The police station car park was jammed full. It took Alan nearly fifteen minutes to escape. The streets of Leicester were busy with people travelling towards the city centre for the bars and nightlife, but traffic began to thin out as he drove down the Uppingham Road and reached the suburbs. He was driving east, with the setting midsummer sun now low in his wing mirrors. He breathed a sigh of relief as he left the city behind, and headed out into the low hills of Rutland.
It was starting to grow dark as he crossed the county line into Lincolnshire, and became aware that his mobile phone was beeping. Its batteries were going flat. He hadn’t yet had the time to go into town and buy a DC adaptor for his new Fourtrak; so he turned it off. The noise irritated him and he needed peace to think.
About a mile from Priory Farm, he turned the headlights off. It was a lonely road and he knew he was unlikely to meet anyone. He slowly drove along a hedged track that led to a long-abandoned duck decoy pond, which the County Conservation Trust had made into a mini nature reserve. He pulled up in a stand of reeds and willow, and got out. He approached the hangar from the rear, using the cover of the overgrown hedge.
Alan crossed the boundary fence and crept along the hedge on the east side of the hangar, until he came to the corner with the small door. It was almost as he’d left it on Friday afternoon. But slightly wider open. He examined it as closely as he could in the moonlight, but could see nothing. No time to worry. Probably wind, or a fox.
It opened easily. Once inside, he pulled the door closed behind him and stood on the toilet bowl. He pulled himself through the open trapdoor in the ceiling. After lowering himself back to the ground, through the gap left by the plywood panel, he stood stock still, listening. He was now inside the main body of the hangar. It was absolutely pitch dark.
He knew he’d been as quiet as possible, but there is nowhere on earth quite as echoing and soundless, as an empty hangar on a still night. He could see why so many are thought to be haunted by dead bomber crews. If anyone was out there, in that vast space between the two stacks of Portakabins, they’d have heard him come in by now.
He’d have to move fast. He took a pair of thick socks from his pocket and pulled them over his boots to muffle his steps. Then he ran along the north wall, in the space behind the Reference Collections Portakabins. He eased himself through a narrow gap between two of them.
He felt his way along the front of the Portakabins up to the door of the General Office. Froze. Listened. Nothing. He pulled the key from his jeans and silently turned it.
He was about to step in, when he heard it: a sound from the other side of the hangar. Maybe it was nothing: just something shifting in the gloom. But it could have been somebody coughing or sneezing into their sleeve. He was up the steps and pulled the door, behind him. Again he froze, listening intently through a crack by the door. Was that it again?
It was.
But it had moved. It was further to the right, this time.
And there was another sound: something metallic. A gun being cocked?
He thought about what he’d heard. There were certainly two, more likely three people. He was pretty sure he knew who they were. As he’d guessed, Paul had tipped them off. Silently he closed the General Office door and locked it.
The Innovations Space was entered by a corridor from the back of the General Office. There was no other way in or out, apart from the side door he’d blocked the previous evening. As he walked along the corridor, he resisted the temptation to run. He had to be methodical. Panic was not an option.
Once inside, he locked the door behind him. First he checked everything was still in place. Then he did it again, just to be sure. He stood for a moment, his eyes closed. He tilted his head forward while breathing deeply. Slowly and methodically he relaxed the muscles in his neck, then his arms, then his back, his thighs and legs. Deep breaths. He could feel his senses sharpen. A few more breaths. It was time for action.
He pulled out his lighter and lit the candles he’d fixed to the central table and above the door. Next he crossed over to the fume cupboard and cut the wires to the extractor fan. He removed the emergency safety goggles from behind their reinforced glass screen and slung them around his neck. Then he released the valve on the carbon dioxide cylinder, opened the fume cupboard doors and carefully tied them back. The gas was hissing as it escaped and he moved a short distance away to avoid it. He paused and checked what he had done. At this stage he knew he couldn’t make any mistakes. He took a few more deep breaths, while consciously relaxing his muscles. Again he stood still and checked everything. All seemed in order.
As if in slow motion, and anxious not to stir up clouds of invisible gas, he made his way to the ladder, checking the pile of cardboard was still there. Then he started to climb, listening intently. One step at a time. Slowly and methodically. After what seemed like an age, he reached the top layer of shelves. Carefully he leant across and grabbed an overhead steel joist, swinging his legs up behind him. Now he was lying safely on the shelf. Still listening. Listening, while consciously taking deep silent breaths. He knew he needed to take his body to the verge of hyperventilation.
