The man hadn’t stirred since falling asleep two hours ago. Lance had kept an even pace, first through the city then on the motorway. He didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, what was in store for the man.
On the radio, a jovial DJ played an unending line of eighties classics. Lance sang along to the tunes, for a time imagining that he wasn’t transporting a prisoner to his death.
He’d first met Campbell five years ago. A friend of a friend had put them in touch. The man was almost impossible to get hold of. It had taken Lance six appointments with various underlings before Campbell had granted him an audience. The first thing Campbell did on meeting him was place a folder in front of Lance. The folder contained pictures of his wife and children in various locations.
‘They will be monitored, on and off, during our time together,’ said Campbell. ‘A number of pre-determined check-in times are already established. If anything happens to me, preventing me meeting you at these check-in times, for whatever reason, including me being under arrest and not excluding death, then a series of consequences will ensue. Do we have an understanding?’
Lance remembered the smile on Campbell’s face at his distress. The line of his upper lip, as devoid of humour as the man was devoid of a conscience.
‘Yes,’ agreed Lance.
‘Good. You will know me as Campbell. How may I be of service?’
Money. Always money.
Lance’s gambling had once again grown out of control and he was in debt, and his creditors were not the sort of people who accepted payment plans. He explained the situation to Campbell who insisted on hearing every detail. He quizzed Lance over his addiction. When had it started? Why did he feel out of control? Had he never thought about his wife and family? He was half-therapist, half -disappointed parent discovering his son was not the perfect boy he’d dreamt he would be.
‘If I give you the money, then our agreement is permanent. Do you understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘You understand or you don’t.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘I will give you the money, and you will work for me.’
‘Okay,’ said Lance. ‘What sort of work will I be doing?’
Campbell grinned, the humour momentarily spreading to his eyes. ‘I don’t normally provide a detailed job description. You will be given minor and major duties, some of which may not be pleasant. You will stop working for me when you have repaid the debt. The terms are non-negotiable.’
Five years later, and he’d nearly repaid the debt. In that time, he’d acted as a go-between for people who wanted to use Campbell’s services, filtering out the time-wasters and the investigators. Of the so-called major jobs, the worse had been the removal of a body following one of Campbell’s lengthy interrogations, the easiest his present journey with the drugged man in the back of his car.
He’d seen the occasional person cross Campbell. The response was always the same: swift and savage. What had kept him going during the last five years were those people who had been permitted to leave Campbell’s orbit. The workers who’d paid off their debt left unhurt. They could never truly feel completely free, but the possibility of leaving was a real one.
Lance’s instructions were to head off the M4 at junction four and head for one of the safe houses in Uxbridge. He was approaching the junction when a call came through.
‘Change of plan.’ Campbell’s voice boomed through the car’s Bluetooth system.
‘Sir?’
It was unusual for Campbell to call him directly, and Lance sat upright in the car as if under surveillance.
‘It’s Mr Klatzky’s lucky day. Dump him somewhere in London. Alive.’
‘But he’s seen me, sir.’
There was a pause on the other end. Lance sensed the man’s impatience and regretted having spoken out of turn.
‘Let him see,’ said Campbell, hanging up.