Pecking order, p.26
Pecking Order, page 26
Sighing once more, he grabbed a pen and post-it note. Jotting the number down on it, he said, 'Remember girls, it's my job on the line giving you this.'
'Cheers Brian,' they both answered together.
Jayne reached over to take the slip of paper, but Brian held it just out of her reach for a second.
'You'll be the death of me, Jayne Riley,' he whispered with a smile and then placed it in her palm.
Jayne just gave him a wink and ushered Clare out of the room. In the kitchen, she took a mobile phone from her pocket.
'Tell you what,' she said to Clare. 'You brew up while I give Davis a ring.'
'OK,' Clare answered, her face still tense.
Jayne retrieved the number for the front desk of Stanton Street station from her phone's memory. ‘Hello, Duty Officer Davis please.'
The teaspoon clinked as Clare nervously swirled around the tea bags in each cup.
'Jason? It's Jayne.'
Clare looked up on hearing the new tone in Jayne's voice. Was this how she speaks to her punters?
'How are you my darling?' Jayne cooed. As the policeman replied, Jayne smiled at the wall, as if they were face-to-face. When she spoke again, her words were infused with a sweet warmth. 'That's good to hear. And your family?'
Clare found herself wanting to drink the sound in. No wonder Jayne was the most asked-for voice on the chat lines.
Then the other woman’s expression became more serious. ‘Yeah, afraid so. He's really spooking one of my girls. One who really doesn't deserve this sort of shit. Can I give you his number?' A pause, then she read it out. 'OK, we owe you for this, Jason. You're a god-send, my darling.'
She ended the call and when she spoke again her voice was business-like. 'He'll ring us back in about twenty minutes,' she announced, dropping the scrap of paper in the bin. 'You feel up to taking any more calls?'
Clare shook her head. 'No. I'll just wait in here.'
'OK love, I need to clock a couple more up. My mobile’s on vibrate so I'll keep it on the table in front of me. As soon as he rings I'll come back in here. And don't worry; he'll be calling from miles away. You'll see.'
Once Jayne was gone, Clare retrieved the scrap of paper from the bin. After shoving a couple of twenty pence pieces into the tiny pay phone mounted on the wall she rang the number, her forefinger hovering millimetres above the large red 'Connect' button.
In Breystone the phone in the call-box started to ring, the noise carrying across the deserted village green. Down the road from it, a dark blue Volvo, crowded with five people all dressed in black, slowly approached. As the car drew level with the call-box it went over a sleeping policeman and the three men on the back seat heard the baseball bats in the boot clonk against each other.
The man in the front passenger seat peered at the red phone box, his elbow resting on the edge of the open window. As the car continued in the direction of the driveway with the horses' heads mounted on its gateposts, he said to the woman driver, 'Ever wonder who the hell phones call-boxes?'
Clare let it ring for well over three minutes before accepting that she must have missed Rubble. Cursing under her breath, she hung up, then hitched herself up onto the sideboards and sat there anxiously sipping tea.
Two cups later, Jayne hurried back through the doors, the phone trembling in her hand. 'It's Davis!' she said, pointing at the handset and pressing, OK. 'Hi Jason.' The same honeyed tones. 'Thanks for calling back so soon.'
She listened for a few seconds. 'Ah that's great. Yeah, I'll tell her now - she's right beside me.' She looked at Clare. 'He's ringing from a public call-box in some little village called Breystone. It's right out in the countryside, apparently.' Suddenly, she laughed. 'Jason says he's probably got bored with shagging animals and fancied talking to a human for a change. Listen Jason, we appreciate this, you know that don't you? All right, yeah. You too, bye.' She pocketed her mobile. 'There you go Clare, nothing to worry about.'
'Thanks Jayne,' Clare smiled. 'All the same, I think I've had enough for tonight. I'm going to log-off and head home.'
'OK, you do that. Take care of yourself and I'll see you soon?'
"Course,' Clare replied.
Back in her cubicle, she gathered up her things and waved goodbye to Brian as she passed his office. Just as she was about to walk through the exit, the tarot reader who used to work on Mystic Meg's lines stepped out of her cubicle. Their eyes met and she raised a finger in warning.
