CHAPTER 21. OPERATION MARKET GARDEN.
The man who had initially guided him in reappeared around the corner of the chiller wagon. He was also of South Asian origin but dressed more western-style in a grey hooded sweatshirt and chinos. He was younger than the first man; only early twenties, Willard estimated.
"Another of Peachornby's lot," the jihadi-type said in his strong Manchester accent.
Now Willard's breath came back, he saw that what he had initially mistaken for a suicide vest was actually a down filled body warmer. No Semtex and the only wires hanging from it belonged to an MP3 player. Willard breathed out, his exhalations ragged. He was glad he'd used the gents at Tibshelf otherwise there'd be a damp patch on the front of his jeans.
The younger man looked at Willard and he also saw what he expected to see; just another stereotypical BNP skinhead thug. His lip curled.
"I have a name. Willard," the cop said. He held out his hand, making up for his initial panicked reaction.
This took the jihadi by surprise. "Waqir. And this is Iblal."
Willard shook hands with Waqir. The man's hands were surprisingly soft. This was not a man who spent much time digging or hoeing or whatever it took to run a garden centre.
Waqir then passed a key to his assistant. "Should be five boxes."
Iblal unlocked the back of Willard's Transit and climbed in. A strong smell wafted out. Willard was no gardener as he was content to leave that side of things to his girlfriend, Denise. She had an array of window boxes on their apartment's sills and several potted plants cluttering up their apartment – bringing the outdoors indoors she called it. He called it a waste of time but hey! if it kept her happy he was all for it.
All the same, he could recognise the strong smell of mint and lavender. It reminded him of his Nanna's bungalow in Eastbourne. Iblal reappeared a moment later carrying three polystyrene beer coolers which had been duct taped closed. Iblal transferred them to Waqir's Ducato before fetching the last two from Peachornby's Transit.
"What about the plants?" Willard asked, glancing inside. Trays of plants took up several shelves.
"Just about to get them, white boy," Iblal snapped. He removed several trays of flowering annuals and ferried them over to the second van. A few minutes later the transaction was completed and Waqir relocked Peachornby's Transit.
Willard thought for a second. It was obvious to a trained copper what had just gone down but he wanted to play his part as a loyal, if slightly dim, skinhead. "What about payment?"
"Not your business, white boy," Iblal snapped again.
Keeping within his role, Willard raised his fist. He was larger than both Asians and in the darkness he knew he cut a threatening figure.
Waqir turned back before getting back into the cab. "Payment? Soon as this checks out, I'll wire your boss like I've always done before. He knows that."
Willard stepped back, satisfied and watched as Waqir's Ducato reversed out from the shadows between the heavy goods vehicles and then accelerated out of the services. He was happy with what he had seen and so he walked back to the brightly lit food hall and, using one of the payphones, made a call to his handler. He listened as Fiona muted her TV set but after he'd explained, she sounded as pleased as himself. At last this investigation was going somewhere. Now they had a handle on what was going on in Sleaford, Sergeant Wright told him to gather more evidence before they pounced and then Willard could enjoy that well earned break.
On the drive back to Sleaford, Willard felt wired, on top of the world. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Plenty late enough. Peachornby would be tucked up in bed reading one of his favourites – was it Mein Kampf or Protocols this week? – or dreaming of charging across the steppes in the lead Panzer, scattering the Red Army before him.
Willard turned off and headed towards Dunston along narrow country lanes. Peachornby's garden centre loomed up before him. The Union flags flapped disconsolately in the unending wind. Even the spotlights had been turned off to save money and the flags now looked black and dismal instead of their usual bright colours.
Thinking ahead, Willard switched off his headlights, dropped down to first gear and drove slowly along the driveway past the main shop and retail units and made his way to the greenhouses. Fifty yards away from the glasshouses he turned off the engine and coasted silently. Not wanting the red brake lights to come on, he pulled up the handbrake and halted the Transit.
Covering the dome light with his hand, Willard stepped out of the cab and closed the door as quietly as possible. Nobody more than a couple of yards away could have heard anything. Willard zipped up his jacket and crossed over to the glasshouses.
Something moved beneath his boot. A brittle yet rolling motion. He swore under his breath and carefully raised his foot. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. It was only a stick or piece of cane – not an unusual thing to stumble across in a garden centre – but if he'd snapped it, the sound would have echoed like a gunshot. No better way of announcing his presence.
Rolling his feet, testing every step as he went, Willard moved like a shadow in the darkness. He glanced up. One hundred per cent cloud cover. No moon or stars and the only light came from distant street lamps. Perfect for concealment but not so good for finding out what was in the glasshouses. However, if his assumptions were right then he wouldn't need his eyesight. His nose would give him all the proof he needed.
By now, Willard had reached the first hothouse. He tried the door and swore again but hey! What did he expect? The full red carpet treatment? The door was locked. Willard crept down the side of the building between it and the second glasshouse. He was careful, knowing that these passages were usually cluttered with discarded plant pots, compost sacks, staging and general debris.
As he moved, Willard kept an eye on the inside of the greenhouse. Unusually, the lower panes were all painted black and in the pitch darkness he could see nothing. Glancing over at the second structure, he noticed that those panes had also been painted. Willard knew he was no gardener but that seemed wrong to him. Except something like this was what he half expected.
