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REGAN TAPPED ON THE driver’s window with the gun barrel and gestured in a downward motion. Marks unwound the window a few inches. “My name is Steve Regan. I’m an undercover cop but you already know who I am. We are going to jump in the car with you and go for a short ride. Do you understand?”
“What if I say ‘no’ or drive off?”
“It will be the last thing you ever do.”
Marks looked into Regan’s eyes, for Regan had removed his Aviators. Another ploy he had learned from John – when negotiating with the ‘enemy,’ let them see your eyes. Marks knew the cop was serious. He pulled up the central locking button on the driver’s door. No sooner had the button clicked the two men got inside and sat down. John sat in the front passenger seat with Regan in the back right behind the driver, Marks. Regan and John had their weapons aimed at the driver’s head. Marks was unaware neither man had released the safety or cocked the Browning SAS-style.
Regan broke the brief silence, “Drive normally and follow my directions. Don’t talk unless I ask a question.” The Customs boss nodded his head in understanding. Regan directed the driver first to execute a U-turn to head towards Central London. After a few hundred yards, Regan spoke again, “Turn right into Tinworth Street, just there,” as he pointed with his free hand in front of the driver’s face. “Now, as soon as you pass that pub on the right, turn left into Randall Street.
The next thirty seconds of the drive were in total silence until Regan spoke again, “Pull over right there. You see the parking space about thirty yards ahead on the right? There.”
There was no answer, but Marks, the driver, did exactly as instructed. This was a side street occupied by small industrial workshops with rolled steel shutters. They were under the railway arches and leased to small businesses by British Rail. There was no movement in the street apart from two stray dogs fighting over a bone at the end of the street. The only noises were the dogs and the trains click-clacking on the railway track above the industrial units.
Dennis spoke as he pulled on the parking brake, “What is it you want from me?”
Regan said, “Only the truth. I have no time to spare and I need to know where Bill is.”
“Bill who?”
Dennis felt the pistol barrel prodded into the nape of his neck.
“Do not fuck around, Mr. Marks. You know who I am talking about. Bill, your agent you sent to Wales to see if I had gone rogue.”
Marks said, “Okay, okay, what do you want to know?”
“I need an address for him or even better, his address and Caroline Sewell’s.”
“What do you want her address for?”
Another prod of the gun barrel produced a wincing noise and left a red weal on the back of Marks’ neck. “Right, alright. I got the message. But how do I know you aren’t on the other side, gone rogue, gone dark?”
“You don’t, but here is how it is. It’s your man who is rogue. He shot me and beat up Blue badly. Raped his missus too. Now he’s on his way to murder a fucking judge. There’s only me and my buddy here can stop him,” Regan paused then shouted close to Marks’ ear, “Underfuckingstand? Capiche? Dig? Comprendez?”
The Customs man recoiled from the noise reverberating in his ear. His body gave an involuntary shudder. “He lives in Finchley at his flat 23A, Hendon Avenue, Finchley. All I know about his barrister girlfriend is she lives in a flat in Ranelagh Gardens, Chelsea. I remember Bill telling me it had a red telephone kiosk on the pavement right outside the entrance.”
Regan calmly said, “Is all this kosher?”
“I swear it is. What happens now?”
“Simple. My buddy will tie you up, gag you and we will put you in the boot of the car...”
“What!”
Regan said, “What what?”
“That’s outrageous. It’s kidnapping. Look, why don’t we go to the office. One phone call and I can call in the cavalry.”
“I don’t have time for all that. You don’t get it. Your man is about to kill a judge any time soon. Besides, your mob will start asking too many questions of me,” Regan said.
John reached into his backpack while Regan was talking. He removed a roll of duct-tape, snapped some off and plastered it over Marks’ mouth.
“Time to shut up...” said John, “Now twist around in your seat, put your arms behind your back.”
Marks complied as John snapped on the plastic cuffs and tightened them so their prisoner’s arms were pinned behind his back. Regan got out of the rear passenger seat and opened the driver’s door. He held Marks’ shoulder and gestured upwards. The prisoner stood up outside the car. Regan pushed him to the rear of the car where John was using the car keys to unlock the boot. It sprang open. Regan positioned Marks so his back was resting on the rear of the car. One push from Regan and Marks fell into the boot with his legs sticking up in the air. John held both Marks’ ankles and twisted so the Customs man ended up on the boot floor mat and his body lay at right angles to the car. In a flash, John snapped another plastic tie around his ankles. Marks could no longer cry out, or move his arms or legs. Satisfied, John closed the boot lid.
“What would you have done if he hadn’t talked, Steve?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe flogged him with a wet lettuce.”
“Same weird sense of humour I see,” John replied. They broke into a trot after secreting the guns in the backpack.
Regan and John ran back to where they had left the Triumph. There was no time to waste.