Before she could speak, Clare slipped through the exit and pushed it shut behind her. Outside, she jogged to the main road and flagged down a cab. Her front door was barely ajar before the heady smell of hashish filled her nostrils.
Damn, she thought, remembering she'd forgotten to ring Zoe about her interview. She shut the door behind her, wondering if the fumes signified the need for congratulations or commiserations. As soon as she stepped into the front room, she knew. Zoe was slumped on the carpet in front of the gas fire, two blackened knives and a cut-off bottle arranged on the hearth. From the stereo came the mournful sounds of Leonard Cohen.
'Zoe?' Clare called gently.
Zoe propped herself up on an elbow and half-looked over her shoulder. 'All right?' she stated flatly, avoiding her friend's gaze.
'How did it go?' asked Clare, sitting down on the sofa.
Zoe continued staring into the quietly hissing gas fire. Her words were groggy. 'They'd given it to someone else before I even got there. A keen young graduate in Diesel jeans and a skateboarder's top. He was already sat on a Mac wowing them all. The studio manager forgot to call me and say not to bother going in.'
Clare leaned forward and placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. 'I'm sorry Zoe, but fuck them. Would you want to work for an outfit that treats prospective employees like that? They're bound to shit on their staff too.'
Zoe heaved out a great sigh. 'Don't know if I want to work for any outfit, full stop.'
Clare frowned in sympathy, 'You'll find a place somewhere decent, believe me.'
Zoe didn't reply.
Clare decided it was time to change the subject. Lifting her voice, she said, 'Guess what? I've found out where Rubble lives - and I don't want to go out there on my own. Fancy coming for a little drive?'
'What, now?'
'Yeah. God knows what Maudsley is up to, but Rubble mentioned that he's going to be doing another job, so I've got to see him as soon as possible.'
Zoe lay back down. 'I don't think so Clare. Maybe tomorrow yeah?'
Clare pursed her lips, looking with disappointment at the apathy-filled form lying on the carpet at her feet.
'Well, can I borrow your car? I really need to see this guy.'
'Yeah,' replied Zoe unenthusiastically. 'The keys are on the hook in the kitchen.'
‘Thanks. I'll see you in a bit.' She stopped in the doorway on her way back out, 'And Zoe? Go easy on the hash. Trust me, it's doing you no good.'
Zoe placed both knives between the bars of the gas fire in an act of silent defiance. 'Clare,' she announced. 'Tonight I intend to get completely off my head.'
'Whatever,' Clare replied, slamming the door shut behind her.
Just down the street was Zoe's silver Polo. She unlocked the door and set off for the motorway.
Chapter 53
'So, about tonight's mission,' said Eric, easing the car into the slow lane.
Rubble sat meekly next to him, head bowed, rubber-coated hands folded in his lap.
'As I mentioned, it's not the same as your previous ones. Tonight's task is normally carried out only by agents far more senior to yourself. So, if you succeed, you are effectively promoted to the next level.'
Rubble looked hopefully up at Eric, determination setting his features in stone.
Eric continued with his speech. 'Tonight's subject is classed by the government as a subversive. Apart from being a member of the animal lib ...' Rubble looked up sharply at the words, like a dog scenting prey. ' ... you don't need to know what she has done. Just think of her as our enemy. Now, on this mission you will not be supplied with a door key. You will get into the subject's flat through a kitchen window at the back. Earlier reconnaissance identified that the panes of glass are loose in their frames. The flat is very close to a railway track. When a train passes you are to use the noise as cover for digging out the putty holding in the window. Once you've removed a pane, undo the handle and climb in. Everything clear so far?'
Rubble nodded again, watching a single set of headlights approaching them on the other side of the crash barriers.
Eric began speaking again. 'The flat only has one bedroom, so your subject should be easy to locate. She is not - I repeat - not, very old. So be ready for a struggle. Eliminate her as you see fit. Perhaps you could snap her neck like you would a chicken's.' He reached under the seat where the two full syringes lay ready. Handing one to Rubble he added, 'And to make sure she's dead, inject her too.'
As Eric concluded his speech, he glanced to his right. A silver Polo going in the opposite direction sped past them. 'OK, we'll be at the subject's property in about twenty minutes.'
