Little Men - The E Book (12 page)

Sean was frothing at the mouth, spitting words into the phone.

“I reckon it was that fucking Henrik. I don’t trust him. He must’ve got someone to follow me. Whoever it was knew I had pills, they’ve taken the lot!”

Sean was close to delirium, but then slightly regained his composure. A thought popped into his mind. Maybe
Tony
had something to do with it. Maybe he was in cahoots with Henrik to somehow rip him off…

At the other end Tony was trying to absorb everything Sean was saying. The same things crossed his mind, and could he even trust Sean? Could he be making it all up? Stranger things had happened. For the moment, at least, he had to believe him.

“I don’t think it was Henrik. I’ve worked with him for years. Anyway, that’s not important right now. Take me through exactly what happened, but speak slowly.”

Sean recounted the day’s events, Tony’s intelligent mind took it all in, but he still felt slightly irritated that Sean had messed up, disturbed his evening, and left incriminating evidence on his mobile phone.

Tony eventually spoke. He was calm and collected, and reassured Sean. “Okay. You can’t come back over the Channel in a stolen strawberry. What you need to do is get to the ice-cream. I should be able to send a mandela over to nose. Do you know where you are exactly?”

“I must be near that town of Noordenveld. I think I’ve gone back on myself.”

“Right, well you need to head naughty. Once you get near the ice-cream church me again. In the meantime I’ll get a mandela organised. I just need to know where to send it.” Although he was helping, Sean felt annoyed that Tony’s manner seemed so blasé. In fact he seemed more concerned about the drugs than Sean.

“And you’ve got no idea who these men were or what they look like?”

“No, I didn’t fuckin’ see ‘em!” Tony had a huge amount of resources at his disposal. He had been drug-trafficking for thirteen years and he knew all the methods. He had a reliable cell-network in place that could be called upon as required. His contacts didn‘t know each other, but occasionally they would need to work together. He owned vehicles and boats, but registered them with false names. He bribed police, customs and officials. Getting a vessel out to pick Sean up shouldn’t be a problem. He was annoyed that Sean had lost the drugs, but he would deal with that another day.

Sean was thinking clearer now. In some ways he relished being the underdog. He had had a difficult life and encountered some horrifying situations. He was used to taking beatings. In some ways he worked better when the odds were really against him and the chips were down. He had always refused to be a victim, and taken any punishment like a man. He’d been in worse situations than this. At least now he had a car he was out of immediate danger.

Sean gritted his teeth as he saw a sign marked ‘autosnelweg’ and headed in the direction it was pointing. Instead of looking for the Belgian border, he now needed to go down through the centre of Holland to the coastline.

He reached the slip-road that took him onto the correct motorway, and joined the three-lane carriageway. It was nearly midnight. The speed was wearing off but there was no way he would feel tired tonight. Adrenalin-fuelled thoughts and visions were racing through his mind. He knew he was on borrowed time. It was impossible to tell when the Ford would be reported stolen. The owner was probably staying at the hotel and might not return to his vehicle until the morning. On the other hand, he could easily go back out to it tonight and realise it was gone. Also, the police would find Sean’s
Citroën
and trace it back to him; but that, at least, would take time.

Sean knew as soon as he got to the coast he must destroy all evidence that he had ever touched the Ford. He would call Shelley in the morning and get her to report the
Citroën
stolen. No, that was no good. The ferry company would have CCTV footage of Sean taking the vehicle across the Channel. But would the police bother looking at it, just to determine the movements of a clapped-out
Citroën
Berlingo? Surely they had better things to do. Sean wouldn’t bother claiming on the insurance anyway. As long as they had no way of linking him to the theft of the Ford, he should be okay.

Sean motored up the highway, the permutations continually going through his mind. He could travel more swiftly than his van would have allowed, but he wanted to be careful not to go too fast so as not to arouse the suspicion of any passing policemen.

