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“OKAY. YOU ARE RIGHT. You do need help.” John Barnard was a master of understatement.
“All I need is a gun. I can’t show up at my flat to get mine in case... well... you know why.”
“Right,” said John, “one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going with you.”
“No way!”
“Look, Steve. No arguments. You can’t move properly with that gunshot wound. Don’t be a friggin’ hero. They end up dead.”
Regan did not need much time to reflect on the wisdom of John’s words, truth was he was pleased his old pal was going to chaperone him.
“Okay, John. It’s a deal. You are now my deputy,” Regan smiled.
“Right you are, sheriff.”
They laughed and sang the verse of Who Shot The Sheriff.
John backed the Cortina off the main road next to Savernake Forest. It was about five yards from the edge of the road. John, as ever a man of few words, said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in ten.” He was in full military mode now so Regan knew better than to interrupt him or disobey orders.
On leaving the car, John pulled at some tree branches, extracted a knife from his belt and cut several leafy branches. He slung them in front and on top of the car so the old Cortina was invisible from the main road. Regan twisted the rear-view mirror to see John’s backpack vanishing into the thick undergrowth with John in front of the pack.
In exactly nine minutes, John re-appeared, opening the driver’s door. He placed the backpack carefully on the back seat.
“We have all we need in there,” said John.
“Do you mind telling me?” Regan asked.
“Two Brownings, three thunder flash grenades and some medical supplies and ammo.”
“Look, it’s best if we use the bike,” said Regan.
“Why?”
“Better in London traffic than this old jalopy.”
“Probably right, but I’ll tell you what. Follow me on the bike to Heston Services. That way I have some comfort instead of sitting behind your fat arse all the way.”
Regan nodded approval as John engaged first gear to drive back to where they had left the Triumph Bonneville. John wound down the Cortina window on leaving Membury Services in order to wave a cheerio and Regan said, “Be careful, John. Don’t want you to get arrested for possession of firearms, do we?”
John laughed.
Heston Services is the nearest motorway service area to London. It was built close to Heathrow Airport. Steve Regan arrived at Heston Services a few moments before John. They conferred, sitting inside the warmth of John’s car. Regan insisted John open up the backpack and issue him with one of the Brownings. John agreed. Regan checked it then pushed it into one of the inside pockets of the flying jacket. He now felt safer with Messrs Barnard and Browning as his new sidekicks.
Regan spoke first, “Just thought of something important.”
John inquired, “What?”
“I don’t know where Bill is. For that matter, I have no idea how to find Caroline other than she’s a barrister in this fucking big city.”
“That’s not good.” John, as always, the master of understatement.
Regan thought a few seconds before he spoke, “But I do know what Bill’s boss looks like. He came to visit my boss one day so I will recognise him. I also know where he works. We can grab him outside his office and make him tell us where Bill is.”
“Look, Steve, isn’t it just easier to go to the police now and tell them all that you know?”
“Fuck no! You have no idea. It will be hours, even days of interviews. Asking awkward questions. I’m still undercover, remember. We don’t have time for all that police bureaucracy procedural bullshit.”
“Okay, you have a point. In for a penny in for a pound.”
“One other thing,” said Regan, “we need a helmet for you. Wait here a mo.”
Regan was away for a few minutes before John saw him holding a black crash helmet. “Where the fuck did you get it from?”
“Gave a motorbike courier a few quid for it and he said ‘yes’ when he saw the gun.” Both men grinned.
John said, “Good man. Let’s go.” The Triumph roared into life again. Regan eased his way into the London-bound traffic using the acceleration slip road then zipped into the overtaking lane. He zig-zagged his way through the traffic on the motorway as far as the Chiswick flyover. It was now 7:30 am and Regan knew Dennis Marks was in the habit of getting to the office about 8:15 every morning.
He knew this from his conversations with Rick. He had learned to remember seemingly unimportant details because he knew they may become important at some future moment. Regan knew time was of the essence. He swerved around, overtook on the inside and outside everything that got in his way - big, red London buses, delivery vans, cars, other motorcycles, pedestrians, cyclists and of course the arch enemy of London motorcyclists - the ubiquitous black taxi cab. It was drizzling. The kind of rain that produces a potentially deadly slick of oil for motorcyclists. The wet road surface also turned the iron manhole covers into miniature skating rinks for the rider on two wheels.
This ride was fuelled by pure adrenaline. Regan was in the zone. He recalled reading an article describing what a racing driver experienced - a complete absorption in the task and a loss of space and time. It was like that. He occupied a space inhabited by no other being until a black taxi cab swerved without warning into the zone previously occupied by Regan alone. The Triumph was alongside the rear offside door of the cab when Regan became aware of the imminent danger. Regan threw his body weight to the right and forced the bars right and down to avoid a collision. John hung on tight.
The cab driver wound down his window shouting, “You fucking idiot!” The irate taxi driver pumped the accelerator pedal to catch up with the Triumph which was held up behind a London double decker bus. The cabbie made the mistake of swearing again at Regan as he pulled up beside him. Regan said nothing. He reached out to the black cab with his left hand, steering the motorcycle one-handed, then grabbed the side mirror mounted on the front wing of the cab. The mounting cracked leaving Regan holding the mirror. He threw it to the side pavement and he could sense the smile creeping to his ears. Around the bus he steered, twisting the throttle to accelerate away. He was now back in the zone.
Regan stopped the motorcycle on the busy Albert Embankment and decided to wait. Both removed their crash helmets and dismounted. Regan needed a smoke so pulled out his pack and lit up.
“You still puffing away at those cancer sticks?”
Regan ignored John. He had got used to this line from him over the years.
“I think we wait here. Once he arrives he has to slow down for this junction. That’s when we jump him. See the entrance to the office block just there. He has to slow down to enter. Just leave it to me.”
John nodded.
The rush through London’s morning traffic proved to be a worthwhile cause. Regan discarded his smoked cigarette into the gutter. He looked up and saw Bill’s boss, Dennis Marks, driving a dark green Rover saloon. He was alone. The Rover slowed just like Regan had predicted. He saw the front wheels turn towards the entrance and spoke, “John! Go!”
In seconds both men were standing alongside the Rover, Regan at the driver’s side and John stationed at the opposite side. Marks turned his head to one side then the other. He did not look at the faces. He only had eyes for the two Brownings pointed at him.