The group slowly trudged across the open field, making a beeline for the glowing windows of the farmhouse in the distance. Three of the men had baseball bats balanced over their shoulders. They looked like a bunch of American dads making their way home from the ballpark. The woman walked alongside them, a baseball bat held in each hand. Childishly she swished the tip of each through the long grass. Behind them all was the last man. He was carrying a large hold-all and a petrol can.
Eric parked a few streets away and led Rubble to a patch of waste ground, wonky football posts spanning a muddy crater at one end. The railway line lay behind a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. After pacing alongside the barrier for a few dozen metres. Eric spotted a section at the base that had been partially bent back by kids or animals.
‘Agent White - make that gap larger and we'll proceed to the back of the subject's flat.'
Rubble fell to his knees and ripped the fence upwards.
'Enough,' said Eric and they both squeezed through.
Clare's flat was at the other end of the short terrace of bungalows, along the back of which ran a shoulder-high fence made up of wooden panels embedded in a concrete base. As they made their way along the grass verge between the fence and the tracks, they had to step over old mattresses and negotiate their way round broken microwaves, battered old hoovers and countless bags of rubbish that had been tipped there by the occupants of the properties beyond. Stamping down a patch of thistles directly behind Clare's flat, Eric was easily able to peer over the top of the fence and look at the kitchen window. A dull glow shone from deep within.
'OK the subject appears to be in,' stated Eric. Beside them the rails began to faintly ping and whine. It was a strange noise, like the sound of a stone bouncing over an ice-covered lake. From his pocket he removed a stubby screwdriver. 'Use this to dig out the putty. Hurry, a train is coming.'
Rubble snatched the screwdriver, gripped the handle in his teeth and vaulted silently over the fence. Eric watched as he bounded across the small concrete yard up to the kitchen window. He crouched there, screwdriver poised at the ready. The noise being carried along the rails steadily increased in volume, the pings becoming louder and merging together so that, when he finally heard the train engine itself, the parallel bands of metal sounded alive. A second later, the train nosed round the curve in the track, a hurtling torpedo of yellow light. Eric raised a hand to shield his face as it raced past, slack-faced passengers framed for an instant between his fingers.
The noise died away and he peeped back over the fence. Rubble was still squatting below the level of the window, now prising out putty with the screwdriver. Several minutes later the rails started to sing again. Eric dropped to his knees as a heavier, slower train appeared, more guttural in its tone. The diesel engine chugged by, dragging behind it an immense and thundering procession of freight carriages. When Eric looked back over the fence, he saw Rubble removing one of the lower panes of glass and reaching inside to release the window handle. It opened outwards and he lifted himself up into the gap.
Placing a foot on the edge of the sink, Rubble climbed carefully across it and dropped out of Eric's sight into the kitchen beyond. With knees flexed and feet placed far apart on the lino floor, he remained motionless, frowning at the heavy, smoke-filled atmosphere.
Outside, the last carriages of the freight train trundled past. Rubble stood and moved to the kitchen door. The sitting room was lit softly by a strange lamp with moving globules of what looked to Rubble like egg yolk inside. He stared at the posters on the walls. A silhouette of a man with his fist raised upwards. There was writing underneath it. The first word was, Che. After that, Rubble couldn't understand any of it. But he recognised the other posters easily enough. A hammer and sickle on a red background. And another poster stamped with the letters, CCCP. Symbols of a hostile power. An enemy of his country.
He moved into the room and was edging towards the door in the corner when he spotted the girl lying face down on a rug in front of the gas fire. By her head blackened knives formed a cross on the hearth. Her face was turned to one side, eyes shut and saliva glistening at the corner of her slightly open mouth. Rubble stepped round the sofa and stood over her, one foot on each side of her waist.
Then, in one swift movement, he sat down on the small of her back, hooked a forearm under her throat and gripped the top of her left shoulder. With his other hand he cupped her chin, forcing her head up and to the side. Just like the diagram in his magazine on the SAS. Then he bent her body backwards, raising her up to his bowed head. Her eyes had opened wide and she reached with feeble hands to where his forearm was crushing her windpipe.
