Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Stupid. But now the wolf was shedding its sheep’s clothing and Drennan was wondering what they had become embroiled in. They knew a little of it of course, the boss had to tell them something of what he was doing. But Drennan had never once presumed that he’d told them everything and the longer things went on the more keenly he felt the creeping sense of threat.

More than that, he was starting to worry that if he and Tyler didn’t take some more decisive action, that the job would stop being a job anymore, that the money would disappear. They wouldn’t get paid for failure. Particularly not when it was supposed to have been so simple in the first place.

Their paymaster had hinted at that already with the phone call the day before.

‘What about our loose end? What do you want to do about that?’

‘That’s no longer a concern of yours Matthew.’

No longer a concern. Drennan didn’t like the sound of that. Not because of the implications for the young man from Fulham but because the less involvement they had in the job, the less chance there would be of being paid the full amount. Let alone picking up other lucrative work. The man may have more uses for them if they did it right, may have friends with similar interests or requirements.

Failure would be costly. These risks he had taken would not be for nothing. Matthew

Drennan knew that all was not lost yet and when the opportunity presented itself to set things right, to stake their claim, he and Tyler could not afford to let it slip.

Thursday. 7.30am.

Campbell had nothing but the clothes he had been snatched and beaten up in, the wallet, phone and keys that were in his pockets and a few extra cuts and bruises.

He was heading home now. A hundred different thoughts had gone through his head since he had left Slater behind him and he knew without question that they would be back to look for him at his home. But with Slater’s car left abandoned in the road right outside Spitalfield Market Slater would have to go back for it. Maybe it had even been stolen, left there in the middle of the street. That would slow Slater up some more. Whatever the case, he would know that there was no hope of finding Campbell back at Liverpool Street now so he would head first for the car and then make for Fulham. Given the traffic across the centre of the city at this time of day Campbell knew that he would beat Slater there on the tube but also knew that he couldn’t stay around for long.

He would, he decided, have to pack a bag and get out. He would have to take the memory stick with him too. Given that he had made his escape from Slater after all that had happened would make it clear enough to them that he knew something — which of course he did — and that he represented a significant threat — which of course, he did.

Sitting on the train as it rattled along toward his station he could not stop his mind from wandering. How did this rough and unsophisticated bunch of thugs fit into this? It made no sense. Though he knew little of them, it was evident that they were pretty straightforward villains. Their violent methods and unsubtle approach made that obvious enough. Theirs was a world where fear and intimidation were blunt and often used tools. They would steal and extort, threaten and occasionally enforce those threats. This was not a gang who were involved in skilful and complicated white-collar crime.

The train stopped and Campbell got off and headed for the bus that would take him the short trip to the end of his road. Would they be there waiting? How long had it been since he last saw Slater?

Pushing the question of who they were and where they fitted in to one side, Campbell turned again to the immediate problem. What to do next? Where to go?

He would call in sick to work for a start. They may not believe him — probably not at all in fact considering how erratically he had been behaving throughout the week. Then again, that might work in his favour.

Then what? Collect a bag of clothes and a toothbrush from the flat and then get out quickly. But to go where? Who would he tell?

He chewed it over on the bus ride back but he could not decide. Every road led back to Gresham because with the address book he had stolen, Gresham knew everyone he knew. Which meant that wherever he went, Gresham and Slater would never be too far away.

Campbell approached his street full of apprehension. But though he was alert and checking every single car he could see, a weariness had settled on him. He was exhausted, cold and in pain. He did not know where to turn, unable to bear the thought of dragging any of the people he loved into this mess with him and knowing that if he did that he would be found anyway. As he neared his front door he felt almost ready to collapse and concede everything. What could he really do now? What cards did he still hold?

Stepping into the silence of his home he listened and heard nothing at all and he knew exactly which card he still held.

Collecting the memory stick from its hiding place, the same place that the gatecrasher had left it, pushed far underneath the oven, he made for his bedroom and filled a bag with clean clothes from his wardrobe. After some short deliberation he gambled another precious few minutes on a hot shower which felt well worth it afterward, leaving him looking and feeling a little more human.

Less than twenty minutes after stepping through the door, Campbell had left and was walking briskly back up the road, no Slater or Gresham in sight.

He had also decided what he was going to do next. There was nobody in his address book that he could call without putting them in danger so he would have to call somebody that was not in it.

‘Griffin Holdings.’

It was a male voice and the noise of a passing bus disturbed him too.

‘Hello? Sorry, is Sarah there?’ he said.

‘Which Sarah?’

Suddenly her surname was gone. He was blank. He hadn’t even thought that there might be more than one Sarah in the office.

‘I thought that this was her direct line.’

‘No, sorry.’

What was it? He couldn’t remember at all no matter how hard he thought.

‘Knowles or Evans sir?’

‘Knowles! Knowles! Sarah Knowles. That’s it. Sorry. Total blank,’ he said trying to temper his initial excitement with a more composed tone of voice.

‘She’s not in yet… oh hang on a sec-,’ the line went muffled for a moment and then the man was back on. ‘She’s not in at all until Monday I’m afraid. Annual leave. Is there anything I can help with?

‘No. Thank you,’ he said flatly as his spirits sagged. Gone until Monday. What would he do until then?

Suddenly he remembered, with a sense of relief that almost made him swoon, that he had swapped mobile phone numbers with her the night before. But he was still apprehensive. How would she react to him calling her on her holiday? As far as she was concerned she was an employee of Griffin Holdings and he a local journalist. That was where his interest began and ended. Would she even be in the country any more?

Campbell shrugged. No time to waste.

‘Hello?’ Yes!

‘Sarah?’ he said trying to hard to sound normal.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Its Daniel.’ Shit.

‘Who?’

‘Hello?’ Campbell tried to play it as if the line were bad and that she’d misheard him but it was a flimsy ploy. He had made a silly mistake in his excitement and relief to hear her voice.

‘Who is this?’

‘Sarah, it’s Owen Michaels.’

Silence.

‘Sarah?’

‘Mr Michaels. What can I do for you?’ Very frosty. Campbell felt a film of sweat on his brow.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Well I made an effort to come to see you last night Mr Michaels.’