the waiter. She backed away from him, hands palm forwards, placating him. ‘Honest.’ She jumped into the car next to O’Brien. ‘What a bleedin’ cock-up,’ she said. ‘Go left — he went thataway.’

She sat back and took a deep breath.

Next to her, O’Brien was breathing frantically and his hands and feet were dithering on the controls. He edged the car into the evening traffic, poking its nose out hopefully. No one was for letting him out.

‘Come on for God’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘C’mon you impolite bastards, let me out.’ He thumped the steering wheel.

‘We’re gonna lose him,’ Jo stated, feet tapping. ‘What a cock-up.’

‘I can’t believe this traffic.’

There was a gap a millisecond wide and O’Brien went for it, his tyres skidding and the car lurching across the line of cars, only to find there was no gap at all to get into on the opposite carriageway, thereby finding himself stuck at an angle halfway across the road, completely halting traffic in one direction. No one was feeling patient and horns began to sound, but then someone did slow for him and wave him in. He gave a relieved wave and shot into the line and started to crawl along — only to pass Turner in the 4x4 going back in the opposite direction towards the city. He had spun round again.