Now Willard had reached the far end of the glasshouses. A few feet ahead of him was a tall fence overtopped by razor wire. An owl hooted and once again, Willard swore as his heart leaped into his mouth. As his heart rate slowed, he wondered if there were rear doors on these glasshouses? Perhaps as fire exits or something?
There were, but the sliding doors were also locked shut. No problems, hey! What are glasshouses made of, Willard asked himself. Glass. That's what. Stooping, Willard cast his hand about until his fingers brushed against a half brick. He hefted the brick and was about to smash one of the panes. The damage could always be blamed on passing vandals.
Then, shattering the silence and making Willard jump out of his skin as the saying goes, another pane of glass shattered. A jagged, sharp sound splintering the quiet. Yet again, Willard swore. The sound came from over by his right – somewhere by a third hothouse he hadn't had chance to check out.
Clutching the half brick, Willard crept over to where he'd heard the window break. As he moved, he heard more glass fall as whoever had broken it cleared shards from the frame. Over the wind, he heard whispering. More than one of them, then. But Willard had surprise on his side. The intruders had no idea he was there.
Slowly, slowly, making no sudden movements that would draw attention his way, Willard poked his head around the back of the hothouse before ducking back immediately. Standing by the rear of the hothouse were two men. One held a length of wood which he was using to knock out the shards. The other man held something that in the darkness could be anything but looked to Willard like a large pistol. He couldn't be sure in the darkness but they didn't look like skinheads to him. Journalists? No, even the worst hack wouldn't risk a spot of breaking and entering.
Willard peeped around the corner again in time to watch the second man crawl through the broken window. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. A chance to see what was going on inside Peachornby's array of greenhouses. Giving the men half a minute to get inside, Willard hurried around the back and followed them. He hoped that he wouldn't meet them on their way out. That could be awkward. Carefully, trying to make no sound over the broken glass, Willard ducked and scrambled through the hole.
If it was dark outside, it was blacker than the inside of the Devil's top hat within the glasshouse. Then, up ahead, a weak beam of light illuminated a length of shelving. The sort of light cast by a mobile phone's display. The light swung about, dimly illuminating the nearest plants. Now Willard had a handle on where these other two men were. Keeping low, Willard followed them. Fronds and leaves brushed his shoulders as he walked. A low, electrical hum helped cover any slight sounds he might make.
Keeping his eye on them, Willard saw the men hadn't moved. They were huddled together and in the tiny amount of light cast by the phone Willard thought they were examining the plants. He watched as one of the men stroked the leaves while he heard them whispering together.
Using their distraction as cover, Willard approached. As he got closer, he saw that he had the advantage of size and weight on both of them. Of course, they might be armed for all he knew while all he had was this half brick. His heart was racing and he felt the adrenaline rush around his system. But hey! He'd been trained for moments like this.
Now he was closer, Willard heard the men's whispers over the low electronic hum. The men were whispering in a foreign language – it sounded like some eastern European lingo to his ears – and one pulled off a couple of leaves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. The men whispered some more and then the taller raised what Willard had thought earlier was a pistol.
The object flashed. Again and again followed by a clicking sound. It was a SLR camera, Willard realised with relief. Only a camera. But why were these men photographing the contents of the hothouse? He could understand it if they'd started smashing the place up but to start taking pictures? Were they undercover journalists looking for the scoop of the year? Or at least the month. Dishing the dirt on Peachornby's mob?
They couldn't be undercover cops as well, could they? Surely Superintendent Donelan would have mentioned that he had other boots on the ground. Although he would have dressed it up in impenetrable language like saying there were a few extra batters on the team. Willard took a step back hoping to blend into the undergrowth but it was too late. In the sharp white flashes, one of the men glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. Immediately, the man tugged his friend's sleeve and hissed something. The second man stopped snapping away.
"Who are you?" one of the men said. He didn't have much of an eastern accent, barely a trace. He wouldn't pass as a local but he didn't sound foreign, Willard thought. Meanwhile, his friend dropped the camera back into his bag.
Willard had no ID on him and wasn't ready to reveal his true identity yet anyway. "Willard. Head of Security. And what do you two jokers think you're doing?" He tried to make his voice even harder and deeper than normal, playing up his role as a skinhead thug for whom violence wasn't just second nature. It was first and third nature as well.
The two men glanced at each other. Even without the benefit of telepathy, Willard knew what they were thinking. What it always came down to in times like this. Fight or flight. On the one hand there were two of them. However, they didn't know who he was and assumed he was some football hooligan who loved a ruck against any odds. On the other hand, they could try and smash their way out of the side of the glasshouse.
Willard made his voice a little gentler. Personally, he couldn't care less about people breaking into Peachornby's greenhouses but he wanted to know who these two were and what they intended doing.
"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you," he said. In the darkness he saw the pale ovals of the two men's faces turn to each other and then they spoke rapidly in their own language. They didn't believe him. They turned and ran up the passageway up the centre of the greenhouse, obviously hoping to outpace him and then smash their way out of the front.
"Hey," Willard shouted as he ran after them.
Then the lights came on.