Knight & Culverhouse Box Set - Books 7-9

Chapter 33

33

The man looked across at the driver and scowled for the umpteenth time that night. He couldn’t believe his colleague could be so bloody stupid as to reverse the van into a bloody gate post.

He’d had to get out and make sure they’d left no trace. Even the slightest fleck of paint on the wood could lead the police to them. The whole point was to ensure there were no witnesses. Leaving forensic material would be a hundred times worse.

The guns were modified as to be more or less untraceable. If they recovered bullets they’d be able to tell the type of gun used, but that would be about it. There’d be blood from the boys at the scene, too, but that was unavoidable. Anyway, no-one would’ve heard a gunshot out there. The lights had been off in the closest farmhouse the whole time — odd for mid-evening, which meant the occupiers were highly likely to be out. Besides which, gunshots weren’t exactly rare around these parts. Plenty of farmers shot rabbits and vermin on their land. How was this any different?

There would be no trace. A bit of rain overnight would wash any blood through the soil. It would be as if they’d never been there. If it hadn’t been for them reversing into a f*****g gate post, that was.

He’d made sure he picked up every last piece of plastic from the broken tail-light. He’d combed the grass thoroughly, and was confident he’d got it all. It had meant they’d had to spend a good few minutes at the scene, whereas they’d been keen to get away as quickly as possible.

The plastic troughs in the back of the van would keep the blood away from the vehicle, just in case. The last thing they wanted was for blood to drip through the bottom of the van while they were stuck at traffic lights. People had been caught for dafter mistakes than that.

In any case, the van would be disposed of afterwards. The group had connections: connections which ensured they were able to get hold of second-hand vehicles with ease, then have them stripped down, destroyed and crushed without anybody asking any questions.

They sure as hell wouldn’t make the same mistakes as last time, either. This time there would be no burial. There’d be no chance of anyone coming across the bodies, because there would be no bodies. The firm had a contact who could, for a hefty fee, ensure the bodies were completely disposed of. He was known to them only as the Acid Bath Man, although the name was misleading, if not the complete opposite of what he actually did. A more accurate name would have been the Alkaline Hydrolysis Man, but it didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

Alkaline hydrolysis was used for a growing number of legal cremations around the world — as well as a few not-so-legal ones. It involved placing the body in a pressure vessel with a mixture of water and potassium hydroxide — caustic potash — which was then heated to 160 degrees Celsius. After five or six hours, what would remain was a greenish-brown liquid of sugars, salts, amino acids and peptides that could be quite legally and safely poured down the drains. All that would remain of the body were soft white bones, which could easily be crushed into a powder and disposed of.

The procedure wasn’t cheap, but it had been decided that they couldn’t risk any other option. Not after last time.

The driver estimated they were probably around fourteen or fifteen miles away from the industrial estate now. Within half an hour the bodies would be out of their hands. Within an hour they’d be rid of the van, too, and they’d be home and dry. The boys would probably go down as missing — if anyone thought to report them — and after a few weeks or months they’d be totally forgotten. It carried its own risks, but it was far easier than the alternative.

He flicked his eyes upwards and to the left as he noticed the headlights in his rear-view mirror. They were a little way off, but he couldn’t be too cautious. The road was too dark and the headlights were too bright for him to make out what sort of car it was, but at a best guess he would’ve said it was white.

He kept his eyes on the road ahead, occasionally glancing in the rear-view mirror. By now he was starting to worry. Something didn’t feel right. Just as he was trying to work out what his intuition was telling him, he jolted as the short warp of the siren and the flashing blue light sent a surge through his body. The driver in the police car was pointing to the side of the road, indicating that they should pull over.

He swallowed hard and looked over at his colleague. They both knew there was no way this van was going to outrun a police car. He was fairly sure they were only pulling him over because of the broken tail light, but it was still an enormous risk to take. What if they searched the van? What if they were being followed because someone had reported the shooting? Either way, there was no other option. The van wouldn’t outpace a trained driver in a police car.

‘Take it easy, alright?’ he said to his colleague in their native tongue as he dutifully indicated and pulled over in a lay-by.

He steeled himself as one officer got out of the passenger seat of the police car and walked towards his door. He wound the window down as the officer approached.

‘Evening, gents. Could you just turn the engine off and step out of the vehicle for me, please.’

He did as he was told. As soon as the engine was off, the driver of the police vehicle got out and joined them.

‘My name’s PC Andria Fliska’, the first officer said, ‘and this is my colleague, PC Elaine Smith. Any idea why we’ve stopped you tonight?’

The man looked at her for a moment and shook his head cautiously.

‘You’ve got a broken tail light on the back of your vehicle. Looks like it’s been smashed at some point. Did you know about that?’

The man furrowed his brow and feigned a look of confusion. ‘Oh. I did not notice. Sorry.’

‘Where are you from, lads?’ Smith asked, noticing a foreign accent.

‘Holbrooke,’ the man said.

Fliska gave a grudging smile.

‘Where are you off to?’ Smith asked.

‘Dropping some materials off at the lock-up, ready for the morning.’

‘Bit late to be out working, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Long day.’

Smith nodded slowly, then gestured towards the back of the van.

‘Mind if we take a look inside?’

The man looked at the two officers’ chests. They weren’t wearing body cams, so there’d be no video evidence of their faces. There would likely be a camera in the front of the police car, but they’d managed to keep side-on where possible, and in any case the camera would be unlikely to show much under these conditions.

He’d made a quick calculation of risk. They were going to look in the van whether he liked it or not. Saying no would immediate arouse suspicion. The officers would likely close in, expecting them to do something rash. If they stayed calm and looked as if they were complying, they’d have that extra couple of seconds, which could make all the difference.

‘Cherez etot probel. V derevya. Na tri,’ he mumbled to his colleague. ‘Sorry, I’m translating for him,’ he said, by way of explanation to the officers, before they’d even asked. ‘Adeen.’

He took a couple of steps towards the back of the van and placed his hand on the handle.

‘Dva.’

He pulled on the handle and opened the door slightly, before stepping back. He gave it a split-second for the officers to be stunned into inertia by what they saw, before barking ‘Tri!’ as the pair darted off through a gap in the hedge and into the copse.

‘s**t!’ Fliska said, clambering after them as quickly as she could, while jabbing at the button on her handheld radio. ‘Whiskey Tango 162. Urgent. Males making off on foot into trees south of Baskenhoe Road, heading west. We’ve found two bodies during a routine stop. Chasing on foot. Please send dog and helicopter plus immediate backup.’