DAVID PRENTICE HAD been a security guard for over twenty-five years, nearly half his life. He’d worked on the Silverlink Industrial Estate the last ten. In all that time there had never been a single incident on his watch. Nights were a pain, but he wasn’t complaining. His line of work was, more or less, money for old rope. A piece of piss, in fact, allowing him time to study digital photography with the OU.
What was not to like?
Lifting his head from his prospectus, he took a long drag on his cigarette, rechecking his monitors. Perfect. Nothing to suggest he’d have to make the boring journey round the perimeter fence at five, no unusual sightings to report in the logbook. It was still. Quiet. He yawned. He’d be home and hosed by six-fifteen. Except . . .
Something wasn’t quite right.
Prentice peered again at the monitors. The last one he looked at showed a van straddling the main gate. It wasn’t there before. Pushing buttons on a keyboard, Prentice zoomed in on the vehicle, its driver’s door wide open – no sign of its owner. The van was parked on the access road, so technically not his problem, but it soon would be if the idiot who’d left it there didn’t get it shifted. Half an hour from now, delivery wagons were scheduled to arrive. Prentice imagined them backed up all the way to the coast road, waiting to get in.
Panicking, he rewound the footage.
A short while ago, he’d eaten his bait and taken a quick slash. He’d been out of his chair only a matter of minutes. In that time, two sets of headlights had approached the main gate at high speed: the mystery van and a light-coloured Range Rover following close behind. Prentice began to sweat as he viewed the screen. The two vehicles pulled up sharply. The van door flew open and a figure sprinted from one vehicle to the other. Before the door of the four-by-four was even closed, it was driven away at high speed, resulting in rear-wheel spin. It disappeared, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake.
What the hell was all that about?
Pulling on his uniform jacket, Prentice picked up his torch and went to investigate. As he walked to the exit, it occurred to him that what he’d seen might have been a diversionary tactic, a ruse to make him take his eye off the ball. The guy he’d seen running from the van and his accomplice could be parked around the back, ready to ram-raid the place. To be on the safe side, he returned to his office, rechecking his monitors, paying particular attention to the perimeter fence.
Satisfied that there was nothing untoward at the rear, he made his way outside. As he hurried towards the main gate, a distance of around a hundred metres, his eyes nervously scanned the delivery yard. It was a beautifully clear morning. Not yet light. Eerily quiet. No sign of anyone, suspicious or otherwise. His breathing slowed, returning to normal. Probably some daft kids messing around in a stolen vehicle. They had little discipline these days and fewer boundaries. What the parents were up to was anyone’s guess.
Digging inside his pocket, Prentice took out his master key, then thought better of it and put it back, deciding to remain on site, call the police and set the monkey on their backs, as his late wife used to say.
They’re paid a damn sight more than you.
Mrs P was right – they were.
Intent on getting away home on the dot of six, Prentice looked up, the flap-flap of the company flag above drawing his attention. The only other sound was the soft purr from the van’s engine as he neared the main gate. Switching on his torch, he aimed it at the open driver’s door. The vehicle was a newish Mercedes. Along the side panel, a sign spelled out a company name: HARDY’S ROOFERS. Beneath it, a website address and contact details were picked out in bold black lettering.
As he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, Prentice decided it would be quicker and easier to contact the company direct rather than calling the law. The police would no doubt insist on a forensic examination and all sorts of other bollocks before the vehicle could be moved, leaving him stuck on site till lunchtime. Not to mention the shit he’d be in with his boss if he arrived to find the entrance blocked off.
The number rang out unanswered. He scanned the van again, moving the torch-beam to the rear wheels where something glistened, thick and shiny like oil, dripping on to the road below, pooling beneath the vehicle.
Oh Jesus!
Prentice ran.