After two and a half minutes he heard a loud crash outside. The General Office door had been forced. Almost immediately he thought he felt cool air on his face. Or was it imagination? He wasn’t sure. Either way, he hadn’t heard them closing the outside door. If it was left open that would make his next task much simpler.
His thoughts were sharply broken by a harsh voice from somewhere in the General Office.
‘We’re coming to fuckin’ get you, Alan-smart-arse. This time you won’t fuckin’ get away. We know where you are, boy.’
Alan recognised the Norfolk accent only too well. It was Kevin, the Kabuls’ ex-squaddie hit man from Impingham. He probably thinks it’s third time lucky, Alan thought grimly.
Alan was still deep-breathing. He could hear further sounds from the General Office. But they didn’t matter. He had to control his mind, not just his body.
Precise timing would be essential. There were three of them, and one of him. And they were armed. He was now completely focused on the sounds from around the General Office. A slight scrape here, a creak there, told him the three men were still in the General Office. He looked at his watch. Although it seemed like hours, they had only been there a minute.
He’d given himself a 50:50 chance he’d pull it off. Everything depended on them doing what he needed them to do. They had to be at certain places at key times. Delay would be disastrous.
The hiss of escaping gas seemed to be getting louder. He breathed deeply some more and the sound quietened. Dammit, Alan thought, it was me, not the gas. More deep breaths. Down below they were ransacking office cupboards. One, two three drawers hit the floor. Then a thud as the wardrobe was pulled to the ground.
He looked down at his watch. Two minutes. Then he heard Stu open the side door into the toilet and small kitchen. This was worrying. Alan found he was holding his breath. Angrily he forced himself to breathe out. The gas was still a long way below him. He was aware that the small kitchen would take them into the neighbouring Portakabin, the Packaging Store, where they’d be surrounded by more files and rack after rack of completed orders, boxes and bubble wrap. Again he glanced at his watch. They’d be delayed there too long: five minutes, maybe more.
As he looked down, the candle on the bench-top suddenly went out. A wisp of smoke. It had been smothered by rising gas. He glanced at his watch: the gas had taken three minutes to reach the top of the bench. By now he reckoned it was above the lower half of the space, where the large work benches were recessed well back into the walls. The volume of air above them was smaller. Alan did a rapid calculation. It would take another three minutes to reach him. Maybe even less.
They must be speeded up. He called out as loud as he could:
‘Kevin, won’t you be reasonable? I’m sure we can come to a deal.’
He tried to make his voice sound like a supercilious officer-and-gentleman. He needed to provoke them. Get their adrenalin pumping. He was being patronising, and it worked. He heard them come crashing back into the General Office. At that moment the second candle above the door flickered briefly and went out. Again he checked his watch: give them another minute. The gas was rising faster than he’d expected. Only six feet to go.
He was counting. After thirty seconds he called out a second time:
‘I say, why don’t we talk, Kevin? Do be reasonable, old chap. Stop acting like an angry schoolboy!’
‘Fuck you, arsehole!’
They had heard where his voice was coming from. Their footsteps thundered down the corridor. The door handle rattle. Locked. Alan cursed: had that been a mistake? He thought he’d need the extra time. He’d know in a few seconds. He was breathing deep and fast, making no attempt to keep quiet.
There was a short pause, as they drew back and charged. Then with a loud crash, the door smashed open. There was the sound of bodies crashing to the ground, and a sharp wheezing. Alan imagined them thrashing around, grabbing at their throats, gasping for air.
Alan took a final deep breath. He pulled down the goggles and jumped onto the heap of cardboard far below.
He dashed for the door, kicking Darren and Stu’s pistols out of reach. As he passed Kevin he stooped down and grabbed his machine pistol, which lay on the ground beside him. Leaving doors open behind him, he gulped down fresh air outside the General Office, then ran back in and shut off the gas. All three men were now fully unconscious, but not, he hoped, dead. He went outside a second time and waited for a couple of minutes while the worst of the gas cleared.
Then he returned. He checked their pulses, which were weak. But still just there. He was relieved. They were alive, if not kicking. Rapidly he dragged Kevin and his two mates out into the Packaging Store and tied their wrists, before securely wrapping them in thick layers of cling film, bubble wrap and parcel tape. Nobody could escape from that.
He was about to turn off the light when he looked back at them, lying on the floor. They lay there absolutely still. These were people who had just tried to kill him. There was something pathetic about them. To his surprise he felt contempt, not anger. Some people might have forgiven him if he had kicked each one of them in the balls, just to make himself feel better. Stretched out unconscious on the floor, his would-be assassins lacked even the dignity of the dead. He flicked the switch and shut the door, turning the key in the lock.