Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Griffin had asked that the information be passed to him to examine and had played down its significance, although the tension in his voice may have betrayed him. Checking through what had been stolen he knew that this could, in the wrong hands, bring down more than just him and his lovingly-built company. He knew that the risk needed to be neutralised as quickly as possible and for that there would, inevitably, be a cost.

Tuesday. 6.30pm.

Keith Slater hunched his shoulders up higher and drew his head and thick bull-neck down into the collar of his jacket. The autumn felt like it was giving way to winter already. The cold in his car was bitter and he couldn’t turn the heating on without the engine running and that was out of the question.

He peered across the street through the dim evening toward Campbell’s flat and stared again, intent on the house although he could neither see nor hear a thing. Gresham wanted him to make his move and fast, which meant that he was going to have to grab the man or coerce him into the car. Slater was alone and it would be harder to do the job without a second pair of hands. He considered calling Warren to come and back him up but then thought that it could barely look much more conspicuous the two of them manhandling Campbell into the car in front of his well-to-do neighbours. Slater began to see every curtain in the street twitching and every passer-by or car that rolled along the street was staring at him, taking a mental note of his appearance, his car, model, make and number plate.

It wasn’t quite dark enough yet anyway, just a soft, early-evening dimness. Too early in the evening, too much activity. He needed the cover of late night darkness and people tired and sleeping or hypnotised by the television before he could do anything. Maybe he did need Warren after all.

Rubbing his palms briskly and feeling himself begin to shiver he glanced quickly at his watch and cursed. He began to think of all the houses and flats around him and all the evening meals being cooked and he tried to work out how long it was since he had eaten and whether he could leave his post to get something hot. But then he pictured Campbell walking out of his front door and away unseen into the night the very moment that he pulled away so he stayed right where he was and continued staring through the gathering gloom. He wasn’t going to fuck things up like Keane.

Slater was finding himself growing increasingly frustrated with everyone. Warren, fucking Keane, this Campbell guy, bloody Cooper. Even Gresham.

Julius Warren had got them all into this through his contact with Drennan whom Slater hadn’t liked from the start and had told Gresham as much. The guy was a slimy bastard and though Slater didn’t have him pinned as a copper there was something about him that didn’t fit. He was too smooth but at the same time, there was no question the guy wasn’t a snake.

Stuart Keane had fucked the whole thing up for them just as badly as Cooper had the night before and Slater found himself wishing that he had taken care of Cooper himself and that he could do the same to Keane now.

And Gresham should know better too. He seemed to have been blinded by the pound signs in front of his eyes on this particular job and Slater couldn’t understand that. Still, he had decided that rather than leave them all to it he could at least make sure it got done properly even if he didn’t like it. So far though, he was loathe to admit, he hadn’t even been able to do that.

And the key to this was locked up safe and warm in his flat right now not fifty yards from where Slater sat watching his breath turn cloudy and feeling his backside turn numb. Probably sat watching Eastenders with a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits, slippers on, stomach full, leftovers tipped absently into the bin. Bastard, he thought to himself. You wait til I get my hands on you.

As he sat there chewing over his situation, the headlights of an approaching car lit up the inside of his own and flashed back at him from his rear-view mirror. Slater looked away from the glare and into the wing mirror and noted that the other car was drawing up very slowly behind him. Slater’s antennae was up now and he watched the wing mirror intently and fought the urge to turn and get a better view. The car stopped.

Slater was itching to turn round and see what was happening behind him. He knew there was no real reason that this should have anything to do with him but he’d been sitting for long boring hours watching Campbell’s home and he was keyed up now for something to happen.

Was it the police? Had he been noticed sitting in the car? Or maybe Warren. Sent by Gresham to help out. No, he would have received a call about that. Who then? Somebody else after Campbell? Surely no-one else knew what they knew. But then… maybe someone had let something slip to Drennan and it was him turning up to nose around.

The car started up again and drew closer to and then alongside Slater’s car and he wiped a hand over his face as if he were yawning and totally indifferent to what was going on around him. He stole a glance at the driver as he passed; didn’t recognise him.

A few yards ahead the car stopped again. Slater watched the driver looking at the doors across the road and then give two quick honks on the horn.

Seconds later Slater watched frozen as a figure trotted out onto the pavement, made straight for the car and jumped in the back seat. In the gloom and despite the streetlights Slater was not sure whether the figure had been Campbell but as he watched the silhouette in the back seat gesticulate to the driver and then settle back before the car pulled away, a seed of doubt took root in his mind.

Had it been him? Slater was rattled and jumpy and it was darker in the street now and the streetlights threw confusing glares and reflections off the glass and paintwork of his car and those around him.

For a moment he was torn and he held the keys in the ignition, ready to follow the car, thinking that perhaps it was Campbell after all. If he didn’t follow then he might lose him for good.

No.

Calm down, he thought. The figure he had seen climb into the cab had not carried a large bag with him to indicate that he was going anywhere for any length of time. And what if it wasn’t Campbell and Slater left his post and lost the chance to grab him tonight?

No.

If that was him then he would be back later. And if it had not been Campbell, then Slater would know soon enough anyway and would finally make his acquaintance.

Tuesday. 9pm.

Campbell drained the last lukewarm mouthful of tea from the mug and began rubbing his eyes, which were feeling sore from staring at the screen.

His head was hurting too.

For hours Campbell had sat and read through the corporate literature that he had collected from his little ‘undercover’ trip to Griffin. Thinking about the hastily stammered pseudonym he had offered he cringed; ‘Owen Michaels’ he had said as the photo of the ex-England footballer looked back at him from the newspaper on his desk. Still, at least it hadn’t been David Beckham, he thought. That would have been a little bit too obvious. As it was he wasn’t entirely convinced that the girl had believed him but she’d given him the benefit of the doubt at least.

Griffin Holdings was a company that did a little bit of everything it seemed. The glossy brochures and grand but vague language did not give Campbell much in the way of detail. Its reach was international, taking in countries across Europe, Africa and the Middle East as well as a fast expanding Asian operation. It appeared, in the main, that Griffin engaged in shipping goods of various types around the world both on a private client basis as well as in trading goods itself. This was achieved via different subsidiary companies with their own specific remits all run by one man, Andrew Griffin, the Chief Executive Officer, under the umbrella of Griffin Holdings Ltd.