Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

Donaldson thought about it. ‘Lake District, you mean?’

‘Possibly,’ Henry shrugged.

‘And now for round two of our Krazee Kwiz Nite.’ Their conversation was interrupted as the voice of Ken, the landlord, boomed out over the PA system. ‘Pens and answer sheets at the ready. Next ten questions are on the hits of the sixties.’

‘Ahh,’ Donaldson said, ‘your era.’

‘You ain’t far behind, pal.’

There was no more talk that night of a boys’ break, but it was a thought that remained with them, nagging away at the back of their minds.

Jack Vincent sat in the battered chair at the battered desk inside the stolen mobile cabin that doubled as his office and a refreshment area for the workers in the quarry that deeply scarred the hillside a quarter of a mile away. Vincent’s cruel face set hard as he shivered and hunched himself deeper into his thick donkey jacket. The gas heater was on, but fighting a losing battle against the harsh north-easterly wind that swooped down from the moors above the village of Kendleton in north Lancashire. Keeping any warmth in the cabin was a constant battle as the outside temperatures continued to tumble with the approach of evening.

From Vincent’s position, looking out from the cabin, he could monitor any traffic approaching the quarry up the steep winding lane from the main road. He could watch his heavy lorries as they reached another cabin where they booked in and then were sent on the right-hand fork through the gates into a steel-walled compound. Here any ‘necessary changes’ were attended to by Vincent’s fitter, before they were sent on towards the loading area, where the crushing and filtering machines smashed the rock that had been blown out of the quarry face, then graded it to customer requirements. The lorries were then refilled and sent back out on the road.

At the moment, Vincent’s main customer was a huge multinational road-building company subcontracted by the Department of Transport to widen a stretch of the M6 near Stafford. It was a government contract worth several million pounds and Vincent had manoeuvred brutally to get his piece of it. There had been the necessary payoffs, a bit of very heavy intimidation against his rivals — because a well-paid contract like this was always hard fought for by the minnows — and one particularly nasty incident where Vincent and his silent partner had been forced to resort to whacking the edge of a shovel into a man’s head. There was now nothing left of that man. He had been fed limb by limb into a crusher, mixed in with a few tons of hardcore, and was buried underneath a bridge pillar on the stretch of motorway he had, ironically, been so keen to build.

Vincent checked his watch, a Rolex, incongruous against the sleeve of his grubby donkey jacket, then peered down the twisting track.

Two empty lorries were expected. Their fourth run of the day. And, like clockwork, they appeared. They were huge monsters, but even they were overshadowed by the giant machines that worked the quarry itself.

Vincent smiled and his face softened with triumph. There would be something extra for each of these vehicles when they left the quarry with the many tons of ground rock in them. He stood up.

The first of the lorries drew up at the reception cabin. The driver dropped out of the cab. He went in and did some paperwork with the woman who dealt with admin, the dispatch and return of orders. Then he clambered back and drove through to the compound, pulling up with a hiss of airbrakes under a drive-through awning constructed of corrugated metal. He got out of the cab again and turned to Vincent, who had walked in behind.

‘The Department of Transport and the cops have set up a couple of stop-checks on north and southbound at Charnock services on the M6,’ he told Vincent.

‘Make sure you don’t stop there for a brew, then,’ Vincent replied to the driver, who was called Larry Callard.

‘Just saying — they’re out and about and me and Bert have already exceeded our hours today. If we get pulled, we’re screwed.’

As they were talking, a man clad in overalls, rubbing his hands with an oily cloth, strolled across to them. He was big and broad, early forties, with deep-set eyes and a ruddy complexion. This was ‘Ox’ Henderson, Jack Vincent’s vehicle fitter.

‘What’s up, boss?’

‘Department’s out and about.’

‘And my hours are way over,’ Callard whined.

‘Can you fix it?’ Vincent asked Henderson.

‘Fix anything.’ He heaved himself into the cab of Callard’s lorry, lay across the seat and reached down to the tachograph, the device fitted underneath the dashboard that recorded drivers’ hours on a plastic-coated disc. It was supposed to be tamper-proof. Many people, however, had found ways and Henderson was a bit of an expert with them. He had once been the transport manager of a small, criminally run haulage business, but when the company had been investigated by the ministry and the police, Henderson’s way with a tachograph had been uncovered. He had been hung out to dry by the company owners, found himself behind bars for fraud for three months and then completely unemployable. Until Jack Vincent took him on.

‘Go grab a brew,’ Henderson shouted from the cab. ‘Be about ten minutes here, then no one’ll even know you’ve ever been out on the road today.’ He laughed.

Callard turned to leave. Jack Vincent’s spidery hand grasped his arm. ‘You having problems, Larry? I’m picking up a vibe, mate.’

‘What do you mean?’ He looked nervously at Vincent.

‘I mean you do what I say and you get paid well for it — yeah? I don’t want no moaning, otherwise…’

‘I wasn’t moaning.’

Vincent held Callard’s eyes meaningfully for a long second. Then he nodded as an understanding passed between them.

‘There’ll be something extra in the next run. I’ll give you details on the way out, OK? Usual bonus.’

‘Yuh, whatever, boss.’

Vincent’s fingers uncurled from Callard’s forearm and he nodded curtly. The second of the returning, empty lorries pulled into the awning. As the driver climbed out, Vincent said to him, ‘See Ox.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the first lorry, and Henderson’s booted feet sticking out of the cab as he worked on the tachograph. ‘Then grab yourself a brew — but I want you back on the road in half an hour.’

‘No probs, boss,’ the second driver said. His name was Bert Pinner.

Yeah, Vincent thought as he walked back towards the cabin, his head tilted against the biting wind, never is a problem with you, Bert. But I’m starting to get mighty concerned about Callard.

Whatever, this would be the last run of the day for the two lorries. By the time they’d had their tachographs fixed, then reloaded with hardcore and been sent on their way, done the delivery down the M6 — plus the extra side-bits — it would be almost ten at night.

No other traffic was due to be coming up to the quarry, so Vincent jarred to a halt when he saw a pair of headlights bouncing up the track. He stood by the door of the cabin, collar pulled up, and waited for the vehicle to arrive, which it did a few moments later, skidding to a grit-crunching stop on the stony ground.

It was a big four-wheel drive Land Cruiser, with greyed-out windows, similar to the kind of thing Vincent drove whilst on quarry business. Difference was this one was newer, cleaner and a better model. The doors opened and two men got out.

And Jack Vincent cursed himself. He wondered how quickly he could get into the cabin and reach the sawn-off shotgun he kept Velcroed under the desk, always fully loaded, usually within hand’s reach.

Instead, he affixed a tight smile and approached the men, hand outstretched, the very model of welcome.