Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

He breathed deeply and wiped a hand across his face. He was certain the old woman was losing whatever marbles she had left. She’d suddenly announced the news about Palmer as if she was imparting a hot tip on the 3.30 at Haydock. Like he couldn’t have done with knowing it before he went anywhere near the guy’s office. Or near the girl, come to that. They were most probably at it, anyway, the two of them, which would make Palmer act all hairy-chested, even if he wasn’t some kind of ex-army super-cop.

He checked the street, then ducked down under the dashboard and flipped off the thick elastic band holding the lid of the shoebox in place. Inside was a heavy object wrapped in tissue paper advertising a brand of trainers. He peeled back the paper and touched the darkened metal beneath. It felt oddly cold, and he experienced a frisson of fear. According to his friend, who sold more than just shoes, he was looking at a Spanish.22 calibre Llama automatic pistol with a five-inch barrel. His friend had rattled on about capacity and stuff, and even showed him how to hold it steady, but Szulu hadn’t taken much in. He was more concerned with worrying about if, when it came down to it, he’d have the balls to use it.

VTS Transit occupied the end unit in a row of small, single-storey shell structures on a commercial estate in Hayes, a few minutes from the M4 motorway and to the west of London. Overshadowed by a variety of gaudily sign-posted businesses including double-glazing fitters, panel-beaters, design workshops and printers, VTS was almost insignificant, veiled behind a busy clutter of cars, skips, trailers and tractor cabs. The air smelled of hot plastic, metal and some unidentifiable cooking aromas, and the atmosphere was one of industry and urgency.

Riley and Palmer approached a glass door marked OFFICE, set alongside a blue roller door with a hand-scrawled VTS Transit sign, as if identifying the occupants had been an afterthought. The roller was three-quarters open, revealing a small warehouse containing a jumble of pallets and boxes, and a scattering of discarded cardboard packing on a concrete floor. Along one wall stood a workbench, and beyond it, in the rear corner of the unit, was a stretch of mesh steel fencing secured with a padlocked door. Inside this cage were several heavy-looking wooden crates. A man was standing at the workbench, writing on a pad. If he was aware of their approach, he did not bother looking up, but continued with his task.

‘Hi,’ said Palmer, ducking beneath the roller door. Riley followed, scanning the interior for signs of other staff.

The man turned and stared at them with a strange lack of curiosity. He was tall and bulky, dressed in blue overalls and heavy work boots. A patch of dark bristle covered a weak chin, and his skin had an unhealthy, doughy appearance as if he spent too much time indoors. He looked from Palmer to Riley and back and lifted his chin.

‘What you want?’ His voice was heavily accented.

‘We’re looking for a reliable courier company,’ said Riley, making the man drag his eyes away from Palmer. ‘A friend said you offered a good service.’ She indicated the estate outside. ‘We were in the area and thought we’d drop by.’

‘Friend? What friend?’ The man turned back to his work. He wrote heavily, stabbing the pen onto the paper as if he hated his job and would rather be dissecting small animals with a chisel.

‘A place in Harrow.’ She named the building, but it brought no obvious reaction. ‘He said you seemed pretty switched on and reliable.’

The man shook his head. ‘Switched on? I not know this. We are busy. Big contract take long time. No take on new business.’ If the man had ever attended any kind of training course, he had plainly fallen asleep before they got to the part about customer relations.

‘Not enough vans?’ Palmer said, looking around. The dust of the concrete floor revealed a single set of tyre tracks. In spite of the clutter, the building did not indicate signs of a fleet of vehicles.

‘Correct.’ The man said slowly, and ripped the form from the pad, folding it into a plastic see-through envelope with a sticky surround. He bent and slapped the envelope onto a large cardboard package on a nearby pallet.

‘You ship overseas, I see,’ put in Riley, indicating the form he’d just completed. ‘Anywhere specific?’

‘All over. States of America, Europe.’ He shrugged.

Palmer nodded towards the caged area containing the wooden crates. ‘I see you’ve got a secure storage area, too. That’s good.’

The man looked at the cage and shrugged. ‘Is for high value.’

‘Really?’ Riley asked. ‘Such as?’

The man gave a hint of a smile and reached behind him to pick up a phone. ‘I get my colleague.’ He dialled a number and waited, studying them by turn, then muttered something in a language neither Riley nor Palmer understood, before slapping the phone back on its rest. ‘He come. You wait. Two minutes.’ He settled back against the workbench, arms folded across his chest, no longer interested in working.

Palmer shrugged and lifted his foot to pick at something on his shoe, while Riley bent to peer at the label on the parcel.

Three minutes later, a grating sound came from the rear of the warehouse, and a man appeared. He was in his fifties, with a pale complexion and crinkly hair, dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt. Above the breast pocket was a logo and the word SkyPrint in flowing script.

‘Can I help?’ he said, with the same lifting of the chin as the man in the overalls. His accent was less noticeable, but he seemed no more welcoming than his colleague. He looked from Palmer to Riley with a frown, then at the man against the bench, who merely shrugged and mumbled a few words.

Palmer repeated the story they had agreed on, then waited while the man processed the information.

‘Like he said, we don’t need more business at the moment,’ he informed them. ‘Who did you say recommended us?’ His eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t quite believe anyone had done such a thing.

‘Somebody we know,’ Palmer replied. ‘It’s no big deal. If you can’t help, we’ll find someone else.’ He turned towards the entrance. As he did so, another man ducked beneath the roller door and stood in the opening. Physically, he was a clone of the man in overalls, except that he was dressed in a black towelling jump suit and trainers. He also looked a lot lighter on his feet.

‘Neat,’ said Palmer. ‘You guys have a unique approach to business.’

The man in shirtsleeves considered Palmer’s words before muttering something. The newcomer stepped aside with a sour show of reluctance.

‘Get anything useful?’ asked Riley, on the way back to the car. She looked over her shoulder. The three men were standing in the entrance, watching them.

‘You mean apart from the shitty welcome, the heavy in the romper suit and where the man in the white shirt sprang from? Not much.’

‘It could be a genuine set-up.’

Palmer nodded. ‘Yeah. At least, some of it.’

‘Well, well. Look at that.’ Riley looked pointedly in the direction of a unit they had just passed. Similar in size to VTS, it bore a large sign printed with the word SkyPrint and the logo they had seen on the man’s shirt.

Palmer nodded. Signs out front offered express printing jobs; any value, walk in, wait, walk out. ‘Good cover,’ he said. ‘They turn over regular cash work, establish local credibility and the boss can keep a watchful eye on VTS, without appearing to be too involved.’

‘I wonder if Radnor and Michael ever come here.’

‘I’d bet on it. Radnor doesn’t strike me as the trusting kind.’

As he climbed in the car, Palmer opened his hand. He was holding a tiny scrap of heavy, greasy paper, coated in dust. He rubbed the surface to reveal a dull sheen.