Pressing his lips close to her ear he hissed, 'Die subv ... subs ...' He struggled with the unfamiliar word. 'Subersive!'
Then he wrenched his hands in opposite directions. Her neck instantly gave way with a loud click and he found himself looking into her eyes, even though her body was still facing the carpet. He dropped her lifeless form back to the floor. Then he removed the syringe from his pocket and emptied its contents into the vein in her neck. Standing back up, he looked at the armchair beside him. A cardboard box lay there and balanced on a small stack of files inside was a pencil-case made from clear plastic. Rubble peered at the feather inside, recognising it as the same type the chickens had on his farm. Glancing towards the kitchen door to check Agent Orange couldn't see, he unzipped the case, took the feather out and carefully placed it in the front pocket of his overalls. A memento for his caravan.
As soon as his feet touched the ground on the other side of the fence, Eric grasped him by the upper arm. 'Did you kill her?' he whispered, looking desperately into Rubble's eyes.
'Yeah. Broke her neck. And stuck her with the syringe.'
Rubble thought Eric had collapsed as he suddenly crouched down, hands going up to the sides of his face.
'Are you all right, Sir?' He wondered whether to hook his hands under the other man's armpits and haul him back to his feet.
Eric breathed deeply several times and stood up. 'I'm fine Agent White,' he said, wiping his face while weighing up the syringe in his jacket pocket with his other hand. 'Time to take you home.'
They stood behind the hen-coop at the bottom of the landscaped grounds while the heavy-duty zip of the holdall slowly creaked open. A full-sized chicken suit was pulled out and handed to the woman. Off to the side, one of the men was carefully soaking two lengths of rag in petrol. The woman climbed into the suit and, holding the head under one arm, said, 'If this goes wrong, I've got no chance. Forget running, I can hardly walk in this.' She began raising up one of the massive foam feet in explanation.
Her companions were all pulling on black balaclavas.
'Don't worry about it. The only person who won’t be doing any walking after tonight is the bastard in there,' said one, nodding towards the farmhouse.
Chapter 54
After doing a slow circuit of the village green, Clare came to a halt by the red phone box outside the post office. She got out and walked up the stone ramp to the front door. A small sign with a Consignia logo said, Closed.
Clare began looking at the bits of paper pinned to the noticeboard in the front window.
'Aquarium for sale. 20" x 18" x 12". Includes pump, gravel and stand. No fish. £30 o.n.o.'
‘Baby sitter. Responsible and mature. 16 years old. £6 per hour.'
Then, at the bottom of the notice board she saw the words 'Egg collectors wanted.' She read on. 'Enquire at Embleton farm. Good rates of pay. Call any day between 11 and 12 o'clock.' In the corner of the piece of card was a small map, showing Embleton farm to be just down the road leading back to the motorway.
Clare got back in the Polo and drove out of the village. A minute later she passed a narrow lane and immediately after it saw a sign at the head of a tarmacked drive. Embleton Farm. Private Property. She parked in front of the gates and, leaving the headlights on, climbed back out. A small camera mounted on top of one of the gateposts looked down at her as she searched for a buzzer or some sort of intercom device. Nothing. The Polo's headlights shone down the driveway, illuminating a row of fir trees. Above them she could just make out the tops of two dark bottle-like shapes. Grain silos, she guessed.
Flicking the headlights off, she picked a lighter from out of the glove compartment, locked the car and climbed over the metal gates. As she walked along the driveway her trainers creaked in the silent night air. Soon the road began to slope downwards, curling behind the fir trees and ending at a sort of office building with metal shutters covering the windows. Wooden palettes were stacked by a side door, and she could tell no one lived inside.
'Where's the sodding farmhouse?' she said to herself, squinting at the pair of long, low sheds before her. Pacing slowly along between them, she could hear the hum of extractor fans and every so often the sharp smell of ammonia floated past her. She came to the end of the sheds and stopped, tapping one foot impatiently against the sandy ground. To her left was a small fenced off area, to her right a copse of trees and behind them the faintest smudge of something white. A narrow path led into the trees and she stepped tentatively along it, barely able to see her feet until she emerged on the other side by a caravan. Debris littered the ground surrounding it and, as she approached, she could make out a mass of long, thin shapes adorning its side.