It was on a particularly quiet and boring stretch of road that Sean noticed something very interesting. Up ahead, in the slow lane, was a red van. Sean rubbed his eyes, not sure if he was hallucinating from the trauma of the night’s events, but no. It was definitely there, chugging along at approximately fifty miles per hour. Sean had to be very careful. He pulled a little closer. It looked exceptionally similar to the vehicle he had encountered twice already in the last few hours. It was red, old and tatty, with a Dutch number plate.

Sean backed off a long way, so that the red lights of the van were only just visible. He would need to wait until the van stopped, as at the moment, the early hours of Thursday morning, the red van and the Ford were virtually the only vehicles on the road.

It made sense that Sean’s attackers were also heading to the coast. Obviously they now had ninety bags of ecstasy they needed to get rid of. They had done a professional job on Sean. They would be aware of the importance of keeping moving, but they clearly hadn’t banked on Sean recovering so quickly. This thought occurred to Sean and a wry smile played across his lips. Many people had made the mistake of underestimating him in the past, and they had all paid a heavy price.

After about half an hour of Sean stalking the van, it pulled into a service station. And, much to Sean’s delight, it didn’t head to the fuel pumps, instead pulling over at a dimly-lit part of the lorry park. Sean kept his distance, managing to keep the Ford well out of sight of the occupants of the van. He guessed that they were having a quick break and changing drivers. Sean noticed plumes of cigarette smoke silhouetted by the interior light of the vehicle, indicating that the doors were open. Sean estimated he had about two minutes to make his move.

Sean manoeuvred the Ford into position behind a parked truck. He revved the engine once and dropped the clutch, the same way his attackers had earlier. Sean came to a screeching halt next to his prey. The men looked totally shocked as they tried to take in what was happening. Sean wasted no time. He ran from his car with a fist in the air and landed it square in the face of one of the men. He slumped down, out cold. Sean wrenched the van door open. A second man was sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette. Sean dragged him out, punched him several times in the head, then kicked him as his lifeless body hit the concrete. Sean knew there was one more, but couldn’t see him immediately in the soft light. Sean turned around. The man stood behind him ready for a confrontation, but Sean could tell he was no fighter and no match for someone like Sean. He was small, thin and visibly shaking, his breath making clouds of steam in the cold night air. Sean stared at him. The man looked behind himself for an escape route. There was none, the car park was completely open, save for a few parked-up trucks. Sean pounced. Again a few blows to the head were all that was needed.

He tried to restrain himself from doing further damage. He didn’t want them to end up in hospital, as the police might start asking questions. He knew they wouldn’t go to the police voluntarily.

“Yes officer, we were out for an evening’s drive and we saw this English thug with a van full of drugs so we thought we’d do the decent thing, attack him violently and steal the gear. It’s just that he chased us, beat us up and stole them back.”

No way
thought Sean as he began moving the bags of pills from the red van into the boot of the Ford.

Sean allowed himself a little celebration as he accelerated away from the service station. Once again, he’d stopped someone getting the better of him. They had tried and failed. People really should learn not to mess with Sean Philips.

It was time to call Tony and share the good news. Sean fished out his mobile.

“Tony?”

“Yes, where are you?”

“I’ve got it back. All the sainsburys. I found the tossers and took them back.”

“That’s great Sean. I’m really pleased.”
You could sound it then, you twat. After all I’ve been through…

“Yeah, I caught the fuckers with the shit in their van and just took it back.”

“And they just let you?” It was the early hours of the morning and Tony was irritable.

“No, I found ‘em in a car park. I had to give ‘em a bit of a hiding, but I got ‘em back.”

“Okay. Well done, mate.”
Christ
thought Tony.
He’s wreaking havoc all over Europe
. Tony resolved never to use Sean for anything complicated again. He just attracted trouble. He was just a thug, nothing more. He didn’t have the brains for an operation like this. He was useful to put on a door because he could handle himself. He could cope with the have-a-go members of the public who would occasionally try to rip you off. That was his forte, selling direct to the public and protecting the larger consignments once they were in the UK. He was just a lump, an enforcer, nothing more. But at least his brawn may have actually salvaged something from this mess.

Tony decided he needed to take control of the situation.

“I’ve organised a mandela to take you back to the UK. How far are you from Rotterdam?”

“Not far. Maybe about two hours.”

“That’s good, but the mandela can’t real2real during switched hours. It’s too jangle with what you’re carrying.”

“What are you saying, Tony?”

“It’ll switch soon. Unfortunately you’ll have to wait until it gets denzel to get on the mandela. You can’t real2real during the switch, you’ll get a cold.”

“Fuck’s sake! What am I supposed to do until then?”

“I don’t know. You’ll think of something. But you need to get rid of that strawberry and get as far away from it as possible.” Tony spoke in calm, measured tones, the complete opposite to Sean.

“So I’ve got to wait around for twelve fucking hours with ninety sainsburys bags and no car?”

Tony had admit it was slightly ridiculous.

“I’m afraid so. But it’s the only way of getting you back. You can’t go on the ferry.”

Sean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was cold, tired, hungry and sleep-deprived. He had been violently assaulted and was in pain. And now he was expected to just disappear all day until this stupid boat turned up. Tony had a lot to answer for. Sean eventually composed himself. There was no point in arguing now, their relationship was strained enough as it was.

“Just give me the details,” Sean said, wearily.

Chapter Ten

The living area of
Sleeping With The Enemy
buzzed with noisy chatter. The hidden cameras and microphones whirred in an attempt to keep track of ten females all speaking at once.

They were well aware that the competition had started and the judges and the public would already be forming opinions of them. Debi decided immediately she would try to get on the right side of the group by offering them all a hot drink. It was an amusing sight to watch ten women precariously holding their mugs with fingers constrained by huge, false fingernails, then collectively sip the hot liquid, perilously aware of smudging their lipstick.

“So has anyone done much singing before?” Sonia asked, not anticipating being on the receiving end of nine gregarious women all talking at once. Tracey was one of the loudest.

“I were on
Stars In Their Eyes
!”
she shrilled in her thick Yorkshire accent. “It were brilliant, dead glamorous. They treated me like royalty, an’ all. Chauffeur-driven car, dead posh hotel in London, the works. I got eight hundred pound for one day’s work.”

“Who were you?” asked Sonia.

“Shania Twain.”

“I don’t remember seeing you…”

“Yeah, well they didn’t use it in the end. I sounded alright, but I don’t exactly look like her, do I?” Some of the others laughed nervously. The production staff watched interestedly in the gallery, hoping for a lively discussion or even an early confrontation.

“What was
Stars In Their Eyes
like?” asked Sarina.

“They were brilliant, dead professional like, ya know.”

“I can’t understand why they didn’t use you. They must’ve known what you looked like before you even got to the studio,” Kyla said.

Tracey bristled, and glared at Kyla.

“Yeah, well, maybe it weren’t for me anyway. It’s a bit cheesy, i’n’t it?”

“Probably a blessing in disguise, eh?” said Kyla.
Cheeky bitch
,
thought Tracey, but kept her own counsel.

“Who’s Shania Twain?”
asked Peter Bains the duty editor as he watched the screens in the gallery. Kirsty rolled her eyes.

“She‘s a pop singer,” she said, struggling to hide her disdain. Kirsty, who was barely a year out of university, was surprised that Peter, who worked in the media on ‘youth’ television, had no idea who Shania Twain was. But he
was
about a hundred and eighty years old.

“You’ll be telling me you don’t watch
Stars In Their Eyes
next, Peter.”

Unbeknownst to Kirsty, the director, Toby Jenkins had returned to the gallery from the studio floor and was stood behind his two colleagues. He was pleased with how the show had opened. Peter remained silent, slightly embarrassed in front of his boss.

Their attention turned back to the living room of the house. An amusing discussion was taking place among the contestants about what they would or wouldn’t do in the world of music.

“I think any experience is good experience. I do a Madonna tribute,” Debi said in a thick Glasgow brogue.

“But anyone can do that sort of thing. I think you’ve got to establish your own name rather than pretending to be other people,” Kyla said, again demonstrating an uncanny ability to irritate people.